I hadn't been to Farmington in almost twenty-five years and, as I came up over the rise and got my first glimpse of the bright city nightlights again, I felt the instantaneous rush of hot memories surging to the fore-front, shoving the reason for this trip far into the tight recesses of my mind. Christ, I didn't think I would ever miss a place like this. No, never like this...not in a million years. But I actually had to pause and take a deep breath before I could continue any further in my intended journey, I had to forcibly get those memories to surrender their spot and put them back where they belonged before something unexpected came up and bit me on the ass. Hard.
I've always loved being in New Mexico, loved every single thing about it, but I was especially fond of the times I'd spent here in my youth with my rowdy Aunt Emma. Shit. Emma. I hadn't thought about her in...well, in years actually. Not that I would have any reason to think of her or bring her name up in casual conversation, especially in my line of work and with the people I associate with, but Emma always had a way about her that made me want to be like her, talk like her...even think like her.
Hell, where did I go so wrong?
I knew about all Emma, of course, because she was my mother's older sister and because of all the wonderfully wicked stories I'd heard as a kid each year around the Thanksgiving or Christmas tables, when the adults thought all us youngsters weren't paying any attention to them and just fighting over who'd get the last drumstick. Yeah, right. Like I wouldn't pay attention to something like their conversations concerning Emma, especially when I was warned that what was being said wasn't for 'young ears'. Telling me that only made me want to listen so much more. I loved hearing about Emma's 'perverted' lifestyle and actually got my first hard-on while I was suppose to be playing hide and seek with my cousins, scrunched down low and tight behind the large, musty-smelling sofa in my grandmother's living room, listening as the assembled adults continued their discussion over coffee and cake.
'Emma doesn't even wear a bra...just lets them hang loose and free.'
'Emma lives on a commune with hippies and Negroes and Lord knows what else.'
'Emma sleeps with anyone she wants...men and women alike.'
Christ. My Aunt Emma was one, wicked woman and, right from the moment I could understand what all the ruckus was about, I just *knew* I had to meet her. She was everything a young boy wanted to hear about. *Everything*.
Living far away from home long before I was even born, I'd heard the tales about this glorious, imaginary creature and her escapades when I wasn't suppose to but parents can be so stupid sometimes. They would tell me to go play or go watch TV or go read a book and I would just mumble and remove myself from their line of sight, just far enough away to be hidden from thier eyes but close enough to still hear clearly. Just because a child is told to do something, doesn't automatically make it happen. Not by a long shot. Besides, even if she was the family outcast, Emma was my only aunt and I had the right to get to know her.
The summer I turned fifteen, my wish came true. It wasn't because of anything I did or said but it couldn't have happened at a better time if I had planned it all myself.
When my grandmother died, after a lengthy illness, my mother somehow tracked down and got a hold of Emma at her present residence in New Mexico and informed her of the death. Emma came immediately home...along with a huge black man sporting the biggest afro I'd ever seen in my life and carrying a small, bright-eyed, three-year old balanced comfortably on one of her slim hips. The child looked just like the big man and my mother instantly took one look at the trio, put it all together, and fainted right out there on the front porch, in front of God and the whole fucking neighborhood. Good old mom...she really should have taken her act out on the road. Could have made us rich with her dramatic skills.
Anyway, Richie was Emma's 'man' and they'd been together since...well, since right before Little Richie's conception, I guess. The math was not hard to do and it gave my mom another reason to go all Dame Judith on us. I hated when she got like that, all righteously indignant and morally condemning. I guess she didn't realize how many people knew about her own little problem with the pills she'd been taking for her 'headaches'. Headaches. *Right*.
So, I had to take the initiative and step past where my father was bent over my mother's collapsed form on the front porch that day and introduce myself like some stranger, offering a smile and a hug to Emma and an outstretched hand to the big man standing protectively at her side. It was as simple as that and my life was forever changed. I now knew my Aunt Emma.
Against my mom and dad's better judgment and with only half-hearted resistance to my pleading, I went with Emma when she and her little family left to return to New Mexico after only a handful of days. It was the start of summer and I was beginning to be a real handful for parents who had better things to do with their time than focusing on some slightly-rebellious teenager, so I was given permission to stay for a couple of weeks and catch a Greyhound home. No problem.
