Chapter Text
Something was wrong.
Gibbs took another look around the empty bullpen, painfully aware of the angry churning of his gut. It had started yesterday when Bernal had threatened his team, and had only kicked up in intensity since he’d sent them home around midnight. As much as he wanted to keep them close, there was no new evidence, Silva was on a plane, and Bernal was in interrogation. Besides, as Franks had once put it, if they lost their mind over every little thing that was said to them, they’d never leave the house.
So that, combined with some long-standing advice from Ducky about keeping the team at full strength, had Gibbs ordering them to regroup at 8.
It was a few minutes to but there was no sign of his team in the bullpen: no bags, no bodies, no “on” computers.
It was snowing, he reminded himself, as he looked out the windows into powdery whiteness. The Beltway would be a disaster. Their tardiness could be nothing.
Then again, Rule #39 existed for a reason, especially when 8 o’clock rolled around and the chronically punctual McGee still hadn’t arrived.
He tapped through the progress notes absently, more aware of the dinging of the elevator and those coming on and off it. Ziva arrived at 8:05, hustling into the bullpen, apologizing about traffic. Gibbs just shook his head and gestured for her to get to work.
Finally, at ten after, with more than enough leeway for traffic, he’d caved and dialed both Tony and McGee.
Both had gone to voicemail.
“Gibbs?” Ziva asked, but he ignored her, knowing he wouldn’t have an answer for her follow-up.
He had just stood to head down to Abby's lab to see what her and all those big fancy computers could figure out when the elevator chimed again and Tony stepped out.
There was something wrong about the way he was moving, his normally fluid motions stiff and stilted. It wasn’t until he was practically in the bullpen that Gibbs saw the swelling in his face, the busted lip, the scratches lining his cheek.
“What happened?” he demanded, hurrying over to his SFA.
“Someone tried to run me off the road,” Tony reported as he dropped his bag on the ground with a wince. “Well, they did. But they didn’t do a very good job.” He pulled two separate pieces of plastic from his pocket and let them rain on his desk. “Murdered my phone though. Can’t believe I have to requisition—”
“Did you get a look at them?” Gibbs interrupted.
Tony shook his head. “Car rabbited as soon as it hit mine. Good thing it’s a rental. I was not—”
“Where’s your Mustang?”
“In the shop. Brakes. Thankful—”
“Ziva, trace McGee’s phone,” Gibbs ordered as he examined his agent for signs of injury. Tony’s normally immaculate suit was slashed, wrinkled, and hanging off center, but other than the stiff way he was holding himself, Tony seemed decently well-off for having just been in a car accident.
“You okay, DiNozzo?”
“Why are we tracing McGee’s phone?” Tony countered.
“DiNozzo,” Gibbs growled.
Tony returned the glare levelly, not shrinking back in the slightest. Quickly realizing Gibbs wasn’t going to give in though, he let out a short breath. “Fine. Bumps and bruises only. Crash triggered the airbag—” he gestured to his mouth. “By the time I’d popped it, they were gone. Now, why are we tracing McGee’s phone?”
“Because he’s not in yet.”
Tony was bending over to grab his bag again in seconds. “It’s the L.V.M. It has to be. We should get a trace on Tomas too since Bernal—” He swayed slightly as he slung his backpack on, but by the time Gibbs reached out, he had already straightened on his own.
“Got it!” Ziva shouted, beaming the location to the plasma. It took Gibbs less than a second to realize it was just outside of McGee’s apartment complex, and that it hadn’t moved in over an hour.
“Well, let’s go check—” Tony stepped toward the elevator, but was stopped by Gibbs grabbing the handle of his backpack and hauling him back into the bullpen.
“Not you.”
“What do you mean, ‘not me’? Gibbs, McGee is missing—”
“And you were in a car accident.”
“At non-freeway speeds, and the car was still driveable.”
“Not a suggestion, DiNozzo.”
“Well, it’s one I’m refusing. We got a case to work here, Gibbs, and for the first time in three days, we have a good lead—maybe even a great one. It’s an ‘all hands on deck’ situation. You’re not benching me over a little fender bender.”
Gibbs looked at Tony for a long minute, seeing his SFA’s impatience flashing in his eyes.
“Your rental is here, then?”
Tony blinked, but recovered quickly. “Yeah.”
“Take it to evidence, see what Abby can pull from it. Then go see Ducky.” Tony opened his mouth to protest but Gibbs held up his hand. “He gives you the all-clear, you can start warming up Bernal for the next round.”
Tony smiled so widely his lip split open again.
“Only after Ducky clears you,” Gibbs repeated, but Tony didn’t seem to hear as he hustled over to the elevator.
“We are going to the scene, yes?” Ziva asked once Tony was gone.
“You got a problem with that?”
Ziva shrugged. “I would rather interrogate Bernal, put some fear into his eyes until he tells us where McGee is, but I believe Tony has earned that.” She reached down and grabbed her bag. “I’m driving.”
Gibbs didn’t argue.
As Tim slid back into consciousness, the only thing he was aware of was the sharp ache in his head. It stretched from temple to temple, pounded in time with his pulse, and stabbed into his brain and ears.
He tried to reach up to cradle his head, to block out the sound, but his hands didn’t move.
His first instinct was to panic but he tamped it down.
He was a federal agent. He was trained for this. He just had to stay calm and work the problem.
First, what had happened to him?
It came back in a flash: a car crashing into his on the way to work, spinning out, slamming into another parked car. And then he was here… Wherever here was.
