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mrwubbles5/7:
Warnings and/or Spoilers: Vague spoilers up to 6X02 "Agent Afloat"
previous parts: master post | part one | part two | part three | part four
| part five |
She was alone.
Ziva pursed her lips as she considered the wired fencing that wrapped around the evidence lockup area.
The garage was shut; heavy barricades had dropped the moment the lockdown was engaged, isolating them from the outside. Abandoned soldering irons, circular saws, crowbars and various tools were left on the floor. She assumed the technicians were rounded up and evacuated to the holding area; it was a procedure she'd always disagreed with. Supplying a more concentrated target area was counter-intuitive to Mossad's strategy.
Evidence to her left, the skeleton of an SUV to her right. The vacant area stirred an uneasy feeling inside. Ziva's mouth twisted. She'd often thought the garage was noisy: more technicians than necessary in one space. But with all of them gone, the garage was stripped of its ear-splitting chaos.
Gun straight out ahead of her, Ziva swept her weapon left to right as she used the crates as cover. She ducked behind the burned husk of an SUV, peering between its metal struts to determine if she was clear. Her nostrils flared at the lingering smell of C4 and oil and buckled steel. She couldn't stop herself from thinking about her little sister, Tali.
Ziva wished Abby had taken the time to include information on the shooter, but Ziva also knew judging by the lack of response that communications must be brief. She did not like to ponder on why she had not heard from Abby since. She hoped the three aborted vibrating alerts were her friend calling.
Perhaps she had become indolent during her years with NCIS. Alone, with only herself to trust and rely on, Ziva expected to slip back into the mental state of the darker moments of service to her father's cause. Instead, she was uneasy with the thought that Gibbs was not shadowing or running parallel to her, McGee was not watching her via a camera and Tony…
Ziva swallowed. She muttered angrily to herself, in the words of her father, the Mossad's version of a head slap that usually stung more than the actual kind. She squared her shoulders. The elevators were up ahead, exposed and shut. She readjusted her grip and trotted for the double doors. Even though nothing reacted to her movements—not a footfall or shadow—the taut line across the back of her shoulders did not ease when she reached the elevator. She slapped a palm by the retina scanner, unsurprised as it stayed dull and inactive, but still angry that even this would not cooperate with her.
Ziva glowered at the elevators. Moments later, she cocked her head and looked over her shoulder at the garage behind her.
And smiled.
* * * * *
"If you say 'I told you so,'" Tony wheezed, "I'm shooting you."
Palmer, however, only checked with Ducky. Must be an ESP thing doctors and autopsy gremlins learn in medical school.
Ducky made a face like he was sucking a lemon (he would have a story about it, too), but didn't comment as he adjusted the sling he had made to pull Tony's right arm tight against his chest so it wouldn't bang against the armrest on the chair.
The office chair by the metal slab had been a compromise. Sort of. The two MEs wouldn't barricade themselves in the restroom (damn it) and Tony had refused to lie on the slab for another minute. Tony would have argued procedure with them, but he was lousy with the chapter, line and verse of the NCIS manual. Gibbs had focused more on drumming his rules into them than official procedure.
Tony wished his backup revolver was actually his Sig, but it had been left behind when Gibbs and McGee brought him downstairs. Six bullets in the chamber, he was feeling like Alan Ladd in Shane steering unavoidably toward a showdown and right now, he couldn't remember if it had turned out all right.
Tempting as it was to go after Gibbs, warn them about the second shooter, Tony was having problems with the "go" part of his plan. Sliding off the slab and easing into the chair had hurt a lot more than it should and Tony was pretty sure he'd pas—blanked out a few times getting there, hence the medical mime conversation Palmer was having with Ducky. They bookended him, doing that weird nod and eyebrow thing Tony didn't have the energy to decode.
"What?" It came out sharper than he'd intended but at least they stopped having Charlie Chaplin-style conversations above his head. It was like Abby and Gibbs signing. Kinda rude and completely unfair.
"We should try to get more fluids in you," Ducky said instead of whatever Tony suspected he wanted to say.
Tony grimaced. "Fluids" would be great if it stayed down. His throat was parched, his tongue gummy like he'd been chewing on a mouthful of sand. He was thirsty, but the minute anything relatively cool hit his gut, muscles recoiled and the agonizing sensation of fire slashing across his stomach locked his body into rigidity as the water came back up against his will.
"Maybe later," Tony suggested. He feebly batted a hand at the bottle Palmer swung his way.
"Tony—"
"Last thing we need is for me to pass out from throwing up water again," Tony cut Palmer off harshly. "I need to stay alert!" Crap, that wasn't a good move. Tony groaned, his head dropping forward as his chest was suddenly unable to take in oxygen.
Vaguely, Tony could feel a hand—Ducky or Palmer's—on his shoulder, bracing him so he wouldn't embarrass himself by falling out of the chair after spending so long arguing to be in it.
"…bleeding again…"
"…could try…stitching…not advisable…"
"…maybe an IV…could rig…"
Tony held up a hand to halt the medical babble buzzing by his ear. He was eased back into the seat, a rolled up lab coat stuffed behind him to ease the pressure on his lower back.
"For a few minutes, until Jethro gets here," Ducky agreed. He left a hand on Tony's forearm.
"Jethro," Tony bit out, "should have been here by now. It's been thirteen minutes—"
"Twelve, DiNozzo."
Shit! Tony wasn't sure why none of them heard the doors, but he elbowed Ducky behind him and kicked his chair forward as he pointed his gun at the new voice. His chair, propelled by the kick he'd overestimated, sent him too forward, too fast until two hands grabbed an armrest.
Tony stared up into Gibbs's shadowed expression, his revolver now settled on the armrest. He breathed heavily, unable to get what he wanted to say out, his arms shaking with the effort.
McGee was comically flat against the wall by the doors, looking bug-eyed at Tony's backup weapon pointed at his crotch.
"You…" Tony managed, "you said ten minutes."
Something flickered in Gibbs's eyes and he nodded. For a brief moment, Tony feared Gibbs was going to apologize and that would have been—as Abby would like to say—hinky.
