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mrwubbles4/7:
Warnings and/or Spoilers: Vague spoilers up to 6X02 "Agent Afloat"
previous parts: master post | part one | part two | part three
| part four |
Ziva always prided herself with patience, her ability to sit huddled under camouflage for many hours while waiting for her target. Today, after an hour of repetitive "under lockdown" however, she was ready to beat someone's brains down.
No. In. Or was it out?
"Harah," Ziva muttered. She ignored the glower the gate guard gave her and disregarded the warning look the Marine from the response team tossed over.
"Has anyone reached MTAC yet?" someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
Ziva scowled when the Marine said something about communications being useless.
In her pocket, her cellphone buzzed.
Ziva carefully settled a hand over her pocket and slipped back into the crowd. She avoided eye contact, kept her stride small and unobtrusive and, like a ghost, Ziva disappeared into the crowd and out the gathering's back.
The cell shivered in her grip as Ziva pulled it out behind a row of SUVs. Ziva breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was a text message from Abby. She muttered a prayer under her breath, but the hint of the smile she wore faded when she read the message.
LOCKDWN FAK. NO GERMS. TONY SHOT. IN MORGUE. SHOOTER STILL HERE. TRAPPED INSIDE. ABBY
Ziva swallowed, her eyes scanning the message once more. She looked through the SUV windows across to the Navy Yard building that had become more familiar than Hayarkon Park or the Dizengoff Center . Her jaw set. She looked at her phone again and read the words over and over but she couldn't get past the sixth word. Ziva closed her eyes briefly and took a steadying breath. She schooled a blank expression as she entered a number her father gave her long ago. She had only used it once before. For Ari.
The click told her the call had been picked up. The second click told her the line was now being scrambled.
"Shalom," Ziva greeted the silence. Her salutation was not returned. She was not offended by it. It was what they were all taught to do.
"I need information," Ziva added. Her other hand glided down to the holster clipped to the back of her trousers. "I need...unofficial information."
* * * * *
Waking up should mean he was feeling better, right?
The tightness around his throat, his chest and his gut was still there, though; vices squeezing to the point he woke up.
"Sorry?" Palmer echoed.
"You have nothing to apologize for, DiNozzo," Gibbs said gruffly as he settled a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Lie still."
"I can't talk like this," Tony wheezed. He tried to push himself up with his left elbow. "It's like talking from a deep hole." Gibbs placed a hand between his shoulders and helped. Tony panted as he sat up, his head lolling against Gibbs's arm. Vaguely, he felt Ducky settled a hand flat on his back.
Tony blinked, trying to get anything to focus. Tony took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry," Tony repeated.
"There's no need to apologize," Tim jumped in.
"This wasn't your fault," Jimmy added.
Tony blinked again. He coughed, sagging against Gibbs. The senior agent looped an arm over his shoulders to keep him upright.
"Of course this wasn't my fault," Tony huffed. He waved a hand at himself. Then he nodded toward Tim. "It's not 'Low sea into'." He shook his head, squinted at a spot beyond his toes.
"Al's from Morelos," Tony said wearily. "He was saying 'Lo siento.' 'I'm sorry.'" He glanced up at Tim. "Let me guess. High school French, Probie?"
Tim's brow furrowed. "Why would he be apologizing?"
"It sounds like he regrets shooting Tony," Ducky mused.
"I regret him shooting Tony," Tony volunteered in a breathless voice. He could see Palmer frowning. Although Tony wasn't sure. Everything was looking a little gray and his head ached, tilted funny against Gibbs's side. Tony wasn't pushed away though.
Balancing the urge to pass out with the need to stay sort of upright was getting harder to do. While Tony appreciated Gibbs playing the role of a brick wall, Tony also knew any minute his stomach was going to revolt again. And sure, DiNozzos don't pass out; they also don't throw up on their bosses. Twice.
"Do we have any footage?" Tony managed. He felt the weight of Gibbs's arm over his shoulder. He shrugged his good shoulder, but the arm only tightened minutely around him. The edges around his vision sharpened. A little. Maybe. Close enough.
"No," McGee said as he stared at the other bodies. "With the lockdown, we can't access—"
Wait. Tony sat up straighter—crap, big mistake—and blinked burning eyes at McGee. "'ock'own?" Tony coughed but that thick feeling clogging his throat wouldn't go away.
"Lockdown?" he repeated. He was glad to hear his voice had cleared somewhat.
"We're in a Level Four," Palmer told him.
"Another plague?" Tony grimaced. "You didn't burn my clothes again, did you?"
There was a faint smile on McGee's face. "No, but your laundry bill is going to be interesting."
"The lockdown was planned, DiNozzo." Whoa, Gibbs has this weird "voice from above" thing going on that vibrated down to the arm around Tony shoulders as well as the chest Tony now realized he was resting against.
"Records show you called it in," McGee added. "We think Albert must have recorded your voice, synthesized it and called it in, pretending to be you."
Tony shook his head because one: the room was doing some bright, dark, disco, night-clubbing light thing and two: what McGee told him didn't add up.
"How?" Tony rasped. "Albert was busy. Can't see him stopping to make a call."
"He could have rigged an auto-dial, insert a sound clip within the cache to time—"
Tony shakily lifted a hand. "Wait, wait." No fair dishing out techno-babble when his brain was oatmeal. "Albert can't do that. I helped him last 'onth to set up his speed dial."
McGee made a face. "Oh, yeah."
Tony tilted his head as much as he dared to look at Gibbs because just hearing him was just too unreal, too strange and made it feel like Gibbs was too far away.
"DiNozzo." Gibbs didn't look pissed anymore. The shade of concern Tony could see in his gaze—he hadn't seen it since the plague—that was actually scarier.
"F-four, huh?" Tony swallowed. "Guess 'at means no…ambulance?"
Gibbs nodded.
"Jus' as well," Tony panted. It was getting hard to pull the words out. "In'urance needs a de…dead duck…" Deductible. He was trying to say deductible, damn it. The sickening déjà vu of struggling to breathe forced his eyes open from the droop he could feel pulling. Tony closed fingers on the lab coat that had fallen to his lap.
"Albert somehow initiated a Level Four," McGee said, quickly.
Dimly, Tony wondered if Gibbs was giving him the glare. "Shoots Tony, kills Hanks, goes to Cyber Crimes and kills Walters."
"MO," Tony wheezed. He squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulder was feeling three times heavier now.
"What's that, Tony?" McGee leaned in.
Tony wanted to tell him to get a breath mint.