Except after only a few short days, I never wanted to go home again.
Life in Shiprock, which is right outside of Farmington, was ideal for a teenage boy like me: nothing but sand and sunshine and happy, groovy stoners who spent most of their time at the commune making music, making love, and making horny teenagers feel right at home. I learned how to ride a motorcycle, how to bake bread, and how to roll my own joint. Shit, I'd thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
But it wasn't all just about sex, drugs, and rock and roll, though I'd be lying if I said that wasn't a big part of it for me. I'd finally found a group of people who'd really wanted to make a difference in how they lived their lives, rejecting every stereotype they'd been confronted with, and focusing on how to be just plain, good human beings, especially to the Native Americans who populated most of the surrounding area. I didn't know much about the Navajo or the Apache or, hell, even the mysterious, vanished race called Anasazi but I'd known that I was, essentially, a stranger in an strange land...and that I loved every, single minute of it. Hell, yes.
I ended up staying a little over a month instead of the instructed two weeks before I was literally dragged home by my irate father but I continued to take trips out to visit them whenever I could scrape the time and the money together. But when the U.S. government used the Framington area as a nuclear testing site in 1967, everything changed. Emma and Richie became radicals, openly denouncing America and the president, throwing away all pretenses of peaceful demonstrations and rallying with others who wanted nothing more than to bring 'big brother' down. I didn't blame them one bit. I was royally pissed, too.
News of their deaths hit me hard. An accident, I was told but, truthfully, I don't think that's what really happened. Supposedly, they lost control of their old, VW bus on the way home from a peace march and careened off the road...a stretch that use to be called, remarkably, Highway 666, before it was renamed for obvious reasons...and everyone involved in the 'accident' was consumed in the erupting fireball...even dear, sweet, innocent Little Richie. God. The only one who'd ever called me Uncle Tobie was gone...
...until DiNozzo had opened his smart mouth.
So, now I find myself forcing those morose thoughts away and pulling from the side of the decaying blacktop road where I had paused, easily blending back into the flow of traffic and heading my Harley toward the designated motel on the outskirts of the city, determined to get to DiNozzo and David as quickly as possible. I find I'm running the gambit of emotions right now: happy to be back in Farmington, anxious at what I'll find at the motel, excited about seeing DiNozzo again, wary about the safety of this location...there's just too many things and I know I've got to get a handle on them all.
A couple more miles and I can see the dull glow of the neon illumination for the entrance of the motel. This is not a good section of the city but it's perfect for our purposes. I do have to cringe when I see what's been selected though, knowing the need for discretion and remoteness, but wishing David had chosen something a little less seedy and run-down. Hell, this place looks like it could be straight out of one of those old black and white films DiNozzo loves so much, with peeling wallpaper, bug-infested mattresses, and a manager named Norman, who just might ask if I want to walk up the hill to say hello to his mother. Yikes. I need to get a hold of myself quickly and put my imagination away. There's no problem finding which room is their's... David's dusty motorcycle is parked in front of one of the weather-beaten doors near the far end of the L-shaped building. I pull up next to it and park easily in the same spot.
Immediately, the door swings open and she's striding out to meet me, her dark eyes sweeping over my form and her gun tucked tight against her right side. She's not taking any chances but I can instantly tell something's wrong.
"What took you so long?" She hisses under her breath and, although we're practically the only guests at this flea-infested dive, she's not going to raise her voice any louder.
Huh. Well, good to see you, too. "What's the problem?" I ask instead, as calmly as I can.
She gives the area one more look, tilts her head back toward the partially-open doorway, and turns to go back inside. I swiftly pocket the keys, grab the heavy pack, and follow, closing and locking the too-thin panel after I enter and praying it will keep us all alive and safe. When I turn, I freeze.
There he is, boneless on the bed, coated in sweat and panting in rough, short, ragged gasps. God, he looks so good and so terrible at the same time. I drop my stuff at the entrance and hustle to his side, going to one knee and pushing my fingers through his wet hair, combing it roughly away from his forehead. I can feel David suddenly at my back and I get the distinct impression she may be there to keep a better eye on me. I decide not to waste any more time worrying about her right now.