Under Gibbs's careful control, the chair was gingerly rolled back to park next to his vacated slab. Thankfully, Gibbs said nothing, but Tony thought he saw a tight smile when Gibbs observed the gun in Tony's hands.
"How's Abby?" Palmer spoke up.
Tony was too busy trying not to breathe too deeply. He rested his left arm on the slab next to him. He wished he could lay his head down, but it would pull at his right side too much.
"She's fine," McGee answered but he was looking at Tony. "Got the ballistics back on the gun." McGee winced as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's Pacci's. It should have been stored in Evidence."
"Now we know how he got a gun. Or one of them at least," Tony muttered. He couldn't feel any satisfaction when McGee's mouth dropped open. Gibbs had that stoic "I knew it all along" thing he must have learned from Parris Island.
"There's a second shooter," Gibbs concluded, his mouth a grim line.
"The change in shooting pattern certainly suggests it," Ducky added. He indicated to the bodies with a tired hand gesture. "Also 9mm, also close range, both in groupings of two."
"Kill shots," Gibbs said flatly.
"In the back. I don't think either one of them saw it coming," Ducky added sadly. Ducky gave Gibbs a small evidence bag. "There were no slugs in Agent Hanks, but poor Walters…"
Gibbs lifted up the bag to consider the spent bullet.
Tony blearily tracked the bullet as it was passed around. He wondered if they had done the same before with his. He cautiously shifted in his seat.
"So Albert didn't kill Hanks or Walters?" McGee tested saying it like it was a new word from his Word of the Day calendar. He nodded to himself. "The grenades. The call to lockdown. The second shooter could have done it." McGee stiffened. "But that means…"
Gibbs grunted and whoa, Tony hadn't seen that "I'm going to rip somebody's arm off" scowl since Ari.
Palmer fidgeted. Tony took pity on the gremlin.
"The second shooter is one of us," Tony croaked. He grinned weakly up at Gibbs. "Wasn't me though."
There was a brief crack on the darkness over Gibbs' expression; Gibbs smiled (grimaced) back.
"Think the second shooter was the computer geek?" Tony asked hoarsely. He kept his left hand cupped over his backup piece.
McGee chewed on the tip of his thumb. "The computer was clean when I was there. Walters was shot away from the computer. Maybe Walters was finished?"
Tony briefly closed his heavy eyes. He needed to rest his eyes; just a few seconds. "Lockdown?" He could feel the warmth of Gibbs' hand on the back of his neck, grounding him to the present.
McGee stared at Tony for some reason. "Never accessed. I don't even know if it could be accessed from there. Primary servers are usually the only ones. I…" He glanced over to Gibbs. "Boss, I think I need to go back down there. Maybe I can access the protocols there, reverse the lockdown, at least get a door opened or communications or—something."
Tony listened half-heartedly as the four men above him bickered or talked—they could be doing a barber shop quartet; their voices all ran over each other, all sounding the same and far away and Tony was trying really hard to care…
Two fingers tipped his chin up and he lifted red-rimmed eyes to meet a steely, determined gaze inches from his face. Gibbs wordlessly pressed a bottle of cloudy water to his mouth. Tony sputtered at the taste of bitter, melted pills splashing against his lips.
"All of it, DiNozzo. Come on…"
Tony wanted to protest that water was a bad idea, that drinking was a bad idea, but Gibbs offered no choice. One hand cupped the back of his head, the other curled around the water bottle; there was nowhere to turn.
Tony bleated a protest, all he was allowed, before the bottle was tipped up. He dutifully drank the warm water, his body tensing in anticipation of its revolt. Pain burned in his stomach and Tony coughed; water dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.
"Keep it down." Crouched by his ear, Gibbs rubbed his thumb into the knobby bones that disappeared into the base of his skull. The wire sharp thrumming under his skin eased a fraction. It was easier to swallow now.
"Just a bit more. Little bit more, Tony."
Fuzzily, Tony thought it didn't feel like it was "a little bit more," but he tentatively gulped down mouthful after bitter mouthful, nevertheless, murmuring a feeble protest when Gibbs kept promising, "Just a bit more."
Finally, the bottle was pulled away. Tony's shoulders sagged. How could that have exhausted him? He blinked blearily at Gibbs and McGee, who was suddenly just there and looking like an extra for Blair Witch.
"I'll get into the lockdown systems, Tony," McGee swore shakily. He gulped and dropped a hand on Tony's knee. "Just hold—I'll get it done."
"MIT," Tony mumbled, his mouth tugging at the corners.
"You know it." McGee rose to his feet. "Ducky, need help getting Tony back up on the—"
"No," Tony rasped. "I can't shoot flat on my back."
"Tony, I don't think you can shoot sitting right now," McGee pointed out.
Tony curled his hand over his revolver. He set his blurry vision on the doors. He thought of Ducky and Palmer standing behind him, counting on his protection. "'ere," he ground out.
Gibbs remained where he was, his mouth pinched as he studied Tony. He nodded curtly before draping someone's jacket over his shoulders. Tony shivered and the coat closed tighter around him. Gibbs then wrapped his hand around Tony's and the gun, squeezing them together.
"Keep an eye on them, DiNozzo." Gibbs glared at him, but even in the haze that seemed to have settled over him, Tony could tell there was no heat in it.
"Jethro—" Ducky started to protest.
Gibbs glanced up over Tony's head. "For as long as he can, Duck. Unless one of you want my backup?" He cracked a humorless grimace at them. "Didn’t think so."
It didn't feel like a victory, but Tony bleakly smiled anyway. He kept his eyes on Gibbs, unwavering as the ex-Marine stared back.
Then, deliberately, Gibbs reached around and gave him a rap on the back of his head.
Blue light, drowning in the open air, tasting blood collecting in his throat. Back then, Tony could only hear the roaring of his hammering heart. But a hard tap had knocked it all away and a clear and precise command demanded to be heard.
