Post World War II England, after the German Blitz began with heavy, concentrated bombings of key industrial targets and civilian centers throughout London in the cold, bleak Fall of 1940, was a country ravaged by the wrath of Adolph Hitler's demonic plan for world domination. In the month of September alone, the German Air Force dropped thousands of tons of explosives on the capital for twenty-four consecutive nights, attempting to 'soften up' the British population and destroy morale before the planned invasion of their country even began. The brick and steel and concrete of the city, and of other major populated areas, were reduced to piles of rubble and debris and, many times, became death traps for those unable to make it to the relative safety and security of a shelter or nearby underground tube station. Children lost parents, husbands lost wives, and the whole country...the entire world...mourned for the losses incurred because of one madman's monsterous, inhumane plans for his own tyrannical control.
The bombings were sustained for several more years, across the British landscape, as the war continued to gain momentum and strength in Europe, and new allies and adversaries slowly emerged. The British people banded together, unified in their will for survival, and by the burning need to defend and protect what was theirs, and above all else, keep themselves free for the sake of future generations. They would not fall, they would not fail, and they would fight to the bitter end, if necessary, to do whatever was needed to keep their sons and daughters safe.
Many children were sent out of the great cities to the safety of the English countryside, away from the nightly barrages falling from the skies, to live with relatives, both close and distant, or in some instances, even taken in by perfect strangers who volunteered space for those youngsters needing sanctuary from the storm. Sacrifices were made, food became scarce, rationing was standard practice, and the horrendous gap between a child's pre-war innocence and the realities of the new, terrifying existence quickly robbed the last vestiges of the simple, pure, wide-eyed joy of growing up and living in an uncomplicated and trouble-free world. That old world was a dim, distant memory and, for many, gone forever.
But there were some children who never made it out of the heavily populated cities, children who rode the storm of uncertainty each night and lived each day among the rubble and dilapidated ruins of the buildings and homes, who watched friends or family members succumb to the horrors of daily existence. For many adults, the day-to-day strain of living was almost too much to bear but, for the children, many adapted readily to their new environment only as children can. They played among the crumbling concrete, they hunted for and collected scraps of shrapnel, and they foraged for anything that could be used for heating their homes, clothing their families, or feeding their siblings, all the while hardening their young hearts to the memories of what once had been their neighborhoods. Their new playground, now, was the devastation everywhere.
Among the ruins and debris, sometimes half-buried or sometimes fully exposed, the children periodically would find unexploded munitions, huge, cylindrical bombs with their fin-ends pointing skyward, awaiting the unknowing touch of small, straying hands. They became known as UXBs and, unfortunately, it didn't take long for the children to learn the harsh lesson of the danger of these devices nor to learn to stay well away from them but, periodically, one was inadvertently exploded, bringing more mayhem, more destruction, and, usually, more human casualities.
For a very young Donald Mallard, an afternoon spent away from his mother and in the company of his slightly older brother was always a special treat, even if the elder boy didn't always see it that way. Harold Mallard didn't usually want his little brother tagging along, especially if he was meeting his mates to spend some time exploring the outskirts of the bombed city, but he'd agreed to help his mother by keeping young Donald with him while she assisted a neighbor who'd had part of her home destroyed the previous night. Besides, another set of small, deft hands were always a welcome addition in the on-going hunt for bits of shrapnel or shell casings or other scraps of metal within the torn and twisted ruins of abandoned buildings and factories...and Donald had clever, nimble fingers.
So, Harold and Donald Mallard had happily left home on a clear winter's morning and met up with a small band of older boys near the edge of the city's recently destroyed cathedral, intent only in scavenging as they always had since the Blitz had begun. None of the boys had risen that morning expecting this to be their last day on Earth, none had expected to see their last glimpse of the sun or breathe their last lungful of air but, when one of Harold's chums had clumsily dislodged a teetering stack of bricks in an attempt to reach a shiny bit of metal, the resultant cascade of heavy mortar had set off one of the dreaded and mostly hidden UXBs, sending a rain of harsh and heavy death to those in close proximity.
