This time Gibbs was driving. Fat drops of water started to fall just as they left town, beating down on the roof of the sedan with first a hesitant then a more definite staccato beat. Gibbs already had the wipers on high, swishing the water away from the windshield, peering through the darkness at the road barely touched by the headlights. DiNozzo could feel the weight of his handgun in his shoulder holster, wondering why he needed the comfort since a handgun would do little to help the sedan move more swiftly along the country roads. Somehow he doubted that shooting at the rain would do anything to change the level of the rapidly rising water in the ditches that lined both sides of the road. They'd already passed through three spots with the water two inches above the pavement and DiNozzo had held his breath, hoping that the two inches wouldn't turn into a two feet when the road took an unseen dip.
Gibbs was getting them through, hunched over the wheel, staring ahead and not talking. The man had tossed down a scalding cup of caffeine prior to setting out, wanting the stimulant to help stay alert in impossible driving conditions. DiNozzo was grateful that Gibbs was driving; his boss had clearly put more than one vehicle through inclement weather, and this was going to be right up there with the worst of them. Plus, with two hands on the wheel, Gibbs wasn't about to whack DiNozzo himself upside the head. DiNozzo focused on the dark trees around them, wondering where the terrorists were hanging out.
It was a good decision that Gibbs had made; DiNozzo approved of his boss's plan. Staying in Starksville would not only make them sitting ducks, but would delay Tony's own return to civilization. DiNozzo could get behind that. He had a date with this really hot chick next weekend…
He tossed a look toward the back seat. Ziva was sitting behind Gibbs, dividing her attention between the dark outside and the other man in the car. McGee hadn't stopped coughing for more than five minutes, hacking up a lung along with all the soot he'd inhaled and sipping at the soothing water bottle that he held in his hand. DiNozzo didn't envy him; pneumonia was a real possibility, and going out in this weather was not what the doctor would have ordered. But staying in Starksville would very likely lead to a hail of bullets which was likely to be lethal in a much quicker fashion. McGee had dragged himself to the car and buckled himself in, doing his best to watch outside for anything suspicious.
"There's a set of headlights behind us, Gibbs," Ziva said suddenly.
DiNozzo jerked, startled. There hadn't been any sound beyond that of the rental sedan's motor for the past fifteen minutes. He craned his neck around to look, seeing a pair of lights bobbing in the distance, frequently hidden by the gentle rolling of the water-sodden road.
"I see it." Gibbs barely looked at the rear view mirror. "Keep an eye on 'em." He slowed the car down again as water sloshed against the tires, easing their way through the newly formed pond.
"They're falling behind," Ziva reported. "They are not moving as swiftly. I estimate that they are roughly half a kilometer away."
"Out of range," DiNozzo translated, turning his attention back to the front of the car, peering ahead. Out of bullet range, he meant.
Gibbs grunted, a noncommittal noise. He drove on, sloshing slowly through yet another puddle masquerading as one of the Great Lakes. DiNozzo couldn't help but look down onto the floor of the sedan, wondering if the car was airtight to prevent the water from seeping in.
So far, so good.
Bang!
The noise seemed to generate in two spots: the first several yards down the road and the second mere inches from DiNozzo's ear. The front windshield shattered, spraying shards of broken glass over Gibbs and DiNozzo, tossing a few remnants into the back seat to land on Ziva and McGee. Someone yelled something incoherent; DiNozzo couldn't figure out who, knew it wasn't himself and dismissed it as less of a priority than figuring out where those shots came from.
Gibbs stomped on the gas, ramming the sedan forward in an attempt to get past the shooters and out of range. Another bullet whizzed straight down the middle—an inch to either side, and NCIS would have been looking to hire a new employee.
"Out!" Gibbs yelled, slewing the car around to provide them with more cover. 'Out of range' wasn't going to happen fast enough. All four barreled out of the car, weapons in hands.
DiNozzo found himself crouched beside the car, the door open as additional protection from anyone coming up along the side. Where the hell were those shooters? DiNozzo peered into the rain-soaked darkness, saw movement, and fired off a shot. Had he hit anything? Couldn't tell.
Gibbs had scrambled out beside him, diving out through the passenger's exit to keep the sedan between him and the shooters. He aimed his gun and squeezed the trigger.
