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mrwubbles6/7:
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
| part six |
Anthony was not well.
Ducky observed the herculean effort Tony was making to stay upright in the chair. Mr. Palmer was failing in his efforts to hide the fact he was hovering.
It was testament to Tony's present condition that he did not notice his assistant pacing a tiny arc behind his chair. His covered shoes rustled as he lingered by their friend.
"Palmer, are you trying to take flight or start a fire on my head?" Tony suddenly rasped.
Mr. Palmer started.
Hm, Tony was becoming more and more like Jethro every day. Ducky hoped it included the ex-Marine's resilience.
"You cannot fault him for his concern," Ducky said two tables away. Agents Trinston and Marks had brought Albert for his services. "After all, as a mutual acquaintance of ours would say: you look like crap."
Mr. Palmer gawped at him but he recovered quickly to add, "I really think you should lie down, Tony."
"I'd rather not." Tony hissed though, his face twisted into a grimace.
His assistant shot him a desperate look. Ducky lowered his gaze, his throat working. There is nothing more to be done until they were allowed to leave.
"Mr. Palmer, if you would assist me, please," Ducky opted to say instead. "I need some more light here."
Shoes scuffed before they reluctantly reached him. After a squeak of wheels, the portable lamp flooded the exposed body.
"That's interesting," Ducky murmured. He tilted a wrist toward his freestanding magnifying lens. He prodded the dark purple striping. "Mr. Palmer, what do you make of this?"
"What?" Tony had avoided looking at the body since it was brought in. It was understandable: there would be a psychological unease facing the man who tried to kill you. But at Ducky's comment, Tony glanced over, his body still facing the door.
"Bruising," Mr. Palmer identified. "Evidence of swelling." He frowned mildly. "Maybe he banged into something during his escape?"
"Possibly." Ducky checked the other arm. He pulled up a gray-splotched sleeve and hmmed. "Same here. Thin, around the wrist bone, whatever it was had constricted blood flow and from the angle, it was in a downward force."
"Handcuffs?" Tony spoke up. "Could it have been handcuffs?"
Ducky pursed his lips; he'd prefer better lighting and magnification, even an x-ray of the radiocarpal joint before making a prognosis. Unfortunately, they were presently lacking both the equipment and time. By the agents' ominous warning relayed from Gibbs, they only have fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to what? was what Ducky needed to find out.
"It could have been handcuffs," Ducky reluctantly agreed. He held up his arms, exposing the insides of his wrists. "The coloring is lighter on this side, suggesting he was cuffed in the back, tightly."
"But they never caught him before he was shot," Mr. Palmer said.
"He wasn't arrested," Tony coughed. His voice hardened. "But maybe he was held prisoner." Tony coughed again.
Mr. Palmer, at Ducky's nod, edged back over with a bottle of water.
"Jimmy…" Tony said wearily.
"Come on, Tony. You were able to keep the water down before," Mr. Palmer coaxed.
"Any more water," Tony wheezed, "and I won't need an ambulance. I'll be able to float my way to the hospital." He sighed and tentatively took a sip.
"Any traces of explosives?" he asked after a few mouthfuls.
Ducky shook his head. "Nothing on his fingertips, his skin or his hair. There was no discoloring of the nail bed or of the pupils that I could tell."
"So no bomb," Mr. Palmer sighed.
"Maybe." Tony groaned as he adjusted in the chair. "What's with the countdown then? What's going to happen in—what? Ten minutes?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," Ducky admitted.
* * * * *
Ten minutes.
No. Nine minutes.
Tim tried to ignore the ticking in his mind, seconds falling away as he started the CMD window and typed in the command for the root directories. As the lines scrolled by, he could hear Gibbs talking to Agents Trinston and Marks by the doorway in hushed tones.
"Agent Marks has spoken with Ducky. No explosives were found on Albert," Ziva reported next to his ear.
Tim jerked. "G-great," he stammered. Geez, she must be taking Gibbs' lessons, or maybe it was a Mossad thing. "I think I can access the logs and see what Albert had Walters do."
"Can you get into the lockdown program?"
Tim swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth. "No," he murmured. His shoulders slumped. "I tried. The program is running some subroutine I can't crack. I—I'm in." Tim straightened in his chair.
Ziva pressed closer. "The lockdown?"
"No, the entry logs." Tim smiled grimly as he read the lines. "Lot number 488833D was accessed and transferred to hard drive F." He typed rapidly the number. "That lot belongs to—"
"Commander Ford's computer." Gibbs leaned closer to the monitor on Tim's opposite side."The Brinon evidence."
Tim nodded. "The encrypted data the Cyber unit was still trying to crack. Albert got Walters to transfer the entire drive into his." He held up the iPod case. "The drive hidden in this and after that was done—"
"The second shooter executed him," Gibbs finished.
