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. No 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.
Her knife plunged upwards, deep into the right side of his chest. A cry of painful agony pierced the silence of the dark atmosphere, circling and echoing. Taunting.
His wasted body crumpled onto the concrete, one hand frantically grasping his crimson-stained chest. The sticky essence of red oozed between his fingers, leaving his breaths ragged and panicked.
His cell phone, screen still flipped open, clattered to the ground and away from his wildly moving hand. She noticed it only for a second, her observance and training ground into her glance. The caller ID was flashing on the barely illuminated screen.
But – she knew – she knew that number. Knew that face.
Her racing heart made the connection long before her brain caught up.
"Ziva?"
She stumbled backwards in shock, grip on her knife failing.
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, saying something. What? Another step backwards…
Her eyes flew open rapidly, pupils constricting at the sudden change in light. Her breathing was low, rhythmic, but hardly calm. It took a few seconds for her to orient herself, to shake the remnants of fear and shock and fury away, dimming slowly as she lifted her head off the side of the wall and looked around.
Tan leather, bright light, and a small window. The dull roar of engines. Airplane. Government jet, to be exact, commandeered by Fornell calling in a few favors at his office. It was certainly better than hitching a ride on a military cargo plane, as McGee had made very clear.
(Still, it had taken Tony about three seconds to steal his stash of Dramamine and watch the panic unfold.)
She took a deep, stabilizing breath, and turned to take in the rest of her surroundings. When she caught the eye of the person two seats over, she almost jumped, letting out a string of curses under her breath. She had not been expecting her partner to be staring at her with that stupid playful smile.
"Morning!" he added cheerfully, with an air of knowing something she didn't.
She had been awake for less than a minute and already she was being rewarded (eh – punished) with this.
"Can I help you?" she asked, irritated. It was hard to wake up from that, find Tony grinning at you, and not be irritated.
"Just wondering what you were dreaming about. Cause you were a little jumpy there for a second."
Ziva, sensing an opportunity, pretended to take the bait and leaned in over the seat separating them, right in his ear.
"It was about you," she whispered huskily, breathing down his neck. He turned his head a little and raised his eyebrows. She smirked to herself and continued. He was so easy to manipulate sometimes.
"You were naked," she whispered again, getting even quieter and earning even more subtle excitement played out on Tony's face.
"Really…" he purred back, playing along, turning to face her with his own knowing grin. She nodded softly.
"Mmm, it was the worst nightmare I've ever had," she whispered back, raising her eyebrows as she did so.
His grin faltered, but he tried to hide it. From the seats behind them, they heard McGee snort. He was reading a magazine but had the pleasure of hearing their entire conversation.
"Think that's funny, McGiggles?" asked Tony in his authoritative tone, raising his voice a little.
"Yeah, actually I do," replied McGee calmly, who never took his eyes off his magazine.
"Well you know what I think is funny?" asked Tony in fake anger, spinning around in his seat. McGee rolled his eyes, not in the mood, but a second later the magazine was snatched out of his hands.
"Hey!"
"I think it's funny that you're reading a magazine, when you could be talking to me. What is this, Getting Some for Geeks?" asked a laughing Tony, clearly amused with himself.
"Yes, you caught me," replied McGee sarcastically, who was reaching over the headrest in an effort to steal back his magazine, whose real title had something to do with forensics and engineering.
Tony was now holding it behind him so that McGee couldn't reach it, although the younger agent was desperately trying. He was standing up now, leaning roughly over Tony.
"Ah, if only you'd worked in a few extra sets, then you'd be strong enough to get it."
"Would you give it back before I have Ziva hurt you?"
Tony laughed.
"She wouldn't do that Timmy, because unfortunately for you, she's on my side. Right?" he asked in a semi-panicked voice, turning to Ziva to make sure she really was on his side.
She eyed them both mysteriously, but didn't answer.
"Tony! Just give it back, okay?" yelled McGee, whose face was now turning red in his efforts to thwart the annoying person holding his magazine hostage. He had climbed halfway over the seat when a yell from the back of the plane interrupted them.
"HEY!" shouted Gibbs, who had been having a hushed conversation with Fornell.
The rest of the people on the plane, which consisted only of FBI agents on Fornell's team, all looked up at the loud noise.
"Would you three shut up?" he asked angrily, sending one of his famous glares in their direction.
McGee dropped back into his seat stupidly. (The magazine hit him in the face the second Gibbs looked away.) With a meaningful huff, went back to reading silently.
Curious about the rest of the passengers now, Ziva glanced at the back of the plane, scattered with people she mostly didn't know. Except for Agent Krieger, who gave her a small wave from her seat. When she turned back around, Tony was staring at her again.
"What now?"
He was looking at her with a serious expression, any indication of his previous banter gone.
"Before McGoo interrupted us I had a real question for you."
"What?" she snapped back, sincerely hoping he wasn't going to badger her about her sleeping habits again.
"What are we gaining by running to Israel?"
She just looked at him for a second, trying to gauge if he was actually serious. He was.
