She did not know why it started.
These dreams – if she could call it that – were different. Not nightmares, because those she had dealt with. These were familiar, yet blurry and twisted, like a déjà vu that faded all too slowly. Terror and stress and trauma she had dealt with, however poorly, and this was not that.
These were different.
She did not know why it started, only that it did.
The car was stifling. For the past twenty minutes it had been sitting patiently at the shadowy and poorly lit curb, so any remnants of the cool emitted from the air conditioning were long gone. The front tinted window on the passenger side was rolled down slightly, but it did little to dispel the heat creeping in. There was no breeze anyway. Small beads of sweat ran down the sides of her face, but she fought hard to keep from getting restless. Right now she needed to be in control.
And she was nothing if not in control.
The car was silent. No words were exchanged between the passengers stoically waiting in the cover of darkness. There was no place for amiable conversation. Not now. And nothing needed to be said. She knew what she was doing.
She could be patient. All night, if that was the cost.
Six more minutes, silent, stagnant.
Something familiar began creeping under her skin. It was not nerves. Nerves could so easily be twisted into fear, to paralysis, to ineptitude. None of those things were an option. She had no place for them.
No. Not nerves. Merely a tense anticipation, and the strange sensation of foretaste. Like she could feel, literally feel – in the car, between her fingers, behind her eyes – time moving.
Three more minutes.
Then, quietly but firmly, came the confirmation from the strategically placed asset.
Sweat ran down her face, the back of her neck damp with salty moisture. It only increased her awareness, heightened. Ready.
She rechecked her weapons, releasing a still breath.
(Flawless.)
The passenger next to the unrolled window unlocked the doors. He turned around and she made eye contact while looking into his face – the face of her father. If it was strange for him to personally supervise an operation, she said nothing. He had a personal stake, and wanted this done.
The go ahead broke the silence, finally.
"Time to go."
She nodded, acknowledging, not wasting energy on words. She had poise, control. She was about to kill.
She did not need words.
She went to open the door but her father put up a hand. He gazed fiercely at her, the same fire she felt running through her veins reflected in his eyes.
"Ziva."
She waited, her hand gripping the door handle expectantly.
"Remember what he is."
If this was a warning, or advice of some sort, she let it pass without comment.
"Return when you are finished."
She didn't bother to nod this time as she stepped out of the car, closing the door behind her.
The air was thick and unyielding but it was a small relief from the stiflingly close quarters of the car she had just been in. She swiftly began walking towards the back alley behind the building about a block down, her brisk footsteps echoing slightly on the dimly lit street. The shroud of complete darkness covering the sky made her approach even less noticeable.
She quickly stepped behind the concrete corner of the target building and crouched down low, kneeling on one knee. Her acute awareness of her position increased with each passing second.
One minute.
She waited, demeanor like armor, but her muscles were on edge, ready to spring into action at any moment. Her hand gripped the textured handle of her knife loosely, the sweat on her palms almost completely vanished.
She ran her index finger over the cool blade, waiting for the next move.
The orders came quickly through her earpiece. The instructions were clear and decisive. She had the all clear now.
(As if they would risk exposing her without it.)
Her heartbeat quickened. Not nerves. Not fear. Only intensity.
The man – target – was approaching quickly. His footsteps were rushed, uneven, almost frantic. Like he was fleeing but trying not to look that way. Like he was hiding something. Deceiving.
Coward.
The grip on her knife tightened. Adrenaline, raw energy, pulsed. Her muscles were stiffened with tension. Tense, but ready.
Only a few more paces. A few more seconds.
Now.
A cry of agony, a crumpled body. Something clattering to the ground. A look of confusion, and one of anguish. Blood on the ground, seeping towards the light. A step backwards, a glare. Blood and sweat, mixing on the skin. The stench of death. A figure lurking in the shadows. Another step backwards…
Her eyes shot open.
Breathing hitched, she stayed where she was, blinking in reality. She went to bring a hand to her face, but immediately stopped when the stiff, dull pain of her arm hit.
She shifted, lifting her head off the floor, trying to get a look at her wound –
The floor?
Wait.
She sat upright, grimacing at the soreness in her shoulder, glancing around. It was dark, but not completely so, and to her left above her was a metal table. The scent of sterile alcohol permeated.
What was she doing in autopsy?
Just then the doors slid open, revealing a distracted looking Doctor Mallard, who jumped a little when he noticed her presence.
"Ah, Ziva. You're awake, I see."
