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mrwubbles2/7:
Warnings and/or Spoilers: Vague spoilers up to 6X02 "Agent Afloat"
previous parts: master post | part one
| part two |
Ducky was in the middle of dissecting the frontal region of John Doe's left lung, when the lights went out.
"Uh...Doctor?"
Ducky glanced up and studied the ceiling through his faceguard. A second later, the generators for the morgue's cold storage activated and the lights returned, albeit subdued. The automatic doors sighed as the locks engaged. The sliding door by the drawers locked with a quiet click.
Oh dear. Not good at all.
At least this body he'd been working on was most certainly dead. No European psychopath lurking in a body bag, using it like a macabre Trojan Horse. Hm, he should give Gerald a ring; see how the lad was doing in his new employment.
"Blackout?" young Jimmy Palmer suggested. He eyed the lights and shifted from foot to foot. He held his clipboard to his chest.
"Mr. Palmer," Ducky said carefully as he peeled off his gloves finger by finger, "in the locker by my desk, there are a set of golf clubs. Would you be so kind as to fetch me the nine iron?"
"G-golf clubs?" Mr. Palmer looked past his shoulder to his desk. "Nine iron?"
"Yes, I have it in good authority that the nine iron makes a formidable weapon."
Mr. Palmer's eyes rounded behind his glasses and he went pale. "W-weapon?" He checks the lights again and swallowed.
Ducky's mouth crinkled. It wasn't Mr. Palmer's fault that there was a predilection for violence in this building. But they couldn't afford to dilly dally either. Best not let the lad think about it too much.
"Mr. Palmer?" Ducky prodded gently. "My nine iron?"
Flustered, Jimmy Palmer stammered an apology while he hurried over to his desk, only hesitating once more when Ducky told him to take a club as well, preferably not his wedge as it was his favorite.
Ducky watched with a furrowed brow when he realized Mr. Palmer had selected only a putter for himself, tucked under his arm while holding up the nine with two hands as if it were Excalibur itself. Ducky accepted it, giving him a curt nod. Before he could chide Mr. Palmer's choice, he heard the distant clamor of footsteps arriving at Autopsy. He gestured wordlessly to his assistant to stand by the side of the main doors. He positioned himself on the other side.
Mr. Palmer gaped when Ducky held his club high above his head, but falteringly mirrored him. The young man gulped as a shadow crossed the glass window of their entrance.
It was reminiscent of a case in Lougheed and a woman who favored too much rouge. Ducky gave himself a mental head shake before he could think back to why he had been lurking in the closet, dressed only in his shorts, waiting to knock her husband out with a cricket bat. He set his mouth and raised his club higher when a blade slipped between the doors, twisted and pried the panels open. He readied, aimed and blinked.
Oh.
* * * * *
Jimmy could feel sweat trickling down his neck from under his surgical cap, his scrubs sticking to his shoulders as he stood by the doors. He suddenly wished he wasn't so tall, making such a big target. It struck him how thin and useless the golf club felt. He gulped. Maybe they should turn off the lights completely? Block the doors? With what? The normally automatic doors had no handles. Desk? Cabinet? X-ray machine?
Too bad they didn't carry guns like the agents. Man, a gun would be really useful right now, not that he knew how to use one, but Dr. Mallard probably did. Then again, they weren't agents and—
Jimmy froze when he heard the footsteps. He saw the doctor tense and knew, whatever this was, it was happening now. He curled his fists tighter on the club's grip, squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in his stomach and swung down hard just as the doors were forced open. He heard Dr. Mallard's hissed warning and Jimmy's eyes flew open just as the putter zoomed toward a skull.
A hand caught it by its head and the sudden stop vibrated down his arms. Jimmy gaped at Gibbs's stony impression as he held the club inches from his shoulder.
"It...it wasn't the nine iron," Jimmy blurted out.
Gibbs raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he let go of the club, folded his knife and twisted back around to—
"Tony!" Jimmy exclaimed.
Tim was holding up Tony by an arm around his middle, Tony's left arm slung across Gibbs's shoulders.
"This table," Dr. Mallard directed in a brisk voice, already passing Jimmy his club as he pointed the newcomers toward the closest empty metal slab, two spots down from John Doe.
Jimmy stared at the bloody area marking Tony's shoulder blade and his lower back. "Was anyone else hurt?"
"Hanks is dead," Tim wheezed as he and Gibbs walked Tony over. "Some minor stuff from the explosions—"
"Explosions?" Jimmy stammered. He stopped dead in his tracks.
"Mr. Palmer, my bag," Dr. Mallard called out sharply. "Be sure to remove your smock. It's contaminated." Jimmy scrambled to his desk and grabbed the black medical bag out of his bottom drawer while Dr. Mallard changed out of his stained smock and tossed it with his gloves into the bio-containment disposal bin.
Tim shot Jimmy an apologetic look. "Yeah, a couple of explosives went off, but mostly to make a lot of noise. No one was badly hurt. They're being treated in the holding area with first aid. But Tony--"
"What happened exactly?" the ME asked as he waved toward the cool surface. He shot Jimmy an annoyed look. Jimmy flushed and began to struggle out of his smock and gloves as well. He was acutely aware of how much of John Doe's blood covered him.
"Careful now…"
Tony made a strangled noise when they eased him onto the table. His legs clumsily knocked against the side and he writhed.
Tim hissed. Gibbs's face grew stormy.
In the midst of it all, Doctor Mallard's voice was soothing as he held Tony's head to keep him still. "All right. All right. We won't do that again. Sorry…"
"Albert shot him," Tim grated out.
Gibbs lifted and settled Tony's legs on the slab. Tony grunted as they carefully straightened his upper body onto the table.
