Apologies for taking so long in writing this. I never seem to be able to write consistently anymore. I will be doing what I can to improve update speed for the next update, if people still wish me to continue; I know it must be frustrating have multiple month breaks between updates.

Anyway, I want to go head and thank everyone who reviewed or favorited or followed after my last update. It is surprising to see this become popular so quickly, and I love reading the feedback you have given me so far. I hope you all enjoy this update!

Disclaimer: The TV show NCIS belongs to CBS.

Tony walked his route through the ambassador's safe room for the third time in the last hour.

With a full bathroom, two small bedrooms, living room, fully stocked kitchen, and office with hardened communications equipment, the safe room wasn't so much a safe room as it was a series of safe rooms—plural. All protected by biometric security, tungsten-filled walls, a six-inch-thick armored door, and independent water, air, and power systems.

He found it a bit much.

It was built to house the ambassador, his family, and his guards for up to a week without needing anything from the outside, so the size and security made sense. But did the ambassador really need a movie collection in the office? A king-sized mattress in the larger of the two bedrooms? A La-Z-Boy in the living room, sat in front of a 65-inch Samsung 4K? Tony thought not. The ambassador had turned the safe room into a man cave away from the man cave.

But, it was safe, he couldn't argue with that. And safe was all he wanted his family to be. Now if he could just get himself to calm down a moment…

A hiss from the safe room door signaled the air seal breaking. For the second time in the last two days, he instinctively reached for his weapon, and for the second time came up empty. Old habits, he chided himself.

The door swung inward. Tony caught a glimpse of the Marine who opened it before Ambassador Daniel Craig walked in with a folder in hand. No relation to the current Bond, but he had a bit of the actor's looks, with short blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a fit physique. But like the other Daniel Craig, Tony bet he probably couldn't match Sean Connery's Bond.

"It's quite a sight out there," said Craig, his Bostonian accent so faint it was nearly undetectable. "Civilian traffic nowhere to be seen. Military vehicles rolling through the streets. Armed soldiers patrolling the sidewalks. Looks like a warzone."

"Did the Israelis declare Martial Law?" Tony asked.

"Not yet, but there's a chance. This might be one of the few things that warrant its justification. How's your family?"

Tony looked toward one of the bedrooms. Senior was there with Tali, catching afternoon naps. Probably for the best; the body needed rest after a rush of adrenaline, especially in the young and old. Tony would wake them up in another hour, when the Navy C-130T Hercules Vance arranged to take them to Italy touched down at Ben Gurion International Airport. "They're fine. Recuperating."

"Good. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"How are you holding up?"

"Fine."

Craig raised an eyebrow, then sighed after a moment. "Mr. Dinozzo, I admit I am not familiar with what you did at, what was it—NCIS? But whatever it was, I do not believe it allows you to be immune to the physiological effects of trauma."

"It's done enough that I'm fine."

"Then might I ask why you're pacing?"

Tony hadn't realized he was moving until the Ambassador asked the question. He stopped himself, standing up a little straighter. "Just stretching my legs."

"You were doing that the last time I was in here. Do you cramp that easily?"

"Age catches up to everyone, I guess."

Dinozzo found it a little unnerving how Gibbs-like Craig's stare became. The way it was blank yet hard as stone. How it seemed to look into a person instead of at them. Tony let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when the Ambassador looked away to lay his folder on the table. "If that's true, have a look at these."

Tony gave the folder a proper look for the first time. It was thick—maybe half an inch. He'd held enough folders just like it to know the type of paper just barely visible at the folder's top right corner belonged to photographs. "What's this?"

"First round of photos taken by Israeli CSIs. Guess where they're from."

Tony felt his pulse quicken. His breath hitch. An instinctive urge to move to Tali and watch over her. The part of his mind still running like an NCIS Special Agent's didn't like his reaction.

"Still fine?"

"Yeah," Tony said, perhaps a little too quickly. "Just surprised by Israeli efficiency."

"Don't be. Talk politics all you want, but few can deny the Israelis work quickly."

"Yeah."

A short silence fell. Tony realized then the Ambassador hadn't believed him at all when Tony said he was fine. He cleared his throat and picked up the Ambassador's folder. Then he opened it.

The body of the staff member who'd given him the package with Tali's lion was in the top photo. Bullet-ridden, with a chunk of his gut missing, a great pool of blood beneath him, his eyes wide open and forever staring up at the ceiling in fear. So much fear.

