Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Author's Note: Thanks to who's read, favorited and followed. Extra thanks to those who left a review.
Long chapter here.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
The address Tim found leads him to a quiet street off the main drag in Logan Circle. He passes the house, slowly and with the Charger's headlights off. The house is tiny, a little yellow mid-century affair, complete with a white picket fence and robin's egg blue door. He parks his car against the curb, a few houses down the street. Then, he walks down the deserted street as though he knows where he's going.
The evening is frigid with the temperature still dropping. The sidewalk is slippery from the earlier sleet and rain. His breath climbs in twisting white trails to the sky.
He pauses in front of the house, head cocked and checking his location. The address is right, but the location isn't. The exact location of Ziva's cell phone pings put her slightly behind the house. Smack dab in what should be the back yard. Thankfully, the house is dark and the driveway empty.
Tim skulks around the side of the house. He doesn't pull his weapon so if some hapless neighbor catches him, he can pretend he's lost. A chill snakes down his spine as he rounds past a reeking trashcan overflowing with bags.
He leans up against the side of the house to survey the back yard. There isn't much there: well-kept grass, a few square-shaped hedges, and a small shed painted to match the house. Two windows blazing with light shine on the shed, but he can't see inside. The curtains must be drawn.
Somebody's home.
He slinks across the wet grass, nearly face-planting over a lawn gnome. That niggle to pull his weapon still tugs at his gut, but he doesn't. Everything about this moment isn't sitting right with him, but he forces himself forward. One foot in front of the other. He shouldn't be here, but he needs to.
He needs to look Ziva in the eye. He needs to talk to her.
Tim heads for the front door before realizing he doesn't have a plan. He didn't want to bust the door down and run inside, guns blazing. Tim has Tony for that and with the way he is tonight, he'll shoot everyone first and ask questions later. That's why Tim had to come alone. He wanted to talk to Ziva before Tony has a chance to blow everything to hell. Tony must've found the Post-It by now, leaving Tim mere minutes to talk to Ziva.
He goes to loosen his tie, only to find it missing. He doesn't know where he lost it or if he was even wearing one. Instead, he settles for rubbing at the back of his neck. Then, he knocks gently on the door.
The sounds of movement echo from inside. Shifting and anxious footsteps.
Ziva doesn't answer the door.
"I know you're in there," he says, a little too loud.
Again, no one comes. He pounds on the door.
"Ziva! We need to talk!"
And then, there's the click of a deadbolt. When the door opens, Ziva's haggard face appears. Her hair is limp and bedraggled, cascading in waves over her shoulders. He can't see anything behind her.
Ziva won't look at him.
"You shouldn't be here, McGee." Her voice is hoarse and heavy.
He wants to grab her shoulders, shake her while screaming the questions slamming in his brain.
Why did you run?
How could you help the man who shot Gibbs?
Why –
But he just stands there, numb and cold and alone. He doesn't want to have this conversation where someone might hear him. If he starts yelling, he probably won't stop.
He stares at her face, but she won't meet his eyes. She steps aside, clearing enough space for him to enter. He moves across the threshold, taking in her hidey-hole as he goes. Inside, it's smaller than it looks. Barely enough space for a bed shoved against the far wall, a desk, a single chair, and more loose papers than Tim has seen in his life. On the wall, there are a few pictures with handwritten notes affixed by tape. He doesn't recognize any of the writing because they're all in Hebrew. There's another door, likely leading to a bathroom.
Tim spins on his heel, prepared to face her. Ziva looks nothing like she did this morning. She circles behind him, closing off his exit. Her muscles are coiled to strike, predatory and sizing him up. He's grown accustomed to her methods over the past year, but she's never had her sights set on him. The hair on the back of his neck rises. His stomach churns.
"What's going on?" Tim's voice sounds strange to his own ears.
"You should not have come," Ziva replies sharply.
"But you ran," Tim is rambling and can't stop it. "You never run from anything. Why would you run from me and Tony? We're your team. We're your friends. But you helped that guy who shot Gibbs." He looks at her, bewildered hearing it all out loud. "How could you do that?"
