Keeping close watch on three agents, two of whom were from a different agency, was normally a challenge.
Not in this case. David Sinclair could read the thoughts in every person there. Colby, he knew: the man would bolt after a fleeing suspect but was a good man to have at his side. Tony DiNozzo was Gibbs's number two man and accustomed to giving orders—and equally accustomed to taking them. He would follow Sinclair's instructions since he'd been told to by his boss, but should Sinclair falter DiNozzo would have no hesitation in stepping in. DiNozzo would play it by the book but only until he decided that he didn't like the plot.
Ziva David would be another story. Sinclair had heard about this type of Mossad officer, and a part of him wondered how Gibbs had managed to tame her to this level. A lethal killing machine—Sinclair had met one during his time in the Middle East. They trained from childhood to survive in a land where every hand was raised against them, the first line of defense against the hordes who wanted them dead. She would follow orders, but what orders had she been given? Who was giving the orders: Sinclair, Gibbs, or a handler back home?
Too many questions, and too many extraneous thoughts would get him killed. Sinclair pulled his mind back to the task at hand: take down each of the men upstairs and do it quietly. Noise could get Charlie killed.
First room. Sinclair listened, watching the others do the same. One man inside, the footsteps too heavy to be a woman's, not unless she weighed three hundred pounds or more. A singleton, then; Sinclair motioned for Colby and DiNozzo to do the honors.
Colby went first. Lightly, on his toes, he slipped up behind the man who had just finished putting a tee shirt into a duffel bag. One hand went over the mouth, the other around the neck to cut off the air. DiNozzo helped lower the unconscious man silently to the carpeted floor, snapping a set of handcuffs around ever so deserving wrists and stuffing the man's mouth full of a gag to keep him quiet.
Sinclair couldn't wait to see more. Ziva had moved on to the next room, and this one held three men. Only one was moving, putting his own clothing into a duffel. The other two lounged on the bed, watching idly and killing time. All three were big, bigger than Sinclair and certainly outweighing Ziva by a hundred pounds or more.
Wait, Sinclair signaled. They'd need Colby and DiNozzo—
She didn't, and it took only a bare instant for Sinclair to see why. A mirror, attached to a dresser, had reflected their image in the hall, and one of the men was opening his mouth to sound the alarm.
Ziva dove straight for him. Afterward, Sinclair would never be able to tell what she did, but the cry dwindled to a gurgle in his throat, and the man collapsed, clutching himself. She turned on the second, intent on rendering him into the same state.
Sinclair couldn't wait. He went for the third man, opting for a straight punch toward the nose.
The man dodged, blocked the blow, and returned his own left hook.
Instinct kicked in, instincts honed on the back streets and alleyways as kid and tuned to perfection in the training rooms at Quantico. Block. Jab to the ribs. Knock the breath out, then palm strike to the jaw. Sinclair had to grab the man to ease him to the floor; the noise would have alerted anyone else in the house.
DiNozzo appeared at the doorway, Colby behind him. Raised eyebrows: everyone okay?
Cocked head from Ziva: I'm insulted that you even asked.
Sinclair gestured to them. Check out the rest of the rooms. Where's Charlie, and your man?
Colby nodded, moving up the hallway, DiNozzo in his wake. Sinclair finished tying up his man, yanking down the curtain pulls to finish the job and handing the remainder of the cord to his new partner to immobilize the other two.
DiNozzo reappeared. "Secure," he reported in a stage whisper. "They've got a small arsenal in the far bedroom up here. Granger is locking it down. No sign of McGee or the professor."
Sinclair acknowledged the intel, and delegated. "Officer David, finish putting these suspects on ice and help Granger secure the evidence. DiNozzo, you and I will back up Eppes and Gibbs."
Neither one knew which man gave the signal. It wasn't needed; both men reacted as though they'd been partners for years instead of minutes.
Gibbs was the larger man, with the greater power. He dove through the door, coming up from a shoulder roll with his handgun snapped into a two-handed grip. Eppes, smaller and better able to dodge, darted to the left in order to better cover the room.