"Albert?" Dr. Mallard repeated. His hands stilled over the wound on Tony's right shoulder. "He did this? Why on earth...? Is he still out there?" He eyed the gaping double doors even as he opened his medical bag. "Perhaps we should move him to the garage so the paramedics can safely—"
"There's not going to be any paramedics, Duck," Gibbs interrupted. His jaw clenched as he slowly unknotted Tony's tie. Tony mumbled something and his right hand came up an inch before Gibbs patted it down.
"The entire complex is in lockdown," Tim explained tersely as he watched Dr. Mallard slipped on his stethoscope and tucked the bell under Tony's stained shirt. Tim swallowed and averted his eyes.
"Surely we can get an override. Security can accompany—"
"Level Four," Gibbs cut in.
Dr. Mallard looked up, his eyes wider, the stethoscope poised over Tony's lungs. "Level Four?" the ME echoed, his voice higher.
"W-what's Level Four?" Jimmy stuttered, but no one looked his way.
"Contagion?" Dr. Mallard demanded and a chill rippled down Jimmy's neck. Another plague?
"None," Tim reported as he rocked from foot to foot; he was trying not to look like he was staring at the doors.
"False lockdown," Gibbs added. He scowled.
"Security reported Tony called it in," Tim explained.
"When?"
Tim turned away from the doors. His face twisted. "After he was shot."
Dr. Mallard frowned down at Tony. He gestured to Jimmy for his pressure cuff.
"I highly doubt," Dr. Mallard murmured as he proceeded to wrap Tony's upper arm with the cuff, "that Tony had the fortitude to call in such an extreme measure." The zip of Velcro was loud in Autopsy as the band snaked around Tony's elbow. He exhaled sharply as he released the value and considered the numbers.
Jimmy made a face as well.
Gibbs' mouth pursed at Jimmy's expression. "The call was faked but it did the job."
Suddenly, Tony groaned. His head lolled to the side, but he said nothing else.
Tim's eyes shrank to slits, again staring hard at the doors. "No outside lines, no main power, no way in, no way out..."
"And no paramedics," Dr. Mallard concluded with a furrowed brow.
"You're it, Duck."
"Jethro, this is the morgue. Not a particular vote of confidence for Anthony." Dr. Mallard gingerly pressed his fingers first on the wound on Tony's shoulder, then the one on his abdomen.
"You're our only medical doctor." Gibbs's gaze fixed on Ducky.
Giving a nod of surrender, the elderly ME settled a hand under Tony's jaw to check a pulse. "Hm, understandably fast." He heaved a sigh. "Yes, well…Mr. Palmer, I think we need a closer look at the abdomen area."
"Closer look?" Jimmy stammered and he shot the medical bag a look—it looked woefully small. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"Fortunately," the ME said as he pulled off his helmet and set the headgear on the next table, "there seem to be exit wounds. Was the shooter close?"
It was Tim who answered, in such a clipped voice Jimmy had to check to make sure it wasn't Gibbs talking.
"He was close." Tim swallowed and lifted bleak eyes up to Gibbs. "He was standing right across Tony's desk and they were talking—you know how Albert gets—and then he started shooting. Boss, I just stood there. I couldn't—"
"What did they talk about, McGee?" Gibbs cut him off.
Tim paused, his face screwed up in thought. "Nothing special, just the usual: Albert's kid sister and then..." A shadow crossed the agent's face. "Then he said he wanted to report a murder."
"Whose?" Dr. Mallard asked, not looking up from his examination.
"Tony's."
Jimmy swallowed loudly and eyed the double doors as well.
"What I don't get is the lockdown," Tim wondered out loud. "No way Tony could have done it, so it must have been Albert; but there was no time to get to a phone."
"Or explain how it was done," Dr. Mallard pointed out. "We are all assigned a code that might be easily copied, but it is done by voice verification as well. Level Four is not so easy to initiate."
"How did he manage to slip away?" Jimmy asked but when Gibbs shot him a look over his shoulder, his mouth snapped shut. Jimmy inched back, hoping to once again fade into the background.
"Hm, two hundred and forty personnel, more than half of them armed. It is an alarming question, Jethro," Dr. Mallard jumped in, reacquiring Gibbs' attention.
"Director Vance has agents covering all the stairwells. Most of Legal, admin and the third floor are in the holding area. All the rooms and vents are locked in a Level Four. He can't go far," Tim spoke up.
"He won't," Gibbs growled as he rested his fists by Tony's feet.
"Since it's a mistake, can't they reverse the lockdown?" Jimmy asked as Dr. Mallard slid his stethoscope across Tony's diaphragm.
Tim grimaced. "That's just it. We can't. The moment we went to Level Four, all the computers shut down for some reason—even MTAC. There's something jamming communications. We've barely got essentials on emergency power."
"Is that supposed to happen?" Jimmy made a face. It sounded extreme even for a potential biohazard.
"No," Dr. Mallard muttered darkly, "it is not."
"No cell phones. Radios are useless," Gibbs growled. "We're sealed in."
"Yeah, but why lock yourself in with hundreds of agents and uniforms with no way out?" Tim's brow furrowed.
"Mr. Palmer, I think we need the number six and ten blades. And saline please. As many bottles we have," Dr. Mallard interjected.
Jimmy was glad to comply, letting something other than being locked in with a murderer to keep his mind busy.
"I think...I'm not sure..." Tim was making funny faces as he folded his arms across his chest. His eyes kept darting over to the tray of scalpels and Tony.
"McGee." Gibbs stepped in front of Tim, between him and the table.