Tim closed his eyes briefly. Poor Walters. "In all the chaos, no one would think to look at the archives. Everyone would be focused on the security protocols. Walters would have been the only one who would know where to look."
"And you," Gibbs rumbled. There was a brief sensation of a hand dropped on his shoulder.
Ziva smiled. But her mouth flattened as a shadow crossed over her face. "The second shooter has the hard drive now."
Tim nodded glumly. "Yeah. Whatever was on Commander Ford's computer, the only copy left is in that drive. The shooter still can't get out though. We're still under lock—"
The watch in Ziva's grasp beeped. Tim flinched.
All at once, the silence that was around them cracked open and everything around them flared into an eruption of light.
* * * * *
It didn't feel like a good thing when the lights came back on.
"Yes!" Palmer cheered as Autopsy suddenly brightened. He grinned over to Tony. "It's over."
Tony's red rimmed gaze narrowed. He said nothing.
"Mr. Palmer, let's prepare to move—"
"I don't think we should be leaving this area just yet," Tony interrupted. He clamped down on the cough that wanted to come out.
"Lockdown's over," Palmer pointed out.
Is it? Tony tightened his grip on his gun and stared at the door.
* * * * *
Tim's eyes watered. Ziva threw an arm up and shielded her eyes as every single light and computer in the room snapped on, as bright and as abrupt as a flash bang.
"I thought you couldn't get in," Gibbs grit out as he grimaced at the sudden glare. He didn't wait for Tim to reply. He reached over and punched in a speed dial on the phone by the computer.
"Vance." The director didn't sound thrilled the lights were back on. In fact, he sounded pissed.
"Lockdown's been aborted," Gibbs reported.
"How?"
"Unclear at this time, sir."
Tim cringed. He could feel Gibbs's stare on the top of his head.
"The countdown you warned us about?"
Tim leaned towards the phone. "Doesn't look like it was for a bomb."
Ziva grunted, not entirely convinced, "But we have sent the body down to be tested for explosive residue."
"Fine. We are still proceeding with the evacuation. First response units from Hazmat are coming in to take out the priorities."
Tim raised an eyebrow. "But there's no contagion."
"They can't take the chance on a Level Four, Agent McGee. SOP during a Level Four is to move the critically injured first."
At least it meant Tony would get help. Tim exchanged a look with Ziva.
"Marks debriefed me on Albert and the second shooter. Have we located all the involved parties?"
"Not yet, Director," Ziva spoke up.
"But we have determined this wasn't a terrorist attack, sir," Tim offered. "Looks like they were after the evidence on Ford's computer."
"Get the second shooter." Vance was short. "We have men covering the exits. He should still be in the building. Flush him out. Good work, Agent McGee."
"But I-I didn't do anything." Tim turned back to the computers and frantically typed in commands. "Lockdown protocols deactivated by themselves." He stopped. "Maybe that's what the countdown was for?"
Tim caught the watch Ziva dropped in his hands. He squinted. He could barely read it under the smudged…
Tim held the watch back and considered it.
"What?" Gibbs asked.
Tim frowned. Something in the back of his head nagged at him. "I don't know." He rubbed his thumb over the watch face. "There's paint on this thing."
"So?" Ziva leaned over his shoulder for another look.
"Well…I mean…no, I just thought it was weird." McGee dangled the watch in front of him.
Ziva was reaching for the watch when Gibbs suddenly grabbed her by the wrist.
"Boss?" Tim stared. Gibbs wasn't known to be…well…touchy. Not that way, at least.
Gibbs gently turned Ziva's hand over to reveal stained fingertips. It was like Ziva had fingerprinted with white dye.
Ziva studied her own hand. "It came from the watch," she decided. She tilted her head. "The paint must have been fresh when I touched it."
Tim's eyes widen fractionally. "That paint couldn't have been there long or it would have dried alr…" He raised his hand and stared at it. He had finally washed his hands clean of Tony's blood, but there was still a stain. It had been there since this morning.
"Boss…" Tim could barely draw in a breath. "We wondered how Albert was able to hide from everyone—"
"He didn't have to," Gibbs growled. His eyes narrowed. "Call them." He twisted around, his gun out, already running as he shouted over his shoulder. "Get them on the phone!"
"Gibbs?" Ziva stared after him before she turned back to McGee. "Where is he going?" she demanded.
"The second shooter," Tim said as he frantically punched the extension. Come on. Pick up. "He knows where he's headed."
* * * * *
It was getting harder and harder to keep everything in focus.
The phone rang, drawing him out of his haze. Tony blearily tracked Ducky walking over to the phone, but as soon as he reached for it, the ringing stopped.
Ducky frowned but he picked up the receiver anyway. After a few seconds, he hung it up. Glancing over at Tony, he shrugged.
Well, that wasn't ominous.
Tony felt a hand on his shoulder. He lifted a heavy head up to Palmer. Tony smiled wanly at him.