"Freeze! Federal agents!"
Gibbs saw it first, saw the trigger finger already in motion, saw the handgun aimed at McGee lying helpless on the sofa. There were two men, both of whom had handguns but only one ready to kill the hostage. He also saw the woman—Dr. Levenger, he knew—in Gibbs's line of fire. That she would be hit, wasn't his concern. She wasn't an innocent bystander. But the slug going through flesh would throw off his aim. McGee would still be dead, and there wasn't a damn thing that Gibbs could do to prevent it.
Another flash; Eppes fired, the sound rocketing through the house like a firecracker. The man screamed, the sound turning into anguish as the bullet tore through flesh. The man dropped the gun from bloody fingers, staggering back to collapse against the wall. Eppes moved in, shoving the handgun out of reach with a booted toe and cuffing the man.
The second man wasn't stupid; his own gun dropped from his hand and his arms went up in instantaneous surrender. Gibbs kicked the gun away with his foot, keeping both the second man and Dr. Levenger in his sights. "McGee?"
"Boss…?"
Not particularly healthy but alive, and Gibbs would take what he could get. Gibbs handed over his own set of cuffs to Eppes, who promptly fastened them onto the second man's wrists. They were short one set of cuffs, size woman's medium, but that didn't stop Eppes. His tie, left over from a certain lecture to a crowd of distracted FBI agents, had long since been stuffed into his pocket and now he dragged it out and put it to better use.
There was someone missing, and Eppes went after him. He turned Levenger around to face him. "Where's my brother? Where's Charlie Eppes?"
Levenger glared at him. "Not here, that's for sure."
Gibbs went to McGee, holstering his piece. The man looked like death warmed over, his lips cracked and dry and his eyes sunken. Dried blood stained a hole in his pant leg, and Gibbs didn't need to probe to know what he'd find beneath the ragged cloth. McGee was clutching a laptop as though it was a life-preserver, and he looked back at Gibbs as though he couldn't believe what, or who, he was seeing.
"Boss?"
Gibbs could barely hear the word on McGee's lips. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that Eppes had the three under control, then slid his hand behind McGee's neck to ease him back down onto the sofa. "It's over, McGee. We've got you."
McGee felt hot to his touch; burning up with fever, Gibbs realized. The man, however, kept a tight grip on the laptop, and somehow Gibbs didn't think it was because his computer geek was in the middle of a rousing game of solitaire. Medical attention needed to be up next on the agenda, and soon.
There was one other thing, and Eppes asked it again, his voice hoarse with fear. "Where's Charlie Eppes?"
Levenger broke in. "He doesn't know. I do." She fixed her gaze on the senior FBI agent. "Cut me a deal, and do it now if you ever want to see him alive."
"You know where he is?" Don rose, wanting to believe.
"I do."
"She doesn't." The words were weak but clear. McGee went on. "He escaped an hour ago. I helped him." He licked his lips, trying to catch his breath.
"We found him," Levenger said, daring McGee to disagree. "He's in another location, one that you'll never find unless I tell you," she added, lifting her chin. "Cut me a deal. I walk out of here right now, or you'll never see Professor Eppes alive."
"McGee?" Gibbs could tell that his man was fading fast. They'd need to move fast if they wanted anything more out of McGee. We need to move now to keep him alive.
"She's lying." McGee struggled to keep his eyes open, trying to transmit the information through sheer telepathy if nothing else. "Her people came back without him, angry." He indicated the laptop, fingers finally relaxing on its hard frame. "The code…in…here…" His words trailed off, along with consciousness.
"McGee!" Gibbs couldn't help but go for the pulse. There it was, at the jugular, weak but still present.
DiNozzo appeared at the door, Sinclair in his wake. "Bos—"
"Get the medics, DiNozzo. Now."
"On it." DiNozzo pulled out his cell, swearing as the signal strength cut out on him. He moved away, searching for a better spot.
