Ouch!
Leroy Jethro Gibbs opened his eyes, sat up, and touched his shoulder. As a Marine, he had experience with being shot, and the fact that he felt no pain and no blood was seeping from his shoulder made him silently shake his head. It just wasn’t possible. Then his gaze fell on the lifeless body of the young woman staring at him with empty, dead eyes.
Damn it! flashed through the agent’s mind. Why did she have to die?
McGee’s faint groan snapped him out of his thoughts. He was quickly at his side, looking at him as the man sat up and touched his head.
“You okay, McGee?” Gibbs asked, prompting Tim to look at him in confusion, nod, and press a hand to his forehead. “Ouch. That’s gonna leave a bump.”
“McGee, what do you remember?”
The young special agent looked at his boss in surprise, tilted his head, and said, “Well—you pushed me, I hit my head on the room divider, and…”
He paused, and Gibbs could see his face undergo an emotional transformation. Not a literal one, but a metamorphosis of emotions—from genuine confusion in his eyes, with a deeply furrowed brow as he pondered the question, to a brief moment of contemplation with a smooth forehead and clear, focused eyes staring into the distance, to deep concern with a wide-open mouth and eyes widened in shock.
“Laura,” he breathed softly, looking in the direction where he remembered her.
His gaze found her lifeless body.
“N… no,” the novelist stammered, staring in disbelief and shock as Gibbs suddenly grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.
“Look at me,” he said quietly but with a commanding undertone. “Look at me and focus on your anger.”
“B… Boss, who does something like this?”
Disbelief was still evident in McGee’s gaze. And knowing Gibbs well, he could see that the sight hadn’t left his boss unaffected either.
“Ari,” Gibbs said, and McGee froze. “What? B… but Ari’s dead.”
“I know. But still—no one else does something like this.”
Then he looked at McGee and, as if shaking off all his disbelief with a shrug, resumed his commanding role. “Call Ziva and Tony. Tell them to get to headquarters as fast as possible.”
Anthony DiNozzo Jr. was currently preoccupied with other matters. Lost in the gaze of the brown-eyed Israeli beauty, he was running on autopilot. He didn’t know how long he’d been admiring her naked body, surrendering to her kisses, or how long they’d been doing the most irrational thing that had ever crossed their minds, but he knew he didn’t want it to end.
“You’re so beautiful,” he sighed as his hands glided over her bare back. She gave him a stunning smile, pulled him close, and kissed him so fiercely and hungrily that he surrendered completely. Right now, his rational mind wasn’t in charge—desire, instinct, took over. The overwhelming longing he’d felt for this woman’s touch over the years, the sensory overload when their naked bodies finally met, nearly made him shout with joy, and when they gave themselves to each other, it was like he was in heaven. Then the phone rang.
Ziva’s sighs, which had started soft and grown louder and more lustful, now sounded frustrated, and the first thought in Tony DiNozzo’s mind was, “Whoever’s calling now is a dead man.”
“This better be half of NCIS on fire,” he said, glancing at the caller ID and answering. “Yeah, McInter…net, what’s up?”
He’d meant to say “McInterruptus,” but a warning-amused look from Ziva stopped him.
“Tony,” McGee’s voice came through, and the Italian wondered if it had always sounded so whiny or if it was just because the computer-expert agent had dared to interrupt his passionate moment with Ziva.
The next words from the other end made him lose the ground beneath his feet. “Alright, we’re on our way,” he said in a quiet, almost toneless voice.
He turned to Ziva, who looked at him with concern and confusion.
“Get dressed. There’s been an attack on NCIS.”
He grabbed his boxers and got dressed—not even thinking to watch Ziva cover her stunning body, as a distant worry echoed in his mind. A scene flashed before his eyes.
Tony looked at the redhead. “Counterquestion—why would she do it? Why would the witness lie?”
Pause.
His counterpart looked at the ceiling, tilted her head back and forth as if weighing something, and furrowed her brow. Then she fixed him with a stare from those incredibly green eyes. “Maybe she had an affair with Captain Stone and killed him because she’s crazy?”