"We are hardly running," she answered harshly, not fond of what he was implying. "And did you listen to anything Gibbs said on the way here?"
"Every word."
He was met with a skeptical, all too knowing glance.
"Fine. I dozed during a bit of it. Because thanks to you, I got just about no sleep!"
"I did not force you to sleep on the couch."
"You took all the good pillows, I was only –"
"You heard a mouse and thought it was safer in the living room," she corrected, cutting him off, satisfied at the barely audible chuckle she earned from McGee.
Tony stiffened with as much dignity as he could afford.
"You know how I feel about rodents. Can we get back to my question, please?"
Ziva rolled her eyes.
He had a fair point, about the sleep thing. The last few days had been…hectic, to say the least. Between Ducky constantly checking up on her injuries, arranging to stay in a safehouse with Tony as her backup, quasi-clandestine meetings with Fornell's people at inconvenient hours, and Abby throwing them a surprise 'Good Luck in Israel' party, it was a miracle that they found any time to sleep at all.
She was reluctant to admit that she got even less than Tony, not wanting to think about the dream responsible for her restless nights.
"I was attacked twice, yes?" she started, making sure he got the entire picture.
"I remember," he bit out, unable to keep his tone light. Neither wanted to discuss that, so she kept going.
"With security being somewhat, tighter, around us, our priorities are torn between my safety and pursuing the people responsible. This alleviates some of the pressure."
It was difficult to tell if the concern in his features was meant only for their spontaneous trip.
"You could still be in danger out of the country. It might not stop them looking."
She held his gaze for a moment, preparing to give Tony her professional outlook on the entire situation. Because the second she let on to him about what she was really thinking, it would open the door for a number of things she did not want to deal with. She looked him straight in the eye as she continued with assurance.
"Then it will bring them right back to where they started. And this time we will be ready."
"Oh," he replied, the connections falling into place inside his head, unusually quiet. "Because to me it sounds like we're using you as bait."
She was tempted to look away, not comfortable with the way he was studying her.
"It is the best option we have."
"Is it? I'm already seeing lots of holes in this plan."
At this moment, Gibbs materialized from the back of the plane, having magically picked up on what they were talking about.
"Our Mossad liaison officer is going to liaise. How's that for a plan?"
"That's a very good plan, of course Boss," he replied dutifully.
(Such a good little senior field agent.)
When Gibbs returned from his conversation with the pilot a few minutes later, Ziva straightened in her seat to get his attention.
"How long?" she asked, hoping to get some more information from him about where they were.
"Twenty minutes until we land," he replied without any expression, knowing what she was asking before she did.
And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she wished it was a little longer. Because she knew the risks they were taking, spoken or not, and she had a bad feeling about leaving DC.
Tony was right. There was a slim chance of this ending well.
Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo had never been one to complain.
Okay, yes – he did complain. A lot. But it was true that most of the time he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
So when he found himself sitting alone in a sticking leather chair outside the Director of Mossad's office, he said nothing of the desert heat and stares of unfriendly-looking employees giving him a headache; there was no one to complain to anyways.
McGee was with Fornell and his people, who had already began collaborating with the Israeli analysts somewhere else in the building. He didn't really bother to ask any more about it, as it was all way over his head. He understood that since he was so clearly a newcomer in this place, it warranted a few curious glances, but the staring? Probably overkill. Yes, he was American, yes, he was Officer David's partner, and yes, he had business with the Director.
Well he didn't, but Gibbs and Ziva did, so by extension, he did. And then he remembered that none of them probably had any understanding of the word 'overkill' meant.
He sighed lightly. Twenty-five minutes.
He'd briefly picked up a magazine (why did they have these, anyway – it's not like they got walk-ins), but he obviously couldn't read Hebrew, and the pictures were too bland to hold his attention for more than a few idle seconds.
So here was, sitting by himself, trying to hold off his inevitable edginess. Not only were the chair and the foreign onlookers making him uncomfortable, but he was also not happy about waiting outside while Ziva and Gibbs had their little chat with the Director.
This was the second time in less than a week that he had been excluded from an important conversation. How he hated sitting on the sidelines, especially when he was the only one to be doing so. And the more he thought about it, the more restless he became. What were they hashing out in there? What was so important that he wasn't allowed to hear it?
Striding into the office while flashing his charming grin suddenly seemed like a very good idea. He was Anthony DiNozzo - he could talk his way out of anything if it came down to it. He was about to stand up when suddenly the office door slammed open with an echoing bang, revealing an agitated and slightly flushed Ziva, who stalked past him without saying anything or even acknowledging him.
All the people that had been blatantly staring at him seconds earlier immediately busied themselves when she walked by. If he weren't so preoccupied by his own frustration, he would've laughed at her apparent intimidation skills.
Gibbs emerged from the office a minute later, shutting the door behind him and smirking ever so slightly. Hold up. Smirking in a place like this couldn't be a good sign. So now Tony was frustrated and confused.
"What was that about?" he asked, sensing that Gibbs did not need clarification.