She presses her lips together. "You could never understand."
There's a flicker in her eyes, something Tim hasn't seen before. Savage and untamed and positively feral. In that moment, he realizes how wrong he was. He never should have come because he thought she would talk to him. His heart pounds, that disconcerting whoosh whoosh filling his ears.
Just as Tim is about to bolt for the door, a shadow slithers from behind the bathroom door. The man is average height with an average build and his curly dark hair just graces his shoulders.
Arram Biton.
And he points a gun directly at Tim.
Tim reaches for his weapon, but beside him, Ziva clicks her tongue. He hazards a glance at her, surprised and not to find her pointing a gun at him as well. His eyes jump between the pair until their faces blur together into one. Arram smiles, his teeth long and deadly like a shark.
"Do not make this difficult, McGee," Ziva warns.
His hand still hovers near his Sig.
"You can't be serious," Tim says. "We're on the same team."
Ziva shakes her head sadly. "I do not wish to harm you."
Pressing his lips into a resigned frown, Tim raises his hands shoulder high. Arram and Ziva approach him slowly as though he might be able to fend off two Mossad agents alone and unarmed. Ziva removes Tim's service weapon and tucks it against the small of her back. Arram keeps his gun pointed at Tim while Ziva frisks him quickly and efficiently. She knows exactly where he keeps his gear because she watched him assemble it every day for the last year. It doesn't take her long to relieve him of it all and the new knife he placed inside his coat pocket. When she takes his phone, she pops out the SIM card and battery. Then she crushes them under the heel of her boot. He tries not to grimace.
Ziva grabs Tim's hands to tie them behind his back. She uses rope, not handcuffs because she taught him to escape those. He can't believe this is happening.
Arram gives him a hard once over.
"This?" Arram gestures at Tim. "This is the computer expert, correct?"
She nods briefly.
"He enjoys French toast, yes?"
It doesn't take long for Tim to realize he is talking about those reports from Ziva's computer. Of course, he would be receiving Ziva's information. The personnel reports and every other bit of intel she took.
What else does he know about me?
Ziva strong-arms Tim into the hidey-hole's only chair. Then, she binds his ankles together. Once she's sure he isn't going anywhere, she stands to meet his gaze. She keeps her weapon held easily at her side. Tim tries his best not to look at it. He always knew she was dangerous, but never thought he could end up here. On the wrong end of her years of training.
"Where is Tony?" she asks.
Arram holds up his index finger. "That is the loud police officer? With the film references?"
Ziva shoots him a glare that could freeze hell. "Yes."
"Do you believe I could ask his opinion of Cannonball Run?" he asks.
Ziva looks at him, incredulous. Tim tilts his head, confused.
Arram ducks his head, chagrined. "I have seen it advertised many times since we arrived. They have it often on a television station late at night. I did not watch it because I did not wish to spend my time on it if it is not good. It would have been interesting, perhaps. Except I do not know. I would like to know if I should try to watch it in the future. When we are home."
"We do not have time for this, Arramush," she chides.
Huffing, Arram returns to his papers. He glances at his cell phone before making a note.
Ziva's eyes return to Tim. "Where is Tony?"
"Back at the office," Tim offers.
"He knows you are here, yes?"
"I…uh – " The truth catches in his throat. "Um, no…"
Ziva's smile is pitying. "You do not lie well, McGee."
Tim shakes his head, looks away. She barks something guttural and angry-sounding—probably in Hebrew—to Arram, who jumps to life as though he'd been electrocuted. He stuffs their loose papers into a pair of well-worn, tan backpacks. From where he sits, Tim notices a few guns inside the bags.
"Why are you helping him?" Tim asks.
She tilts her head. "I do not expect you to understand."
Ziva glances back to where Arram is sifting through papers. There's a fondness in her gaze and suddenly, Tim notices the similarity of the curly hair and the way he moves and those almond eyes. She isn't just helping him because they're both Mossad.