Harold had been killed immediately, his young body torn almost in two, and Donald, who'd been foraging well away from his brother and mostly behind the relative safety of a strong bit of still-standing wall, had been struck soundly on the back of the head by a flying piece of concrete and knocked immediately off his feet, tumbling blissfully toward unconsciousness and thankfully unaware of the carnage surrounding him. The horror of awakening to the shrill shrieks of sirens and the anguished screams of desperate voices crying out for assistance as too surreal, especially for a very young boy, and Donald had laid silently among the devastation, blinking sluggishly against the bitter smoke and the sharp pain in his head, focusing only on the bit of shiny metal still grasped within his own clenched fist. He didn't want to move, didn't think he *could* move, and was content to just wait patiently until Harold came to find him.
But Harold had never come.
Now, as he struggled back into consciousness, the memories of that horrible time resurfaced like a shark scenting an unsuspecting swimmer, nose bumping against a leg, tormenting and prodding at the tender flesh with sharp, ragged teeth, bringing despair and fear and uncertainty. Ducky didn't want to awaken to another, similar scenario, didn't want to relive Harold's death, didn't want to feel so helpless and impotent and useless but the bright pain at the back of his skull was too familiar to ignore, too reminiscent of that horrific experience and he slowly, carefully, cracked open an eye, somehow expecting to see that very same bit of shiny metal gripped into his smallish, diminished fist.
But it wasn't there. Instead, the fingers in front of his nose were big and empty and loose...and there certainly weren't piles of rubble or stacks of salvaged bricks or the smell of recently burned buildings. There was a slick, polished, wooden floor under the press of his cheek and the cool, smooth surface was a wonderful balm to the terrible ache in his head.
His head...
Ducky blinked against the pain radiating out from where he now remembered he'd been struck...but not from a falling roof or a flying brick. Memory suddenly flooded back, rushing in to fill the recently vacated areas, and his stomach twisted with renewed fear.
Texas...
Anthony...
Gustafson!
Fighting the urge to immediately push up from the floor and confront the man who'd obviously laid him so low, the medical examiner forced himself to complete stillness and sought to listen to the sounds in the room, specifically from the area behind him where the bed...and DiNozzo...were located. Someone...most probably Gustafson...was near the bed, next to the younger man. Ducky didn't want to speculate on what the strange man could be doing to his patient but stray thoughts arose regardless: strangulation, asphyxiation, poisonous injection, morphine overdose...all ran rampant through his fertile mind. There were far too many ways to kill quietly and without bloodshed and they all suddenly emerged with ugly clarity in Ducky's thoughts. Even something as innocous as an air bubble in an IV line would do the trick, leaving a beautiful, cold corpse in it's wake, and the image of DiNozzo's lifeless form resting atop his chilled, sterile autopsy table sent Ducky into a slight panic.
Knowing he just couldn't remain on the floor and hope for salvation to arrive in the guise of an avenging Gibbs or Fornell or David, Ducky slowly forced his head up just enough to turn it over, letting his other cheek have it's chance against the cool floor, and looked toward the bed, his gut recoiling as he immediately recognized Thomas Gustafson, or whoever the hell he was, leaning over DiNozzo's defenseless form. Gustafson was facing away from the fallen ME, obviously not concerned with the downed doctor's proximity, and his hands were busy upon the bed's occupant. Ducky's gut clenched. He didn't want to think about what was happening but knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he had to do something to help DiNozzo...and he had to do it now!
