A/N: THIS CHAPTER IS RATED M!!! It is rated Mature for violence, language, and semi-explicit sexual undertones. It is also rather dark, even compared to the rest of this fic.
--IF YOU ARE NOT OLD ENOUGH TO READ MATURE CONTENT, OR YOU SIMPLY DO NOT LIKE MATURE CONTENT--
DO NOT READ!!!!
Gibbs felt his gut turn to stone.
In a single instant, his hopes for completing the Mission unscathed had dwindled down to none. Even completing the mission at all seemed an unlikely feat. This complicated matters exponentially, and Gibbs knew it.
The last time he had gone up against Werth, he'd been bowled over, and then tossed into a hospital wall. And that had been after both an escape from a psych ward and a near death experience, respectively. Now the ex-Corporal was completely healthy and had enough presence of mind to organize and control the most fearsome Gang on the East Coast. He was surrounded by hundreds of bloodthirsty men, who Gibbs was sure would not hesitate to kill him on sight.
Or, Gibbs corrected himself as he glanced once more at the field, he would be forced to fight other Survivors. By now he could see three other groups who had managed to defeat their Defenders. The Attackers had backed off, leaving the bloody broken carcasses of the Defenders sprawled on the patchy grass.
They stood huddled in their groups, their weapons discarded on the ground. More than a few were sobbing, trembling from the shock of what they had been forced to do. One woman from the first group had completely detached, her eyes glazed as she stared unblinkingly at the man she had helped slaughter.
Gibbs recognized her expression from his years in the field, with the young Marines who were too young to handle seeing their buddies blown up by an IED. He hoped to God she wouldn't be forced to fight again that night—she would not be lucid enough to defend herself, and would be nothing more than a lamb for the slaughter.
Bewilderingly, the cheers didn't die down as the fights drew to an end. Instead they grew even louder. Gibbs desperately attempted to peer down towards the opposite end of the field, where it seemed other fights still seemed to be going on, but it was impossible from where he stood. And for some reason, it was that side of the field that seemed to entertain the Bloods the most, and Gibbs was instantly curious as to what the draw was.
He nodded to his compatriots, motioning towards the other end of the field. Together they quietly moved down the field, carefully not to touch the metal beams that supported the bleachers above them. Gibbs still didn't know where Werth was in the stands, and if he was still as good as his file had once said he was, than even the slightest indication of their presence beneath the bleachers would spell their demise.
They were only about halfway down the field when the loudspeakers began blasting once more. For a moment it was nothing but screeching reverb, but then it was unmistakably the voice of Damon Werth echoing through the stadium, freezing Gibbs' blood.
"Defending Survivors," the chilling voice thundered above them, "move to center field."
Realizing his proximity to center field, Gibbs froze. Fornell and Sergei stopped as well, following his lead as he crept once more towards the front of the stands. The Bloods were all screaming and shouting in anticipation of what was to come. As soon as Gibbs was close enough to look onto the field, he could see six Survivors converging on the center of the field, not a single one of them unscathed.
Seeing that most of them were coming from the end of the field he had been moving towards, Gibbs glanced downfield to see the ground littered with bodies. In an instant he knew that these Defenders had won their matches, thereby slaying all ten of their opponents.
Of the six at center field, only one was female. One of the other five men was barely able to continue standing—blood dripped from a deep wound on his thigh, and trickled down from a gash just beyond his hairline. Two others seemed perfectly functional, despite minor injuries, but it was the final two men that startled Gibbs the most.
They were tattooed, with spiked hair and inked arms, topped off with identical malicious grins. Bloods. Serving penance, perhaps? Or maybe this was some sort of reward, being allowed to participate in the bloodshed. As all six Survivors formed a circle on the midline, they regarded the woman with a predatory appreciation. Then, they looked to the other male Survivors and nodded in some acknowledgement of what seemed to be a predetermined arrangement. Only two men nodded back—the Survivor with the leg wound was barely able to keep his eyes open.
