Ziva and Gibbs were released first of course, but there wasn't a moment to spare over reunions just yet. The sounds of gunshots and shouting were still echoing through the halls, but it wouldn't be much longer until someone came to check on the occupants of the dungeon.
Once the doors began to unlock, the prisoners burst forth, many in hysterics. Tony and Tim tried to shush them, but their gentle pleads for quiet were lost to the many gasping sobs of relief. Even after McGee put away his wings, the dozen or so humans would not calm down. Surprisingly, it was the young man, Andrew, who took charge.
"Everyone!" he spoke with a hint of authority in his voice. "We need to get out of here as quickly as possible. These people," he gestured to Team Gibbs, "they've come to save us. Do what they say."
The small crowd of people turned attentively to Gibbs; even in desperate times, it was clear who the leader was. But Jethro turned to Tony and Tim, knowing that his boys wouldn't storm a place without a plan. Tim took out his gun and ran towards the exit, making sure it was all clear. Meanwhile, Tony and Ziva turned towards the staircase on the other end of the room, just on the off chance that someone appeared. DiNozzo handed a gun to his boss and a knife to Ziva. McGee reappeared and signaled for three prisoners to follow. Quickly he led them out into the night and across the alley. Before he could tell any of them to wait, or at least give them directions, the three humans bolted off. There was no time to stop them, though McGee was positive that they were safe. He repeated this a couple more times, and was surprised when one man turned back to thank him before sprinting away. Andrew was last, and quickly shook Tim's hand, murmured thanks and well-wishes and disappeared into the dark.
After only a couple minutes of eternity, the NCIS agents rushed out, breathing sighs of relief. But they weren't home-free yet.
"Where're Apollo and Victoria?" Tony asked.
"We're here," Victoria whispered, sneaking up behind.
"No time to talk, I think we've only got a few more minutes of time before they start looking for us," Apollo said as he landed next to her.
Tim spread his wings and prepared to take off before Victoria stopped him. "They saw our wings, they'll be looking for flightlings in the sky."
"We'll have to go the long way around," Apollo said. "We'll get near the bridge and hail a couple of cabs back to Valero Notte."
Apollo, knowing the city best, led the way through the most obscure back alleys he could think of. With the extra shroud of darkness, they made it over the grand canal and to the bridge out of Venice as quickly as possible. The group of seven was lucky enough to hail a mini-van cab, which could fit all of them. There was almost no talking, partially because they didn't want to discuss what happened in front of the driver, and also because no one would truly feel safe until they were in Valero Notte, in the sanctity of the Clark house.
In thirty minutes they pulled up to the doors of the huge mansion, which seemed tiny after the D'Amico house, and rushed inside. Apollo swept the house and checked the locks on the windows and doors, just in case they were followed home. Satisfied of their safety, he ended up in the kitchen, where Tony, Tim and Victoria were cleaning Ziva and Gibbs' small cuts and finding them something to eat (they hadn't eaten since being snatched).
"Is everyone alright?" he asked gently, and five pairs of eyes found his. No one knew what to say, so of course Tony filled the silence.
"Thanks to you," he said, acknowledging both Apollo and Victoria.
Victoria gave a kind smile, then turned back to Ziva's heavily scraped up hands. She accidentally caught the Israeli woman's gaze, but sheepishly cast her eyes to the bandages. Tony didn't make her nervous- they'd spent enough time beating each other up, and later talking, that they knew how to act around each other. But she had never spoken to Ziva or Gibbs, and even though she'd just risked her life saving them, Victoria didn't know much about what kind of people they were. Tim loved them, and that was enough to trust them. But that was it.
"Thank you for saving us," Ziva said in a rare display of genuine humility. Gibbs too nodded to each flightling before his eyes landed on McGee. Obviously Leroy Jethro Gibbs wasn't one for public displays of affection or even approval, but it was clear that he and his youngest would be having a talk later. After all, Gibbs had never stopped considering McGee as his youngest, even when he was assumed dead.
McGee looked at his two families and realized that he would have to properly thank the Clarks later, when they wouldn't be embarrassed by the attention.
Tony managed to fight off the awkward silence again. "What did you do to distract the guards? We heard gunshots."
"It turned out there were more of them than we thought," Victoria said. "I managed to pry a window open on the third floor and stuck a lit match in there. Some drapes caught on fire, and I guess someone heard me break the window because as soon as they started to burn, people showed up with guns. The curtains went up pretty fast, and I guess nobody was sure whether to shoot at me or put out the fire. Apollo helped of course."
"I just tore some bricks off the roof and threw them at guards to create confusion. But I didn't see any of the D'Amico's. Did you see who took you or find out what they wanted?" Apollo asked.
"They were planning some sort of ceremony," Ziva said. "They didn't say what kind."
"How many were there?" Victoria asked, finishing up Ziva and handing the medical supplies to Gibbs, knowing full well that he wouldn't want her to touch him.
"We only saw five or six, but there must have been more."