Placing both palms flat on the floor and pushing a bit unsteadily upward, Ducky had to take a moment to fight against the sudden rise of bile as the pounding in his skull intensified. He swallowed thickly and willed himself to control his roiling stomach and was able to make it to his knees without a sound, eyes blurring in and out of focus, keeping his wavering gaze, somehow, locked on Gustafson's back. The bogus CDC representative was still bent over DiNozzo, still involved in his own, single-minded task, and still hadn't noticed the ME's movement. Ducky allowed himself a brief moment of respite, took a quick, deep breath, and got shakily to his feet, hands reaching out to capture the edge of a nearby chest for some much-needed support. Something warm and wet tickled agaisnt the back of his neck and, as he gently placed the fingertips of his left hand against the trickling path of new sensation, he realized he was bleeding, the moist stickiness sending a new surge of nausea coursing through his stomach. Closing his eyes against the unwanted rush, Ducky took a few steadying breaths to get himself under control, and tried to think of what he could possibly do to offer DiNozzo assistance.
The scalpels and other surgical instruments were safely in the sterilizer and the sedatives were in the top drawer of the chest next to the bed, well out of immediate reach. Ducky cast his eyes around the bedroom, looking for something, anything, he could use as a weapon...
Weapon!
Eyes flashing back to his position and head tilting downward to study the solid piece of furniture under his hands, the ME ignored the slick, wet smear of blood his fingers had unintentionally painted on the edge of the polished surface and focused on the brass handle of the top drawer. He swallowed nervously, knowing what was housed within the confines, and wondered if he could successfully complete his intended actions. Roberta Wainwright's handgun was there, unloaded and safely tucked inside, placed specifically away from the patient but close enough to be within easy reach if needed. Ducky shifted his gaze back toward Gustafson. If ever there was a need, it was now.
Letting his eyes drop quickly to the metal pull, Ducky held his breath and reached carefully to touch the slim handle, praying the antique- looking piece of furniture wasn't prone to the usual squeaks or groans of furnishings this old and wouldn't end up alerting the man near DiNozzo of his movement...or, more importantly, his intention. Deft hands grasped and pulled in a slow, deliberate pace, inching the drawer partially open until he could peer down inside. There, resting beside the clip of ammunition that needed to be slipped up into the handle to make the gun useful, was Wainwright's service revolver, just as she had placed it late last night: grip closest to the front of the drawer, the nozzle pointing toward the back wall, and the dark finish not at all resembling the bits of shrapnel he recalled having in his hand as a youth.
Sighing softly and driving down the shudder of revulsion for what he was preparing to do, Ducky slipped his hand within the tight confines and touched the cool handle for the first time, his queasy stomach taking one, last severe flip as skin made contact with the metal. The weapon was heavy, ungainly, and nothing like Ducky remembered but he knew he had no other choice but to go through with this plan.
He lifted the weapon clear of the drawer...
...and fumbled quietly with the clip, unsteadily sliding it in as he'd learned long ago but never had actually put to use, trying vainly to remember what he'd been taught, what he'd seen others do, seeking to bring the memory closer. The action wasn't as smooth or as silent as it should have been but he turned, lifting the gun, pointing it directly at Gustafson's back.
"Well, well, well," Gustafson whispered cruelly as he turned his head at the sound and met Ducky's startled eyes unflinchingly, his hands still on DiNozzo's body, fingertips pushing...something...against the newly-stitched region on the younger man's upper arm, "this is quite a surprise."
The medical examiner tightened his grip on the ungainly weapon, bringing his other hand up to cradle the butt and steady his hold. "I need you to step away from him...now."
Gustafson offered a small, feral grin, eyes dropping to glance at the ME's slightly trembling grasp on the firearm, but his fingers stayed pressed to DiNozzo's flesh, the touch firm and unmoving. "That's not going to happen, Doctor Mallard. It would be better for everyone if you just put the weapon down and sat back on the floor."
"I'm sorry but I'm not going to do that," Ducky responded, his soft, ciltured voice growing more composed and resolved with each passing moment. He didn't have to look at Gustafson's hand to know it wasn't going to be removed. "Please...don't make me shoot you."
Gustafson's smile widened, his expression morphing into a more wolfish visage, his tone smooth and silky. "Now, we both know you wouldn't do anything as violent as that. It's just not your style."
"Yes, well, you have no idea what my style is," Ducky gritted and took a hesitant step closer, keeping the gun leveled at the other man, his own ire over the situation mounting the longer it went on. "You are not going to harm him further."