Tony frowned in return and shook his head. “I don’t think she’s nuts.”
The redhead grinned. “So the witness who claims to have seen us isn’t Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta?”
“What?” Tony blinked in surprise, looking at her, his face a picture of disbelief. “Who?”
“Well, you said the witness framing me isn’t ‘gaga.’ How many ‘Gagas’ do you know? I only know one—Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, aka Lady Gaga.”
The NCIS agent stared at her, dumbfounded, and shook his head. He was about to respond when three shots rang out from the next room.
The redhead looked at Tony in horror, and he stared back, equally shocked. In an instant, they were both on their feet, rushing to the door. He wanted to stop and tell her she couldn’t come along, but she was already at the door, opening it and running toward the source of the noise, her red hair flowing. Tony followed—hoping Ziva was okay. What had happened?
He reached the door where the redhead stood, her eyes wide with horror, and he saw why. Someone was lying in the doorway.
Glancing at the shoes, he noted they weren’t Ziva’s service shoes—hers had a slight heel; these were flat. Just as he reached the door, he felt sick.
The body before him lay in a pool of blood, the eyes he’d seen so often staring blankly into the distance, the brown jacket he wore soaked in blood.
“Not him!” flashed through Tony’s mind. “Anything but him!”
Ziva knelt beside the man, checking for a pulse, but Tony knew the beautiful brown eyes of the Israeli would soon fill with tears, just as he felt his own green eyes doing. He swallowed hard and glanced at the man holding the weapon, who was getting up from the floor.
“I hope you know what you’ve done,” he growled, struggling to maintain his composure. The man nodded. “Yes, I just killed your murderer.”
“G… Gibbs,” DiNozzo stammered suddenly, and Ziva, who had just pulled her shirt over her head, looked at him with concern. “Did something happen to Gibbs?”
Tony swallowed, shook his head, and looked at her. “I… I just saw Gibbs in my mind. He… was dead.”
The beautiful Israeli’s face turned into a mask of horror. “What?”
“He…”
He didn’t get further. He saw something flying toward him, heard a loud whistle, and felt something hit his chest.
Ari had arrived at the designated location. Why they wanted to meet him here, of all places, was beyond him. There was a red-brick church, its architectural style a mystery to the Israeli; a large plaza that reminded him vaguely of a schoolyard; a modern building with mirrored windows on the left side of Capitol Street Northwest; and on the right, another red-brick building that looked like a city hall or something. Why he was supposed to meet here, he just didn’t understand.
Then a car pulled up in front of him. A large black Ford LTD with tinted windows, one of which slid down, revealing a man in a black suit and sunglasses. “Get in.”
Ari recognized the tone—a curt command, like the ones his father used to give when he was selected as a double agent for Mossad. And for that, they’d sent him to a school to learn refined conversation. Tsk.
But the assassin complied, opened the back door, placed the sports bag in the car, and climbed in.
He didn’t have much time to take in the car’s interior, though, as he felt a sting in his neck and then nothing.
When Agatha left the café with Cal, she was endlessly grateful that Starfleet uniforms were made of a rather remarkable fabric. You could take a dive through a lake, and while your hair would cling wetly to your body, the uniform stayed in shape despite the dampness. Plus, you didn’t feel as cold since the uniform somehow kept you warm. She didn’t know how it worked, and as with the blessings of the era you live in, she didn’t want to know. It just worked, and that was enough. Even if she saw a slight glint of disappointment in Cal’s eyes that the uniform didn’t cling to her body even more.
Sometimes, the Captain was a bit of a perv. And she meant that in a positive way, since they were a couple. Still, she didn’t have to tolerate everything he thought or said. She turned to Cal and grinned. “So, where to now?”
With the nonchalance of a great explorer, the Captain reached for his tricorder and flipped it open.
Back at the Academy, Cal had admired Captain Kirk’s coolness in flipping open his communicator. In modern times, though, the communicator was just a brooch you tapped, which— as the Captain had once told her—took all the coolness out of contacting the ship. At least he could still flip open the tricorder with style. Or what he considered style.
