Please note that today's update included the chapters 12 to 17. If you have not already read those, I suggest going back and doing so.
Kadira's first Hebrew word had been ach. Brother. Ari had taught it to her. She did not remember it, but her father had told her the story. Ari would sit in front of her, for hours on end, repeating "I'm your brother Ari. Who am I?" over and over again. He had set his mind on teaching her perfect Hebrew. To make it easier for her to fit in and blend in when among Israelis. And when she had visited Tali and Ziva shortly before Tali's death, she had taken enormous pride in the fact that everyone seemed to understand her, and the one friend of Tali's that was allowed over to her house when she and Ari had been there was genuinely surprised to learn that Kadira was actually from Gaza and that Arabic was her native language.
Whenever Chanukah drew nearer, Kadira had always counted down the weeks and days, sometimes even hours and minutes until she would see Ari again. Her father had been mad when he had found his Muslim daughter celebrating Chanukah with her Jewish half-brother. It was not that he had a problem with Ari or his faith. He just wanted his daughter to be raised the way he had been. And he had found it a bit strange that year after year, Ari would always return to them for at least two days of Chanukah. Until he had been able to see that for neither Kadira nor Ari, this get together was about Ari's faith. It was about spending time with your family. And while Ari had a family in Israel, a father and two sisters, later only one, that he loved, part of his heart still belonged to Kadira and his step-father. The person that had taught him to walk upright among the other boys, to be proud of his name because it was unique in their immediate circle of friends and not to be embarrassed because it was different.
There had been one Chanukah that Kadira had spent in Israel. She had been fifteen, it was the first Chanukah after Tali's death. Her father had wanted her in the safety of Israel. For the last weeks, the retaliatory strikes at Gaza City had increased, and he had worried about the safety of his daughter and her wellbeing more than ever before. So he had reluctantly taken Ari up on his offer to bring her to the border where Ari picked her up and drove the rest of the way to Tel Aviv.
Chanukah had been a somewhat sad affair that year. Ziva had been mostly silent, sulking, speaking only when answering to questions or snapping at someone. And Eli David had made it perfectly clear that he did not like the idea of a Muslim girl in his house, not during this time of the year, not when he had just lost his beautiful daughter. But in a way, Kadira had enjoyed it. Here she was free of wearing her hijab. She could wander around the huge mansion aimlessly all day until Ari returned from Mossad, and then they played checkers together, or talked. About nothing and everything.
Now, Kadira wondered how she and Ari had managed to be so close. How they had been so tight as brother and sister when they had not really grown up together. How came she knew everything about him. How came she had felt the change in him even when he was in the US. Had been able to read it between the lines in his letters to her, perfect Hebrew, but always signed with Salaam and not Shalom. And not for the first time, Kadira wondered if Ari had been buried at the wrong cemetery. If the traditional Jewish funeral she had not objected to had been wrong. If along with his transition from Mossad to Hamas, Ari had also switched from being Jewish to the Muslim faith.
She missed him. She missed him so much that it often hurt. She missed him even more than her father, and her mother. Growing up in Gaza, loss and grief had been parts of her life as long as she could remember. There was always someone who died, always someone to mourn. But until Ari's death, she had not felt physical pain with the loss of someone she loved.
When Ziva had called her that day, Kadira had known that something was wrong. She was Ari's control officer, he had told her that on his last visit. And Ziva never spoke to her in Arabic, they had always talked in Hebrew. But this time, the Israeli had switched to Arabic and asked Kadira to pack some clothes and be ready in two hours so she could pick her up. The drive back to Tel Aviv had been silent, Kadira had watched the landscape fly past and felt a feeling of dread settle in her gut, cold fingers spreading out through her entire body until all she felt was this. And the moment Ziva had turned off the car in the driveway of their house, Kadira had started to cry. Because Ari had not been there to welcome her. Because he had not called. Because she had realized the truth. Her brother was dead. She was alone now.
And now she sat in a motel room in Washington D.C. and fought to keep the anger and the feeling of betrayal that simmered under the surface in check. Farook was watching her intently, and for the first time she wanted to hit him for not realizing that she'd rather be alone with her thoughts. Slowly she stood and walked over to the window, leaning against the wall, watching the outside world blur in front of her until she saw the reflection of her face in the glass.
Ziva had killed Ari. She had shot him. Not Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS. It had been Ziva who had killed her own blood, their blood. Now her being the mark made a lot more sense.
Slowly, Kadira's hand went to the gun strapped to her hip. She let her fingers run over to cool metal and unholstered it. Taking out the clip, she made sure that it was completely loaded, before putting it back in. She pulled the sled back and let it slam forward again, loading her gun. When she turned around to face her husband, determination radiated off her. The next time she ran into Ziva, she would not hesitate again. The next time would be the last. It would end. Tonight.
TBC