His chest relaxed, air soothing not choking this time and his body remembered it even when Tony had wondered if that had been delirium dying people got. Guess it wasn't a dream after all. Tony's mouth twisted ruefully. He blinked, swallowed and nodded at Gibbs.
Message received.
Gibbs's dark gaze eased, lightened and his hand gave Tony's neck a squeeze before he straightened from his crouch.
"McGee," Gibbs bade brusquely and they left, Gibbs without a backward glance.
But Tony got that. That was Gibbs's way. Now was not the time for mushy-eyed ex-Marines because then Tony knew he was in trouble.
Tony drew in a careful breath, planted his feet on the floor and kept his eyes on the door. The back of his head still vaguely ached, Gibbs's version of a Post-it.
"You. Will. Not. Die."
"Got it, boss," Tony whispered.
* * * * *
The computer would have to wait.
No sooner had they reached the exit, then they heard the double shot. McGee tensed and gave Gibbs an uneasy look. Gibbs nodded.
It had come from below the morgue, above the tech level, but still away from the bullpen. Agents in the stairways, agents in the holding area, there weren't many left to respond to the muffled thunder.
Gibbs narrowed his eyes as he gripped his weapon. His jaw clenched as he considered the direction they were heading. Then he jerked his head in the opposite direction. "Let's go."
* * * * *
Ziva stared at the six foot wall of piled—she wasn't sure, but one of it looked like the mass spectrometer—things that blocked the glass door that led to Abby's lab. She tried the secondary door and blinked. The back of the refrigerator now filled the entire doorframe. She could hear the lab's alarms still wailing inside so her knocks were not heard.
This was unexpected.
Abby's lab felt like the logical place to rendezvous. The morgue was her second and less preferred choice.
But this…
The crowbar Ziva used to pry open the non-functioning elevator twitched in her grip. As tempting it was to swing it at the door, Ziva also knew this…barrier was possibly set up as additional protection against the shooter. She pursed her lips, unnerved to find herself at a loss on her next step.
Then Abby's head popped up on top.
"A broch!" Ziva drew her arm back but hesitated when it disappeared. Wait, Abby's head appeared again, then gone. Up and down Abby's earmuffed, pigtailed head came and went as the technician jumped up and down to get Ziva's attention.
Finally, Ziva saw the mass spectrometer move along with a computer monitor, an old fashioned lunch box with an odd, square yellow cartoon character on it and an opened parasol.
Abby's broad grin was infectious when she reappeared in the area she cleared. She was hugging her hippo, Bert, scribbling something on the freed glass with a marker.
Ziva stared at the words that appeared, wondering absently if mirrored writing was a skill she herself should consider learning. She chuckled softly as the cramped message sank in.
IM CALLING U NINJA ZIVA FROM NOW ON
Giving Abby a slight nod of acknowledgment, Ziva pulled out her phone to type a message on her cell.
WHERE IS GIBBS?
TO C TONY MORGUE
Oh.
Abby took a look at her face and suddenly she was gesturing wildly, shaking her head; her mouth moved too rapidly for Ziva to guess.
"Abby, wait…slow down…"
Abruptly, Abby stopped. She scrubbed her hippo furiously across the glass to clean her words off and slowly, in big letters, she wrote three words.
TONY NOT DEAD
Ziva stared at the words a beat before she exhaled. She glowered at Abby, shaking her cell at her.
Abby's mouth formed an "Oops" before she grew serious again.
ALBERT SHOT TONY
"Albert?" Ziva's brow knitted together. She had assumed—again with the assumptions—it had been an intruder. She raised her cell to type out another question when two shots echoed behind her.
Despite the alarms in the lab, Abby froze as well as if she had heard them; she had seen the change in Ziva's posture and knew immediately. Abby nodded with uncharacteristic meekness when Ziva gestured at the door before turning toward the shots. A sharp rap on the glass drew her back.
Abby pressed both her hands on the glass, her mouth a decided downward tilt, her eyes overly bright.
"I will be careful," Ziva mouthed slowly. She nodded to Abby, waved gently at the door again. As Abby started to rebuild her barricade, Ziva rounded back her shoulders, took a deep breath and ran towards the sounds.
* * * * *
It was disconcerting, Ziva decided, how dark the building was as she moved closer to the disturbance, the crowbar still in one hand, her gun in the other. The emergency lights cast a red hue to the dark orange walls. They provided little in light and only added to the shadows. When she reached the vicinity of the interrogation room, she went rigid.
It was completely dark.
Ziva dropped to a crouch and peered around the bend.
A hiss of a bullet sent her head snapping back.
"Federal agent! Lower your weapon, Albert!" Ziva shouted. She swore as another shot buried into the wall opposite her. High velocity, possibly 9mm. She set down her crowbar, double-gripped her weapon and twisted back around the corner. Another shot close enough to her ear made her flinch, but it was also what she needed. She centered her gun toward the muzzle flash she had seen and fired.
There was a soft impact; the sound of striking flesh but there was no cry of pain. Instead, there was another muzzle flash, now on the other corner, diagonally from her, in a good enough angle to send a bullet slashing across her left bicep.
Ziva jerked, the shock vibrating down her arm and sending her gun spinning out of her grasp. She fell back then sideways into the hallway she from which she'd come.
Three more shots punched above her head. Ziva squinted. Where was her gun? She snarled as she snatched her hand back when a bullet came close to her searching fingers.
The crowbar dug into the back of her calves when she scooted back. Ziva grabbed it and threw it at the last place she had seen the second muzzle flash. She heard a grunt, a clatter and then footsteps.
Ziva frantically patted the floor in the darkness until she found her gun. As soon as she grabbed it, she felt the cool profile of a gun sliding against her cheek from behind.
Her face contorted into a snarl as she reached back, grabbed the gun by the muzzle. She yanked the weapon and gunman forward, her elbow driving back to hit something soft. The moment she heard a familiar grunt though, she froze, which was just as well because a new gun jabbed her on the back of her neck.
"I wouldn't."
"Gibbs?" Ziva burst out at the low growl. The gun pulled away.
"Ziva?"