After taking a deep breath, Tim tried again. "I thought…there was all this shouting, somebody returned fire…I think—probably Hanks—and I thought..." He shook his head. "I could be wrong. But it sounded like he was saying 'Low see in oh'...or 'Low sea'…something..."
"Low sea? Was he referring to our Navy?" Dr. Mallard offered as he probed the bruising around the raw bullet hole just a hand's width away from the belly button.
Jimmy clamped his mouth shut. He found he couldn't look at Tony. This was stupid. It wasn't like he hadn't seen de—bodies before. But no one actively bleeding. And they had all been strangers.
"What do you think Albert meant, boss?" Tim looked over.
"We can ask him when we find him." Gibbs nodded toward the double doors. He fished two small evidence bags out of his pockets. "Found them embedded in the file cabinets. Get to Abby, see if she's okay and—"
"Have her run ballistics. On it, boss." Tim caught the baggies with both hands as he dashed for the doors.
"McGee!" Gibbs shouted after him. "Ducky can only operate on one man at a time."
Tim paused, glanced back at the table, then gave Gibbs a curt nod before he slipped out of the doors, gun in hand.
Wait...Jimmy stilled.
Operate?
* * * * *
It took Tim a few minutes before he realized the odd thumping he heard in his ears was his own heartbeat. In the back of his mind though, Tim thought it was at least better than the pained murmurings Tony made coupled with Gibbs urging Tony to take another step as they shuffled down to Autopsy.
Tim's feet faltered a step. He needed to take a few breaths to quell the violent twisting in his gut. He leaned back onto a wall, his hands curled loosely around his gun, pointed downward, its handle resting on his hip in a ready position. Tony had dispensed this kernel of wisdom, improving his stance with a light head slap and a toothy grin. It bugged Tim at the time, especially when Kate had snickered in agreement, but the lesson stuck all these years.
With main power down, the stairs were the only option now. Tim nodded to Gands when the agent spotted him descending the stairs. It was reassuring to feel the senior agent's eyes on his back as he crept down to the lower levels of the labs.
Just like how they taught him at FLETC, Tim let his gun muzzle enter the corner first before his body followed. He peered around walls and tested doors (they were locked, just as SOP said they would be in a Level Four) as he headed for the corridor that lead to Abby's lab.
Thump, thump, thump, his blood pounded in his ears. Tim had to constantly swallow because his mouth was drying faster than it should. And seeing Tony's blood covering his hands bothered him. Yet he couldn't bring himself to wipe his palms clean of it.
Even though it looked like the lower floors were spared the brunt of the power outage and the emergency lights lit the corridors, the turns and hallways still felt too dark, too shadowy, for him. He stopped at every door, jiggling the handles just to be sure they were still locked before proceeding.
Despite the fact he kept telling himself Gibbs wouldn't have let him go off by himself if Tim hadn't already proved himself capable, a part of him still flinched because it felt like his footsteps were too loud. Backup would be nice right now, but his backup was either outside getting coffee or down in the morgue.
A chill went down his back and Tim grimaced.
Poor choice of words.
* * * * *
The noise guided him the rest of the way to the lab.
It was distant, blaring but muffled as if it was buried under something heavy. Tim made a face as he approached. The sound reminded him of Abby's music, of the death metal concert she'd once dragged him to. But as he drew nearer to the glass doors, he realized it was the labs' warning alerts, usually reserved for toxic spills. He could see Abby over her station, doubled over.
His steps quickened. When he was several feet away, he broke off into a run, his gun down as he steered for the pneumonic door.
And he smacked into the glass. Tim dropped to the ground onto his rear. Hard.
Ouch.
Inside, Abby perked up and now Tim could see heavy duty ear protection clamped over her ears, the ones she uses for ballistics. She spun around, pointed at Tim through the glass, red lips shaped into an "O," before she went over to the door and banged at it with both fists. Whatever she was saying was lost in all the klaxons wailing inside her lab.
"Abby, I can't hear—" Tim shouted but Abby pointed to her earmuffs with a latex-gloved hand. Tim scowled at the door. Apparently, lockdown really meant lockdown. The alarms and emergency lights ran on a secure separate line so they could go all day. Great.
Abby stilled, her head cocked as she watched Tim pat his pockets until he came up with his iPhone. She gave him a thumbs up, nodding pigtails at him, looking like she was bobbing her head to the alarms.
Tim pulled up a notepad app and typed quickly.
LCKDWN.
Abby scanned the message on his phone pressed to the door and lifted her eyes to him. She set her fists on her hips, her lips pursed.
Oh, right, that was kind of obvious. Tim ignored her "well, duh" face and typed more.
TONY BINSHOT. SHOOTER STILL OUT HERE. LCKDWN RIGGED. LVL 4. NEED OVRRIDE.
Tim should have mentioned Tony toward the end, because Abby's eyes bulged at the beginning and now she was gesturing wildly and talking at him.
"Abby, wait, I don't...I can't hear you!" Tim pleaded. She was giving him a headache.
Abby stopped, took a deep breath and pivoted around to her station. Tim could imagine her platform boots going stomp, stomp, stomp as she grabbed something and came back to the glass dividing them. But instead of a phone, she had a white-board marker.
Without hesitation, Abby wrote on the glass between them, the backward red lettering on the glass, in perfect mirrored text.
Oddly enough, it made sense that Abby could do that.
OK?
Tim nodded because it felt like it would be too hard to lie around the lump in his throat.
Abby glowered at him.
W DUCKY, Tim typed out.
The glare never wavered.
GIBBS 2, Tim added.
Abby's face lightened and she gave him another thumbs up. Then, her mouth set, her face squinted into concentration, like how she would stare at her AFIS screen, willing it to make a match. Abby rubbed off what she had written with the sleeve of her lab coat and wrote more.
