Flicking the still-burning stub of his last cigarette out into the vast, desolate darkness of the surrounding Idaho landscape, Andy Bowman watched the glowing embers arc gracefully away from his location and land in an orangey spray of sparks that quickly faded on the cold surface of the nearby lot. It was bitterly cold out tonight and the smoldering bits of the remaining tobacco and thin paper were helpless in their attempts to linger. Bowman watched from his perch, one leg casually bent so he could rest a foot on the lowest rung of the metal rail enclosure, and contemplated the existence of the small, insignificant smolder and it's futile endeavor to survive. It didn't take long before the butt's low glimmer faded and was gone from sight and Bowman wondered if that was the course of all things on this miserable, fucking planet.
'Burn bright, fade away, gone in an instant,' he mused and shook his head at the morose thought, stuffing his bare hands deeply into the warmer confines of his coat pockets and hunkering his chin below the raised collar. 'Shit, it's cold tonight.'
Sliding his foot from the railing, Bowman eased his body back until he could rest in relative comfort against the wall nearest the doorway he'd recently exited, knowing he was expected back inside shortly to resume his duties. These breaks always seemed so brief, especially when the activity in the lab below began to heat up. Like tonight.
Grunting to himself, Bowman forced those bleak thoughts away and tipped his head back, gazing up into the wide expanse of the velvet night sky, the small, sliver of moon reminding him, oddly enough, of a clipped section of toenail: pale, smooth, incomplete. It battled for notice, it's insignificant size dwarfed by the brilliance of stars and constellations burning brightly, and Bowman offered up a small smile of condolence.
'That's okay, pal,' he silently grinned at tonight's poor-excuse-of-a-moon, 'in a few short cycles, you'll be top dog again and will put all these wannabees to shame.'
The distant call of a wolf howling for companionship made Bowman shiver, the mournful, haunting sound quickly reminding him of the horrible noises made by the test subject while that crazy, little, motherfucking foreigner did his tests. He hunkered back down in his coat and sighed, trying not to think of what he'd, somehow, gotten involved in and felt his testicles pull up sharply, knowing he was well past the second-guessing stage in this game. He was a part of this madness now and there was no way he'd ever be permitted to just blithely walk away...no matter how much he wanted to turn tail and run.
"They got you by the nuts, Andy," he breathed into the night, seeing his words form a ghostly wisp of vapor mere inches from his mouth, "and they're not going to let go. You're as much a prisoner here as that poor bastard on that exam table in the lab."
Sighing deeply at the thought and pulling his warm hands from his pockets, Bowman touched the side of the watch strapped to his left wrist and saw the radiant indiglo disc reveal the time. His break was officially over.
'Shit,' he cursed to himself, rubbing a trembling hand across his thick moustache, and looked once more out into the dark countryside, silently wishing he had the balls to just make a run for it. Bowman wondered just how far he could get before someone caught up with him. Grimly, he knew the answer: 'Not far enough.'
Pushing the depressing thought from his mind, Andy Bowman turned away from the lure of freedom and reached for the keypad mounted on the wall, quickly typing in the appropriate numbers and hearing the snap as the doorway unlocked for him. Grabbing the heavy handle and pulling back hard, he slowly stepped through the hatchway and re-entered solemnly, imagining he could already hear the sounds from the captive so far below. This was going to be another long, rough night.
Some distance away, on a small rise amidst the barren landscape of a wide-open field, the lone wolf raised it's head and howled brokenly again into the frigid, night sky, it's desolate cry for contact with a member of it's own kind going unheard and unanswered. It listened quietly for some response, it's ears twitching and eyes searching, and, finally, when nothing could be heard except for the whisper of wind moving over the rocks, the wolf turned to move on, alone and confused in it's solitude.
