You're probably wondering where the heck I went for months. The answer is simple: life.

And unfortunately, no, it wasn't all good, either. There was a particularly bad event a couple months back that has been sticking with me. I am not going to go into details, but it sucked. Still does. Plain and simple. It derailed me for a while, but I'm back now... I think. It's honestly going to depend on you, the reader, if I'm really back. You see, that sucky event I mentioned? It's made me reconsider what's important in life, and as such I'm looking at all my writing with a critical eye - more so than normal.

What that means is pretty simple: should I just scrap this story, or continue it? I ask because it has been a while since I updated, and the new NCIS season has since started. If you want me to continue this story, let me know. If you don't, well, I'll take your silence as answer enough.

Since I had to go on a bit up above, I can't answer guest reviewers in-depth. I will just have to say thank you, and I hope you enjoy the update.

Now, without further delay, chapter 3.

Disclaimer: The TV show NCIS belongs to CBS.

The Squadroom was uncomfortably silent at nearly four in the morning.

What usually would be a bustling room working to uncover truths to mysteries and justice for victims was now a virtual graveyard of empty desks and powered-down computers and TV monitors. The windows and skylight were not bright like they were in the day. Now, they were dark, with only faint moonlight coming into the building.

But the Bullpen was active as ever.

Gibbs was waiting on a call as Bishop and McGee worked at their computers, eyes focused on their screens like he was while working with wood. Empty cups and sandwich wrappings were scattered across their desks. All that was left of Gibbs' food and coffee runs.

The Bullpen's two main screens were on. One displayed bank accounts, credit card purchases, and phone records, while the second showed a series of NCIS case files, photographs, and approved undercover IDs. All made, once upon a time, for the focus of their search.

Ziva.

Ten of their 24 four hours were gone. His team hadn't uncovered anything to dispute Ziva David's death. No money had moved from the bank accounts that had yet to be closed. No purchases from the credit cards in Ziva's name that Tony was struggling to get canceled. No clues in her case files of where she might go if her life was threatened.

They needed more information. That was why he was expecting a call.

The simple, three-note ringtone of his phone went off, drowning out the sound of tapping keys from his team.

Gibbs picked up his phone, walked behind the staircase, and answered the call on its third ring. "Whadda got?"

"Well, hello to you too, Gibbs," said Fornell.

Since waking from his coma, Gibbs had seen—and heard—how hard Tobias was working to get back up to speed. Early mornings, even by his standards. Late nights, even by his standards. Work outs. Physical therapy. All while spending every moment he could with Emily. He was like a machine.

When he wasn't camping out on Gibbs' couch and eating his food.

"Hello."

"Oh, come on. Put your heart into it."

"You have anything?"

Gibbs heard Tobias shuffle some papers around his desk. "Yes. One Tariq Alvi. Pakistani mercenary. Most active in Palestine, Israel and Syria. Hated by pretty much everyone, ISIS excluded."

"You got his location?"

"If I did, it would have been bogus intel through a CIA channel; he's Eighth on their Blacklist."

"Then what did you call me for?"

"Easy, Gibbs." Tobias' voice had a trace of its usual iron. "I know you want to find the truth, no matter what it is. I'm letting you know where you can stop looking."

Gibbs knew that, and appreciated it. But he didn't want to waste time. "Okay. Then what do you have?"

"That's the thing, Gibbs—I have nothing. No hits. No money being moved. No phone calls. No texts. No sightings. Not even at the brothels he likes to frequent in Turkey. The man's a ghost."

Gibbs' gut said there was something wrong with that. Something very wrong. "He went dark."

"Maybe, maybe not. I can't say for sure until I dig up some fresh intel. But, I didn't waste all my time. I have something that might be of use to you."

"What?"

"Ever since his first hit, Alvi's always posted on websites about his kills. How many there were. Who they were. Then follows it up with a prayer for strength to continue his work. With Ziva, there was nothing. Not even the initial anger he showed Kort."

It definitely wasn't what he'd hoped for, but it was something. "Get back to work, Tobias."

"Keep me in the loop, Gibbs."

Gibbs hung up and returned to the Bullpen. "Where are we?"

The tapping keys stopped. Tim and Bishop exchanged a look from across the Bullpen. A wide eyed, pleading look. The universal look telling the other to speak up.

"I'm waiting."

Tim sighed and went first, "Checking through Ziva's financials hasn't led me anywhere. Every purchase is months old, made before she died. And no one has withdrawn or deposited money into her accounts since then."

