Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Thanks to everyone who's favorited and followed so far. Also, many thanks to those of you who have left reviews.
Hope you guys enjoy the newest chapter.
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1:04pm – Somewhere in Columbia Heights - Washington, DC –
Too busy confirming his current location on the street sign outside the bus window, Tim doesn't bother to check the foot traffic until he hits the sidewalk. When he notices a group of thugs heading towards him, he tries to retreat, but his back collides with the already closed doors. When the bus lurches away from the curb, Tim sucks in a deep breath, watching the rough-looking group of young men approach him. With his suit and trench coat, Tim knows he looks like an easy target for a robbery.
His muscles tense as he readies to reach for his Sig.
The crowd swaggers past Tim, far too engrossed in their conversation to even notice him.
He lets out a quiet sigh, taking a few seconds to survey his surroundings. Dilapidated buildings with boarded-up and shattered windows line the trash-ridden street. He stares at a vacant storefront, trying to translate the Spanish graffiti spray-painted across the grimy glass. It might say something about avoiding a local gang's turf…or the best place to buy bananas.
Maybe I shouldn't have switched my language class from Spanish to German after freshman year…
Squinting against the vibrant afternoon sun, Tim tries to decide which direction to take to find the address that's scrawled on the Post-It in his pocket. When he sees another group of men approaching, Tim moves down the filthy sidewalk, surprised by just how rundown this section of the neighborhood is. Even though he's been in Columbia Heights on a few cases, he can't believe how different this part seems from the areas that he's seen from the backseat of a federally-issued sedan.
By the time he finds Tony's approximate location, the frigid air leaves Tim drawing his trench coat tighter. He stares at the few buildings on the way to the end of the block. Most are vacant with visibly empty interiors, the layers of grime and dust so thick that Tim wonders just how long they've lain abandoned. The only two places still open for business are a seedy liquor store with a window so filthy that Tim can't see inside and an unassuming taqueria that has its door ajar, releasing the smell of authentic Mexican food onto the sidewalk.
Tim inhales deeply, figuring he might as well start with the more inviting of the pair.
I can always get a snack if Tony isn't here.
Tim reads the hand-painted sign above the door, assuming that the graphic of the globe and the Spanish words mean that Don Julio's tacos actually are world famous. He studies the few patrons that mill around the restaurant. His heart sinks when he doesn't see Tony.
Just as he's about to head inside, a hand suddenly grabs his upper arm. Tim stiffens when a soft body presses into his. The stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes hit him long before he sees the scantily clad woman latched onto him. Her sunken eyes and the deep lines on her face make her appear older than she probably is. When she shoots him a toothless grin and reaches for his pants, his cheeks blaze.
"Heya, cutie…I'm Gretchen. See anything you like?" she says, leaning forward to display her cleavage.
"Not really..." Tim falters, closing his eyes for a second. "Um, uh…I mean, no thank you?"
Gretchen explodes with several imaginative curses that he's never heard in his life. Before he can wretch from her grasp, she shoves him roughly forward, the momentum carrying him through the front door of the taqueria. When he finally regains his composure, Tim grins awkwardly at the man behind the counter. Rolling his eyes dramatically, the cook turns back to his task while Tim surveys the restaurant's close quarters. The few customers that he saw through the front window have taken up residence in one of the booths by the door. In the lone-standing table towards the rear, Tim notices the back of Tony's head across from a thick-faced Hispanic man in a tan leather coat.
Tim instantly recognizes Enrico Carreras from his research.
When the man glances towards him, their eyes meet and the agent's blood runs cold.
Maybe Tony was right when he said Carreras doesn't have a soul.
Tim visibly flinches, flicking his gaze to the menu. His stomach growls at the list of choices on the hand painted sign overhead. Deciding to grab lunch until he can approach Tony, Tim chooses a lengua taco at random. Just as he starts to order, the man behind the counter ducks away.
"Hey, I'm ready," Tim says, stepping forward to see where the cook disappeared to.
Something solid presses into his back, pushing him against the divider. Heart slamming in his chest, he glances back to the booth to see Carreras jerk his head towards the back of the restaurant.
"Move. No sound," a man's voice behind him says.