________________________
Jerking spastically up from his position under the skeleton of his slowly, developing boat, Jethro Gibbs caught himself just before slipping over the edge of the rough timber he'd been sleeping upon and froze, cocking his head to one side. Something, or someone, had awoken him, a light scraping of foot against floor perhaps, and he focused on listening to the normal sounds of his house above, quickly filtering out any anomoly. He recognized the steady whir of the refrigerator's quiet motor as it stood sentinel in one corner of the kitchen and the soft tick-tick-tick of his grandmother's antique clock on the mantle above the fireplace in the living room but couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary. That, in of itself, was strangely disconcerting.
Frowning, Gibbs swung his legs around and put his feet on the basement's concrete floor, taking a moment to stretch out a tight kink that had settled somewhere between his neck and shoulders and allowing himself to fully come to his senses. He knew the hazards of falling asleep down here with the front door upstairs unlocked but couldn't quite begrudge himself the little rest he'd somehow managed, even if it was without a proper bed and a pillow under his head. Sleep was sleep and he'd take it any way it came nowadays.
The past few weeks, since learning of DiNozzo's death, had been some of the most difficult days in his life and he knew from the way he was being observed at work that he must be looking fairly ragged around the edges. Never a vain man before the incident, he'd all but stopped looking at himself in the mirror, relying on his other senses as he showered or shaved or dressed each day. He avoided any reflected surface at all costs, even the shiney, innocuous toaster in the kitchen as he made his breakfast, knowing if he looked hard enough and just at the right angle he might see the one thing in this whole world he wouldn't be able to live with: failure.
Pushing himself to his feet and running a slightly trembling hand through his sawdust-peppered hair, Gibbs sighed again and dropped his gaze to the floor at his feet. No matter what anyone tried to tell him during these last horrendous weeks, the former Marine couldn't shake the feeling he'd abandoned his new lover when he needed him most. Gibbs felt he should have pressed Shepard to release him from his duties and rushed to stay at DiNozzo's side. Instead, he'd sent Ducky to be his eyes and ears and to guard the younger man...until he'd been mysteriously moved for one, final time and taken away, never to be seen again.
For days, Gibbs and his remaining team members had tried to find who'd ordered DiNozzo's move and, more importantly, where he'd been taken. They'd hit roadblock after roadblock, until he'd began to function with an almost-panicked desperation, trying to understand why everything was being kept so hush-hush and blanketed in a veil of silence. His team had worked relentlessly for him, learning more and more about Emilio Martinez than they ever wanted through Tim McGee's web searches and Ziva David's questionable resources. Even Ducky had joined the efforts after his return from Bethesda, looking pale and sorrowful, but willing to sit next to McGee and scour medical databases until they were all sick with dread for their missing friend.
Emilio Martinez was a monster, pure and simple, and a Homeland Security Chief's worse nightmare. Hunted by several governments in several countries, including his beloved Brazil, Martinez had left a trail of corpses in his wake, ranging from the very young to the extremely aged. He didn't seem to have rhyme nor reason for his madness, just the unquenchable thirst to try his serums and compounds on as many humans as he could, willing or not. He was a master biochemist, renowned for his contributions to biological warfare, and had garnered the respect of a few countries openly at odds with the United States government, giving him easy access to things he would never have in a truly civilized society. A madman, yes, but a very captivating and sought-out madman for those who coveted his insidious and dangerous concoctions.
Then, something happened, and the whole timbre of Martinez's work shifted, taking a new direction and alienating him from the resources he so desperately needed for his experiments. He conveniently forgot what his sponsors wanted and became obsessed with his own mortality, searching for a method to curb and reverse his own advancing years, even researching the mythical Fountain of Youth. Those who once begged for his presence and the secrets he held suddenly began to turn away, condemning the man and his foolish endeavors. They thrust him away and he, in turn, embarked on a path leading him to the one country that glorified youth and beauty above all others on the face of the earth: America.
As interesting as all the information was, none of it served any purpose in finding DiNozzo so, instead, Gibbs had them shift their focus elsewhere. After all, Emilio Martinez had been arrested and was now securely in the hands of a Federal agency and, as far as they knew, far away from their missing friend.
