Even half a centimeter more would make a difference, Charlie told himself. A single small tug would lift him that much more out of the cold water that was sapping his strength.

He wasn't moving downstream any longer. The swiftly flowing water had thrust him into this small nook where the water lazily swirled around in a vague imitation of a whirlpool, depositing dead leaves and twigs and other detritus along the riverbank. That meant that sometime in the recent past, Charlie had let go of his root along the way and floated into this small niche.

I'm detritus, Charlie realized dimly. I'm nothing more than fodder to decay and replenish the soil. How many worms will it take to reduce me to my constituent molecules so that the grove of ferns over there can turn green from my nutrients?

He was a dead man. Even getting out of the water wouldn't change that.

Penfield was winning.

McGeek, you're so white, you look like a stalactite in Carlsbad Caverns.

McGoogle, you're so foolish that you got yourself kidnapped instead of the rightful kidnap victim. Didn't anybody tell you that you're supposed to be the tracker, not the trackee?

McRidiculous, you're lying there like you're about to stop breathing. You're an easy target for a hundred of my best lines, and I can't use any of 'em.

Don't die on me, McGee. Gibbs'll have my head. Ziva will break me into little pieces that Ducky will autopsy into liver pate, and Abby? Like the girl said; she's one of the few people in the world with the expertise to untraceably murder someone.

"How long does it take for the medics to get out here?" Sinclair put into words what DiNozzo was thinking. "This isn't the Santa Ana freeway, the world's fastest parking lot." There was no humor in his voice, just worry.

"Good question," DiNozzo grumbled, longing to be outside, tracking down the other half of the deciphering duo. He was a man of action, DiNozzo told himself. This 'waiting by the bedside' wasn't for him. He stared at McGee, wondering if the man was still breathing, if he'd slipped away when DiNozzo had taken his eyes off of him.

Shit, was he really not breathing—no, there was another breath. Shallow, but air passed in and out.

Sinclair too was looking around the room, taking in the evidence. "This looks as though they'd intended to set up shop here for a long time," he pointed out. "Kitchenette over there. Couple of beds."

"Goes along with what the word on the street was," DiNozzo agreed. "'Cipers R Us' with a couple of mathematicians as senior employees. Makes you wonder how they thought they'd get away with it."

Sinclair shrugged irritably. "They probably would have, if they hadn't screwed up by taking your agent instead of Marshall Penfield."

"Yeah." DiNozzo glared at the laptop. Gibbs had left it there after rescuing it from McGee's fingers.

That laptop was potentially the most valuable thing in the room, he reflected. If what McGee said was accurate, and there was no reason to think otherwise, then the misplaced code had been transferred onto that thing and Professor Eppes had been working to decipher it.

What was on the damn code? There were plenty of upper level spooks worried about it. DiNozzo himself had only gotten the barest details, something about something the size of a bread box getting shipped into the country with the potential to cause untold misery and death. DiNozzo had heard it all before—but not with this level of hysteria. Those upper level spooks seemed to think that this one was accurate, and that the untold misery was a bit bigger than anyone wanted to think about.

Even McGee didn't know, or so they thought. The man had passed out just as Gibbs and Special Agent Eppes had gotten to him, hadn't had much of a chance to say anything. On the other hand, much as DiNozzo wouldn't admit it to McGee's face, McGee was no dummy when it came to computers. Especially when it came to computers.

There was another component to the whole thing: the flash drive. Dr. Levenger had to have had access to the missing cipher in order to hand it over to the two geeks, and Dr. Levenger was right now sitting on one of the chairs in the kitchenette, waiting for back up to arrive and replace Eppes's tie binding her wrists with something a little stronger.

That meant that there was a suspect to be questioned. No time like the present: "Where's the flashdrive?" DiNozzo asked.

"What's in it for me?"

"Amazing," Sinclair commented from the other side of the room. "There she sits, looking at charges for assaulting a Federal agent, kidnapping, and treason, and she thinks that she can cut a deal."

"Of course, I can cut a deal," Dr. Levenger informed him. "The only question is: do I cut it with you, or do I wait for a better offer to come along?" She leaned back in her chairs, tied wrists in front of her on the kitchen table. DiNozzo got the impression that she would have put her feet up on the table in a position of utter ease if her skirt would have allowed it.

Sinclair snorted. "Lady, this is the better offer. Where's the drive?"

Sniff. "Try again, officer."

"Not a big deal," DiNozzo informed her. "After all, we've got the more important part." He indicated the laptop. "The information is on that thing, and in a few minutes it will be in the hands of some of the foremost computer experts in the world. You had Professor Eppes working on the code. We'll have people picking up where he left off. You're toast, lady."