CANT GET OUT. LCKDWN FROZE MY CTRLS.
"Great," Tim muttered. A small part of him was glad, though. There was probably no place safer for Abby than a hermetically sealed lab. He cleared his screen and typed out another question.
PCS DEAD. URS?
Abby shrugged. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.
BABIES SHUT. ANYTHING LINKED TO MAINFRAME KAPUT. HAVE URS + MINE HERE. NOT NETWORKED.
Tim felt a stirring in his gut.
CAN U USE THEM 2 HACK IN2 SERVERS?
Abby shook her head.
NOT W LAPTOP. Abby brightened and she snapped her fingers. She poked the glass as she wiped off her words and added CAN TRY MAKE EXT ANTENNA 2 CALL OUTSIDE. She shrugged.
Tim fidgeted as he stared at her words. Tim knew Abby's chances with only two working laptops were...He gave himself a shake. Shut up, Probie, he told himself, not really surprised his internal voice sounded like Tony. He gave Abby a small grin and a thumbs up of his own.
Abby smiled back faintly before writing out something else.
WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?
Tim grimaced. He pulled the evidence bags out of his pocket.
WANTED INFO ON SLUGS. Tim didn't finish it. He tapped the bags on the glass.
Abby stared at the mushroom-shaped slugs and a finger came up to stroke the glass.
Tim noted her finger lingered on the bloodiest of the two, her dark eyes intense as they swept along his red-stained hand. Quickly, he stuffed the bags back into his pocket.
There was a flicker of something on Abby's face and her eyes were suspiciously bright. Her mouth was set in a thin smile, however, when she looked up and wrote one last thing on the glass.
I HAVE AN IDEA.
* * * * *
Jimmy found focusing on lining up the now-soiled scalpels was a lot easier than watching Dr. Mallard pack Tony's wounds. Maybe it was because the ME was using the same amount of time and care as he would with their other "guests," as he called them. Or maybe it was because during the whole procedure, Tony had been really, really quiet.
Tony was rarely silent for more than a few minutes. Jimmy once caught him, arms folded in front of him, muttering to himself quietly over some piece of evidence as he contemplated a case. It reminded him of Dr. Mallard and he had once told this to Tony. Tony laughed then and asked Jimmy if he was supposed to be flattered or insulted.
"Hm, I believe a few more should do it," Dr. Mallard mused, "Jethro, would you pass me—Ah yes, thank you."
Jimmy wished Dr. Mallard wouldn't talk to Tony like he would with their guests. There was a childish feeling in him that feared the ME was jinxing Tony.
"Mr. Palmer? The gauze?"
Jimmy blinked when he realized Gibbs had his hand outstretched, waiting.
"S-sorry," Jimmy stuttered and handed over the pack of sterile gauze which Gibbs promptly tore into.
"This might take a few hours, Duck," Gibbs said quietly as he did up the buttons on Tony's red-splotched shirt. Gibbs's jaw clenched as his fingers passed each stain.
"I would prefer to give him a nice bag of AB negative," Dr. Mallard murmured to himself as he draped a spare lab coat over Tony's torso. "His pressure is still lower than I'm comfortable with. All I was able to do was clean the wounds and stop the bleeding. It looked like the bullets missed every major artery and organ. He was quite fortunate."
"Real lucky," Gibbs grated out.
Jimmy winced and concentrated on making sure he didn't throw up on the tray of bloodied scalpels and needles.
"Actually, Jethro," Dr. Mallard said slowly. He studied Tony with a pursed mouth. "He was."
"Larger wounds were in the front, not the back as you would expect." Dr. Mallard carefully parted the coat to expose the dressings. "It would appear the bullets went through from the back, one under the scapula that exited just under the clavicle."
"Tony was able to turn away," Gibbs concluded.
"Yes, to the left. It's instinctual, human nature, to turn your dominant side first. Tony was able to twist his heart away from range. Otherwise, I'm afraid, it would have been fatal."
Jimmy gulped. He sat on the edge of the empty slab parallel to the senior agent and stared at his shoes. There was a smear of blood on one.
"It's odd though..."
"Odd?" Jimmy asked because it felt like he should be adding something to the conversation, even if it was only a question.
Dr. Mallard held Tony's wrist as he counted. Done, he nodded to himself and looked at Jimmy. "According to Timothy, the shooter was close. Close enough, even a novice would have the deadly accuracy of a...well...a..."
"A sniper," Gibbs said. He glanced down at Tony, his clenched fist resting just off Tony's right shoulder.
The ME made a face but nodded. "The shooter missed."
"Did he?" Gibbs absently tugged the lab coat higher. He checked his watch.
Dr. Mallard glanced behind his shoulder at the clock on the wall. "It's been fifteen minutes, Jethro."
Gibbs pulled at the coat again, shifting it to cover both shoulders. "Keep those doors shut, Duck. Take down some of those lights."
Jimmy felt the skin on the back of his neck tighten when Gibbs pulled out his weapon.
As he stood in the doorway, Gibbs looked over at Tony.
"He'll be all right for now," Dr. Mallard reassured him.
There was no reply, just a short nod before Gibbs slipped out the doors.
Jimmy blinked as some of the overhead lights were dimmed.
"Well..." There was a shuffle of Dr. Mallard's shoes as he moved to stand by Tony's head. "And now, Mr. Palmer, we wait."
Jimmy sat at the edge of the table and wondered if he should get the golf clubs out again.
| part three |
Warnings and/or Spoilers: Vague spoilers up to 6X02 "Agent Afloat"
previous parts: master post | part one
Ducky was in the middle of dissecting the frontal region of John Doe's left lung, when the lights went out.
