A/N: FINALLY! I did it! It works! And thank the gods and all that is holy, it is now also posted! And it's a decent sized installment too, so hopefully it sates y'alls appetite for death and destruction. But hey, if it's not, rest assured, there's plenty more on the way. How, you ask? Well, keep reading and find out!

Thanks for remaining (kinda) patient with me and my disappearing muse!

Enjoy!

Four days later they are yanked roughly from their deep sleep when the sound of the front door slamming open echoes like a gunshot through the house. Ziva's awake in less than a second, but Jethro is wrapped around her and he is slower to react, his instincts tempered by years of quiet.

He doesn't have a chance to get out of the room before the first Blood swings a pipe into his midsection. Ziva watches him fall, his body thudding heavily to the pitted hardwood before she becomes the next target. A second Blood screams into the room, stepping on Jethro as he did so, and grabbed a handful of her hair in his fist.

The tattooed face becomes a mask of surprised pain when she sinks the knife she keeps under her pillow into his gut. Old habits die hard, and the warm blood that spills over her hands carries a scent that is all too familiar. Heightened senses hear the startled fearful scream from Tali's room down the hall, a sound she never in her life wanted to hear.

But another Blood is on her, tearing her weapon away before she can do anything at all, and then she is being dragged from the bed. The first Blood already has backup helping him wrestle Jethro down the stairs, and she follows, dragged unceremoniously down the stairs, her legs scrabbling uselessly for strength that wasn't there.

Above her, another Blood has an arm around Tali, hefting her over his hip like she was no more than a sack flour. Terrified blue eyes are filled with tears, and stare at her in fear and bewilderment at the violence. She's never felt it before, this fear. Ziva knows—it's right there in those wide blue eyes.

They are all dragged into the front yard of the House, and to her surprise it is not burning. In fact, it is silent except for the sound of her own grunts of pain. But as soon as they emerge the dozens of Bloods that are gathered the Courtyard seem to explode into motion, cued by some silent signal to dash wildly into the houses, weapons swinging haphazardly.

Ziva is forced to her knees, her arms twisted painfully behind her back while a knee between her shoulder blades presses her down until her forehead brushes the grass. Jethro is lined up beside her, and the Blood holding Tali stands off to the side—Ziva tracks the sound of his boots squelching in the muddy ground.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees the families being torn out of the closest houses—no visible injury among them. It is such a stark contrast to what she expected that she knows this time, it is not a nightmare.

It was reality, and she would not be waking up.

The Bloods she can see are restless, edgy, quivering with suppressed bloodlust. They want to kill, but something is staying their hand—and it is their hesitation that both gives her hope and fills her gut with dread.

Only one person on Earth had that kind of power over them.

The frightened cries of the Residents fall dead silent just as familiar bloodstained boots come into Ziva's line of vision.

Damon.

The boots pause in front of her. She braces herself for a kick to the head or a knife to the shoulder, but to her surprise they remain firmly planted on the ground until they pace to where Jethro knelt beside her.

A dirty, unwashed hand reaches out and gripped Jethro by the jaw, forcing his head up at an unnatural angle. But the Voice doesn't show his pain, if he felt any.

"Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

Damon's gruff voice held a hint of amusement.

"Son of a bitch," he remarked. "Id've thought an old man like you would be long dead by now." Ziva hears that constant, superior smirk in his voice, though she can't see it. "But then again, I shouldn't be all that surprised, right? Takes more than the end of the world as we know it to kill a Marine… Adapt and overcome. Isn't that what they used to say?"

Damon stood then, and for a moment Ziva thought he was about to return his attention to her. But in a flash, a boot lashed out and caught Jethro in the side of the head, sending him reeling. Tali cried out in fear and shock, but Ziva remained silent, knowing the show of violence was punishment for her as much as it was for her husband.

It was then that the boots came back to her, and leather-clad knees knelt in her line of vision.

Calloused fingers caress her cheek, and an involuntary shudder courses through her frame. In an instant, the gentility is gone, and a knife is at her throat before she can blink. Some Residents gasp in fear for her, but she does not flinch, does not blink.

She knows this game. The tension she'd been trying to shake since the Rescue is now once again at home in her bones, serving its purpose. She hates that this has become normal, that it actually eases some of the twisted knots in her gut. But she's always appreciated a threat she can see and fight, so she really shouldn't be surprised.