Then, Director Shepard had arrived back after her long day on The Hill, They'd all immediately known from the look on her face something was wrong, could see it in the way she'd sought out and held Gibbs' eyes, and watched as she'd stopped at his desk.
"Agent Gibbs," she'd begun properly and then, strangely, switched into a different tone, "Jethro...I have some disturbing news."
Gibbs had pushed angrily back from his seat and risen to his full height, eyes like clear, blue chips of ice. He'd stared coldly at the woman before him for only a moment, knowing exactly what she was going to say but defying her to speak the words.
On the other side of the room, Ducky had also risen from the chair he'd pulled close to McGee's monitor, sharing space as they scoured the internet together, his own gaze locked on the unfolding scene. He'd had many years of reading people's expressions and this one he'd recognized immediately.
"He's dead, isn't he?" Gibbs had blurted abruptly, the words sounding hollow and dull.
To her credit, Jen Shepard hadn't tried to soften the blow. "Yes. I was informed of that at the Directors' meeting today. I'm so sorry."
Still seated at his desk, Tim McGee had laid his head down atop his folded hands and had fought back the hot rush of emotion, dimly aware of Ducky's conforting touch at the back of his neck. Across the room at her own desk. Ziva David had covered her open mouth with a slim hand, closed her eyes, and immediately offered up a prayer for the dead.
"Where is he?" Gibbs had bit back a snarl. "I want to see him."
"The body was cremated immediately," Shepard had responded, tuning out the shocked gasps from those close by and focused solely on the pale visage of her ex-lover. "There was a high risk of contamination and the remains had to be handled very carefully. His family was notified..."
"His family?" Gibbs had almost shouted in disbelief before catching himself. "His family doesn't give a damn about him."
"Be that as it may, Jethro, his father *is* Agent DiNozzo's closest next of kin, so he was contacted by the coroner in Philadelphia."
"Philadelphia?" Ducky had stepped forward and joined the pair at Gibbs' desk, frowning at her revelation. "Why was Anthony taken to Philadelphia?"
"I couldn't say for sure, Doctor Mallard," Shepard had nodded at him and had let her attention waver away from Gibbs. "I was under the impression it was because of the care he'd be given."
"Better care than Bethesda?" The former Marine had snapped in disbelief. "What place can offer better care than Bethesda, Jen? You tell me because that's the place *I* want to go the next time I get sick or injured!"
"Jethro..." Ducky had tried to intervene but Gibbs had just been getting started.
"He's a NCIS agent, Jen, one of *your* agents. He was taken away from Bethesda without any indication of where he was being transported and cremated before an autopsy could be performed. Something's not right here and,if you can't see it, you're not the person or agent I once thought you were!"
"Jethro..." the medical examiner had attempted again.
"It's all right, Doctor Mallard," Shepard had faced the wrath head on without flinching but her face had taken on a pinched, tight expression, like something sour had settled on her tongue. She'd leveled her gaze at Gibbs. "I know this is a blow to everyone. If you wish to continue this converstaion and find out all I'm permitted to disclose to you, I'll be in my office. I only stopped here because I thought you should know as soon as possible." She'd paused and taken a deep breath. "Agent DiNozzo is gone now. I hope you'll turn your attention to the team you have left. They're going to need your strength now."
Gibbs had jerked back as if slapped but kept his mouth wisely shut, the glint in his eyes growing dark and dangerous. He'd watched silently as she'd turned and walked toward the staircase, taking the steps at a brisk, easy pace, back straight and head held high. Gibbs had tracked her path until she'd disappeared from view and had immediately turned to his older friend.
"You know anyone in Philly, Duck?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"Call them," he'd swiftly directed before the medical examiner could continue. "I want to find out what happened. I want..."
"No."
Ducky's quiet refusal had brought Gibbs up short and forced him to look back. He'd watched as the older man had stepped close.
