A/N: Okay, so I attempted posting this two hours ago when I said I would, but my freaking Internet crashed and I'm just now able to get back on. But I did meet my deadline, I promise. And I will continue to update every Tuesday around eight. In other news, I made my annual pilgrimage to TN this past week, and while I was away from my laptop and FFN, I thoroughly enjoyed visiting my family and friends. However, while I was away, some changes were made to FFN, and while I don't know how much anybody (including me) actually knows, there have been several disagreements going on amongst members of the community. I am not comfortable with a few of the changes that were made, if we're going to be honest. I do not like the fact that the anonymous reviews are automatically turned on -even if an author can screen them, he or she will still have to read whatever is written. I have never had -nor do I ever expect to have- anyone say intentionally malicious things to me via the Internet, however I have seen some instances in which it has occurred with other authors. And I know that several very talented people have decided to leave FFN as a result. At this time, I have decided to remain here -though one of my summer-pre-college goals is to get my livejournal account in running order (if you're interested, just type in INK ON PAPER LIVEJOURNAL into your Internet Explorer. My page says "Ink On Paper Presented by Kit" just in case there are other Ink On Papers out there). I highly doubt that anyone reading this is unkind, and I know that almost everyone involved with FFN is wonderful and awesome, but I also know that cyberbullying is alive and well, and that it could really hurt someone. So to any guests that may review my pieces, welcome and please, feel free to comment or even PM me. And to everyone in general, be kind to each other, okay? And to those that actually took the time to read this: You absolutely rock, my friends. Absolutely! Any much love always, and keep the peace, Kit!
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Chapter III
Seventeen minutes later and there is no sign of the fire department, and Tony's cell has remained stubbornly silent. The emergency light is still on, and they are still stuck, still sitting on the ground, shoulders touching. Ziva has her hurt wrist lying limply in her lap, and she's worrying the pinky finger on her other hand with her teeth. Tony has his head tilted back, his nose pointing toward the ceiling, his eyes closed. And he's already entertained the thought that he could have a concussion, but there's little he can do about it right now.
He steals another glance at his watch, and suppresses a groan at the fact that only a minute has slipped by since he last checked.
"You okay?" he asks quietly and he feels her shift beside him.
"No," she murmurs, and there is something in her voice that startles him, a quality he's heard maybe once before. He opens his eyes and gazes down at her.
Her face is pale and her eyes are wide as she glances up at his face. She seems to be vibrating, she's so tense. He reaches over, tugging her good hand from her mouth and wrapping her fingers in his. And she's trembling like a leaf.
"Ziva," he says softly. He can feel her pulse hammering in her wrist, and she's trying, valiantly, to take deep even breathes.
"I will fine in a –moment," she whispers, and she's borderline hyperventilating.
"Panic attack?" he asks, rubbing his thumb across her hand reassuringly. He's only ever had one once, and he was alone at the time, and he honestly thought he was going to die. It felt like a heart attack, or at least, what he would imagine a heart attack to feel like. Of course, actually dying at that point would have been a huge relief, seeing as it had been one of the worst days of his life and, ironically, Ziva David had been involved . . .
"I will be okay," she repeats, but he can't tell if she's talking to him or herself.
There's a mighty thud and the elevator shudders, and Ziva lets out a startled gasp that has her wiping her eyes on Tony's shoulder as light suddenly floods the tiny cabin. Dust and tiny particles of debris rain down upon them as one of the ceiling tiles is lifted away. A hulking figure peers down at them, its silhouette illuminated by the light that filters in through the elevator shaft.
"Agents DiNozzo, David, are you alright?" asks a deep voice that belongs to the figure.
Tony takes a breath to respond, but ends up choking on the dust in the air. The sudden coughing fit rallies Ziva into calming herself and she squints up at the light. "Yes," she calls loudly, and then someone says something to the shadowed man, but she can't make out all the words.
"I'm with the fire department," the fireman says. "The elevator's stable for now. Y'all are stuck between two floors, but you're closer to the third floor than you are the second. We're gonna send somebody down there in a minute, so just hang tight, 'kay?" And Ziva resists the urge to point out that they aren't going anywhere and that they have no choice but to 'hang tight.'
Anxiety claws at her lungs with the realization that she is at this stranger's mercy.
He pauses in his pacing along the sidewalk to watch a large portion of the building façade crumple and fall several stories before hitting the ground with a crack. The air is thick with the acrid smell of smoke and the high whine of sirens. The flashing lights from the fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars are painting the surrounding pavement red and blue and it almost looks like an ethereal monster is writhing on the ground in pain.
Flames burst forth from an upper storey window, and the glass rains down onto the firemen below, but they seem to ignore it, instead keeping a steady stream of water pulsing onto the livid flames.
The ambulance behind hi suddenly peals away, the driver laying on his horn and adding to the cacophony of the blaring siren. Nine people are dead, though probably more, and at least twenty are wounded. And the fact that he can only account for half of his team is chillingly disturbing and all too surreal . . .
He only saw McGee briefly when they brought him out, and he came very close to being sick.
Blood was everywhere, all over McGee's face, his suit, and the sheet covering his lower body was blooming with crimson as well. He was unconscious, and the EMT had him in a neck brace, an intubation tube between his lips. He was way too pale and way too still, and, oh dear, God, don't let him die. The older woman who was loading him into the back of the ambulance refused to let Gibbs ride, an argument he decided not to engage in since he still had two agents MIA.
He had turned Abby over to another paramedic when she had started hyperventilating after McGee had been taken away. Now, thirty minutes later, he can just make out her pigtails from behind the tree she leaned up against. He had checked on her several minutes ago only to find that she had her eyes closed, her rosary wound between her fingers, and her lips moving in silent prayer.
If Tony and Ziva don't materialize in the next sixty seconds, he's going in after them himself.
And what the hell were they thinking, taking an elevator in the midst of a bomb threat?
New rule: If there's a bomb threat, take the stairs. Always.
There's movement out of the corner of his eye: Four figures emerging from the building and picking their way across the debris strewn ground toward a waiting ambulance.
He forces himself to walk, briskly, over to them.
A paramedic has already placed an oxygen mask over DiNozzo's face by the time Gibbs arrives at the bumper. Ziva is sitting beside Tony, her face pale and drawn, as another paramedic pokes and prods at her alarmingly swollen wrist. Both agents have scratches on their faces -Tony has a particularly deep gash over his cheek- and both agents have dust and bits of plaster in their hair and on their clothes. They look like hell, but they're alive, at least, and conscious.
Tony notices Gibbs first.
"Hey, boss," he calls, his voice muffled behind the mask. And Ziva looks up quickly, her dark eyes clearly relieved.
"DiNozzo."
"I'm fine," Tony reassures. "Just breathed in too much dust and crap."
Gibbs seems to relax a little before turning to Ziva: "Ziver."
"They think my wrist is broken. But I, too, am okay."
"What about McGee and Abby?" Tony asks cautiously, and Gibbs is suddenly exhausted.
"Abby's fine; a little cut up and definitely shaken." And he's evading the question . . .
Ziva's eyes are bright as she stares at him. "And McGee?"
But she's already seen the answer in his eyes.
A/N2: ?