She waits, wanting to strike, but she is painfully aware of Tali's muffled sobs above her. She doesn't know what to do—she's confused, because no one is dead yet. And Damon is now coiled tight as a bow, and the wrong move will set him off, unleashing the full power of the Black Blood Gang on the now-corralled Residents.

"Did you know that I almost lost fifty men going after the jokers up north?" he growled low in her ear. "I actually thought they had the stones to steal what was mine." The steel of the knife pressed sharply into her skin, and she felt the sting that meant first blood had been drawn. "But then I remembered… You know you sometimes murmur his name in your sleep?"

No. She didn't know. She'd hoped to never give him any idea that Jethro still lived. But it explains how she was found so quickly—he'd known exactly what to look for.

"I tracked you to that dump that used to be NCIS—had my boys check the morgue, and found the blood. But no body, so I figured a tough cunt like you would've survived my little gift…" He smirks, and the knife presses just a little deeper. "Then, I tracked you here. Nice setup. Too bad I have to kill everything in sight."

More cries of fear rippled through the gathered Residents at his declaration. Jethro has recovered, and he tries to shove of the Blood holding him down, to no avail. "Bastard!" he growls, low in his throat.

Ziva feels Damon pause and turn, and she can imagine the amused smirk she knows so well.

"Yeah, I guess I am," he responds unconcerned. But then the aloofness disappeared as his voice suddenly became darker, more dangerous, as if a flip had been switched. "But you're the weasel that creeps around in the dark to steal what belongs to gods."

Ziva steels herself, fighting back a flinch at his words.

He'd never referred to himself as a god before. He'd often acted like one, and the Bloods obeyed his every whim as if he were, but never had anyone said it aloud. Dread settled deep in Ziva's gut—it was just one more sign that the man who was once the pride and joy of the Marine Corps had lost his mind, and one more stretch of treacherous water she would have to navigate to somehow keep the Sanctuary intact.

It wasn't burning yet—it was the only reason she still had that small flicker of hope that the Residents could be saved. She herself would not be included in that number, but it didn't matter. She'd long ago accepted that she would never be free again, and she was okay with that as long as Tali remained safe.

The knife disappears suddenly, and she hears him move swiftly to his feet. She knows what's coming next.

"Burn it—"

"DAMON!"

Ziva's voice cuts through the night like a razor, and she doesn't stop to wonder where its strength came from. Unease flutters through the crowd, both Resident and Blood alike, as Damon's boots freeze on the grass. Slowly, menacingly, he finally deigns to turn to glare at the one who dared interrupt him.

She looks to Jethro, her plan already forming, and she knows that he can see it in her eyes. He's not happy, but there is a measure of understanding—it had always been about the greater good. But he's looking for a promise, one she cannot give.

Not this time.

There's no coming back this time.

Damon must have motioned to the ones holding her down, because suddenly she is released, and shakily pushes herself up until she is sitting on her feet, still kneeling. She lifts her head, unwaveringly looking Damon in the eye.

She will not show weakness; to do so would spell the end of them all, even her. Fearlessness had saved her thus far, and she hopes it will be enough to save them all.

"These people are not a threat to you," she informs him firmly. "No challenge. There's no point in killing them."

He smirks at her. "We don't need a point," he proclaims, almost proudly.

"A deal, then."

She thinks that this must be what Tony always meant by a Hail Mary.

And now she has the full attention of the entire Black Blood Gang. It's different though, this time. Before, they focused on her to see blood and lust—now they are listening. And Damon is threatened, she sees it in his eyes. He's walking a precipice, one that decides the fate of everyone present.

"This pit of mud and piss has nothing to offer," he snarls, leaning in close until their noses are nearly touching. "Absolutely nothing I want."

"You want me."

Her voice is soft, but not with fear. She holds his gaze, watching it as it shifts from a glare to… something else.

"Give me your word that you'll leave these people be, and that you'll leave the town intact, and I will come with you willingly."

She has his attention now, if she hadn't before, and she hopes she knows him as well as she thinks she does.

"I could take you anyway," he tells her. "Tie you up and drag you behind us all the way back to the City…"

"Where I will end my own life the first chance I get," she finishes for him. She can tell he doesn't quite believe her. "You think I couldn't have strangled myself on that damn collar a thousand times over?" she whispers forcefully. "I could and I will, if you kill them."