The sounds of a whirring helicopter beat the air. Sinclair looked up, frowning. "Where are they going to land that thing? There are trees all around."

DiNozzo shrugged. "This is D.C. Not the brightest dudes." DiNozzo listened some more. "Damn. I think they've got three birds up there."

"That's how important this code is," Dr. Levenger informed them archly. "I'm still open to offers, gentlemen. You want to be a hero? I can make it happen, if you cooperate."

Sinclair's cell buzzed, and he answered it. "Colby? Yeah, the cavalry's arrived. What? I don't know." He looked over to DiNozzo. "Which outfit are they from, and should we hand over the suspects?"

"We'll find out," DiNozzo replied. "Go upstairs and greet—"

Doors banged upstairs at the entranceway, and they could hear the yells and heavy feet of well-armored personnel knocking down the doors and looking for suspects to arrest and/or shoot.

Sinclair sighed, and looked back at DiNozzo. "Too late."

"Yeah. Hope they brought the paramedics." DiNozzo couldn't help himself; he reached for the pulse in McGee's neck, wincing at how hot the man's skin was. DiNozzo had known branding irons that were cooler.

That roused McGee. "Boss?"

DiNozzo winced. "Boss is out looking for your fellow captive, McGee," he told him. Damn; did his voice lack the usual 'needle McGee' note? DiNozzo, you're getting soft. "Help has arrived," he told him. "Just hang in there, McGee. Don't quit breathing, okay?" Definitely getting soft.

McGee made his eyes focus with difficulty. "You gotta find him, Tony. Professor Eppes cracked the code." He coughed, wincing in pain.

DiNozzo caught him, grabbed a glass with water in it and helped McGee to sip. The water eased the cough, and DiNozzo gently lowered the agent back down on the sofa. "We'll find him, McGee," he promised. "Don't worry. Gibbs will find him."

"Gibbs will find him," McGee agreed, his eyes closing despite his best efforts.

DiNozzo couldn't help reaching for the pulse one more time, still hot but throbbing in a welcome rhythm. "Where the hell are they—"

"Federal agents!" someone bawled from outside of the room. "Open up! Come out with your hands up!"

"We've got the situation under control," Sinclair snarled back at them from his place covering Dr. Levenger and her two gunmen. "Get the paramedics in here! We've got a man down!"

"Who's in there? What agency?"

"NCIS!" DiNozzo bawled back. "Who are you from?"

"What the hell agency is that?"

"FBI," Sinclair broke in, with an unreadable glance toward his counterpart. "I need paramedics in here, and I need four of you upstairs backing up my people with more suspects."

The squad leader banged the door to the basement suite open and poked his gun in before allowing his nose to follow. "NSA," he identified himself brusquely, eyeballing the gold shields that both DiNozzo and Sinclair held up as protection from flying bullets. "Your people will be along shortly. Your pilot's still looking for a place to squat."

"We need paramedics—" DiNozzo started to insist.

The squad leader broke in. "No can do. Sorry, guy. Our part is the code. Your people will be along shortly, and you can work with them. You seen the flash drive?"

"But—"

"National security, guy." The squad leader was equal parts sorry and firm. He had his orders. "We don't find that drive, we could be looking at a mushroom cloud somewhere close to D.C. You seen it?"

"No," Sinclair said shortly.

"How about your man—"

"He's out cold," DiNozzo told him with a set jaw. "He needs medical attention, and he needs it now." He jerked his thumb at Dr. Levenger. "She knows where it is."

"Yeah?" The squad leader's eyes brightened. "C'mon, lady. You and I are going to have a little talk. Get her out of here, guys," he ordered his men. "Them, too. We can patch up the guy with the hand when we get back to headquarters. Don't touch anything," he instructed DiNozzo and Sinclair. "We'll send a team to search the place."

"The hell you will." A new voice entered the fray, and DiNozzo could have cheered—almost. Fornell appeared at the door, trench coat rumpled around his shoulders. "This is an FBI crime scene."

"NSA," the squad leader insisted. "National security."

"Yeah. National security, and the FBI is on top of it. Get the hell off of my crime scene."

"This is an NSA code, which gives us jurisdiction—"

"FBI kidnapping, with an FBI consultant as the victim. Leave, if you're not going to follow instructions."

DiNozzo spotted the laptop lying forlornly on the end table near McGee. It wasn't the flash drive, he reasoned. By the look of him, Sinclair had the same thought.

