Story Notes: WARNING. GRAPHIC VIOLENCE. DARK SUBJECT MATTER.
Tashya sat out on the verandah and watched a burst of orange sunlight flood over the live oaks draped thickly in Spanish moss. The suite she'd chosen was comfortable, luxurious even, and she took this moment to smoke a couple cigarettes, drink a cup of coffee, and plan out the near future.
NCIS Special Agent DiNozzo was their party trick, but he'd already started to lose his novelty. Florida brought new opportunities, income, and challenges — but she wasn't top bitch here, and she had to play careful and smart. She felt like she should be making a strategic move, but she didn't know quite what that was yet. She didn't think it would involve a cop, though, and the truth was, the more they showed DiNozzo off, the more people would be watching.
The more people who might realize what he was.
He was a continued liability.
He'd made a strong debut in Orlando, Tony had, and he'd almost killed the other guy outright. He'd been the favorite, by far, and he'd drawn a decent crowd. But…
She blew smoke at the rising sun.
There was always that "but."
Tony wasn't keeping well. Mentally, he was stark raving mad.
They drugged him heavily daily to ensure he wouldn't hurt — or more likely, kill — anybody. They duct taped his mouth to shut him up, and when they couldn't do that, they locked him up in a closet, behind a steel door, because he liked to talk, and sometimes he'd talk non-stop. Most of it babble. He'd narrate his non-sensical thoughts, speak to people who weren't there, somebody named Kate, and others, too.
He rarely slept, choosing rather to lie still and stare at imaginary objects. Sometimes he'd move his limbs, and act out imaginary scenes. Or, during periods of surprising lucidity, he'd scream and yell and declare that someone named Leroy Jethro Gibbs was on his way to kill them all. All of them would be dead. All of them.
He ate irregularly. Wasn't keeping weight on, and that made him weak and lethargic. He turned his nose up at the dried-out jonnycakes and the stale saltine crackers and the plates of bland canned beans they pushed his way.
And when they plied him with something that he seemed to like — grilled steak, medium rare — he ate it with so much gusto, he nearly choked himself. He'd spend hours afterward vomiting and clutching his gut.
Tashya knew that some adjusted better than others, but this one seemed not to be adjusting at all. He was either a tough nut or incredibly simple-minded and stupid.
"Don't know what's good for you, do you?" she said. "You've got the raw aggression, but you don't have any sense. What a disappointment. You could have it so good here, if only you'd cooperate. You could have it so good."
"So you're saying," Ziva leans over her desk, her eyes dark and hard, "that the FBI is aware of this organization."
FBI Agent Fornell stands in front of them, face grim. "We've been running an op that will soon bring it to its knees. We didn't know your DiNozzo was there, but now that we do…"
"Now that we do," Gibbs interjects, standing up and going toe-to-toe with Fornell, "we're going in, getting him out, and bringing him home. A-SAP."
Fornell nods, and doesn't move away from Gibbs' challenge. "That's the plan. But before we do that, we have to get some things ready. We had the raid scheduled weeks out; we aren't prepared."
"No," Gibbs argues. "We do it now." He looks at Ziva, and he looks at McGee. "You all ready?"
"I am," Ziva says.
Everybody now looks at McGee. Even Fornell, who already knows that Gibbs can't have it his way. It's not his op; it's not his call.
"I'm in," McGee says, voice quiet and honest.
"Great," Fornell says, "So am I, but we have to do this right. I have several UC guys already in. This project is several months in the can. We're working with the MBI in Orlando, as well as Orlando PD detectives. There are several moving parts. I know you, Jethro. I know you understand the value of doing things carefully." There's an edge of sarcasm in that statement.
Gibbs turns away in disgust and waves his hand. "Okay. Let's do this. Your way, whatever way. I don't care. Let's get my agent. Let's bring 'im home."
She touched him, and he reacted, physically, but he never looked away from the wall. Even when her hands caressed him, when her lips sucked at his, he kept staring at the wall.
He was an empty, vacant shell, out of his head.
She rode him hard, making them bounce on the squeaking bed, while she groaned and gasped, and took from him whatever she could and whatever she wanted.
When it was over, he whispered to the wall, "How was I, Kate? Was I okay?"
And when Tashya saw the tears on his face, they only pissed her off. She slapped him hard. When he seemed not to react, she slapped him harder.
"He's not the underdog anymore, Adrian," Tashya said as she dragged the file across the jagged edges of her nails. "He's the favorite."
"He'll win this match, too. He's a vicious creature."
She sighed, contemplating her words. "This is his last," she declared. "I'm washing him out. He bores me."
"He's too valuable," Adrian argued.
"He's a means to an end," Tashya said. "Always was. Tell me you have someone new in mind? We need someone new."