A moment later he grunted. "Damn bugger moved, just as I fired," he grumbled. He looked around, checking to make sure that his other two agents were also out of the car and safe. They were.
"How many?" DiNozzo asked.
"Hard to tell," was Gibbs's reply. "Too dark." Another shot from Gibbs's gun, and neither Gibbs nor DiNozzo could tell if the bullet hit what it was supposed to. No screech of pain, DiNozzo thought sourly, so probably not.
"I can circle around behind them," Ziva called into the fat droplets that were coming down faster and faster.
"You'd never see them in this mess until you were right on top of them." Gibbs appreciated the offer, but turned it down. No sense in wasting good team members.
"What would you like us to do instead? Wait here to be executed?" It wasn't the most politically correct thing to say to the boss, but Ziva had never been known for her ability to sugar-coat a bad situation.
"Hey, what's that?" McGee pointed down the road, coughing again.
'That' was two headlights, bobbing and swaying among the water-soaked gullies. It was the vehicle that had been tailing them in the distance.
"Reinforcements for the bad guys—" DiNozzo started to say.
He was cut off. The two headlights turned into a monstrous dark SUV, hulking through the stygian night—with a logo on the side. The logo mentioned something about calling 911 for assistance. It mentioned something about the vehicle being owned and operated by the Starksville Police Department.
It looked damn good.
"Whoo-hoo!" Chief Gary Fielding howled, shoving a long-barreled rifle out through the back window of the moving vehicle. He then proceeded to demonstrate how he'd won his current position as chief of police. A quick aim, and there was a shriek from the opposite camp indicating that the bullet had found a home in something other than a tree trunk. The SUV rumbled to a stop several yards away from the NCIS sedan.
Not to be outdone by her boss, Gloria scooted out of the SUV and balanced her own rifle on the fender. Bam! Exit the next terrorist on the list.
The opponents knew when to concede a losing game before they lost any more game pieces. The terrorists melted into the darkness, and DiNozzo heard the rumble of an engine turning over, springing into life to carry the enemy away from the fracas.
Gibbs slowly rose from behind the sedan. DiNozzo too crawled to his feet, wondering to himself why his knees always felt about eighty years old after a session like this. Getting shot at really did give him gray hairs, he decided, promising himself to look in the mirror once he got back home. Wonder how much it was going to cost to cover it up? A big tip to his favorite hair stylist, that was for sure.
Gibbs too felt the adrenaline ebbing away; DiNozzo could see it in the way his boss moved. Gibbs carefully replaced the handgun into his shoulder holster, smoothing his jacket over the set, before advancing to where the local police force stood.
Chief Fielding was grinning like a jackass, Gloria behind his shoulder. Even Jasper Figgerworth had a satisfied look about him, and Dennis? The fourth member of the Starksville Police Department had a smitten look about him, and DiNozzo was really hoping that the look was aimed at Probie and not himself.
Gibbs put it out there. "We owe you a big one, Chief." It wasn't certain if the words were addressed to Fielding or Figgerworth, and it didn't matter. "How did you know?"
Jasper did the answering. "It was a pretty big clue when Dennis here stumbled on somebody speakin' something foreign sounding on the radio. Sounded like the sender was fairly close by. Dennis was trying to get some sort of a message out about the mudslide on the other side of the county—our own tech guy, y'see—and one of the frequencies had something that sounded a mite more strange than French. Not about to tell you that it was A-rab, but none of us could understand it. Decided that you all might want to know about it sooner rather than later."
"So you came to tell us with rifles in hand?" DiNozzo couldn't help but ask.
Jasper looked at him in amusement. "Son, around here some of our miscreants are half ton grizzlies. I'd keep a bazooka in the back seat if they'd let me."
Gibbs had half a smile playing around his jaw on that one. "So you always keep high mileage weaponry to hand."
"Pretty near, Special Agent Gibbs." Figgerworth tossed a glance in the direction of the fled terrorists. Then he looked upward; couldn't see anything through the rain-filled night and only got a few large drops of water in his eyes for his trouble but did it anyway. "What say we get out of this mess? Like as not a bigger surge of water is headed this way. That's what the weather boys are predicting. Don't know as how I much believe 'em, but every one time out of ten they're right on the money."
This time Gibbs had to agree with him. "Let's go, children. We've got a long drive ahead of us."