"Uh...Doctor?"
Ducky glanced up and studied the ceiling through his faceguard. A second later, the generators for the morgue's cold storage activated and the lights returned, albeit subdued. The automatic doors sighed as the locks engaged. The sliding door by the drawers locked with a quiet click.
Oh dear. Not good at all.
At least this body he'd been working on was most certainly dead. No European psychopath lurking in a body bag, using it like a macabre Trojan Horse. Hm, he should give Gerald a ring; see how the lad was doing in his new employment.
"Blackout?" young Jimmy Palmer suggested. He eyed the lights and shifted from foot to foot. He held his clipboard to his chest.
"Mr. Palmer," Ducky said carefully as he peeled off his gloves finger by finger, "in the locker by my desk, there are a set of golf clubs. Would you be so kind as to fetch me the nine iron?"
"G-golf clubs?" Mr. Palmer looked past his shoulder to his desk. "Nine iron?"
"Yes, I have it in good authority that the nine iron makes a formidable weapon."
Mr. Palmer's eyes rounded behind his glasses and he went pale. "W-weapon?" He checks the lights again and swallowed.
Ducky's mouth crinkled. It wasn't Mr. Palmer's fault that there was a predilection for violence in this building. But they couldn't afford to dilly dally either. Best not let the lad think about it too much.
"Mr. Palmer?" Ducky prodded gently. "My nine iron?"
Flustered, Jimmy Palmer stammered an apology while he hurried over to his desk, only hesitating once more when Ducky told him to take a club as well, preferably not his wedge as it was his favorite.
Ducky watched with a furrowed brow when he realized Mr. Palmer had selected only a putter for himself, tucked under his arm while holding up the nine with two hands as if it were Excalibur itself. Ducky accepted it, giving him a curt nod. Before he could chide Mr. Palmer's choice, he heard the distant clamor of footsteps arriving at Autopsy. He gestured wordlessly to his assistant to stand by the side of the main doors. He positioned himself on the other side.
Mr. Palmer gaped when Ducky held his club high above his head, but falteringly mirrored him. The young man gulped as a shadow crossed the glass window of their entrance.
It was reminiscent of a case in Lougheed and a woman who favored too much rouge. Ducky gave himself a mental head shake before he could think back to why he had been lurking in the closet, dressed only in his shorts, waiting to knock her husband out with a cricket bat. He set his mouth and raised his club higher when a blade slipped between the doors, twisted and pried the panels open. He readied, aimed and blinked.
Oh.
Jimmy could feel sweat trickling down his neck from under his surgical cap, his scrubs sticking to his shoulders as he stood by the doors. He suddenly wished he wasn't so tall, making such a big target. It struck him how thin and useless the golf club felt. He gulped. Maybe they should turn off the lights completely? Block the doors? With what? The normally automatic doors had no handles. Desk? Cabinet? X-ray machine?
Too bad they didn't carry guns like the agents. Man, a gun would be really useful right now, not that he knew how to use one, but Dr. Mallard probably did. Then again, they weren't agents and—
Jimmy froze when he heard the footsteps. He saw the doctor tense and knew, whatever this was, it was happening now. He curled his fists tighter on the club's grip, squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in his stomach and swung down hard just as the doors were forced open. He heard Dr. Mallard's hissed warning and Jimmy's eyes flew open just as the putter zoomed toward a skull.
A hand caught it by its head and the sudden stop vibrated down his arms. Jimmy gaped at Gibbs's stony impression as he held the club inches from his shoulder.
"It...it wasn't the nine iron," Jimmy blurted out.
Gibbs raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he let go of the club, folded his knife and twisted back around to—
"Tony!" Jimmy exclaimed.
Tim was holding up Tony by an arm around his middle, Tony's left arm slung across Gibbs's shoulders.
"This table," Dr. Mallard directed in a brisk voice, already passing Jimmy his club as he pointed the newcomers toward the closest empty metal slab, two spots down from John Doe.
Jimmy stared at the bloody area marking Tony's shoulder blade and his lower back. "Was anyone else hurt?"
"Hanks is dead," Tim wheezed as he and Gibbs walked Tony over. "Some minor stuff from the explosions—"
"Explosions?" Jimmy stammered. He stopped dead in his tracks.
"Mr. Palmer, my bag," Dr. Mallard called out sharply. "Be sure to remove your smock. It's contaminated." Jimmy scrambled to his desk and grabbed the black medical bag out of his bottom drawer while Dr. Mallard changed out of his stained smock and tossed it with his gloves into the bio-containment disposal bin.
Tim shot Jimmy an apologetic look. "Yeah, a couple of explosives went off, but mostly to make a lot of noise. No one was badly hurt. They're being treated in the holding area with first aid. But Tony--"
"What happened exactly?" the ME asked as he waved toward the cool surface. He shot Jimmy an annoyed look. Jimmy flushed and began to struggle out of his smock and gloves as well. He was acutely aware of how much of John Doe's blood covered him.
"Careful now…"
Tony made a strangled noise when they eased him onto the table. His legs clumsily knocked against the side and he writhed.
Tim hissed. Gibbs's face grew stormy.
In the midst of it all, Doctor Mallard's voice was soothing as he held Tony's head to keep him still. "All right. All right. We won't do that again. Sorry…"
"Albert shot him," Tim grated out.
Gibbs lifted and settled Tony's legs on the slab. Tony grunted as they carefully straightened his upper body onto the table.