Gibbs could see the tension in the woman's body, which was clad in what seemed to be a pair of ragged denim shorts, revealing thin legs that were scarred and bruised. She was barefoot, bloodied by the puddles she'd traversed in her short walk to center field. A flannel shirt insulated her upper body, but Gibbs could see it was askew, leaving one bony shoulder bare and revealing she wore a tank underneath it.
In the harsh light of the stadium, and from his position beneath the bleachers, Gibbs could only see that her hair was dark in color. The rest of her was obscured by the booted feet of the spectators. But even in looking at her back, her trembling form struck him as familiar. When the Blood Defenders nodded to the other men, her posture shifted ever so slightly, readying herself for the attack that was sure to come.
The Bloods had had the presence of mind to scavenge weapons from the fallen, and they both wielded pipes, chains, and knives. The wounded Survivor was using his bloody staff as a support for his sagging frame. What looked to be a filed length of steel rebar rested in the hands of one of the other men, while the last Survivor palmed a Louisville Slugger whose tip had been wrapped in razor wire.
The woman had two battered nightsticks, most likely pilfered by the Bloods from some abandoned police station. There was one in each hand, grasped tightly by fingers that looked pale in the stadium lighting.
"And now," Werth's voice thundered, jolting Gibbs from his observations and the strange feeling in his gut, "we decide who among the Defenders are the most worthy. This fight will separate the strong from the weak, and the victor will live to fight another day."
His words elicited cheers from the crowd, and the Bloods on the field soaked in the glory. For a few moments they strutted, shouting something unintelligible to the stands, which ate up the posturing like candy. The deafening roars grew louder for a moment, before suddenly falling silent as the Bloods on the field returned to their positions. Glancing up at the Jumbotron, Gibbs realized that Werth had lifted his hand, motioning for silence with a casual wave.
"Begin."
Gibbs refocused on the field just in time to see the first Blood draw a long, stiletto knife from his belt and lunged to his right, where the barely conscious Survivor was leaning on his staff. In a flash, the man's throat was slashed open, and blood poured down his front as he toppled like a ragdoll to the side.
As he had done so, the other men had instantly surged towards the woman, but before they could reach her, she had darted away with more speed than Gibbs would have thought possible for one so frail. But instead of running in the opposite direction, she sprinted for the Blood with the Stiletto, taking advantage of his preoccupation to wind back and slam a night stick into his ribs. In the next instant the other stick came up, this time aiming for his exposed neck, but the Blood reacted too quickly. The Stiletto was dropped and the now-free hand reached over and snatched her wrist.
Still, she managed to land two more minor blows before the other Survivors altered their course and joined in the fray. The razor wire bat swung towards her from behind, intended to slam into her spine, but at the least minute she twisted, and only the flannel of her shirt was torn by the deadly weapon.
She wrenched her wrist from the Blood's grip just in time to block two pipes swung in her direction, then ducked to avoid the filed rebar that nearly succeeded in decapitating her. She moved quickly, anticipating blows well enough to dodge and block most of them. Gibbs watched on in shock, surprised that one who had seemed so frail had so much skill.
Not many would have thought of going for the Blood first while he was focused on another kill. And glancing at the man in question, Gibbs could see that her clubs had done their job, as the Blood favored the right side of his ribs ever so slightly. It would not be of any use to an average Survivor, but if Gibbs' new assumption was correct, then this woman was no average Survivor.
Her movements were swift and sure, and aimed only for the softer targets, the strikes that would inflict the most damage. Every so often she would feint, draw their attention away just to slam right back with a second, devastating blow. She had training, there was no doubt about it, and it was that training that had kept her alive this long.
The Survivor with the razor wire was the first to fall, after a nightstick slammed first into his temple, and then across the back of his neck. Gibbs could almost hear the sickening crack as the man's neck snapped, and watched as the club fell next to limp body sprawled on the field.
The woman paid for her victory, however, as it allowed the Survivor with the rebar to come close enough to swipe at her. She whirled to meet him, but was too late. The sharpened end of the steel slashed across her abdomen, tearing her grimy tank top to cut deep into her flesh.
