*Watches episode She*
*Watches ending with a note from Ziva being left to another character*
*Watches episode Daughters, with Ziva being reunited with Gibbs in his basement*
*Watches promo for NCIS Season 17, which appears to feature Ziva being hunted by an unknown Big Bad who is the reason she hasn't reunited with her family*
... huh.
In all seriousness, I haven't had an opportunity to watch the first episode of this season; I was too busy finishing this update. And I have. A full two weeks faster than it took me last time. Improvement. Yay.
However, instead of apologizing, I'm going to be angry. Not at any of you (you wonderful, review-leaving people), but at me. I have the capability of writing faster, yet I don't. I need to change how I approach writing not just this story, but all my projects - original or otherwise. So, I'm going to do something bold.
I'm going to update next month.
It might not be pretty, it might not be a long update. It might be so bad ya'll who aren't sick of my infrequent updates just leave. But dang it, I have to try. So I will.
So, expect an update sometime in October.
Long author's note over. Enjoy the update.
Disclaimer: The TV show NCIS belongs to CBS.
"Update."
He spoke the single word flatly. Dully. Not showing any of the frustration he felt.
The new Region Senior looked to him, then said, "All vital equipment has been packed and sent on its way to our Bravo location."
"The prisoner?"
"On his way."
"And our incoming guests?"
"Caught them on city cameras. Four miles out and closing."
Too close for his liking. "Options?"
"Building structure is defensible but lacks multiple exits. It was wired upon purchase, as is standard."
That would do. "Evac all remaining personnel. Light the fuse."
Gibbs' car was third in line.
Ahead of him, there were two NCIS SUVs with law enforcement lights on the roof. Two big Chevy Suburbans, armored and loaded with seven Agents each. Each of those Agents were members of REACT. Trained and equipped to head into the worst situations NCIS might encounter. He could see their silhouettes through the tinted windows, still and dark.
Behind him, in a line of other SUVs and sedans, the rest of the convoy rolled down the street—ten vehicles in all. At least four Agents to each. Metro was working on setting up roadblocks in the area, and Tobias was putting together his own reaction force to backup NCIS if need be.
Beside him, his team sat silent, motionless. Professional. Anxious. Bishop rode shotgun with him, hands tapping against her ballistic vest, blankly looking out the windshield. In the seat behind her, Tim sat with a calm expression on his face and an unloaded MK 18 Mod 0 across his lap. Usually, they only got rifles for assignments in active warzones.
Vance considered this one.
His eyes flicked to the mirror, to the rest of the convoy following. Torres and Quinn were in the next car, their faces hard. Ready.
One more mile, he thought. Hang in there, DiNozzo.
The convoy rumbled through an intersection, then another. What few bystanders were still out in this area at this hour watched them pass by with wide eyes. Drivers of other vehicles wisely kept their distance.
A voice crackled from a radio sat in a cup holder. The driver of the lead Suburban. "Thirty seconds to target."
They drove into another intersection, then turned. It was the last one in their route. Ahead, out of sight because of the Suburbans, their target site sat at the end of the street. Old and empty, but owned by a real estate company that clearly fronted for someone else. It had the fingerprints of their mystery bad guy all ov—
A deafening roar cut through his thoughts. Stopped any plan that may have begun to form in his head. He instinctively ducked down in his seat, acting on instincts developed from his years as a Marine and NCIS Special Agent. His team followed after him, as startled as he was.
It took a quarter second for his mind to realize the sound had neither been close nor effected his physical state. It took another quarter second for his mind to supply a cause to it.
An explosion.
"All stop! All stop!"
The Suburbans slowed to a stop well short of the target location, then parked at either side of the street, blocking it. The move let him see ahead.
The target location was blowing up.
It wasn't from an enormous, billowing fireball rising up to the sky, a single blast of massive proportions—but many, well-placed charges. Bright flashes as high-velocity explosives detonated with a thoom that rattled his teeth. Then came the smoke and debris shot violently in all directions, shattering windows and piercing the thin metal of car doors that had been parked across the street.
Three more sets of charges went off. Thoom. Thoom. Thoom. All centered on supports for the entire structure. It collapsed from front to back, throwing up dust in a cloud that rapidly expanded outward and upward, covering the entire property and surrounding street. It was only then, with dust and smoke in the air, that the warehouse roof—old and wooden—caught fire from the heat of the freshly-exploded rubble it lay in.
