Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Thank you to everyone who's fav'd, followed and read so far. Extra thanks to everyone who's left reviews.
I'd like to take a few sentences to address something that was brought up in the reviews. While this is a fun case story that's fan fiction, the subject matter (human trafficking) is very, very real and quite serious. Please take a few moments to educate yourself on the topic and find out how you can help.
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Thursday, October 26, 2006 – 10:42am – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Gibbs hops off the elevator and follows the thumping music all the way to the forensics lab. Chainsaws and thrashing guitars herald his arrival. He finds Abby seated on the floor in the lotus position. Cocking his head to the side, he studies her meditating form. With one hand curled thumb to middle finger in a search for eternity while the other presses firmly against the linoleum to keep her grounded, Abby purses her lips and exhales loudly.
The hints of a smile sneaks onto his face for the first time in days.
Only she could meditate to music that could wake Ducky's dead.
"Abs."
Her body trembles, eyes widening in surprise, as she turns to find Gibbs leaning against the doorframe. Before she can scramble to her feet, he moves forward to pull her up.
"I didn't expect to see you for a while. You usually come down when I've got something," she rambles, eying his empty hands. "Did you guys catch another case? Because I didn't get any evidence yet. McGee would've called me, right? I know he forgot last time and then showed up with a buncha stuff, but my life's easier when I know something's coming."
Gibbs shakes his head, gesturing towards her inner office. Leading the way, she snatches the remote off her bench and increases the volume of her music. Just before the door glides closed, she collects Bert off her stool. She falls into the chair at her desk, stroking the stuffed hippo while her computer boots up. When the thump of a new song shakes the glass windows, Gibbs looks over his shoulder.
"Okay, now that we're all here. What's going on? Any word from Tony?"
"He'll call when he needs to. You get that case file from Baltimore yet?"
"You betcha," she says, pulling a stack of paper out from under a pile of magazines and science journals. "I got the e-mail from the records officer in Baltimore a little while ago and was just about to call you. You know what's surprising, Gibbs? For such a big case, there's almost nothing here. It's just a bunch of monthly status reports from Tony and some guy named Walden. Who's that?"
"His old partner."
"Well, okay, but all they talk about are Carreras' drug running, some bad guys they hung out with, where the cocaine came from and where it was headed. Got a couple mentions of guys that Tony got into WitSec," she relays, passing the print-outs to Gibbs.
Nodding slowly, he flips through the pages. The run-on sentences and consistent misspellings don't surprise him.
At least DiNozzo knows the difference between then and than now.
"So what happened to 'em?" he asks, glancing back to Abby.
"Who?"
"Those guys DiNozzo got into WitSec."
"Oh yeah. Somebody got custody transferred from the Marshals to the FBI. When the case got thrown out, the witnesses had their protection revoked. Five guys in total, two were murdered, two died under mysterious circumstances and one vanished from a safe house, never to be heard from again."
"All hits?"
"Could be. I can't get into the FBI reports to find out."
"Think you can try again?"
"No can do, Bossman." Abby shakes her head emphatically. "I accidentally set off a couple of security programs and I got out just before they could follow my connection back here. If you want me to try again, I'm going to need help. Might be time to ask McGee."
"Whaddya got on Colvin?" he asks, starting through the report again.
Abby's dark-stained lips contort into a wicked smile as she loads a personnel file on the computer monitor. While Gibbs tries to read it over her shoulder, the blobs that should forms words blend together. Squinting at the screen, he pulls his reading glasses out of his pocket.
He debates whether he can use Abby's microscope to read the font.
"What's this?"
"Why, Gibbs, I thought you'd never ask. Veera Colvin, maiden name Jackson, born in…Well, I won't reveal her actual age, but I will say that she looks great!" She shrinks under Gibbs' glare. "Not that that's important…let's see, she's been with the FBI since she graduated from Pepperdine in, well, a long time ago. Started out in the New York branch's security division as an undercover agent. Coming in at the tail end of women's rights, she seemed to be in the right place at the right time and got promoted real quick over and over again. Total girl power stuff – until she had the Carreras case while she was Head of the Office of Law Enforcement Coordination."
"Explains a lot."
"Yeah, she was supposed to provide resources to the Baltimore Metro Police. Seemed like one of her agents convinced her to claim jurisdiction on his case and transfer it to the FBI. Probably wanted to take all the credit for herself. You don't forget things like that. Reminds me of when I was in second grade and Mary-Lou Schlosser stole my idea for our class project on pirates –"
"Anything else?"
"Well, not much. No promotions since the fiasco. It still pops up in her personnel file from time to time. Just counts of agents being sent out to monitor their activities. About six months ago, her step-son, Conner, earned an undercover assignment right out of FLETC. His official status with the agency is 'missing, presumed dead.' Couple of the local papers even ran his obituary," she continues, sending a document to her printer.
