Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Many thanks to everyone who's taken the time to alert and fav this story. Also, many, many thanks for those who have left reviews. I love seeing what you guys think.
Finally get to see Tony undercover, hope it was worth the wait.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
2:31pm - Los Niños Nuevos – Columbia Heights, Washington, DC –
Hector slips into the backroom to likely discuss Tony's impromptu visit with Carreras, leaving him and the other guard alone in the bar. When Tony slides closer to the door so he can eavesdrop, the man levels a Gibbs-worth death glare that sends him scrambling away. Somehow it hardens as Tony smiles politely.
His act of contrition ignored, Tony paces the length of the bar, watching the patrons sip a mid-afternoon beer. By the time he reaches the restrooms, he realizes that in a matter of minutes he'll be facing the man who nearly ended his career. Sighing quietly, he prepares to launch into one of his random dialogues that caught Carreras' eye at their first meeting.
Tony returns to the guard, mirroring the other man's stance.
"Nice thing you got goin' here, man?"
"What?"
"Is this a nice thing? Workin' muscle for Enrico Carreras? I used to do it back in the day before I got put away." When the guard shoots him a concerned glance, Tony shakes his head. "Got sent upstate for something totally different…though speaking of different, Washington isn't quite like Baltimore. Guess you can get a beer, something for your nose, or - " a woman eyes him on her way to the bathroom and he leers after her, "- a lady whenever you want."
"The cash ain't bad."
Tony pulls his foot off the floor, making a display at the way it sticks.
"Can't find charm like this anywhere else, can ya?"
The guard begins to chuckle, disguising it as a cough when Hector reappears. A head jerk informs Tony that Carreras will meet him. Directly on the other side of the plywood door, there's a short hallway with a flickering overhead light. On either side, they pass by several solid wood doors until they reach one marked with a tiny star by the knob. Two swift knocks followed by a low tap grant them entrance into the new heart of the Angel Caido.
Hector pushes Tony inside, slamming the door shut behind him.
Four men gather around a table in the center of the room, deeply involved in some sort of card game. It takes Tony a second to notice the two guards in either corner that hold large, semi-automatic weapons. When he fidgets with the zipper on his jacket, one of the guns gets aimed at him.
Tony laughs nervously, raising his hands.
When he feels the hair on the back of his neck rise, Tony finally catches the familiar face peering at him over a card hand. Even though he's thinner than at their last encounter in Baltimore, and now clean shaven, Tony would recognize Enrico Carreras anywhere.
Without removing his gaze from Tony's face, Carreras drops a wager into the pot and picks a card from the pile. One of the players throws his hand to the table with an angry grunt.
"Heya, Rico."
"Tony."
Carreras returns his attention to the game while Tony stands by the door, trying to figure out a way to segue into conversation. When the hand ends and a new one is dealt right away, he shifts his weight, accepting that they will speak when Carreras is ready.
In this world, he is the clock.
The minutes pass slowly while the cards flick across the table. After an agitated sigh from one of the players, the man next to Carreras rakes in the pot and another hand starts.
"So what brings you back, Tony?"
"Business." He eyes the full room. "The personal kind."
"And you just thought you'd stroll up and we'd discuss it? Could've handled it years ago."
"Not really, just happened coupla weeks back."
Carreras shrugs, staring intently at his cards for a split second. When his features contort in disgust, he chucks them onto the table, finally granting Tony his undivided attention.
"Let me get this straight, Tony, you disappear and then just show up expecting me to take care of a situation for you? Doesn't work that way. When you bounced, you left a whole lotta shit for me to clean up. I don't owe you anything." When new cards slide towards him, Carreras glances at his guards and jerks his head at Tony. "Shame too, I liked you."
"Don't you remember my ma was sick? Got a call from her hospice nurse that she took a turn for the worst. I had to leave when I did or else I'd never have said goodbye." He holds his breath while Carreras motions his men back to their corners. "I was on my way back when I heard you tried to party with some feds. Didn't feel like dealin' with it, so I headed up to Pittsburgh. Got pinched during a burglary and did a few in Lewisburg."
"How long were you in?"
"Three years. Cops told me I could get out early if I helped them with a case."
"Did you?"
"Told 'em what they wanted to hear. Whether it's true or not, you gotta ask the other guy."