The smile shifted and grew snake-like and made the fine hairs on the back of the ME's neck stand on end. "Well, I hate to break it to you like this, Doctor Mallard," and Ducky could plainly hear and see there was no real apology in the words or expression, "but I'm actually harming him right now."
Ducky sucked in a quick breath, eyes instantly dropping to Gustafson's hand, focusing on the freshly bleeding wound under the man's fingers. "Stop! I want you to stop this instant!"
"I can't do that."
"Then I *will* have to shoot you!" He was getting exasaperated with the whole situation.
"So you keep saying."
The two men eyed each other steadily, each refusing to do as the other wanted, but as Gustafson pressed his thin, needle-like prod harder into DiNozzo's skin and shoved it roughly against the RFID imbedded there, the younger man suddenly jerked and began to awaken, instinctively shying away from the renewed flash of pain and trying to shift from the touch of the strange man hovering so close.
"Anthony!" Ducky raised his voice in an effort to gain the agent's attention and took another step closer to the bed, the heavy gun wavering slightly in his grasp as he looked into the bewildered face of his awakening young colleague. "Lie still, please!"
Gustafson grinned and glanced down at the weakly struggling figure, immediately seeing the confusion in the muddled eyes. The young man was virtually defenseless, powerless to defend himself against anything being done, and the bogus CDC rep sneered at the sight.
"Yes, Anthony," he mocked and pushed the pin harder, watching the green eyes roll up whitely into the sockets, the body shuddering under the effects of the small, innocous-looking probe, "do be a good boy and be still." Gustafson shifted his eyes back to Ducky's outraged face and saw the gun waver a bit more, deciding quickly it was time to push the older man just a tad further, too. "He was such a good, obedient lad for Doctor Martinez. So biddable, so well-behaved, so," the smile was cold and cruel, "submissive."
Ducky's anger flared hot and brilliant at the outrageous statement and he could only think of nothing but forcing Gustafson away from DiNozzo. He moved close, too close...
...and that was his last mistake.
______________________________________
"Getting a little hot out there, is it, Agent Fornell?"
Tobias Fornell turned as he entered the front door of the lodge and closed the heat of the afternoon out behind the heavy, wooden panel without looking back, his eyes already adjusting from the brightness and shifting toward the entrance of the trophy room just to the left of the foyer, settling his gaze on Abby Scuito's perky face. The FBI agent couldn't contain his grin as he took in her open, easy smile, her long, dark pigtails, and her out-of-character, stone-washed, slightly too-large, light blue denim jeans. This was definately a new look for the young forensics expert and, if he was being totally honest with himself, not one he really liked on her.
"You could say that," he stated drily and controlled the grin, watching her eyes sparkle as she whipped the half-tied bandana from around her neck and extended it in his direction. He eyed it warily for a moment and then stepped close, accepting the proffered cloth and bringing it immediately to his face to wipe away the accumulated perspiration. "Thank you."
"You're quite welcome," she beamed with a slight nod and tilted her head quickly in the direction of the trophy room. "Did Doctor Wainwright tell you about the video conference coming in for you in a couple of minutes?"
"Yes, she did," Fornell assured and immediately followed as she turned and stepped back into that room, eyes scanning the equipment placed strategically around in different locations, giving each item a cursory once over before looking at the vacant computer monitor McGee was gesturing toward. "She decided to check on the prisoners...just to make sure they were being treated...well."
Abby turned her gaze back on the man, eyes narrowing slightly. "And are they?"
Fornell hesitated briefly before responding. "Ah, not especially."
Abby glanced at McGee, made eye contact, and then looked back, a quirky smile tilting one corner of her mouth. "Good."
Fornell nodded his agreement and then slipped easily into the chair placed before the computer, eyes rising to the webcam resting atop. He wasn't sure who was calling nor was he cetain of the upcoming discussion but he wanted to be ready. He wiped at his face and neck once more with the faded, red bandana and was pleasantly surprised, again, when a container of chilled bottled water was placed close to his elbow. He looked suspiciously up and caught McGee's kind expression.
