Though people rarely gave him the credit for it, Tim McGee wasn't the only one on Team Gibbs with an analytical mind. Tony DiNozzo could hold his own in that category, and in that moment, the analytics that were swarming around his head would be enough to power a small statistics seminar. His green eyes clenched as he ran through the footage in his mind's eye. Discrepancies and irregularities began to form.

Not because he knew anything about technology. He didn't, not really.

But he sure as all hell knew everything there was to know about how a recovery team would operate. More specifically, how his MCRT leading recovery team would operate. His lips trembled as he blocked Pyotr from his view. The decision making process that was going on under his bloodied, lank mop of hair could potentially impact national security or…be the bullet in the heart of Tim McGee.

First of all, Gibbs would never go in with just a three man team. He'd have a transport option, and flanking agents. Secondly, he'd never go two abreast, that was a complete waste of man power. Thirdly…thirdly, his eyes clenched tighter still, Gibbs just couldn't…he just couldn't be dead. Ziva…she was literally un-killable, she was Ziva for crying out loud. His heart pounded painfully off his abused ribs as he thought rapidly. His next words, if they weren't correct, could either endanger his country or kill his friend.

He swallowed.

His best friend.

Why hadn't he ever told Tim that the constant teasing, the pranking, the McNicknames were just his way of showing that he cared? Were just his way of showing that he was a hell of a lot more than just a colleague to him. His mind raced, as his heart beat so fast the blood was boiling hot in his veins. He couldn't betray his nation. He had already shown he was willing to die before he did that. The scars, the burns and the mental lacerations had shown that. He was perfectly willing to give his life to protect his nation.

..and other nations. Oh so many, varied, nations.

But was he willing to give… Tim's?

Was he really willing to take a gamble, to assess the odds in a mind that had been so violated, when the bounty was probie's heartbeat? He felt his intestines churn as he contemplated, knowing that Pyotr was standing there, just standing there. Leering at him with that almost unearthly smile. No amount of closed eyelids could prevent that reality. He knew that when he opened his eyes, an answer would have to be given. There would be no turning back, no more closing of the eyes. There was literally no way back.

His breath caught in his throat as the image of Tim bound to that chair surged across his mind once more. The gaunt frame, the bloodied face. The bruised body, the torn arms. But that wasn't the most alarming thing…far from it. The most alarming thing was the look he'd seen in his eyes. The look of…resignation. Acceptance. Tony knew that look, because he'd seen it in his own eyes. Felt it in his own body. The apprehension of death, the yearning of release. The only light at the end of the most fathomless, lightless tunnel imaginable.

The question was, had Tim already gone to that light?

Was the tape he'd been shown, some form of fabrication?

What if…what if the probie was already dead, and he talked. Gave them the answers they wanted, to save he who could not be saved, and punching a gaping hole in America's line of defence in the process.

His brow furrowed as he kept his eyes tightly shut. If he talked, their mole, for there sure as hell was a mole, back at NCIS would be poised to act instantly. To put that information to its fullest, and most devastating use.

Ships upon ships, sailor upon sailor… would be in immediate jeopardy. Their very lives, basic survival, would fall into the realm of questionable continuance. He had guessed their plan. The full reach of his estimations had caused him to hurl in the corner of his clinical cell. It was ingenious, if albeit slightly crude. If they got those codes…if they took both remote and physical control of those ships and those sailors…the damage was untellable. The body count, uncountable. The rationale part of him, a singular lone voice screeched that one life couldn't be saved at the expense of thousands.

Or, hundreds of thousands.

But that one life…that one person, was McGee. The rationale part of his brain didn't account for that. Didn't account for the fact that he was being summarily torn apart as his choices, the bleakest of choices, stormed throughout him. On the one hand, he had the thin hope that McGee was not really sitting in that chair in real time, and that somehow, he was safe. He readily conceded to himself that this was an infant's fantasy. Then, on the other hand, he had the near surety that if he didn't…if he didn't yield and break at long last to Pyotr, Tim…would die.

He would be the case of his friend's death. Knowing his time for contemplation was drawing to rapid close, and with two unbearable prospects raging head on down the thunderous track of his own doom, he forced a deep shuddering breath into his plague specked lungs.

His eyes snapped open.