"Before I do anything else, I'm going to break this terrible news to dear Abby and you," he'd touched the solid chest with a warm hand and had thrown a significant look back toward McGee's miserable form, "are going to start arranging some bereavement time for the rest of your team."
Looking back now, Gibbs knew it had been Ducky's softly-worded admonishment that had made all the difference. Bereavement. How did one grieve for something held for such a brief time? Gibbs sighed at the thought and glanced back to his boat, the bare, wooden ribcage arching upwards and protecting an empty shell...like his own chest.
'Christ, Gibbs,' he chided himself, reaching for the ever-present chipped mug and taking a sip of the good, strong alcohol it still held, 'can you get anymore maudlin?'
A tiny squeak originating from the top step of the staircase leading downward put Gibbs back into action. Quickly snatching his revolver from it's resting place on the workbench to his left, he stealthily shifted back, got into a better position, and waited silently for the intruder to come the rest of the way down.
"Gibbs?"
Releasing the tense breath he'd unconsciously been holding, Gibbs lowered his weapon and grunted, recognizing the voice quickly. "Fornell, what the hell are you doing here at this hour?"
Without waiting for a reply, Gibbs turned away from the descending man, re-engaged the safety on his weapon, and placed it back on the work bench, hearing the soft footfalls as the FBI agent neared. It was extremely late...or early, if you considered any hour after midnight to be morning...and Gibbs didn't even want to consider the purpose of a two o'clock visit. He didn't have long to wait.
"I think you need to know something," Fornell began with a hint of hesitation.
"And what would that be, Tobias?" Gibbs questioned quietly, not wanting to get sucked into whatever the man was about to offer.
"It's about DiNozzo."
Gibbs froze, the name once again bringing the dreaded ache of a hurt still raw and unhealed. He took a steadying breath, emptied himself of any visible emotion, and turned to face the other man, noticing the dark circles and the fine lines that, surely, was a reflection of his own image. He took a step closer.
"What about DiNozzo?" He asked softly.
Fornell's eyes drifted to the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels resting near the edge of the rough workbench, close to collection of rasps and planes, and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. "You mind?"
"As long as there's no backwash," Gibbs could play patient.
Fornell grunted again and moved, hand reaching for the angular bottle, and quickly twisted off the top, bringing the opening to his lips and taking a partial mouthful. The accompanying burn was full of pleased satisfaction but when Fornell turned back and locked eyes with Gibbs', they held no enjoyment or pleasure. They were bleak, sympathetic, and almost apologetic.
"What?" Gibbs bristled at the look and took a step closer.
"I think we've made a terrible mistake," the words rushed from the agent's mouth.
"About?"
"About DiNozzo," Fornell hissed and watched the man's eyes harden. "I think there may be more to this whole thing than we've been led to believe."
"And why would you think that?" The whisper was almost deadly but the eyes were alight with interest. "I swear to God, Fornell, if this is just some sick, twisted..."
"No!" The quick burst of denial and the open, honest expression were enough to stop the flow of Gibbs' accusations. "You think I'd do something like that? You...you think I don't care what happened to DiNozzo? That I don't have feeling and miss..."
The words trailed off and he snapped his mouth shut, keeping the rest of the sentiment from escaping. He needn't have bothered. Gibbs understood the unspoken implications as clearly as if Fornell had uttered them aloud and the look the two men exchanged was full of anger and denial and jealousy and loss and...
"You sonofabitch," Gibbs hissed, reaching to grab a handful of starched shirt and shaking the other man soundly, their noses just inches apart. "Don't you *even* go there with me now. Don't you ever try to make me think you had some kind of warped, perverse feelings for him."
Fornell pushed back, hard, and managed to break the hold on his clothing. "What does it matter now?! That's not why I'm here!"
"Well, you've got exactly two seconds to tell me why you *are* here before I kick your sorry ass out!"
"I think he still may be alive."
