Warning: This story is… odd. That's all I'll give away.
The knife cut the meat into perfect, symmetrical slices. He watched the bloody juice ooze out and gather on the plate. Pieces of the edges, charred and black, sloughed away.
To a man half-starved, it smelled good; it smelled so damn good.
"You must excuse him," spoke a man at the head of the table. He wore a finely tailored suit, gray in color, nearly black; a white dress shirt, pressed within an inch of its life; gold cuff links and a fine wristwatch; a tie, blood red. "He's out of his head right now." He looked up to glare at the one who'd delivered DiNozzo here.
A server in white gloves had finished carving the roast and now distributed the slices to all of the white bone china set around the table. Only four plates. One in front of DiNozzo, hands cuffed tight behind the back of the chair. The second in front of the man at the head of the table. The third in front of DiNozzo's minder, also dressed in a suit, but a bit more economical, more threadbare. And the last, in front of a woman wearing an ivory pantsuit, red lipstick and deadly sharp pumps. The room they sat in was immaculate. Opulent, even. The ceiling soared up above. The décor, tasteful. Beethoven's Piano Sonata Number 8 played gently in the background.
Only Tony appeared truly out of place, his body stinking and his mind feral. Nobody had yet touched their food. It smelled too good. He stared at it, head lolling a bit to one side. The drool began to dribble down his chin.
"Strange," the woman said as she put out her cigarette in a pristine crystal glass of ice water. "I thought he'd be a bit more… lively."
"Any more lively," the frumpy man spoke, "and we'd be sowing our digits back on. Fucker nearly bit clean through one of my guy's fingers!"
"Please, Bradley," the well-dressed man made sure to interject. "Not at the table." He shook his head, picked up his fork and knife and began to saw through his share of the roast. He brought a piece to his mouth, teeth clacking on the silverware, and when he chewed, the loose skin on his cheeks quivered.
Tony drooled some more. His mouth hung open as he gawked in plain view of everyone. Oblivious yet still present. The room seemed to rise up around him, spin, then settle back down. He gagged.
"And he's bruised up," the woman added, sharply. "Looks like shit, Adrian. I came here because you said you had something special."
"Please, Tashya, let us eat first. The meal is getting cold. Then let's talk business." Adrian carefully lifted another forkful of food to his mouth, chewing mechanically, cloth napkin tucked neatly into the collar of his fancy shirt.
Bradley, the one who'd brought DiNozzo, finally picked up his fork. DiNozzo could do nothing but drool. And Tashya grabbed a dinner roll and sopped up the juice gathered on her own plate.
"How much did you drug him, anyway?" she asked.
"Enough to keep the fucker still," Bradley mumbled through a mouthful of endives.
Adrian suddenly slammed his fork down, almost upsetting the nearby glass. "PLEASE, Bradley. Do refrain from such vulgarities in front of my guests."
Tony began to moan, softly at first. He blinked and shook his head, as if to clear it. The t-shirt and scrub pants he was dressed in were filthy. His skin itched. Again, the room tilted, then it sank.
"He looks starved. I need them to be strong." Tashya leaned back in her chair and lit another cigarette. She blew the smoke toward the chandelier, apparently bored with all of this. "They need to fight; not sit there and stare out into space." She flicked some ashes into the water glass. "Maybe you didn't understand me when I stated the amount of money I'm willing to drop into this whole thing, Adrian. I don't wish to be made into a fool."
"Oh, he can fight," said Bradley, in between gulps of meat. "Believe me. He's one testy mother-fucker. Don't look it now, but you wait, lady. This one here's a fucking wildcat. You won't be disappointed. Better than the last, by far. Ain't that right, Dee-Nozzo?" Bradley shoved at Tony's chair with a boot. Tony rocked along with the chair, unable to do much else. He muttered something under his breath, the sound wet and slurred and incoherent.