He glares at her. "You don't have the balls," he declares.

"The only reason I haven't yet is because I promised him I wouldn't." Her head nods slightly in Jethro's direction, but Damon doesn't even glance at the pinned agent. "And now I'm promising you."

A familiar spark ignites in his dark eyes, alerting her to his genuine interest.

Control.

It's all about control. He thrives on it, needs it. And she was offering him the control of her very life. He's had that control for years, but never so bluntly, and never on her own terms. It's another level of control that has him slavering at the very thought.

"Think about it, Damon." Her voice lowers to a sultry pitch. "You think he is a threat to you? Because I chose him?" She nods towards Jethro again, and this time she feels another piece of her soul die as she offers up a prayer that one day, her husband might forgive her.

"You slashed my ankles, Damon. I couldn't have gone anywhere under my own power if I wanted to. He stole me from you. Hit you from behind like a coward and stole an ungrateful whore from your bed. But I'm willing to return to you without a fight. They'll say I know my place," she whispers. "I know who my master is. That's what they'll see, and that's what they'll whisper amongst themselves in the dark."

He regards her for a long moment, and she never once lets her gaze waver. She feels Jethro's eyes but ignores him. She can't face the disgust she knows will be in his eyes, or worse the silent pleas for her to not make the same sacrifice that had gotten them into this situation in the first place.

"Things will return to the way they were before. I'll fight, and I will hate you with every fiber of my being," she promises. It's a reassurance, to both of them—she's always known he gets off on the fact that every moment of the past two years has been against her will. He likes the challenge. "And I'll keep breathing. Surviving."

Just like before.

"Give me your word, Damon," she urges. "Your word as a Marine."

The sacred word jolts him, it seems. Some might not have thought Damon held his heritage in any sort of esteem, but Ziva knew better. He was bitter, yes, with the way that the system had squeezed him out from the Corps. But the way he held onto the lingo, and continued to hold himself the exact same way he had that day she'd seen him in his dress blues…

He would never admit aloud, but the word of a Marine still meant something, even in his warped and fractured mind.

It had to.

For a long, tenuous moment, Ziva didn't move. She didn't breathe, didn't blink, as Damon considered the offer. It was the moment of truth, when he decided on the fate of nearly a hundred people.

His response was subtle. A shifting in the set of his jaw, and a slightly different glint in his eye. A little less dangerous, a little more smug. Superior always. But he's accepted her terms, and that's all she cares about.

But when he stands and moves to the center of the impromptu Gathering, she realizes that he has terms of his own. Her surrender must be public, or it would mean nothing at all. And she would play along, unless she wanted to watch her nightmare come alive.

He turned back on his heel to face her, his features hard as stone.

"Come here."

The words are benign, but his tone wasn't, and the Bloods respond to the new development like dogs that had caught the scent of fresh meat. They all press closer, but maintain the line, not daring to cross the man who now held all of the cards.

It's only then that Ziva realizes her crutches were still upstairs, leaning uselessly against the bedroom wall. She is on her own, in more ways than one.

She plants her hands on the ground and somehow manages to get her feet under her. Standing is another feat entirely, though, and her shaky attempt to do so wrenches something in her right ankle. The unexpected pain sends her staggering into the Blood that had hauled her down the stairs.

True to form, he pushes her away, and she stumbles, but she regains her balance long enough to take three shuffling, hesitant steps to where Damon was waiting.

She doesn't want to show weakness, and she certainly doesn't want to supplicate, but on the fourth step her barefoot settles on a sharp rock, and her already tender right ankle rolls. Something tears in her leg, but the pain is eclipsed by the knowledge that she is suddenly sprawled on the ground in front of Damon.

Her arms are the only thing keeping her from being flat on her face, but it isn't enough. Damon looms over her, a smirk on his lips.

"Talk about your proper place," he says, loud enough for the entire Sanctuary to hear.

Ziva takes a deep breath, pulling her mask into place. She glares but says nothing. He reaches down, perhaps to grab her hair and pull her to her feet, but instincts take over and she knocks it away with a vicious swipe of her arm.

His smirk freezes, and turns ice cold in the blink of an eye.

But the blow she expects doesn't come. Instead, he drops something light on the ground in front of her.

"Put it on," he orders.