“T.A.S.’s house is two kilometers down the street, then left, another three hundred meters, and right.”
“And you want to walk that?” she asked, stunned.
Cal grinned. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Out of breath already?”
She shook her head. “Not me—you know I was on the endurance running team at the Academy. I can handle a few kilometers. You, on the other hand, always dodged sports whenever you could. Need I remind you of the balance beam disaster at the Academy?”
“Hey, you caught me.”
“You fell on me,” she corrected, grinning.
“And then you slapped me.”
“Because you said I was soft.”
“You are soft.”
She rolled her eyes. “Two kilometers down the street, right?”
And she set off.
When Ari Haswari opened his eyes, he was lying on a rooftop. Someone behind him was reciting numbers.
Confused, the Israeli rubbed his eyes and instinctively grabbed the rifle stock in front of him, a reflex honed over years.
He glanced over his shoulder at the man reciting numbers. It was the suit guy who’d ordered him into the car.
“Next time, it’d be nice if you told me—”
“Latest rifle,” the man in the suit said in a bored, almost mechanical tone, peering through binoculars. “You might want to take a look.”
He handed the binoculars to Ari.
Ari took them, looked through, and grimaced in disgust.
Tony DiNozzo’s bare torso was visible, and just as he wondered why he was watching him, a dark brown curly head emerged from the pillows.
Ari’s blood froze.
“That’s…” he began, and the suit guy said in the same bored tone, “Your half-sister. Correct.”
Ari grabbed the rifle stock and took aim.
At that moment, Tony pulled away from Ziva, went to a phone, and spoke to someone.
It wasn’t hard to guess who.
“Not yet,” the suit guy said, and Ari looked at him, stunned. “What am I waiting for?”
“Three seconds.”
Ari counted to 23 internally and pulled the trigger. Then he watched, bewildered, as the bullet hit its mark. Tony was struck, yes. But there was no blood.
Sparks flew from the man’s chest.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs opened his eyes, sat up, and touched his shoulder. As a Marine, he had experience with being shot, and the fact that he felt no pain and no blood was seeping from his shoulder made him silently shake his head. It just wasn’t possible. Then his gaze fell on the lifeless body of the young woman staring at him with empty, dead eyes.
Damn it! flashed through the agent’s mind. Why did she have to die?
McGee’s faint groan snapped him out of his thoughts. He was quickly at his side, looking at him as the man sat up and touched his head.
“You okay, McGee?” Gibbs asked, prompting Tim to look at him in confusion, nod, and press a hand to his forehead. “Ouch. That’s gonna leave a bump.”
“McGee, what do you remember?”
The young special agent looked at his boss in surprise, tilted his head, and said, “Well—you pushed me, I hit my head on the room divider, and…”
He paused, and Gibbs could see his face undergo an emotional transformation. Not a literal one, but a metamorphosis of emotions—from genuine confusion in his eyes, with a deeply furrowed brow as he pondered the question, to a brief moment of contemplation with a smooth forehead and clear, focused eyes staring into the distance, to deep concern with a wide-open mouth and eyes widened in shock.
“Laura,” he breathed softly, looking in the direction where he remembered her.
His gaze found her lifeless body.
“N… no,” the novelist stammered, staring in disbelief and shock as Gibbs suddenly grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.
“Look at me,” he said quietly but with a commanding undertone. “Look at me and focus on your anger.”
“B… Boss, who does something like this?”
Disbelief was still evident in McGee’s gaze. And knowing Gibbs well, he could see that the sight hadn’t left his boss unaffected either.
“Ari,” Gibbs said, and McGee froze. “What? B… but Ari’s dead.”
“I know. But still—no one else does something like this.”
Then he looked at McGee and, as if shaking off all his disbelief with a shrug, resumed his commanding role. “Call Ziva and Tony. Tell them to get to headquarters as fast as possible.”