Damn nice having a partner in crime. DiNozzo idly picked up the case that the laptop fit into.

Sinclair headed for Fornell and the NSA squad leader. "Where's the paramedics?" he demanded, getting into both faces. "We've got a man down! Don't you people listen? I distinctly told you that I needed medical assistance, and I needed it now!"

"This is National Security—"

"Then take the suspect and get out of the way!" Sinclair snarled. DiNozzo slid the laptop into its case, and Sinclair whirled onto the NSA squad leader. "You! NSA! Take her, and the FBI will have a representative at all interrogations. All of 'em; you hear me? Fornell, where's the medics?"

"They're circling—"

"And McGee is the only person who knows where Charlie Eppes is," Sinclair lied, "and Charlie Eppes is the only one who can crack the code." Maybe a lie; the NSA had plenty of code-breakers, all expert in their field—but none of them were Charlie. "Get 'em down here now!" He nabbed Fornell by the sleeve and gave him a little shove. "You find a spot for those medics to land now! Move one of the other choppers back into the air if you have to, but get those medics here now!"

The strap of the laptop case went around DiNozzo's neck. The black case looked for all the world like part of his gear. He set his back against the wall of McGee's prison suite.

Sinclair deliberately walked over to McGee, feeling for a pulse, drawing all eyes to him. "Better hurry," he said.

That was Charlie, always getting into trouble from the time he was three and Don was six. Don was always expected to haul Charlie out of trouble, because Charlie was 'special' and required 'special' care. Charlie would lose track of the time, calculating how many grains of sand there were in the sand box, so Don got into trouble for not reminding him to come home to supper. Charlie would get shoved around when he was watching Don play ball, so Don would get into trouble for not protecting him from the older kids. It even turned into Don's responsibility to keep Charlie's classmates from stealing Charlie's homework and lunch money, walking to school.

Homework. Security codes. Was there much difference between the two? Only in terms of scope: one was a little bit of cheating and the other could result in the extermination of a large portion of the population of the Western World. Bottom line, Don was rushing to haul Charlie's fat out of the fire again. The only time he'd ever escaped the responsibility was when Charlie and Mom headed East to Princeton. Then it was Mom's job, and—like everything else she did—she did it perfectly. Charlie aced his way through Princeton, going through his undergraduate years in record time. He'd even enjoyed it.

Mom's not here anymore. She's not ever going to be here, and there's a damn good chance that Charlie's going to join her. That I'm not doing a good enough job at protecting Charlie, and the world's going to come to an end because I'm not good enough—

"Eppes!"

A flash of dirty white, swirling in the water. Don would have missed it if Gibbs hadn't pointed it out.

It was a body. It was a dead body, bobbing in the water, the current trying disinterestedly to dislodge it from the twigs that tethered it in the side pool and send it drifting further downstream.

Swimming was not Don's sport—that was baseball—but Don was a natural athlete. He'd gotten his life guard certification at sixteen and earned his first car by saving the money that he'd earned at the local pool. He'd earned spending money for college by doing the same at the university athletic facilities; they were always in need of life guards and Don had financed a bunch of keg parties that way, even keeping up the practice while he spent time in the minors hoping to make it to major league baseball.

The certification had lapsed, but not the skill. It didn't matter that the victim wasn't moving. It didn't matter that the body was face down, that Don couldn't see any signs of breathing. It was Charlie's shirt, and it was Charlie, and it was Don's responsibility to haul him out of there, just like he'd done when he was sixteen and Charlie was thirteen and too stupid to stay out of the deep end of the pool when he couldn't swim all that well. Don was on duty that day, and when Charlie had gone down, Don was ready. Don had been waiting.

Don hadn't been ready this time. Don wasn't watching when Charlie went into this stream, when someone shot him and his brother had collapsed into the water. Don hadn't been in the dugout, keeping an eye on his dorky little brother when the kidnappers entered the hotel salon and hauled his drugged body out through the window.

The flash of white had a pale smear of pink on it where the bullet had entered Charlie's body. That small fragment of intel impacted Don's mind just as the cold water impacted his body, diving in after his brother.

"I'm going with him," DiNozzo informed the others, the dual grouping in a tight huddle. "Ziva, you're with me. Sinclair, you and Granger see if you can keep these clowns under control."

"That's a hopeless task," Sinclair replied. "Better: Colby and I will head out after Don and your boss."

"But that'll give the NSA dudes control of our suspects," Colby protested. "We still need 'em."