Fornell runs a comb through his heavily greased salt and pepper hair. He studies himself in the mirror and straightens his tie. He looks perfectly sleazy. The cheap suit hangs off his frame just right.
And then he smiles, slow and crooked and cocky, and it completes the ruse.
They have a federal agent to rescue.
One of the agents running surveillance has a grim face as he says, "One of the guys said there was a fight a couple days ago."
"And?" Fornell presses, turning toward the other man.
"I don't know," the agent says. "We know he wasn't standing when they dragged him out of there."
Fornell looks back at the mirror. He asks, "Did they secure me a meeting with Adrian Best?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
Tony fought like he knew this fight would be his last. It wasn't like all the others. Sure, it was just as ruthless and brutal, nothing but violent bloodsport for those who looked on. But he'd grown weak. He'd been ill; vomiting, fever, not eating, always sleeping. The lethargy had seeped into his bones, where it threatened to stay.
Even the prerequisite shot of Blue Juice did little to incite the frothing ferocity he'd previously been able to display.
This fight was rigged.
The other guy was huge, and he went after Tony with one goal in mind: Kill. Kill. Kill.
Tony dodged and evaded, snuck in attacks doggedly, pecking away at his opponent's aggressive offense, but the big guy managed to snag him by the arm, yanking it nearly out of its socket.
Tony cried out, and the crowd hollered, louder and louder. It was deafening; it beat down on them, as Tony struggled against the stronger hold, eyes wide in fear and knowing he was clearly outmatched.
The other guy got Tony in a headlock. Only after a protracted battle did he manage to rip himself out of it, albeit in a state of hypoxic confusion.
Together, they fell onto the mat, and they grappled at length. But Tony's movements were too slow, too uncoordinated. It seemed to last forever, just the two of them rolling around in this brutal wrestling match.
For every decent hit Tony got in, the other guy got in double and triple. A particularly vicious fist to the temple blackened Tony's vision briefly, and his opponent took that opportunity to straddle his middle and grasp ahold of his exposed throat, squeezing and pressing down.
Tony was aware enough to realize this was the endgame for him. His mind screamed, "No, no, no!" But the other guy was bigger, stronger, and now had a considerable upper hand — and he wasn't letting go. Tony's hands clawed blindly and he desperately jerked his body, looking like a spasmodic fish out of water. Bloody drool frothed from his mouth as he gagged.
He didn't want to give in. He wasn't going to give up. He jackknifed his body once more, managing to briefly dislodge the killer at his throat.
The crowd erupted once more.
But his opponent only got a better grip and squeezed tighter. Things got strangely quiet in Tony's own head as his vision swam in and out of focus.
"He's losing," Tashya commented, bored, as she watched the two men flopping around on the mat.
"Is it any surprise," Adrian said, "considering the opponent?"
"No." She sipped her cocktail while the bigger man beat a fist into Tony's head. "Should we let him be killed?"
"No, we can still get some money out of him. Quick, call down. Have them stop this."
Tashya still watched, movements lazy. Tony was fighting against the stranglehold. "I don't know."
Just then, Tony bucked the guy loose, and the crowd cheered. But it was short-lived, as the opponent repositioned himself on top of him.
"Tashya…"
Ring stewards waited outside the pit, ready to rush in if they got the call.
Tony's movements faded from deliberate to sloppy to involuntary, as his legs and arms began to jerk.
"Fine." Tashya leaned over for the phone.
He was bloody and barely cognizant, his shorts wet with his own piss, when they finally pried the other guy off of him. Wheezing and too exhausted to sit up, Tony stared up at the crowd. He tasted his own blood and felt nothing but buzzing numbness.
"May I interest you in another future for this man?" Agent Fornell asks.
"What is that? He's half-dead. I think he's seen enough." Tashya sits with Tony as she strokes his matted brown hair. He's drugged to the gills. Out cold, and curled on his side. There are old bruises covering his face, drool seeping out of his mouth. He's laid out on a hospital bed, stinking of piss and sweat. A thin sheet covers him to the shoulders.
But Fornell can see Tony's condition for what it is: he's emaciated and suffering from injuries from his last match. They're starving him and leaving him to suffer. Fornell wonders if it's some sort of punishment. He wants nothing more than to get this man far away from this hellish place, if not to save him then to let him die in peace and comfort.
He steels himself. "Sex work," he answers bluntly.
"Too old," Tashya says, then laughs. "Too dangerous."
"Well, it's possible in this specialty niche I'm offering," he says. "Men who want to fuck. He can be restrained, if need be. Or drugged. My clients only want to fuck. I can name you a fair price."
"For this bag of bones?" Tashya seems incredulous, but the gears in her head are turning. She looks down at the man lying next to her. She honestly wonders how much this half-dead creature could fetch her. "Do share."