Gibbs sat there a moment, letting himself process what he was seeing. Feel the frustration of being too late to recover DiNozzo and bring these people to justice. Then it was time to work.
"McGee—get the fire department," he said, and McGee he heard raise his phone to his ear. "Bishop—how many roads lead us out of the area?"
"It's D.C, Gibbs." He saw her move out of the corner of his eye. Grab her phone, open a map. "Every road takes you out of town."
"How many?"
"Eighteen, not counting the route we took here."
"How many avoid main roads?"
She tapped the screen of her phone. "Two. One's under construction."
"What way?"
"Ahead, then left."
Gibbs picked up the radio. "Team-1, we have a possible location on target. Give me room."
"Copy, Lead," said a driver.
The Suburbans drove up onto the sidewalk, creating a passable gap between them. Gibbs drove through it, taking the lead spot in the convoy. The air got progressively darker the closer he got to the devastated warehouse, and the road got rougher. More filled with debris, burning and not. His nostrils stung as they went.
By the time he got to the intersection directly in front of the warehouse, visibility was down to no more than a hundred feet. The street was so uneven from debris that they bounced around in the Charger. He took the left as Bishop said, straightened out. In his mirror, he saw the rest of the convoy following, the lights of the Suburban especially bright in the dust and smoke hanging in the air.
McGee hung up his phone. "Fire Department's on the way, Boss."
"Have Jacobs stay behind and wait for them."
"Just did."
Good man.
Once the road started to clear of debris, Gibbs asked, "Where now?"
"Straight for two miles," Bishop said, "then right."
Gibbs gave the car a little gas.
Time to play catch up.
"NCIS is following us."
The man looked at the new Region Senior. "How?"
"It appears they managed to guess our route. An ATM we tapped just picked up this."
The Senior angled the tablet in his hands, giving the man a full view of the screen.
At first, the camera on that screen displayed an empty street. Then government vehicles appeared in frame. More than what were in his personal convoy. More vehicles would bring more shooters with them. And more shooters meant delays.
He looked from the screen to the head of his security, sitting ahead of him in the front passenger seat. "Change our route and discourage our imminent pursuers."
His head of security opened his phone and spoke briefly.
The man in the suit did not react as his motorcade abruptly turned, throwing him against his seat belt once, then again as they turned a second time.
Nor did he have to look back to know that two Range Rovers had only turned once.
"You sure about the speed, Boss?"
Gibbs didn't answer that. Didn't have to. He turned, following Bishop's last instruction. As he did, he asked, "What now?"
"Straight nine blocks, then a right."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw headlights reflect off the building to his left. The REACT guys were keeping up well, even in their Suburbans. The first block went by in a blur. Same with the next two. And the next three.
It wasn't until the seventh that something in his gut twisted. Cried out to him. Told him something wasn't right.
That they were in danger.
He picked up the radio. "All stop! All stop!"
Before he could follow up his own order, he caught a glint out of the corner of his eye. A bright shine that didn't come from a building window.
Time slowed.
He turned his head, heedless of all else in that moment. In the street to their left, two black Range Rovers were parked in the road, facing him. One was parked under a streetlight, its pristine hood creating shine.
The other had a weapon and shooter on its roof.
"DOWN!"
No sooner did he duck did rounds shatter the windows. Shake the Dodge as they hit the bodywork.
His hearing went. Then he was suddenly thrown forward into a deployed airbag.
Gibbs couldn't move for several precious seconds. His gut screamed to move. His chest felt tight. His mind, stunned by the airbag, couldn't catch up. He felt nauseous.
Why was his head wet?
A hand was resting on his neck, weakly pushing him down further into his seat. He heard someone speak, but the sound was far away. Muted. A distant voice right in his ear. A rapid, thudding rumble came from the other side.
His hearing came back in a rush.
The voice was Bishop, telling him to stay down. The rumble was weapons fire from behind. Deafening. Close. Large. A proverbial giant roaring its fury.
But it wasn't hitting them.
He pushed Bishop's hand off his head, sat up. They weren't in the street, but the sidewalk. To their left—outside his missing window—was the wall of a building, brick and featureless. The dent in the armored door just left of the shattered glass told him there would be no exiting his door. Ahead were the ruined remains of a mailbox and concrete steps — the cause of the airbags.