She recoiled with a cry of pain, but the Survivor moved in for the kill. He instinctively kicked out with a bare foot, catching her right across the newly inflicted wound. She stumbled back, and then tripped over the body of the Survivor whose throat had been slashed. She fell to the ground, the rebar swinging towards her head, but she used her momentum to roll backwards onto her feet.
The Survivor had not been expecting her agility—nor had Gibbs—and his momentary surprise gave her time to retaliate. She jabbed forward with one nightstick, connecting hard with his sternum before raking up straight up his chest. Gibbs was instantly reminded of a sternal rub—a medical procedure used to determine a patient's response through inflicting inordinate amounts of pain by rubbing bare knuckles against the patient's sternum. The Survivor's features immediately contorted in pain, but then his face was obscured in blood and tears as her second club came up to slam into his nose. The man dropped, but it was not the woman's weapons that moved in for the final blow.
Brains and blood splattered the field as the razor wire-wrapped Louisville slugger came crashing down on the man's skull with seemingly unnatural force. The woman leaped backwards on instinct, putting distance between the Blood now wielding the salvaged weapon. His pipe-wielding buddy came up behind him, and together they stalked towards the woman. This time she stood her ground, though she half-crouched on the balls of her feet, waiting for one to attack first.
The Pipe attacked first, the metal weapon flying towards her head. She ducked at the very last moment as she drove one of her sticks tip-first in the ground, allowing the pipe to whistle over her head before reaching up and catching the Blood's wrist with her recently unburdened hand. Then the remaining nightstick slammed into the man's already extended elbow.
The joint crunched as it shattered under the blow, and suddenly the arm was bent unnaturally, back towards the woman. The Blood screamed in agony, but the woman didn't seem to react as she immediately hooked her club around the back of his neck and yanked his head down to where her knee was coming up to meet it. And then the second nose of the night was broken, stunning the Blood.
Nearly quicker than Gibbs was able to follow, the last Survivor, the final Blood on the field, surged towards her. For a split second, Gibbs thought the woman would be unable to react in time. She was too entangled with the first Blood to reach for the club that still stood upright in the ground, waiting for her, and she wouldn't be able to kill her current opponent before the approaching one turned her skull to a pulp.
But then, just as the razor wire bat wound back for the kill shot, the woman spun into the first Blood. She snatched his only functional hand remaining and twisted, pulling it up behind his back as she forced his stunned body between herself and the other Blood.
The bat connected anyway, as its wielder could not halt its heavy momentum, and the captive Blood could do nothing more than watch his death come speeding towards him. The woman released him as the Blood slumped lifelessly, half of his face stripped to the bone by the blow.
The standing Blood paused in shock at what had happened, but then his expression turned murderous, and fire burned in his eyes as he turned to where the woman had hopped a few steps back, her now solitary nightstick clutched tightly in her right hand.
The Blood took two menacing steps forward with his club raised, and Gibbs thought the woman might dart away from the imposing threat. The Blood was bigger than her by two heads and a hundred fifty pounds, and was mostly muscle compared to her starved frame—which was evidently strong, but too thin to be healthy.
But where the Blood had brute strength on his side, the woman had speed, and she surprised both Gibbs and her opponent when she darted inside his range of motion and struck the vulnerable underside of his shoulder joint.
Her aim was true, and the nerve her nightstick struck caused his arm to spasm, dropping the club involuntarily. The woman took advantage of his surprise and used all of her considerably less body weight to shove the Blood backwards, attempting to knock him off balance. But her momentum only lasted for a few steps before the Blood recovered, his free hand coming up to wrap around her throat. As he did so, he turned, and used his grip on her throat to slam her down onto the ground.
Any grunt of pain she voiced was lost in the roaring of the crowds as they cheered raucously, sensing the end was near. The Blood wrenched the stick from the woman's hand, tossing it out of her reach while she scratched at his hand, gasping for air. Her efforts went unheeded, and the Blood reached with his free hand to pull a knife from his belt.