Before Tony could say anything to reassure the queasy-looking Palmer, the re-powered doors opened. A man dressed in an isolation suit stiffened at the sight of the gun Tony whipped up towards him.
"We were told to evacuate the injured." The hesitation was audible even though it was muffled under the hood and breathing mask.
"That would be me," Tony wearily raised his free hand. At least he wasn't going to be a pincushion this time. He scowled when Palmer daintily took the gun from him and set it on the slab.
"Let's go, Tony." Ducky shuffled over. "We can use the gurney if the elevators are working again—"
"I've been ordered to escort only him to the ambulance. I can't let you come with me. Quarantine procedures—"
Ducky tutted as he motioned for Palmer to help him. "Nonsense. You will be advised there is no such need. I should accompany you. We've been treating Agent DiNozzo and we have information they will need at Bethesda."
Tony smirked tiredly. He stared at the figure in the crinkly suit. He blinked blearily at the blue jumpsuit with its white zippers. That red tie peeking through clashed horribly with the blue. Blue suit. Blue lights. He was starting to hate blue.
"Sir, I'm to accompany Agent DiNozzo alone. You have not been cleared—"
"We have isolation suits here, too," Palmer spoke up. He hurried to the locker by Ducky's desk. "Look, we can put them on real fast."
"Yes, yes," Ducky agreed, stepping away from the gurney. "We won't be a moment…"
Tony chuckled breathlessly. The poor guy didn't know who he was up against. The man stood there, bewildered—although it was hard to tell with that whole John Travolta bubble thing going on—his hands reaching into the emergency kit they all carry across their shoulders with their air masks, syringes, radio—
Red tie.
The scalpel was the closest thing he could reach. Tony grabbed it, the tray crashing to the floor as his arm knocked into it. He shouted to Ducky and Palmer to get down and threw it before the gun in the guy's hand even registered.
"Gun!" Tony hollered as loud as he could, but it was drowned out by the gunman's pained scream. Tony's entire back went rigid with pain as his stomach flexed; he threw himself to the side to grab the shooter's discarded weapon.
There was no way the man in the suit could hold onto the gun after Tony had buried the bloodied scalpel into his shoulder.
Vaguely, he heard Palmer shoving Ducky behind the farthest table. "Ducky ducking" was the strangest thing that popped in his head as he crashed onto the floor, gasping, reaching, reaching…
Whoever was in the suit recovered and lunged for the gun just as Tony got to it. Tony squirmed on his burning stomach, his legs completely useless as his fingertips brushed the gun.
The gun was kicked away from his grasp, a textbook move so familiar, Tony snarled with the realization of who the second shooter might be.
"D-don't move!" Palmer gasped. He'd managed to get Tony's gun from the table, but at the same time their opponent had reached his.
Tony could tell that, unlike Palmer, the other guy already had his target sighted.
"Jimmy, get down!" Tony rolled into the guy, knocking his aim off. The bullet went high. It shattered a light and half the morgue went dark.
Palmer's shot went into the lightboxes. The gunman's second bullet went wildly past Tony's ear. He heard Palmer's yelp behind him. Ducky shouted.
A kidney-shaped dish flew by Tony in response. Yet another bullet volleyed in return.
"Give me the gun!" Tony yelled to Palmer. He grunted as he dodged a kick aimed for his head. He was betting the isolation suit was awkward, putting them on equal footing. Sort of. He groaned as he swung his legs out, swept the other guy off his. Something hot trickled down his lower back. His entire shirt and the back of his pants clung to him. Winded, he could hear the gunman ripping off his hood in order to see better.
Tony could see Jimmy on the ground. Was he hit? He kicked the chair, crying out in pain as he did, sending it crashing into the gunman rising to his feet. But it barely fazed him; he was up, gun whipping around and Tony knew, like he had seen with Albert, there was no chance in hell he'd miss.
A gun fired.
Tony lay there, barely breathing, staring up at the gunman frozen in place, gun aimed for Tony's head.
Without a word, the gunman fell sideways, revealing Gibbs standing behind him, his weapon smoking from discharge, his eyes flat with fury.
Within a blink, that rage was gone and the iron-dark gaze eased into something more recognizable. Gibbs holstered his weapon, stepped over the body and dropped down on one knee next to Tony.
"You gotta…" Tony panted. "…gotta teach me that one, b-boss." Tony closed his eyes, pain whistling between his teeth when Gibbs pressed down on his stomach.
"That n-nick of time thing," Tony wheezed. "Could be usef—boss…" He moaned, his head falling back, his body twisting to get away from the source of white hot pain. Only Gibbs's hand cradled around the back of his head prevented him from smashing against the floor.
"Stop talking, DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered. He didn't look up as McGee came running in with…Ziva?
Okay, Ziva was going to have to teach him that trick.