"Anyone try to?"

"Not unless you count the bank itself labeling her account DORMANT in a couple years."

About as Gibbs expected. He looked to Bishop.

"Ziva's last phone call was from a local restaurant two days before she died," Bishop said. "After that, nothing. Not even a text. She wasn't what I'd call active when it comes to digital communication."

Wanted to be alone, Gibbs thought, and she made it happen. "That it?"

"The last activity on her account was this month. Her phone carrier suspending her account due to lack of payment on her plan."

Useless. They were missing something. He could feel it in his gut. Gibbs looked to the screen, to one of the fake ID photos. This wasn't their usual victim or suspect: this was Ziva. Former Israeli military, Mossad, and NCIS agent. She was sharp. Knew how to be invisible in plain sight and how to live in the shadows.

There was more to what was in front of them. They just weren't seeing it.

"We're doing this wrong."

"Boss?" Tim asked.

"We're looking at Ziva's records as if she was just another female victim. But she wasn't. She was Mossad, and from the moment she finished their training, she was far from normal." Gibbs turned to Tim. "What kind of things was Ziva buying?"

"I don't know; the foreign database I can get into doesn't have that."

"Well, then find out what she bought. Fruit, beer, movies. Look at it like Ziva would—"

"And see if anything sticks out of the ordinary," Tim finished. "On it, Boss."

"Bishop." The blonde sat up a little straighter when Gibbs looked to her again. "Do you have any audio from Ziva's calls?"

"No, but I can call in some favors."

"Do that."

Gibbs left the Bullpen once Tim and Bishop got to work with the the outlook he gave them. He went to the elevator leading to the entrance, and hit the button for the ground floor.

The 7/11 around the corner was the only place to get Caf Pow at this hour.

Abby's Lab was silent when Gibbs walked in, Caf Pow in hand. Abby herself was standing at her computer, staring at the data that Mossad had sent her with wide, unblinking eyes. There were five empty Caf Pows in front of her.

Need to get her to cut back on sugar, Gibbs thought, briefly allowing his mind to switch to a more parental setting, before returning to business. "Got something, Abbs?"

Abby spun, pigtails continuing and snapping back in place when she stopped. She had both a scowl and a smirk on her face. He knew that look. "No."

"No?"

She gestured to the computer. "Mossad gave me nothing, Gibbs. Well, they did, but they didn't. I don't have anything to analyze, and all the tests they ran on the remains were superficial. They didn't try and really dig for a proper ID. I mean, some of that comes from the mortar mangling the remains to the point where even dental records were useless, but a lot of it just comes from sloppy science."

Abby brought up a picture on her main screen of blackened and warped spine, skull, and arm bone fragments lying on an examination table, with an examiner standing over them. "Take this, for example. Instead of checking these pieces for DNA in the bone marrow, Mossad only ran tests on the residue from the mortar, yet they file them as one of twenty-one positive matches to Ziva's most recent medical records." She leaned forward, as if she were trying to get in the medical examiner's face. "That's not how forensics works!"

Gibbs waited for her to stand straight again to ask, "So they forged the positive ID?"

"Oh, no. They made sound conclusions with most other stuff, from what I can tell. They just weren't as thorough as they should have been. They might make good spies, but Mossad make lazy scientists."

"Then why did I come down here?" Gibbs shook the Caf Pow ever so slightly, knocking the ice cubes in the cup together.

Abby's eyes went to the Caf Pow. He saw the greedy look that appeared in her eyes before she tore her gaze away from the sugary drink and back to him. She smiled. "Because I'm not lazy." She brought up a different image on the screen. It was of the same scientist as before turning over a part of a pelvis. Like the other bones, the pelvis fragment was also blackened and warped. "Tell me: what do your Gibbs eyes see, Gibbs?"

Gibbs looked at the bone for a moment. He saw nothing. "It's a pelvis."

"Very astute, Gibbs." Abby entered a command into her computer, and the image enhanced. Now, there was a section of the pelvis—a very small part, going by how large the scientist's finger now was—that was highlighted. Instead of being blackened, the highlighted section of bone was dark brown in color.

From how wide Abby's smile was, this was significant. Gibbs still didn't see it. "What am I looking at?"