"You. Special Agent Eppes." Dr. Levenger zeroed in on what she hoped would be the weakest link. "Professor Eppes is your brother, right?" She didn't wait for an answer. "That NCIS agent doesn't know what happened. He wasn't there. Yes, your brother tried to escape, and he almost made it. Almost," she repeated. "We caught him, right as he was about to dive into a creek not too far from here."
"Yeah?" Eppes couldn't help himself; that, Gibbs could tell without half-trying. Eppes wanted to believe the suspect. Eppes moved in on her. "So where is he?"
"I want a car," Levenger said with an awesome calm radiating from her. "I want an hour's head start."
Crap. Eppes was caving. Gibbs started to get up—
But—"I've got a better idea," Eppes said, ice like jagged daggers in his words. He turned on one of the men, the one who had surrendered his weapon. "You. We've got you on charges of treason, and you'd better believe that the death penalty is right around the corner. You talk; you live. It's that simple. You talking?"
The water was flowing at approximately one point three meters per second, all of which frustrated Charlie because that wasn't the appropriate unit of measure. Under the circumstances, it was the best that he could do. A slender twig dropped from a tree somewhere upstream had obligingly provided a rough estimate of how quickly something traveled in the water, flowing past him, which was how Charlie had come up with the approximate velocity. A better unit of measure would include the volume of water but estimating that number was beyond his current capability.
'Current' capability. Hah. Water currents: a pun. A pretty poor one, but since there was no one around to critique him, he would accept it. After all, he was a mathematician, not a comedian.
Clearly his fingers had frozen to the root extended out into the water, because they didn't show any signs of letting go. A large heron on the bank across the way eyed him balefully, mentally accusing him of driving away the fish that the heron was after. Was that a water moccasin sliding along top of the liquid surface? Another thing that Charlie's computer brain couldn't remember: the fauna in this part of the country. For all he knew, it could be an anaconda. Not that it really mattered; the snake had even less interest in examining the intruder in its abode than the heron.
Oh, yeah. The pun. He was supposed to laugh.
Maybe tomorrow. Right now, he was too tired. He laid his head down on top of the root that he'd grabbed onto, unable to keep himself higher than the water line, grateful that the icy cold water only occasionally slipped up over his face. He was so cold. Going to sleep seemed like a much…better…idea…
Gibbs went after Eppes. He'd seen that look too many times, the face of a man who was afraid that his best wasn't going to be good enough. It wasn't that Gibbs didn't trust Eppes…hell, yes, it was. Eppes was a damn good agent with too much on his plate. Under normal circumstances, the man should be sitting out this case.
McGee was in good hands, and there wasn't anything that Gibbs could do for him. The medics were on the way, and DiNozzo in charge of making certain that the laptop stayed in official custody. In the meantime, Gibbs had a job to do. Two jobs, actually: find the FBI consultant, and keep the FBI consultant's FBI agent brother from killing himself while finding the aforementioned consultant. Maybe three: there was that damn cipher to find so that someone somewhere could unravel the damn thing and tell the world what was so all-fired important that it had already gotten nearly a half dozen people killed.
Quick decisions, and then delegation. "DiNozzo!"
"Boss?"
"Put these bozos on ice. Nobody gets to them except us, and that includes Fornell. Hear me? I don't want to get back to headquarters to find that the FBI thinks that it owns the world."
DiNozzo tossed an uneasy glance over his shoulder. "What about these guys, boss?"
"Visiting dignitaries, DiNozzo." Gibbs eyed Eppes, already half-way up the stairs and heading toward the outdoors—and his brother. "They don't count. As long as they don't try to take the suspects anywhere except NCIS headquarters. Use 'em as guards, DiNozzo. I'm leaving you with a hell of a lot of suspects to keep control of, and I want McGee kept in one piece. Hear me, DiNozzo?"
"One piece. Yes, boss." DiNozzo backed off before the head-whacking could begin.
Best he could do. Gibbs hustled after Eppes, using long legs to catch up to the smaller man.