Fielding hefted his rifle, peering down the road. "We'll ride shotgun, at least 'til the county line."
Gibbs nodded. "I'd appreciate that."
The locals might not have much in the way of smarts when it came to murder, but after that little display DiNozzo wasn't about to turn down the offer. He extended a hand to McGee, the other agent still sitting on his backside on the muddy ground, coughing the soot out of his lungs. "C'mon, Probie," he said, pulling the man up to stand wobbling on his feet, "it's time to go home."
"Way past time," McGee agreed, trying to stifle another cough. He gave up, putting his hands on his knees as he tried to inhale enough air to do the job.
DiNozzo didn't wait. He pushed McGee into the back seat of the sedan, wincing as some of the mud flaked off to end up on both the floor and the seat. "Maintenance is going to love cleaning up this mess," he muttered. "Can't take you anywhere, McWheeze."
A cough was his reply.
Gibbs took the wheel once more, easing the sedan back onto the slippery wet road, the locals following behind more securely in their SUV. Rain droplets aimed for the holes in the windshield, creating small puddles on the seats that ran off onto the floorboards. DiNozzo mentally allocated a portion of next week's paycheck to replacing these clothes, because after this his shirt and pants weren't going to be fit for anything more than cleaning rags. Damn. Good shirt, too.
They were out there. Those terrorists were planning their next move; DiNozzo knew that for a fact. It was what he would have done, if he were in their shoes. McGee had a picture of their fearless and somewhat crazed leader in his noggin, but the terrorists didn't know that. For all they cared, each and every one of the NCIS team could be an expert sketch artist, ready to post hand-signed copies of the Hacksaw of Hormuz up all over the world, effectively ruining the man's low profile hide-outs. Those terrorists were out for blood—NCIS blood.
DiNozzo kept peering out through the window, looking for anything that might signal an impending attack, any dark shadow that looked more like a man than a tree stump. Ziva, he knew, was doing the same thing on the opposite side of the sedan, scanning the tree-lined road, her Beretta ready in her hand. Gibbs was hunched over the wheel, trying to both watch the road for massive impromptu lakes and stray terrorists at the same time. McGee? DiNozzo had to hand it to the junior agent. Probie wasn't giving in to the long sessions of smoke-removal known as coughing. He too kept watch for that flicker of light on metal that could give a split second warning of an attack.
DiNozzo wondered how many of the little slime-worms there were. Three, at least; they'd all seen them in the fiasco in the center of Starksville when they'd taken that woman and her kid hostage. More, DiNozzo thought sourly, dismissing a shadow up ahead as too skinny to be a man. DiNozzo himself had counted four spots where shots were coming from in this last little skirmish. There could be more and probably was. It wasn't hard to cross the border to get into America, despite what some people liked to say. DiNozzo had done it himself a few times as a ten year old vacationing in—well, better not mention the southwestern state. He might want to retire there some day—if he lived through this little slice of life. Likewise, there was proof to be had that walking in through Customs with a fake ID tended to work fairly well, depending on the quality of the false documents.
Gibbs slowed to a stop. Not a panicked, 'here they come' sort of stop, just a gentle slowing of the tires. Another drop of rain oozed its way inside and landed on DiNozzo's already soaked knee.
"Gibbs?" Ziva leaned forward, trying to spot the reason for the pause in their trip.
Gibbs grunted. "I want to look at that bridge before we try to cross it." He sounded as though he'd traveled this sort of route before, knew the problems to anticipate. DiNozzo inwardly cheered, although he wasn't surprised. It was a Gibbs sort of thing to expect, that he would miraculously know what natural disasters lay up ahead. Gibbs peered through the rain-filled darkness, then turned to his team. "DiNozzo, you're with me. Ziva, don't let anyone get to McGee."
"Yes, Gibbs." Ziva turned to their resident computer geek, and poked him in the ribs. "Wake up, McGee."
"I'm awake!" McGee sat up suddenly, stretching his eyes wide. Then he bent over, coughing once again, until he could silence himself with another sip from his bottled water.
DiNozzo faced forward. Best to keep McGee in the car, out of as much of the rain as possible and away from anything resembling pneumonia. He could just hear ol' Rasputin from one of the other teams, jabbing DiNozzo in the ribs and jeering, "got him home safe, DiNozzo, only to have him die from pneumonia before he could pass on the intel. Way to go, DiNozzo." Yeah, Rasputin—the agent who could charm his superiors into anything—wouldn't let him forget something like that. DiNozzo resolved not to let that happen, nor to let anything happen to the rest of his teammates.