"You are looking at the remains of a bone tumor that was removed years ago. A very particular type of bone tumor that comes from exposure to a very particular type of chemical: Exasoil, or M-183. made by the now-defunct company Genetic Gardens from 86' to 89'. It was supposed to be Miracle Gro on steroids. Able to get any crop to grow on any soil, at any time of year. At least, until it was proven that M-183 was, in fact, toxic waste that caused cancer and tumors. Like the one you see on screen."

"Was Ziva ever exposed?"

"One of the gardens in her school when she was six actually did use Exasoil. A number of her little schoolmates and teachers contracted various forms of tumors and cancer from prolonged exposure." Abby frowned, looking like her mind was in another place. "About twenty of them died. It's heartbreaking, Gibbs. So many lives that could have lived up to so much, only to have them be cut short. It's not fair..."

"But was Ziva exposed?" He didn't like cutting to the point when it involved children, but Gibbs was on the clock, and it was about Ziva.

Now Abby smiled again, tragedy temporarily forgotten. "Her parents had her tested extensively after Exasoil was found to be dangerous, and she was as healthy as could be. No tumors."

The implications of what Abby just said stilled Gibbs' mind. The body wasn't Ziva's. She was out there, somewhere. Alive. But why was she off-grid? Why hadn't she made contact until yesterday?

What was so important that she'd left her daughter behind?

Gibbs blinked, and his unanswered questions went to the back of his mind. He looked back to Abby. "That's good work, Abbs." He gave her the Caf Pow and went for the door.

"Go find her, Gibbs!"

Gibbs returned to the Bullpen with a new sense of urgency in his fast, measured steps. "McGee."

"I got something, Boss." McGee stood up, TV control in hand, and clicked at the screen displaying Ziva's financial records. The image on screen changed to a long list of electronics, chemicals, food, and utility items. "The day before her death, Ziva went on a spending spree. Everything from baby food, movies, music, paint, even bumper stickers for her car. It's like she suddenly had to go out and buy whatever she saw."

"Ziva wasn't an impulsive buyer," said Gibbs. He remembered that shortly after she came to the United States, she spent months reading and watching reviews of different cars before deciding on one.

"No she wasn't." McGee pressed a button on the remote. All but four things from the list of purchases went away. What remained was Advil, an American brand of whisky with a very high alcohol content, cloth, and a highly respected cleaning agent made to kill germs. No two items had been purchased in the same place. "So that makes me wonder why she needed all this."

Gibbs stared at the brand names for just a moment before seeing a connection. He pointed to the cloth. "Bandage." Then to the cleaning agent. "Sanitizer." Then to the whisky. "Local disinfectant." And finally to the Advil. "Painkiller. She was making a homemade first aid kit without making it obvious."

"Yeah, but why?" McGee asked. "I went back through her purchases a month before she bought all this, and she had just updated her first aid supplies. Why make a homemade kit when you have access to a better one?"

Gibbs thought of what Abby found, and it clicked. "Because she already used the first aid kit on someone."

"What?" Bishop asked.

Gibbs quickly filled Tim and Bishop in on Abby's discovery. McGee ended up back at his desk and in his chair, looking like someone had hit him. Bishop had a similar look.

"So, the body they found isn't Ziva's?" Bishop asked.

Gibbs shook his head. "No."

"And Abby's really sure?"

Gibbs gave her a look for that.

Bishop ducked her head. "Right. It's Abby. No mistakes made."

"Then whose is it?" McGee asked. Gibbs placed his tone between angry and stunned. "Why were they in Ziva's house? Why was Ziva helping them? Where is she now?"

Gibbs saw a glint in Bishop's eye, and he looked at her fully.

She immediately started typing something into her computer. "I can't say I have any idea on the last one, but I think I might have something for the first two."

The screen behind Gibbs' desk changed, displaying the list of calls Ziva made and received up to a month prior to her death. Bishop highlighted the final call. "I called in those favors I was telling you about, and I got this from an NSA data site used as a tertiary backup. Listen." She hit her enter key.

Ziva's voice spoke first. Whatever she said was lost on Gibbs; Ziva was speaking Hebrew. But her voice… It sounded so happy. So at peace. Exactly like he wanted all his agents to be.

"My Hebrew's a little rusty, Iva." The second voice was a woman's. High, but not pixie-like. Accent was American with a faint hint of Israeli. And pained. So pained. As if the mere act of speaking hurt like a stab wound.

"Who's that?" Gibbs' sensitive ears barely picked up the whispered question from McGee. Likely, it had been meant for himself.