"For what?" Sinclair gave voice to what DiNozzo was already thinking. "Except for Levenger, they're low level flunkies. Even Levenger doesn't have anything to give us; she doesn't know what the code said, or where the package is coming onto U.S. soil."

Ziva nodded slowly. "You are right; McGee is more important. He worked with Professor Eppes, and he is more likely to know what Professor Eppes discovered. Or if he ever deciphered the code at all," she added grimly. "If I were McGee, I would lie about that to Dr. Levenger if it would save my life."

"But he wouldn't lie to me," DiNozzo said firmly. He jerked his thumb at the unconscious man on the sofa. "He told me that Eppes cracked it."

"Unless Eppes lied to him," Ziva parried.

Colby shook his head. "Not under these circumstances. I don't think I've ever heard Charlie lie, and I know that he's a terrible poker player. When it comes to bluffing," he clarified. "Counting cards: better than anyone I know. Bluffing? Whole 'nother story, dude."

"McGee's limo ride's here," DiNozzo interrupted, spotting the medics entering with a stretcher between them. "Over here, guys," he directed, refusing to let them be diverted to the man that Don Eppes had shot in the hand.

"The suspect—" the NSA leader started to object.

Sinclair wouldn't let him—and neither would Fornell. "Get McGee out of here," Fornell snarled, grabbing the medic by the arm and shoving him in the direction of the NCIS agent. "This idiot here can wait for the next bus."

McGee woke briefly as the medics jostled him. "Boss?"

"It's okay, McGee," DiNozzo soothed. "Boss is out looking for the professor. You know where he might head?"

"No—ow!" McGee sucked in his breath, all ability to speak lost when one of the medics applied pressure and a bandage to his knee.

"Almost ready," the medic said. "Joe, you steady the stretcher. Guy, you just keep your arms crossed across your chest, okay?"

"Let me give you a hand," DiNozzo offered when nothing of McGee moved of its own volition. DiNozzo gently pulled McGee's arms so that they were crossed over his chest, out of the way, and then slid his own hands underneath his fellow agent. Damn, but McGee still felt hot! A hospital was going to be the best place for the man, and soon if they didn't want him to be gracing Ducky's cold autopsy table.

There was another quick hiss as DiNozzo and the medics lifted the NCIS man off of the sofa, Sinclair and Granger lending a hand to make light work of their burden. The hiss turned into a groan forced out of the man as they eased him onto the metal frame, the medics pulling straps tight over his shivering body. When had the medics slipped in the IV? DiNozzo hadn't seen them do it, and McGee hadn't even flinched. Just a measure of how far gone McGeek is, DiNozzo thought sourly. Don't die on me, McGoner. Gibbs'll hand me my ass, for sure. "Let's get moving," he ordered. "Ziva, you're with me."

Sinclair took the next part, he and Granger grabbing McGee's stretcher to help get the injured man up the steps from the basement suite and out to the chopper. "Fornell, the crime scene is yours," he called out formally. The words were spoken to Special Agent Fornell, but aimed at the NSA squad leader. "We need that evidence ASAP. We need to find that flash drive so that we can decode it to find out where the package is entering."

As if decoding the thing was a minor issue that anyone could do. DiNozzo could have cheered. Had he really worked with Sinclair for only a few hours? Truly an agent after his own heart. Distract the NSA crew so that NCIS—and a couple of clever FBI types—could work unimpeded on the real deal. The laptop in its black case felt heavy across his back, and it banged against the door frame as DiNozzo slid out with McGee's stretcher.

The chopper was waiting, the pilot still wearing his goggles and helmet. The rotors were twirling lazily, creating a gentle breeze to carry fresh air past DiNozzo's face. The four agents helped the medics to stow the stretcher inside, hooking it down to the D-rings installed for just such a maneuver.

The lead medic wasted no time, waving DiNozzo and Ziva to their seats. "Let's get this bird in the air, Buck," he called out. "Radio ahead for the docs. I want orders to start running in some antibiotics before we arrive. This guy is cooking."

Sinclair grabbed DiNozzo's arm. "Take good care of him, DiNozzo. If we can't find Charlie…" he let his voice trail off.

DiNozzo could hear the fear, loud and clear. "You'll find him," he told the FBI agent. "There's nobody better than Gibbs at tracking someone down, and I get the feeling that your boss is no slouch, either."

"Yeah." Sinclair tried to look cheerful.

DiNozzo cut off the long goodbyes. He rapped on the side of the chopper. "Let's lift!"

The last thing he saw was the two FBI agents heading off into the woods on the far side of the compound, heading after their boss and Gibbs.