The mirror revealed that behind them was mayhem.
Across the intersection, the convoy held back. Those nearest the intersection sported bent fenders and bumpers, but little in the way of bullet holes. Many NCIS personnel—most from the rear of the convoy—were stacked up against the buildings to the left, both taking cover and evaluating the possibility of flanking the ambush. Torres and Quinn were near the edge of the building with several other Agents, taking turns blindly firing their weapons around the corner. Two other Agents next to them were down.
And so was the SUV of Team 1.
It sat in the center of the road, stationary. Horn blaring. Wheels flat. Doors and windows dented and shattered from heavy fire. Gibbs saw a lot of blood inside.
He put that out of his mind and looked to Bishop. She was still down, one hand over her head while the other sat on the Dodge's center console. Lack of blood said she wasn't hurt.
He looked to McGee.
And his heart dropped.
McGee had both hands pressed against either side of his neck. Blood covered his fingers and, quickly, was spreading down the side of his chest. But most moving were his eyes. They were composed, yet frightened. Panicked. Pleading. Pleading in a way only seen in someone who knew they were dying.
"Bishop!" Gibbs bellowed over the continuous thunder of automatic fire, unbuckling and climbing in back to get to McGee. "McGee's hit! Med-kit. Now!"
"The trunk release is stuck!" She cried, already in his vacated driver's seat and trying to pull the lever at the side.
"Then shoot it open! Go!"
Bishop opened the passenger's side door, coming out in a crouch. With her weapon up, she moved to the back of the car, and Gibbs lost sight of her.
Gibbs focused on McGee, adding his hand to keep pressure on the wound. He checked the younger man's neck, first at the entry sight, then the other. Exit wound was bad, but not giant. Its size was not greatly disproportionate to the entry. High muzzle velocity? 5.56? Could be good news, could be bad. He didn't trust his fuzzy mind to decide.
They sat there together, he and McGee, for what seemed like hours. Bullets whistled through the air. Rifles roared mutely, as if far away to his not-quite-recovered hearing. Two more Agents went down. The others stopped trying to fire back. Their attackers, unseen and unceasing, could roll back toward the intersection and end them all.
And all Gibbs could do was hold McGee's neck.
Tires screeched, faintly, over the clamor. Then it was over.
Then he heard the screams of the wounded outside. The calls for others to bring in the FBI backup that should have been there already. For ambulances that would be needed in droves.
Gibbs' joined them. "Bishop, call Vance."
He heard her hit keys on the screen of her phone. Heard her speak. But he didn't hear her.
He paid more attention to the way McGee's eyes were beginning to glaze.
"Stay with me, Tim. Stay with me…"
They had to alter their route twice more—both times to avoid FBI and local law enforcement—but in the end, they arrived at the secondary site without further incident.
The secondary site was another warehouse located in another neighborhood of the city. Equally crime-ridden and run down as the last, the warehouse—with its broken, aged windows and weathered walls—blended in perfectly with the locale. The two factors keeping it a secondary was its close proximity to two other warehouses and the limited number of roads surrounding it.
The man's Range Rover came to a halt within the warehouse's garage. The man waited, then stepped out when one of his guards opened his door.
His nostrils were immediately assaulted by a foulness that was foul in nature. He sniffed, hummed. "Sewer?"
"Unfortunately, yes," said the Region Senior, walking around the Range Rover to join him. "Two blocks south, maintenance crews are updating lines under the street. A rookie hit the wrong pipe. I've taken the liberty of tasking a crew to set up air filters inside the main building."
The man hummed, satisfied. "What of our pursuit?"
"NCIS suffered multiple casualties, several of which were KIA. Early reports indicate others may well be on their way out."
The man turned, moving out of the garage; the Senior followed.
Beyond the garage doors, Workmen and Techs were installing a series of additional precautions for the security of the site. Reinforced doors. Independent Internet access points. Redundant, back-up generators. All they may need, should they need to weather an assault.
"What of their current situation?" Asked the man.
"A joint FBI/D.C Metro/NCIS team is investigating our primary site and our unplanned engagement," said the Senior. "Surveillance estimates well over one hundred Agents and Detectives are involved at both locations."
"And my guards?"
"Two injured, neither fatally. I had them drop off their vehicles at a secure site for dismantling. They are currently in hiding while I obtain alternative transport."