"Hey," I whisper, watching his eyes trying to focus on the direction of the sound. They're glassy and filled with seven different kinds of hurt and all I want to do is pull him into my arms and hold tight. Instead, I speak again. "Tony, you know who I am?"
He struggles for a moment and I can see his knuckles turn white where his fists are gripping the ugly floral bedspread at his sides. Shit, he's in so much pain I don't know what to do for him first. I have to see if he can focus at all before I begin. Finally, his eyes seem to settle on me and I can see him trying to form an answer or a comment. I'm a patient man...I can give him all the time he needs.
His lips part but there's no sound and I can see how dried and cracked they are. Now, I'm really worried.
"He won't drink," David murmurs in my ear, like she can read my mind. "I told him he has to drink but he refuses."
He's sweating, so it's not dehydration...yet. Still, she's right. I gently smooth his hair back again and move a bit closer, keeping my eyes on his. "She's right, Tony. You have to drink."
His head moves slightly to one side, not much, but enough for me to recognize he's negating the suggestion. One of his hands releases it's grip on the blanket and moves slowly to cover a place low on his belly, just below the elastic band of the sweatpants, and I know he's trying to show me something. I ease my hand from his hair and lightly cover his shaking fingers with my own.
"Is this where you hurt?" I ask softly. His eyes look huge and green in the pale face.
"Wh...where...where's..." he begins and then has to stop, arching against something in his body, something I can't see, something that's stealing his words and his breath and I rise so I can sit on the side of the bed and put both of my hands on his shoulders just to hold him in place. It looks like he's going to scream out in agony but all that emerges is a tight, guttural, low moan. It hurts worse to hear that than a full scream, I think.
Christ.
"It's okay, it's okay. Easy now." This is bad. I glance up and see David has moved to the other side of the mattress and is hovering, her youthful face clearly displaying her helplessness. I suddenly feel a surge of compassion for her...it's only been two and a half days but I'm sure, for someone like her, not being able to find a quick solution to this problem has to have been extremely difficult. "Ziva," I get her attention, "get a cool, wet towel. Let's wipe him down."
She nods and turns to do my bidding but my eyes are already moving back to DiNozzo. He's watching me, as intently as he can, and something begins to coil in the pit of my stomach.
"Fo...Fornell?" He gasps when he can breath again and my heart swells.
"Yes, Tony, I'm here," I whisper. Jesus, even in his present condition, he's so fucking beautiful. His hands are suddenly gripping at the front of my jacket, green eyes boring keenly into mine. God, I want to cover that dry mouth with my own, pour my energy and healing into him, let him know I'm here just for him...only for him.
"Wh...where..." he stutters between gasps, fingers tightening and beginning to shake again.
"Here," David is back and trying to hand me the towel. I ignore her for a moment and wait until DiNozzo is able to release some of this awful, desperate tenseness, until the painful grip eases slightly, until he can finally relax a bit. He's breathless now and he just stares at me, dazed and bewildered.
I grab the towel from David and begin to wipe gently at DiNozzo's face. He lets me...just like a trusting child, he let's me. God, I'm lost.
"How long has he been like this?" I ask when I can control the tremor in my voice. Letting the end of the towel sweep over his sticky neck and what's exposed of his upper chest, I know it's not enough. His t-shirt is plastered to his skin, keeping him cold and clammy, and I know the clothes should have already been taken off. Just what the hell has Ziva being doing to see to his comfort? Anything?
"Since this morning," she responds and I can hear the fatigue in her voice. She eases to sit on the bed and watch. "It's gotten worse. I...I didn't know what..."
Her voice trails off but I know what she was going to say anyway. "It's okay. Ziva. You did good just getting him out alive." She has to know how glad we all are of that fact. If she hadn't been there, DiNozzo would be dead, too...or back with Emilio Martinez.