Gibbs stares at the accumulating pages. When the personnel image of an attractive young man slides out, he glowers at the stack of paper. Face full of hope and excitement, Conner Colvin never had a chance to take down a cartel alone. Another page slides off the spool, swallowing the young agent.
Gibbs' frown deepens.
"Thanks, Abs."
"Gibbs, wait. I'm not done yet." Before he can even move, Abby latches onto his arm. "I found more about that girl from the Chase case. I finally got to run the bone sample and you'll never guess what it contains. Give up yet?" When Gibbs stares at her stone-faced, she nods excitedly. "The exact same minerals as her teeth! Which means she spent about ten years in the same place before she came here. Now before you say that we already knew that because we did…already know that…I found something really interesting when I examined the dirt on her shoes."
Registering a few clicks with her mouse, she displays a bright yellow, elliptical object with a dimpled surface. Grinning triumphantly at Gibbs, she frames the monitor with her hands like a game show hostess. Brow furrowed, he glances between her expectant face and the blob on the screen.
"What's that?"
Her bottom lip juts out as her bubble bursts. Another click brings up an image of a huge conifer.
"Pollen from Larix sibirica," she replies, jabbing her finger at the image. "The Siberian Larch, native to the tundra of western Russia from the Finnish border to the Yenisei Valley. So she's –"
"Definitely Russian. Good work, Abs, owe you a CafPow." Gibbs kisses her forehead.
"Well, I actually sent the sample to my friend who works in the botany division over at American. Since you're the reason I missed our date the other night and he had to do some research for me…well, I think you might owe him a Caf-Pow too." When Abby grins hopefully, he raises his eyebrows. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he gets it."
He just smirks as he rushes for the elevator.
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11:58am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Hunched over his desk, Tim skims the file on its surface for the third time that morning. With the Dukakis case officially closed thanks to a well-played interrogation and no thanks to him, the team now uses their down-time to review cold cases as they wait for some criminal to break the law. While he usually enjoys the short breaks and the early nights the lull in work brings, Tim doesn't think he'll be getting home before the nightly news began any day this week.
When the words on the page begin to merge, Tim shakes his head, trying to force his exhausted brain to focus. Without thinking, he glances over to Tony's empty desk, almost unwilling to heed Gibbs' advice and accept that Tony isn't here (and won't be for quite some time). His mind wanders to their typical cold case ritual that consists of random quotes from obscure police films no one but Tony has seen, copious amounts of one-sided spitball warfare, and greasy food from one of their favorite restaurants.
Tim sighs when he realizes the only thing more distracting than Tony's presence is his absence.
The quiet clacking of someone's keyboard disrupts Tim's thoughts and he surveys his team. With her lips pulled in a tight line, Ziva actively scribbles notes on a piece of paper, pausing occasionally to check something on her computer. Since Gibbs banished Kenji to the overflow desk after he tried to sit at Tony's, Tim assumes the probationary agent to be working on a case even though he isn't visible. Unable to muster the energy to check on him, Tim stares blankly at the file on his desk, trying to determine how he selected one with absolutely no computer evidence.
Without a lead that takes him into his realm, Tim feels completely useless.
First the Dukakis case, now this. Can't I do anything right?
Starting to reread the information again, he grimaces. With how many times he reviewed this case already, he should know the reports by heart. When he first started it a few days ago, he read and read, figuring he could stop when he reached some grand epiphany.
It never came.
No matter how hard he tries, Tim can't seem to connect the dots to determine the identity of the murderer. Even though the words are emblazoned on his muddled brain and the diagrams that Tony taught him to do litter his desk, he still can't make the connections. He runs his hand over his face, knowing that his fresh eyes and Ivy-league education should be more than enough to close out several years old investigation.
But it doesn't help that I just can't think.
As much as he wants to slide the file back into its box, Tim refuses to accept defeat so quickly. Hopping out of his chair, he cracks his back and decides yet another trip to the vending machine is exactly what he needs to fuel his search. Ziva's expressionless gaze tracks him out of the bullpen. With all of the trips he's made to the staff lounge over the past few days, she no longer bothers to ask where he's headed.
Rummaging through the loose change in his pocket on the way, Tim debates about what he should purchase this time. He doesn't even need to see the inventory to settle on a bag of pretzels. Since the machine's only stocked on Wednesday and he finished off the last Nutter Butters this morning, he figures it's time to try something new.
If I don't close out this case soon, I'm going to go broke.
He jiggles the coins in his hand, pausing just outside the lounge when he hears a tense exhale inside.
"She's coming here now. I got her tied up with security….we don't have much time."
The sentence grabs his interest, and Tim leans against the wall, straining his ears to pick up the conversation. Even though his mother used to chide the bad habit in his childhood, he still he can't break it as he ages. He slides his money back into his pocket.
"What's going on, Tobias?" The sound of Gibbs' voice twists Tim's gut.