"Albert?" Dr. Mallard repeated. His hands stilled over the wound on Tony's right shoulder. "He did this? Why on earth...? Is he still out there?" He eyed the gaping double doors even as he opened his medical bag. "Perhaps we should move him to the garage so the paramedics can safely—"
"There's not going to be any paramedics, Duck," Gibbs interrupted. His jaw clenched as he slowly unknotted Tony's tie. Tony mumbled something and his right hand came up an inch before Gibbs patted it down.
"The entire complex is in lockdown," Tim explained tersely as he watched Dr. Mallard slipped on his stethoscope and tucked the bell under Tony's stained shirt. Tim swallowed and averted his eyes.
"Surely we can get an override. Security can accompany—"
"Level Four," Gibbs cut in.
Dr. Mallard looked up, his eyes wider, the stethoscope poised over Tony's lungs. "Level Four?" the ME echoed, his voice higher.
"W-what's Level Four?" Jimmy stuttered, but no one looked his way.
"Contagion?" Dr. Mallard demanded and a chill rippled down Jimmy's neck. Another plague?
"None," Tim reported as he rocked from foot to foot; he was trying not to look like he was staring at the doors.
"False lockdown," Gibbs added. He scowled.
"Security reported Tony called it in," Tim explained.
"When?"
Tim turned away from the doors. His face twisted. "After he was shot."
Dr. Mallard frowned down at Tony. He gestured to Jimmy for his pressure cuff.
"I highly doubt," Dr. Mallard murmured as he proceeded to wrap Tony's upper arm with the cuff, "that Tony had the fortitude to call in such an extreme measure." The zip of Velcro was loud in Autopsy as the band snaked around Tony's elbow. He exhaled sharply as he released the value and considered the numbers.
Jimmy made a face as well.
Gibbs' mouth pursed at Jimmy's expression. "The call was faked but it did the job."
Suddenly, Tony groaned. His head lolled to the side, but he said nothing else.
Tim's eyes shrank to slits, again staring hard at the doors. "No outside lines, no main power, no way in, no way out..."
"And no paramedics," Dr. Mallard concluded with a furrowed brow.
"You're it, Duck."
"Jethro, this is the morgue. Not a particular vote of confidence for Anthony." Dr. Mallard gingerly pressed his fingers first on the wound on Tony's shoulder, then the one on his abdomen.
"You're our only medical doctor." Gibbs's gaze fixed on Ducky.
Giving a nod of surrender, the elderly ME settled a hand under Tony's jaw to check a pulse. "Hm, understandably fast." He heaved a sigh. "Yes, well…Mr. Palmer, I think we need a closer look at the abdomen area."
"Closer look?" Jimmy stammered and he shot the medical bag a look—it looked woefully small. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"Fortunately," the ME said as he pulled off his helmet and set the headgear on the next table, "there seem to be exit wounds. Was the shooter close?"
It was Tim who answered, in such a clipped voice Jimmy had to check to make sure it wasn't Gibbs talking.
"He was close." Tim swallowed and lifted bleak eyes up to Gibbs. "He was standing right across Tony's desk and they were talking—you know how Albert gets—and then he started shooting. Boss, I just stood there. I couldn't—"
"What did they talk about, McGee?" Gibbs cut him off.
Tim paused, his face screwed up in thought. "Nothing special, just the usual: Albert's kid sister and then..." A shadow crossed the agent's face. "Then he said he wanted to report a murder."
"Whose?" Dr. Mallard asked, not looking up from his examination.
"Tony's."
Jimmy swallowed loudly and eyed the double doors as well.
"What I don't get is the lockdown," Tim wondered out loud. "No way Tony could have done it, so it must have been Albert; but there was no time to get to a phone."
"Or explain how it was done," Dr. Mallard pointed out. "We are all assigned a code that might be easily copied, but it is done by voice verification as well. Level Four is not so easy to initiate."
"How did he manage to slip away?" Jimmy asked but when Gibbs shot him a look over his shoulder, his mouth snapped shut. Jimmy inched back, hoping to once again fade into the background.
"Hm, two hundred and forty personnel, more than half of them armed. It is an alarming question, Jethro," Dr. Mallard jumped in, reacquiring Gibbs' attention.
"Director Vance has agents covering all the stairwells. Most of Legal, admin and the third floor are in the holding area. All the rooms and vents are locked in a Level Four. He can't go far," Tim spoke up.
"He won't," Gibbs growled as he rested his fists by Tony's feet.
"Since it's a mistake, can't they reverse the lockdown?" Jimmy asked as Dr. Mallard slid his stethoscope across Tony's diaphragm.
Tim grimaced. "That's just it. We can't. The moment we went to Level Four, all the computers shut down for some reason—even MTAC. There's something jamming communications. We've barely got essentials on emergency power."
"Is that supposed to happen?" Jimmy made a face. It sounded extreme even for a potential biohazard.
"No," Dr. Mallard muttered darkly, "it is not."
"No cell phones. Radios are useless," Gibbs growled. "We're sealed in."
"Yeah, but why lock yourself in with hundreds of agents and uniforms with no way out?" Tim's brow furrowed.
"Mr. Palmer, I think we need the number six and ten blades. And saline please. As many bottles we have," Dr. Mallard interjected.
Jimmy was glad to comply, letting something other than being locked in with a murderer to keep his mind busy.
"I think...I'm not sure..." Tim was making funny faces as he folded his arms across his chest. His eyes kept darting over to the tray of scalpels and Tony.
"McGee." Gibbs stepped in front of Tim, between him and the table.
After taking a deep breath, Tim tried again. "I thought…there was all this shouting, somebody returned fire…I think—probably Hanks—and I thought..." He shook his head. "I could be wrong. But it sounded like he was saying 'Low see in oh'...or 'Low sea'…something..."