"M…O," Tony tried to get out. He felt Gibbs easing him down on his back. No, wait. Tony snagged a sleeve.
Gibbs nodded curtly. He got it. Of course he did. Gibbs always got it. He didn't pry his arm away from Tony's weak grip and pulled Tony to settle against him again.
"He killed Hanks and Walters but not Tony," Gibbs remarked.
"Not complaining..." Tony's fingers twisted the sleeve further. He felt like he was spiraling. He coughed and that hurt, too. "…'oss."
"Duck." Gibbs settled a hand over Tony's brow. "He's warm."
Was he? Tony shivered. He squinted up at Gibbs again. "Bad?"
Gibbs narrowed his eyes as Ducky came into view with a stethoscope. Gibbs stared steadily at Tony, his mouth set in a hard line.
"Oh." Tony took a careful breath. He flinched, his hand curling on the sleeve when it felt like everybody was trying to lay him down again. He fought the instinct to tense his stomach and just clawed at Gibbs's sleeve.
"Tony, you need to rest," Palmer chided, one hand fisted on the back of Tony's shirt.
Tony shook his head. "Keep talking," he croaked.
"But…" McTraitor decided to gang up with Palmer.
"So Albert's not working alone," Tony bit out, prodding them to continue, to keep the gray matter working. Tony swallowed convulsively and blinked rapidly to clear the spots.
"The know-how to do this is beyond him," Gibbs agreed.
Tony blearily caught him shaking his head at everyone and Palmer's tugging ceased. Yeah, go team.
"Someone gave him instructions on how to get us into lockdown." McGee kept interrupting himself from going back and forth as he talked. It was a little annoying. "Whoever it was taught him to get our computers to shut down and stopped us from getting in to reverse it."
"Why?" Tony wheezed.
McGee froze. "I…I don't know." He did some wide-eyed, open-mouthed thing like Gibbs had told him a knock-knock joke.
"I don't see the point of locking himself in, either. He can't get out," Ducky murmured in that James Bond sotto voce Tony always thought was cool and fitting for him. He couldn't imagine Ducky with a martini though.
"Maybe he mistimed it?" McGee suggested.
"Or he wasn't planning on getting out yet." Gibbs tensed against Tony. "He has everything he needs in here."
"What?" McGee stammered.
Tony would have rolled his eyes if he didn't think the rest of him would follow. "Fish in a barrel," he coughed out. Tony could feel the ex-Marine nodding against him.
"So Albert was aiming for them…on purpose?" McGee made a sound as he paced. "But he didn't kill Tony."
"Again," Tony panted, "not complaining." He furrowed his brow. "How did he get a gun in here?"
"Good question," Gibbs growled. "Bullets looked like 9mm."
"Judging from Tony's entry wounds and the initial examination of Hanks and Walters, I would concur," Ducky agreed. "All three were very close range, close enough for the bullets to exit the body completely."
"Abby might have been able to rebuild the ballistics on Tony's slugs," McGee said. "Maybe we can find out something about them."
"Where's Abby?" Tony interrupted because the conversation about bullets and his slugs was creeping him out. Tony scowled when McGee told him. "And you just left her there?"
"She's locked inside."
"So she can't get out," Tony gritted. "What about Albert getting in?" As Abby was fond of telling them, there was no such thing as bulletproof glass.
"But why would Albert want to shoot Abby?" McGee protested.
"Why would he want to shoot me?" Tony hesitated. "Brinon." He felt Gibbs jerk.
"Hanks testified to the grand jury," McGee realized, "and we were supposed to go tomorrow. Tony's down. Only ones left are—"
"You and Ziva," Gibbs concluded in a terse voice.
"Ziva's not here," Tony coughed. "But if Albert isn't working alone…"
"Abby was trying to get communication going," McGee jumped in. "I'll see if she can warn Ziva."
"Not alone," Gibbs cut in harshly. "You're a target."
"Boss, too," Tony exhaled. He felt Gibbs giving his good shoulder a brief squeeze. Tony blinked rapidly as he felt himself eased down. Away from the solid support, Tony felt chilled.
"Ten minutes, DiNozzo," Gibbs promised as he pulled out his weapon. "Keep the lights down and the doors shut, Duck."
"Probie," Tony called before he could walk out.
McGee turned to him, his face lined with concern. It made him look older, weird in a Benjamin Button sort of way.
"We'll watch each other's six." Gibbs read the look on Tony's face before it slowly dawned on McGee. There was something unreadable in Gibbs's gaze as he stood over Tony a beat longer. When Tony weakly smiled at him, Gibbs turned on his heel and left with McGee.
Tony felt Ducky settling a hand over his head but he kept his eyes on the doors. Ten minutes, Gibbs said. Ten minutes.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi…
* * * * *
If she had a gun, she would use it.
Abby sat cross-legged on her lab floor. She glared at her laptop: her insufficient quad core, sixteen gigabyte, over-clocked piece of junk. She could hear the hard drives spinning, creaking along as they tried to render a decent 3D image from the scans she made. Sheesh, she could probably do a better job with Photoshop and some duct tape.
Tim's laptop—twice the power and doubly useless—was searching out any signal from 3G to Wi-Fi to any moron's router whose password was still "admin."
Abby looked longingly at Major Mass Spec, at her desktops and her now-silent flat screens. Her dark eyes traveled to the wall of postcards she hadn't the heart to dismantle. Tony's angry blowfish pose still stood out in the photo she taped on top as a header for her "DiNozzo wall."
Abby sniffled.
"He's with Ducky. He's with Gibbs," Abby muttered as she glowered at the line by line rendering of the second slug. Her flatbed scanner was able to grab the images through glass and evidence baggy, getting a clear enough of an image to show even the flecks of dried blood on it.
"He's with Ducky. He's with Gibbs," Abby chanted again, but it was hard to feel better when she was staring at something that had blasted through someone she knew. It hadn't been this hard since doing the ballistics on the bullet that had killed Kate; a comparison she loathed making as soon as she thought it.
It was clear even without touching it, that the bullet was a 9mm Luger. She made a face because it was too common. Rifles, shotguns, air guns all use the 9mm, never mind NCIS. Gibbs and everyone else in the building carried a Sig Sauer P226. The rounds were ordinary, nothing custom or unique to make it stand out. So trying to identify the weapon by memory was out.
If only they had found the cartridge casings. Breech markings would have narrowed down the list. She only had what was cached from previous searches on her hard drives. She might as well use a Ouija board. Then again, not good messing with Mr. Ouija and she had put her board in the evidence lockup after the last time she played with Cassie. It freaked her out and it was left there along with the purple underwear.