Years of experience seeing dead bodies in person kept Tony from reacting to the familiar face. He flipped to the next photo. A couple of tourists. Same state as the first guy.

He spent the next few minutes looking at photo after photo. Some were of bodies he'd seen already, others weren't. Many had been taken at different locations in the hotel. The pool. The beach. The dining room. Personal rooms. There were so many dead—a good amount of them in a state much worse than the staff guy, too. But Tony still didn't react to any of them. He could feel the Ambassador watching him, gauging his response. Tony wasn't going to let Craig see how on edge he really was.

At last, he came to the last photos in the folder. His room. The remains of Tali's toys were everywhere, torn apart by the gunmen who entered. Most of the room was in a similar state, with anything moveable thrown or broken or flipped. There were even a few portions of the wall that had been torn open. They had worked fast.

"How many dead?" Tony finally asked.

"One thirty-nine is the final count. Twice that in wounded. It would have been higher, if the insurgents moved beyond the first two floors."

Tony frowned. First two? "My room was on the fifth floor."

Craig nodded. "Yes it was, and yours was the only one hit beyond room 221. Do you have any idea why?"

"No." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth, either. He had no idea what brought those gunmen up to his room, but his gut said it had something to do with Ziva. Something she'd done, or had said. That part he didn't know.

Craig sighed. "I thought that was the case. Either way, I need to return to my public office; POTUS wants an update." He stepped over to the door and placed his hand against a smooth panel to the side. The air seal broke again once he had, its lock disengaging just after.

"You need these back?" Tony asked as the door was swung open by one of the Marines outside, holding up the folder.

"Keep them, Mr. Dinozzo." Craig stepped out the door, and, just before the Marine closed it again, added, "Maybe you'll see something meaningful." Then he was gone.

Not likely, Tony thought. But it would give him something to do until their ride got there.

He opened the folder again and started going through the photos again, hoping—against all odds—that he might find an answer in them.

Why had the gunmen targeted him?

The Squadroom had reached its normal level of activity by 7:30AM, local time.

NCIS Special Agents moved from desk to desk, exchanging relevant case information, ideas, and files. Probies occasionally left the room to get the full Agents their breakfast or choice of coffee. Case Agents advised the men and women under them, listening to theorized narratives before giving or denying the go-ahead to bring in a suspect.

But a few Agents currently had bigger concerns.

Gibbs' sharp hearing caught bits and pieces of Hebrew and Arabic in the cacophony of Squadroom noise. The broken words would be coming from Agents who had contacts in the Middle-East, specifically in Israel or the states surrounding it. There were a number of agencies, both American and otherwise, who were involved in investigating the Ritz-Carlton attack.

Gibbs made his way through the Squadroom and entered the Bullpen. Both Tim and Bishop were asleep at their desks, hands still resting on the computer keyboards in front of them. Gibbs wasn't surprised; not one of his Agents had ever been able to go without sleep as long as he was.

"Get up," he said, stopping briefly at Bishop's desk to drop off a cup of coffee before moving to McGee's desk to do the same. "Got work to do."

Bishop and McGee said nothing at first. They got up, groggily, and picked up the coffee cups in front of them. Then, simultaneously, they took one long gulp and set their cups down, the required infusion of caffeine complete.

"What time is it?" Bishop asked.

"Almost nine," Tim said, blinking sleep from his eyes. "That means Tony's ride lands in…" He looked at his watch again, then added, "A little over half an hour."

"Time for an update," Gibbs said. "Where are we?"

"On which case, Boss?"

"Either."

McGee powered up the screen behind Gibbs' desk. "While you were gone, we went over Noam Levi's bank accounts. As expected from a Mossad operative, Levi isn't hurting for cash. According to the records Mossad sent out through intelligence cables, Levi has four bank accounts in his name—all of which each hold more than four hundred thousand NIS, or about $104,000 dollars US."

"About right for a single intelligence officer at work for more than a decade," Bishop said. "I remember what it was like to have money in the bank."

McGee frowned. "You always told me you still had a lot left from your NSA days. What happened?"

"Divorce lawyers."

Tim closed his mouth, then cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Anyway. With money like this in the bank, Boss, Levi probably had a lot of cash on hand."

"Makes him hard to track," Gibbs said, eying the screen thoughtfully. His gut said there was something there, right in the bank accounts, that he wasn't seeing. He chose to come back to the feeling. "What else?"