"Low sea? Was he referring to our Navy?" Dr. Mallard offered as he probed the bruising around the raw bullet hole just a hand's width away from the belly button.
Jimmy clamped his mouth shut. He found he couldn't look at Tony. This was stupid. It wasn't like he hadn't seen de—bodies before. But no one actively bleeding. And they had all been strangers.
"What do you think Albert meant, boss?" Tim looked over.
"We can ask him when we find him." Gibbs nodded toward the double doors. He fished two small evidence bags out of his pockets. "Found them embedded in the file cabinets. Get to Abby, see if she's okay and—"
"Have her run ballistics. On it, boss." Tim caught the baggies with both hands as he dashed for the doors.
"McGee!" Gibbs shouted after him. "Ducky can only operate on one man at a time."
Tim paused, glanced back at the table, then gave Gibbs a curt nod before he slipped out of the doors, gun in hand.
Wait...Jimmy stilled.
Operate?
It took Tim a few minutes before he realized the odd thumping he heard in his ears was his own heartbeat. In the back of his mind though, Tim thought it was at least better than the pained murmurings Tony made coupled with Gibbs urging Tony to take another step as they shuffled down to Autopsy.
Tim's feet faltered a step. He needed to take a few breaths to quell the violent twisting in his gut. He leaned back onto a wall, his hands curled loosely around his gun, pointed downward, its handle resting on his hip in a ready position. Tony had dispensed this kernel of wisdom, improving his stance with a light head slap and a toothy grin. It bugged Tim at the time, especially when Kate had snickered in agreement, but the lesson stuck all these years.
With main power down, the stairs were the only option now. Tim nodded to Gands when the agent spotted him descending the stairs. It was reassuring to feel the senior agent's eyes on his back as he crept down to the lower levels of the labs.
Just like how they taught him at FLETC, Tim let his gun muzzle enter the corner first before his body followed. He peered around walls and tested doors (they were locked, just as SOP said they would be in a Level Four) as he headed for the corridor that lead to Abby's lab.
Thump, thump, thump, his blood pounded in his ears. Tim had to constantly swallow because his mouth was drying faster than it should. And seeing Tony's blood covering his hands bothered him. Yet he couldn't bring himself to wipe his palms clean of it.
Even though it looked like the lower floors were spared the brunt of the power outage and the emergency lights lit the corridors, the turns and hallways still felt too dark, too shadowy, for him. He stopped at every door, jiggling the handles just to be sure they were still locked before proceeding.
Despite the fact he kept telling himself Gibbs wouldn't have let him go off by himself if Tim hadn't already proved himself capable, a part of him still flinched because it felt like his footsteps were too loud. Backup would be nice right now, but his backup was either outside getting coffee or down in the morgue.
A chill went down his back and Tim grimaced.
Poor choice of words.
The noise guided him the rest of the way to the lab.
It was distant, blaring but muffled as if it was buried under something heavy. Tim made a face as he approached. The sound reminded him of Abby's music, of the death metal concert she'd once dragged him to. But as he drew nearer to the glass doors, he realized it was the labs' warning alerts, usually reserved for toxic spills. He could see Abby over her station, doubled over.
His steps quickened. When he was several feet away, he broke off into a run, his gun down as he steered for the pneumonic door.
And he smacked into the glass. Tim dropped to the ground onto his rear. Hard.
Ouch.
Inside, Abby perked up and now Tim could see heavy duty ear protection clamped over her ears, the ones she uses for ballistics. She spun around, pointed at Tim through the glass, red lips shaped into an "O," before she went over to the door and banged at it with both fists. Whatever she was saying was lost in all the klaxons wailing inside her lab.
"Abby, I can't hear—" Tim shouted but Abby pointed to her earmuffs with a latex-gloved hand. Tim scowled at the door. Apparently, lockdown really meant lockdown. The alarms and emergency lights ran on a secure separate line so they could go all day. Great.
Abby stilled, her head cocked as she watched Tim pat his pockets until he came up with his iPhone. She gave him a thumbs up, nodding pigtails at him, looking like she was bobbing her head to the alarms.
Tim pulled up a notepad app and typed quickly.
LCKDWN.
Abby scanned the message on his phone pressed to the door and lifted her eyes to him. She set her fists on her hips, her lips pursed.
Oh, right, that was kind of obvious. Tim ignored her "well, duh" face and typed more.
TONY BINSHOT. SHOOTER STILL OUT HERE. LCKDWN RIGGED. LVL 4. NEED OVRRIDE.
Tim should have mentioned Tony toward the end, because Abby's eyes bulged at the beginning and now she was gesturing wildly and talking at him.
"Abby, wait, I don't...I can't hear you!" Tim pleaded. She was giving him a headache.
Abby stopped, took a deep breath and pivoted around to her station. Tim could imagine her platform boots going stomp, stomp, stomp as she grabbed something and came back to the glass dividing them. But instead of a phone, she had a white-board marker.
Without hesitation, Abby wrote on the glass between them, the backward red lettering on the glass, in perfect mirrored text.
Oddly enough, it made sense that Abby could do that.
OK?
Tim nodded because it felt like it would be too hard to lie around the lump in his throat.
Abby glowered at him.
W DUCKY, Tim typed out.
The glare never wavered.
GIBBS 2, Tim added.
Abby's face lightened and she gave him another thumbs up. Then, her mouth set, her face squinted into concentration, like how she would stare at her AFIS screen, willing it to make a match. Abby rubbed off what she had written with the sleeve of her lab coat and wrote more.
CANT GET OUT. LCKDWN FROZE MY CTRLS.
"Great," Tim muttered. A small part of him was glad, though. There was probably no place safer for Abby than a hermetically sealed lab. He cleared his screen and typed out another question.