"Who is this?" There was suspicion in Ziva's voice. Suspicion that quickly faded to surprise. "Wait, Diana?"

"Yeah, been a while."

"Years. You sound strained. Are you okay?"

"No, but I don't have time to explain. I need your help. Remember our favorite place to eat back in the day? I need to you drive there as soon as you can. I'm going to be in the back alley."

"Diana, wh—"

"Make sure no one follows you." The recording stopped.

Questions started. Who was Diana? How did she know Ziva? What had her worried?

Was she the body recovered from Ziva's farmhouse?

Gibbs forced his mind back to the present. "Who is she?"

"No idea," said Bishop. "But whoever she is, she knew how long it took for NSA voice recognition software to ID someone. She ended the call after just eighteen seconds."

"Then she was also paranoid," said McGee. "The NSA only uses that software when they're searching for one of the CIA's Blacklist."

"Just 'cause you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not out to get you." Gibbs turned away from the screen. "She was wounded. Didn't get that way by herself."

"Wounded and avoiding hospitals. She was running from someone." Bishop looked contemplative. "Someone who she thought had a lot of reach, so she calls up Ziva for help. Ziva helps her. Then two days later, the farmhouse is mortared. That's a seriously unlucky coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidence."

The elevator dinged, sound louder than normal due to the early hour. Gibbs looked up in time to see Leon Vance walk into the Squadroom, looking as serious as ever.

"Surprised to see you this early, Director," McGee said.

"That would be because I'm normally asleep right now, Agent McGee." Vance stopped at the far end of the Bullpen, looking right at Gibbs. Gibbs could now see the unhappy look in Leon's eyes. "Gibbs—Director Elbaz wants a word. MTAC." Vance moved to the stairs with that.

Gibbs' eye twitched. Elbaz gave them 24 hours. Not even half that time had passed. What did she want? He went to follow Vance, but as he did, he looked at Bishop and McGee. "Diana. Find out who she was, and how she and Ziva knew each other."

Less than a minute later, Gibbs entered MTAC. Vance was standing in the middle of the room, much like he had just hours ago, hands behind his back, already looking in Gibbs' direction by the time he stepped inside.

"You have anything to give Elbaz?" Vance asked.

"I do."

Leon's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. Gibbs told him what his team had found, and Vance leaned back into his chair. "There really was someone else in Ziva's farmhouse."

"Yeah."

"You know for sure if it was this Diana?"

"Too early to tell."

"Sir," one of the MTAC technicians said, looking like he was hoping the technician scheduled to take his place would show up an hour early. "Director Elbaz is on the line."

"Patch her through," Vance said to the tech, then to Gibbs, "Let's hope Director Elbaz doesn't just see it as proof Ziva had a guest over when she died."

The main screen began to show a real-time feed of Elbaz at her desk. Unlike the last time they spoke, her office was bright. Afternoon in Tel Aviv.

"Good morning, Director. Agent Gibbs," Elbaz greeted. "Thank you for being willing to talk so early in your day, but I thought it best to contact you now, so as to save you from wasting anymore time on an unnecessary investigation."

Gibbs had been hoping to do the same for Elbaz.

"Director Elbaz," Vance greeted back. "What have you found?"

Elbaz lifted her right hand to reach for something off camera. Her hand came back with a piece of paper in it. "I have a confession, from one Mossad Officer Noam Levi. He was one of the officers who Ziva occasionally called on for help with Tali. He has admitted to forging the note from Ziva, and sending it to Anthony Dinozzo, along with a stuffed lion for Tali."

Gibbs' gut told him there was something wrong with what Elbaz uncovered. Not with her—with her information. With the source. He couldn't pinpoint what it was. "Did he give a reason for his actions?"

"Officer Levi is a rarity among Mossad: a prankster. He wrote it as a joke. He has since expressed regret in his poor taste in humor."

"What do you plan on doing with Officer Levi?" Vance asked.

"A month's leave without pay, reassignment when he returns to duty. And a face-to-face apology to Anthony and his family, for the false hope he gave them." Elbaz paused and looked between Gibbs and Vance. Like she expected them to do or say something. She leaned back into her seat. "Both of you were advocating for an investigation, yet now, when I present the results of mine, you say nothing. I have missed something."

"You have: the results of our investigation." Vance looked to Gibbs.

Gibbs took the hint. "The body in the farmhouse wasn't Ziva's."