Dennis pulled the SUV up behind the sedan, and Figgerworth stuck his head out through the window of his vehicle. "Everything okay, Agent Gibbs?"
"Gonna take a look at the bridge," Gibbs called back. "Ever have it flood out?"
"Only 'bout once or twice a year." Figgerworth craned his neck to look up at the black sky; why, DiNozzo couldn't tell since not only could they not see anything due to the darkness but the rain clouds were covering everything so that even a bolt of lightning couldn't get through.
DiNozzo pushed his collar up, hoping to keep some of rain on the outside of his clothes, and realized that the steady downpour was lightening. It was now downgraded to a steady, sodden drizzle, cold and energy-sapping, but not the flesh-eating soaked-to-the-bone pelting from earlier. He followed Gibbs and Figgerworth to the edge of the bridge, limping, Chief Fielding trailing behind.
Gibbs let out a snort of disgust. DiNozzo leaned over to see why.
The river wasn't big by Potomac standards but DiNozzo would have hated to end up in it. The rain that had fallen on top of the local mountain peaks had decided that sinking into highland ground was too good for it, and instead had joined this little creek to turn it into a raging flood complete with white rapids. Those little dark spots must be boulders incompletely submerged by the water, DiNozzo realized. Definitely a level ten on a toughness scale for white water rafting sportsmen—maybe an eleven.
That wasn't the problem. The problem was the bridge—or rather, the large and gaping hole in the center of it. A surge of water had apparently, sometime in the recent past, come by and chosen to remove the center section of the bridge and add it to the rock collection that the creek was building somewhere downstream. Driving serenely over this broken bridge to arrive in D.C. in time for morning roll call wasn't going to happen.
Gibbs kept his voice even. "You got another way out of this town of yours, Chief?" It was actually directed at Figgerworth.
"Wish I did, Agent Gibbs." Fielding let Figgerworth do the talking. Delegation had its charms, DiNozzo thought. Fielding wasn't the brightest kid he'd met, but he wasn't a fool. Let the elders figure it out.
"And you said the other road was out with a mudslide."
"That's the report." Figgerworth paused just long enough to make sure that Gibbs wasn't going to explode on him. "What's your plan now?"
Lips tightened into an unhappy line. "Not much we can do, until we can dig out around that 'slide." Gibbs himself glared up at the sky, collecting a couple of small raindrops on his nose for his trouble. "Can't even call for a chopper to airlift out. Not yet. Not until this weather passes."
"What are you going to do until then?" Fielding wanted to know. "They're shooting at you, for Pete's sake!" With us in the middle, was the unspoken wail behind it.
Poor kid. DiNozzo almost pitied him. He didn't know Gibbs, didn't know that getting whacked upside the head for asking stupid questions was the best he could expect.
But Gibbs kept it civil for the police chief. "What do you suggest, Chief Fielding?"
Was there sarcasm in the title? DiNozzo chose not to answer that question. It would only get him into trouble.
"Uh, you could, uh…"
"Right." Gibbs turned to Figgerworth. "They're after us, and they're not going to stop until either they're dead or we are. I don't want any civilians getting in the way and getting themselves shot, so we're going to need some place dry and defensible and away from people. You got any suggestions?"
Figgerworth tried to think. "Most of these places around here, Gibbs, weren't designed to hold off an attack."
"There's the police station," Fielding started to say.
Gibbs rounded on him. "You mean the burned out shell of a building that's left after those people bombed it?"
"Uh…" Fielding collapsed into squashed silence.
"What about the Johnson home?" Gibbs moved on to more appropriate venues for a firefight. "It's away from everyone, and there's no one living there anymore."
"It's got a bunch of entrances and exits," Figgerworth disagreed. "It's got more windows than you can shake a stick at. Not real defensible."
"You got a better suggestion? I'm open."
DiNozzo took a deep breath. He was going to hate himself in the morning for saying this—assuming that he lived that long. "Boss, I can jump the car over the bridge. I think."
"DiNozzo?" Gibbs swung around. "You can get us past this obstacle?"
"Let me take another look, a closer look." Am I crazy, thinking about doing this?