PCS DEAD. URS?
Abby shrugged. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.
BABIES SHUT. ANYTHING LINKED TO MAINFRAME KAPUT. HAVE URS + MINE HERE. NOT NETWORKED.
Tim felt a stirring in his gut.
CAN U USE THEM 2 HACK IN2 SERVERS?
Abby shook her head.
NOT W LAPTOP. Abby brightened and she snapped her fingers. She poked the glass as she wiped off her words and added CAN TRY MAKE EXT ANTENNA 2 CALL OUTSIDE. She shrugged.
Tim fidgeted as he stared at her words. Tim knew Abby's chances with only two working laptops were...He gave himself a shake. Shut up, Probie, he told himself, not really surprised his internal voice sounded like Tony. He gave Abby a small grin and a thumbs up of his own.
Abby smiled back faintly before writing out something else.
WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?
Tim grimaced. He pulled the evidence bags out of his pocket.
WANTED INFO ON SLUGS. Tim didn't finish it. He tapped the bags on the glass.
Abby stared at the mushroom-shaped slugs and a finger came up to stroke the glass.
Tim noted her finger lingered on the bloodiest of the two, her dark eyes intense as they swept along his red-stained hand. Quickly, he stuffed the bags back into his pocket.
There was a flicker of something on Abby's face and her eyes were suspiciously bright. Her mouth was set in a thin smile, however, when she looked up and wrote one last thing on the glass.
I HAVE AN IDEA.
Jimmy found focusing on lining up the now-soiled scalpels was a lot easier than watching Dr. Mallard pack Tony's wounds. Maybe it was because the ME was using the same amount of time and care as he would with their other "guests," as he called them. Or maybe it was because during the whole procedure, Tony had been really, really quiet.
Tony was rarely silent for more than a few minutes. Jimmy once caught him, arms folded in front of him, muttering to himself quietly over some piece of evidence as he contemplated a case. It reminded him of Dr. Mallard and he had once told this to Tony. Tony laughed then and asked Jimmy if he was supposed to be flattered or insulted.
"Hm, I believe a few more should do it," Dr. Mallard mused, "Jethro, would you pass me—Ah yes, thank you."
Jimmy wished Dr. Mallard wouldn't talk to Tony like he would with their guests. There was a childish feeling in him that feared the ME was jinxing Tony.
"Mr. Palmer? The gauze?"
Jimmy blinked when he realized Gibbs had his hand outstretched, waiting.
"S-sorry," Jimmy stuttered and handed over the pack of sterile gauze which Gibbs promptly tore into.
"This might take a few hours, Duck," Gibbs said quietly as he did up the buttons on Tony's red-splotched shirt. Gibbs's jaw clenched as his fingers passed each stain.
"I would prefer to give him a nice bag of AB negative," Dr. Mallard murmured to himself as he draped a spare lab coat over Tony's torso. "His pressure is still lower than I'm comfortable with. All I was able to do was clean the wounds and stop the bleeding. It looked like the bullets missed every major artery and organ. He was quite fortunate."
"Real lucky," Gibbs grated out.
Jimmy winced and concentrated on making sure he didn't throw up on the tray of bloodied scalpels and needles.
"Actually, Jethro," Dr. Mallard said slowly. He studied Tony with a pursed mouth. "He was."
"Larger wounds were in the front, not the back as you would expect." Dr. Mallard carefully parted the coat to expose the dressings. "It would appear the bullets went through from the back, one under the scapula that exited just under the clavicle."
"Tony was able to turn away," Gibbs concluded.
"Yes, to the left. It's instinctual, human nature, to turn your dominant side first. Tony was able to twist his heart away from range. Otherwise, I'm afraid, it would have been fatal."
Jimmy gulped. He sat on the edge of the empty slab parallel to the senior agent and stared at his shoes. There was a smear of blood on one.
"It's odd though..."
"Odd?" Jimmy asked because it felt like he should be adding something to the conversation, even if it was only a question.
Dr. Mallard held Tony's wrist as he counted. Done, he nodded to himself and looked at Jimmy. "According to Timothy, the shooter was close. Close enough, even a novice would have the deadly accuracy of a...well...a..."
"A sniper," Gibbs said. He glanced down at Tony, his clenched fist resting just off Tony's right shoulder.
The ME made a face but nodded. "The shooter missed."
"Did he?" Gibbs absently tugged the lab coat higher. He checked his watch.
Dr. Mallard glanced behind his shoulder at the clock on the wall. "It's been fifteen minutes, Jethro."
Gibbs pulled at the coat again, shifting it to cover both shoulders. "Keep those doors shut, Duck. Take down some of those lights."
Jimmy felt the skin on the back of his neck tighten when Gibbs pulled out his weapon.
As he stood in the doorway, Gibbs looked over at Tony.
"He'll be all right for now," Dr. Mallard reassured him.
There was no reply, just a short nod before Gibbs slipped out the doors.
Jimmy blinked as some of the overhead lights were dimmed.
"Well..." There was a shuffle of Dr. Mallard's shoes as he moved to stand by Tony's head. "And now, Mr. Palmer, we wait."
Jimmy sat at the edge of the table and wondered if he should get the golf clubs out again.
| part three |
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-09 07:07 pm (UTC)Please tell me you got that from Psych! :)
no subject
Date: 2010-12-10 10:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 10:31 am (UTC)I wonder what Abby's idea was? Will she be able to get an outside line? Will she be able to examine the bullets? Ziva's still on the outside- will she be able to get in, or alert someone such as the FBI or the local police, or even any of the navy personel on base?
Laura.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-14 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 10:02 pm (UTC)