"We just wanted to let you know," the young agent began softly, faltering for a moment, "that we know you've done your best by Tony and, well, Abby and I...we know this hasn't been easy and...um, that we..."
"We just wanted to say thanks," Abby jumped in happily as Fornell quickly and gratefully broke the lid seal and took a huge swallow of the cold liquid, eyes closing for a moment in relief and delight.
Fornell shrugged, slightly embarrassed, and looked away. "There's no need for that..."
"But you've been so much help," Abby stressed, crossing her arms over her chest and reaching to tug playfully at one of her pigtails, "and we know not to listen to everything Ziva says. And Gibbs...well, Gibbs has been like a big, old bear..."
"Uh, Abby," McGee tried to interrupt, shifting his gaze back and forth between his friend and the FBI agent.
"...about things for so long now that we just got use to his moods and..."
"Abby," McGee was trying again, his face taking on a bit of a flush.
"...I guess we know he's more of a barker than a biter but..."
"Abby!"
"What, McGee?!" Wide, exasperated eyes swung his way.
McGee blushed further and shifted from foot to foot. "Well, Abby, I...I just don't think Agent Fornell needs to hear all this and..."
There was a sound at the computer and Abby abruptly elbowed McGee out of the way, reaching to touch a key on the pad before Fornell. "And here's your connection."
As Fornell turned to greet the person who'd requested this conference, he was instantly relieved to see the recognizable face of his section director. He immediately tuned out the two NCIS colleagues and focused on the man's cool, terse expression.
Abby and McGee took several steps away and returned to their own work, quickly settling in and keeping their usual lively, good-natured banter to a hushed, subdued minimum. They'd already provided Gibbs with a folder of basic information on the two intruders the Marines had brought in and were now, once again, running through all the information they'd gathered concerning RFIDs, their availability and use throughout the world. Not only was the technology being used in the United States and Canada, as they'd discussed with Gibbs earlier, but almost every technologically savvy nation was marketing and selling their products on the Internet: Great Britain, Germany, China, India, South Korea, Taiwan...and the list went on and on. Animal tagging, long range locators, hospital security, pet identification...the usage list was just as long but the more they read, the more certain they became that the small devices once again housed in DiNozzo's body had been conceived, designed, and manufactured in the US. And, after comparing the images Abby had taken of the transmitters before they'd been implanted again to what they could find on the Internet, they were almost positive they'd originated from an American company called GAO Engineering...a company who's founder and major stockholder was none other than Franklin Wilson-Halley.
Everything was just falling into place, one small bit at a time.
"God damn it!"
At Fornell's unexpected and exceptionally harsh expletive, McGee and Abby instantly turned and watched with stunned expressions as the FBI agent reared up out of his seat, tipping the chair over backwards in his haste, and quickly began moving in the direction of the staircase, pulling his weapon from his holster as he went. The face of his section director was still visable on the monitor but they could only stare at Fornell's retreating back.
McGee was instantly up and following. "Fornell?"
"McGee, come with me!" He was instructing without looking back, already at the bottom of the staircase. He hesitated and looked once at the wide-eyed forensics expert, who'd managed to follow McGee to the trophy room's arched antrance. "Abby, go get Gibbs!"
"Fornell," McGee was pulling his own gun but really was in need of some type of explanation...as did Abby, "what's going on?"
Fornell looked up toward DiNozzo's room and then back to the two expectant faces, his eyes shocking them in their cold, hard edge. "That man up there with DiNozzo is an imposter."
"What?" Abby's voice was breathless and her eyes widened with alarm.
"My section director knows Doctor Thomas Gustafson personally, "he gritted, "and he asked me to remind Gustafson to stay indoors as much as possible because 'that hot Texas sun would color that red-head's pale complexion faster than a lobster taking a boiling bath'."
"But Doctor Gustafson's not a redhead," McGee frowned and then, just as quickly, understood. "Oh, my God. Tony."