The blade came down towards her head, but Gibbs couldn't tell if it was meant to pierce her eyes, or if the Blood was trying to slash it over face. But the woman managed to reach out and clutch his wrist, stopping its movement before either of them had a chance to find out either way. With a strength that seemed beyond her frail form, she kept the knife at bay, though her arm trembled perilously from the strain.
Just when it seemed she would no longer be able to fend her opponent off any longer, the woman used the hand she had been using to try and loosen the Blood's grip on her throat to lash out in desperation. Her fist only connected with a glancing blow, but it was enough to distract him long enough for her to get her feet up to connect with his hips. With all the strength she had left, she kicked him away from her.
The crowd shouted in surprise and excitement as the woman rolled and scrambled away, though the Blood had already recovered. The spectators roared in triumph as her opponent got to his feet and strutted towards the woman. She was still on her hands and knees, coughing for air and attempting to put distance between herself and the Blood. But her efforts were for naught, and in the next instant he was on her.
His arm drew back, ready to stab her from behind as he moved to kneel over her. Then, the knife flashed, and the Blood lunged in for the kill. Cheers erupted all across the stadium in thunderous, triumphant victory, and the bleachers over Gibbs' head rumbled and shook as boots stomped in celebration.
But then, suddenly, silence fell. Gibbs stared out at the field, his gaze no doubt joining hundreds of others as the entire stadium peered onto the field.
Neither fighter was moving, but the flash of the knife had disappeared as the Blood leaned heavily on the prone woman. Only, Gibbs could now see that the woman was no longer lying on her stomach—she had flipped herself over at the last moment, so that she was staring into the Blood's eyes. And in that moment Gibbs also noticed the dark liquid dripping from the Blood's neck, and his limp hand that had released its grip on the knife, which now rested harmlessly on the grass.
And then Gibbs saw the metal rod in the woman's hands, the sharpened rebar that had been thrust up through the Blood's throat. A good two inches of the filed tip could be seen poking out the other side of the man's neck, and Gibbs suspected it had severed the man's spinal cord.
Finally, after several seemingly eternal moments, the woman rolled, using her grip on the rebar to leverage her dead opponent to the side. Her hands never once left the steel, even as she shakily got to her feet. With one last heave, she yanked the metal from his neck, taking her weapon with her as she staggered back a few feet.
She didn't seem to hear the revived jubilation of the spectators, but Gibbs did. He heard, and to him it made no sense. A frail Survivor had managed to slay not one, but two Bloods, in their own arena. And yet here they were, cheering the event as they would a football game that had been won in double overtime. It was unreal.
But a soft exclamation from Fornell jolted Gibbs back into focus.
"Sweet Mary, Mother of God."
Gibbs glanced at his friend, and found the man's gaze directed skyward. Gibbs followed his gaze to the Jumbotron, where the image of Damon Werth had disappeared, and in its place was live footage of the woman on the field. The giant screen showed everything Gibbs had been unable to see with the naked eye, and the moment he saw it he felt the blood freeze in his veins.
The woman stood, her eyes hooded as she stared at her final opponent. She was breathing heavily, her body swaying slightly with the effort. Gibbs recognized the post-battle exhaustion, the sudden loss of energy as the rush of adrenaline faded.
The first thing that Gibbs noticed about her was the flash of silver that glinted at her throat. Gibbs hadn't spotted it during the fight, but on the big screen it was impossible to miss.
It was a collar. A metal collar that encircled her neck, fitting snugly even around her slender throat. A metal D-ring had been attached to the front, and the implication of its presence sent chills of dread down Gibbs' spine.
The unforgiving camera proved that this night had not been the woman's first fight. Beneath the grime and the blood splattered across her features, Gibbs could see a deep scar that ran from the hairline of her right brow down to the right side of her jaw, tracing its way across the bridge of her nose. It was old, by at least a few months, probably longer, as it was completely healed.
