Chapter Three: A Bit of a Cliché

A week later . . .

Tim trudged tiredly down the hallway of his apartment block. He was, obviously, trailed by Gibbs and DiNozzo. After the second attempt on his life, they'd cranked up security tenfold. Now he had two agents following him like puppies, two cars that followed him when he was on the road, and agents stationed around his apartment and the publishing house. Plus he wasn't allowed to go anywhere unless it had been cleared beforehand.

He was just an author, Tim had thought many times, not the President of the United States.

Still, as Tim turned the key to his apartment, he refused to allow agents to follow him into his apartment. He needed somewhere where he could be alone. That was why he now wore a very fashionable device around his neck. A panic button, they had called it.

Frankly, Tim hated it.

"Night," Tim called sourly to Gibbs and DiNozzo who had so far honoured his request to stay outside.

They nodded back and Tim pushed open his door, calling, "Jethro, I'm home."

He received no bark from his faithful companion.

Tim frowned and called again, "Jethro?"

The dog barked and trotted out of his bedroom. Jethro panted and wagged his tail as he sat down at Tim's feet.

"Good dog," Tim murmured, scratching behind his ears.

"Very," a soft feminine voice said, stepping out of the bedroom.

Tim yelped and stumbled over his feet. His eyes grew wide and he gaped at the intruder, unable to say anything. Jethro barked and scampered back into the bedroom.

"Dog got your tongue?" she smirked as she wandered gracefully into his living room and sat smoothly on his desk chair. She crossed her legs daintily.

"Uh . . . ah . . ."

She smiled gently. "Hello, Timothy."

"I . . . uh . . . you . . . you," Tim stuttered before finding his voice and saying in a strangled whisper, "You tried to kill me."

"Did I?" Danielle looked puzzled.

Tim nodded rapidly. "Twice. Twice. You were behind the shooting, weren't you?"

"Was I?"

"You're trying to kill me," Tim repeated. A growing look of horror appeared on his face.

Danielle shrugged. "Am I? You do not seem to be dead. And wouldn't I have killed you by now, as you walked in the door. That is how it goes in your novels, yes?"

"You're in my apartment," Tim squeaked, backing away slowly. He wondered if he had enough time to alert the FBI guards before the she killed him.

"It is a very nice apartment," she complimented. "Warm, inviting, homely . . ."

She broke off and sighed, taking in Tim's petrified expression. "You do not have to look at me as though I'm going to wish you dead."

"Aren't you?" Tim muttered. "You are trying to kill me, after all."

"As I said," Danielle replied airily, "do you not think I would have done it by now."

Tim cocked his head to the side. She did have a good point. In the short time that he'd been in her presence, she hadn't once tried to shoot or poison him.

"I don't know what to think, actually."

Danielle sighed again and asked, "Do you have anything to drink?"

Tim was taken aback. Drink? What did she expect from him? If she thought he'd sit down with her and have a good ol' chat, she was sorely mistaken.

Despite this, Tim found himself saying, "There's an open bottle of wine in the fridge."

Danielle smiled and for a moment, Tim was captivated by it.

"Excellent. Shall I pour us a glass?"

"A-a glass?" Tim blinked.

Danielle shrugged. "Why not."

Tim moaned and sank to the floor, burying his head in his hands. He was tired and stressed, and practically at his wits-end. This . . . this was too much.

Danielle stepped over to him, looking concerned. She crouched down in front of him and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Why would you care?" Tim muttered, his voice muffled by his hands.

"I do not know," Danielle replied softly. Honestly, she had no idea why she cared.

Tim looked up and Danielle studied his face. It was paler than normal. He had dark circles around his eyes and it looked as though he hadn't slept properly in weeks.

"I think you could do with that glass of wine," she remarked.

Tim moaned again and re-buried his face in his arms. "You're trying to kill me. Why would you care?" he repeated.

Danielle shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

Tim lifted his head again and his eyes flashed dangerously. "If you actually think I would . . ." he trailed off and shook his head.

This was way out of his control and he was starting to get a headache.

"Actually," he restarted, resigned, "scrap that. I could do with a glass."

---

By the time Danielle had come back with two glasses of wine, Tim had stood and sat himself down on his computer chair. Danielle looked around.

"Do you actually have a couch?" she asked.

Tim shook his head. "Nope."

"Where am I supposed to sit," Danielle all but snapped.

Tim shrugged. "This wasn't my idea."

Danielle sighed, sounding exasperated. She handed Tim his glass and chose to remain standing. Awkwardly, they both sipped from their glasses. After Tim had downed half his glass, he looked up at Danielle and spoke.

"You tried to kill me," Tim accused. "Twice."

Danielle sighed. "Back to this again, I see." Danielle rolled her eyes.

"Well, it's true," Tim retorted. "You were hired to kill me."

"So what if I was."

"You haven't done a very good job," Tim goaded. "I'm still here."

He had no idea what he was saying, or why he was saying it. Perhaps it was a combination of the tiredness, the stress, the alcohol and the fact that the man . . . woman . . . trying to kill him was trying to make small talk.

"Perhaps I was not meant to kill you," Danielle replied airily.

Tim gave her a disbelieving look, so she amended, "Okay, maybe I was."

"Then why haven't you?"

"All part of my plan," she replied and even Tim could spot that was an outright lie.

"Well, if you're meant to be this Shadow like the FBI –"

"I am the Shadow," she interjected, sounding defensive.

" – then why haven't you killed me? You never miss, after all."

"Can you just be grateful that I have not killed you," Danielle snapped, looking slightly flustered. "I could kill you now eighteen different ways with a paperclip."