"Ducky!" Abby exclaimed and grabbed at McGee's arm. "Ducky is still up there, too!"
"Go get Gibbs!" Fornell hissed at Abby again and then focused on the young agent, clearly not wanting to waste any more time with needless, useless conversation. "You and I are going up and are putting an end to this right now."
"But we should wait for Gibbs," McGee swallowed uneasily.
"We don't have any fucking time to wait for Gibbs!" Fornell was close to exploding, his face red and filled with rage. "He could have already killed both of them. Now, get your ass in gear and don't make me do this by myself."
"Okay, I'm with you," McGee swallowed and answered quietly, gun gripped in both hands, nozzle pointed downward. He'd tip the weapon up once they were safely at the top of the stairs but, for now, he knew with Ducky and DiNozzo still in that bedroom he just couldn't take the chance of tripping as he climbed the steps and accidentally discharging and striking one of them.
Following Fornell's lead, McGee mounted the stairs quickly and quietly and, when they reached the top landing, turned to receive further silent instructions. He nodded when the FBI agent signaled for him to go to the far side of the closed doorway and steathily made his way to the designated area, crowding back against the adjoining wall and watching, wide-eyed, as Fornell crouched low and pressed an ear to the door. Carefully, the FBI agent reached up and slowly tested the handle. By his expression, McGee could see it was locked. He tried to control his breathing, tried to calm his racing heart, but knew he was fighting a useless battle. When adrenaline surged in the human body, it was like trying to hold the tide back.
He swallowed thickly when Fornell's eyes rose to meet his again. The anger reflected there had turned to rage: pure, intense, chilling. He could only watch as Fornell rose from his squat, fingers starkly white against the gun's handle, and backed a few feet away.
Without preamble and with no warning, Fornell dropped his right shoulder and bulled into the closed, locked door, surprising McGee with his intensity and his strength...and, more importantly, with his success. The wood panel popped and smashed back against the interior wall with a loud smack of a sound and Fornell tumbled in, rolling once and coming up to a knee, gun pointed and leveled directly at the figure on the other side of DiNozzo's bed...
...the figure that now held Ducky securely against his own body like a human shield, one strong arm locked tightly around the aging medical examiner's neck and the other pointing Roberta Wainwright's gun at the helpless man on the bed. There was blood on Ducky's forehead and a stain across the top of one shoulder and both McGee and Fornell bristled at the sight.
"Drop the gun!" Fornell ordered fiercely. "Now!"
"You know I can't do that," came the silky, calm voice.
"You'll never get out of this room alive!"
A slow, calculating smile spread as the sly eyes angled toward the young agent still by the doorway. "Ah, Agent McGee, maybe you can convince Agent Fornell to back away."
"Now, why would I do that?" McGee managed to get his dry mouth to form the sensible question and remained alert in his position.
"Because you don't want to see either of your friends harmed. Do you?"
It was purely rhetorical. McGee shifted but didn't lower his weapon, silently praying for Gibbs' quick arrival.
"You can't hope to escape," Fornell continued. "Even if you shoot all of us, there's a unit of Marines right outside who will respond to the shots and take you out."
"No, they won't," he was too sure, too slick, and it made the FBI agent want to snarl. "They'll want to take me alive, to make sure I face 'justice', to parade me before an outraged public." His smile was making Fornell feel sick. "I'll shoot Agent DiNozzo here first," he tilted his head toward the bed, "then I'll do Agent McGee," it was spoken so casually, almost tonelessly, "and then I'll do you, Agent Fornell. The good doctor goes to his eternal rest last...that is unless he gets caught in the crossfire."
Fornell and McGee could only stand and stare, weapons trained on the man, both wondering if they could risk a shot and knowing it just wasn't possible. Ducky *would* get caught in the exchange and another lost life was just not acceptable. The situation was unbearable and, just as the two LEOs considered the plausiblity of backing away, a soft, trembling voice spoke out.
"No..."
