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In this chapter… a confrontation where we discover that things may be a bit more complicated than they appear;, a few slices of pizza; and a mean cliffhanger. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 6

From his car, Gibbs could see the Colonel standing at the counter of the grocery shop. He had started by leafing through a couple of magazines; then he had bought one - was that National Geographics? - and had left - almost. But he had obviously changed his mind right away, for he had gone back inside. He had grabbed a pack of beer there, and resumed chatting with the shop owner.

Gibbs looked at his watch and rolled his eyes. It had been twenty minutes already. He could tell exactly what O'Neill was doing, and he could tell that O'Neill knew he knew. Which was why Gibbs did not move, only chuckled, when O'Neill finally left the shop and headed, not for his own car but Gibbs's. There was a knock on the windshield; and Gibbs lowered the window.

"Hey, special agent Gibbs," he said, giving him a strange kind of salute that reminded Gibbs of a mime wiping an imaginary window.

"Colonel O'Neill."

O'Neill lifted his other hand, showing the pack of beer he had just bought. "I was thinking... since we're both obviously keeping an eye on the other, maybe we could go somewhere cosier than a car? Though yours is kind of cool, but mine... well, it's a rental. You know what I mean."

Gibbs couldn't help grinning at that. "I think I know just the place, Colonel."

"It's Jack."

"Jethro."

"Ok, so, Jethro... I follow you to that mystery place of yours?"

Gibbs nodded. He waited for O'Neill to reach his car, then shook his head, amused. He was actually starting to like the colonel.

They had not been very far from Gibbs's house; so it was less than fifteen minutes before they found themselves in the basement, both standing, beer in hand, around the boat-in-progress .

O'Neill examined the boat and ran his hand on the wooden structure for a moment. "So, this is what Marines do in their free time? Build boats? "

"You background-checked me, Jack?" It was not a question.

O'Neill shrugged. "Not just you. Your entire team. You don't seem to be surprised."

"No, I'm not, I'd have done the same thing if I'd had the time," replied Gibbs. "How much do you know?"

O'Neill took a sip of his beer. "Enough to understand why you build boats alone in your basement and offer my condolences for your loss."

Gibbs closed his eyes briefly; he heaved a sigh, then drank a large gulp in silence.

Since he was not showing any sign of wanting to speak, O'Neill continued. "You know, I retired once, too. I still wonder why I came back, sometimes. I could be fishing at the lake right now instead of doing this. I'd have a boat, too - though I'd buy mine."

"And I'd call it the Homer," he added, moving his hands to mime the inscription. He paused, looking at Gibbs's puzzled expression and raising an eyebrow. "After Homer Simpson? What, you never watch TV?"

Gibbs frowned, but didn't reply. Jack was definitely not your average Air Force Colonel.

"What happened?" Gibbs asked at last, leaning slightly on the workbench. "Why did you retire?"

O'Neill took a slow breath. "My kid, Charlie, shot himself with my handgun. I could not do this anymore."

"I'm sorry," Gibbs said, softly.

"Yeah." O'Neill said distractedly. He began to toy with his empty beer bottle.

"Why did you come back?"

O'Neill tilted his head to the side. "As I said, I'm not really sure."

Gibbs nodded in understanding. "Classified, huh? Alright, I won't ask."

There was a long moment of silence between the two men, each lost in their own thoughts.

At last, Gibbs heaved a deep sigh. "Alright, Jack. We've covered the part where we open up to each other and sympathize and bond. Now, will you tell me anything at all about why your team is really here, or will we have to braid each other's hair first?"

O'Neill headed for the opened pack of beer. "Well, first, I gotta say, another beer wouldn't hurt. But to answer the serious part, well. All I can say, Jethro, is that we've been sent here as much to watch you guys as to help with the investigation."

"Yeah I'd figured as much, Jack," said Gibbs as he caught the bottle of beer that O'Neill threw in his direction. "What can you tell me that can be useful?"

O'Neill winced slightly.

"Look, Jack. I work with the Navy of the United States. I know the meaning of 'confidential'. I don't need to know everything. I just want to solve the damn case. Catch the bastard who killed my agent and make him pay for what he did. That's all I ask. What I don't need is the Air Force trying to intervene in my investigation by making up some kind of fancy high-tech cover story."

"Technically, that wasn't really your agent, Jethro," said O'Neill slowly.

"Yeah, well real or not, seeing the body at the funerarium gave me a very real urge to catch the bastard."

"I know the feeling, believe me."

Gibbs's bottle made a banging noise as it landed less than delicately on the workbench. "Yeah? And what else do you know, Jack?"

O'Neill closed his eyes and raised his gaze to look into Gibbs's eyes. "That this is much, much bigger than you can imagine; and this is why we're watching you."

Gibbs kicked the boat angrily. "Damn it, Jack! How long are you going to beat around the bush!"