"Then why don't you?"

"I don't know," Danielle exploded quietly. "This is a first for me."

"A first not to kill someone, or a first to actually care?" Tim replied, sounding harsher than he intended.

For a moment, Danielle looked hurt. Then it vanished and the same cool exterior appeared on her face. "The first time that I have missed."

"Missed? As in missed your target."

Danielle shrugged. "I guess."

"So why did you?" Tim asked and then took a sip from his glass.

Danielle frowned. "Do you always ask so many questions?"

"I'm a writer. Asking questions in what I do," Tim replied nonchalantly. "And you haven't answered my question."

"Does it look like I am going to answer your question?" Danielle glanced at him.

Tim shrugged and they sat in silence again, although this time the silence wasn't quite as awkward as before.

"So . . ." Tim started after a minute.

Danielle gave him a look. "You really want to make small talk?"

Tim raised his hands. "Hey, you're the one who wanted to sit down and share a glass of wine like old friends."

"What else was there to do?" Danielle replied.

Tim shrugged and answered sarcastically, "You could have killed me."

"Yes, I suppose I could have."

"So why didn't you?" Tim asked again.

"Why does it always come back to that?" Danielle huffed.

Tim rolled his eyes. "I thought it would be obvious. I'm your hit and you were hired to kill me. Who did hire you, by the way? I've been racking my brains since the shooting and come up with nothing."

"Assassin-client privilege," Danielle replied after a moment. "I never have, nor ever will, revel who has hired me."

"You're loyal, at least," Tim mused. "Did you always want to be an assassin?"

"What is this? Twenty question, or whatever you Americans call it," Danielle muttered.

"You're foreign, then," Tim observed.

"And you just picked that up now. Not as observant as you like to think, Mr Gemcity."

Tim ignored her barb and asked, "What nationality? Something Middle Eastern, I would guess."

"Then you would guess correctly," Danielle replied coyly. Then she added in a soft voice, "No, I did not always want to become an assassin."

"Want to talk about it?" Tim asked, genuinely concerned and interested.

Danielle gave him a 'are you kidding looked'. "Do you really think I would give away my life story to someone who could call in reinforcements at any time?"

She paused suddenly and gazed deeply at Tim's face. Her eyes were dark and sad. Well, at least Tim thought they were. "I'm curious, why haven't you used the panic button or called for those FBI agents?"

"I . . ." Tim was at a loss. Why hadn't he called in his FBI goons?

"I don't know," he said honestly. And he didn't know. There was just something about her that physically stopped him from calling out to Gibbs and DiNozzo who were just outside his door.

"And I do not know why I haven't kill you yet," Danielle added. "So I guess, as you say, we are even."

"Yeah," Tim echoed.

Tim shook his head as if to clear it. "This is bizarre," he commented.

"How so?"

Tim gave her a look. "Wasn't it just days ago you were trying to kill me. And now we're conversing as though none of it happened. Don't you find it weird."

Danielle shrugged. "A little. I find a lot of weird things in my profession."

"Profession," Tim snorted. "Hardly."

Danielle's eyes flashed defensively. "Whatever you may or may not think of me, what I do is my profession. Do you think I go around killing people because I enjoy it?"

"Don't you?"

For the first time that night, Danielle looked as though she might actually kill him. "If you think I enjoy what I do then you have the lowest IQ in the history of man. You actually think I enjoy this?"

"Then why do you do it?"

"I have no choice!" she exploded as there was a rap on the door.

"McGee, everything okay in there?" Gibbs asked from outside the door.

Danielle gave Tim a dangerous look that said, 'I dare you.'

"I'm just, uh, watching a movie," he lied, all the while wondering why on earth he was doing it.

"If you're sure . . ."

"Yep, I'm sure," Tim called back. "Great movie."

"Well, keep it down, okay."

"Will do."

Tim turned to Danielle. "Do not ask me why I did not say something. I don't know. But if you want to remain, keep quiet."

Danielle nodded, slightly stunned.

Tim looked down at his empty glass. He needed another. "Danielle," he started, "do you want another . . ."

He broke off and looked curious. "Danielle is not your real name, is it?"

"What do you think?" Danielle snapped.

"You wanna tell me your real name?" Tim asked. "You know mine, after all. It's only fair."

"Do I look stupid?"

"No." Tim paused. "But you look lonely. It can't be easy living as you do."

"I get by," Danielle murmured.

"Don't you ever think of getting out?" Tim asked quietly. "You know, stop all this killing stuff and settle down."

"There's only two ways out of my profession, Timothy," she replied bitterly. "Death or capture."

Tim did not know how to reply to that, so instead offered meekly, "Would you like some more wine?"

Danielle shook her head. "I should go."

Tim looked amused. "And how do you expect to do that. This place is swarming with feds."

Danielle gave Tim a genuine smile. "I am not called the Shadow for nothing."

"How did you get that name anyway?"

Danielle shrugged and grinned. "How does anyone like me get their name? The media. The CIA. Take your pick."

"So you didn't just decide one day that your alias would be the Shadow?"

"Maybe I did," she replied coyly, and then said, "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"You may be alive, Timothy McGee, but you do not get to see me escape," Danielle said darkly. "I am better than that. Close your eyes and count to fifty."

"This is such a cliché," Tim muttered as he complied.

"They always work, don't they," Danielle replied, sounding faintly amused. "Now start counting."

Tim sighed, mentally rolled his eyes and started, "One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . ."

By the time he reached fifty, Danielle was gone.

All that remained was the lingering scent of roses