He flipped on the lights, causing her to squint against the bright intrusion.
"Why am I on the floor?" she asked, throat dry, voice hoarse.
"It would seem you fell off the table," he replied, waving a hand in the direction of the metal structure looming beside her.
She stood, slowly, muscles shaking slightly, using the table for support. Bert – Abby's stuffed hippo – was laying on its side, clearly a makeshift pillow.
"I passed out," she recalled, starting to make sense of it. The pressure behind her eyes, closing in, losing focus, not being able to hear, then –
Nothing.
"We brought you down here to fix you up."
His words registered, and she examined her shoulder for the first time, only now noticing the bandaging, lightly stained but stark white against her skin.
"That will need changing tonight, and in a few days we can remove the stitches," he added, watching her.
Stitches?
She didn't realize – would she not have felt that? She gazed warily at him, confused, suddenly feeling lightheaded again.
"I gave you something to keep you unawake and unaware. It was a very small dose, but apparently your body needed the rest."
Picking up on his implications, she looked around the walls for a clock, but he beat her to it.
"Half past one, my dear."
Already? She'd been down here, for what – four hours?
And then that dream, if she could call it that. It was so familiar, so real. She guessed that's what landed her on the floor – a feat that she doubted was doing her already weakened shoulder any favors.
"Where are the others?" she asked, remembering how Gibbs had gone to meet with the director before she ended up down here.
"Upstairs, I believe. They were out investigating your crime scene all morning."
Your crime scene had an ugly ring to it, and she suddenly wanted very much to leave the empty dark of autopsy.
"Thank you," she called, heading towards the door, closer to where he was standing. "For helping me."
"Of course. You will be careful, won't you? I have no interest in seeing you back on that table."
She nodded, parroting his words back to him.
"Of course."
The doors slid open for her.
She had the strange feeling that he was watching her as she waited for the elevator, ready to bring her back to the squadroom where she would be forced to confront the reality of her situation.
Forced to confront the dread.
The doors of the elevator slid open, the quiet ding that signaled arrivals quickly bringing her out of her trance.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, mentally preparing herself for whatever was heading her way once she reappeared in the midst of her colleagues. Perhaps she was overthinking this, or worrying too much about their reactions, but it seemed unlikely.
She stepped forward and silently but purposefully made her way over to her desk.
Tony was the first to notice. He was sitting casually on the edge of his desk, remote in hand. There was an image on the plasma, but she didn't even have time to look at it before he spoke.
"Speak of the ninja, here she comes! Back from the dead, David?"
She ignored him dutifully, wishing he would rein in his irritatingly cheerful attitude, but the meaningful glare from Gibbs was enough to wipe the prying smirk off his face. He spun back around to continue looking at the pictures on the screen.
He glanced behind his shoulder when she did not join him, instead spotting her behind her desk, viciously unscrewing a bottle (Tylenol?) and popping a few pills in her mouth, swallowing them dry. She grimaced for a brief moment, but he had already turned back around, pretending he hadn't seen. He had no desire to deal with the backlash of displaying outward concern.
She closed the drawer of her desk shut and walked up slightly behind Tony to look at the pictures flashing across the screen. Gibbs turned his meaningful stare on her for a minute, which she also ignored, then joined the two where they were standing.
From the way she shifted slightly at his approach, Tony doubted that her mind was as focused as her eyes, which were glued to the screen.
"What did you find?" she finally asked, crossing her arms without thinking.
Her partner glanced at Gibbs for approval, who simply nodded. She feigned disinterest, keeping her eyes where they were, but she had a fairly good idea what that silent exchange was about.
Tony cleared his throat to speak and lifted the remote.
"Which version would you prefer?" he asked, a small grin on his face, all too familiar. Baiting.
"DiNozzo," warned Gibbs, impatience flickering.
"Nevermind. There's only one version. We didn't find squat."
"Why were you looking for a…squat?"
"It's an expression. Come on," he emphasized, mocking exasperation.
Stare.
"It means we didn't find anything. Nada. Jack. Squat."
His frustration was readily apparent, even behind his supposedly humorous tone.
"You seem bitter. What were you expecting?"
"Well I was hoping that after dealing with unhelpful witnesses and mosquitoes for five hours that we could've gotten something – other than a few partial footprints. Turns out the highlight of my search was McGee looking for Frog and Toad in the middle of the swamp. I tried to tell him they weren't real, but…"
"I dropped my flashlight in a puddle, okay? Would you stop bringing that up?"