Ziva could vaguely make out a hunched shadow by her feet. "McGee?"
"Zi'a?" McGee groaned.
Ziva's shoulders dropped. "I thought you were the shooter." She winced when McGee's phone snapped on, a square patch of light scorching her eyes.
"Do you mind?" Ziva snapped, as she threw up a hand.
"Sorry." The light lowered. "What happened to the emergency lights?" The patch of light swiveled up towards the wall-mounted beacons, revealing the shattered lamps. "Oh."
"Did you get a look at the shooter?" Gibbs was suddenly to her left. "You hit?"
"A graze." Ziva rotated her arm. It burned, but did not feel as though it would be disabling. "It was too dark, but Abby told me it was Albert."
"One of them at least."
"One of them?" Ziva stepped away from the scrutiny she could feel. "There were two shooters," she surmised instantly.
"Looks like it," McGee didn't sound as high-pitched now as he straightened up next to her with a groan. "How did you get in here?"
"This building has many security flaws," Ziva said primly.
"Can we get Tony out through it?" McGee asked as he swept his phone down the corridor.
"No, the way I came in…it would be too much for someone injured." Ziva looked to the direction where she sensed Gibbs. "How bad is he?"
"Bad," Gibbs said succinctly.
Ziva swallowed. "Oh." She eyed the direction of the muzzle flashes. "I am sure I hit one of them."
In the dark, she could sense Gibbs nodding to her, wordlessly pressing her weapon back into her hands. The tension that had sat across her shoulders unwound as she felt the two men next to her. Their presence fortified her, far more reassuring than the gun in her grip.
McGee's phone made for a poor flashlight but it was still sufficient enough to see the puddle of dark, luminous blood spreading away from the shattered skull.
"It's Albert," McGee reported. His light tilted downwards. "Gunshot to the side of the head, boss."
Ziva felt a kernel of remorse. She remembered Albert as harmless. Perhaps if she had been present when he had first attacked in the bullpen, her opinion of him may have devolved.
"Two more bullets in the shoulder and side." Gibbs hefted the body up to find the exit wounds. "Not enough blood."
"They struck him post mortem," Ziva surmised as she stared at the beige janitorial uniform. The large chain of keys was missing from his belt, but there was still the tool kit and iPod clipped to the waistband. She crouched and studied the bullet holes under McGee's light. "These were my shots."
"Killer got to Albert first," Gibbs agreed.
Ziva's face twisted. "I must have arrived after the second killer shot Albert."
"So now we're back to one shooter." McGee breathed a sigh of relief.
"That's still one shooter too many, McGee."
"Sorry, boss."
Ziva patted the body's pockets carefully. She found his wallet first, showed it to them in the meager light and checked again. When she pulled out a digital face watch, she felt cold.
"Gibbs," she called to attract their attention. She raised the watch so they could see. "It is not telling time." She pulled McGee's wrist, bringing his light source closer to the watch face. The numbers rolling back made her chest clench. "It is counting down." It was damp. She rubbed her fingers across the surface, wiping off whatever it was. She squinted at the watch. "We have twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes before what?" McGee's light bobbed erratically as he turned to Gibbs. "A bomb?"
"Maybe." Gibbs sounded grim as he considered the possibility. "Turn the body over," he ordered.
When they rolled Albert to his back, they saw the horrified expression that would be on his face permanently. Ziva heard McGee gulp as the light struck the gray pallor.
There were no wires, no remote, no deadman's switch found on Albert. A pen, crumpled paper, the iPod, a battered Swiss Army pocketknife and his keys were pulled out. His belt was threaded out of his pants.
"Nothing." Ziva stared at what they'd gathered on the ground. "I see no evidence of a bomb. We need to test Albert for residue."
"Maybe there isn't a bomb?" McGee spoke up hopefully. He poked at the contents as well. "When I saw him this morning, it didn't look like he had anything on him to make a bomb—"
"The explosions in the wastebaskets," Gibbs reminded McGee.
"Explosions?" Ziva asked sharply.
McGee exhaled. "Two. Mostly smoke though."
"They must have been planted ahead." Ziva pursed her lips. "To cover the shooters' escape."
"I still can't figure how Albert evaded us this whole time," McGee said glumly.
"Not the whole time," Gibbs bit out.
Ziva grimaced. She looked down at Albert. "He was betrayed by his partner. Why?"
"Uh…we're still trying to figure out the 'why' part for the lockdown, Ziva."
The watch was heavy in her hands, a deceptively innocuous item on her palm. "Albert or the other shooter could have planted another explosion," Ziva said.
"Then why lock yourself inside a building with a bomb?"
"Perhaps they thought they would be able to leave before the time ran out." Ziva checked the contents again. She picked up the iPod. It was similar to the one she used whenever she jogged. Her eyebrow rose.
"What is it?" Somehow, even in the dark, Gibbs could read her.
Ziva drew her eyebrows together. She held up the iPod. "This is lighter than I expected." She gave it to McGee who tested its weight.
"Actually, yeah, you're right. It's…empty?" The two halves of the device split easily with a nudge of McGee's finger.
She frowned.
"It's hollow," McGee said.
Ziva palmed the few pieces that fell out. "Not quite."
"Something's missing," Gibbs murmured.
"Yeah, the hard drive…" McGee trailed off. He gaped at the shells. "Hard drive. There's…uh…usually there's a solid state flash drive in them to store the mp3 files and mp4 clips and, and, and—boss." McGee grabbed the pieces. "There's enough pieces in here so when it goes through the x-ray machines, it would look like a normal iPod but, there's not enough in here." McGee started tossing the parts one by one to the ground. "The battery pack, the processor, the brackets for the—"
"McGee."
"This was gutted to make room for a bigger hard drive. Definitely not a flash drive. And the older models used a larger chassis so it can definitely fit a 2.5 inch—"
"McGee!" It was Ziva's turn now.
McGee's mouth snapped shut. "Boss, I think we need to go back to that computer. I think I might know what Albert was trying to do."
| part six |
Warnings and/or Spoilers: Vague spoilers up to 6X02 "Agent Afloat"
previous parts: master post | part one | part two | part three | part four
She was alone.