Think about Brandi, and our date for this week end. Do I really want to be stuck here in the hind end of nowhere with a hottie like her waiting for me?
"If you think you can do it, DiNozzo, then do it." Gibbs gave his blessing.
All on me. All on my shoulders now. DiNozzo advanced to the edge of the bridge, inspecting the roadway leading up to it. They were all watching him, but DiNozzo suddenly found it more prudent to have his attention elsewhere. Why the hell did I open my big mouth?
The bridge wasn't a long one; DiNozzo had jumped a car for further distances during the summer when he'd taken that race car driving course that he'd gotten his old man to spring for, right after young Anthony had gotten his driver's license. He'd thought that he was hot stuff back then, didn't realize until later that his dad was just trying to make sure that the junior DiNozzo could handle a car better than most because there wasn't any way this side of Hades that anyone was going to slow down the hell raiser that Anthony was becoming.
There were problems. DiNozzo had learned to set up a jump, and that included a ramp so that the car would leap into the air instead of arrowing straight across. Gravity worked equally well on all things, and unless he could keep the nose up somehow, he would end up putting the sedan into that cold water below.
So far, the bridge was cooperating. It was one of those bridges that provided a gentle arch over a sweet little creek, oh so picturesque in a charming autumnal setting, perfect for that Kodak moment. The surge of water had taken out the farther end of the bridge, allowing the rise that would help the sedan fly into the air rather than nose down at the ragged tear in the structure.
Hell. That wouldn't get him out of the hole that his big mouth had dug for him.
DiNozzo stepped onto the edge of the bridge, jumping up and down to test the soundness of the damaged pass. It swayed a bit, but not so much that DiNozzo could legitimately refuse the jump. He walked forward, stopping every few feet to make certain that this end of the bridge was still stable enough to bear the weight of a loaded sedan long enough for his purposes.
There it was: dark and forbidding. End of the road—literally. No more pavement until the other stub of bridge stretching out from the other bank. DiNozzo estimated the distance of the hole—no, that wasn't right. If they came down on the nubbin of the far end of the bridge, they'd end up in the drink for sure. No, DiNozzo would need to put the sedan down on the other side beyond the bridge, on the secure ground, because the far end of the damaged bridge wouldn't take a couple tons of car and people landing on top of it. DiNozzo revised his estimate of the needed distance, and unhappily decided that he could do it.
Maybe.
"DiNozzo?" There was the big question in Gibbs's voice, and his eyes asked the same thing.
"Fifty-fifty chance, boss." Actually, it was sixty-forty, DiNozzo thought, but hedging his bets sounded really good right now. "It's up to you, boss. Do we try it?" Please say no.
"Good enough." Gibbs jumped on the offer. "Chief, anything we ought to know about on the other side?"
"Not that I can think of," Figgerworth said, Fielding nodding behind him. "No towns 'til you hit Clarksburg. What about your friends with the guns?"
"They have no interest in you," Gibbs reassured him. "Once we're gone, they'll lie low until they can get out. Get that bridge fixed, and they'll be the first ones to cross and get back to the action in D.C." He turned back to his agent. "DiNozzo? You ready?"
DiNozzo tried to keep it light. "Yes, Dad. Can I have the keys?"
Gibbs snorted, but he tossed the sedan keys in DiNozzo's direction. "You boys head on back to town, keep a sharp eye out. As soon as you can, get a message out to the state troopers. I want an escort for the rest of the trip home." He snorted again. "Wouldn't put it past some young cop to try to ticket us for a broken windshield."
It was still drizzling, and there was no light beyond that from the headlights of the sedan and the SUV. Fielding had driven the SUV up to the bank to position the SUV headlights onto the other side; not that DiNozzo really wanted to see it, but he figured that he'd better.
"Buckle in," he said, concentrating on the gauges in front of him. Gas: three-quarters of a tank. Speedometer: currently zero, but that would change. "This is going to be a rough landing." He waited until all three of the others had carefully tightened their seat belts, blessing the regs that demanded that shoulder harnesses also be routinely installed in vehicles. It would have been nice to have an intact windshield to keep the rain and wind out of his face, but that little nicety had vanished with the first bullet from their attackers.