To Gibbs' surprise, it disrupted a black tattoo that swirled from her right brow to her cheek, framing her right eye with something that was reminiscent of Maori tribal designs. He had only ever seen such tattoos on Bloods, but it was obvious that this woman was not a Blood. Because the tattoo, even coupled with the marring scar, could not hide her identity.
Gibbs' lips whispered her name, even though he had no need to tell Sergei or Fornell who the ragged woman was.
Ziva.
The recognition hit Gibbs like a bolt of lightning. Happiness and relief coursed through him, as did the unfamiliar feeling of hope. But all that was quickly followed by anger, heartbreak, and despair.
It was her. There was no doubt about it. She was thin, dirty from grime, sweat and blood, and her matted, unbrushed hair was longer, but there was no denying it was her. Now that he could see her face, Gibbs realized that her style of fighting had been familiar, especially the arm hold she had used on the first Blood after breaking his arm. He had seen her use it once, before the Incident, on a case that had taken them to the boondocks after a Marine had been found dead in a motel room.
It was her. By some grace of God, it was her. His Shadow. Ziva.
He eyes snapped back to the Survivor on the field, attempting to reconcile the image on the screen to the exhausted woman center field. As he watched, a dozen Bloods filed onto the field, all armed, some even toting nets. For several long moments, Ziva didn't seem to see them. Gibbs glanced back up at the Jumbotron, and saw her blink heavily, and when her lids opened again, her brown eyes were alert. Her head lifted ever so slightly, and for a split second Gibbs thought she would go on the offensive once she saw the encroaching Bloods.
But as they began to circle around her, she let the rebar slip from her fingers as she held her arms out to the sides. Her palms turned to the front, and Gibbs was struck with the realization that such submissiveness had become routine. But before he could think anything else, five of the Bloods pounced.
Those armed with nets stood close guard as two Bloods each took one of her wrists. She let them wrestle her to ground, with the help of a third man who kicked both feet out from under her and then pressed a knee between her shoulder blades. A fourth Blood came up from behind as the first two wrenched her arms behind her, and he clicked a pair of silver handcuffs over her wrists.
Gibbs watched as the third Blood, the one kneeling on her back, grabbed a fistful of Ziva's hair and pulled her head back. The movement exposed the collar she wore, and a fifth man knelt in front of her, reaching down to feed a slender but long chain through the ring affixed to her collar. On the Jumbotron Gibbs could see the Blood fold the chain back on itself before locking it in place with a small padlock.
Then Ziva was being pulled roughly to her feet, with no small amount of unnecessary tugging on her—leash, for lack a more appropriate term. Gibbs burned in anger at the sight as they began to drag her from the field. She had difficulty keeping up, and fell several times before they reached the stands. They refused to slow their pace, so each stumble meant she slid across the patchy grass for a few moments until she managed to find her footing again. And then she was stumbling up the steps, led higher into the stands.
A glance at the Jumbotron revealed that focus was once again on Werth, who now stood in front of his grisly throne. He was waiting, Gibbs realized, waiting for Ziva to be brought to him. Recognizing the opportunity, Gibbs' eyes returned to Ziva, following her path up through the bleachers. The aisles were clear, and even though the surrounding Bloods shouted and gesticulated wildly at her, not a single one of them attempted to touch her.
And then there he was, Damon Werth in the flesh. From the distance Gibbs was at, he knew he didn't have a hope to kill him, even with his rifle. All he could was watch as Ziva was forced to her knees in front of the leather-clad psychopath, who gave a sickening grin as he lifted the microphone to his lips.
"Our Victor, gentlemen," Werth thundered through the loudspeakers, presenting the shackled woman to masses with a wave of his arm. The Bloods roared their approval, with many a cat call and whistle. Gibbs' jaw tightened painfully, but he received some modicum of relief when he looked at the screen and saw the murderous glare Ziva was giving Werth.
Unfortunately, her fiery gaze did nothing to faze the ex-Corporal. Instead, it only seemed to amuse him more. He crouched until he could look her in the eye, though even then he was still a head taller than her.
