Author's Note : Many thanks on the alerts and reviews. Love seeing what you guys think.
Apologies on the late update. Crazy week at work. May or may not get tomorrow's update up.
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2:12pm – Somewhere near the Navy Yard – Washington, DC –
Sighing quietly, Tim hangs his head to his chest when he finally gives up his fight to get out of the handcuffs. He only managed to rub his wrists raw, leaving the skin sore and burning. Shifting higher in the chair, he grimaces as the metal drags across his chaffed flesh. He presses his lips together, touching his left hand to his right.
Despite knowing that snapping the bone that connects his thumb to his wrist would make his hand small enough to fit through the cuff, the very thought of going that far makes him sick.
He lets out another sigh, hopelessness washing over him again.
Deeply involved in his pity party, Tim hears the door scrape over the cement floor and the soft footfalls that follow. His muscles tense as terror burns through him.
They're coming for me.
Swallowing hard, he lifts his chin to peer through a small gap between the blindfold and his nose. When he sees a figure dart towards him, Tim ducks back in his chair. His pulse is pounding in his ears. He inhales sharply, ready to call for help, but the intruder clamps a hand over his mouth. The blindfold disappears from his face, allowing the harsh fluorescent lights to attack his retinas.
When his eyes adjust, Tim sees Tony crouched in front of him.
"Tonnnfff!" he yelps, the hand muffling the name into a random collection of syllables.
Tony smiles tightly, holding a finger to his lips. After Tim nods, the hand disappears.
"You okay, McGee?"
"Yeah, all things considered. Can you get me out of here? It's -" Tim loses his voice when anger sweeps the concern from Tony's features.
"Christ, what the hell were you thinking? You almost got yourself killed!"
"I needed to talk to you."
"You needed to talk? That's it? You showed up at Carreras' place with no back-up and no phone, just to talk? Why the hell didn't you send word through Schaller?" Tony asks, sounding surprisingly harsh.
"Well, it was important and - "
A loud thump in the hallway propels Tony towards Tim. He drops to his knees, eyes darting between the door and the junior agent.
"McGee, why the hell are you here?"
Tim's pulse starts racing when he notices the first traces of fear he's ever seen on Tony's face.
"I'm here about Pedro Morales," he whispers, and confusion tightens Tony's already tense features.
"Who?"
Another thud in the hallway makes Tony glance over his shoulder.
"One of Carreras' associates, found murdered on Wednesday," Tim whispers, speaking so fast the words blur together. "When I hacked into the FBI database, I found a forensic report on the murder in the undercover file. Your prints are on the gun, your blood type's at the scene, there's…there's other evidence. Colvin wants you brought in for questioning."
"Probie, you don't think that I killed that guy, do you?"
"Of course not. I came to warn you."
"Alone?"
"I didn't want anyone to follow me because I thought the FBI would arrest you. So I came…by myself. But look, Tony, you've got to get me out of here." When Tony presses his lips together, dropping his gaze to the floor, Tim's gut clenches. "Tony? Please..."
"I can't right now. It'll blow my cover, the whole operation." Before Tim can protest further, Tony shakes his head. "There are eight girls down the hall and G-d knows how many there are somewhere else. If I get you out, Carreras'll be suspicious and he might kill them. We just need to wait until I can call Gibbs."
Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway, and Tony turns to stare at the door. When he looks backs, he appears resolute, but Tim can still see the fear in his eyes. The last traces of saliva wick their way out of Tim's mouth, leaving sandpaper in its wake.
"Do you trust me?" Tony whispers.
"Yes."
Tony gives a quick head-bob, clenching his jaw as the footsteps grow closer. Merely seconds later, the blindfold is back over Tim's eyes. The squeeze on his shoulder is so tight that it hurts and he feels Tony's hot breath hit his cheek.
"I'll get you out of this. Remember that I've got your six."
Tim nods as he listens to Tony head to the other side of the room. One of the pieces of furniture, presumably the sofa, scratches across the floor right before a body hits the cushions. When the door opens, Tim hears three distinct sets of footsteps enter.
"Tony? What the hell are you doing in here?" Carreras growls.
"Tryin' to take a freakin' nap. Came in here since the guys are watchin' the game, but that dude's drivin' me nuts. All that breathin', might as well be havin' a baby," Tony mutters, thudding what sounds like a pillow against the sofa.
When the bonds are cut from Tim's ankles a few seconds later, he figures there must've been an unspoken order. Even though Tony told him to stay out of trouble, Tim lashes out indiscriminately, feeling satisfied by the rush of an exhalation when his foot connects with something solid. The triumph is short lived because a fist slams into his stomach, pulling the air from his lungs.
His knees buckle, and it takes another set of strong hands to keep him upright.
"Where do you want him?" the voice Tim thinks to be Hector's asks.
"Somewhere you can keep an eye on him," Carreras growls.