Abby gave her head a violent shake. Lack of caffeine, decent music and the reassuring sensation of keys clicking against her fingertips was making her mind float and wander even without the astral projection stuff. Although, an OBE right now would be useful. She sighed, shook a finger at her laptop and it stalled, frozen until Abby stroked the side of the screen in apology. The last thing she needed was the blue screen of death. She needed those renderings.
All that was left was hoping her makeshift scans were able to pick up the rifling and striations. If she could get the patterns, she could check her cached searches and then Google, if Tim's laptop could sustain a steady enough connection. If it could, maybe Gibbs could check the paper records in evidence lockup to see who might carry such a weapon and if—
Abby scrunched up her face.
It was a lot of "ifs."
Despite the heavy duty earmuffs, Abby could still hear the lab alarms’ muted wailing. You would think they would combust by now. Abby constantly looked up at her glass door, hoping it would magically open.
Sighing to herself and unable to hear it, Abby stared glumly at the screen. She looked up again. Nope. Doors still closed. She was beginning to feel like one of her samples spinning, spinning, spinning in her centrifuge. Gibbs wasn't going to be dropping by, using his awesome Gibbs ESP powers and bringing her Caf-Pow. Not even Gibbs could break into her lab during a Level Four, although she would bet given a bigger gun, Bossman could probably get in here. Maybe even get Tony out. Yeah, crazy gun-toting bad guy or not, Abby knew Gibbs would find a way. It's Gibbs.
The screen winked, a gray window appearing to tell her it was finally done. Abby could imagine the lovely chime it must have made.
"Yes!" She flailed her arms in a football cheer before she switched the search window to scan all the hard drives' caches in hopes of a match. Even the sluggish response of images comparing to her renderings couldn't dampen her spirits.
Feeling better, Abby bounced her head a little to Solamingus in her head, letting its fluctuating tones dictate the beat—although Tony had once complained it was too uber-techno to have one—as she watched the image sharpen on the screen. She didn't believe in that watched kettle never boiling myth. She'd clocked it when she was nine and, watched or not, the kettle still boiled in the same amount of time. Abby rapped her fingers on the laptop, clicking her tongue as she looked up again and yelped.
"Not nice!" Abby scolded Tim and Gibbs standing at her door. She unwound her legs and rose to her feet.
There was no way for Tim to hear what she had said, but he guessed enough to offer her a sheepish smile as an apology. He pointed to his laptop on the floor. His face fell when she rocked her hand left and right. He didn't cheer up when she swiveled around her laptop; she wasn't doing cartwheels either.
Gibbs kept his eye and gun on the hallway but every so often, he checked on Abby, his mouth unsmiling but his eyes not doing the beady, dark, Marine laser glare he usually did with a bad guy. Abby took a deep breath. It was just as good as an open door. Sort of.
CAN U TXT ZIVA? Tim resorted to his iPhone again.
Abby grinned. She did one better. She wrote to him how she had been able to send a quick message to her about the lockdown before the intermittent signal had rolled over and choked on her.
For some reason though, Tim didn't look thrilled. He was even pulling off a pretty good mimicry of one of Gibbs's frowns. He turned his head to say something to Bossman and Gibbs jerked his head to Tim's phone.
Tim's mouth thinned as he typed into his iPhone.
BRINON CASE. ZIVA MAYB TARGET. TXT HER AGAIN. TELL HER 2 WATCH HER 6.
Abby stared at him, her stomach lurching. Brinon? She dropped to her knees and hunched over Tim's laptop. She eyed the wiring that she had snaked up to the basement windows, sealed and solid. Short of an armor piercing bullet, the glass was going to stay one piece. Darn Gibbs; he had kept his word after Ari and switched out all her windows for bullet resistant panes.
The yellowed bars indicating scant reception was discouraging, but it was still better than her phone. It had transformed into a paperweight the second Level Four occurred and the scramblers kicked in. Abby brought up an instant messenger window to type a message out.
It felt like she was walking on tippy toes. Blindfolded. She missed her machines. She missed her computers. She missed her hug; the one Gibbs would have given her as he tells her Tony was going to be okay. It felt wrong not to get a "He's not going to die because I said so" hug from Gibbs.
Out of the corner of her eye, Abby saw Tim waving to get her attention again. She scrubbed furiously across her cheeks, sniffled loudly and turned to him. Tim was on the balls of his feet, his iPhone pressed to the glass for her to see.
ITLL B OK
Abby nodded. Of course, it would be. She nudged her laptop toward him to point to the rotating images and Tim gave her a set of crossed fingers. His grin faded at her scowl though because she didn't believe in crossed fingers any more than she believed in shy boiling kettles.
Suddenly, Tim's eyes widened and he pointed frantically at the screen. Even Gibbs stepped in closer to see.
Swiveling the screen back around to her, Abby whooped—it was weird when she couldn't hear herself—when sure enough, her baby had somehow found a match. Score! She leaned closer into the screen and squinted at the results. Her mouth dropped open and she sat back on her rear.
"Oh crap."
* * * * *
It was frightening how much the Mossad knew.
Ziva eyed the utility cover on the concrete platform buried and forgotten under years of bureaucracy and poor maintenance. Waterworks of District of Columbia branded the thick plate, the lettering rusted and barely distinguishable, but if her sources were correct, the Navy Museum's tunnel ran adjacent to the tunnels just under the NCIS evidence area and garage.
Grim, Ziva checked her weapon. A full clip was not reassuring when she knew her other magazines were locked in her desk. She was becoming complacent as an investigator: she went out for coffee with just her Sig, assuming she would need nothing more. She failed her previous training; she wasn't supposed to assume anything.
It took a few tries before the plate eased off using the crowbar she had borrowed from one of the responding units that surrounded the main building. The entire Yard, including the neighboring museum was shut down, but for some reason, NCIS remained barricaded. Evacuation was impossible.
The foul smell of stale water, wet, thick and oily belched out of the opening in a burst of steam. It clung to her hair, her clothing, even her skin.
Ziva scowled as she tied back her hair to get it out of her way. She looked past the foliage, only feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving her fellow agents behind.
But then she thought of the text Abby had sent her.
Ziva's eyes slitted, her lips thinned. She ignored the ache in her chest as she remembered the message. There would be time later to absorb the ramifications of the dead. Now is what she needed to focus on. Ziva embraced the taut hyperawareness as familiar as the weight of her weapon in her hand. Her loyalty was to her team and them alone. She has no patience or tolerance for anyone inefficiently following her. Ziva David would deal with this herself.
