A/N: Ok, this one is a little darker. Hope you like it... though I must say this isn't the most popular story I've ever written. Oh well. F.
McGee hung limply, too exhausted to support his own weight. He'd tried and failed to fight back against the hooded man and his metal pipe; the third blow, he was pretty sure, had broken his wrist as he tried to block it. A further blow had stunned him long enough for the man to drag him to the wall and chain him so that he could barely stand properly.
The pain in his wrist was close to unbearable in this position; underneath his clothes he could feel a myriad of bruises forming, and from the feel of it, the one blow that had caught him across the face had broken his nose. His one consolation was that he hadn't given in; hadn't given them the information they wanted.
The questions were odd somehow. They hadn't wanted things like where Gibbs lived; they wanted to know routines, habits. There was something in that, he knew it, but right now he couldn't make sense of it.
As the throbbing started to diminish, he opened his one good eye and looked around, trying to get more of an idea of where he was being held. It appeared to be a windowless, concrete box. Apart from the slot in the door, the only light came from the screen mounted up near the roof. It was a heavy duty monitor, the sort you saw in airports and train stations, and it was the only thing that looked to be new. Closer to the door, marks on the wall showed where something that had been fixed there had been removed. Brackets of some sort? He puzzled over it, trying to put the pieces together. Finally it came to him. It was a prison cell, most likely one used for solitary confinement. The brackets must have originally held a bed of some sort. But where? He couldn't think of a single abandoned prison facility anywhere near DC, and unless more time had passed than he'd realised, he couldn't have been taken far. Exhausted, he slumped back down, tilting to his injured right side to take some of the stress off his wrist.
...
Gibbs was restless. Abby's detail was-by his estimation- five minutes overdue to call in. He stared at his phone, mentally counting down the seconds until he picked it up and tore her detail a new one. He was momentarily disappointed when it rang.
"Yeah. Gibbs."
"Gibbs. Agent Kershaw." Gibbs could hear the incipient panic in the normally unflappable agent's voice and tensed. "You need to get down here."
Gibbs hung up without a word, grabbing his gun and badge out of the drawer and headed for the elevator. "Tony, Ziva, with me."
He heard Tony's "Where are we going, Boss?" as he passed his desk but ignored it, seeing Tony scramble in his peripheral vision.
Barely giving his team and their protective officers time to get in the car, he gunned the engine and tore out of the parking lot. Fury engulfed him as he drove at high speed through the traffic and screeched to a stop out front of Abby's building.
Leaving the rest behind, he took the stairs to her second floor apartment two at a time. Coming around the last bend, he was confronted by the sight of Agent McMillan sitting on the floor with what appeared to be an icepack held to the back of his head. Agent Kershaw hovered nearby, his face grim.
"Abby?"
Kershaw slowly shook his head, quailing under Gibbs' fierce glare.
"They were waiting for us" McMillan spoke from his spot against the door. "I never even saw them."
Gibbs turned away, towards Tony and Ziva.
"They've got Abby. Process the scene."
...
Slowly McGee raised his head. There was something different. The screen in the corner was lit up; it was split into quarters. He strained to see; one eye was swollen almost shut, making it hard to focus. When he could make out the picture clearly, he drew in his breath in surprise and anguish.
Tied to a chair, gagged, her green eyes wide in fear, was Abby.