"Hey!" said O'Neill, raising his arms. "What else do you expect me to say! I'm not gonna reveal you top-secret information just because we shared a couple of beers! The Air Force doesn't share its intel with federal agencies freely, you know that as well as I do. Especially to you people! You have a Mossad Officer in your team, for crying out loud! Do you realize what kind of a leak that would make?"

"I just told you, I don't give a damn about the secret research projects, I just want a lead to find the guy who killed - whoever that kid who looked like McGee was. If you weren't willing to say anything anyway, why the heck did you come down here? "

"I told you what I had to tell you already, Jethro," said O'Neill seriously.

"What do you-" Gibbs paused as realization struck him. "You said that you're watching us. Does this mean that my team is in any kind of danger?"

"I don't know," admitted O'Neill. "Could be."

"Why haven't you told us about it during that meeting at the Director's office."

O'Neill had both his empty beer bottles in his hands and was making loops as though they were aircrafts. "I'm in the military, Jethro. I got orders to follow."

"And why now?"

"I'm not really good with this thing but - well," began O'Neill, walking to the workbench and placing his bottles next to Gibbs's. "Call it a-"

"Gut feeling?" completed Gibbs, smirking.

"Something like that, yeah," said O'Neill as he walked back to the boat. "Look, if you want to warn your guys, you have to be really careful. Do you have any way of contacting them? Apart from the usual ways."

"You mean, without raising suspicions from a potential third party?"

O'Neill nodded, and an amused smile appeared on Gibbs's face. "Oh yeah. We got the DiNozzo-network."

O'Neill raised an eyebrow. "The what?"

"I got it covered. Tell me now, what kind of pizza do you like, Jack?"

After ordering the pizzas, Gibbs grabbed his wallet, took out a one-dollar bill and used it cut a piece of paper the same size. Then he started writing on it and smiled at a puzzled Jack. "That's the G-Team for you," commented Gibbs matter-of-factly.

Less than ten minutes later, a knock at the door to Gibbs's house announced a familiar face.

"Two Chili Special pizzas!" announced the delivery boy.

Gibbs smiled. Palmer was actually quite good at this. "Thank you," he said as he took the receipt from the "delivery boy". "I believe that Mister T. did not get ice cream with his order," he added in a lower tone.

"Oh." said Palmer, fidgeting slightly as he took in what came with the money Gibbs was giving him in return.

"Hey," called Gibbs as he realized that Palmer was glancing curiously at O'Neill.

Palmer started slightly. "Uh, N-nice boots, sir," he told O'Neill, who arched his eyebrows in return.

Gibbs resisted the urge to smack Palmer behind the head for that; but he figured the boy was just nervous about his first ever "undercover" job. "Good job," he said, instead.

"Thank you sir. Enjoy your pizza. "

When he left, Gibbs gave the pizzas to O'Neill while he opened the receipt and read its contents. "So," he said, squinting on the ticket. "Your Murray is apparently a Star Wars fan? He's taken a ticket for the whole Trilogy tonight. As for Jackson, he seems to really know his way around the DC museums. Hmm, and Carter likes McGee's Porsche a lot."

Gibbs handed the receipt to O'Neill. "Bottom line is, they haven't noticed anything so far. DiNozzo will be warned soon enough, though."

O'Neill's eyes widened slightly as he understood what had just happened. "Was that delivery boy part of..."

"He's the assistant to our ME," confirmed Gibbs. "You know how it is. Budget restrictions; our employees have to work two jobs to make ends meet these days... "

O'Neill chuckled. "That's actually kinda clever. As in, it's dumb enough for people watching you guys not to think about it."

"Huh-huh." Gibbs took a slice of pizza and stuffed it in his mouth with a smile. "That's what I pay DiNozzo for. Coming up with the dumbest plans."

"Funny. I've heard that kind of thing before, though in a completely different context."

"Confidential, I presume?"

O'Neill shrugged. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you that it came from a race of grey aliens who named a spaceship after me, right?"

Gibbs pointedly rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, thought so." said O'Neill, letting out a small laugh as he grabbed another slice of pizza.

Gibbs had a weird feeling about that conversation, but he couldn't place it, so he just shook his head. "Okay, so what do we do next, Jack?"

"Well-"

He was interrupted by the ring of Gibbs's cell. Gibbs looked at the caller ID and frowned. What was the point of having set up this whole pizza code if McGee called him on the phone right afterwards?

His gut told him to answer anyway, so he picked up. "Yeah, Gibbs."

The voice on the other end of the phone was very, very weak. "Boss"...

The gut feeling turned into sudden concern at the sound. "McGee, what's going on, I can barely hear you."

"Boss, I think I was shot... I- I'm not feeling too well... "

Gibbs's slice of pizza fell to the floor as the connection died.