Chapter 17: Knuckles

Its been some odd hours since he has had something to drink. He has already figured out that they are keeping him alive as part of the torture process. Although, they do not want to know anything because they already know.

He already knows.

Gibbs coughs; his throat dry. Though he can not see very well inside the darkness due to the lack of the light and the painful swelling around his eyes, he can sense the amount of dust and mold inside the cell. He knows it is a cell because he had spent an hour gripping the metal bars--and hollering at the top of his lungs sometime before.

Images flash through his mind. Some are more recent while others spring forth from the way, way past. Shannon and Kelly grip his senses a number of times while he tries to stop the throbbing in his left leg. His hands push down on the muscle that keeps tightening every so often while each time hoping that it will be its last spasm.

The back of his head leaks blood. Several forceful shoves into one of the cell walls had been enough to do the trick--as well as possible damage to his skull, but mixed in with his hopes and wishes, he silently prays that he has enough strength left to see some form of light, any light, before he will have to face the darkness--forever.

A sleek man enters with a loaded weapon attached to his hip. In one hand he impresses no one with his skilled handle on the slick blade. In his other hand, he grips the container of salt. With a knowing smirk plastered on his stubbly face, he approaches the center of the cell.

Gibbs lay still. His back trying to find relief on the damp, cold, and hard wall. He grunts when he registers the sound of footsteps.

"This better be lunchtime." He swallows causing his throat to burn.

"Maybe a story would better suit you, Agent Gibbs."

His forehead creases and he stills his body; no longer is he trying to change his position.

"…maybe it is time to figure out just how tough you Americans…really are…" He drags an empty chair from the corner. Setting the chair backwards, between Gibbs' legs, he finds comfort after sitting down. "I suggest you listen to my story very carefully, Agent Gibbs."

"I'm not sure I have a reason to."

The man grins slyly while flipping his knife with one hand.

"What's that noise?"

"Part of the story…"

Gibbs' shoulders tense, but only because he is trying to find relief for his back again. As he struggles with all the strength he can muster, he waits for the Mossad Agent in front of him to speak.

"Are we comfortable?"

"Shouldn't matter. You Mossad--aren't ya?" He coughs. "Get to it--I know the drill."

"No one has ever survived through any of the torture sessions from a Mossad. You could not possibly know how we react."

"Relentless. Heartless--I'm sure my mind is on the right track."

The man straights his shoulders at Gibbs' knowingness. In a split second he throws his knife at Gibbs. The blade makes a windy sound as it misses Gibbs' left year, and gets stuck inside one of the many cracks inside the cement cell.

Gibbs holds his breath--something in his gut telling him that another blade could be on its way.

"Ziva tell you our secrets, yes?" He questions.

"No." Gibbs gives a mild shake of his head.

"There will be punishments for lying."

"I'm not lying." He shrugs. "Hook me up to a fucking polograph machine if you've gotta. I'm telling the truth--Ziva didn't tell me shit."

The muscle in his leg begins to tighten again. His hands instantly fly to his leg where they grip the flesh eagerly.

"You look well, Agent Gibbs."

He grits his teeth from the pain. He heard the man, and his demeaning comment--but the pain is too much for him to speak properly--without stopping to take a deep breath of air.

"Consider this to be some sort of a standard--the best is only yet to come."

Gibbs closes his mouth. The need to add his own comment has become no more meaning that reality is taking its third toll on him. It is now he is seeing fear for what it is, and feeling disgusted with himself for bringing McGee along to share his soon-to-be doom.

"Where's my partner?" Gibbs kicks out the leg that has yet to bother him. "Damn it, answer me! Where is he--where is Ma-Gee?!"

"You are simply asking questions that are currently on a need-to-know basis."

"Yeah--I need to know!"

"There are plenty things you need at he moment, Agent Gibbs…plenty…' He leans in closer, this time reaching with one of his hands to slide the knife out from between the crack of the cement wall. "Did you know that 'slow-slicing' had been a form of execution in China roughly around 900 AD until 1905?" He sighs with content. "It gives a whole new meaning to--how do the Americans say? 'Slicing and Dicing'….did I get it correct?" He finishes with a slow chuckle.

"Keep…talking…" He mutters under his breath, his leg coming out to hopefully kick this man or the chair that he is sitting on. "…you son of a bitch--just keep talking."

"Impalement was a method of torture." He pauses. "Driving a long stake through a person--either, killing them quickly…or killing them slowly."

"You're a poet." Gibbs quips.

The man forces Gibbs' shoulders into one of the dingy walls of the dingy cell. Gripping his knife in one hand, he quickly swoops down and slices open the four k knuckles of Gibbs' right hand.

A grunt escapes Gibbs as he feels warm fluid begin to run between his hand.

"I promise there are things about me that you will find of interest, Agent Gibbs--ones far more interesting than this poet you have observed in me."

Gibbs tries to use his other hand to apply some sort of pressure to his open wounds, as the man begins to pour the salt directly into the cut skin. The burning causes Gibbs to shiver.

"I am Mossad."

"…know that…" Gibbs kicks at the floor with his feet; slamming his head into the wall behind him as he tries to stand the growing burn.

"I specialize in punishment tactics a highly trained Special Agent knows nothing about."

"Don't gloat. It ain't your style."

"It is yours, yes?" He rips his unwounded hand away from his wounds, and then snaps one end of the metal cuffs around his wrist. Yanking his forward, Gibbs topples over, knocking his face directly into the dusty, concrete floor. Instantly he pushes his head to the side, resting his cheek against the ground, his tongue flicks across his teeth as he mentally counts them. Before he is able to catch his breath, he feels his cheek being scraped against the floor for a few seconds. "I have yet to hear your answer, Agent Gibbs."

"Didn't give me a cha--"

A another dash of salt hit's the bloody and raw flesh that make up the inside of his knuckles. "Ah--shit…" He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, using his teeth to bite down on it.

"Rest now, Agent Gibbs--this is only the beginning.