The only sound she was able to register was the sound of her own breathing.

Her chest rose and fell with each new breath, the airy sound somehow weirdly amplified by her broken nose. At least, she thought it was broken. Judging by the sticky wetness covering her mouth and chin and running down her neck, plus the shooting, throbbing ache underneath her eyes, it hardly counted as a guess.

It certainly fucking hurt enough.

But there was nothing she could do about it. No point in playing around with guesses.

No longer were her hands tied behind her back, but they were still flattened tightly against the arms of the chair she had been forced into. She lost more and more feeling in her arm and fingers as the seconds ticked on, now replaced with a numb tingling. Perhaps that was a small mercy considering her mangled wrist was still twisted in the rope unnaturally, but every time she moved it sent her an acute reminder of why she shouldn't.

She could not stand, or really move her legs at all, as they had seen fit to bind her ankles with the same rope after her outburst. It had scarcely been worth it, considering the damage done to her face as retaliation, but fuck them. Her own life she could gamble with – but Tony's?

She had tried, rather unsuccessfully, to block out any thoughts about him and his possible condition. She did not know for sure where he even was, having not been entirely lucid when she was hauled away from him.

She had tried not to focus on it, instead needing to focus on getting out. Getting away. Getting answers.

But –

Shit.

She couldn't do it.

How did this happen? She hadn't been prepared, had been so easily caught off guard. They were together, and then all the sudden they weren't. The disconnect, the lingering fear, left her distinctly unsettled.

She couldn't do it. Couldn't stop, could not be rational. Could not help wondering if they had killed him already.

(Wouldn't she know it? In her bones – somehow?)

She had tried to cling to hope, to push it out of her mind, but she couldn't quite get there. Maybe it was the pain in her nose and wrist. Maybe it was the hunger and the sweat and the stink of being a prisoner for three (ish?) days. Maybe it was her training. Or maybe it was because death had so recently forced her face into the dirt and made her watch.

What use was hope here? It did not stop her from picturing Tony dead.

So here she sat, steeled with anticipation, waiting.

Shifting her back against the hard wood of the chair, she stared closely at her lap. Her once-khaki pants were now stained with dirt, singed burn marks, and flecks of blood from her nose and the minor cuts she earned in the explosion that landed her here.

She breathed in, then out, slowly, willing her mind away from Tony. This was not about him.

(But she'd dragged him down anyway, hadn't she?)

Her breathing hitched as the sound of a door swinging open echoed somewhere above.

It drew her out of her dim mental corner and instantly put her on complete alert, her muscles tensing and body stiffening. The sound of footsteps pounding down the wooden stairs carried over to her part of the basement (or bunker, or whatever the hell this was), and a mixture of dread and hyperawareness snaked at her throat.

(Not debilitating. Not yet.)

One man rounded the corner quickly, but slowed his pace down dramatically as he approached. He moved closer to her chair, savoring whatever it was he was causing her to feel. He held her gaze steadily, amused by her obvious contempt.

She recognized him instantly as the man that had hit her – the leader.

Ponytail.

He titled his head, considering her, doubting if she had any idea just how fucking much he hated her. Her hair, tied wildly behind her neck; her exotic features, beauty marred by bruising and crimson red; her simple clothes, torn in some places, dirty, stained.

Even her name – reflective of her country and birthright – disgusted him.

He turned to grab a foldout chair from under the stairs, musing that he could sit here all day, festering in his feelings and his memories and his strength. His capacity for compassion evaporated the second he had laid eyes on her, something he had both wanted, and not.

He was no sadist, and he hardly enjoyed her battered appearance, but it calmed him. Focused him. It radiated off him and in him and through him. It invaded his mind and his cold heart and his hands. It allowed him to see clearly, to reign in his awareness. It burned and simmered beneath his chest as he matched her glare with his own. It was seductive, enticing.

It made him feel.

Which is all he'd ever wanted, after leaving his weak and brainwashed brothers and finding new ones that shared the animosity he inherited – to feel something again.

He took no pleasure in pain for the sake of itself.

But fuck her.

(He might. He hadn't decided yet.)

He leaned forward in his chair, their legs almost touching. His fingers closed around her chin, crusted with streaks of dried blood. Her jaw clenched underneath him, glare flickering from the hand touching her to the shadowed look in his eye.

"What do you want?" she questioned sharply, her throat dry as she spat the words out.

She hadn't had water since yesterday, so she couldn't really afford to shun his assistance should he offer it to her, but she was considering it.

His eyes narrowed, and he dropped his hand.

"From you?" he mocked, smoothly accented voice floating above her. "All I want from you is to sit in that chair."

His smug attitude and casually thrown out words revealed nothing, and she tried again, jaw still clenched angrily.