Elbaz frowned. "No, that is impossible. You se—"

"Evidence doesn't lie, Director," Gibbs cut in. "Abby examined the photos you sent of the remains. She spotted what was left of a bone tumor."

"Bone tumor? Miss Sciuto must be mistaken; Ziva did not have bone tumors."

"The body you find in that farmhouse did at one point. Abby can give you exact details, if you want us to patch her through."

Elbaz still looked unconvinced.

"Miss Sciuto hasn't made a mistake since I took this job, Director," said Vance. "I stand by anything she reports, including the body you found in the farmhouse not belonging to Ziva David."

Elbaz was silent for a long time. Then she slumped forward, mask cracked wide open. Pain and confusion showing plainly. "Ziva is alive."

"Every indication on our end supports that."

"But what is keeping her from coming forward?"

"We're working a lead," Gibbs said. "We have audio from Ziva's last phone call. Whoever she was speaking to seemed afraid that someone was after them."

"Someone dangerous?"

"As I said, we're working a lead."

"Too early to know, I understand. But what I don't understand, is why Ziva has not made contact."

Gibbs' gut sent him a feeling to act when Elbaz said that. To take action. That life and death depended on that action. "Honestly, Director—I think she has."

"The note? That does not make sense. I have a... Confession..." Elbaz trailed off. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then horrified. "I've made a terrible mistake."

His gut told him something was very wrong. "Director?"

"I should have seen it earlier." Elbaz reached across her desk again, hand coming back holding a phone. She spoke rapid Hebrew into it.

"Director Elbaz," Vance said. He looked as confused as Gibbs.

Elbaz hung up her phone, eyes still wide. Gibbs could see how quickly her body language had changed. How urgent she now appeared. His gut was right—something was very wrong. "When I sent Officer Levi home to start his unpaid leave, he asked me what room in the Ritz-Carlton I had booked for Anthony and his family. He said he wanted to get right on his apology."

"What about that has you so panicked, Director?"

"Because I never told Officer Levi where the Dinozzos were staying. I didn't tell anyone where they were staying."

It was then Gibbs understood why his gut was screaming at him. Diana was afraid for her life. She feared someone was after her—someone with reach.

Mossad had great reach.

"I want a security team at that hotel now," Vance said.

"I have just called for two. But I don't know if they can get there within time."

"Call Tony, Gibbs."

Gibbs had taken his phone out long before Vance addressed him. The only problem was his call wasn't going through.

There wasn't even a dial tone.

Tony found it hard to concentrate on the movie with his mind so occupied with thoughts of Ziva.

She was alive. He could feel it in his gut. He always had. But he was sidelined. Out of the game, unable to run out there and find her. Oh, how he wanted to do just that. But who would take care of Tali? Senior? Please—he had subscribed to the grandpa role way too quickly. If he left, Dad would fill her with cookies and ice cream. Couldn't have that with a girl as young as his daughter.

Wow. He sounded like a parent with that thought.

With his mind—for once—not willing to focus on a movie, Tony subtly took out his phone and swiped in his pattern to unlock it.

No signal. Not even from Wi-Fi.

That was weird.

Tony stood up, throwing Tali a smile when she gave him a puzzled look. She smiled back and turned to the movie again, hugging her lion, Gibbs, close to her little chest.

"This is the best part, Junior," Senior said.

"Just a sec, Dad." Tony went to the phone to call the front desk. Maybe someone in the hotel had been messing with the Wi-Fi, and now it was interfering with his phone. That was possible, right? At least for McGee. Probably not for anyone else. Still worth a shot. He picked up the phone.

Nothing. Just a long, flat tone that signaled no connection.

Alarm bells went off in Tony's head.

Those alarm bells became honed instincts when he heard a string of gunfire outside. Senior jumped off the couch. Tali cried. Tony went to the window.

Eight floors below, down at street level, a group of nearly two dozen trucks, cars, and utility vehicles had stopped in the middle of the road, blocking traffic. Around them were armed gunmen with ski masks and AKs, firing into the air, and worse, into the surrounding crowd of people.

And some of the gunmen were entering their hotel.

They were under attack.

In case it isn't obvious: I'm a fan of cliffhangers. There's something so satisfying about writing them that feels... Right. And honestly, even reading them is fun to me. They make me want to read or watch or play more, and that's a good thing. So fair warning, if this story continues, you're going to get a lot of these.

Now I leave you. Thank you for reading, and remember what I said above. If you want the story to continue, let me know.

See you soon.