Idly, as she descended the ladder, she wondered on the wisdom of her actions. She mused, as she hopped off the last two rungs onto the floor, if there were mystical mole people or vampires lurking in the forgotten tunnels. Would Deep Six's Agent Lisa be as bold to do this? While the team leader would berate her for doing this, Ziva was sure he would be proud of it as well. And maddeningly, this reminded her of a movie she could not think of right now.
Ziva stopped in her tracks and rolled her eyes.
Her team had been a corruptive influence on her.
* * * * *
"What's wrong with Hanks?"
"Besides the fact he's dead?" Jimmy mumbled. He grimaced when he caught Tony's heavy-lidded glare. "Sorry. What?"
Dr. Mallard looked up from the table he was hunched over. He pushed back the headlamp he wore to inspect Hanks' corpse. "I am assuming you mean the condition of his body?"
Tony didn't sit up, having learned his lesson minutes after Gibbs and Tim had left, but his head was turned toward the two metal tables.
"Something…" Tony croaked, his brow knitted. He shook his head.
Dr. Mallard nodded to Jimmy, his frown deepening. Jimmy snagged a bottle of water by the trays and twisted the cap off.
"Tony," Jimmy prodded as he slipped a hand behind Tony's neck and raised his head, "come on; try to drink some more water."
"You guys are wearing it more than I'm drinking it," Tony muttered, his voice edged with a weariness that hasn't gone away since Tony first awoken. He relented though, his lower teeth clacking uncontrollably against the mouth of the bottle as he tried to drink the lukewarm water. After a few gulps, Tony shook his head and dropped back onto the table, spent.
Jimmy eyed the BP cuff on the roll out tray. He bit his lower lip.
"It's not going to change," Tony muttered, his eyes closed. "You guys do that puff-puff thing around my arm, look at the numbers then look at each other like I can't see it."
Laughing uneasily, Jimmy gave Dr. Mallard a questioning look, but the ME shook his head.
"You usually have your eyes closed, Tony, so you really can't see it."
"But I know it's there." Tony's eyes were fogged with pain as he stared at the ceiling. "What's wrong with Hanks?"
Jimmy shrugged helplessly at Dr. Mallard. "I don't understand."
Tony grimaced. "Me, neither," he admitted. "I can't put my finger on it." He paused. "Well, technically, I really can't. I'm over here and he's all the way over…"
"Tony?"
"Someone did sketches?" Tony tried to push himself up on an elbow.
Dr. Mallard frowned mildly, his hands still deep within the chest cavity. "You should lie still."
"Did someone take photos of the crime scene up there?" Tony insisted.
"Here, here, here. They brought down the cameras when they brought down Agent Hanks." Jimmy snagged him one of the Nikons. He dropped a hand on Tony's shoulder, carefully bearing down until Tony was supine again.
Tony's breathing was loud, shallow as he motioned to the camera.
"Show me," Tony croaked. He lay there, his eyes intent as Jimmy scrolled through the images for him. Tony winced at the sight of his desk and the blood splatters, but did not comment.
"There." Tony pointed to the image of Hanks face down on the carpet.
"Where's Hanks in this photo?"
Jimmy blinked at the question. "I ah…I'm not sure…Agent Trinston bought down the body and…" He checked the clipboard for the agent's hasty notes. "I don't think he mentioned—no, he did. Uh...Hanks was two, maybe three feet from your desk."
"He should've had a clear shot then," Tony wheezed.
"Maybe he missed or Al shot first?" Jimmy suggested.
Dr. Mallard shook his head as he stepped away from the body. "I haven't had much time to examine him since they brought him down here, but preliminary checks show no gunpowder residue on his fingers." The ME hesitated. "Also, the chest cavity held the exit wound."
"So he was shot in the back," Jimmy murmured, perplexed. "Why would he have turned away from the shooter?"
Jimmy caught Tony rolling his eyes. He gave Jimmy a look he was pretty sure if Tony was currently capable would have been followed by a head slap. Jimmy chewed his lower lip thoughtfully.
"What about Walters?" Tony asked in a rasp.
Dr. Mallard unzipped the body bag.
"The back as well," he confirmed.
"The grouping?" For some reason, Tony's voice sharpened.
"Two shots through the scapula, three centimeters apart, piercing the heart."
"Kill shot," Tony hissed. He hovered a hand over his wounds.
Jimmy stared back and forth, feeling like he was watching a tennis match. "W-what?" he stammered.
Tony pushed up on his left elbow, fighting against Jimmy's hand. He grunted, his pale face now flushed with exertion as he tried to bend his right leg. The lab coat that was covering him fell to the floor.
"What are you doing?" Dr. Mallard hurried over.
Jimmy caught Tony by the shoulders as he started to sag to the side.
"My backup," Tony gasped. He gestured weakly with his left hand toward his ankle. "I n-need my backup."
"Tony, you have to stay still," Jimmy pleaded.
"Enough," Dr. Mallard said sternly as he wrapped both hands on Tony's ankle, stilling him. "I'll get it. You must not move."
Drained, Tony slumped against Jimmy. "N-need…"
"Yes, yes, but you won't be much help if you worsen your condition." Dr. Mallard tsked as he peeled back the coat covering Tony's torso. "You're bleeding again."
"I don't understand." Jimmy knew he should though. He'd worked here long enough to pick up a few things, but all he could think about right now was how clammy Tony felt and how much blood had soaked through the gauze and shirt.
Tony shakily wrapped both hands around the weapon's handle the moment Dr. Mallard slipped the backup revolver into his palm. He blinked rapidly, sweating, chest heaving as he checked the chambers and grunted.
"Ducky, I need you two to lock yourselves in the restroom," Tony bit out. "Move the lockers or roll something inside to block the door. The desk, if you have to."
"Absolutely not," Dr. Mallard snapped. "We are not leaving you here—"
"I've only got six in the chamber! Might be enough to stop Albert, but not enough to also stop…" Tony squeezed his eyes shut as he hissed in pain when Dr. Mallard peeled back the packing in his abdomen wound. "Ducky, now's not the time," he groaned.
Jimmy gripped Tony firmly by the shoulders. Tony was shaking too hard to stay upright, but he fought Jimmy's efforts to lay him flat. The gun, though, was steady, aimed for the double doors and it was like all the lights in the morgue came flooding back when Jimmy finally put it together.