Tony's stomach clenches until Carreras laughs heartily, climbing from his chair. When he pulls himself to his full height, Tony realizes he forgot just how imposing the dealer truly is. As they share a friendly handshake, Carreras' strong grip is nearly bone-crushing. The jagged scar over his left eye makes Tony break eye contact first, his gaze wandering down to settle on the nearly complete skeleton tattoo on the man's thick forearm.
Looks like he's been busy since Baltimore…
"So how you been?" Carreras shoots Tony a gap-toothed grin.
"Decent, aside from my ma and Pennsylvania, you?"
"Great, busy. What do you need?"
"Think it's best between us, Rico."
When Carreras stares at him intently, Tony pulls a copy of the forged bank account out of his pocket. Eyeing the men still in the room, he hands it over. After a quick review of the page, Carreras jerks his head towards the door, banishing them to the hallway.
They stare at each other until there's a dull thud to signal they're alone.
"Where did you get this?" Carreras growls.
"Did a little digging. Heard some rumors while I was inside about how Enrico Carreras was layin' low since the feds were breathin' down his neck. Turns out there was some new guy takin' over Baltimore…I think I heard his name mighta been Masterson." Tony cocks his eyebrows, feeling his heart slam against his sternum.
Carreras crumples the paper up, and reaches for the doorknob.
"Wouldn't do that if I were you, Rico. I got copies, lotsa copies with lotsa friends. I don't make contact and they go to the feds. You think they might want to see that?"
"What do you want? Money?"
"No, no, I'm good. I got tons of money." Tony grins, pointing at the wad in Carreras' hand. "All I want is a job."
"A job?" Carreras' eyes narrow suspiciously.
"Just like the old days."
"And?"
"Well, stay alive. Can't work for ya, if I'm dead." Tony laughs. "Been hard findin' a job since I got parole. My officer was always crashin' my meetings. Since I jumped, I'm real short on real cash. I figured I'd hit you up first…with our history and all."
"We'll discuss things later. Until then get out of my sight."
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
6:12pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Head propped on his hand, Tim stares blankly at Tony's desk, wondering how the undercover mission's going so far. Even though he knew that it would start eventually, he finds that Tony's abruptly disconnected cell phone took him by surprise. He sighs quietly, still unsure what he expected.
Tim wonders when Tony will be returning. His lips pull into a wry smile as he shakes his head. While he still won't admit just how excited he was for the hiatus, Tim did look forward to a few weeks of peace and quiet (and the spitball-free work environment). If the team hadn't caught the Dukakis case early Monday morning, he might've had a chance to actually enjoy the break.
He grimaces at the partially written report on his computer screen, certain that his first case as acting senior field agent should be proceeding differently. But ever since they arrived at the scene, one setback after another prevented him from making any real progress.
Tim should've known this case would be different when he walked into that alley and heard Gibbs' request for his opinion instead of an order. He never realized just how much he didn't see until someone bothered to ask him. While Tony would've traipsed around the scene before announcing his theory, Tim stumbled about, trying to put pieces together without even knowing what they were.
When he saw the tightness in Gibbs' jaw at his indecision, he felt mortified. For the first time in his career, he wished for an order, a task to complete, anything to compensate for the knowledge that he lacked. He'll never forget the look on his boss' face before he received the command to canvas the street for witnesses.
I wonder if I'll ever be anything more than a probie...
No matter how hard Tim works to redeem himself, he just can't seem to shake that sense of failure from that momentary hesitation. He yawns suddenly, trying to remember the last time that he spent a full night in his bed. Even when he does leave before midnight, he still finds himself pouring over evidence reports at his kitchen table, trying to develop new angles. He doesn't even want to think about how many times Gibbs called him in the middle of the night to discuss theories.
All that, and it's still open...
He can't believe that after his hard work Gibbs dropped the solution earlier.
I should've seen it. I should've known.
Shaking his head to clear the self-loathing, Tim turns back to his computer to pull Dukakis' phone records. When the trace compiles the list of recent numbers from their victim's call log, he cross-references each one against the list of Dukakis' co-workers. Once he gets a hit, he'll recheck that person's financials to determine whether they made any large deposits on Monday.
As he combs through his research, Tim realizes just how much he enjoys this aspect of his job. While others consider the careful examination of details mind-numbing, he finds the trail of consistencies that lead to the guilty thrilling. Minutiae that run in lines of code are his calling, more so than trying to manage a team of agents. Whenever Ziva and Kenji look to him for orders, he never knows what to say. He always trips over his words, that unpleasant stutter from his childhood resurfacing.