It certainly wasn’t a hospital—it was far too quiet for that. And whatever he was lying on was hard and rough. Definitely not a hospital bed.
Captured then. Which made sense with his likely bound and stinging hands beneath him.
Bernal’s threat rang in his ears, as well as Gibbs cautioning them to be careful as they’d headed home for a few hours. It had to be the L.V.M. It wasn’t like Tim had pissed off a lot of other folks in his daily life. That was usually reserved for Tony or Gibbs, who went out of their way—probably intentionally, now that he was thinking about it—to draw that sort of attention.
Tim hadn’t thought it was funny when Kate and Tony would randomly throw a bag over his head, drag him to various places in the Navy Yard and time how long it took for him to get back to the squad room. This Cato-style training, as Tony had dubbed it, was never in the same place, never with the same bonds, but always for time and always with running commentary. Tim got the sense it was never explicitly sanctioned by Gibbs, but it looked like all that escapist stuff was going to come in handy now.
Step one of that playbook: his surroundings.
Whatever Tim was lying on was cold—not artificially cold like with A/C; naturally cold. So he was in a cellar or basement of some sort, one with an unfinished floor if he had to guess.
He opened his eyes into slits, thankfully finding them uncovered, and peered through his lashes. There wasn’t much, just lots of a cold grey color, but he didn’t hear anything in the space, not even someone breathing.
Careful to stay still, he opened his eyes wider, trying not to move his body in case he was on some sort of camera. He was staring up at a ceiling, normal height, drop-panelled, and he looked around the upper edge without moving his head, thankfully finding no cameras.
He could be less careful but still cautious, but more importantly, he could begin to move.
Tim tried wiggling his fingers, finding them stiff and somewhat numb, but free. Something sharp bit into his wrists though, thick like plastic, not thin like wire—that drill had only lasted once before Gibbs had intervened. Guess he had been monitoring Tony and Kate’s drills after all.
Tim hoped they were zip ties. A little physics, a little friction, and they burst right open. Duct tape was a close second, assuming he had created tension while the tape was being applied and could get his hands high over his head to snap them. Rope—
Work the problem, Probie.
He nodded, biting back a groan as his brain bounced around in his skull.
He pulled in a sharp breath before trying to push himself upright, but his numb hands slipped and he crashed down with an inelegant thud. He froze, straining to hear anything over the pulse pounding in his ears, but didn’t hear any approaching footsteps, no sounded alarms.
He’d gotten lucky, but who knew how long that would last. With more fervor, Tim tried again, this time bracing himself back on his elbows as he began to wiggle his bound hands under his butt. It was easier than it had been a couple years ago, now that he was starting to lose some weight. He’d probably be setting a record if someone was still standing in the corner with a stopwatch, snarking at his every move, threatening to wipe his phone if he didn’t get free in time.
As he worked, Tim was painfully aware of how the smallest of sounds echoed in the empty space. He wanted to pause and listen each time, but if his crash had alerted someone, he needed to be able to protect himself when they burst in.
So he kept at it, trying not to borrow trouble before it inevitably arrived.
Once his hands were in front of him, Tim forced his stiff fingers into untying his shoes and looping the laces through the zip tie. It took a couple tries since the pins and needles in his arms inhibited his fine motor skills, but finally he succeeded. Then he began moving his legs like he was cycling in mid-air, creating friction on the plastic until he heard more than felt the ties snap.
Thank you, Tony.
Thank you, Kate.
He looked down his ankles, noticing for the first time that they weren’t tied… which he should have realized as he was doing his bicycling impression. No matter; he was thankful for the extra help either way.
Tim quickly pushed himself to his feet, digging his teeth into his bottom lip as the world swam. He pushed through it and reached for his hip only to find his gun and badge were gone, as were his phone, wallet and keys. That was not ideal, but he could do this: he could get out of here, get to a safe place, call Gibbs.
Kate and Tony had made sure of it.
He turned his attention to the door, which was metal and reinforced. Holding his breath, he pushed down on the handle and was surprised to find it give under pressure. Which meant one of two things: either his captors had severely underestimated him, or what was on the other side was far worse.
He found himself wishing for one of Ziva’s many weapons or the knife he knew Tony had in his belt. Or just, Gibbs, Tony or Ziva, all of whom were definitely better in situations like this than he was.
Channeling all of them at once, Tim crouched down out of eye line and cracked open the door. It led into a long open hallway that seemed to be empty.
He shoved his ear against the wall, listening hard, but there were no footsteps, no whispers, no ambient noises. Which left Tim with two options: staying and overtaking the next person who showed up, or trying to sneak out.
Being sneaky wasn’t really his strong suit, but more importantly, he was far worse at hand-to-hand, despite all the training Gibbs had put the team through.
Element of surprise it was then.
Tim pulled in a deep breath then inched himself out of the room and down the hall. As he moved, he was painfully aware of his breathing, of every step he took, of every noise he made. He was glancing around constantly, head on a swivel, checking for cameras or assailants, thankfully finding neither.
If he had been at full strength, it would have been concerning. Right now, he didn’t have the time or spoons to spare it any more thought.
Tim stayed the course until the hallway dead-ended, curving to the right.
Just before the turn, he pressed himself against the close wall, listening again for any sign of his captors. After a long few beats of nothing, Tim rounded the corner.
Too late he saw the person pressed against the other wall and the fist headed toward his face.
He couldn’t even brace as it made contact his jaw and he blacked out.