The emotional agony that resided in the once brilliant green spheres caused Pyotr to physically lick his lips in sadistic glee. Clearly, a decision had been made. He drank in the turmoil with an insatiable thirst, his heart pumping in victory. This prisoner had been the hardest he'd ever dealt with. The most unbreakable he'd ever tried to break. He felt a soft pang of lamentation. He could have had answers months ago if he'd used the man's foolish sense of comrardary against him.

But Vlada, rest his soul, had insisted on complete and utter separation between the two interrogations, and so he had rather happily confined himself to his traditional methods. Looking at his captive now, he braced himself to hear in the information he required so desperately. Sucking in a breath, he showed no outward signs of urgency as he smiled his callous smile. "So, friend," he crooned, "you have made your decision? You have decided to end this foolish defiance, and tell me what it is I need to know? And in the process," he chuckled, causing the hairs on Tony's neck to rise, "you can even save your precious Timmy."

His throaty laugh bounced off the sterile white walls once more.

"After all," he continued slowly, "if not for him…and your heroism, you not be sitting here at all. His life…wouldn't be in your hands. So, what's to be?" He walked closer to his bound guest, and knelt down in front of him. Placing a cool finger on the bruised and bloodied chin, causing Tony to choke in disgust, he peered at him intently. Calculating eyes bore deep into anguished counterparts, as the two men stared steadily, silently, for a moment.

"Your answer, friend?" Pyotr eventually demanded silkily, "think carefully, because this is your very last chance." He stepped back, preparing himself for the fruition of their plans to come together in a blinding surge as soon as this infernal DiNozzo opened his damned mouth. Watching, said mouth did indeed open, and he leant forwards eagerly. He was in no doubt that the man would choose to save his puppy, for without that ridiculous bond, he wouldn't be sitting before him.

"Yes?" he prompted viciously, "the code? What is the code?"

Tony stared steadily for a moment, before speaking as clearly as possible through broken, bloodied lips.

"The code?" he all but croaked, looking his tormentor square in the eye. Pyotr resisted the urge to slam what could easily be the thousandth punch into the man's face, instead opting for a stiff, silent nod. His heart continued to rack in his chest, the glittering gleam of answers being so tantalisingly close it was all he could not to reach out and rip them from the man's throat.

Tony drew in what he hoped would be his last breath, and looked up with a square jaw.

"Its…" Pyotr's eyes widened in glee as he spoke, and he nodded with a sickening encouragement. "That's right, that's right my friend…save your friend, for they have abandoned you both. Tell me what I need to know, and both of you walk free."

Tony smiled then, the effort causing his lips to screech in protest.

"Its…" he repeated slowly, "one…two…and screw you."

The expression on Pyotr's face was nothing short of terrifying, but for Tony, who only yearned for death, it was nearly immaterial. Nearly, because his words, if the sadistic bastard in front of him was telling the truth, were surely the nails in Tim's coffin. His stomach writhed as he considered what he'd just done, that he'd just placed the lives of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, over the life of his best friend.

A shining light of hope flickered feebly in his mind.

Maybe, that video, was all but an illusion. Maybe…just maybe, Gibbs had been successful. Maybe, just maybe Tim was safe now. Back at home, back where he belonged. If that was the case, he would die as happy as a long suffering, tortured prisoner could die. He watched through barely open eyes, as his tormentor went through an alarming change in complexion, before his mouth curved upwards in one of the most feral snarls he had ever seen.

Even, during his near year in captivity.

"You stupid, stupid fool," he hissed, his eyes alight with a malice that would be more appropriate in a horror film. "You people and your morals…" he chuckled mirthlessly, and the hairs on Tony's neck rose in tandem. "Well…let us see, shall we, how Timmy takes your patriotism, hmm? Shall we see, does he appreciate your commitment to country, before my colleagues, place a bullet in his brainy little head?"

Tony's breath caught in his throat.

Before he could answer, before his brain could fully comprehend what he was hearing, a phone suddenly slithered into Pyotr's hand. His cruel fingers flew over its keypad, and placing it on loudspeaker, he allowed it ring clearly in his outstretched hand. A male, gruff, and Russian voice answered. Replying in the same tongue, which Tony understood not a jot of, he gabbled into the phone quickly.

Suddenly their tongues changed to English, horrifying English at that.

"Kill him?" the unknown assailant asked questioningly, without a hint of remorse or concern. Smiling widely at a wheezing Tony, who was desperately trying to escape his bounds, to do what, he didn't know, Pyotr chuckled once more.