Ziva pursed her lips as she considered the wired fencing that wrapped around the evidence lockup area.
The garage was shut; heavy barricades had dropped the moment the lockdown was engaged, isolating them from the outside. Abandoned soldering irons, circular saws, crowbars and various tools were left on the floor. She assumed the technicians were rounded up and evacuated to the holding area; it was a procedure she'd always disagreed with. Supplying a more concentrated target area was counter-intuitive to Mossad's strategy.
Evidence to her left, the skeleton of an SUV to her right. The vacant area stirred an uneasy feeling inside. Ziva's mouth twisted. She'd often thought the garage was noisy: more technicians than necessary in one space. But with all of them gone, the garage was stripped of its ear-splitting chaos.
Gun straight out ahead of her, Ziva swept her weapon left to right as she used the crates as cover. She ducked behind the burned husk of an SUV, peering between its metal struts to determine if she was clear. Her nostrils flared at the lingering smell of C4 and oil and buckled steel. She couldn't stop herself from thinking about her little sister, Tali.
Ziva wished Abby had taken the time to include information on the shooter, but Ziva also knew judging by the lack of response that communications must be brief. She did not like to ponder on why she had not heard from Abby since. She hoped the three aborted vibrating alerts were her friend calling.
Perhaps she had become indolent during her years with NCIS. Alone, with only herself to trust and rely on, Ziva expected to slip back into the mental state of the darker moments of service to her father's cause. Instead, she was uneasy with the thought that Gibbs was not shadowing or running parallel to her, McGee was not watching her via a camera and Tony…
Ziva swallowed. She muttered angrily to herself, in the words of her father, the Mossad's version of a head slap that usually stung more than the actual kind. She squared her shoulders. The elevators were up ahead, exposed and shut. She readjusted her grip and trotted for the double doors. Even though nothing reacted to her movements—not a footfall or shadow—the taut line across the back of her shoulders did not ease when she reached the elevator. She slapped a palm by the retina scanner, unsurprised as it stayed dull and inactive, but still angry that even this would not cooperate with her.
Ziva glowered at the elevators. Moments later, she cocked her head and looked over her shoulder at the garage behind her.
And smiled.
"If you say 'I told you so,'" Tony wheezed, "I'm shooting you."
Palmer, however, only checked with Ducky. Must be an ESP thing doctors and autopsy gremlins learn in medical school.
Ducky made a face like he was sucking a lemon (he would have a story about it, too), but didn't comment as he adjusted the sling he had made to pull Tony's right arm tight against his chest so it wouldn't bang against the armrest on the chair.
The office chair by the metal slab had been a compromise. Sort of. The two MEs wouldn't barricade themselves in the restroom (damn it) and Tony had refused to lie on the slab for another minute. Tony would have argued procedure with them, but he was lousy with the chapter, line and verse of the NCIS manual. Gibbs had focused more on drumming his rules into them than official procedure.
Tony wished his backup revolver was actually his Sig, but it had been left behind when Gibbs and McGee brought him downstairs. Six bullets in the chamber, he was feeling like Alan Ladd in Shane steering unavoidably toward a showdown and right now, he couldn't remember if it had turned out all right.
Tempting as it was to go after Gibbs, warn them about the second shooter, Tony was having problems with the "go" part of his plan. Sliding off the slab and easing into the chair had hurt a lot more than it should and Tony was pretty sure he'd pas—blanked out a few times getting there, hence the medical mime conversation Palmer was having with Ducky. They bookended him, doing that weird nod and eyebrow thing Tony didn't have the energy to decode.
"What?" It came out sharper than he'd intended but at least they stopped having Charlie Chaplin-style conversations above his head. It was like Abby and Gibbs signing. Kinda rude and completely unfair.
"We should try to get more fluids in you," Ducky said instead of whatever Tony suspected he wanted to say.
Tony grimaced. "Fluids" would be great if it stayed down. His throat was parched, his tongue gummy like he'd been chewing on a mouthful of sand. He was thirsty, but the minute anything relatively cool hit his gut, muscles recoiled and the agonizing sensation of fire slashing across his stomach locked his body into rigidity as the water came back up against his will.
"Maybe later," Tony suggested. He feebly batted a hand at the bottle Palmer swung his way.
"Tony—"
"Last thing we need is for me to pass out from throwing up water again," Tony cut Palmer off harshly. "I need to stay alert!" Crap, that wasn't a good move. Tony groaned, his head dropping forward as his chest was suddenly unable to take in oxygen.
Vaguely, Tony could feel a hand—Ducky or Palmer's—on his shoulder, bracing him so he wouldn't embarrass himself by falling out of the chair after spending so long arguing to be in it.
"…bleeding again…"
"…could try…stitching…not advisable…"
"…maybe an IV…could rig…"
Tony held up a hand to halt the medical babble buzzing by his ear. He was eased back into the seat, a rolled up lab coat stuffed behind him to ease the pressure on his lower back.
"For a few minutes, until Jethro gets here," Ducky agreed. He left a hand on Tony's forearm.
"Jethro," Tony bit out, "should have been here by now. It's been thirteen minutes—"
"Twelve, DiNozzo."
Shit! Tony wasn't sure why none of them heard the doors, but he elbowed Ducky behind him and kicked his chair forward as he pointed his gun at the new voice. His chair, propelled by the kick he'd overestimated, sent him too forward, too fast until two hands grabbed an armrest.
Tony stared up into Gibbs's shadowed expression, his revolver now settled on the armrest. He breathed heavily, unable to get what he wanted to say out, his arms shaking with the effort.
McGee was comically flat against the wall by the doors, looking bug-eyed at Tony's backup weapon pointed at his crotch.
"You…" Tony managed, "you said ten minutes."
Something flickered in Gibbs's eyes and he nodded. For a brief moment, Tony feared Gibbs was going to apologize and that would have been—as Abby would like to say—hinky.