Sound precautions with no needed guidance. Good. Less of his attention would be required for the small details. "What of NOOSE?"
"In light of recent events," the Senior said, walking ahead to open a security door so recently installed it didn't recognize the card of one of the guards in the detail. He told a nearby Tech to resolve the issue, then went on, "I have had to instruct a number of personnel to abstain from certain preparations; however, I have also taken the liberty of adjusting plans to accommodate those complications."
"Updated estimate?"
"NOOSE has been delayed by slightly over one hour. Current figures suggest it will be ready within three."
The man hummed. Acceptable in the circumstances, but still not ideal. "Do not engage Stage 1 until it is. Initial contact cannot be compromised."
"Sir."
The man looked at his Rolex as they walked through the warehouse's main room, where a familiar shipping container was just being lowered off the bed of the semi which transported it. "Is the chef in?"
The Senior nodded.
"Have a meal prepared; neither myself nor my detail have eaten today."
"Of course, Death."
Gibbs patrolled.
To most who saw him, they'd see him doing his job. The Supervisory Special Agent supervising. Meeting Agent after Agent with orders and demands for status updates. Approving assignments. Listening to leads uncovered by lower-ranking Agents. Permitting them to pursue them further or telling them to look elsewhere.
Few would see. See the true reason he moved between the entrances and exits of the Squadroom. See the suspicion just beneath the surface of the fearsome look in his eye he always had. Few would connect everything together.
Few would see he was anxious. Anxious, and afraid.
The mood in the Squadroom was noticeably solemn, and it had good reason to be. Nineteen Agents were currently being treated for gunshot wounds. The entirety of Team 1 was KIA. Two other Agents were, too—with three others in critical condition.
In the last twenty-four hours, NCIS had lost a dozen people. Fathers. Mothers. Sons. Daughters. All cared for by each and every one of the Agents still in the building. And those Agents had to find their killers while staring at empty desks.
It was little surprise that no one was smiling.
His patrol brought him by the main window near his Bullpen. Outside, he could see the hospital across the Yard. DiNozzo Senior was there. And Tim. And every other Agent who got hit in the ambush. Those that were still alive.
He wanted nothing more than to be there. To interrogate the surgeons as soon as he exited the trauma center. But he couldn't. It wasn't an option for him. Not with so much to coordinate.
All he could do was sit. Wait. Supervise. Patrol. Stare at the hospital.
He was useless.
Someone stepped up next to him, silent and just out of his peripherals.
"Tali asleep?"
"Yes," Ziva said, quietly. Blankly. He knew the tone.
"You shoot at us?"
Ziva said nothing, though he sensed her move. Look directly at him.
He looked back. "Until you do, stop putting everything on you."
She swallowed, eyes breaking away. "For all we know, you and I will be the only survivors of our Team, Gibbs."
Gibbs knew he should have said something about that. Tell her to get out of a mindset that made it harder to do the job. To correct her not only for her own sake, but for the sake of anyone she may encounter.
He didn't.
She turned to him again. "There's another reason I am not with my daughter, Gibbs."
Gibbs waited. And waited. Nothing came. "What?"
She surveyed the room, eyes calculated. Wary. Dangerous. "Not here."
Ziva walked away from the window, and Gibbs followed.
They went to the blind spot near the staircase, moving to its most isolated corner. Even then, she looked down the nearby hallway and up the stairs, her eyes focused and her face stiff. Tense as her body was. Ready to run—or fight.
Gibbs stood close to the wall next to her, giving her the corner—and the best angle to observe. "What's this about?"
Ziva looked at him. "I took your advice about not staying in the conference room, Gibbs. Tali should not have been there. So, I took here down to Abby, had her spend time with her. She played. Made a mess of things with Abby. Did not pick up after herself. I cleaned."
"And?"
"And Tali had some of her toys in the lab with her. Ones I made. Her favorite is what I sent to Tony. As I picked it up, I felt something inside."
Gibbs repeated himself with a look.
"The point is." She reached into her back pocket, pulling something from it. "I found this."
He looked to her hand. A flash drive was there, grey and metal. He didn't recall any drive he'd seen looking like it.
His eyes flicked back to hers. He saw the intensity in them. The apprehension lying beneath. "That what I think it is?"
She nodded, her jaw tight.
"Abby know?"
"Yes."
"Keep it to her for now," he said severely. "And don't let that thing leave your side."