"We need to get him out of these wet clothes," I direct, already taking the towel away and pulling at the bedspread covering his body. He's shaking and twitching but I don't think it has anything to do with being cold. These movements are more like muscle spasms...painful muscle spasms...and something else. Something I don't want to think about just yet.
"He doesn't have anything else to wear," she points out needlessly to me, helping as much as she can as I begin to reach for his shirt.
"Doesn't matter. I've brought plenty of cash." I manage to get one arm out of the sleeve without too much trouble. "Get his size from these and get him something more substantial to wear from the store down the road. It's a Wal-Mart or K-Mart or something like that. I forget..."
"You forget?" She questions sharply and helps me get the other arm out. "You know this town?"
"Oh, yeah...I know this town," I can't help the small smile that escapes but she doesn't see it. The t-shirt is gone and I start to tug down the sweatpants. "He needs underwear, too."
"I'm not..." She begins to protest but stops when I nail her with a look. I really can see how tired she is. We continue to stare until her eyes suddenly fall away.
"Get everything you may be needing, too. The money's in the envelope in the zipper section at the back of my pack." I instruct as I push the damp, clingy sweats off those impossibly long legs and, although I want to let my eyes linger on his bare body, I quickly flick the covers back up. "We'll need a hotplate and some utensils...just enough to heat soup and stuff like that. May as well pick up another pack to keep all of it in, too." I turn and catch her eyes again. "Ziva, we may be on the road for awhile. Just use your training and get what ever you think we may be needing for now. Understand?"
David's a sharp cookie and I can see the gears turning in that head already. Shrugging into her leather jacket and grabbing her dark helmet from the scratched surface of the cheap table by the front window, she crouches by the doorway only long enough to fish several bills out of envelope and is gone, the thin, wood door slamming shut behind. I'm immediately up and throwing the deadbolt and securing the flimsy chain again. No one's going to get in here without a fight. No one.
I turn back and have to stop at the sight. His eyes are on mine and he's looking at me with such hope and longing and, maybe I'm only seeing what I want, but suddenly I can't help myself and I'm at the bed again, whipping the covers back, exposing him and staring...just staring...and, God help me, he's *so* fucking beautiful. He looks alarmed for an instant and then that awful, ruthless monster rears somewhere deep inside, and his exquisite face twists and distorts into something almost unrecognizable, pain resurging through his weakened body and stealing away all thoughts he might have had at my curious actions.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Forcing myself to turn away, I cross the short distance to the small antiquated bathroom, ignoring the cracked and broken tiles and the rust stains in the sink, and grab another towel, cursing at the inadequate texture but knowing it's all I've got to work with. I return to snatch my heavy pack from it's resting place and bring it back to the bed with me, too, reaching deep inside and carefully removing the small, protective case from the bottom of the duffle. Sitting down beside him, I pop the top and lay it on the bed, exposing the neatly organized contents and easily managing to rip open an alcohol swab with my teeth. I gently capture DiNozzo's closest arm, cradling it across my lap, checking for the vein on the inside of the elbow. I flinch at what I see...and at what I *don't* see. Christ, he's getting so close to being dehydrated and still carrying around the fading bruises of his recent ordeal and I realize I'm going to have to use a tourniquet for a moment to get the vein to appear.
It's all coming back to me now, like second nature, and if the Army is responsible for teaching me anything at all it was the ability to handle simple medical proceedures under duress. Like now.
The flexible band is around his bicep and tied off before he knows what's happening and I've got the top of the syringe off and the morphine dose loaded, just ready to go. I tap at the tender area of the skin, coaxing the vein to rise, and swab again...carefully, gently, softly. DiNozzo moans and I glance at his face.
His eyes...Christ, his eyes are killing me. I have to look away before I fall into them again.
I force my gaze back to his arm, slip the needle deftly in, and quickly release the constricting band, pulling the plunger slightly back until I can see the mix of his blood in the drug's solution before I slowly inject the pain killer into his system. This will help calm him, this will take away some of his hurt, this will be the death of him if I'm not careful.