A deep pit forms in Tim's stomach and it threatens to swallow him. He stares at the two of them, mouth gaping and moving as he struggles to form the words. The thought is there, fully formed and stuck on his tongue. Tim can't believe he didn't recognize it when they were at the drug bust or in the pictures from the red-light camera.
"Oh my G-d," Tim whispers. "He's your brother."
Ziva's silence speaks for her. Glancing back at Tim, she searches his eyes with hers. He doesn't know what she expects to see, but she won't find it.
"Why didn't you tell us?" he gasps.
She has the grace to look away. "He is the last of my blood. It is my duty to protect him."
"Why was he meeting with Morgan?" he asks.
Ziva hems and haws before seeming to accept she won't be seeing Tim again. Or she's going to blow his brains out, but he doesn't want to think about that.
"We were attempting to determine Tyler Morgan's supplier." She shifts her weight, fiddles with the gun. "We recently traced their funds to a terrorist attack linked to a Palestinian terrorist organization. One of their attacks claimed our younger sister, Tali." That makes her share a despairing glance with Arram. "She was the youngest of us whereas I am the oldest. The protector. We have a duty to stop them by any means. Arram was there to aid Morgan in…how do you say, redistributing his empire."
"We?" Tim repeats.
"My team at Mossad."
Tim swallows hard. "And what about us? Aren't we your team?"
There's that smile again. Pitying and as sympathetic as a snake in the grass. She places a hand on his shoulder. He wrenches his body away so hard he nearly falls out of the chair.
"There are things you will never understand, McGee." She sighs. "And for that, I am most grateful."
"I understand you betrayed us," Tim snaps. "You betrayed me."
"For what it is worth, I am sorry."
"Rule Six." He shakes his head, expression hardening into stone. "You know what, you tell that to Gibbs, if he survives. Tell him how sorry you are because of Arram and your revenge quest." Tim swallows hard, struggling to keep his emotions in check. Sadness is taking hold now. "I thought you were our friend."
A wistful, far-off look claims Ziva's face. They might be in the same room, but she is clearly thousands of miles away.
"I do not have the luxury of friends, McGee." She sighs quietly, dropping her voice. "Though I would like to think you and Tony were the closest I have ever come."
Tim strains against the bonds. "Then why did you double-cross us?"
Ziva simply shrugs. "Maybe someday, I will be able to explain. Though I know what you are attempting. Try to spend time until Tony arrives. Corral, as you say. He shall be here shortly."
"It's stall, Ziva."
Ignoring him, she moves to join Arram. They quickly sort through whatever detritus covers the table. By the looks of it, papers and maps and what might be blueprints. Arram and Ziva shove as much as they can into their backpacks. Once those are full, they fling the rest into a duffle bag. When the table is finally clear, Ziva lines up Tim's gear on the edge. She keeps his service weapon and his backup piece.
Arram heads out first, without even looking at Tim.
Ziva lingers in the doorway. She watches Tim with miserable eyes as though she can't believe they ended up here. Like this. She drums her fingers on the doorjamb. He glares at her the best he can muster, but his heart really isn't in it. He just can't stop thinking about how unfair it all is.
"What about Gibbs?" he asks.
Something akin to sadness dances in Ziva's eyes. "I am sure he will be well. If he had just stepped aside, Arram would not have had to shoot him. It was most regrettable."
Tim's eyes narrow. "It should never have happened."
Ziva dips her head, disregarding Tim's statement. "I will notify Tony of your location when we are clear. He would be here shortly regardless. He has an annoying habit of turning up."
"Why not let me go?"
Ziva smiles with one side of her mouth. "That I cannot, McGee. You have discovered me once and I do not wish for you to return until I am gone."
The way she says it sends fear slithering down Tim's spine. He swallows hard.
"Do not find me again."
And then, the door is empty as though Ziva was blown away in the wind, nothing more than an intense fever dream. She leaves the dark night in her wake as though it was the only thing there all along.