"I do not intend to." She pocketed it once more, her eyes darting behind him.
He turned. Fornell was coming around the corner, looking tired, angry, and frustrated. Everything Gibbs was.
"Gibb. Been looking for you." His eyes flicked to Ziva. "David. Long time. Wish it weren't like this."
Her only response was to walk away.
Fornell blinked, looked at Gibbs. "Something I said?"
Paranoia's justified, Gibbs thought. "Whadda got?"
"Four hundred shell casings and rubber from tires outside my budget." Fornell paused. "And another your people."
"Who?"
"Agent Ryan Harris. Flatlined during surgery."
Gibbs' eye twitched, flexing his hand instinctively. He should have been out there. He should have been helping his fellow NCIS Agents. He should have led first aid efforts for the wounded. Been the one to make their way to Team 1's SUV.
All he'd done was watch McGee bleed.
Fornell stepped closer, his limp small yet still noticeable. "How are you holding up?"
"Where are you on the shells?"
"Don't try to ignore me with investigation crap. I know you too well."
Gibbs' eye twitched.
"Ah, yes—the patented Gibbs Twitch. You gonna follow up with a John Wayne impression?"
Gibbs felt his gut tighten with anger, and he turned to walk away.
"Guess that's a yes," Tobias said, following. "You know you're not good when you're like this."
"I'm fine."
"Like hell you are." Tobias cut him off, blocking Gibbs from moving further away. "You've been shot at in your own home. You've been shot at in your car. You've had almost a dozen Agents die in the same amount of time. One of your kids is missing. Another you thought dead is back from the grave. And another is being operated on as we speak. So don't bullcrap me and say you're fine."
He should have been angry at Fornell. He should have told him off. Made him get out of the way. Let Gibbs do his job.
He couldn't find it in him.
Tobias nodded his head. "What I thought. Go see 'em. I got this."
"I'm not walking away from my investigation—"
"If you were good to be here, you'd have listened to Vance when he told you twenty minutes ago this whole thing is now a joint FBI-NCIS op. We're equals now."
That gave Gibbs pause. Had he really… not heard that? He recalled Vance talking to him, saying something about more debriefs to attend. But nothing else stuck. It was just white noise in his head.
"Go across the Yard, Gibbs," Fornell said, voice tinted with an understanding edge. "You should probably get that gash looked at, anyway."
Gibbs tensed his jaw, weathering the ache that followed at the side of his head, where a piece of metal, or glass, or whatever nicked him at the intersection, had cut his scalp. "Not gonna happen."
"Then don't. I don't care. But you need to be there."
Gibbs tried to summon the will to disagree. To make an excuse. But, he found he couldn't. Not now.
"If anything happens, if you find out anything…"
"I got you as a favorite." Fornell held up his phone, one of the flat, smart, overly-complicated ones Gibbs loathed. "Go."
Gibbs nodded, half in defeat, half in gratitude. Then he went for the elevator, only to stop once more.
He was at the main window, looking out at the Yard. Just coming into view, there was a convoy of black government sedans and SUVs moving up the road. Not an unusual sight in D.C. Especially not today.
What stood out was that they were parking.
His gut tightened again.
"Gibbs?"
He didn't turn as Fornell walked up behind him. Nor as he felt the other man stare at him.
"Tobias," he said, nodding toward the parking lot, "you call in reinforcements?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fornell look out at the arrivals. "Not yours?"
"No."
A door slammed behind them. Gibbs looked to the second floor. There, Vance was just reaching the stairs.
He looked furious. Furious, and tired.
He descended the steps and advanced, his face a storm — eyes fire and brimstone.
Vance pointed a finger as he passed. "You two. With me. Now."
Gibbs shared a glance with Fornell.
This couldn't be good.
The man concluded his meal of braised lamb just in time for a high-ranked Tech to deliver him a case.
He did not need to look inside to know phones were contained within, each set to be called by a Region Senior seeking his direct approval or guidance. He was managing a severe situation, but the Organization stopped for nothing.
He flipped the latches on the case and examined the phones that, indeed, were held within. Each of them were a—figuratively—more rugged version of the standard model he preferred. All were fitted with additional security features that complemented the precautions being implemented into the warehouse. With him now on U.S shores, the man was taking no risks in alerting more than half a dozen intelligence agencies within the metro area of the city.
But it would have been amusing if he did.