Under Gibbs's careful control, the chair was gingerly rolled back to park next to his vacated slab. Thankfully, Gibbs said nothing, but Tony thought he saw a tight smile when Gibbs observed the gun in Tony's hands.
"How's Abby?" Palmer spoke up.
Tony was too busy trying not to breathe too deeply. He rested his left arm on the slab next to him. He wished he could lay his head down, but it would pull at his right side too much.
"She's fine," McGee answered but he was looking at Tony. "Got the ballistics back on the gun." McGee winced as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's Pacci's. It should have been stored in Evidence."
"Now we know how he got a gun. Or one of them at least," Tony muttered. He couldn't feel any satisfaction when McGee's mouth dropped open. Gibbs had that stoic "I knew it all along" thing he must have learned from Parris Island.
"There's a second shooter," Gibbs concluded, his mouth a grim line.
"The change in shooting pattern certainly suggests it," Ducky added. He indicated to the bodies with a tired hand gesture. "Also 9mm, also close range, both in groupings of two."
"Kill shots," Gibbs said flatly.
"In the back. I don't think either one of them saw it coming," Ducky added sadly. Ducky gave Gibbs a small evidence bag. "There were no slugs in Agent Hanks, but poor Walters…"
Gibbs lifted up the bag to consider the spent bullet.
Tony blearily tracked the bullet as it was passed around. He wondered if they had done the same before with his. He cautiously shifted in his seat.
"So Albert didn't kill Hanks or Walters?" McGee tested saying it like it was a new word from his Word of the Day calendar. He nodded to himself. "The grenades. The call to lockdown. The second shooter could have done it." McGee stiffened. "But that means…"
Gibbs grunted and whoa, Tony hadn't seen that "I'm going to rip somebody's arm off" scowl since Ari.
Palmer fidgeted. Tony took pity on the gremlin.
"The second shooter is one of us," Tony croaked. He grinned weakly up at Gibbs. "Wasn't me though."
There was a brief crack on the darkness over Gibbs' expression; Gibbs smiled (grimaced) back.
"Think the second shooter was the computer geek?" Tony asked hoarsely. He kept his left hand cupped over his backup piece.
McGee chewed on the tip of his thumb. "The computer was clean when I was there. Walters was shot away from the computer. Maybe Walters was finished?"
Tony briefly closed his heavy eyes. He needed to rest his eyes; just a few seconds. "Lockdown?" He could feel the warmth of Gibbs' hand on the back of his neck, grounding him to the present.
McGee stared at Tony for some reason. "Never accessed. I don't even know if it could be accessed from there. Primary servers are usually the only ones. I…" He glanced over to Gibbs. "Boss, I think I need to go back down there. Maybe I can access the protocols there, reverse the lockdown, at least get a door opened or communications or—something."
Tony listened half-heartedly as the four men above him bickered or talked—they could be doing a barber shop quartet; their voices all ran over each other, all sounding the same and far away and Tony was trying really hard to care…
Two fingers tipped his chin up and he lifted red-rimmed eyes to meet a steely, determined gaze inches from his face. Gibbs wordlessly pressed a bottle of cloudy water to his mouth. Tony sputtered at the taste of bitter, melted pills splashing against his lips.
"All of it, DiNozzo. Come on…"
Tony wanted to protest that water was a bad idea, that drinking was a bad idea, but Gibbs offered no choice. One hand cupped the back of his head, the other curled around the water bottle; there was nowhere to turn.
Tony bleated a protest, all he was allowed, before the bottle was tipped up. He dutifully drank the warm water, his body tensing in anticipation of its revolt. Pain burned in his stomach and Tony coughed; water dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.
"Keep it down." Crouched by his ear, Gibbs rubbed his thumb into the knobby bones that disappeared into the base of his skull. The wire sharp thrumming under his skin eased a fraction. It was easier to swallow now.
"Just a bit more. Little bit more, Tony."
Fuzzily, Tony thought it didn't feel like it was "a little bit more," but he tentatively gulped down mouthful after bitter mouthful, nevertheless, murmuring a feeble protest when Gibbs kept promising, "Just a bit more."
Finally, the bottle was pulled away. Tony's shoulders sagged. How could that have exhausted him? He blinked blearily at Gibbs and McGee, who was suddenly just there and looking like an extra for Blair Witch.
"I'll get into the lockdown systems, Tony," McGee swore shakily. He gulped and dropped a hand on Tony's knee. "Just hold—I'll get it done."
"MIT," Tony mumbled, his mouth tugging at the corners.
"You know it." McGee rose to his feet. "Ducky, need help getting Tony back up on the—"
"No," Tony rasped. "I can't shoot flat on my back."
"Tony, I don't think you can shoot sitting right now," McGee pointed out.
Tony curled his hand over his revolver. He set his blurry vision on the doors. He thought of Ducky and Palmer standing behind him, counting on his protection. "'ere," he ground out.
Gibbs remained where he was, his mouth pinched as he studied Tony. He nodded curtly before draping someone's jacket over his shoulders. Tony shivered and the coat closed tighter around him. Gibbs then wrapped his hand around Tony's and the gun, squeezing them together.
"Keep an eye on them, DiNozzo." Gibbs glared at him, but even in the haze that seemed to have settled over him, Tony could tell there was no heat in it.
"Jethro—" Ducky started to protest.
Gibbs glanced up over Tony's head. "For as long as he can, Duck. Unless one of you want my backup?" He cracked a humorless grimace at them. "Didn’t think so."
It didn't feel like a victory, but Tony bleakly smiled anyway. He kept his eyes on Gibbs, unwavering as the ex-Marine stared back.
Then, deliberately, Gibbs reached around and gave him a rap on the back of his head.
Blue light, drowning in the open air, tasting blood collecting in his throat. Back then, Tony could only hear the roaring of his hammering heart. But a hard tap had knocked it all away and a clear and precise command demanded to be heard.
His chest relaxed, air soothing not choking this time and his body remembered it even when Tony had wondered if that had been delirium dying people got. Guess it wasn't a dream after all. Tony's mouth twisted ruefully. He blinked, swallowed and nodded at Gibbs.