"How does it feel to have two more Bloods to add to your tally?" he asked derisively, a cruel smirk curling his lips. He handed the mic off to one the Bloods nearby, who kept the device close enough to the pair so their exchange could still be broadcast over the speakers. A hand came out tightly grip her by the nape of the neck. His touch was unyielding, and he leaned in close.
"Does it make you hot?" he snarled with a malicious grin. Then slowly, he moved even closer, and Gibbs recognized the bastard's intent by the predatory gleam in his eye.
Ziva tried to pull away from the impending kiss, but Werth's hand kept a firm grip on her, keeping her in place. The muscles of his arm contracted slowly as she maintained a growing pressure against his hold, and he was forced to put more effort into keeping her still.
His lips were centimeters from hers when suddenly her head whipped forward, the flat of her forehead colliding with his mouth in a vicious head-butt. The force he was putting into his grip backfired on him, and only helped her to drive the blow home.
Blood exploded over Damon's teeth, and he recoiled in shock and pain. But before Gibbs could even smirk in pride over the small victory, Werth retaliated.
A booted foot slammed into her chest, sending her flying. As soon as the first blood had been drawn, the Bloods occupying the three rows both above and below the nauseating throne scattered, leaving bare metal benches in their wake. As soon as they were out of the anticipated danger zone, they all turned back to watch the unfolding scene with rapt interest. The only two Bloods still in the potential line of fire were the microphone tender and the Blood who managed the end of Ziva's leash. He did nothing to stop her backward motion.
Ziva skidded to a stop some feet away from where she had been kneeling. She had landed on her back, her hands still trapped in cuffs beneath her and Gibbs could do nothing but watch helplessly as she curled onto her side, coughing in pain. He could hear her gasping moans as she fought to catch her breath, even as his pulse began to race when he saw Werth stomping to where she lay.
"Get her up," he ordered gruffly, viciously wiping the blood from his lips. The Blood holding the leash obliged without hesitation. He reeled in the extra chain that had allowed her to skid so far, and then hooked a hand under one of Ziva's arms to pull her back up to her knees. As soon as she was steady, he stepped away, giving Werth the respect he was due.
The Blood with the microphone dogged Damon's steps, and when the ex-Corporal paused in front of Ziva, his heavy breaths echoed through a now-silent stadium. Then, without warning, he lashed out, his open palm connecting heavily with Ziva's cheek.
The force of the blow threatened to topple her once again, but Damon was too quick. He reclaimed his hold on her throat, only this time instead of gripping the back of her neck, his left palm now pressed against her trachea. In the blink of an eye, his right hand found its own target.
Suddenly, Gibbs felt a surge of uncontrollable rage obliterate all rational thought, and only Sergei's restraining hand on his shoulder kept him from charging up the stadium steps to tear Werth's head from his shoulders. Because there on the giant screen, for all the city to see, were strong, abusing fingers sliding up Ziva's bare skin to cup her between the legs.
The monster's touch was almost gentle at first, but then his fingers tightened, digging into her through the denim of her tattered shorts. Gibbs saw Ziva clench her eyes shut momentarily in pain and humiliation, but she refused to make a sound. He watched Werth lean in close, and when he spoke, his voice was menacingly low, though the mic was still able to pick it up and broadcast his words through the speakers.
"Cute stunt," Damon snarled, his voice a wash of pure, unadulterated anger. Ziva opened her eyes to glare at him, though he remained unfazed. But then, as if a switch had been thrown, the malicious superiority returned. "But just remember—I own you."
And with that he finally claimed his prize, slamming his mouth onto Ziva's violently. As he did so, his right hand dug even harder into her, as if by doing so he could tear a hole right through the fabric of the jeans. Her eyes screwed shut against the assault, the only control she had on the situation.
Or was it?
Gibbs watched with smoldering eyes as he watched blood suddenly coat both sets of lips. It was more blood than her previous surprise attack had drawn from his lip, and for a long moment he was terrified that Werth had bitten her. But then the Jumbotron afforded the stadium a zoomshot, and for a split second Gibbs caught the flash of deep red transecting the man's tongue.