"Why did you bring me here?" she demanded heatedly, the usual brown of her eyes somehow darker, more intense.

Pause. Baited.

"You don't remember me."

A statement, toneless, layered with hostility.

She racked her brain, trying, wondering if he was just fishing for a reaction, but –

"You are offended."

"We met once," he continued, ignoring her jibe. "Many years ago. You were a close friend to my cousin."

"Your cousin?" she repeated, unable to stop herself, curiosity flaring.

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Humorless.

"Kadin. I know you remember him."

Something seized inside her chest.

Kadin? Her Kadin? Was this some sort of sick coincidence? Was he resorting to mind games already?

"I do not know who you –"

"Liar," he spat, still eyeing her with the same distaste. "You were fleeing his house when we found you."

Stunned into silence, she simply stared, unable to tear her gaze away from the cruel triumph reflected in the lines on his face.

"Nothing to say?"

Plenty, mind reeling, a thousand insane connections pulling each other apart as she struggled to comprehend just what he was implying – but she held her tongue. He leaned closer still, warm breath brushing against her cheek, hands reaching out for her thighs.

"You think yourself so superior to me," he sneered softly, right in her face.

Her eyes never left his. They chilled her, and she hated the way he touched her, provoking, but she would not back down from his challenge.

"It must be so difficult," he continued, again ignoring her, "to keep all that – aggression – inside. You must work so hard. Do your Americans know who you really are? Or do they let their Israeli pet off her leash?"

She remained studiously silent.

"We are both killers," he whispered, pressing a thumb against the inside of her leg. "We are no different. I have killed many, and you, you murdered my uncle."

No.

His uncle? Kadin's father?

The assignment, the blurred, disquieting memory she had been dreaming about for weeks? How could he possibly know about that? How could he know what she had done?

Unless –

"You were his contact. You were the one he was leaking information to."

"Mm, very good. I was hiding at Kadin's house at the time; the phone rang, I answered it. I was on the line just long enough to hear him die."

His thumb squeezed harder.

"He provided for me in a way my pathetic father never could. He knew I was in danger, knew his agency was closing in on the men I was working for. All he wanted was to save the nephew that might have been his second son."

"Kadin could not accept it, when I told him," he added, a spiteful inflection to his words. "He worshipped your family, and the Mossad. He did not believe they would kill one of their own. But I heard my uncle before he died. It was your name he spoke."

There was a silence, as he let the weight of words fall.

"Why did you bring me here?" she tried again, suppressing the urge to shift underneath him.

He paused, eyes flickering from her face to her oozing shoulder, where the wound had reopened, again.

"Retribution."

And then he shot up, dragging his own chair back to where he found it, striding to the bottom of the stairs. He shouted something up into the hallway, immediately resulting in more muffled voices and movement on the floor above. Many pairs of feet came thundering down the steps.

More exchanged words, then her arms were being held down as Ponytail flipped open a knife concealed in his pocket, slicing through the bonds around each wrist. Hands moved to trap her thighs as the knife cut easily through the rope around her ankles.

The chair was pulled out from under her, those same hands that had been holding her down now jerking her up by her shirt. They dragged her backwards several paces, and then – as quickly as they had grabbed her – they let go.

Three days without food, only ounces of water, a busted face and arm, with just about every muscle stiff and aching; Ziva considered it a small miracle she managed to stay upright at all.

"One killer against another," he taunted, waving a hand at his men to step back, forming a half-circle behind her. A barrier. A cage.

He had trapped her into a fight.

The men watched, eagerly, as their leader bent his knees, readying himself, repocketing his knife. The taut muscles in his arms flexed as he took a step forward.

Fear swelled in her chest, coursing, gripping. She was outnumbered seven to one, with only one good hand and barely enough energy to stay on her feet, whereas he had all of his strength. All of that fury. He had been waiting to put hands on her for years, and now he could, with all of his soldiers to back him up.

They both knew she could not win.

But he was stupidly wrong if he thought she would shrink away.

"Fine," she hissed, ignoring the fresh tearing sensation from the gash on her shoulder as she rose that arm into a defensive position. The other, now completely numb, deadweight, hung limply at her side.

She lowered her waist, ready to spring into action.

His first hit she blocked, swinging her raised arm forward to counter the force of his arm. His second came from the other side, predictably, and she ducked her head to avoid it, instinct and years of practice moving her without thought.

As his momentum took him left, she sidestepped to the right, aiming a thrusting jab near his kidney, swiftly landing two more as he grunted dully. But in her haste to match his challenge she had forgotten her disadvantage, and she stopped her assault as her deadened wrist – which she had used automatically – now screamed in protest. Sensing her weakness he attempted another punch, and she shot out her forearm to block it just in time, her nonfunctional arm now cradled protectively.