Tim nods slowly, and a hand grips his arm, directing him behind the counter and through the massive kitchen. The smell of spices and greasy meat cooking in the large pots that lay abandoned on a commercial stove turns Tim's stomach. His eyes dart over empty food stations and piles of tortillas as he tries to figure out an escape plan. When they pass by an open door that leads to an alley, the hold on his arm tightens. The next moment, Tim is yanked into a small office.
He's shoved face first against the wall with what he figures is a gun in his back, and his Sig vanishes from his hip, holster and all. A hand picks through his pockets, removing his wallet and badge. After a more thorough search, Tim loses his handcuffs and the tiny knife that he carries on his right ankle. Once there's nothing left, he's pushed towards a corner on the far side of the room.
When the man gestures for him to sit on the floor, Tim complies, feeling the rough drywall slide against his back. His eyes jump from his knees to a faded, yellow print of a Picasso painting on the wall to the gym logo on the front of the man's shirt…to the gun. His breath hitches as the man perches, half-standing, on a small desk in the center of the room. With his weapon pointed at Tim, the thug uses his free hand to push through the agent's possessions on the desktop.
"So why are you here?" he asks casually.
"Lunch," Tim explains, continuing when the man holds up the badge. "Federal agents eat too. I happen to like tacos."
Snorting, the thug starts to dig through Tim's wallet. The little cash inside slides into his pocket.
"So you're just here for lunch?"
"Yeah, I was out on an interview, got hungry and decided to pick up lunch before I head back to the office. The person I talked to said that this place was great."
When the man's round face turns thoughtful as he rechecks the objects on the table, Tim can't believe he managed to remember rule seven : always be specific when you lie. With a little luck and Gibbs' teachings, he might just be back at NCIS before anyone even knows that he slipped out.
The door flies open, resounding with a dull thud.
Carreras storms into the room, his expression murderous. Grimacing, Tim sags against the wall.
I'm so dead.
"Who the hell is he, Hector? A cop?"
"Nah, a fed."
"If I get one more of these G-damned FBI agents - "
"Actually, this guy's from NCIS," Hector announces, holding out Tim's badge.
"NCIS? What the hell is that?"
Carreras rips the badge from Hector's hands, confusion settling on his sharp features as he studies it. Staring intently at his knees, Tim decides now isn't the time to ask why no one has ever heard of them.
"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," Hector supplies.
Carreras laughs heartily, shaking his head. "I guess the FBI had to find some no-name agency to do their bitch work."
"I'm just here for lunch," Tim speaks up.
"If that's true, then you're in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hector, get rid of him and make sure no one finds the body."
When Carreras turns to leave, Tim presses his lips together, eyes finding his Sig on the table. Two armed men separate him from safety. He debates about how to get to his gun, not quite realizing that it would be a suicide mission.
Before he can even think about moving, the door opens to frame a familiar face. With the bruises on his cheeks and unkempt hair, Tony is barely recognizable.
"You know, Rico, you really shoulda tried the - " Tony stops short when he notices Tim in the corner. "What's this all about? You guys havin' a party and forget to invite me? That's so not cool."
"This business doesn't concern you. Get out."
Tony slips into the room anyway, pointing emphatically at Tim. "That a cop? He's got one of those faces. If he is one, then it is my business. What the hell's he doin' here? You said no cops, Rico."
"And there aren't any," Carreras growls.
"That's because he's a fed," Hector corrects.
"Because a freaking fed is so much better. What the hell goes through your head man?" Tony asks.
"Enough." Carreras gives a lengthy pause that allows Tony to steal a glance at Tim's terrified face. "Hector was just about to get rid of him. Tony, you'll go by later to check the body. Make sure it's done." When Tony shakes his head, Carreras turns, eyes narrowed. "You want to join him?"
"Not really." Tony smirks, slowly moving between Carreras and Tim. "I just think you might want to wait a little bit before you dump him. If he turns up dead right away, these guys'll come knockin' on your door. Only way to make sure that no one finds the body is to keep it for a while. Shouldn't we find out what his agency knows before you waste him?"
As Carreras' brow furrows in thought, Tim hugs his knees to his chest.