I place the used syringe back into the small kit, close it securely, and return the whole thing to my pack for safe keeping. I know I'll be doing this again sometime in the near future, I know I'll have to be very observant and have to keep Ducky's explicit instructions clear in my head, and I know drugging him like this is not the solution to the problem. But everyone, and I mean *everyone* involved, Gibbs included, agreed he didn't need to be suffering needlessly anymore. Not now...not ever again.
It doesn't take long for the morphine to begin taking effect, especially in his already weakened condition, and he starts to settle, the shaking and twitching slowing and the panting gasps leveling out to something more normal...whatever *that* means for him anymore. I still haven't covered his naked body but he doesn't seem to notice and I take the time to hold a ball of cotton against the injection site as tenderly as I can with one hand while I place the other hand gently on the side of his face. That's not where I really want to put my hand but, for now, it will have to do.
I just wait and watch. The green eyes gradually begin to lose the rough edge of pain and begin to take on a dreamy, sleepy look. That's better...much better. I move my hand just a bit and my thumb can now easily reach to brush softly over his dry bottom lip. Christ. I do it again and his lips automatically part, those lazy eyes blinking slowly, languorously, and so damn erotically I go hard almost at once. I do it again and lean closer and he seems to focus on me, one eyebrow arching slightly, like he knows something is going on but can't quite get a handle on it.
"I'm going to take care of you now," I whisper, bringing my face closer, stretching my body out next to him on the bumpy mattress. This is insanity, I know it. He's in no condition for this and, somewhere deep inside, I know this is wrong but I just want a taste. Just one, little taste.
"Wh...where..." he's trying to talk and I can feel his breath ghosting warmly over my face, that's how close I am to him now.
I stop and offer a small smile. "Farmington." I assure, realizing he probably has no idea of his present location. This is good, he's coherent enough to ask an important question. I can soothe his mind and give him what he needs.
He blinks and a slight frown grows. God, his mouth...I don't want to see a frown. I want...
He manages to shake his head slightly and the frown vanishes, eyes closing for a moment. Good. I lean forward again...closer...
"N...no..." he mumbles, eyes blinking sluggishly open and trying to refocus on my face, just inches away. His lips are parting, like he has more to say, but all I can think about is getting my mouth on his, covering his with mine, touching him...
His eyes suddenly break from mine and he's looking around as much as he can. The frown is back again and I have to pull slightly away as he searches the room, looking for something.
"It's okay," I soothe him, recapturing his chin with one hand and holding him still, "we're all alone and you're safe now. I'll keep you safe. Just relax."
He looks directly at me but doesn't relax, the glassy, green eyes still searching for something. "Wh...where's..."
I offer a small indulgent smile now and push his damp hair away from his face. "Ziva's gone for supplies and to get you some clean clothes." I snug my body up close to his. "We've got some time...she won't be back for awhile yet."
But he's still looking, still searching. He shakes his head again. "N...no... not..." The drug is pulling him rapidly under but he's hanging on as best as he can. "Wh...where's...Gibbs?"
Gibbs.
He's asking for *Gibbs*.
Fuck.
___________________________________
Gibbs sat across from the Secretary of the Navy and eyed the other man with a cold, calculating stare, his cool, blue gaze locked on to eyes so dark brown they almost seemed black at times. He'd been here for the past hour, detailing his plan, taking a risk with the only person he knew in Washington with enough power to get them all through the up-coming events safely and able to bring DiNozzo back home where he could be cared for...if he chose to lend assistance. There was a real danger to what he was doing but he had to place his trust somewhere. He just *had* to.
Walter Pennington had been an acquaintance...nothing more...for several years and he could easily see how difficult it was for NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs to sit across from him at this big, wide, highly-polished desk and ask for help. He knew people, knew how to clearly read what wasn't being said, and knew, just *knew*, this man was telling the truth...or his perception of the truth as he interpreted it.
"My very own second was at the same meeting your Director attended, Agent Gibbs. I received the report and found no inaccurate or misleading information and considered the matter closed. We covered all this at our last meeting."
"Yes, sir, I'm well aware of that," Gibbs responded crisply. "And I appreciate you seeing me again so soon. You did have time to read over all the other information I've gathered, haven't you?"
"I have."
The non-committal response sent a shard of anxiety coursing through Gibbs' body but he maintained an even keel. He nodded his understanding.