"Her orders are to remain uninvolved and in a designated safe location until the threat has been neutralized."
So she had been ordered to sit on the sidelines. Well, that made two of them.
Wait a minute.
"Alone?" asked Tony, feeling incredibly disconcerted all the sudden.
"Nope. You're gonna be there with her."
The knot in his stomach loosened a little, but remained mostly in place.
"Director's orders?"
"And mine," replied Gibbs, finally turning to face him.
"Well that's sweet of you, but I don't need protection," he added with a chuckle. His smile dropped when he saw the look Gibbs was giving him. He cleared his throat awkwardly and stood up a little straighter.
"What I mean is, I've got her back, Boss."
"Yeah you better, DiNozzo. Because they won't miss a third time."
He turned on his heel and walked off, not waiting for his senior field agent to reply. Tony was left to try and quell the uneasiness in his gut, but he wasn't given very long.
"You coming?" came Gibbs's shout from hallway, who didn't bother to turn around as he called for the only member of his team left standing around.
"Where to?" replied Tony, who picked up his bag from under the chair and ran after Gibbs in a hurry.
"To your designated safe location," the latter deadpanned, the two of them making their way toward the parking garage.
As they were leaving, Tony had an odd feeling he would like this one even less than the one back home.
The heat was doing nothing for her already heightened frustration.
The stupid safehouse she was confined to did not have air conditioning, or hardly any ventilation at all, and it was with an ill temper that she and Tony had resigned themselves to the kitchen, which at least had decent windows. But even with them thrown wide open, she couldn't shake the oppressive feeling of being trapped.
Trapped, and unable to do anything at all.
She was forbidden to leave without an armed escort, and even then she was only permitted to visit the grocery store or the pharmacy or something like that. She wasn't supposed to go anywhere near Mossad headquarters, or where Gibbs and McGee were staying. And no one was allowed inside the house, barring an emergency extraction – which, really, was not a likely possibility.
And to top it off, Gibbs went the extra mile and ordered DiNozzo there with her, as if she needed, or wanted, extra protection.
"You're giving me a headache," came his voice from behind the counter, where he was lounging on a stool and casually perusing some cookbook that had been lying around.
For the past ten minutes, he had been looking – and dreaming about, the pretzels on the plane being the last thing he ate – the illustrated recipes in an effort to distract himself from his partner's determined pacing around the kitchen. It wasn't until he got to some weird looking soups that he gave in and tried to get her to stop.
She ignored him and kept pacing, brow furrowed and arms crossed.
"He can be so irritating," she began, using Tony's breaking of the silence to release some of the thoughts pent up in her head.
Tony sighed and closed the book, silently hoping that if he listened to what she was saying he might be able to convince her to cook one of those dessert things he had seen. She didn't seem to notice that he was listening, however, and continued her rant without preamble.
"He orders me to this stupid safehouse, makes it impossible for me to accomplish anything, just because he knows it will infuriate me. What is the point of locking me up here? I mean what does he expect me to do, sit back and do nothing?" she asked vehemently, turning to face Tony as she did so.
He was unsure of which he she was talking about - Gibbs or her father. He decided just to go with it.
"Well yeah, I think that's exactly what he wants you to do."
She rolled her eyes and laughed bitterly as she continued taking out her frustration on the tile floor of the kitchen.
"Yes, count on Tony to agree with me. I thought you were here to assist me, or was it just to annoy?"
He was definitely not in the mood for confrontation or more arguing, so he kept his tone flat, unengaged.
"I was just being honest with you. And I'm here to provide back-up and protection."
"Great. Just what I need - your protection."
Ouch.
He didn't see that one coming. And it was hard to tell if she meant that to sting the way it did. He cocked his head slightly and was about to open his mouth to say something back, but she beat him to it.
"I'm sorry, I did not mean that. It's just...it has been a long week."
Truth.
Long, suspenseful, chaotic, unpredictable...whatever she wanted to call it. It certainly had been exhausting, for the both of them. And he understood her frustration, better than most. He hated being cooped up almost as much as she did.
(Though he was at least glad that he was able to keep an eye on her.)
With that thought he smiled in response, rising from his stool a little ungracefully. She raised her eyebrows in confusion as he signaled her to come to the living room, but she followed him anyway.
Flashing a grin, he pulled out a movie he spotted earlier from the dusty shelf in the corner and put it in the DVD player, not giving her a chance to argue or ask questions. She only agreed to sit down and watch it with him when he ran to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine.
"Is watching movies and drinking your solution to everything?" she chided, eyeing him with lingering suspicion.
"Drinking? No. Watching movies? Yes."
She laughed a little bit and went to pour herself a generous glass of wine. It really had been a long week.
Did he really believe his makeshift cheer-up session would really change anything? No. But for now, they had nothing else to do, and it would work for him. Plus, with the way Ziva was pouring, it seemed promising.
At least, after a trying week, they had these few hours to themselves.
Thanks for reading, drop me a line, then be on your way!