Looking down, her chest tightens when she sees what he's dropped. It's a collar.

Not the one she'd worn for almost two years. It's a simple leather strap, with a dull silver buckle, but the sequence of little dog bones stamped along its length hits her like a kick in the gut. He's planned for this, she realizes—not her offer, but he'd planned on collaring her anyway. And he's made certain it would be as humiliating as possible.

But she swallows her indignation, and lifts the worn leather with trembling fingers. A sob catches in her throat, but she swallows that too. No weakness, she scolds herself. But her mind saw Abby's tear-filled eyes, that day she'd had the first true wash in years, when the scientist had seen the damage her metal leash had done to her neck.

Ziva was glad her friend had never gotten the chance to see the damage that had been done on the inside.

She tries not to hear Jethro's muted efforts to get free, tried not to imagine the thoughts that are going through Tony's, Sergei's minds. Tries not to think of the terror and confusion in young blue eyes. She focuses instead on the task at hand, and Damon watches with sharp eyes until the collar is snug around her neck.

She is so deep in her humiliation that she doesn't see his hand snake down again until he held a huge hank of hair in his fist. He hauls her up, pulling her even with him, and then moves in to claim her lips with his own.

But in his rush to mark his territory, he leaves his neck exposed. Her fingers dart up without conscious effort, and jab the vulnerable pressure point on the side of his thick neck.

He reacts instantly, throwing her from him with enough force to rattle her teeth when her back impacts with the ground. But whatever pain she's caused him doesn't shake him long, because a moment later he is on her, one hand around her throat, the other working his fly.

Reality settles over her like a dark, suffocating blanket, and she accepts it.

But she doesn't want her family to see this.

She ignores the fingers constricting her air supply, and firmly wraps both hands around the wrist at his groin.

"Please." Her voice is a whisper, and not just because of the arm at her throat.

His eyes narrow, and she knows that she is treading a dangerously thin line. Her eyes track to Jethro, and to where Tali is staring with wide eyes.

"My daughter is watching," she confesses softly. It's a risk, she knows, but the idea of her family watching her debasement makes her desperate. "Damon… please."

Her pride is nonexistent, and looking into his eyes, she thinks he knows. And then, she sees the rage fade, and his lust disappears suddenly, as though her words were a cold shower. The aggression remains, though, and before she could even wonder what it must mean, his fist is slamming into her face.

Her vision goes dark before her skull cracks into the hard ground.

Jethro sees Damon go down on top of Ziva, and his efforts to escape double, his mind flashing with images of a dirty football stadium and a battered Ziva. But his captors don't give him an inch, and he is forced to watch as Ziva remains perfectly calm, and her hands still Damon's with an almost gentle touch.

He knows she's never done it before, if the Blood's reaction is any indication. He's tense, but not quite wary, and waits for Ziva to whisper something. Jethro can't hear what's said, but both their eyes track towards where he's being restrained. Then the Blood looks back to Ziva, and doesn't move for a long, indeterminable moment.

But then Jethro blinks and the next thing he sees is Ziva's body going limp, blood trailing from her nose that is more than likely broken. Because though he didn't see it, he'd heard the crunch of bone and the near-overlapping snap of her head hitting the ground.

Damon flips her over with ease, and a moment later her wrists are bound behind her back with a ziptie he pulls from his pocket. Then, with mechanical efficiency, he hefts her up, and loads her over a shoulder. He turns, and surveys his men.

The entire Sanctuary waits with bated breath, waiting for his decision.

"Move out."

The command is blunt and definite, and a rustle of surprise travels through the gathered Bloods. Jethro recognizes their displeasure. They've come for death, and weren't used to leaving a slaughter unsatisfied.

The crowd hesitates, neither moving to follow Damon nor to give in to their bloodlust.

But then there's a flash of movement, and a Blood dashes towards a group of Residents, and Jethro sees the bastard's eyes are zeroed in on Abby.

She screams in fear, and Tim moves to intercept, his knowledge of his own forfeited life dark in his eyes.

But before contact is made a shot rings out across the courtyard. The Blood drops like a stone, his skull little more than a popped melon.

All eyes fly to the source of the gunshot, and cold dark eyes regard them all with the same icy glare.

"I said move out," Damon growls, his gun hand still outstretched towards the errant gang member, the barrel of the handgun still smoking.