"Bring him," he finally orders.
"Uh, what?" Hector asks, studying the way Tim's knife glints under the fluorescent lights.
"Get him in the car," Carreras hisses dangerously on his way out.
Tony looks back at the junior agent, disappointment on his face, and turns his attention back to Hector before Tim can mouth his apology. Tim's muscles tense, readying to follow Tony's lead.
"He alone?" Tony asks.
"Yeah, said he came for lunch. Didn't have no keys and no phone," Hector replies, pocketing Tim's knife as he picks up the handcuffs.
Over Hector's shoulder, Tim watches Tony shoot him an angry look. Even though he waits for the order to fight, he knows it isn't coming. If Tony's cover is blown, they're both as good as dead. With a broken sigh, Tim climbs onto his shaking legs. His gaze drops to the floor as he lets Hector secure his hands behind his back. A rough shove hurdles him back into the kitchen. While he tries to regain his footing, another push propels him through the rear door and into the alley.
Tim squints against the bright afternoon sun, unable to see the cross street around the dumpster and black Chevrolet Tahoe. Hector's tight grip on his shoulder forces Tim into the backseat of the SUV. He lands face first on the cool leather seat, not getting a chance to fight back before Hector pulls a rough piece of fabric over his eyes. Rolled onto the floor, he lets out a yelp when his face is ground against the scratchy carpet.
When the door slams against his legs, Tim can hardly believe they left him alone.
Using his chest for leverage, he struggles his way back to the seat. Just as he reaches the door, it opens and someone shoves him aside. He backpedals to the opposite side but someone else lands next to him, pinning him in the middle seat. When the person's leg begins to bounce at the sound of the engine turning over, Tim figures that it has to be Tony.
If he's nervous, this has to be bad. Really, really bad.
The way the car rocks over every pothole on its way out of the alley and jolts over the curb as it enters the main road lurches Tim's stomach. Trying to keep his panic in check, he starts to count the turns and the seconds between. Two rights, four lefts and four hundred forty-six seconds later, Carreras growls something in Spanish that makes Tony's leg jump quicker.
Tim mistakes a right for a left.
"Shut him up before I do," Carreras warns.
Tim hadn't even noticed that his nervous inhalations have morphed into hyperventilations.
"Come on, my little friend, don't be afraid," Tony says quietly, tapping Tim's leg.
Leave it to Tony to slip me a message in a film quote.
"What's that?" Carreras asks.
"Just tryin' to get him quiet. Figured punchin' him might make it worse."
Tim sucks in a lungful of air, holding it as he wills the terror to pass. When Tony's leg bumps his again, Tim releases the breath, feeling his pulse slow slightly. Inhaling again, Tim resumes his count even though he has no idea where they might be….nor where they're going.
Yet, the numbers coursing through his brain bring him comfort.
Twelve more rights, four lefts and just over eight hundred seconds later, the SUV slides to a halt after a ride that rattled Tim's bones. When the door to his left open, the chilly air creeping into the car cools Tim's scorching skin and whisks Tony away. Before he has a chance to move, Hector's strong hands yank Tim from the backseat. While he struggles to establish his balance, his dress shoes grind over the loose rocks on the asphalt. Forced forward, he nearly trips over a raised piece of ground, the grip on his arm the only support to keep him upright. Musty air hits his face, leaving a foul taste in his mouth, and he figures he must be inside a building. Somewhere nearby, he can hear the drone of a television and Carreras' fleeting orders barked in Spanish as the dealer rushes away.
When another heavy set of hands clamp on his other arm, Tim winces. More dragged than led across the uneven floor, he continues counting, only now it's the steps that he takes. It barely helps to suppress his panic.
Seventy eight steps later, his course veers left. Six more strides carry him to his final destination and a sudden shove sends him flailing backwards.
Tim lets out a yell as he lands in a chair.
Somewhere by his feet, he hears a snicker. He feels something snake around his ankles, binding them together. Once the knot is tight enough, the men leave, door slamming on the way out. Certain that he is indeed alone, Tim tries to release the handcuffs.
All the while, he fights the despair that rises in his throat.
Tony has to have a plan.
He has to...