"That's about it on Levi, Boss. He's in the wind. No email. No phone. No car. Nothing else we can do from this Hemisphere."

"What about the woman who called Ziva? Whadda have on her?"

"Between McGee, Abby, and I, we're confident Diana was a schoolmate of Ziva's when they were children," Bishop said. "It explains the bone tumor Abby saw on the remains from the farmhouse. But unfortunately, we don't have access to the school's records yet."

"Why?"

"The school closed when it had the M-183 scandal," Tim said. "Its records never went digital. We're waiting on an Israeli archive to get back to us."

Hurry up and wait. Gibbs had enough of that in the Marines. "And our second case?"

"We're… Honestly, we're stumped, Boss. We have no witnesses. No leads. No suspects. No motives. Based on what we know, it looks like a random killing."

Nothing was random. Gibbs looked back to Levi's back accounts, trying to see what his gut felt was there. There were numerous transactions on each account, some large, others small. Monthly bills being paid, spontaneous purchases. Transfers to and from the accounts. All normal transactions even Gibbs made on a regular basis.

Why was his gut telling him to look closer?

Gibbs focused on the large transactions in each account. When he didn't see anything, he focused on the small ones, then he went to the dates of the withdrawal or deposit. Then he saw it.

Every third paycheck, along with money from Mossad, Levi deposited a check into one of his accounts. The amount of the check was small, never more than three thousand NIS—New Israeli Shekels—and never less than one thousand NIS. But the fact it was small made it significant. What did Levi do for so little pay, and why did he get a check only once for every three he got from Mossad?

It didn't add up.

"McGee. Bishop. What do these look like to you?" Gibbs pointed to the unusual deposits.

His agents were silent, staring where he pointed. Then Bishop offered, "Winnings from poker night?"

"Mossad regulations forbid gambling," McGee said. "They view it as a weakness that can be exploited. Ziva once told me she knew a field officer who gambled anyway. Mossad kicked him out."

"So not poker night. The amounts are way too small to be bribes. Maybe a part-time job he did for fun?"

"Mossad doesn't typically allow anyone to have jobs outside Mossad. He'd have to be paid in cash." Realization seemed to strike McGee in that moment. "Which would mean he'd be on camera to deposit anything. And if he was on camera, we could pinpoint his location for each deposit."

"And if we do that and cross-reference branch locations with places Levi frequented or lived…"

"We might be able to figure out where he would go to hide."

His agents looked to him. "Don't look at me. Do it."

Bishop and McGee started to work, any lingering fatigue gone, their fingers flying over their keyboards. Gibbs would never understand why computers could wake them up better than coffee could.

Which he needed another cup of.

He stepped out from behind his desk, but stopped when he saw McGee suddenly frown and stop working on his computer. Bishop did the same a moment later.

"Well?" The question was for either agent.

"They aren't cash deposits," Bishop said.

"Then what are they?"

"Transfers," McGee said.

"And?"

"And I can't trace where they came from."

Gibbs' mind immediately went back to Petty Officers Johnson and Bradley. They also had money in their bank accounts that McGee wasn't able to trace.

He looked to Bishop. She shook her head. "I'm in the same boat, Gibbs. I don't know where that money came from, and I don't know how to trace it."

That was the deciding factor for Gibbs. No such thing as coincidence. And it was no coincidence that not one, but two cases they were running had a financial element to them neither of his agents could crack. There was only one reason that could be.

They were connected. Somehow, someway, they were connected.

But by what?

The man with the light skin, snow-white hair black suit stood in front of a table that had twelve separate cell phones lying on it.

The phones were average models. Not the newest, most desired line, but also not a basic model that had the ability to only talk and text.. Each had a touchscreen. Each used mobile data. Each lacked the GPS tracker present in all modern phones. Each had a custom app that distorted the voice of the one who spoke into it. They served any need the man might require.

He stood in an isolated bedroom of a house he owned. It, like the phones, was not the newest model, but it, like the phones, was also not basic. It had four bedrooms. Three bathrooms. Air conditioning. A full kitchen. Triple-pane glass windows. Blinds. An advanced, mobile security system that could be installed into any structure within twenty minutes. A group of his personal guard. Ex-SEALS. Zaslons. MARCOS. SAS personnel. Many others, depending on the rotation. The house, like the phones, served any need the man might require.

One of the phones rang. The man answered. "A small firm has requested a sale, sir." The man on the other end of the line spoke French.