First, in reverse. DiNozzo wanted the extra boost that a few more yards of distance would give him. The SUV hovered off to the side, illuminating the jump scene, with all of the locals standing out in the fine mist in order to more closely watch DiNozzo put NCIS in the drink. You can do this, Tony, he chanted to himself. Enough speed, just enough to send this clunky sedan through the air and onto the other bank.
"You can do this, Tony," Ziva encouraged him from her place in the back seat.
Had he spoken out loud? Or had the Mossad agent turned into a mind-reader? DiNozzo dismissed the thought as unimportant at the moment. Gibbs positioned his hand against the front dash in preparation.
Now or never. DiNozzo fed gas slowly to the engine, feeling the powerful V-8 turn over. The wheels tried to slip in the mud, then grabbed hold and propelled them forward. DiNozzo clenched the steering wheel, trying to keep the sedan on track with sheer willpower alone. Rain hit his hands, trying to get them to slip off the wheel.
Getting closer to lift off. DiNozzo slammed his foot onto the gas pedal and the sedan leaped forward. Closer, faster, closer—the dark waters below churned around sharp boulders.
Can I back out right now, in the middle of this whole mess? Wish I could.
Closer—lift-off!
The sedan careened into the air, wheels spinning helplessly.
That's it, DiNozzo. You've done what you could. You calculated the distance, the speed, you executed everything perfectly. You're now airborne, and there's not another damn thing you can do to alter your trajectory. You gonna come down on the other side? Or you gonna crash into the rocks below? Not afraid of a little water, are you?
Hell, yes. And that's no longer a 'little' water. It now qualifies as a death trap.
The heavy engine brought the sedan down, nose first, the front wheels scrabbling to find purchase on the far side of the bridge. Back wheels—yes! The tires caused mud to fly into the air, spun there by rotating rubber, then grabbed onto the paved surface below the grime to pull the car further onto the road. DiNozzo slammed onto the brakes to take the gentle curve beyond the shred of bridge that they'd sailed over, allowed the sedan to roll to a stop. He sat there, staring at the dash, hands shaking.
"Not bad, DiNozzo," Gibbs said.
The shaking got worse, the adrenaline stealing away to leave him trembling like an aspen leaf. Tony DiNozzo felt beads of sweat rolling down from his hairline. Gads, a compliment! Gibbs never handed out compliments. DiNozzo only wished that he could enjoy it. His hands seemed glued to the steering wheel.
"You think maybe I should take the next leg of this journey?" Gibbs asked calmly.
"Uh…yeah." Did his voice shake, too? DiNozzo hoped that nobody noticed.
"What's that?" McGee piped up suddenly.
"Where?" Gibbs went on sudden alert.
"Over there, boss!" McGee pointed, and they all then heard the roar of a car engine. Something large and black leaped out of the dark beyond. There wasn't much doubt as to what was happening.
DiNozzo's first thought was not fair! He'd just gotten one of Gibbs's infrequent compliments, and now those bastards had stationed someone else on this side of the creek to make sure that Anthony DiNozzo wouldn't have the opportunity to bask in the glow.
He never had time for his second thought. Another large car—maybe another SUV, but DiNozzo would never have been able to clearly identify the make or model in the wilderness dark—came barreling out of trees. It slammed into the sedan.
Someone screeched, and DiNozzo thought it might have been Ziva. It sounded like her. It didn't matter. The attacking SUV didn't let up. It kept on shoving, pushing them off the road.
Gibbs cracked his gun against his side window, firing his gun at their attackers. Through the open air DiNozzo could hear the heavier shots from rifles coming from the other side of the creek from the locals trying to help, even seeing one bullet pierce through metal to bury itself somewhere inside the enemy SUV engine. It didn't matter; the SUV kept on pushing.
The sedan tilted. They were getting pushed into the swollen creek! DiNozzo's own gun was now in his fist, but he couldn't fire for fear of hitting Gibbs who was systematically turning the enemy's windshield into starred shards of glass. Another round of bullets from behind him, in the back seat—that was Ziva. McGee was on the floor. Had the man been hit? Was that damn portrait that he carried inside his brain lost forever? Or had Ziva pushed him there, seeking to protect the intelligence as well as the man?
Didn't matter. "We're going over!" DiNozzo yelled, forcing himself to keep hold of his handgun. He'd need it if he survived the river.
Dammit, he'd made the jump successfully! He didn't deserve this! Was there no justice in this world?