"There was a second shooter," Jimmy breathed.
| part five |
Warnings and/or Spoilers: Vague spoilers up to 6X02 "Agent Afloat"
previous parts: master post | part one | part two | part three
Ziva always prided herself with patience, her ability to sit huddled under camouflage for many hours while waiting for her target. Today, after an hour of repetitive "under lockdown" however, she was ready to beat someone's brains down.
No. In. Or was it out?
"Harah," Ziva muttered. She ignored the glower the gate guard gave her and disregarded the warning look the Marine from the response team tossed over.
"Has anyone reached MTAC yet?" someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
Ziva scowled when the Marine said something about communications being useless.
In her pocket, her cellphone buzzed.
Ziva carefully settled a hand over her pocket and slipped back into the crowd. She avoided eye contact, kept her stride small and unobtrusive and, like a ghost, Ziva disappeared into the crowd and out the gathering's back.
The cell shivered in her grip as Ziva pulled it out behind a row of SUVs. Ziva breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was a text message from Abby. She muttered a prayer under her breath, but the hint of the smile she wore faded when she read the message.
LOCKDWN FAK. NO GERMS. TONY SHOT. IN MORGUE. SHOOTER STILL HERE. TRAPPED INSIDE. ABBY
Ziva swallowed, her eyes scanning the message once more. She looked through the SUV windows across to the Navy Yard building that had become more familiar than Hayarkon Park or the Dizengoff Center . Her jaw set. She looked at her phone again and read the words over and over but she couldn't get past the sixth word. Ziva closed her eyes briefly and took a steadying breath. She schooled a blank expression as she entered a number her father gave her long ago. She had only used it once before. For Ari.
The click told her the call had been picked up. The second click told her the line was now being scrambled.
"Shalom," Ziva greeted the silence. Her salutation was not returned. She was not offended by it. It was what they were all taught to do.
"I need information," Ziva added. Her other hand glided down to the holster clipped to the back of her trousers. "I need...unofficial information."
Waking up should mean he was feeling better, right?
The tightness around his throat, his chest and his gut was still there, though; vices squeezing to the point he woke up.
"Sorry?" Palmer echoed.
"You have nothing to apologize for, DiNozzo," Gibbs said gruffly as he settled a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Lie still."
"I can't talk like this," Tony wheezed. He tried to push himself up with his left elbow. "It's like talking from a deep hole." Gibbs placed a hand between his shoulders and helped. Tony panted as he sat up, his head lolling against Gibbs's arm. Vaguely, he felt Ducky settled a hand flat on his back.
Tony blinked, trying to get anything to focus. Tony took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry," Tony repeated.
"There's no need to apologize," Tim jumped in.
"This wasn't your fault," Jimmy added.
Tony blinked again. He coughed, sagging against Gibbs. The senior agent looped an arm over his shoulders to keep him upright.
"Of course this wasn't my fault," Tony huffed. He waved a hand at himself. Then he nodded toward Tim. "It's not 'Low sea into'." He shook his head, squinted at a spot beyond his toes.
"Al's from Morelos," Tony said wearily. "He was saying 'Lo siento.' 'I'm sorry.'" He glanced up at Tim. "Let me guess. High school French, Probie?"
Tim's brow furrowed. "Why would he be apologizing?"
"It sounds like he regrets shooting Tony," Ducky mused.
"I regret him shooting Tony," Tony volunteered in a breathless voice. He could see Palmer frowning. Although Tony wasn't sure. Everything was looking a little gray and his head ached, tilted funny against Gibbs's side. Tony wasn't pushed away though.
Balancing the urge to pass out with the need to stay sort of upright was getting harder to do. While Tony appreciated Gibbs playing the role of a brick wall, Tony also knew any minute his stomach was going to revolt again. And sure, DiNozzos don't pass out; they also don't throw up on their bosses. Twice.
"Do we have any footage?" Tony managed. He felt the weight of Gibbs's arm over his shoulder. He shrugged his good shoulder, but the arm only tightened minutely around him. The edges around his vision sharpened. A little. Maybe. Close enough.
"No," McGee said as he stared at the other bodies. "With the lockdown, we can't access—"
Wait. Tony sat up straighter—crap, big mistake—and blinked burning eyes at McGee. "'ock'own?" Tony coughed but that thick feeling clogging his throat wouldn't go away.
"Lockdown?" he repeated. He was glad to hear his voice had cleared somewhat.
"We're in a Level Four," Palmer told him.
"Another plague?" Tony grimaced. "You didn't burn my clothes again, did you?"
There was a faint smile on McGee's face. "No, but your laundry bill is going to be interesting."
"The lockdown was planned, DiNozzo." Whoa, Gibbs has this weird "voice from above" thing going on that vibrated down to the arm around Tony shoulders as well as the chest Tony now realized he was resting against.
"Records show you called it in," McGee added. "We think Albert must have recorded your voice, synthesized it and called it in, pretending to be you."
Tony shook his head because one: the room was doing some bright, dark, disco, night-clubbing light thing and two: what McGee told him didn't add up.
"How?" Tony rasped. "Albert was busy. Can't see him stopping to make a call."
"He could have rigged an auto-dial, insert a sound clip within the cache to time—"
Tony shakily lifted a hand. "Wait, wait." No fair dishing out techno-babble when his brain was oatmeal. "Albert can't do that. I helped him last 'onth to set up his speed dial."
McGee made a face. "Oh, yeah."
Tony tilted his head as much as he dared to look at Gibbs because just hearing him was just too unreal, too strange and made it feel like Gibbs was too far away.
"DiNozzo." Gibbs didn't look pissed anymore. The shade of concern Tony could see in his gaze—he hadn't seen it since the plague—that was actually scarier.
"F-four, huh?" Tony swallowed. "Guess 'at means no…ambulance?"
Gibbs nodded.
"Jus' as well," Tony panted. It was getting hard to pull the words out. "In'urance needs a de…dead duck…" Deductible. He was trying to say deductible, damn it. The sickening déjà vu of struggling to breathe forced his eyes open from the droop he could feel pulling. Tony closed fingers on the lab coat that had fallen to his lap.
"Albert somehow initiated a Level Four," McGee said, quickly.
Dimly, Tony wondered if Gibbs was giving him the glare. "Shoots Tony, kills Hanks, goes to Cyber Crimes and kills Walters."
"MO," Tony wheezed. He squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulder was feeling three times heavier now.
"What's that, Tony?" McGee leaned in.
Tony wanted to tell him to get a breath mint.
"M…O," Tony tried to get out. He felt Gibbs easing him down on his back. No, wait. Tony snagged a sleeve.