For a moment, Gibbs couldn't move or even bother to breath. 'I think he still may be alive' echoed through his head, again and again. Unconsciously, he took a step back and leaned heavily against the frame of the boat, grateful for the strong, silent support. Alive? If Tony was still alive, where in the hell was he and why had they all been told he was dead? And, for that matter, who's ashes had been spread over that back acreage in Connecticut? When he got his brain to finally digest the implications, and could think past the hope flaring wildly within his soul, he sprung forward and was in Fornell's face again.
"Tell me."
Fornell took a deep breath. "Emilio Martinez is not in Federal custody."
Gibbs frowned. He didn't like the news but couldn't fathom the significance of the insinuation.
"So?" He prodded. "What's that got to do with DiNozzo?"
"Maybe nothing," Fornell confessed and immediately saw the flare again, "or just maybe *everything*. Look, Jethro, I've *never* been able to find out who signed off on the orders to move him from Bethesda and, once he supposedly arrived in Philly," he dug into a jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, "at an Albert Einstein Medical Center, he was pronounced DOA and immediately cremated. Doesn't that strike you as a little odd?"
"I went over everything with Jen Shepard," Gibbs eyes lost a bit of focus as he searched to recall the specifics of the conversation in her office the day she'd broken the news of DiNozzo's death to him and his team. "She alluded there were extenuating circumstances but said all the directors of the agencies involved had been assured by the reports that DiNozzo had been injected with some virulent biological unknown and had expired in transit, leaving the medical team in Philly no choice but to destroy all remaining tissue...except for the samples collected and shipped to the CDC for examination. His body had become a health hazard, a danger to the general populace, and had to be cremated."
Fornell blinked at the unemotional recitation and waited until Gibbs' eyes cleared. Wherever the former Marine had gone, he was back now and looking more pissed than ever.
"You think the Directors were intentionally lied to?" He could barely believe his own ears, much less speaking the words aloud himself, and his eyes swiftly searched Fornell's tired face for some sign of denial.
The FBI agent nodded bleakly. "I do."
"But why?" Gibbs was trying to understand all the implications. "Why would someone go through this elaborate ruse to make us all believe DiNozzo was dead and gone?"
"Christ, Jethro, you know why!" Fornell exploded, face twisting into a mask of scorn. "We discussed this posssibility the night I snuck into your car and you told me that gruesome tale of that poor bastard you rescued from that lab in Iraq!"
The two men faced each other squarely, eyes hard but determined, bodies fairly vibrating with suppresed rage. Gibbs could almost 'see' Fornell trying to silently communicate the idea of his notion and had to force himself to recall their talk that night. When he did, his blood ran cold in his veins.
"Martinez," the sound of the name was spoken like a curse.
"Yes," Fornell breathed with a sigh of relief, glad Gibbs was catching on. "I believe so."
The NCIS agent whirled away and slammed his fist into the side of his boat, splitting the skin and bruising his knuckles, but impervious to any of the resultant pain. He didn't want to believe Fornell's explanation, didn't want to think of DiNozzo being held against his wishes, being used as a guinea pig for that madman, but, God help him, couldn't deny the surge of hope the idea brought to his shell of a heart. *If* DiNozzo was still alive...
Gibbs spun quickly back to face Fornell. "If he's being held someplace, where the hell would it be?"
Seeing the hopeful look in the agent's eyes, Fornell let his shoulders droop, shaking his head solemnly and admitting his ignorance. "God, Gibbs, if I knew that..."
"Well, we have to find out!" Gibbs exclaimed, pushing past Fornell and heading for the staircase.
The FBI Agent was hot on his heels. "How are we going to do that?"
Throwing a look back over his shoulder and pinning Fornell with a wicked gaze as they quickly ascended the steps, Gibbs' smile was wolfish and hard. "I know just the people to help us."
________________________
"I said," Emilio Martinez gritted tightly and slapped the woozy young man soundly with the palm of one open hand, "I want you to sit up!"