The hands force Tim forward, and he starts his count all over again. Just as he hits eighty-six, he ends up face-flat against a freezing wall. The rough cinderblocks scratch against his cheeks, and he pushes back against the arm holding him. One of the men lets out a nasty laugh.
"You think this is okay? Carreras said we should watch him," Hector says.
"Who cares, man, the game's on. Not like he's goin' anywhere," a new voice replies.
Hauled off the wall, Tim slips slightly. One of the men rips off the blindfold, then shoves him forward. His foot catches on something and he crashes to the floor. When the impact jolts his right shoulder, Tim can't hold back a yell. The door slams, the lock clicking in place as he rolls to his knees, slowly glancing around the room. There are several battery operated lanterns scattered about, their low glows stretching across the piles of fabric that lie on the cement. One of them rests on its side, illuminating a patch of the high celling. The setup perplexes him.
Something in the darkness moves. Fear clenches his chest as Tim backpedals along the rough ground into a corner. His back slams into the freezing concrete.
Just when he thinks his mind might play tricks, the shadows shift again.
"Hello? Anybody there?"
A hunched form emerges from the far side of the room, carefully making its way to him. When it crouches in front of him, Tim shrinks away. The figure pushes its matted blonde hair behind its ears so the lamplight can trespass onto a face, marred by its own shadows. When the head tilts to allow the light to encroach further onto its features, Tim finds himself staring at a teenaged girl.
The roundness of the cheeks and smoothness of the skin sends a shiver racing down his spine.
She can't be older than the girl in the morgue.
Several other girls emerge from the opposite side of the room. Tim breathes slowly, amazed by what the low lantern light reveals. There's a stack of empty pizza boxes next to a pile of clothes against the wall, and sleeping bags are neatly arranged in almost individual spaces.
How do they live like this?
His gaze flicks over the dejected faces of the other occupants before landing on the girl in front of him. Her hand lifts to touch the delicate cross that hangs from her neck. Tim flinches at the sight of the hollows around her collar bones.
"What's your name?" he asks, surprised when her brow furrows.
She murmurs something incoherent that draws the other girls closer. As they surround him, forming a tight semi-circle, Tim counts eight in total. An anxious cacophony suddenly erupts as they all begin speaking to each other, possibly even to him. He rests his head against the damp cinderblocks behind him, not understanding a word and not knowing how to help. The girl in front of him makes an angry, guttural speech that quiets everyone.
Her gaze returns to his face, tone softening as she speaks, almost like she asks a question.
"I don't understand," he says, feeling even more helpless. "Do any of you speak English?"
Her brow knits again before she shakes her head. When he stares at the blank eyes around him, Tim realizes that she seems to be speaking for the group.
Of course, none of them speak English.
"I'm McGee," he says, wondering why he said his last name first. "Tim."
"Maaggee Teem?" she repeats, her accent making him chuckle.
"Close enough, I guess. I'm a federal agent." When she shrugs, he sighs. "Federal agent? Cop? Police?"
"Coup? Pooleece?"
A brunette on the outskirts of the group jabbers excitedly, making the blonde girl nod.
"Maaggee." She points a finger to his chest before her own. "Ksenia."
"Nice to meet you, Ksenia. Guess I'm here to help you all."
When he struggles to his feet, the brunette lets out a scream and scurries back to the farthest corner of the room. A few others dart after her. Perplexed, Tim drops to the floor. Ksenia begins talking animatedly, as though she recounts a story. She smiles sheepishly when she glances back to Tim's confused face. She stops talking and they listen to the brunette's quiet wails and the comforting murmurs of the group. Just when he can't bear the tortured noise any longer, Ksenia leaps off the floor. She stops by the door, turning back to Tim with her young features set in determination. As she gestures, her utterances are incensed.
"I know, I know. We need to get out."
Tim climbs to his feet again, nearly tripping over one of the sleeping bags on his way to the door. One of the girls hops out from the group, steadying him. Ksenia's lips pull into a tight line as she studies his stance. Barely seconds later, her icy fingers are on his arms, inspecting the cuffs.
An active discussion takes place between them and he hears one of the girls open a sleeping bag.
"What are you doing?"
Ksenia's hand appears by his side, displaying a bobby pin.
"You know that never works, right?"
He feels her manipulating the cuffs behind him. It takes her several tries but they finally loosen, giving way so he can rub the raw skin on his wrists. He is about to ask where she learned that trick when he notices the dark bruises around Ksenia's own wrists.
"Thank you," he says instead.
Her tight smile tells him that there's still work to be done. While the girl with the sleeping bag reclaims her possession, he takes in the anxious faces of the others around them and the echoing moans of those in the shadows. Before he can give them a pep talk, Ksenia grabs his arm, dragging him to the solid metal door. As he stares at the two dead bolts and the absent hinges, a sense of dread burns through him. She digs her fingernails into his forearm, jerking her head anxiously towards it.
He swallows hard, glancing at Ksenia's thin face then back to the girls that hide behind them.
I don't even know where to start.