But she was not quick enough to avoid the knee he rammed into her gut, and she recoiled painfully, sharply aware of her still-bruised and weakened torso courtesy of surviving three bullets.

He used the brief opening to slam his fist into her face, and she staggered to the side, stumbling into the men guarding their makeshift border. They shoved her back into the center, whistling lewdly, amused. She met the concrete with a dull thud.

"Stand up, David. I won't have my men saying this fight was unfair."

Slowly, panting, she reached two fingers to where he had made contact. The corner of her lip was split open, stinging.

Unsatisfied with her lack of movement, he crouched down to her level.

"Should I bring in your boyfriend to cheer you on?"

No.

A wave of hatred licked at her insides at his jest. She roughly pushed herself to her feet, determined, trying to hide the shaking. He stepped back, plainly watching her struggle.

"See?" he jeered, laughing with the rest. "You are nothing without your anger."

The second she was fully up, his foot swept behind her knees, sending her crashing back down to the floor.

Dazed, flattened against the concrete, their derision rang in her ears. She rolled, aching, dizzy, forcing herself onto all fours.

(Or – threes, because that wrist could not support even a fraction of her weight.)

Then his boot connected with her exposed ribs, once.

(Body met concrete again.)

Twice.

(A sharp crack resounded within.)

A third time.

(Her head pounded, stomach turning, blackness threatening.)

By the fourth, she was gasping for air, body curled into herself as she tried unsuccessfully to shield her abdomen from further punishment.

She shut her eyes against his scowl, fighting for breath, as if to will away the piercing and gnawing spasms reverberating through her side and chest. She coughed, violently, knees still tucked into her stomach, denying him access. He watched with mild interest, frowning. Even as she writhed and hacked on the floor, completely useless, his disdain did not lessen.

Stepping over her folded body, he shared a knowing smirk with his audience, squatting down behind her back. He took a long look at the mangled bruising of her swollen wrist, then back at her face, twisted with pain.

His apathetic smile faded as he stood.

The strangled yell that ripped from her throat when that same boot came down on her broken wrist only enraged him further, bone grinding into concrete as he pressed into it with all of his weight. Frantically she tried to twist and pull away from him, grabbing and pushing at his ankle, but her thrashing served only to aggravate her burning and stabbing ribs.

It was only when he got what he wanted –

(Tears, hot and salty, stinging her eyes and leaving streak marks down her dirty face.)

That he released her.

What little of her exposed skin that was not stained with blood or dirt had dramatically paled, now sickly white. Her breaths were labored, a rattling wheeze, and her vision blurred even as he hovered over her.

His voice was back to his haughty smoothness as he gave his last rites.

"I brought you here to watch you die. Nothing more."

Then, she knew, their hatred was mutual.

Then nothing.

Somewhere, in another room, Tony let his thoughts drift to a different time, only weeks ago, when his only burden was finding a way off that stupid ship. But his mind would not latch on, would not wander. He tried, so hard, but he could not render away his worry.

That time seemed like months – years ago. It was nothing compared to this.

All his thoughts could manage was Ziva, so suddenly taken away from him and leaving him only this empty room. One second she had been here, the next her face cracked open and bleeding. And the next they dragged her out.

He tried not to imagine her lying somewhere, life leaving with every breath as she waited for a death she had no control over. He tried not to remind himself that his last moments with her involved him being overpowered and an angry door slamming in his face. He tried not to feel infuriated and incompetent and betrayed somehow.

He wanted to forget, to be numb, to have hope, to pray. But he just couldn't do it.

Once, in the midst of his (ah – what is the word she used?) ruminating, he thought he heard a voice echoing in his head. Then he wondered if already he was losing his sanity, and then he decided that he would rather get the shit beat out of him (but not her, please not her) than sit here and brood in his mental torment.

It was a hundred times worse than whatever he was waiting for.

But – still – he couldn't stop the thoughts, could not stop himself.

He tried not to think about how Gibbs was absent, what Gibbs would be doing in his situation, how Gibbs could never lose. Tried not to picture Gibbs silently blaming him. Tried not to think how Gibbs would never have let this happen. Tried not to think of Gibbs at all.

He felt like a child, new, inexperienced, still vulnerable to the cruelty of reality. Like someone that had been cheated, used, burned for the first time, now sulking, cursing himself for not learning the lesson sooner.

Well those lessons could go fuck themselves, because life may not be fair, but death wasn't really either.

Seething, preoccupied, he turned his head and brought his face to his shoulder, wiping away the damp sweat from his forehead. The heat of the small space had not relented, and he found himself wiping every few minutes.

Then he stopped caring.

(She could be dead.)

The sweat on his shoulder clung to his shirt, sticking.

(She could be dead.)

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