The Region Senior approached, tablet in hand, as the man set the case aside. Purpose was in his steps, and on his face was moderate apprehension. "Sir."
"Go."
"There's a complication."
"Are we compromised, as your predecessor made us?"
The Senior cleared his throat. Uncomfortable. "No, sir."
"Tell me."
The Region Senior navigated the screen of the tablet, then flipped it around for the man.
The man viewed the hacked security footage for several long seconds. Taking in the scene of NCIS Headquarters and what were, obviously, recent arrivals.
Arrivals he needed no file to identify.
"This changes nothing," the man said, looking away from the tablet and sipping from his half-emptied wine glass. "Update on NOOSE."
He heard the Senior swallow. "Of course, sir. As it stands, preparations on NOOSE are 94% complete."
"Get me the Line when it reaches one hundred."
They arrived in the lobby at the same time a swarm of unfamiliar men entered the front doors.
Many of them wore suits. Others wore civilian attire yet carried themselves otherwise. Most carried equipment with them. Laptop bags. Rugged briefcases.
Rifle cases.
One of the men made straight for he, Vance, and Fornell. He was tall—an inch or two above Gibbs' own frame—and wore a black suit and tie. His close-cropped hair was dark, and his eyes were a cool brown. Evaluating all three of them in a split second.
Spook.
"Director Vance," the man said, "I presume you've gotten the call."
"I have," Vance said, level voice etched with a tone of hostility. "That doesn't change the law. CIA has no right to be here."
"It does today." The man smiled, a gesture neither comforting nor amused. "And I have a letter in my jacket signed by the Presidential Cabinet and your Secretary of the Navy confirming that. Would you like to read it."
Vance said nothing.
The man nodded, as if that settled everything. "Thank you for your cooperation, Director." He told a group of men waiting at the elevator to hold it for him, then looked at Gibbs and Tobias. "Agents Fornell, Gibbs—you may call me Smith. I want to thank you for the work you've done over your years of service. Our nation is brighter because of your efforts. We will be working together quite closely. I'll be upstairs."
Without waiting for either of them to say a word, Smith walked away.
Gibbs' eye twitched. "Didn't catch why you're here."
Smith paused. Looked back. "No. You didn't. You'll know."
He entered the elevator.
Fornell growled. "Jackass."
"He for real, Leon?" Gibbs asked.
"Unfortunately," Vance said. "Sorry for the short notice, Gibbs. I was blindsided. One second, I'm preparing to brief SecNav with what we know so far, the next I get a call from the White House. You can guess how that went."
Yeah. He could. He could guess it as he stood in the lobby of his own building, watching strangers flood into the elevators and stairs, bringing with them enough gear to outfit a unit four times its size. He could guess based on what happened mere moments ago.
The CIA just hijacked their investigation.
"Sir."
The man looked up from his idle swirling of the glass in his hand.
The Senior stood at the edge of the room. "NOOSE is at 100%. Line is ready."
The man stood, and nearby—scattered at other tables in the makeshift dining area of the warehouse—his guards stood as well. They formed around him as the man followed the Senior through the warehouse hallways and security doors, and into the command center.
Here, video monitors covered the walls, displaying feeds from cameras throughout the building and inside the shipping container holding Anthony DiNozzo. Computer stations were operated by Techs specialized in cybersecurity and infiltration. A Workmen crew stood ready to service hardware.
The Region Senior led the man to one of the computer stations. He picked up a phone sitting at the edge of the desk. "This is the Line, sir. Only one number is saved."
The man took the offered device. It unlocked with a simple swipe. He went to contacts and selected the lone name.
Then he hit call.
The quiet elevator ride back to the Squadroom was interrupted by Gibbs' phone.
He reached for it. Looked at the caller ID.
Blocked.
His gut screamed.
Gibbs answered. "Yeah?"
"Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Let's talk."
So it begins.
The long build-up to a confrontation is over. The first of many shots have been fired, and now more players to this complicated situation have appeared. Things are coming together.
The credit song for this chapter is "2049" by Hans Zimmer. It's part of the Blade Runner 2049 soundtrack. I chose this song specifically for the beginning minute, where that ominous note begins.
Thank you all for reading. If you enjoyed reading, please share or recommend this to a friend or friends. And if you really enjoyed reading, please leave a comment. They are the lifeblood of all writers, and they do not take long to leave.
See you soon.