Message received.
Gibbs's dark gaze eased, lightened and his hand gave Tony's neck a squeeze before he straightened from his crouch.
"McGee," Gibbs bade brusquely and they left, Gibbs without a backward glance.
But Tony got that. That was Gibbs's way. Now was not the time for mushy-eyed ex-Marines because then Tony knew he was in trouble.
Tony drew in a careful breath, planted his feet on the floor and kept his eyes on the door. The back of his head still vaguely ached, Gibbs's version of a Post-it.
"You. Will. Not. Die."
"Got it, boss," Tony whispered.
The computer would have to wait.
No sooner had they reached the exit, then they heard the double shot. McGee tensed and gave Gibbs an uneasy look. Gibbs nodded.
It had come from below the morgue, above the tech level, but still away from the bullpen. Agents in the stairways, agents in the holding area, there weren't many left to respond to the muffled thunder.
Gibbs narrowed his eyes as he gripped his weapon. His jaw clenched as he considered the direction they were heading. Then he jerked his head in the opposite direction. "Let's go."
Ziva stared at the six foot wall of piled—she wasn't sure, but one of it looked like the mass spectrometer—things that blocked the glass door that led to Abby's lab. She tried the secondary door and blinked. The back of the refrigerator now filled the entire doorframe. She could hear the lab's alarms still wailing inside so her knocks were not heard.
This was unexpected.
Abby's lab felt like the logical place to rendezvous. The morgue was her second and less preferred choice.
But this…
The crowbar Ziva used to pry open the non-functioning elevator twitched in her grip. As tempting it was to swing it at the door, Ziva also knew this…barrier was possibly set up as additional protection against the shooter. She pursed her lips, unnerved to find herself at a loss on her next step.
Then Abby's head popped up on top.
"A broch!" Ziva drew her arm back but hesitated when it disappeared. Wait, Abby's head appeared again, then gone. Up and down Abby's earmuffed, pigtailed head came and went as the technician jumped up and down to get Ziva's attention.
Finally, Ziva saw the mass spectrometer move along with a computer monitor, an old fashioned lunch box with an odd, square yellow cartoon character on it and an opened parasol.
Abby's broad grin was infectious when she reappeared in the area she cleared. She was hugging her hippo, Bert, scribbling something on the freed glass with a marker.
Ziva stared at the words that appeared, wondering absently if mirrored writing was a skill she herself should consider learning. She chuckled softly as the cramped message sank in.
IM CALLING U NINJA ZIVA FROM NOW ON
Giving Abby a slight nod of acknowledgment, Ziva pulled out her phone to type a message on her cell.
WHERE IS GIBBS?
TO C TONY MORGUE
Oh.
Abby took a look at her face and suddenly she was gesturing wildly, shaking her head; her mouth moved too rapidly for Ziva to guess.
"Abby, wait…slow down…"
Abruptly, Abby stopped. She scrubbed her hippo furiously across the glass to clean her words off and slowly, in big letters, she wrote three words.
TONY NOT DEAD
Ziva stared at the words a beat before she exhaled. She glowered at Abby, shaking her cell at her.
Abby's mouth formed an "Oops" before she grew serious again.
ALBERT SHOT TONY
"Albert?" Ziva's brow knitted together. She had assumed—again with the assumptions—it had been an intruder. She raised her cell to type out another question when two shots echoed behind her.
Despite the alarms in the lab, Abby froze as well as if she had heard them; she had seen the change in Ziva's posture and knew immediately. Abby nodded with uncharacteristic meekness when Ziva gestured at the door before turning toward the shots. A sharp rap on the glass drew her back.
Abby pressed both her hands on the glass, her mouth a decided downward tilt, her eyes overly bright.
"I will be careful," Ziva mouthed slowly. She nodded to Abby, waved gently at the door again. As Abby started to rebuild her barricade, Ziva rounded back her shoulders, took a deep breath and ran towards the sounds.
It was disconcerting, Ziva decided, how dark the building was as she moved closer to the disturbance, the crowbar still in one hand, her gun in the other. The emergency lights cast a red hue to the dark orange walls. They provided little in light and only added to the shadows. When she reached the vicinity of the interrogation room, she went rigid.
It was completely dark.
Ziva dropped to a crouch and peered around the bend.
A hiss of a bullet sent her head snapping back.
"Federal agent! Lower your weapon, Albert!" Ziva shouted. She swore as another shot buried into the wall opposite her. High velocity, possibly 9mm. She set down her crowbar, double-gripped her weapon and twisted back around the corner. Another shot close enough to her ear made her flinch, but it was also what she needed. She centered her gun toward the muzzle flash she had seen and fired.
There was a soft impact; the sound of striking flesh but there was no cry of pain. Instead, there was another muzzle flash, now on the other corner, diagonally from her, in a good enough angle to send a bullet slashing across her left bicep.
Ziva jerked, the shock vibrating down her arm and sending her gun spinning out of her grasp. She fell back then sideways into the hallway she from which she'd come.
Three more shots punched above her head. Ziva squinted. Where was her gun? She snarled as she snatched her hand back when a bullet came close to her searching fingers.
The crowbar dug into the back of her calves when she scooted back. Ziva grabbed it and threw it at the last place she had seen the second muzzle flash. She heard a grunt, a clatter and then footsteps.
Ziva frantically patted the floor in the darkness until she found her gun. As soon as she grabbed it, she felt the cool profile of a gun sliding against her cheek from behind.
Her face contorted into a snarl as she reached back, grabbed the gun by the muzzle. She yanked the weapon and gunman forward, her elbow driving back to hit something soft. The moment she heard a familiar grunt though, she froze, which was just as well because a new gun jabbed her on the back of her neck.
"I wouldn't."
"Gibbs?" Ziva burst out at the low growl. The gun pulled away.
"Ziva?"
Ziva could vaguely make out a hunched shadow by her feet. "McGee?"
"Zi'a?" McGee groaned.
Ziva's shoulders dropped. "I thought you were the shooter." She winced when McGee's phone snapped on, a square patch of light scorching her eyes.