Gibbs nodded curtly. He got it. Of course he did. Gibbs always got it. He didn't pry his arm away from Tony's weak grip and pulled Tony to settle against him again.
"He killed Hanks and Walters but not Tony," Gibbs remarked.
"Not complaining..." Tony's fingers twisted the sleeve further. He felt like he was spiraling. He coughed and that hurt, too. "…'oss."
"Duck." Gibbs settled a hand over Tony's brow. "He's warm."
Was he? Tony shivered. He squinted up at Gibbs again. "Bad?"
Gibbs narrowed his eyes as Ducky came into view with a stethoscope. Gibbs stared steadily at Tony, his mouth set in a hard line.
"Oh." Tony took a careful breath. He flinched, his hand curling on the sleeve when it felt like everybody was trying to lay him down again. He fought the instinct to tense his stomach and just clawed at Gibbs's sleeve.
"Tony, you need to rest," Palmer chided, one hand fisted on the back of Tony's shirt.
Tony shook his head. "Keep talking," he croaked.
"But…" McTraitor decided to gang up with Palmer.
"So Albert's not working alone," Tony bit out, prodding them to continue, to keep the gray matter working. Tony swallowed convulsively and blinked rapidly to clear the spots.
"The know-how to do this is beyond him," Gibbs agreed.
Tony blearily caught him shaking his head at everyone and Palmer's tugging ceased. Yeah, go team.
"Someone gave him instructions on how to get us into lockdown." McGee kept interrupting himself from going back and forth as he talked. It was a little annoying. "Whoever it was taught him to get our computers to shut down and stopped us from getting in to reverse it."
"Why?" Tony wheezed.
McGee froze. "I…I don't know." He did some wide-eyed, open-mouthed thing like Gibbs had told him a knock-knock joke.
"I don't see the point of locking himself in, either. He can't get out," Ducky murmured in that James Bond sotto voce Tony always thought was cool and fitting for him. He couldn't imagine Ducky with a martini though.
"Maybe he mistimed it?" McGee suggested.
"Or he wasn't planning on getting out yet." Gibbs tensed against Tony. "He has everything he needs in here."
"What?" McGee stammered.
Tony would have rolled his eyes if he didn't think the rest of him would follow. "Fish in a barrel," he coughed out. Tony could feel the ex-Marine nodding against him.
"So Albert was aiming for them…on purpose?" McGee made a sound as he paced. "But he didn't kill Tony."
"Again," Tony panted, "not complaining." He furrowed his brow. "How did he get a gun in here?"
"Good question," Gibbs growled. "Bullets looked like 9mm."
"Judging from Tony's entry wounds and the initial examination of Hanks and Walters, I would concur," Ducky agreed. "All three were very close range, close enough for the bullets to exit the body completely."
"Abby might have been able to rebuild the ballistics on Tony's slugs," McGee said. "Maybe we can find out something about them."
"Where's Abby?" Tony interrupted because the conversation about bullets and his slugs was creeping him out. Tony scowled when McGee told him. "And you just left her there?"
"She's locked inside."
"So she can't get out," Tony gritted. "What about Albert getting in?" As Abby was fond of telling them, there was no such thing as bulletproof glass.
"But why would Albert want to shoot Abby?" McGee protested.
"Why would he want to shoot me?" Tony hesitated. "Brinon." He felt Gibbs jerk.
"Hanks testified to the grand jury," McGee realized, "and we were supposed to go tomorrow. Tony's down. Only ones left are—"
"You and Ziva," Gibbs concluded in a terse voice.
"Ziva's not here," Tony coughed. "But if Albert isn't working alone…"
"Abby was trying to get communication going," McGee jumped in. "I'll see if she can warn Ziva."
"Not alone," Gibbs cut in harshly. "You're a target."
"Boss, too," Tony exhaled. He felt Gibbs giving his good shoulder a brief squeeze. Tony blinked rapidly as he felt himself eased down. Away from the solid support, Tony felt chilled.
"Ten minutes, DiNozzo," Gibbs promised as he pulled out his weapon. "Keep the lights down and the doors shut, Duck."
"Probie," Tony called before he could walk out.
McGee turned to him, his face lined with concern. It made him look older, weird in a Benjamin Button sort of way.
"We'll watch each other's six." Gibbs read the look on Tony's face before it slowly dawned on McGee. There was something unreadable in Gibbs's gaze as he stood over Tony a beat longer. When Tony weakly smiled at him, Gibbs turned on his heel and left with McGee.
Tony felt Ducky settling a hand over his head but he kept his eyes on the doors. Ten minutes, Gibbs said. Ten minutes.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi…
If she had a gun, she would use it.
Abby sat cross-legged on her lab floor. She glared at her laptop: her insufficient quad core, sixteen gigabyte, over-clocked piece of junk. She could hear the hard drives spinning, creaking along as they tried to render a decent 3D image from the scans she made. Sheesh, she could probably do a better job with Photoshop and some duct tape.
Tim's laptop—twice the power and doubly useless—was searching out any signal from 3G to Wi-Fi to any moron's router whose password was still "admin."
Abby looked longingly at Major Mass Spec, at her desktops and her now-silent flat screens. Her dark eyes traveled to the wall of postcards she hadn't the heart to dismantle. Tony's angry blowfish pose still stood out in the photo she taped on top as a header for her "DiNozzo wall."
Abby sniffled.
"He's with Ducky. He's with Gibbs," Abby muttered as she glowered at the line by line rendering of the second slug. Her flatbed scanner was able to grab the images through glass and evidence baggy, getting a clear enough of an image to show even the flecks of dried blood on it.
"He's with Ducky. He's with Gibbs," Abby chanted again, but it was hard to feel better when she was staring at something that had blasted through someone she knew. It hadn't been this hard since doing the ballistics on the bullet that had killed Kate; a comparison she loathed making as soon as she thought it.
It was clear even without touching it, that the bullet was a 9mm Luger. She made a face because it was too common. Rifles, shotguns, air guns all use the 9mm, never mind NCIS. Gibbs and everyone else in the building carried a Sig Sauer P226. The rounds were ordinary, nothing custom or unique to make it stand out. So trying to identify the weapon by memory was out.
If only they had found the cartridge casings. Breech markings would have narrowed down the list. She only had what was cached from previous searches on her hard drives. She might as well use a Ouija board. Then again, not good messing with Mr. Ouija and she had put her board in the evidence lockup after the last time she played with Cassie. It freaked her out and it was left there along with the purple underwear.