Adrian pushed his plate away. He took the napkin from his chest, wadded it up, and tossed it on his plate. "Thank you, Bradley, for that wonderfully articulated testimonial. But this is what we're going to do…" He leaned down and came back up with a black pistol in hand, barrel aimed across the table at Bradley's chest. The guy didn't have any time to react before Adrian pulled the trigger with deadly, calm aim. Two shots to the chest, another to the forehead. The report echoed down the hall. The server recoiled slightly, blood spatter staining his white uniform.
Slowly, both the chair and Bradley tipped backward, landing on the hardwood floor with a cracking thud and a gurgle.
Tony had flinched at every shot, and now he dry heaved into his own lap. The music transitioned to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The gurgling stopped.
Meeting Adrian's cool gray eyes, Tashya blew more smoke toward the chandelier.
He set the handgun gently onto the table in front of him, where his plate had been, saying, "Dear Tashya, I understood you perfectly."
At the end of the long dirt drive, it isn't a house but a trailer home, propped up on blocks, broken lattice underneath. There's one light affixed to the top of a pole in the yard. It shines yellow and bright, illuminating the surrounding woods. Something green grows on the plastic siding of the trailer. And there's a dog yard. The stakes and chains and dog houses abandoned. There's no barking.
They approach, slowly at first, weapons drawn but pointed toward the ground. All three of them. Gibbs and McGee and Ziva. Their shadows stretch out, long and black.
A window AC kicks on. No light shines from the windows.
"I'll go around back," McGee volunteers.
Gibbs nods, and Ziva says, "Be careful."
McGee swallows. He will be. He disappears into the black shadows and the weeds that stretch out from the woods.
The front door is dented, as if it's seen more than one raid. Ziva covers while Gibbs leans in to twist the knob. They're surprised to find it unlocked. Communicating with each other silently, they begin to clear the trailer. There's no one. Nobody. Just empty rooms and the pervasive smell of dog shit and mildew.
"Hey!" McGee's yelling from out back. "Guys!"
Gibbs slams open the back screen door, and it nearly smacks McGee right in the nose.
"What is it?" Ziva's asking.
But McGee's only staring at them, mouth open a bit. He manages to say, "Saw it in that overflowing trash can." He holds "it" up.
Tony's wallet and fake ID.
"Uh detective? I think you're gonna want to hear this," the lieutenant with the worried face says, door ajar just enough to fit his head.
The detective nods and looks back at the fat man with the bandaged hand. This piece of meat is taking up too much space and breathing too much oxygen. The room they're forced to inhabit is stuffy enough. "I'll just be a second," he says.
In the hallway, the lieutenant looks even more worried. "Really, Harv. This might be something big."
"What's going on?" the detective asks, scratching his nails against the stubble on his chin.
"Just got a BOLO issued for his vehicle. Something about a missing person of interest."
"Got a name?"
"Uh," the lieutenant fumbles with his papers, squints his eyes and cocks his head. "Uh, Anthony…" He cocks his head more.
"Can you read or not?" the detective deadpans. He checks his watch, and scratches his chin again.
"Anthony Wagner. That's it."
"Who issued it?"
"Uh, some federal agency. NCI—Jesus, Harv, is that an S? My eyes—"
Detective "Harv" removes the paper from the lieutenant's hands and gives it a quick read. "NCIS."
"Maybe they're after the dog fightin'! Everybody knows the people in those hills are gambling and fighting everything from pigeons to… I honestly don't know what else."
Harv shrugs and says, "Give them a call. Tell them we have someone here they might want to talk to. Also, get legal up here. Our fleabag wants counsel."
This was a movie. It had to be a movie.
The picture vacillated into and out of focus right in front of his face. But the more he tried to focus, the less he could see.
One moment he was upright. The next he was upside down. On his side. Turned left, right, spun around.
Somebody grinned at him. The woman, maybe. Her lipstick was as bloody as Bradley's shirt. The streaks of red fanned out, and out. Dead eyes without sight or life.
"I won't buy this sad creature," somebody was saying, "unless it can prove itself."