Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 40

A/N: For those of you who commented the potential for Ziva's plan to result in an international incident: yes, it would, and it's completely unrealistic that a foreign agency would attempt what she is planning for exactly that reason. So I decided to take a page from the canon's portrayal of Mossad as the big bad agency that can do whatever it wants wherever it wants without any repercussions. Gotta love fiction.

Ziva didn't get any sleep that night, nor did she try. She, of course, had a go-bag in the trunk of her car, complete with the bare essentials she would need to go just about anywhere in the world at the drop of a hat—an extra pistol and spare magazine, pair of khakis, a few casual and comfortable shirts, enough underwear to last a week without laundry, and in the hidden inner pocket, a couple hundred American dollars and a few identities of various nationalities, complete with credit and ATM cards to match—but she always appreciated the opportunity to optimize her gear with the mission in mind. After pulling into her parking space, she grabbed the bag and made her way up to her apartment, double-locking the door and keeping her Sig at her side. They were ridiculous precautions—if someone really wanted to get in, they wouldn't let a deadbolt stop them and would probably bring more firepower than the Sig could handle—but she always felt what she considered to be a healthy dose of paranoia before leaving for a mission.

She pulled the shirts out and switched them for a lightweight button-down shirt and a heavier sweater, appropriate desert wear, although she didn't think she'd be in Afghanistan long enough to need them. The khakis stayed, as did two sets of documents and cards. One identified her as a Jordanian college professor; if something went wrong and she had to find her own way back, it was a good cover, believable in both the Middle East and through Europe, which would probably be her way out. She would then dispose of that identity and use the second, of a Spanish businesswoman with a legitimate reason to travel to the States.

She added a set of throwing knives to the bag as she considered the rest of her arsenal. She had some pretty heavy weapon power in the apartment, but didn't think that was appropriate; Raanan Thal would have anything she would need, and that would be a lot easier than explaining to the flight crew at Andrews Air Force Base why she needed an assault rifle to go to Afghanistan. Instead, she stuck to a spare 9mm, knowing that she would have both her service Sig Sauer and her throw-away on her when she boarded the plane. That was probably the largest advantage of military flights; they barely blinked at her usual accessories, whereas when she flew commercial, she was limited to one sidearm—and that was only on El Al.

And she knew it was ridiculous and pointless, but she found herself tossing a small stuffed animal of a silly-looking creature with a nut for a head and a red and gray striped shirt, which she had found on her desk as a "Beat Michigan Week" gift the previous November, into the bag as well.

She had called ahead to Andrews and arranged her flight during her drive home from the Navy Yard, so that left her with nothing to do but clean her weapons. Sitting on her couch in the living room, she laid the three handguns out on the coffee table before grabbing her cleaning kit and getting to work. Even though they had been cleaned since the last time she had fired any of them, she always did this before a mission, one last thing to do to mentally assure herself she was ready and set her mind at ease. She started with the Sig and went from there, taking her time to ensure that everything was done right, and by the time she finished with all three, it was time to get to the Air Force Base. Still early in the morning, there was little traffic to get in her way as she barreled down the parkway toward Virginia, and she ended up parking the car in the garage she usually used when flying out of Andrews in what most people would probably consider to be record time.

The C-130 she was hitching a ride with was still being loaded as she walked up and flashed her credentials to the crew chief. The chief barely glanced at them as he nodded her toward the area where she could wait for the flight crew. She was tempted to ask him where she could get a good cup of coffee at that hour, but he had already turned back to his men to continue to bark orders, and she figured that getting the plane loaded with supplies for the troops in Afghanistan was probably more important than her morning cup of coffee.

Somebody had left a month-old copy of Stars and Stripes in the flight lounge of the hangar. She picked it up and idly began flipping through it, wondering if she would see anything written by Kirkan, when sudden movement outside the lounge caught her eye. She looked up at what it was and immediately narrowed her eyes in something between annoyance and frustration. "What are you doing here?" she hissed at Tony after crossing the lounge to where he stood. "If you think that you are going to talk me out of—"

"That's not why I came," he interrupted, his tone low and serious, and Ziva felt her frustration dissolved at that one sentence. "I didn't want you to leave mad at me," he continued, staring at her with that intense gaze of his, and she sighed, reaching out for his elbows, clasping the fabric there.

"I am not mad at you," she finally said. She studied him for a minute, her eyes locked right on his. "You need to trust me."

It was his turn to sigh. "I do," he replied before giving her a weak smile. "Doesn't mean I'm not going to freak out about what you're doing."

She nodded slightly, glancing off to the side to see Gibbs and Kirkan leaning against a wall, both with large cups of coffee that they brought to their lips simultaneously, and frowned. "What are they doing here?" she asked, looking back at her partner.

"Gibbs would have found out what you're doing when you don't show up for work in a couple of hours," he pointed out. "And Kirkan's going with you. Got his newspaper to ship him to Afghanistan as a war correspondent on his wife's story." She looked back over at the middle-aged reporter and gave a frustrated sigh.