"Boss, are they—oh God," McGee moaned as he leaned against the door, his eyes glued to Tony. He swallowed convulsively. McGee was never much of a morgue kind of guy.
"Duc…Palm…"
"They're fine, DiNozzo. What did I tell you about talking?"
"Paramedics are on their way down," Palmer reported shakily as he skidded, slipping on the floor for some reason before he knelt by Tony's head.
Tony was relieved to see Ducky—albeit a fuzzy one—step into view.
"It's Gands," Ziva said, unsurprised when she rolled the body onto its back. "He's dead."
Tony couldn't see them but he heard their surprise when they spotted the scalpel still lodged in his shoulder.
"How'd you know?" Palmer asked as he pressed two fingers against Tony's neck.
"Zipper," Tony ground out. His legs kicked out weakly when—God—Ducky placed what felt like all his weight on his bleeding shoulder. Tony could feel something hot and sticky spreading underneath him.
"If he was—Ducky, no, stop…that worried about…about con…contag—" Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He hissed between clamped lips.
"Gands must have thought he was going to leave here disguised as a first responder," McGee babbled. "They would have let him walk right out the front door. SOP to get Tony to a hospital."
"I doubt he would have really taken Tony to one," Ziva said brusquely.
Tony was going to agree, but he ended up garbling out something unintelligible because someone wouldn't stop hurting him. "S-stop…"
"Ride it out, Tony," Gibbs murmured. "Breathe."
Tony sucked in a shuddering breath. And another. It didn't help. "Didn't zip all the way…" He shook his head wearily. Maybe he'll tell them later.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McGee and Ziva consider Gands on the floor. "Also a mean clogger, huh, Tony?" McGee joked unsteadily as he came closer.
"If I had a clog," Tony gasped, "would have…thrown that, too." He wished everyone would stop hovering around him, looking down because things were spinning and he felt like he was falling…
"Where the hell are they?"
Oh, man, Gibbs sounded pissed. Tony fumbled for something, caught the stiff strap of Gibbs's watch and latched on. He saw Gibbs's eyes widen a little, his mouth move, but there was a roaring in Tony's ears that suddenly crested, the darkness took over and he let go of the watch.
* * * * *
He was being attacked by SpongeBob.
Tony cracked gritty eyes open and warily studied the pair of yellow, manically grinning floating heads bobbing at the foot of his bed. He grimaced and was caught off guard how much it hurt to make his face twist.
A chair by his head scrapped painfully by his ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Tony couldn't turn his stiff neck to look, but he could feel himself relaxing when he felt a heavy presence settling on his forearm.
"About time, DiNozzo."
Tony smacked his lips and tried to open his eyes wider. He made a sound when he felt rather than saw the spoonful of ice chips tapping his lower lip.
"Slowly," Gibbs advised. He watched Tony weakly chew on the ice before offering some more.
"You're in Recovery," Gibbs guessed when Tony opened his mouth but nothing would come out. "Six hours. That's a record for you. Half of Bethesda operated on you."
Tony wanted to say something about how he was a popular guy. He wanted to ask if any of the cute nurses left him their numbers. He wanted to say something witty.
Instead, he coughed.
It was unnerving to hear but not see Gibbs, but the thought of moving his head, his eyeballs, didn't connect with the actual muscles to do the job.
"'ood drugs," Tony slurred.
"Yeah, DiNozzo. Looks like it."
Tony wasn't sure what was so funny, but hearing a mildly amused Jethro Gibbs was better than an "I am not amused" Jethro Gibbs, because the latter meant shooting, running and ultimately bleeding for someone.
Warmth vaguely went up and down his arm.
"Ev…body?" Tony struggled to ask.
"Everyone's fine. Ziva's arm needed a few stitches. Abby slammed down three Caf-Pows as soon as she got out of her lab. She's waiting outside, finishing her fourth."
"Uh oh," Tony breathed.
Gibbs grunted. "Yeah."
Tony stared at the hazy bright lights above him. He could hear the soft, rhythmic beeps around him. He hoped that meant good news.
"Get some rest," Gibbs whispered gruffly. "Everyone's okay."
"A…Al…" Tony wrinkled his brow.
"We got him," Gibbs growled. Wow, he was still pissed for some reason.
There was something else. Tony forced his eyes to stay open but that weight on his arm was lulling him deeper.
"'andcuffs," Tony mumbled.
"What?"
Ducky. Ask Ducky. Gibbs needed to ask Ducky. Tony frowned, his throat working, his voice failing.
"Okay. Calm down. I'll ask Ducky."
Tony nodded—at least he thought he did—and blinked heavy lidded at the shadow leaning over.
"See?" Tony slurred. "Didn't…didn't die."
There was a sharp intake of breath before there was a painful squeeze around his wrist.
"Yeah…Good job, Tony."
Tony smiled as his eyes slid shut. "'anks, boss." Tony felt Gibbs get up to speak to someone but found he was too tired to care and just let his eyes slide all the way shut.
| conclusion |
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
Anthony was not well.