Abby gave her head a violent shake. Lack of caffeine, decent music and the reassuring sensation of keys clicking against her fingertips was making her mind float and wander even without the astral projection stuff. Although, an OBE right now would be useful. She sighed, shook a finger at her laptop and it stalled, frozen until Abby stroked the side of the screen in apology. The last thing she needed was the blue screen of death. She needed those renderings.
All that was left was hoping her makeshift scans were able to pick up the rifling and striations. If she could get the patterns, she could check her cached searches and then Google, if Tim's laptop could sustain a steady enough connection. If it could, maybe Gibbs could check the paper records in evidence lockup to see who might carry such a weapon and if—
Abby scrunched up her face.
It was a lot of "ifs."
Despite the heavy duty earmuffs, Abby could still hear the lab alarms’ muted wailing. You would think they would combust by now. Abby constantly looked up at her glass door, hoping it would magically open.
Sighing to herself and unable to hear it, Abby stared glumly at the screen. She looked up again. Nope. Doors still closed. She was beginning to feel like one of her samples spinning, spinning, spinning in her centrifuge. Gibbs wasn't going to be dropping by, using his awesome Gibbs ESP powers and bringing her Caf-Pow. Not even Gibbs could break into her lab during a Level Four, although she would bet given a bigger gun, Bossman could probably get in here. Maybe even get Tony out. Yeah, crazy gun-toting bad guy or not, Abby knew Gibbs would find a way. It's Gibbs.
The screen winked, a gray window appearing to tell her it was finally done. Abby could imagine the lovely chime it must have made.
"Yes!" She flailed her arms in a football cheer before she switched the search window to scan all the hard drives' caches in hopes of a match. Even the sluggish response of images comparing to her renderings couldn't dampen her spirits.
Feeling better, Abby bounced her head a little to Solamingus in her head, letting its fluctuating tones dictate the beat—although Tony had once complained it was too uber-techno to have one—as she watched the image sharpen on the screen. She didn't believe in that watched kettle never boiling myth. She'd clocked it when she was nine and, watched or not, the kettle still boiled in the same amount of time. Abby rapped her fingers on the laptop, clicking her tongue as she looked up again and yelped.
"Not nice!" Abby scolded Tim and Gibbs standing at her door. She unwound her legs and rose to her feet.
There was no way for Tim to hear what she had said, but he guessed enough to offer her a sheepish smile as an apology. He pointed to his laptop on the floor. His face fell when she rocked her hand left and right. He didn't cheer up when she swiveled around her laptop; she wasn't doing cartwheels either.
Gibbs kept his eye and gun on the hallway but every so often, he checked on Abby, his mouth unsmiling but his eyes not doing the beady, dark, Marine laser glare he usually did with a bad guy. Abby took a deep breath. It was just as good as an open door. Sort of.
CAN U TXT ZIVA? Tim resorted to his iPhone again.
Abby grinned. She did one better. She wrote to him how she had been able to send a quick message to her about the lockdown before the intermittent signal had rolled over and choked on her.
For some reason though, Tim didn't look thrilled. He was even pulling off a pretty good mimicry of one of Gibbs's frowns. He turned his head to say something to Bossman and Gibbs jerked his head to Tim's phone.
Tim's mouth thinned as he typed into his iPhone.
BRINON CASE. ZIVA MAYB TARGET. TXT HER AGAIN. TELL HER 2 WATCH HER 6.
Abby stared at him, her stomach lurching. Brinon? She dropped to her knees and hunched over Tim's laptop. She eyed the wiring that she had snaked up to the basement windows, sealed and solid. Short of an armor piercing bullet, the glass was going to stay one piece. Darn Gibbs; he had kept his word after Ari and switched out all her windows for bullet resistant panes.
The yellowed bars indicating scant reception was discouraging, but it was still better than her phone. It had transformed into a paperweight the second Level Four occurred and the scramblers kicked in. Abby brought up an instant messenger window to type a message out.
It felt like she was walking on tippy toes. Blindfolded. She missed her machines. She missed her computers. She missed her hug; the one Gibbs would have given her as he tells her Tony was going to be okay. It felt wrong not to get a "He's not going to die because I said so" hug from Gibbs.
Out of the corner of her eye, Abby saw Tim waving to get her attention again. She scrubbed furiously across her cheeks, sniffled loudly and turned to him. Tim was on the balls of his feet, his iPhone pressed to the glass for her to see.
ITLL B OK
Abby nodded. Of course, it would be. She nudged her laptop toward him to point to the rotating images and Tim gave her a set of crossed fingers. His grin faded at her scowl though because she didn't believe in crossed fingers any more than she believed in shy boiling kettles.
Suddenly, Tim's eyes widened and he pointed frantically at the screen. Even Gibbs stepped in closer to see.
Swiveling the screen back around to her, Abby whooped—it was weird when she couldn't hear herself—when sure enough, her baby had somehow found a match. Score! She leaned closer into the screen and squinted at the results. Her mouth dropped open and she sat back on her rear.
"Oh crap."
It was frightening how much the Mossad knew.
Ziva eyed the utility cover on the concrete platform buried and forgotten under years of bureaucracy and poor maintenance. Waterworks of District of Columbia branded the thick plate, the lettering rusted and barely distinguishable, but if her sources were correct, the Navy Museum's tunnel ran adjacent to the tunnels just under the NCIS evidence area and garage.
Grim, Ziva checked her weapon. A full clip was not reassuring when she knew her other magazines were locked in her desk. She was becoming complacent as an investigator: she went out for coffee with just her Sig, assuming she would need nothing more. She failed her previous training; she wasn't supposed to assume anything.
It took a few tries before the plate eased off using the crowbar she had borrowed from one of the responding units that surrounded the main building. The entire Yard, including the neighboring museum was shut down, but for some reason, NCIS remained barricaded. Evacuation was impossible.
The foul smell of stale water, wet, thick and oily belched out of the opening in a burst of steam. It clung to her hair, her clothing, even her skin.
Ziva scowled as she tied back her hair to get it out of her way. She looked past the foliage, only feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving her fellow agents behind.
But then she thought of the text Abby had sent her.
Ziva's eyes slitted, her lips thinned. She ignored the ache in her chest as she remembered the message. There would be time later to absorb the ramifications of the dead. Now is what she needed to focus on. Ziva embraced the taut hyperawareness as familiar as the weight of her weapon in her hand. Her loyalty was to her team and them alone. She has no patience or tolerance for anyone inefficiently following her. Ziva David would deal with this herself.