"That is not a good idea," she said with a frown, turning back to Tony. She paused and glanced down before returning her eyes to his. "You know why I can not allow you to come," she said in a low tone, her words more a statement than a question. "If you were there, I could not... I would be too worried about your safety to perform my mission."

He closed his eyes briefly and sighed, and she knew that he knew what she was talking about, thinking about that Domino mission more than two years ago. All it had taken was one hit to Tony before she went against Gibbs' words of warning and single-handedly took on no fewer than half a dozen armed Marines. And they weren't even sleeping together at that point. She couldn't risk her personal feelings getting in the way, not when she was going against MP's who would be shooting to kill. "I know," he finally said, opening his eyes. Without warning, he pulled her to him, the kiss equal parts desperation, frustration, and need, hard and lip-bruising, nothing gentle and kind. When they separated, his hands on her jaw and hers still clutching the arms of his sleeves, it took him a moment to collect himself. "I need you to come back," he told her, reminding her of the line in his father's study: I can't lose you again.

"I love you," she replied softly, responding to what she knew he was saying even though he wasn't saying it. She brought her hand to his cheek and felt the stubble of almost twenty-four hours of growth, trying to give a reassuring smile, but couldn't bring herself to say those words, I will be back. She knew better than to give promises she didn't know if she could keep. As if understanding what she was thinking, Tony nodded slightly, his eyes locked on hers in the type of silent communication McGee was always grumbling about.

"Time to board." The words, spoken by the crew chief as he quickly leaned into the lounge, seemed to break whatever spell it was they were in, and this time, when Tony brought his face to hers for one last kiss, it was softer, more of a promise than a demand.

Before releasing her to get on the idling C-130, he leaned over to her ear, his words soft and for her and her only to hear. She gave him another smile that she hoped was reassuring but feared was just sad before picking up her bag and following Kirkan to the plane.

As she strapped herself in, surrounded by the light chatter of the pilots, she thought about those last words whispered into her ear.

I can't live without you.

---

The rumble of the engines and the bouncing of the plane in the turbulence was more than enough to lull Ziva into the sleep she was denied the night before, and when she opened her eyes again, there was nothing to be seen but blue sky in front of them and fluffy white clouds below. "What is our ETA?" she asked, causing the co-pilot to turn and smirk slightly in a way that told her that her snores were audible over the noise of the engines.

"Another ten hours to Kabul, ma'am," the Air Force captain replied. "You were out for quite a while."

"Yes," she answered, not bothering to explain the stress she had been under since this mission began—and even before it, considering the loops—hoops?--she had to jump through with her director over the last year and a half. She turned to face the other jump seat and frowned again at the sight of Peter Kirkan balancing a small netbook on his knees, trying to type amidst the movements of the plane. Having him here was a complication she didn't need, not when she was sure he had more planned than finding a couple of people to interview and somewhere to sit to write a story.

As if sensing what she was thinking, the reporter/novelist glanced up, frowning at her frown. "Something bothering you?" he finally asked.

"Why did you come?" she asked bluntly. To his credit, he didn't bother trying to cover up his motives with excuses.

"I want to help you get my wife," he said flatly. At her expression, he continued, "I was a scout sniper. I still visit the range frequently and can still hit a target from several hundred yards away with excellent accuracy. I—"

"No," she said, leaving no room for argument. "It is out of the question."

"But—"

"No," she repeated, even more forcefully than before. "What we are planning on doing... that takes more than accurate shooting."

"I—"

"If I were to allow you to join us, you would be a liability to the mission, not an asset," she said, still giving him no room to speak. "You would be distracted by your goal of rescuing your wife." He still looked unconvinced, which prompted her to sigh. "You can not deny it," she said, as softly as she could and still be heard over the noise of the plane. "And you can not say that you trained otherwise, because my training was more extensive than yours, and I—." She cut herself off and looked away, not really feeling comfortable sharing her thoughts on the manner with a man she barely knew.

And yet somehow, he knew. "How long have you and Tony been together?" he asked almost conversationally, as if they had been exchanging pleasantries and not discussing the need to be focused on keeping people from killing you.

She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment at the fact that it had been so easy for him to figure it out, even though she knew that the send-off she had gotten from Tony at the Air Force Base made it pretty hard to not figure it out. "Two years," she finally answered. He raised his eyebrows before nodding slightly and returning his attention to the small computer on his lap. Ziva frowned at the response and decided she wanted to know what he was thinking. "Why?" she asked.

Kirkan shrugged. "It can't be easy," he said, "being in a relationship with someone you work with. Jess, my friend you met the other day, was dating—well, mostly just sleeping with—one of the other surgery interns at Walter Reed during her intern year, before she got back together with Bryan. From what Jess said, it created a somewhat awkward situation for all of the interns, both during the relationship and after it ended." He shrugged again. "And their job doesn't involve nearly the same kind of danger that yours does."

"It is not easy," Ziva said, and again found herself wondering why she was telling him this. "It can be very stressful at times." She felt her lips quirk into a smile. "And worrying about him in a firefight is not easy, either."

She wondered if she would have turned that question into a joke before she met Tony, and found that she couldn't remember.