DiNozzo shakily and totally unexpectantly reached upward, grasping clunsily at the stranger's arm, momentarily deflecting the aim of thr stolen gun and knocking the hand to one side, giving everyone a chance to move. Everyone. The aging ME was suddenly going limp, dragging against the imposter heavily, twisting and ducking to one side. Without hesitation, McGee fired toward the briefly distracted man, barely missing his intended target, and could only stare in horror as the gun rose and swung his way.
Fornell shoved to one side, firing off a round at the same time, and the CDC imposter jerked spastically, finger tightening in reflex just enough to discharge the weapon before he, too, went down, absurdly graceful in his almost-instantaneous death. The right side of his head exploded away at the violent impact, showering the wall, the bed, and both Ducky and DiNozzo in an arcing, spraying mixture of warm blood and slivered bone and bits of spongy brain matter. The thump of his handgun hitting the hardwood was just as loud as the sound of his lifeless body smacking the flooring. The FBI agent remained down by McGee's feet and the younger man instantly rushed the rest of the way into the room, making it to Ducky's side just as the ME started to waver and sag.
Gently, McGee grabbed an arm and eased Ducky to a sitting position, cast a quick look toward the dead imposter, and awkwardly kicked away the discarded handgun, before finally focusing on DiNozzo, seeing the alarm in the blood-splattered face. He patted the closest shoulder and smiled at his confused friend's expression.
"You did good, Tony," he assured softly, voice barely shaking, fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "You did real good. Didn't he, Agent Fornell?"
When his question garnered no response, McGee raised his eyes from DiNozzo's confused face and turned back toward Fornell's last position, only to find the FBI agent hadn't moved since falling and firing. The pool of blood, slowly widening by the second, sent a shard of ice into McGee's chest. It was clear the wound was severe, if not fatal. The younger man blanced and, just as he began to move to assist the fallen agent, Gibbs and Ziva appeared at the doorway, guns drawn and aimed carefully, eyes sweeping the scene instantly and immediately catching McGee's eyes. Gibbs retracted his weapon, holstering it expertly, and was rushing into the room.
Relief clearly apparent when his blue gaze fell on DiNozzo's strained and slightly agitated expression, Gibbs instantly sobered as he dropped to kneel at Fornell's side, carefully turning the unmoving man over. The sight that greeted him made him flare with regret. There was no doubt the FBO agent was dead, the hole in his once-clean shirt looking so small and so insignificant, especially compared to the amount of blood soaking the clothing and puddling the floor beneath. An artery shot, no doubt...rapid blood loss...almost immediate unconsciousness.
"Ah, shit, Tobias," Gibbs whispered, surprised by the quick flash of guilt he felt. The NCIS agent knew this could have easily been him on the floor, bullet through the chest, gone in a flash. He gently reached out and pushed the lids closed with his fingertips, shutting the sightless eyes for the final time. There just wasn't anything else to do.
Other voices began to slowly filter in now and Gibbs looked up. Wainwright was there, rushing to check on Ducky and DiNozzo, Captain Bradley and Lieutenant Samuels were both entering, leaving another Marine at the doorway, weapons ready and eyes alert, sweeping the room from one side to the other. Even Abby and D were there, standing uncertainly to one side, the older man holding the young woman with a secure, comforting arm about her shoulders. The room was too full, the confusion apparent, and the voices were overlapping and competing for dominance.
Gibbs pushed to his feet and wiped Fornell's blood from his hands, fingers trailing across his own shirt and painting a sickly, dark pattern on the fabric. Eyes sweeping the room one last time, he'd finally taken all he could stand.
"Everyone just shut the fuck up!"
His tone and his volume cut through the dim immediately and all eyes turned in his direction. He heaved a ragged sigh and strode purposefully toward the bed, glancing quickly at Ducky, seeing Wainwright's capable hands working their magic, and forced his eyes to go to McGee's pale face. He would look at DiNozzo in a minute, when he had more time, and he would assure himself of the younger man's continued safety, putting his hands on the trembling body to check for himself. But, first, he had to speak to his agent.
"Tell me," was all he had to say.
