I'm not going to bother confusing me and everyone else with new futuristic inventions so just pretend for the sake of this story that technological advancement slows down a lot.

I have already written four more chapters so I will probably upload another one later this evening.

The house sat in the centre of a benign suburb. Strange that, since the many incidents that had occurred there were rather less than benign. It looked nothing like a house of a sniper and even less like the house where confidential CIA personnel files were kept, stored in the drawer beneath the guns and rifles. It had always reminded her more of a family home, occupied by snivelling toddlers and surly teenagers, chiselling away at the scrimped earnings of stressed parents.

On either side of the house, identical clapboard houses squatted in their square yards. And next to them, were more identical houses. A sea of uniform beige buildings where no one domicile stood out, except perhaps to people with a particular attachment to a particular house. Old owners occasionally drove down from their new houses up in New England to nod wisely and mutter memories. Grown up children pointed out their childhood house to clamouring children or new husbands. Grieving families parked on the street and wept onto their steering wheels with a newly sold house in the background.

She had no such attachment. Slamming the car door behind her, she walked up the short path to the front door. Knocking sharply, she stepped back and surveyed the building. Things that start life as unremarkable and lifeless age well. There was no character to lose, no shine to fade. As such, she found no noticeable changes to the outside. The gutter had been changed and the window frame was painted more often than when she had last stood outside the door.

The glaring difference was the door. Instead of swinging freely open when she knocked, it had held fast, locked and chained shut. She had never had to wait for an answer before. Abandoning her sight seeing, she turned back to the door and waited impatiently for it to be opened. Never an enduring woman, she grew restless fast and started to tap her foot.

Her keen eye noticed a window which she might be able to jimmy open. She made no move towards it though. Even if she opened a window and somehow managed to climb on top of the porch to reach it, she would not be able to manoeuvre her gait through the small hole. It wasn't that she was overly big, but her bones were weary and her doctor had recommended not taking the stairs too fast. He would have a cardiac arrest if she suggested clambouring through upstairs windows.

Giving up on being let into the house through the front door conventionally, she left the path and trudged gloomily around the side of the house. Grass, which had once been the minority in the garden, had sprouted through the bare patches created by an unconcerned gardener. The weeds which had decorated the dull earth had been rooted out, replaced by the emerald carpet. There were no flowers, however, so the previous owner had not been completely put to shame. Although, after twenty-five years, perhaps there had been many owners since the one whose garden she had known so well.

She reached the back of the house and rattled the handle on the back door. It didn't give and nobody answered her noise. She aimed a kick at the foot of it before beginning the journey round to the front of the house. She poked a curious finger at the tall picket fence. She didn't remember it being so tall and so white. Whoever lived there now must like both the house and privacy more. House proud, that was the phrase. She stored that up for future use. Even after being an American citizen for thirty years, some English still managed to catch her out. They do say that you never stop learning.

She rounded the corner and found another car parked next to hers. It was a small car, though at the distance and with her failing eyesight she could not quite make out what model. It looked more like a Volkswagen than a Porsche, though. She walked back to the Porsche and found a man standing on the front step, peering through the glass panel on the green door.

She coughed loudly to attract his attention. He straightened up quickly, as if electrocuted, and turned round, clutching his back.

'I really shouldn't stand up so fast,' he grumbled.

She took a few more steps forward. 'Tony?' she asked, her voice cracking slightly with uncertainty.

He chuckled drily. 'No,' he replied. 'I wish.' He pulled a pair of glasses from a case protruding from his trouser pocket and pushed them on. He eyed her for a moment. 'Ziva?' he guessed.

She nodded. 'McGee,' she greeted monotonously. 'How are you?'

He smiled flabbily. 'Fine,' he answered, gesturing to his wide berth. 'Could be better I suppose. You?' he added politely.

She shrugged glumly. 'Much the same.'

He frowned. 'As before?' he asked, slightly taken aback. 'I mean, you still...?'

She cut him off hastily, not wanting him to voice his thoughts. 'No,' she corrected. 'I meant much the same as you.'

He nodded dumbly. They stood there awkwardly for a second before Ziva broke into the growing silence. 'Have you knocked?'

He nodded gravely. 'Nobody answered.'

She considered the situation for a moment. 'Do you know who texted you, telling you to come here?' she asked.

McGee shrugged his shoulders. 'I assumed that it was one of you,' he replied.

Ziva pursed her lips, thinking hard. 'It all seems a little too much like a detective novel,' she remarked.

He grinned. 'You read those?'

She shook her head, frowning at the idea. 'I lived a detective novel for many years,' she explained. 'Why would read about it?' She smiled toothily. 'No, my...' She tailed off.

McGee raised his eyebrows, expecting her to continue.

'You just know about them,' she finished, changing the ending.

'What are you thinking?' he asked, not following her train of thought.

She spread her hands wide, palms facing upwards, laying out her thought. 'Maybe somebody lured us here,' she suggested. 'A revenge plan for someone we caught.'

McGee looked sceptical. 'The revenge is a little delayed, isn't it?'

Her arms dropped to her sides with a slap. 'They've been in prison up until now,' she offered.

The doubt did not slide off McGee's face. 'We don't work there anymore, though. Why would anyone want to get vengeance now? And why would they assume that we would even come?'

Ziva did not answer his question. Instead, her attention returned to the problem of getting into the house. 'Reply to the message,' she ordered imperiously.

McGee pulled his phone out of his pocket. Ziva eyed it warily.

'What is that thing?' she asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Once so open-minded, the years had only served to narrow her tolerance.

He pulled it closer to his chest, cradling it in his hands. 'It's my phone,' he replied defensively.

'That isn't a phone,' she argued, pulling her own phone out of her handbag. 'This is.'

McGee shook his head vehemently. 'This is the new phone,' he insisted. 'They gave it to me at work.'

'Where do you work, NASA?' she teased.

He ignored her and concentrated his attention on the phone. It rang and he pressed it to his ear. 'Hello,' he said uncertainly. Ziva watched him impatiently. He hazarded a smile. 'Yes,' he replied to an unheard question. 'Let us in.' He slipped the phone back into his pocket. 'Abby called us,' he told Ziva. 'She's just coming to let us in.'

Ziva did not look satisfied. 'Why didn't she let us in before? And why are we here anyway?' she demanded.

McGee shrugged. 'She was in the basement listening to music. She didn't say why she called us here.'

Ziva sighed intolerantly but moved towards the front door.