Every time he sees the look they share, he knows they don't take him seriously.
He barely noticed it in the beginning, nothing more than quick shift of Ziva's eyes to Gibbs before acting. Though as the week progressed, so did the insubordination. He could handle the questioning glances that morphed into shrugs and eye rolls. He could handle being outvoted for meals and the way Ziva or Kenji never really engage him in friendly conversation anymore. But when Tim told them to bring in one of Dukakis' coworkers for an initial interview and his teammates double-checked the order with Gibbs, he felt utterly defeated.
It probably wouldn't bother him quite so much if he didn't feel the same way about himself as everyone else. Tim can't wait until Tony bounds off the elevator, allowing him to withdraw to his junior status, back to his details and minutiae. He just wants to retreat to the part of the team where he doesn't have to have all the answers and it's okay to be wrong sometimes.
His typing echo hollowly as he checks into the bank account of the man Ziva brings in for questioning. Just as the elevator sounds, he finds a sizable deposit on the day of the murder. He doesn't bother to check on his team, figuring they'll herd their suspect to interrogation before bringing the falafels to the bullpen. Although his stomach growls voraciously, he knows he can't even look at another one.
As he reaches after the take-out menu to his favorite place, the craving for General Tso's chicken hits him so suddenly he can almost smell the greasy meat in its delicious sauce.
"Do not bother," Ziva's voice says suddenly.
Head snapping up, he's surprised to find her in front of his desk with a take-out bag.
"Where's Suzuki?"
"In interrogation with Gibbs," she answers, placing the bag of food on his desk. "I did not mean to question you, McGee. It will not happen again."
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
7:03pm – Unknown Location – Washington, DC –
When he feels the decrepit Honda Civic pitch to the right as it rounds a corner, Tony adjusts his count in hopes that he'll be able to find Carreras' hideout later. Underneath the black cotton hood Hector handed him back at his identity's apartment in Columbia Heights, Tony has carefully kept track of their route.
So far, they've made fourteen turns over twenty minutes.
As the car hangs another right, he begins to wonder whether Hector drives in circles to confuse him. When he thinks about how it'll take more than a few extra turns for him to lose the trail, Tony snickers.
"Something funny?" Hector asks.
"Yeah, just thinking about you and that gun of yours," Tony says, shifting in the seat.
The ragged exhale next to him signals the end of the conversation and he's grateful.
I've come too far to get lost now…
After a few more turns, the ride grows steadily rougher. Right before the potholes make him regret his dinner, the vehicle grinds to a halt. Tony rips the hood from his head, leaning down in his seat to study their location. All he can see is a dark cinderblock wall just outside the window and the outline of a dumpster further down the alley.
"Come on," Hector says, waving his arm as he climbs out of the car.
As soon as his boots hit the filthy asphalt, Tony's eyes scan the narrow alleyway that's littered with nothing more than just a few dumpsters. Both sides of the street are flanked by large, nondescript warehouses that stretch towards the cloudless, night sky. A single light bulb illuminates several broken windows beside a door that's spray-painted with what he thinks are gang symbols. Squinting against the darkness, he tries to find the nearest cross-street but the light can't reach that far.
There are no sounds, other than the crunch of Hector's shoes on the ground.
By his count, he should be somewhere in Capitol Hill…but the buildings just aren't right.
Where the hell am I?
"How long you gonna stand there?" Hector asks, pausing by the spray-painted door.
"Well, it's a beautiful night," Tony quips, finally following him inside.
When he sets foot in the main room, he realizes the building's inhabitable interior deceives its dilapidated exterior. Low loft-style lights hanging overhead brighten the huge space with a soft, incandescent glow. In the corner farthest from the entrance, several rough-looking men crowd onto leather couches surrounding a big-screen television.
Even from where he stands, Tony can see the football player throw a great pass. He lets out a whistle.
"You guys get the Discovery Channel?" Hector rolls his eyes, leading Tony towards a set of steps on the opposite side of the room. "What? My cable's not set-up yet, man. That repeat of Shark Week should be on soon. Did you watch it this year? I hear they had a show on with the filmmakers in a cage while they tried to catch some Great Whites. Could you imagine what that would be like?"
"Nah, man, don't like sharks."