Ducky observed the herculean effort Tony was making to stay upright in the chair. Mr. Palmer was failing in his efforts to hide the fact he was hovering.
It was testament to Tony's present condition that he did not notice his assistant pacing a tiny arc behind his chair. His covered shoes rustled as he lingered by their friend.
"Palmer, are you trying to take flight or start a fire on my head?" Tony suddenly rasped.
Mr. Palmer started.
Hm, Tony was becoming more and more like Jethro every day. Ducky hoped it included the ex-Marine's resilience.
"You cannot fault him for his concern," Ducky said two tables away. Agents Trinston and Marks had brought Albert for his services. "After all, as a mutual acquaintance of ours would say: you look like crap."
Mr. Palmer gawped at him but he recovered quickly to add, "I really think you should lie down, Tony."
"I'd rather not." Tony hissed though, his face twisted into a grimace.
His assistant shot him a desperate look. Ducky lowered his gaze, his throat working. There is nothing more to be done until they were allowed to leave.
"Mr. Palmer, if you would assist me, please," Ducky opted to say instead. "I need some more light here."
Shoes scuffed before they reluctantly reached him. After a squeak of wheels, the portable lamp flooded the exposed body.
"That's interesting," Ducky murmured. He tilted a wrist toward his freestanding magnifying lens. He prodded the dark purple striping. "Mr. Palmer, what do you make of this?"
"What?" Tony had avoided looking at the body since it was brought in. It was understandable: there would be a psychological unease facing the man who tried to kill you. But at Ducky's comment, Tony glanced over, his body still facing the door.
"Bruising," Mr. Palmer identified. "Evidence of swelling." He frowned mildly. "Maybe he banged into something during his escape?"
"Possibly." Ducky checked the other arm. He pulled up a gray-splotched sleeve and hmmed. "Same here. Thin, around the wrist bone, whatever it was had constricted blood flow and from the angle, it was in a downward force."
"Handcuffs?" Tony spoke up. "Could it have been handcuffs?"
Ducky pursed his lips; he'd prefer better lighting and magnification, even an x-ray of the radiocarpal joint before making a prognosis. Unfortunately, they were presently lacking both the equipment and time. By the agents' ominous warning relayed from Gibbs, they only have fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to what? was what Ducky needed to find out.
"It could have been handcuffs," Ducky reluctantly agreed. He held up his arms, exposing the insides of his wrists. "The coloring is lighter on this side, suggesting he was cuffed in the back, tightly."
"But they never caught him before he was shot," Mr. Palmer said.
"He wasn't arrested," Tony coughed. His voice hardened. "But maybe he was held prisoner." Tony coughed again.
Mr. Palmer, at Ducky's nod, edged back over with a bottle of water.
"Jimmy…" Tony said wearily.
"Come on, Tony. You were able to keep the water down before," Mr. Palmer coaxed.
"Any more water," Tony wheezed, "and I won't need an ambulance. I'll be able to float my way to the hospital." He sighed and tentatively took a sip.
"Any traces of explosives?" he asked after a few mouthfuls.
Ducky shook his head. "Nothing on his fingertips, his skin or his hair. There was no discoloring of the nail bed or of the pupils that I could tell."
"So no bomb," Mr. Palmer sighed.
"Maybe." Tony groaned as he adjusted in the chair. "What's with the countdown then? What's going to happen in—what? Ten minutes?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," Ducky admitted.
Ten minutes.
No. Nine minutes.
Tim tried to ignore the ticking in his mind, seconds falling away as he started the CMD window and typed in the command for the root directories. As the lines scrolled by, he could hear Gibbs talking to Agents Trinston and Marks by the doorway in hushed tones.
"Agent Marks has spoken with Ducky. No explosives were found on Albert," Ziva reported next to his ear.
Tim jerked. "G-great," he stammered. Geez, she must be taking Gibbs' lessons, or maybe it was a Mossad thing. "I think I can access the logs and see what Albert had Walters do."
"Can you get into the lockdown program?"
Tim swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth. "No," he murmured. His shoulders slumped. "I tried. The program is running some subroutine I can't crack. I—I'm in." Tim straightened in his chair.
Ziva pressed closer. "The lockdown?"
"No, the entry logs." Tim smiled grimly as he read the lines. "Lot number 488833D was accessed and transferred to hard drive F." He typed rapidly the number. "That lot belongs to—"
"Commander Ford's computer." Gibbs leaned closer to the monitor on Tim's opposite side."The Brinon evidence."
Tim nodded. "The encrypted data the Cyber unit was still trying to crack. Albert got Walters to transfer the entire drive into his." He held up the iPod case. "The drive hidden in this and after that was done—"
"The second shooter executed him," Gibbs finished.