And McGee did, falling into the routine, offering everything he could recall in his analytical mind: Fornell's revelation of the imposter in their midst, the FBI agent's one-man storming of the locked doorway, the stand-off while Ducky was forced to act as living armor, and the brief but slightly confusing exchange of gunfire. It had all happened so fast.
"He...he put himself in the line of fire," McGee stumbled as his gaze tracked once more to Fornell's still form. "He took a bullet that probably would have hit me, Boss."
Gibbs silently regarded his slightly stunned agent, feeling the younger man's remorse, and placed a comforting hand on one shoulder, waiting patiently until the wide, watering eyes returned to focus on his face. "He did what he had to do, McGee. Don't beat yourself up over something you had no control over."
"But..."
"No," Gibbs wouldn't let him speak. He tugged on the shoulder and drew him away from the side of the bed, making room for Wainwright to give her younger patient the once-over. When they'd reached the foot of the bed, the former Marine bodily turned McGee to face him again. "I need for you to go downstairs with Abby and get the cameras and evidence kits. We'll need to process this room now...it's a crime scene."
McGee's eyes regained a bit of focus. There was a job to do and Gibbs was relying on him. He nodded his understanding.
"Got it, Boss."
"Ziva!" Gibbs barked over a shoulder without breaking eye contact with McGee and was immediately aware when the dark-haired woman took up a position at his back. "You and McGee are going to process this scene as quickly and as effeciently as possible..."
"Of course."
"...and I want it to be accurate. No mistakes here, not for this one. Abby," he motioned for the young forensic expert to join their tight circle and eyed D when the older man remained close, "McGee and Ziva are going to bring the evidence to you. Make sure it's all in order...just like always. Log and seal everything up tight when you're finished."
"But Gibbs," Abby's voice shook just a bit, "we already know what happened here."
Gibbs' gaze was cool. "*We* know but *we* won't be the ones who look into Fornell's death. The FBI will want to investigate on their own and, even though there won't be any other agents heading our way, they're going to want to examine everything we collect and bring back to DC...including McGee and Ducky's statements."
"He died well," the ME's quiet, cultured voice drew their attenrion and they turned as he approached their position, looking a bit worse for wear. They instinctively made room for him, opening their circle to include his diminutive form. The older man's gaze dropped to rest on Fornell's lifeless body and there was an unmistakable glint of affection in the sad, pale eyes. "He knew we'd all be killed, one by one. He did the only thing possible to ensure our safety. A brave and honorable death."
Gibbs studied his friend for a moment. "The FBI needs to know that."
The soft remark was accepted quickly. "Have no worries. I'll make sure it's in my statement."
"Mine, too," McGee piped in quietly.
Gibbs nodded. "Good. Now, Ducky, I know you've been through an ordeal and I hate to ask you to do this but..."
"...but you need my expertise," the ME sighed with an agreeable tilt to his head. He looked toward the Marines hovering close. "Maybe one of these strapping, young men will be so kind as to go to my bedroom and fetch my bag and..."
"Doctor Mallard!"
Roberta Wainwright's strident voice and worried tone caught everyone's attention and, as one, the small grouping of NCIS colleagues turned to look back her way. The sight that greeted them was enough for them all to wonder if there was ever going to be an end to the suffering.
On the bed, his body jerking weakly against the sheets, DiNozzo was obviously in the throes of some type of seizure, the Naval doctor doing her best to ease the spastic, twitching man's body. Gibbs and Ducky moved as one, each to a different side of the mattress, and the formerMarine could only gaze in helpless frustration as the convulsions continued, on and on.
"Come on, Tony," he whispered as the two doctors watched and quickly discussed a plan for treatment, "you can beat this...I know you can."
As if hearing the man's quiet request, DiNozzo's head turned slightly in his general direction, body jerking hard, and eyes rolling in the sockets...and then was still.
TBC
Author's Chapter Notes:
Death comes to the Double D Lodge.
Chapter End Notes:
Extra warning for this part: violence and character death.