Ziva had bitten him. It was only small repayment for the damage Werth had inflicted upon her, but it was something. Disappointment came when Damon barely reacted to the pain, and only seemed to press harder against her.
Finally, Werth pulled away, both his lips and his hands relinquishing their hold on her. He smirked as he nonchalantly spit the blood from his mouth and wiped his lips clean. Then, after regarding Ziva for a long moment, he reached out, and tenderly wiped the blood from her lips as well. She let his thumb glide over her lips until the offending substance was gone, but then stubbornly jerked away from his touch.
Damon allowed the defiant gesture, but continued to gaze at her with an indiscernible expression as he rose to his feet. He looked down at her, meeting the hateful glare she sent up to him. Then, with lightning-quick precision, he lashed out once more.
The backhanded blow his right hand delivered to her cheek thudded dully over the loudspeakers, and this time Ziva could not help letting out a cry of pain as the attack came with enough force to spin her off balance, and sent her tumbling down the bleachers. Without her arms to brace herself, there was nothing to protect her from the jarring collisions with the metal bleachers, and she landed heavily between the second and third row down. This time, she didn't writhe in pain.
Gibbs finally tore his gaze away, unable to bear witness to any more abuse. His calloused hand ran over his eyes, preemptively wiping away the tears that had slowly gathered. Sergei's hand tightened on his shoulder reassuringly in a show of silent support, though Gibbs knew the Russian was just as enraged over the events unfolding in front of them as he was. His chest burned with the effort it took to keep his rage under control.
The tightness had just eased enough for Gibbs to breathe properly when Werth's voice could be heard over the loudspeakers.
"Clean her up," came the terse command. "Take her back to the Tracks."
When the stadium finally erupted into another round of cheers and shouts, Gibbs glanced up at the screen just in time to catch a glimpse of two Bloods roughly dragging Ziva down the riser steps towards the nearest exit. In the split second before the camera returned to focus on Werth, Gibbs saw Ziva's bare legs scrabbling for purchase as she was manhandled down the bleachers, and relief washed over him as he realized she was no longer unconscious.
But then she disappeared from sight as the Bloods began to disperse. Milling legs and boots obscured their view from beneath the stands, and the three Residents crouched down into the shadows, hiding from any passing eyes that might happen to look under the bleachers on their way out.
It seemed to take an eternity for the place to finally fall silent again, but Gibbs barely noticed. He didn't notice when the loudspeakers screeched as they were turned off, or when the Jumbotron was shut down. He didn't notice when the stadium lights were powered off, and they were instantly plunged into darkness.
The shock of the night's discovery finally caught up with him, and he sat heavily on the concrete beneath him as he tried to comprehend everything that had happened. Everything he had learned.
The Bloods sated their thirst for blood and violence through modern-day gladiators, and gruesome tests of endurance and battlefield-intellect.
The man behind the Games, and the Bloods as a whole, was none other than a former acquaintance by the name of Damon Werth.
Ziva wasn't dead. She was alive. She was malnourished, scarred, and abused, but she was alive. And better yet, she still had her fiery spirit. She hadn't given up.
She was alive.
Gibbs glanced up at his friends, who had joined him in sitting on the dirty pavement. He could see the shock on both their faces, with slack jaws and darkened gazes. He looked at both of them for a moment more before resting his head back against a metal support beam, his gaze drifting to the front. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.
"You know what Tracks he was talking about, Tobias?"
"You bet your ass. The East Washington Railway runs near here. They're probably using abandoned rail cars for Shelter."
Gibbs nodded in acknowledgement. He made no move to stand, nor did his companions. Silence reigned for a long moment, and the city around them was deathly still. He sighed heavily, and then steeled himself to voice what needed to be said.
"The mission's changed," he stated dully. His gut twisted at the thought of what that simple declaration meant. But to his surprise, Fornell gave a scoff deep in his throat.
"You think, Jethro?"
"No shit," Sergei rumbled in agreement.
Gibbs gave a mirthless grin. "Yeah," he sighed. "No shit."