Tim closed his eyes briefly. Poor Walters. "In all the chaos, no one would think to look at the archives. Everyone would be focused on the security protocols. Walters would have been the only one who would know where to look."
"And you," Gibbs rumbled. There was a brief sensation of a hand dropped on his shoulder.
Ziva smiled. But her mouth flattened as a shadow crossed over her face. "The second shooter has the hard drive now."
Tim nodded glumly. "Yeah. Whatever was on Commander Ford's computer, the only copy left is in that drive. The shooter still can't get out though. We're still under lock—"
The watch in Ziva's grasp beeped. Tim flinched.
All at once, the silence that was around them cracked open and everything around them flared into an eruption of light.
It didn't feel like a good thing when the lights came back on.
"Yes!" Palmer cheered as Autopsy suddenly brightened. He grinned over to Tony. "It's over."
Tony's red rimmed gaze narrowed. He said nothing.
"Mr. Palmer, let's prepare to move—"
"I don't think we should be leaving this area just yet," Tony interrupted. He clamped down on the cough that wanted to come out.
"Lockdown's over," Palmer pointed out.
Is it? Tony tightened his grip on his gun and stared at the door.
Tim's eyes watered. Ziva threw an arm up and shielded her eyes as every single light and computer in the room snapped on, as bright and as abrupt as a flash bang.
"I thought you couldn't get in," Gibbs grit out as he grimaced at the sudden glare. He didn't wait for Tim to reply. He reached over and punched in a speed dial on the phone by the computer.
"Vance." The director didn't sound thrilled the lights were back on. In fact, he sounded pissed.
"Lockdown's been aborted," Gibbs reported.
"How?"
"Unclear at this time, sir."
Tim cringed. He could feel Gibbs's stare on the top of his head.
"The countdown you warned us about?"
Tim leaned towards the phone. "Doesn't look like it was for a bomb."
Ziva grunted, not entirely convinced, "But we have sent the body down to be tested for explosive residue."
"Fine. We are still proceeding with the evacuation. First response units from Hazmat are coming in to take out the priorities."
Tim raised an eyebrow. "But there's no contagion."
"They can't take the chance on a Level Four, Agent McGee. SOP during a Level Four is to move the critically injured first."
At least it meant Tony would get help. Tim exchanged a look with Ziva.
"Marks debriefed me on Albert and the second shooter. Have we located all the involved parties?"
"Not yet, Director," Ziva spoke up.
"But we have determined this wasn't a terrorist attack, sir," Tim offered. "Looks like they were after the evidence on Ford's computer."
"Get the second shooter." Vance was short. "We have men covering the exits. He should still be in the building. Flush him out. Good work, Agent McGee."
"But I-I didn't do anything." Tim turned back to the computers and frantically typed in commands. "Lockdown protocols deactivated by themselves." He stopped. "Maybe that's what the countdown was for?"
Tim caught the watch Ziva dropped in his hands. He squinted. He could barely read it under the smudged…
Tim held the watch back and considered it.
"What?" Gibbs asked.
Tim frowned. Something in the back of his head nagged at him. "I don't know." He rubbed his thumb over the watch face. "There's paint on this thing."
"So?" Ziva leaned over his shoulder for another look.
"Well…I mean…no, I just thought it was weird." McGee dangled the watch in front of him.
Ziva was reaching for the watch when Gibbs suddenly grabbed her by the wrist.
"Boss?" Tim stared. Gibbs wasn't known to be…well…touchy. Not that way, at least.
Gibbs gently turned Ziva's hand over to reveal stained fingertips. It was like Ziva had fingerprinted with white dye.
Ziva studied her own hand. "It came from the watch," she decided. She tilted her head. "The paint must have been fresh when I touched it."
Tim's eyes widen fractionally. "That paint couldn't have been there long or it would have dried alr…" He raised his hand and stared at it. He had finally washed his hands clean of Tony's blood, but there was still a stain. It had been there since this morning.
"Boss…" Tim could barely draw in a breath. "We wondered how Albert was able to hide from everyone—"
"He didn't have to," Gibbs growled. His eyes narrowed. "Call them." He twisted around, his gun out, already running as he shouted over his shoulder. "Get them on the phone!"
"Gibbs?" Ziva stared after him before she turned back to McGee. "Where is he going?" she demanded.
"The second shooter," Tim said as he frantically punched the extension. Come on. Pick up. "He knows where he's headed."
It was getting harder and harder to keep everything in focus.
The phone rang, drawing him out of his haze. Tony blearily tracked Ducky walking over to the phone, but as soon as he reached for it, the ringing stopped.
Ducky frowned but he picked up the receiver anyway. After a few seconds, he hung it up. Glancing over at Tony, he shrugged.
Well, that wasn't ominous.
Tony felt a hand on his shoulder. He lifted a heavy head up to Palmer. Tony smiled wanly at him.