Anthony DiNozzo Jr. was currently preoccupied with other matters. Lost in the gaze of the brown-eyed Israeli beauty, he was running on autopilot. He didn’t know how long he’d been admiring her naked body, surrendering to her kisses, or how long they’d been doing the most irrational thing that had ever crossed their minds, but he knew he didn’t want it to end.
“You’re so beautiful,” he sighed as his hands glided over her bare back. She gave him a stunning smile, pulled him close, and kissed him so fiercely and hungrily that he surrendered completely. Right now, his rational mind wasn’t in charge—desire, instinct, took over. The overwhelming longing he’d felt for this woman’s touch over the years, the sensory overload when their naked bodies finally met, nearly made him shout with joy, and when they gave themselves to each other, it was like he was in heaven. Then the phone rang.
Ziva’s sighs, which had started soft and grown louder and more lustful, now sounded frustrated, and the first thought in Tony DiNozzo’s mind was, “Whoever’s calling now is a dead man.”
“This better be half of NCIS on fire,” he said, glancing at the caller ID and answering. “Yeah, McInter…net, what’s up?”
He’d meant to say “McInterruptus,” but a warning-amused look from Ziva stopped him.
“Tony,” McGee’s voice came through, and the Italian wondered if it had always sounded so whiny or if it was just because the computer-expert agent had dared to interrupt his passionate moment with Ziva.
The next words from the other end made him lose the ground beneath his feet. “Alright, we’re on our way,” he said in a quiet, almost toneless voice.
He turned to Ziva, who looked at him with concern and confusion.
“Get dressed. There’s been an attack on NCIS.”
He grabbed his boxers and got dressed—not even thinking to watch Ziva cover her stunning body, as a distant worry echoed in his mind. A scene flashed before his eyes.
Tony looked at the redhead. “Counterquestion—why would she do it? Why would the witness lie?”
Pause.
His counterpart looked at the ceiling, tilted her head back and forth as if weighing something, and furrowed her brow. Then she fixed him with a stare from those incredibly green eyes. “Maybe she had an affair with Captain Stone and killed him because she’s crazy?”
Tony frowned in return and shook his head. “I don’t think she’s nuts.”
The redhead grinned. “So the witness who claims to have seen us isn’t Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta?”
“What?” Tony blinked in surprise, looking at her, his face a picture of disbelief. “Who?”
“Well, you said the witness framing me isn’t ‘gaga.’ How many ‘Gagas’ do you know? I only know one—Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, aka Lady Gaga.”
The NCIS agent stared at her, dumbfounded, and shook his head. He was about to respond when three shots rang out from the next room.
The redhead looked at Tony in horror, and he stared back, equally shocked. In an instant, they were both on their feet, rushing to the door. He wanted to stop and tell her she couldn’t come along, but she was already at the door, opening it and running toward the source of the noise, her red hair flowing. Tony followed—hoping Ziva was okay. What had happened?
He reached the door where the redhead stood, her eyes wide with horror, and he saw why. Someone was lying in the doorway.
Glancing at the shoes, he noted they weren’t Ziva’s service shoes—hers had a slight heel; these were flat. Just as he reached the door, he felt sick.
The body before him lay in a pool of blood, the eyes he’d seen so often staring blankly into the distance, the brown jacket he wore soaked in blood.
“Not him!” flashed through Tony’s mind. “Anything but him!”
Ziva knelt beside the man, checking for a pulse, but Tony knew the beautiful brown eyes of the Israeli would soon fill with tears, just as he felt his own green eyes doing. He swallowed hard and glanced at the man holding the weapon, who was getting up from the floor.
“I hope you know what you’ve done,” he growled, struggling to maintain his composure. The man nodded. “Yes, I just killed your murderer.”
“G… Gibbs,” DiNozzo stammered suddenly, and Ziva, who had just pulled her shirt over her head, looked at him with concern. “Did something happen to Gibbs?”
Tony swallowed, shook his head, and looked at her. “I… I just saw Gibbs in my mind. He… was dead.”
The beautiful Israeli’s face turned into a mask of horror. “What?”