It's only when the Bloods carefully start to move towards the treeline that the gun lowers. Jethro is released, and Tali is roughly shoved into his arms. She immediately starts to cry, burying her face into his shoulder as her arms take up a strangling hold around his neck.

He looks up from comforting his daughter to see Damon regard him for a long, cool moment before turning away, something dark and unfathomable in his gaze. And then all Jethro can see is the Bloods' retreating backs and Ziva's limp form disappearing into the shadows of the night.

His chest is tight with fear, despair, and the sinking sensation that this glimpse of her slight frame will be the last time he will ever see her.

The Residents are left staring in shock, not quite comprehending what has just happened. The Sanctuary is still standing, and they are all alive. But their Shadow is gone once more, and they don't know what to do next.

The Council silently draws closer, seeking the guidance they've relied on for years. For long, tearful moments, none is forthcoming, and he knows they wonder if they didn't lose him with Ziva. And honestly, he wonders too.

But the child in his arms grounds him, and he turns to Sergei with a direct gaze.

"Set up a perimeter around the Sanctuary. Stay within the treeline. Wait until dawn, then get a party together to collect the bodies of the sentries." The seven Residents on guard duty tonight had to have been killed he realizes almost belatedly. It's the only way the Bloods would have been able to sneak up on them so completely.

Sergei nods, and wordlessly moves off to complete his assigned task. He looks to the other Councilmembers, and knows they need more than he can give right now. So instead he turns to the rest of the Residents, who are still standing where the Bloods had left them.

They too, are looking to him for answers.

"Everyone needs to go to their homes and remain indoors until further notice. Keep quiet, and try to stay as calm as possible." His voice is calm and collected, and he hates himself for it.

Thankfully, the Residents seem relieved for even such simple instructions, and they all move back into their respective homes. Doors close behind them, one by one, until only Sergei's party and the Council are left.

Jethro looks at them, his team, and sees the same despair in their eyes that threatens to swallow him whole.

"Gibbs…" Abby's voice is quiet, tremulous, and heartbroken. "Please, tell me that didn't just happen."

He swallows painfully. "It happened, Abby." His voice is gravelly to his own ears, and thick with tears he refuses to let Tali see.

"No," Tony disagrees. "No. Not again. We can't let her do this—"

"She made her decision, DiNozzo."

"You can't tell me you're okay with it—!"

"No, I'm not." Jethro keeps his voice calm, in a vain attempt to ease Tali's sobs. "But you can't tell me you wouldn't have done the exact same thing in her place, Tony."

It's always been about the greater good. They all know it, and they all know that the way of life that the Sanctuary and its Residents are trying to preserve is worth the life of one person, or even a dozen.

The humanity the Bloods had lost—that was their burden, their treasure.

"She's Survived two years," McGee reminds them. "She never stopped fighting. She might escape them on her own."

But she won't. Jethro knows in his gut that she won't. He'd wanted her to promise him that she'd come back to him. She wasn't able to. Not this time. It was an unspoken condition of her agreement with Damon—the continued safety of the Sanctuary in return for her continued presence in the City. The Sanctuary was only safe so long as she remained in Damon's clutches.

And she'd accepted it, just as she had two years ago.

But this time, things were different. This time, Jethro knows exactly where she was. This time, he knows what kind of numbers they're up against, and the rough layout of how the City has been restructured.

This time, he can make a difference.

"What're we gonna do, Gibbs?" Abby's plaintive inquiry comes in shaky tones, and she almost seems startled by the clarity in his eyes when he meets her gaze squarely.

"We're gonna get her back," he tells her firmly, his hand rubbing soft circles on Tali's back. The little girl is mumbling into his neck now, exhausted from the traumatic night, but he hears words that sound heartbreakingly like Mommy.

"Jethro…" It's Ducky that speaks up this time, playing the devil's advocate. "If you do manage to liberate her once more, we will only find ourselves in the same situation once again. And next time, Ziva may not be able to save the rest of us."

"That," he answers firmly, "is why we're going to take out the Black Blood Gang while we're at it."

They stare at him in stunned silence.

"Boss," McGee says, his words more hesitant than they've been in years. "How exactly do you think we're going to do that?"

Jethro grins mirthlessly, his heart hauntingly devoid of emotion. When he answers, his voice is hard as stone.

"We're gonna kill 'em all."