"Whatever you say, McSlippery."
It was another mark of his frustration that he resorted to his little nicknames.
The point to their banter was that they hadn't found anything and they were no closer to any leads than she was when she stumbled out of her car – dazed, bleeding, and yet sharply aware of the fact that she was lucky as hell. Her instincts had prepared her for such a letdown, but it was all the more disheartening to hear it spoken aloud. Anyone serious enough about murdering a federal agent probably knew what they were doing, and would hardly be expected to leave any substantial evidence behind.
So they had nothing. No leads.
"Where did you find the footprints?" she asked out loud, not directed at any specific person.
Tony clicked the remote a few times and the pictures of the muddy footprints popped up on the screen. She studied them, looking for something that would give away the identity of the sniper. But that's all they were – footprints.
What were you supposed to tell about someone from the tread of their shoe?
"Behind some bushes near the overpass on the other side of the highway," answered Tony, giving her a sideways glance as he spoke. "The only thing in this guy's way would've been a few twigs. He had a clear shot. Lucky he missed."
She had nothing to say to that, understandably, and he took the brief opportunity to study her.
It was strange.
She did not look like someone that had almost died.
She seemed to have scrounged a new shirt from somewhere, but the white of the bandaging wrapped around her shoulder was just visible beneath the cotton. Aside from the pills he'd glimpsed her popping, she betrayed no indication that a bullet had sliced through her skin. She might've had a skateboarding accident.
(A hilarious image, one he would have to explore later.)
But, she did almost die.
A sniper – an untraceable, still unknown sniper – had almost blown her head off. He knew all too well the sour and desperate taste of an almost. He may envy her new badass scar, once the pain wore off, but he did not envy her that.
(The plague, his car blowing up, the stupid ghost ship, the list goes on and on…)
The thing about their profession (lifestyle, he called it, when trying to pick up girls), he knew, was that death rarely announced itself. It preferred to catch you when you weren't looking, throw you down and ensure you never got up. You don't get a chance to make a stand or wave a white flag; you're just gone.
The magnitude of it seemed ridiculously significant, and yet so unattainable at the same time. Heavy and light. Life and death. She had come so close – so close – and yet she was still here, right next to him.
Surreal.
"You did not find the bullet," she stated after a moment, already knowing the answer.
"Nope," he conceded, bringing his gaze back to the photos that had so far not helped.
"What do we do now, Boss?" asked McGee, eagerly looking at Gibbs for some direction.
Gibbs stood still and remained staring at the screen for several charged seconds, all attention fixed on him.
"We wait."
"Wait?"
"Yeah, we wait. Everyone go home, get some rest. Be back here tomorrow at zero-seven."
They shared a momentary brief glance with each other, a mix of surprise and acceptance outlined on their faces. It seemed uncharacteristic, ludicrous even, to be sent home without accomplishing anything, especially when one of them was potentially still in danger. But they had no cause to challenge the decision, and they quickly turned away and headed to their respective desks to gather their things to go home.
McGee was the first one to leave and head towards the elevator. Ziva was next, but she was stopped before she could leave, as if her thoughts had been vocalized.
"Ziva," called Gibbs, forcing her to turn around. "Be on your guard. Call me if anything happens."
She nodded and turned the corner quickly with her bag on her shoulder, half-running to catch the elevator with McGee. Tony picked up his coat and was about to follow them, but he had an inkling that he wasn't getting out of this that easily.
He was right.
"Tony."
Quiet, softer than expected. That scared him as much as the use of his first name. He stood, half-frozen, waiting for Gibbs to close the distance between them.
"Follow her. Make sure nothing happens."
"You worried they might try again?"
"Maybe. But it's not just them I'm worried about."
He nodded automatically, until the second part hit him.
"Oh. You think she would try something?"
"Well I don't know, that's why you're gonna follow her."
"Right, got it Boss."
"And DiNozzo?"
"Yeah?"
"She doesn't need to know."
Tony nodded and walked towards the elevator to head out the building. He glanced back once at Gibbs, who was once again staring intently at the footprints, but the elevator doors opened, forcing him to move. He stood pensively for a moment, then pressed the button for the garage.
He was not entirely, or even remotely, comfortable with this assignment, if he could call it that. Not only would it be difficult to follow Ziva, but he would be doing it behind her back. Out of the many possible outcomes he envisioned, very few of them were desirable.
He really hoped she would refrain from doing something stupid, for both their sakes.
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