It only took a moment for Eppes to gaze in all directions and decide which one to take. Gibbs could follow the man's thoughts: which way would the agent's brother go, if he was trying to escape? Gibbs himself couldn't see much to choose from between north and south let alone east or west, but something called to Special Agent Eppes and Gibbs wasn't about to argue. Eppes had one overriding advantage: he knew his brother. Eppes had the best chance of figuring out which way the mathematician had bolted when the bullets started flying.
It was toward the trees, and Gibbs approved. A little cover never hurt, and a moment later he spotted a fresh divot in one of those trees. He mentally marked the spot, intending to assign an agent to come back later and dig it out. He'd give it over to Fornell, he decided. Give the man something to do and to remember Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
Eppes knew his stuff. He didn't know this territory—a bit of research earlier had let Gibbs know that Eppes had learned his tracking skills in the Badlands of New Mexico—but he was moving along at a good clip, noting all the signs that Gibbs himself was picking up. He saw the bruised leaf on the mulberry, the faint outline of a smallish man's shoe in the drying mud. Gibbs himself concentrated on listening to the sounds of the forest, hoping to hear something that would lead them more swiftly to the lost mathematician. Twittering of birds annoyed at the intruder in their bower would be nice. A cry for help would be even nicer.
No such luck. All Gibbs could hear was a blue jay shrieking in the distance at a marauding crow and the incessant babbling of an oversized brook somewhere in the vicinity.
Eppes hesitated; the tracks were further apart. Gibbs saw his counterpart frown and bend over to examine the footprints in the mud.
Now the tracks were closer together; Professor Eppes had slowed down. Why? The gunmen were still after him. The bullet holes in the trees to either side proved that. Gibbs looked through the leafy bushes for any sign of blood, relieved not to find any. Bent twigs led the pair toward the sound of water. Eppes nodded. "This way. Charlie would head toward the river. Levenger's story was at least partly correct."
River. Hah. More like a brook with delusions of grandeur. Didn't matter; Eppes's brother knew to move in the direction of the water, and likely he'd try to go downstream. That would make it easier to track the man.
Eppes picked up speed, the trail more obvious.
"He's running full out," Gibbs observed grimly, stretching his own legs. "He's not worried about covering his trail."
"Yeah." Short. Flat. Scared.
Gibbs could have mentioned that it hadn't been long, that it had been just over an hour if McGee's timeline was correct. There was the fact that Eppes's brother was in good physical condition, that his records—the FBI ones, not the public record of the man's academic accomplishments—indicated that Charles Eppes routinely worked out, jogging along the back trails that surrounded CalSci. Gibbs had never heard of Charles Eppes before this little slice of life, but circumstances had changed that in a flash. He figured that there was a fifty-fifty chance of the man being alive; well, maybe sixty-forty, and Gibbs wasn't about to say which was sixty and which was forty. Time would tell.
The stream came up fast, a broad and deep surge of swiftly flowing water that rimmed the edge of the definition of a river. Something caught Gibbs's eye, and he knelt.
"Over here," Eppes called urgently, five yards away. "This footprint looks like Charlie's. I think he dove into the water." He looked up. "Water would alter the line of sight for bullets. Charlie would know that, and the fact that this water would help get him away faster. It's moving quick."
"Eppes." Gibbs didn't want to point out what he himself had found, but he had to.
Eppes looked up the river, just to make sure. "There's nothing flowing down from upstream. I'm sure Charlie went with the flow. It would make sense."
"Eppes," Gibbs called again.
"I'm thinking that one of us should take the other side, just in case he left the water—"
"Eppes!" Gibbs broke in. He indicated a spot on the ground. "Blood. He was hit."
Eppes paled, to the point where Gibbs was worried that the man might pass out. Eppes put a hand to a tree trunk to steady himself. "Charlie." He looked back up, getting hold of himself. "We've got to move."
Gibbs nodded. "There's not a lot of blood. It could be nothing more than a scratch."
"That's likely." Eppes jumped onto the thought. "If it were anything more than a scratch, we'd find his body right here."
Not if he fell into the water. Gibbs carefully didn't share that concept. Instead: "let's move. We need to get the answer to that damn cipher."