Idly, as she descended the ladder, she wondered on the wisdom of her actions. She mused, as she hopped off the last two rungs onto the floor, if there were mystical mole people or vampires lurking in the forgotten tunnels. Would Deep Six's Agent Lisa be as bold to do this? While the team leader would berate her for doing this, Ziva was sure he would be proud of it as well. And maddeningly, this reminded her of a movie she could not think of right now.
Ziva stopped in her tracks and rolled her eyes.
Her team had been a corruptive influence on her.
"What's wrong with Hanks?"
"Besides the fact he's dead?" Jimmy mumbled. He grimaced when he caught Tony's heavy-lidded glare. "Sorry. What?"
Dr. Mallard looked up from the table he was hunched over. He pushed back the headlamp he wore to inspect Hanks' corpse. "I am assuming you mean the condition of his body?"
Tony didn't sit up, having learned his lesson minutes after Gibbs and Tim had left, but his head was turned toward the two metal tables.
"Something…" Tony croaked, his brow knitted. He shook his head.
Dr. Mallard nodded to Jimmy, his frown deepening. Jimmy snagged a bottle of water by the trays and twisted the cap off.
"Tony," Jimmy prodded as he slipped a hand behind Tony's neck and raised his head, "come on; try to drink some more water."
"You guys are wearing it more than I'm drinking it," Tony muttered, his voice edged with a weariness that hasn't gone away since Tony first awoken. He relented though, his lower teeth clacking uncontrollably against the mouth of the bottle as he tried to drink the lukewarm water. After a few gulps, Tony shook his head and dropped back onto the table, spent.
Jimmy eyed the BP cuff on the roll out tray. He bit his lower lip.
"It's not going to change," Tony muttered, his eyes closed. "You guys do that puff-puff thing around my arm, look at the numbers then look at each other like I can't see it."
Laughing uneasily, Jimmy gave Dr. Mallard a questioning look, but the ME shook his head.
"You usually have your eyes closed, Tony, so you really can't see it."
"But I know it's there." Tony's eyes were fogged with pain as he stared at the ceiling. "What's wrong with Hanks?"
Jimmy shrugged helplessly at Dr. Mallard. "I don't understand."
Tony grimaced. "Me, neither," he admitted. "I can't put my finger on it." He paused. "Well, technically, I really can't. I'm over here and he's all the way over…"
"Tony?"
"Someone did sketches?" Tony tried to push himself up on an elbow.
Dr. Mallard frowned mildly, his hands still deep within the chest cavity. "You should lie still."
"Did someone take photos of the crime scene up there?" Tony insisted.
"Here, here, here. They brought down the cameras when they brought down Agent Hanks." Jimmy snagged him one of the Nikons. He dropped a hand on Tony's shoulder, carefully bearing down until Tony was supine again.
Tony's breathing was loud, shallow as he motioned to the camera.
"Show me," Tony croaked. He lay there, his eyes intent as Jimmy scrolled through the images for him. Tony winced at the sight of his desk and the blood splatters, but did not comment.
"There." Tony pointed to the image of Hanks face down on the carpet.
"Where's Hanks in this photo?"
Jimmy blinked at the question. "I ah…I'm not sure…Agent Trinston bought down the body and…" He checked the clipboard for the agent's hasty notes. "I don't think he mentioned—no, he did. Uh...Hanks was two, maybe three feet from your desk."
"He should've had a clear shot then," Tony wheezed.
"Maybe he missed or Al shot first?" Jimmy suggested.
Dr. Mallard shook his head as he stepped away from the body. "I haven't had much time to examine him since they brought him down here, but preliminary checks show no gunpowder residue on his fingers." The ME hesitated. "Also, the chest cavity held the exit wound."
"So he was shot in the back," Jimmy murmured, perplexed. "Why would he have turned away from the shooter?"
Jimmy caught Tony rolling his eyes. He gave Jimmy a look he was pretty sure if Tony was currently capable would have been followed by a head slap. Jimmy chewed his lower lip thoughtfully.
"What about Walters?" Tony asked in a rasp.
Dr. Mallard unzipped the body bag.
"The back as well," he confirmed.
"The grouping?" For some reason, Tony's voice sharpened.
"Two shots through the scapula, three centimeters apart, piercing the heart."
"Kill shot," Tony hissed. He hovered a hand over his wounds.
Jimmy stared back and forth, feeling like he was watching a tennis match. "W-what?" he stammered.
Tony pushed up on his left elbow, fighting against Jimmy's hand. He grunted, his pale face now flushed with exertion as he tried to bend his right leg. The lab coat that was covering him fell to the floor.
"What are you doing?" Dr. Mallard hurried over.
Jimmy caught Tony by the shoulders as he started to sag to the side.
"My backup," Tony gasped. He gestured weakly with his left hand toward his ankle. "I n-need my backup."
"Tony, you have to stay still," Jimmy pleaded.
"Enough," Dr. Mallard said sternly as he wrapped both hands on Tony's ankle, stilling him. "I'll get it. You must not move."
Drained, Tony slumped against Jimmy. "N-need…"
"Yes, yes, but you won't be much help if you worsen your condition." Dr. Mallard tsked as he peeled back the coat covering Tony's torso. "You're bleeding again."
"I don't understand." Jimmy knew he should though. He'd worked here long enough to pick up a few things, but all he could think about right now was how clammy Tony felt and how much blood had soaked through the gauze and shirt.
Tony shakily wrapped both hands around the weapon's handle the moment Dr. Mallard slipped the backup revolver into his palm. He blinked rapidly, sweating, chest heaving as he checked the chambers and grunted.
"Ducky, I need you two to lock yourselves in the restroom," Tony bit out. "Move the lockers or roll something inside to block the door. The desk, if you have to."
"Absolutely not," Dr. Mallard snapped. "We are not leaving you here—"
"I've only got six in the chamber! Might be enough to stop Albert, but not enough to also stop…" Tony squeezed his eyes shut as he hissed in pain when Dr. Mallard peeled back the packing in his abdomen wound. "Ducky, now's not the time," he groaned.
Jimmy gripped Tony firmly by the shoulders. Tony was shaking too hard to stay upright, but he fought Jimmy's efforts to lay him flat. The gun, though, was steady, aimed for the double doors and it was like all the lights in the morgue came flooding back when Jimmy finally put it together.
"There was a second shooter," Jimmy breathed.
| part five |
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 12:05 am (UTC)I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop...
And poor Ziva thinks Tony's dead :(.
Laura.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 10:38 pm (UTC)Ziva stopped in her tracks and rolled her eyes.
Her team had been a corruptive influence on her. I really like this, most authentic voice imo