"And?" He prompted, although his gut was telling him to just pull back to safer waters.
Pennington frowned and tilted his head to one side, letting one big, beefy hand rest upon a slim confidential folder atop his desk blotter. "It's probably one of the best pieces of science fiction I've ever read," he saw the quick flicker of anger flash and disappear, "or it's potentially one of the most inhumane, egotistical, self-serving experiments I've ever seen."
Gibbs released a small sigh of relief. "Yes, sir."
"But which is it?" Pennington had to ask, not really expecting an answer. He *knew* what Jethro Gibbs thought, knew what this former Gunnery Sergeant had been through, was still going through, all in the service of his country, but he had to play his hand very close to his chest right now.
"I can assure you..."
"No, Agent Gibbs," Pennington quickly cut him off, "that's just it. You *can't* assure me of anything."
"Sir, Agent DiNozzo is alive," Gibbs offered with a bit of heat, trying to find a common thread of logic. "He never died as was reported. I've seen him...touched him..."
"Then where is he?"
The two men regarded each other shrewdly. There was trust...and then there was absolute trust...and Gibbs just wasn't certain he could feel that way about anyone in power ever again. After only a moment more of hesitation, he formed an answer.
"With all due respect, sir, I'd rather not divulge that information just yet."
Gibbs swallowed thickly and waited for the hammer to fall. Hell, maybe the whole damn anvil would be crashing down at any moment.
"You don't trust me, Agent Gibbs?" Pennington pushed with his words and tapped a big finger against the folder on his desk. "Yet, you bring this to me, expecting me to believe everything contained within, and render assistance?"
"Yes, sir."
Pennington's eyes grew icy and his shoulders tensed. Between the two men, it would be a close call to see who would have the straightest spine right now.
"I ought to have your ass thrown in the brig..."
"Yes, sir."
"And have the key tossed out into the middle of the Atlantic..."
"Yes, sir."
"And lock up the rest of your team right along with you."
Gibbs didn't respond and it was enough for Pennington to see he'd managed to strike a cord within the former Marine. He raised an eyebrow and waited.
"Sir," Gibbs leaned forward slightly in his seat but remainded unbent, "my team is only responsible for doing their jobs to the best of their abilities and following my orders. Nothing more, nothing less."
The finger tapping the report skillfully flipped it open. "So, Doctor Donald Mallard taking personal leave under the pretense of assisting with the care of his ill mother was your idea? And he went to Idaho because of orders from you?"
Gibbs didn't know how to respond. That was not the way it happened with Ducky but he was damn sure not going to pull his ME onto this sinking ship if he was about to go down.
Pennington eyed the silent man and flipped to another page. "Agent Timothy McGee was with you as well."
"Under my direct orders, yes, sir," Gibbs answered quickly.
"As was FBI Agent Tobias Fornell," Pennington got to where he really wanted to be and raised his dark, bottomless eyes. "Tell me, Agent Gibbs, how do you get an FBI agent to follow your orders? And for that matter, just where *is* Agent Fornell now?"
Shit. "Sir?"
"You understand my question, Agent Gibbs. Answer it."
"Sir," Gibbs mind was racing, "I don't know where Agent Fornell is right now. I saw him a few days ago, here in DC..."
"But you know where he *might* be right now, don't you?" Pennington broke in swiftly.
"Sir..."
"What about Officer Ziva David? Where is she right now?" The SecNav's voice seemed too slick, too oily.
Gibbs couldn't give this much away, not yet, no matter how much he wanted to trust Pennington. There could be help, just waiting if he responded correctly, or there could be devastating consequences. Lives could be lost...DiNozzo could be...
"Sir, with all due respect," He tried again.
And, again, Pennington cut him off. "There's nothing remotely respectful about you coming here with this, Agent Gibbs. Your own Director was informed, as were the other Directors, after that little inter-agency fiasco months ago near the docks at Little Creek, of everything pertinent. It was reviewed by Committee and deemed a closed case. But you just kept pushing."