Head swimming drunkenly from the unkind cuff, Tony DiNozzo swallowed the sudden surge of sour bile and struggled to comply, levering himself with shaking arms until he was only partially in the desired position. He was really trying to do as directed and *really* didn't want to feel that slimy bastard's hands on his body again but just couldn't gather the energy it took to accomplish the task. He was just so weak and so tired and wanted nothing more than for that crazy prick to take all of his evil medical tools and go screw himself with them.
Grinning slightly to himself at the thought of Martinez doing a little self-rectal probing, DiNozzo realized it would only work if the instruments included a big, honking scalpel or, maybe, a nice, pointy surgical saw. Real pointy. Pointy and long.
'Oh, yeah,' the grin widened at the thought, 'where's Ducky when I need him the most?'
"You think this is funny?" Martinez squawked at the weakened man's smirk and promptly struck him again, a bit harder and with a lot more knuckle, forcing the head sharply to the right.
DiNozzo moaned...and them proceeded to vomit over the edge of the examination table, the thin, watery mess slashing lightly over Martinez's closest shoe and trouser cuff. He stayed on his side and watched the room bend and sway in a strange vertigo-kind of waltz as his tired body rebelled against the stress of the conditions. He was cold and achy and wished someone would just give him a nice, warm blanket and a big, fluffy pillow and let him sleep and sleep and sleep. He closed his eyes and ignored the Brazilian's outraged bellows, trying to sink back to that friendly, comfortable place in his mind, the place where it was warm and cozy and Gibbs had his hand right...
DiNozzo was jerked roughly upright and pulled away from the table, the thin cotton gown covering his body from neck to knees flapping open and sending another hard chill racing up his spine. He tried to get his feet to work, so he could walk instead of being dragged, but all his joints and muscles felt stiff and unresponsive. Letting his head loll to one side, he peered at the figure supporting him on the right and immediately recognized the man...or thought he did.
"Thomas!" He greeted cheerfully, thinking he'd spoken well above the true whisper that emerged from between his dried, cracked lips.
Andy Bowman glanced down at the sound of the weak voice and pressed his lips into a grim line. He didn't like the thought of putting his hands on this guy but, after being assured he wasn't carrying any form of contagion or virus, had agreed to help when necessary. He only been hired to monitor the banks of computers and to make sure all the data was flowing properly but never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine he'd be having direct contact with a test subject. But, now that he had on several occassions, his guilt was beginning to really eat at him. And, to make matters even worse, he found he was actually beginning to admire this poor guy for his spunk and stamina.
'Shit,' Bowman thought disgustedly, 'out in the real world, we might have even been friends.'
Reaching their goal near the closest wall, Bowman and the other technician, Robertson, positioned the wobbly man over the appropriate metal plate on the floor, holding him tight until he was pretty much balancing on his own, and then swiftly recaptured the trembling form before he could collapse. Bowman hated this twice-daily weighing procedure, hated having to disturb the relatively peaceful-looking slumber, hated to see the obvious changes taking place in the weak body.
"Excellent!" Doctor Martinez crowed proudly in his thickly accented voice, pen scratching hastily on his clipboard as the data was recorded. "Two point five more pounds. That's a total of...eighteen and a half pounds in two weeks!"
Bowman watched the gleeful, little man from the corner of his eye, seeing the wicked calculating gleam, and wondered if Martinez actually thought losing so much weight so quickly was healthy. Although, as he glanced back down to the guy hanging fairly limply between him and Robertson right now, there was something different about the way he looked from the day he'd been brought in. It wasn't just the weight...something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it but knew it was important.
DiNozzo slowly lifted his head, as though he could sense Bowman's inspection, and peered fuzzily up for several seconds before smiling anew. He licked his dry lips and tried to speak again.
"Come on, Thomas," he whispered toward Bowman, "I want to go home now. Tell T.C. I need a lift in his chopper."