"Do you mind?" Ziva snapped, as she threw up a hand.
"Sorry." The light lowered. "What happened to the emergency lights?" The patch of light swiveled up towards the wall-mounted beacons, revealing the shattered lamps. "Oh."
"Did you get a look at the shooter?" Gibbs was suddenly to her left. "You hit?"
"A graze." Ziva rotated her arm. It burned, but did not feel as though it would be disabling. "It was too dark, but Abby told me it was Albert."
"One of them at least."
"One of them?" Ziva stepped away from the scrutiny she could feel. "There were two shooters," she surmised instantly.
"Looks like it," McGee didn't sound as high-pitched now as he straightened up next to her with a groan. "How did you get in here?"
"This building has many security flaws," Ziva said primly.
"Can we get Tony out through it?" McGee asked as he swept his phone down the corridor.
"No, the way I came in…it would be too much for someone injured." Ziva looked to the direction where she sensed Gibbs. "How bad is he?"
"Bad," Gibbs said succinctly.
Ziva swallowed. "Oh." She eyed the direction of the muzzle flashes. "I am sure I hit one of them."
In the dark, she could sense Gibbs nodding to her, wordlessly pressing her weapon back into her hands. The tension that had sat across her shoulders unwound as she felt the two men next to her. Their presence fortified her, far more reassuring than the gun in her grip.
McGee's phone made for a poor flashlight but it was still sufficient enough to see the puddle of dark, luminous blood spreading away from the shattered skull.
"It's Albert," McGee reported. His light tilted downwards. "Gunshot to the side of the head, boss."
Ziva felt a kernel of remorse. She remembered Albert as harmless. Perhaps if she had been present when he had first attacked in the bullpen, her opinion of him may have devolved.
"Two more bullets in the shoulder and side." Gibbs hefted the body up to find the exit wounds. "Not enough blood."
"They struck him post mortem," Ziva surmised as she stared at the beige janitorial uniform. The large chain of keys was missing from his belt, but there was still the tool kit and iPod clipped to the waistband. She crouched and studied the bullet holes under McGee's light. "These were my shots."
"Killer got to Albert first," Gibbs agreed.
Ziva's face twisted. "I must have arrived after the second killer shot Albert."
"So now we're back to one shooter." McGee breathed a sigh of relief.
"That's still one shooter too many, McGee."
"Sorry, boss."
Ziva patted the body's pockets carefully. She found his wallet first, showed it to them in the meager light and checked again. When she pulled out a digital face watch, she felt cold.
"Gibbs," she called to attract their attention. She raised the watch so they could see. "It is not telling time." She pulled McGee's wrist, bringing his light source closer to the watch face. The numbers rolling back made her chest clench. "It is counting down." It was damp. She rubbed her fingers across the surface, wiping off whatever it was. She squinted at the watch. "We have twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes before what?" McGee's light bobbed erratically as he turned to Gibbs. "A bomb?"
"Maybe." Gibbs sounded grim as he considered the possibility. "Turn the body over," he ordered.
When they rolled Albert to his back, they saw the horrified expression that would be on his face permanently. Ziva heard McGee gulp as the light struck the gray pallor.
There were no wires, no remote, no deadman's switch found on Albert. A pen, crumpled paper, the iPod, a battered Swiss Army pocketknife and his keys were pulled out. His belt was threaded out of his pants.
"Nothing." Ziva stared at what they'd gathered on the ground. "I see no evidence of a bomb. We need to test Albert for residue."
"Maybe there isn't a bomb?" McGee spoke up hopefully. He poked at the contents as well. "When I saw him this morning, it didn't look like he had anything on him to make a bomb—"
"The explosions in the wastebaskets," Gibbs reminded McGee.
"Explosions?" Ziva asked sharply.
McGee exhaled. "Two. Mostly smoke though."
"They must have been planted ahead." Ziva pursed her lips. "To cover the shooters' escape."
"I still can't figure how Albert evaded us this whole time," McGee said glumly.
"Not the whole time," Gibbs bit out.
Ziva grimaced. She looked down at Albert. "He was betrayed by his partner. Why?"
"Uh…we're still trying to figure out the 'why' part for the lockdown, Ziva."
The watch was heavy in her hands, a deceptively innocuous item on her palm. "Albert or the other shooter could have planted another explosion," Ziva said.
"Then why lock yourself inside a building with a bomb?"
"Perhaps they thought they would be able to leave before the time ran out." Ziva checked the contents again. She picked up the iPod. It was similar to the one she used whenever she jogged. Her eyebrow rose.
"What is it?" Somehow, even in the dark, Gibbs could read her.
Ziva drew her eyebrows together. She held up the iPod. "This is lighter than I expected." She gave it to McGee who tested its weight.
"Actually, yeah, you're right. It's…empty?" The two halves of the device split easily with a nudge of McGee's finger.
She frowned.
"It's hollow," McGee said.
Ziva palmed the few pieces that fell out. "Not quite."
"Something's missing," Gibbs murmured.
"Yeah, the hard drive…" McGee trailed off. He gaped at the shells. "Hard drive. There's…uh…usually there's a solid state flash drive in them to store the mp3 files and mp4 clips and, and, and—boss." McGee grabbed the pieces. "There's enough pieces in here so when it goes through the x-ray machines, it would look like a normal iPod but, there's not enough in here." McGee started tossing the parts one by one to the ground. "The battery pack, the processor, the brackets for the—"
"McGee."
"This was gutted to make room for a bigger hard drive. Definitely not a flash drive. And the older models used a larger chassis so it can definitely fit a 2.5 inch—"
"McGee!" It was Ziva's turn now.
McGee's mouth snapped shut. "Boss, I think we need to go back to that computer. I think I might know what Albert was trying to do."
| part six |
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Date: 2011-01-06 01:13 am (UTC)It looks like Albert got more than he bargained for from his partner! But at least it's given them a lead to go on. Did the fake ipod contain whatever's jamming the signals, or was it some sort of explosive like they initially wondered?
Laura.