Gibbs didn't know how to respond, could only look into the face of his last real hope, and watch it all seemingly start to crumble away. He shifted in his seat and broke the gaze, letting his eyes settle on some point directly beside Pennington's right shoulder. He'd been so sure the SecNav would sit up and take notice, would be able to get a clearer picture of what was happening after reading the report, and would be willing to get to the bottom of this conspiracy. Emilio Martinez was still out there somewhere and, even though he wasn't currently in the picture...as far as he knew...the Brazilian was still a known fugitive wanted by the Federal government. Wasn't he? Now, Gibbs had to wonder just how deep this all went.
"Where are they, Agent Gibbs?" Pennington was asking, the tone of his voice brooking no refusal or argument. "Where is Agent Fornell and Officer David right now?"
Gibbs gaze darted back to the SecNav's hard-set face, the dark eyes and the even darker hair almost looking sinister and hellish in the room's illumination. The situation was next to being consumed by the flames of Hadesand Gibbs could only wonder if he could survive by making a deal with the devil right now. Would anyone survive? Too many innocent lives had been conveniently eliminated already...what would a mere handful of pesky NCIS agents amount to in the grand scheme of all this? He quickly made up his mind and sighed, pulling himself up and squaring his shoulders.
"I can't tell you, sir."
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Both, sir," the response was immediate and Gibbs could plainly see the fury spark in those dark depths. Satan was about to pay a visit.
Pennington reached to one side of his desk and touched a button on the intercom. There was a soft buzz and, a moment later, the door behind Gibbs opened and closed quietly.
Gibbs wanted to turn and look, was trained not to have his back to any entrance, but whoever had entered was staying close to the door and had not said a word. The compulsion was like a terrible itch in the back of his brain and he could see Pennington watching, waiting, wondering just how long he'd be able to hold out before cracking under the pressure. Gibbs took a deep, steadying breath, found his center, and let the air back out slowly through his nose. Pressure? Hell, this was nothing compared to what he'd endured while in the Corps. Fuck 'em...if they wanted to play the waiting game, he'd show them how to do it.
Pennington must have detected the minute change in the NCIS agent's demeanor because he carefully laced his big fingers together over the confidential folder and arched a challenging eyebrow. "You can tell me now, Agent Gibbs, or I can have you placed in a cell until you give me the information I want. Life for me will go on as usual but for you...well, let's just say there will be no way for you to know when we finally catch up to those who are still out there following your orders. We may get them tomorrow or next week or maybe not even until next year but, I promise you, they will be found...and dealt with. Is that what you want?"
"Does it even matter what I want?" Gibbs was past the point of politeness now...anger was creeping in. Hell, if he was going to go down, he'd go down fighting. "And if you're planning on throwing me in the brig, I have a right to know the charge."
"How does conspiracy sound?"
Gibbs whipped his head around as the intruder finally spoke and rose immediately from his seat, his strong, capable body tensing with fury and disbelief and outrage. He turned back to face Pennington, not able to look at the face of the person by the door a moment longer, and clenched his fists in rage.
"You son of a bitch..."
"Careful, Agent Gibbs," Pennington warned, one hand shifting to hover over the intercom again, "there's an armed Marine guard just outside my door and another at the office entrance. Violence is not going to get you anywhere. Now, sit down...we have a lot to discuss."
Gibbs remained on his feet for a few seconds more before following the orders, completely ignoring the fact Pennington was rising to his own feet and gesturing with one hand toward the new arrival. He couldn't stand to look back up now, so let his gaze settle on a small flaw on the SecNav's desk.
"Please, come join us," Pennington was directing the person toward the seat next to Gibbs.
"Thank you."
And, as the figure moved into his line of sight and before he could stop himself, Gibbs looked up into the smirking, satisfied face of Jen Shepard, her eyes filled wirh an emotion so full of glee he couldn't even put a name on it. He felt his stomach clench as the rest of his hope crumbled into dust.
"Hello, Jethro."
TBC
Author's Chapter Notes:
Fornell travels to help take care of DiNozzo...and goes too far. In DC, enemies are everywhere.
Chapter End Notes:
Some of this part is from Fornell's POV. Also, be aware of language and description of DiNozzo's injuries.