"Colvin. " There's more panting "She's on her way, otherwise we'd be doing this in your office. I don't want her to see us together so she doesn't know I told you first. There were complications on DiNozzo's undercover op."
"Whaddya mean 'complications'?"
"He missed his check-ins with Schaller. We haven't been able to reach him."
"So you think he's dead?"
Tim's heart slams against his sternum.
"Dead?" Fornell breathes the word, pausing for several beats. "Good G-d, no, Jethro. His cell still pings in a bunch of locations known to be Angel Caido territory. We just assumed that he couldn't make it to the meets without compromising his cover...until one of Carreras' henchman turned up dead in Chinatown."
There's a looming silence as someone's shoes scuff over the linoleum. Tim doesn't wait to hear the rest of the conversation. Instead, he bolts back to the bullpen. He doesn't even notice how tightly he clenches his teeth. While he launches his internet browser, Ziva's concerned eyes find him.
"You did not get a snack, McGee?"
"Already ate all the good stuff," he replies, fingers slamming against the keyboard as he starts an attack on the FBI database. Even though he knows Colvin will be able to trace the intrusion back to his desktop, he doesn't have the time to be covert. Tim figures that a few years of his future might be an acceptable sacrifice to warn Tony about the coming storm. When Ziva attempts a conversation again, he shakes his head.
"Finish your case."
Once he gains entry to the database, Tim quickly picks his way into the agency's active cases. He accesses the Carreras files, his blood running colder with every word that he skims. From Schaller's reports about Tony's missed contacts to the confirmation of Gibbs' suspicion that Carreras decided to supplement his income with human trafficking, it all makes him nauseous.
Tim finally gets to the latest addition, a copy of Metro's report on the murder of Pedro Morales. Found dead last night in an alleyway, the thug had an impressive number of warrants and an even more impressive number of crimes attributed to him. While death is an occupational hazard for those employed by Enrico Carreras, there usually isn't a multitude of evidence.
The list makes Tim's eyes widen. Forensics would have a field day. Hell, Abby would probably be ecstatic to receive a five-point fingerprint match, several drops of A+ blood and a few hairs in a similar color to the suspect….as long as they didn't belong to one of her friends.
While Tim knows the blood and hairs aren't enough to convict Tony, the finger print on the murder weapon might be. Pressing the heels of his hands against his tired eyes, he glances back to the screen in hopes that the documents have vanished.
When he finds them still there, he rereads the forensic report, feeling his panic rise.
The murder weapon, a serial numberless Beretta 92FS, makes Tim stop dead. He recalls how after the Christmas party Tony mercilessly teased Ziva about her backup Beretta until Tim told him how James Bond used to carry one in the books. Obviously disappointed in his idol, it was months before Tony would even breathe Bond's name in conversation.
To this day, Tim still finds his superior's aversion to Berettas to be irrational.
But when is Tony ever logical?
"That's a chick's gun," Tim murmurs.
"What is that, McGee?" Ziva asks, lifting her gaze from her file.
"I feel like chicken. For lunch. Yeah, I feel like chicken for lunch," Tim lies, feeling his face flush as he pulls Tony's undercover cell number from the report. While Kenji appears over the partition, sharing a confused glance with Ziva, Tim traces the number to a location in Columbia Heights. Jotting down the address on a Post-It, his gaze darts between the two.
"Nobody wants chicken? That's okay, I guess it's falafel again."
While the rest of his team studies him, Tim pulls a few screen shots of the forensics report, quickly setting up a time-delay e-mail to Abby that will send in a few hours. It should give him enough time to find Tony, tell him what happened and get back without Gibbs finding out.
"Thought you were over falafel, Agent McGee?" Kenji asks, cocking his eyebrow at Ziva while Tim shuts down his computer.
"Changed my mind," he says, grabbing his gun and badge. When he sees his cell phone in the drawer, Tim debates about bringing it. With a shake of his head, he closes the drawer.
The last thing I need is for someone to trace me to Tony.
"I shall accompany you," Ziva announces.
"No, that's okay!" Tim exclaims, chuckling nervously at his outburst. "Don't worry about it, Ziva. Stay and work on your case. I think I need a mental break anyway…falafel with extra cucumbers for you?" When she nods, Tim points at the TAD. "No pickles, right Kenj?"
An approaching group, deep in conversation, chases Tim out of the bullpen before Kenji gets a chance to reply. Figuring it's Colvin and her entourage en route for their showdown with Gibbs, Tim decides on the stairs. Just as he's about to enter the stairwell, a muted discussion inside makes him pause against the door.
When he hears the door thud several stories up, Tim shoots down the steps, hurdling through the emergency exit into the bright autumn sunshine. Not even looking over his shoulder for fear of seeing Gibbs, Tim jogs to the bus stop and hops onto the first one headed for Columbia Heights. When it pulls away from the curb, Tim falls into a seat, watching the building vanish outside the window.
Thank G-d, I won't be there when all hell breaks loose.