"$10,000."
She laughs.
"More?"
She says, "No. He's not for sale. I don't sell. You can understand. Too much risk."
After Fornell leaves, she goes to Adrian and declares, "You're right. He can make us money yet. Call up your old friend. Ask him if he has any interested clients."
He didn't know how to react anymore, so he simply allowed it. Laid still and obedient, as they came and went, taking what they wanted from him. He forgot how to wince, how to feel the discomfort of it. He almost couldn't feel the hands on him, all over him. He was numb. Dumb. Just let it happen. Again, and again.
He let it happen, as if he had a choice.
He was as good as dead anyway.
They'd left him here.
Even Kate had left him here.
"Whaddaya mean they're not gonna sell him, Tobias?" Gibbs asks.
Everybody is quiet as they sit around the table in the hotel's small conference room.
"She won't, and it would arouse suspicion to offer too much."
"So now what?"
"We're all in agreement; we have to do the raid tomorrow night. Everything is in place."
"No, we do it tonight."
"Not possible. We go in tomorrow night. There's no discussion on this one, Jethro."
"So how is he? He okay?"
Fornell answers vaguely, "We're going to get him out."
They're injecting it slowly. The drug, bright pink in color
Tashya sits by his head, stroking him, saying "it's okay, it's okay." It's like she's done with the others.
He's limp in seconds. Dead in a few more. The agonal breathing goes on for too long, then the body is quiet and still.
Tony watches in awe from the bed. He's so miserable. The raw emptiness of hunger and isolation eats through his insides, and he can't wait for his turn. This is, perhaps, the only injection he'll welcome.
He's next, isn't he?
The body lies forgotten on the blue tarp for what feels like hours, and Tony is forced to keep watching it. There is conversation nearby. He can hear the hum and cadence of it, but he's too weak or depressed or injured, or any of these things combined, to raise his head to look.
He didn't really know that man. Saw him once or twice in passing. He can see the man's eyes, hooded and unfocused in death.
Tony feels he might be haunted by him until his own release.
As soon as they find him, he's struggling to get up. It takes a few tries, and a monumental effort, to get his muscles and bones moving, and when he finally gets to the end of the bed, he collapses in a heap.
Suddenly they're on him, all over him, saying things like "Agent DiNozzo?" "Stay down, stay down." "You're okay now." "Are you the only one in here?"
Tony recognizes no one, and none of the words process in his trauma-adled mind. He writhes on the hard tile floor, striking out viciously at whoever he can, growling and frothing at all of the hands and faces he can't recognize.
Somebody's arm gets too close to his face, and soon his teeth are sinking into the meat of it.
"Jesus!" cries the man attached to the arm. Somebody grabs Tony's jaw and pries it open.
Three people hold him down, while a fourth keeps ahold of his jaw and head, but he's so weak now, it hardly seems necessary.
"Start the IV," someone directs. "Where's the stretcher?
Tony feels his arm being tugged away from his body.
"Bad veins. Bad, bad veins."
"Get creative then. Kid's shocky. Need to push some fluids. Maybe a sedative."
"Already looks drugged."
"Draw some blood."
Tony doesn't have any more energy to fight. He's limp, spread out flat on his back and breathing in short labored gasps and staring eerily at the wall, at nothing.
"Hey kid! You hold on."
"Getting creative! Got it!"
For Tony, everything goes in and out of focus. Everything stings. Everything smells like fear and desperation. He can feel himself writhing, but he can't remember asking his body to do so.
Suddenly, a man's face appears above him. A receding hairline. Greasy slicked back hair. Ears that stick out. Hard brown eyes. His mouth is moving. He's shouting something. But Tony can't hear. Nor can he understand.
A hand reaches for Tony's face. Tony's limbs jerk spastically, but they've been tied, or cuffed, or otherwise restrained. His mind screams.
Enough, enough, enough.
Gibbs is the first one who confronts Fornell, outside the hospital in the large ambulance bay.
"You got him?" he asks in a rush. "You got him out?"
Fornell nods. His hair is still greasy, but no longer perfectly slicked back. It sticks up at odd impossible angles, and his suit is a wrinkled mess, stained with smudges of blood.
"I need to see him, Tobias," Gibbs demands. But he's stilled by a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Jethro," Fornell says. "Slow down. Yeah. We got him out, but—"
"But what?"
Fornell looks beyond Gibbs and sees the team, or what's left of it. McGee and Ziva. They are standing there, each with twin looks of grim determination. Because they know what they might find here, although maybe they should feel a bit more optimistic.
Gibbs stares at Fornell like he holds all the answers. All the answers that could assuage his raw and burning grief.
Gently, Fornell squeezes Gibbs' arm and says, repeating, "We got him out, Jethro. We got him out."
TBC