Before Tony could say anything to reassure the queasy-looking Palmer, the re-powered doors opened. A man dressed in an isolation suit stiffened at the sight of the gun Tony whipped up towards him.
"We were told to evacuate the injured." The hesitation was audible even though it was muffled under the hood and breathing mask.
"That would be me," Tony wearily raised his free hand. At least he wasn't going to be a pincushion this time. He scowled when Palmer daintily took the gun from him and set it on the slab.
"Let's go, Tony." Ducky shuffled over. "We can use the gurney if the elevators are working again—"
"I've been ordered to escort only him to the ambulance. I can't let you come with me. Quarantine procedures—"
Ducky tutted as he motioned for Palmer to help him. "Nonsense. You will be advised there is no such need. I should accompany you. We've been treating Agent DiNozzo and we have information they will need at Bethesda."
Tony smirked tiredly. He stared at the figure in the crinkly suit. He blinked blearily at the blue jumpsuit with its white zippers. That red tie peeking through clashed horribly with the blue. Blue suit. Blue lights. He was starting to hate blue.
"Sir, I'm to accompany Agent DiNozzo alone. You have not been cleared—"
"We have isolation suits here, too," Palmer spoke up. He hurried to the locker by Ducky's desk. "Look, we can put them on real fast."
"Yes, yes," Ducky agreed, stepping away from the gurney. "We won't be a moment…"
Tony chuckled breathlessly. The poor guy didn't know who he was up against. The man stood there, bewildered—although it was hard to tell with that whole John Travolta bubble thing going on—his hands reaching into the emergency kit they all carry across their shoulders with their air masks, syringes, radio—
Red tie.
The scalpel was the closest thing he could reach. Tony grabbed it, the tray crashing to the floor as his arm knocked into it. He shouted to Ducky and Palmer to get down and threw it before the gun in the guy's hand even registered.
"Gun!" Tony hollered as loud as he could, but it was drowned out by the gunman's pained scream. Tony's entire back went rigid with pain as his stomach flexed; he threw himself to the side to grab the shooter's discarded weapon.
There was no way the man in the suit could hold onto the gun after Tony had buried the bloodied scalpel into his shoulder.
Vaguely, he heard Palmer shoving Ducky behind the farthest table. "Ducky ducking" was the strangest thing that popped in his head as he crashed onto the floor, gasping, reaching, reaching…
Whoever was in the suit recovered and lunged for the gun just as Tony got to it. Tony squirmed on his burning stomach, his legs completely useless as his fingertips brushed the gun.
The gun was kicked away from his grasp, a textbook move so familiar, Tony snarled with the realization of who the second shooter might be.
"D-don't move!" Palmer gasped. He'd managed to get Tony's gun from the table, but at the same time their opponent had reached his.
Tony could tell that, unlike Palmer, the other guy already had his target sighted.
"Jimmy, get down!" Tony rolled into the guy, knocking his aim off. The bullet went high. It shattered a light and half the morgue went dark.
Palmer's shot went into the lightboxes. The gunman's second bullet went wildly past Tony's ear. He heard Palmer's yelp behind him. Ducky shouted.
A kidney-shaped dish flew by Tony in response. Yet another bullet volleyed in return.
"Give me the gun!" Tony yelled to Palmer. He grunted as he dodged a kick aimed for his head. He was betting the isolation suit was awkward, putting them on equal footing. Sort of. He groaned as he swung his legs out, swept the other guy off his. Something hot trickled down his lower back. His entire shirt and the back of his pants clung to him. Winded, he could hear the gunman ripping off his hood in order to see better.
Tony could see Jimmy on the ground. Was he hit? He kicked the chair, crying out in pain as he did, sending it crashing into the gunman rising to his feet. But it barely fazed him; he was up, gun whipping around and Tony knew, like he had seen with Albert, there was no chance in hell he'd miss.
A gun fired.
Tony lay there, barely breathing, staring up at the gunman frozen in place, gun aimed for Tony's head.
Without a word, the gunman fell sideways, revealing Gibbs standing behind him, his weapon smoking from discharge, his eyes flat with fury.
Within a blink, that rage was gone and the iron-dark gaze eased into something more recognizable. Gibbs holstered his weapon, stepped over the body and dropped down on one knee next to Tony.
"You gotta…" Tony panted. "…gotta teach me that one, b-boss." Tony closed his eyes, pain whistling between his teeth when Gibbs pressed down on his stomach.
"That n-nick of time thing," Tony wheezed. "Could be usef—boss…" He moaned, his head falling back, his body twisting to get away from the source of white hot pain. Only Gibbs's hand cradled around the back of his head prevented him from smashing against the floor.
"Stop talking, DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered. He didn't look up as McGee came running in with…Ziva?
Okay, Ziva was going to have to teach him that trick.
"Boss, are they—oh God," McGee moaned as he leaned against the door, his eyes glued to Tony. He swallowed convulsively. McGee was never much of a morgue kind of guy.