Bowman felt his grin break. "I told you before, man, I'm *not* Thomas Magnum."
"No talking to him!" Martinez snapped in anger, small eyes jumping nervously between Bowman and his test subject. He pointed his pen directly in the tech's face to make him intention clear. "No. Talking. Ever. Understand?"
Bowman gritted his teeth and nodded his assent, silently seething at the doctor's reprimand and adjusting his grip, automatically pulling DiNozzo up as he began to sag. If there was one thing Bowman was certain of, it was how damned glad he'd be when this gig was over.
"Put him in the chair," Martinez ordered with a casual flick of the wrist and turned away to gather what he needed.
"No, please..."
Martinez was turning back and moving close, bending his head so he could peer into DiNozzo's downcast face, watching as his patient uselessly tried to pull away from the men on either side. It wasn't much of a struggle but the doctor seemed entranced by the effort.
"Why do you struggle so?" he questioned, reaching to grab a handful of the wildly, matted hair and pulling hard until the head rose. The eyes that greeted him were glassy and bloodshot but, unbelievably, still held a spark of defiance. "There is no escape for you."
"F...f...fuck...you," DiNozzo managed and emptied his stomach again, this time catching Martinez right across the chest before the little man could dance away from the watery baptism.
Bowman wisely lowered his eyes and hid his amusement as he watched the slight doctor jerk back and move angrily to one side, waving his arms frantically in the air as he tried to fumble the soiled lab coat away from his own clothes underneath. Foreign words poured from Martinez's mouth like a torrent of a waterfall but Bowman couldn't make hide nor hair of what was being said. Amazingly, the limp man he was holding obviously did because the tech suddenly heard a soft chuckle and a hoarsely mumbled sentence that had the doctor surging back toward them, expression contorted in fury and mouth spitting with rage. Bowman wanted to reach out and push Martinez back but quickly remembered who was throwing cash his way each week and backed down. Instead, he intervened a different way.
"Come on, Robertson," he quietly instructed the man on DiNozzo's other side, slowly beginning to pull their burden in the direction of the padded seat that looked like it belonged in a dentist's office, "let's get him in the chair."
"Yes!" Martinez agreed with a little too much delight. "Put him in the chair!"
The short burst of defiance had consumed all of DiNozzo's waning energy and he sagged heavily, depending on the men to keep him from falling to the floor on his face. They quickly manhandled him into place, strapped him down, and stepped away, both glancing warily at Martinez as he came forward with a loaded syringe, the small, innocuous instrument suddenly looking wicked and dangerous in the man's gloved hand. Or, maybe, it was the sinister _expression tinting the beady eyes that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise.
"Out!" Martinez ordered without glancing away from DiNozzo's pale face. "Now!"
Bowman knew what was coming and couldn't seem to follow the orders fast enough to even suit himself. He knew what the serum did to the test subject, could clearly recall the harsh grunts and loud moans of pain that always filled the hours after every injection, and just wanted to get out of this horrible room before it all started over again. Robertson seemed to fumble at the keypad leading out so Bowman could only stand anxiously at his side, shifting from foot to foot as he waited.
'Come on, come on,' he prompted silently, watching Robertson's finger hit the clear button and begin again. He tried not to look back, tried to keep focused on the slow punch of each number, tried not to think of the powerless man held in the chair behind him. He tried...but failed.
As the door finally swung open, Bowman cast one last glance back in DiNozzo's direction and was surprised to see the glazed, green eyes looking directly back at him, the raw, open expression begging for compassion, for assistance. Bowman swallowed thickly and looked away, dropping his gaze to the floor but, before they could close the door on the horrible sight within, the weak, hoarse man spoke one, final time.
"Help me..."
TBC
Author's Chapter Notes:
Gibbs receives some disturbing news and DiNozzo fights to survive.
Chapter End Notes:
Just an extra warning for the minor DiNozzo 'whumping' in this part.