“He…”
He didn’t get further. He saw something flying toward him, heard a loud whistle, and felt something hit his chest.
Ari had arrived at the designated location. Why they wanted to meet him here, of all places, was beyond him. There was a red-brick church, its architectural style a mystery to the Israeli; a large plaza that reminded him vaguely of a schoolyard; a modern building with mirrored windows on the left side of Capitol Street Northwest; and on the right, another red-brick building that looked like a city hall or something. Why he was supposed to meet here, he just didn’t understand.
Then a car pulled up in front of him. A large black Ford LTD with tinted windows, one of which slid down, revealing a man in a black suit and sunglasses. “Get in.”
Ari recognized the tone—a curt command, like the ones his father used to give when he was selected as a double agent for Mossad. And for that, they’d sent him to a school to learn refined conversation. Tsk.
But the assassin complied, opened the back door, placed the sports bag in the car, and climbed in.
He didn’t have much time to take in the car’s interior, though, as he felt a sting in his neck and then nothing.
When Agatha left the café with Cal, she was endlessly grateful that Starfleet uniforms were made of a rather remarkable fabric. You could take a dive through a lake, and while your hair would cling wetly to your body, the uniform stayed in shape despite the dampness. Plus, you didn’t feel as cold since the uniform somehow kept you warm. She didn’t know how it worked, and as with the blessings of the era you live in, she didn’t want to know. It just worked, and that was enough. Even if she saw a slight glint of disappointment in Cal’s eyes that the uniform didn’t cling to her body even more.
Sometimes, the Captain was a bit of a perv. And she meant that in a positive way, since they were a couple. Still, she didn’t have to tolerate everything he thought or said. She turned to Cal and grinned. “So, where to now?”
With the nonchalance of a great explorer, the Captain reached for his tricorder and flipped it open.
Back at the Academy, Cal had admired Captain Kirk’s coolness in flipping open his communicator. In modern times, though, the communicator was just a brooch you tapped, which— as the Captain had once told her—took all the coolness out of contacting the ship. At least he could still flip open the tricorder with style. Or what he considered style.
“T.A.S.’s house is two kilometers down the street, then left, another three hundred meters, and right.”
“And you want to walk that?” she asked, stunned.
Cal grinned. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Out of breath already?”
She shook her head. “Not me—you know I was on the endurance running team at the Academy. I can handle a few kilometers. You, on the other hand, always dodged sports whenever you could. Need I remind you of the balance beam disaster at the Academy?”
“Hey, you caught me.”
“You fell on me,” she corrected, grinning.
“And then you slapped me.”
“Because you said I was soft.”
“You are soft.”
She rolled her eyes. “Two kilometers down the street, right?”
And she set off.
When Ari Haswari opened his eyes, he was lying on a rooftop. Someone behind him was reciting numbers.
Confused, the Israeli rubbed his eyes and instinctively grabbed the rifle stock in front of him, a reflex honed over years.
He glanced over his shoulder at the man reciting numbers. It was the suit guy who’d ordered him into the car.
“Next time, it’d be nice if you told me—”
“Latest rifle,” the man in the suit said in a bored, almost mechanical tone, peering through binoculars. “You might want to take a look.”
He handed the binoculars to Ari.
Ari took them, looked through, and grimaced in disgust.
Tony DiNozzo’s bare torso was visible, and just as he wondered why he was watching him, a dark brown curly head emerged from the pillows.
Ari’s blood froze.
“That’s…” he began, and the suit guy said in the same bored tone, “Your half-sister. Correct.”
Ari grabbed the rifle stock and took aim.
At that moment, Tony pulled away from Ziva, went to a phone, and spoke to someone.
It wasn’t hard to guess who.
“Not yet,” the suit guy said, and Ari looked at him, stunned. “What am I waiting for?”
“Three seconds.”
Ari counted to 23 internally and pulled the trigger. Then he watched, bewildered, as the bullet hit its mark. Tony was struck, yes. But there was no blood.
Sparks flew from the man’s chest.