"Duc…Palm…"
"They're fine, DiNozzo. What did I tell you about talking?"
"Paramedics are on their way down," Palmer reported shakily as he skidded, slipping on the floor for some reason before he knelt by Tony's head.
Tony was relieved to see Ducky—albeit a fuzzy one—step into view.
"It's Gands," Ziva said, unsurprised when she rolled the body onto its back. "He's dead."
Tony couldn't see them but he heard their surprise when they spotted the scalpel still lodged in his shoulder.
"How'd you know?" Palmer asked as he pressed two fingers against Tony's neck.
"Zipper," Tony ground out. His legs kicked out weakly when—God—Ducky placed what felt like all his weight on his bleeding shoulder. Tony could feel something hot and sticky spreading underneath him.
"If he was—Ducky, no, stop…that worried about…about con…contag—" Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He hissed between clamped lips.
"Gands must have thought he was going to leave here disguised as a first responder," McGee babbled. "They would have let him walk right out the front door. SOP to get Tony to a hospital."
"I doubt he would have really taken Tony to one," Ziva said brusquely.
Tony was going to agree, but he ended up garbling out something unintelligible because someone wouldn't stop hurting him. "S-stop…"
"Ride it out, Tony," Gibbs murmured. "Breathe."
Tony sucked in a shuddering breath. And another. It didn't help. "Didn't zip all the way…" He shook his head wearily. Maybe he'll tell them later.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McGee and Ziva consider Gands on the floor. "Also a mean clogger, huh, Tony?" McGee joked unsteadily as he came closer.
"If I had a clog," Tony gasped, "would have…thrown that, too." He wished everyone would stop hovering around him, looking down because things were spinning and he felt like he was falling…
"Where the hell are they?"
Oh, man, Gibbs sounded pissed. Tony fumbled for something, caught the stiff strap of Gibbs's watch and latched on. He saw Gibbs's eyes widen a little, his mouth move, but there was a roaring in Tony's ears that suddenly crested, the darkness took over and he let go of the watch.
He was being attacked by SpongeBob.
Tony cracked gritty eyes open and warily studied the pair of yellow, manically grinning floating heads bobbing at the foot of his bed. He grimaced and was caught off guard how much it hurt to make his face twist.
A chair by his head scrapped painfully by his ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Tony couldn't turn his stiff neck to look, but he could feel himself relaxing when he felt a heavy presence settling on his forearm.
"About time, DiNozzo."
Tony smacked his lips and tried to open his eyes wider. He made a sound when he felt rather than saw the spoonful of ice chips tapping his lower lip.
"Slowly," Gibbs advised. He watched Tony weakly chew on the ice before offering some more.
"You're in Recovery," Gibbs guessed when Tony opened his mouth but nothing would come out. "Six hours. That's a record for you. Half of Bethesda operated on you."
Tony wanted to say something about how he was a popular guy. He wanted to ask if any of the cute nurses left him their numbers. He wanted to say something witty.
Instead, he coughed.
It was unnerving to hear but not see Gibbs, but the thought of moving his head, his eyeballs, didn't connect with the actual muscles to do the job.
"'ood drugs," Tony slurred.
"Yeah, DiNozzo. Looks like it."
Tony wasn't sure what was so funny, but hearing a mildly amused Jethro Gibbs was better than an "I am not amused" Jethro Gibbs, because the latter meant shooting, running and ultimately bleeding for someone.
Warmth vaguely went up and down his arm.
"Ev…body?" Tony struggled to ask.
"Everyone's fine. Ziva's arm needed a few stitches. Abby slammed down three Caf-Pows as soon as she got out of her lab. She's waiting outside, finishing her fourth."
"Uh oh," Tony breathed.
Gibbs grunted. "Yeah."
Tony stared at the hazy bright lights above him. He could hear the soft, rhythmic beeps around him. He hoped that meant good news.
"Get some rest," Gibbs whispered gruffly. "Everyone's okay."
"A…Al…" Tony wrinkled his brow.
"We got him," Gibbs growled. Wow, he was still pissed for some reason.
There was something else. Tony forced his eyes to stay open but that weight on his arm was lulling him deeper.
"'andcuffs," Tony mumbled.
"What?"
Ducky. Ask Ducky. Gibbs needed to ask Ducky. Tony frowned, his throat working, his voice failing.
"Okay. Calm down. I'll ask Ducky."
Tony nodded—at least he thought he did—and blinked heavy lidded at the shadow leaning over.
"See?" Tony slurred. "Didn't…didn't die."
There was a sharp intake of breath before there was a painful squeeze around his wrist.
"Yeah…Good job, Tony."
Tony smiled as his eyes slid shut. "'anks, boss." Tony felt Gibbs get up to speak to someone but found he was too tired to care and just let his eyes slide all the way shut.
| conclusion |