"Shame, they're real impressive creatures." Tony stops with Hector at the base of the stairs. "Say, did you ever – "
Before he can finish his newest thought, the door at the top of the stairs opens. When Carreras emerges, he nods at Hector then sets his sight on Tony. With a puff of relief, Hector sprints towards the sports game.
"That'll rot your brain!" Tony calls, glancing up in time to catch Carreras descending the steps.
"Been telling them that for years. Think anyone ever listens?" he says, gesturing for Tony to follow him through a door that leads out of the main room. When they pass through a large, unused space, Tony can hear the delicate plink of dripping water somewhere nearby. Cold air leaks through one of the shattered windows, and he hugs his coat tighter.
Heading through another door, Carreras leads Tony down a dark hallway that seems like it stretches on forever. The exposed light bulbs overhead emit barely enough light to see the dark metal doors that line the passage. They move quickly until Carreras stops at what appears to be an office.
Trailing Carreras into the tiny, windowless room, Tony wonders whether he's older than the furniture.
So this is where the magic happens.
"Nice digs," he says, appraising a tan, plaid couch in the corner.
Carreras snorts, sliding into a chair behind a plywood desk. "Needed a quiet place to talk business, Tony."
"Good. You freaked me a bit with the hood."
"It was necessary. I need to know you're still okay."
"Whaddya mean?"
"Had a bit of pest problem a couple months back, so I'm more careful these days."
"Pest problem? Like roaches? I know a guy who knows a guy who's got some stuff that could take out the whole colony."
"Worse than roaches. Feds. Some young kid showed up, looking for a job. Happens pretty often, but I didn't get a good feeling about him. Had some of the guys ask him a couple of questions and he turned out to be a freaking undercover fed. Almost had to scrape this whole operation…"
Tony swallows hard, turning his back to Carreras so he can examine a faded painting of a forest that takes up most of one of the walls.
"Undercover fed, huh? You don't say. So what happened to him?"
"Sent the whole lot a message." Carreras grins, pointing to the skeleton his left forearm.
Bet that was Colvin's stepson.
"Think they learned?" Tony asks while Carreras motions to an open chair.
"Guess we'll see." He shrugs. "But tell me, Tony, how was upstate Pennsylvania?"
A suspicious glint passes through Carreras eyes as Tony moves towards the seat.
"Lewisburg was fan-freakin'-tastic. Not sure what those decorators were doin' with the orange walls. Guess they were tryin' to liven the place up a bit. If the light was just right, the guard would lose ya against the paint."
Carreras nods. "I think it might be time to talk terms."
"What're you thinkin'?"
"First, tell me who has a copy of that document."
"Can't do that, Rico. I need to protect my friends. People don't hold onto stuff like that if they know you're plannin' on rattin' 'em out the first chance ya get."
"Fine, then just tell me how many copies there are."
"Four." Carreras pinches the bridge of his nose before he runs his hand over his face. Just as he's about to speak, Tony changes the subject. "So what have I been up to lately? Am I into cocaine too?"
Carreras shakes his head. "You really want to see what you've been up to?"
The chair t sighs almost with relief as his massive weight lifts. Without another word, he leads Tony back into the hallway, tracing a circuitous route through the hallways until they reach a metal door. With its two deadbolts and reinforced hinges, Tony suddenly realizes that it's not meant to keep something out.
"What are you into, Rico?" Tony asks, trying to swallow the nausea that rises in his throat.
"You mean, what are you into?"
Before Tony can respond, Carreras unclicks the locks to push the door open. It takes Tony's eyes quite some time to adjust to the low glow of the lanterns on the floor. The first thing he sees are the piles of sleeping bags, dotted with paper cups and food wrappers, strewn haphazardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a flash of movement.
He follows it to find a terrified blonde staring back at him. His heart skips a beat.
Gibbs is right.
Surprise, surprise, Gibbs is always right…
When Carreras pushes the door open further, allowing the light to trespass into the deeper recesses of the room, Tony counts eight girls that slide into the shadows. While three of them huddle together in a corner, a stick-thin blonde with matted hair squares her shoulders at him and Carreras.
He blinks, hoping they won't be there when his eyes open again.
Untraceable. Easy to control. Little upkeep.
Just like the one in the morgue, these girls are ghosts.
Barely managing a grin that hides his disgust, Tony glances to Carreras.
"This, Tony?" He smiles wickedly. "This is all on you. It's good to have you back."