"Kill him," he affirmed lightly, "leave the phone on, we have a…captive audience on this end." He made a production of turning up the volume on the call, so even the faintest rustling could be heard as he walked slowly towards a straining Tony.

"Are you ready for your precious Timmy to die, my friend? Are you ready to hear the impact of a bullet against his skull?" His grin widened further as Tony swallowed down vomit, "because he has you to thank. He has you to thank for so…very much, isn't that right? Though, I confess, it is a tragedy that he will die thinking you abandoned him, not knowing that you were so brave for so long, and all for him."

He held the phone up higher, as the rustling grew stronger.

"He cannot hear you, this is ahh…a one sided conversation, but if you like, because I am a generous man, you can have one last opportunity to tell me what I need to know. I can…call off our little spectacle here, should you choose to do so. Your choice, of course."

Tony's eyes bulged as the noises on the other end of the line grew stronger, and he struggled all the more fruitlessly against his bounds. "Kill me," he eventually spat, "just…kill me, I'm the one who's not giving you what you want, kill me."

Pyotr beamed in the midst of the anguish.

"You and Timmy," he crooned, "are somewhat similar in terms of what you will and will not do. I fear…my colleagues are growing…tired, of him. As I say, I could ahh…rejuvenate them, but you need to give me what I want. Otherwise…." he raised his brows pointedly, "well…I think you're familiar with the residue of brain matter resulting from a point blank range shot, against a solid surface."

He feigned a shudder.

"Dreadful mess, awful stains."

Tony spluttered and strained, his heart nearly pumping out air instead of blood, such was its frequency. For the first time, in nearly a year, he said a word that he had vowed from day one, never to utter in the confines of this shiny, hell hole.

"Please," he choked, "please…don't kill him. Let him go, he doesn't even know the code. He's a junior agent. Kill me…please…" The sounds on the other end of the line were getting clearer now, as Pyotr's leer grew wider. "Last chance, this is your very last chance Agent DiNozzo….what's it to be? The code, or your protégée?

Tony gasped, and shook his head, feeling dizzy from the force of the blood in his veins.

"I can't…I can't give you the codes…." he pleaded, "please…don't do this. Kill me, I'm the senior agent, kill me…just, just let him go…."

The chuckle, the throaty chortle seemed to screech around every surface in the sterile room. Holding the phone up to his cruel lips, Pyotr crooned a delighted "do it," into the receiver, before holding it out so Tony could hear every last devastating detail.

The captives struggling stopped, as Tim's voice suddenly wafted through the other end. Awestruck at the sound of him, Tony was speechless, helpless and option-less but to sit and listen. The probie's voice was remarkably strong, remarkably calm and resolute. Tony's eyes bulged as he heart his voice, and heard the words, in his unmistakable tone.

"My name is Agent-"

Tony winced as a loud bang suddenly stopped those words, and as the phone was swiped away from him, and secreted back where it came from. Shock flooded through him, shock such as he had never, ever felt before as he stared straight ahead, the blood pumping mercilessly throughout him

"Bye bye Timmy," Pyotr gloated, "least he went out with a bang, yes?"

Tony blinked. And then once more. Before, for the first time, in his adult life, completely losing it. Dropping his head down onto his chest, he didn't care. Didn't care what ammunition he was giving, or what pleasure he was providing.

He was sobbing.

Heartrending sobs of guilt and sorrow racked through him, heaving his chest up and down as Tim's voice and face reverberated around his mind. He barely caught his breath, not that he wanted to breathe, before continuing to fall afoul of the pent up damage inside of him.

He, in that moment, feared he would never stop crying.

Two guards, forgotten in the heat of the moment, moved forwards, seeking to remove the man from Pyotr's view, thinking him an inconvenience. But the man waved them down, grabbed a bottle of water from the table just for Tony's torment, and sat on the floor, cross-legged, staring up at him.

Watching the tears drip to the floor, he tilted his head like a curious child. Reaching out, he caught one of the hot, salty droplets in his hand as it fell, and gazed as it seeped through his skin. Staring up once more at the unaware captive, his grin spread across his face once more.

He mightn't have the codes, yet. He would get them, no matter what it took, or who it took.

But for now,….this was a delicious alternative.

For now, this would do.

But only for now.

…

TBC

…