"Any names?" Tim questioned, glancing at Apollo.
"One," Gibbs said. "The one who came into our cell."
"Thaddeus, I think," Ziva began, but stopped when Tim, Victoria and Apollo all went pale. Tony wore a grim expression of his own.
"I suppose you two were right," Apollo said to Tony and McGee. After another bout of silence, Gibbs grew frustrated.
"Somebody want to explain?" he demanded, as if they were in the bullpen at NCIS.
Tim quickly summarized the story of the D'Amicos as Apollo produced alcohol for everyone in the room. When he was finished, everyone realized what they had faced that night.
"Well," Apollo sighed, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "I suppose I'll have to address that tomorrow. But tonight, we're all alive. That's worth celebrating, I think."
Thaddeus pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting ever instinct, every primal urge he had not to kill the simpering little man following him down the grand staircase of the D'Amico manor. He usually only picked flightlings that he liked, or at least tolerated, to join his clan, but in times like this, he seriously considered destroying them all and starting his family over fresh again.
"I'm sorry, Thaddeus. I don't know who killed the guards-"
"I didn't ask you who killed the guards, fool. I asked you why I thought I could leave you in charge for just two hours while I took care of some business. I return and there's been a fire, two of my best men are dead, and all of our prisoners are gone."
The scary thing- one of the many scary things- about Thad was, that he never really raised his voice when he was angry. Instead he used a quiet condescending tone that suggested to its recipient that the end was near.
"I…I…" the man stammered. What was his name? The elder flighting couldn't remember. He turned to stare at his subordinate, who cringed ever so slightly under his scrutiny. Thaddeus' nose crinkled in mild annoyance. This man was clearly not a direct descendant of one of the original families; flightling bloodlines were a complicated thing. Before the number of flightlings began to shrink, back in the Dark Ages, there had been close to a million in the world. During the Renaissance, there had been flightlings among the nobles and commoners alike. But as people once again descended into paranoia and fear, and the hunting business once again became more than myth to the general public, it was of course the poorer, peasant flightlings who were killed first. Some were evil, stealing souls and causing destruction, but it didn't really matter. If you had wings, you had a death sentence. The wealthier flightlings in the upper classes survived by hiding behind their reputations, their power and their money. Who would suspect an opera-going countess of murder, anyway?
It came to be that the surviving members of the species were mostly noblemen and women. There were of course quite a few flightlings who escaped death, but they often married humans and the bloodlines became muddled. Soon, it became rare for families to be "flightling families." Instead one or two flightlings were born every few generations, if both their parents carried the allusive recessive gene. And even then, there was a good chance they were never "activated" by coming into contact with another of their kind.
This was the case for the commoners, anyway. The noble families sought to keep their bloodlines as strong as possible, and so the descendants of the "original" noble families developed their own traits within the flighting genes. The shape of one's wing, the original color of the feathers; it was just as easy to track family lines in these traits as eye color, nose shape, or blood type.
Anyway, it was very clear to Thaddeus that this recruit was not of the noble families. It wasn't his fault- so few flightlings were of quality lineage these days. But this didn't help abate his annoyance at this little toady.
"Stop sniveling," he ordered. "Do you realize that everything will have to be pushed back? Not days, but possibly weeks. Those humans will talk, and we'll have to wait until the rumors have died down before we can take more without raising suspicion."
"I'll…we'll get twice as many as before," the man promised.
"See that you do, and maybe I won't kill you," D'Amico said, leaving the man at the foot of the stairs and heading in the direction of the room where the fire had occurred. A couple more of his recruits were there, cleaning up the mess. He liked these two better than the man downstairs. Not of notable birth, it was clear, but she was pretty, and he looked strong. They were twins. Both clearly powerful.
"What happened here?" he demanded. He rarely shouted- he learned centuries ago that calm authority got him better results.
"It looks like these drapes caught fire," the girl answered. "Someone tampered with it... this window's broken off of its hinges."
The only room in the entire house without bars, and it was attacked. Thad resisted another urge to kill someone. That was the downside of constantly murdering people: the temptation becomes too much to ignore.
"Who the hell would want to do that?" the guy asked.
It was a good question. The D'Amico's at one time had many enemies, but since their near-destruction, no one had known about them, much less bothered them. All of the family's old enemies were long gone. And who would care about the prisoners enough to risk their lives for them?
Suddenly he recalled the pretty woman and the silver-haired man he'd seen in the dungeon. The first of their captives. She wore a very familiar crest around her neck…Thaddeus hadn't given that crest (or the family it belonged to) a thought in years. But it suddenly made a lot of sense. Those who wore that crest were a modest sort, but definitely members of the oldest flightling collective in Valero Notte. And the reckless loyalty that such a stunt would require was practically a trademark of the Clark family.
Turning from his two young followers and heading to the roof, Thaddeus spread his wings and leapt off without breaking his pace. He hadn't been to Valero Notte in a long while. A shame really, considering how close the little city was. The perfect distance for a nighttime rescue operation.