"What do they request?" The man in the black suit spoke French with a cédille accent. A deliberate effort on his part.

"Approximately ten thousand carats in diamonds and three thousand carats of emeralds. I have informed them of our current prices of $1,100 per carat of diamonds, and $4,000 per carat of emerald. They are willing to pay full price."

"Proceed with the sale, Operative Koffi. Then monitor the market; prices may increase as a result."

"As you wish, Décès."

The man in the black suit hung up the phone. He placed it on the table, then smashed it with a nearby hammer. Glass spread across the table.

Another phone rang. The man answered. "Demand has exceeded supply, Sterben." The new man on the end of the line spoke German.

"How badly, Operative Weber?" The man in the black suit adopted a Alsatian accent with the German language. Another deliberate effort.

"I have had to offer T-72Ms as substitutes for a lack of adequate T-80 stock."

"Include an early invitation to the next auction to any party that finds available products unsatisfactory. Increase the price on any orders for T-80s to €6,500,000 per unit."

"As you command, Sterben."

The man in the black suit repeated the process he had with the first phone, then continued standing there in front of the table. Waiting—waiting for the call. The one he needed right now.

It arrived seven minutes later.

The man picked up the phone. "Plane just took off again." The voice on the other end of the line spoke English. Accent was American. The man in the black suit's native speech.

"Is it done?" He asked.

"Yes. But, sir, I need to be clear: this was never guaranteed to work. The part should wear out in time, but it might hold longer than expected."

"I am aware of the possibilities, Operative Smith. Either way, success or fault will fall on your shoulders."

"Understood, Death."

Tony swore his daughter had somehow picked up Gibbs' habits in the short time she was in DC.

He watched, awed, as his daughter slept soundly against his side. Completely and totally out even as the sound of the C-130's propellers nearly burst his eardrums and threw he and Senior around at the slightest turbulence. How did she do it? Magic? Genetics? Exhaustion? Fear of what was on the ground greater than what was in the air?

Tony wrapped his arm around Tali a little tighter. Maybe he'd been a little too real with that last thought. He hated how much trauma his daughter had lived through in the last months. First her home burning down and her mother disappearing, now living through a terror attack in Israel. He needed to keep a close eye on her in the coming days.

A particularly bad shake from turbulence caused Tali to drop Gibbs down on the floor. Tony watched helplessly as the rough ride carried the stuffed lion away and out of reach.

One of the crew—Dan, Tony thought his name was—an athletically-built man of average height who had a smile he couldn't seem to wipe off his face, crouched and grabbed the toy as it approached him. He walked over to Tony, heedless of the shaking, and handed Tony the lion.

Tony offered a smile and nod of thanks, and Dan returned it before moving back to his station. He went to sneak Gibbs back beneath Tali's arm, but he paused.

Was that metal he just felt?

Tony squeezed the toy a little harder. Sure enough, he felt something metallic inside. Small. Rectangular. Not normal for a child's toy.

There was something inside.

Tony looked closely at Gibbs' seams. Most of them looked either worn or lightly burned. Study, though. However, one was new. New and flimsy. At its left side, just inside its chest. He hadn't noticed it before.

Very carefully, he lifted his arm from Tali. Then, equally as carefully, he pulled at the new seam. It came undone with a little strength behind it, and an inch long cut opened. He reached inside, found the object he felt before, and pulled it out.

It was a flash drive. A sleek, black flash drive that had 2TB on the side. McGee probably would have known what that meant.

What the hell was this doing inside Tali's favorite stuffed animal?

Was this why he'd been targeted?

The plane shook like it had been hit with something big. A great clang sounded out over the roar of the propellers. The ride became ten-fold rougher. Dan's smile finally vanished.

Oh, no...

I believe the user ctc posed a question that was related to that twist at the end. Great thought on their part suspecting Gibbs the lion was more than just a favorite toy being returned.

I feel I am being a bit annoying with how short these updates are. But, this is how the chapter fell into place. I am hoping next update will be both longer, and come quicker than this one. That way I won't leave you readers with a multi-month cliffhanger to wait on.

Thank you all for reading, and if you enjoyed, please tell your friends! Despite my writing style, I really do try to be friendly.

One last thing. On my other main story, I list a suggested credit song (or three, depending on the complexity of the update) down here in the second author's note. So, credit songs in future updates: yes/no?

See you soon.