The Fifth Man: Part One - When Gibbs Meets Angel - LRHBalzer (2024)

Chapter 1: NCIS

Chapter Text

GIBBS
Naval Criminal Investigative Service HQ
Navy Yards, Washington, DC
Friday, February 16, 2001
12:40 PM

The brown envelope was addressed to Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Not Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Just Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

His name, care of NCIS, Naval Yards, Washington, DC. Delivered by registered mail not to his home, but his work. Gibbs turned the 9x12 brown envelope over and studied it for a moment without opening it. He felt nothing. No emotions churning through his gut. No wondering what it was all about—he knew what it had to be. He simply no longer cared.

There were a lot of things he no longer cared about.

And the things he did care about were buried too deep for him to feel any longer.

It was quieter than usual in the Naval Criminal Investigative Service Headquarters squad room as half of the teams were out on cases, and half of the rest were at lunch, leaving the place oddly empty, muffled isolated conversations echoing, ringing phones eventually going to voice mail.

Leaving the envelope unopened on his desk, Gibbs walked over to the large window looking out over the distant Anacostia River. The sky was gray, hinting at snow. It probably would snow before the night was over, he thought absently. Temperature even now must be hovering at freezing, probably dipping below that. He’d listened to the weather forecast on the way in that morning, as he did every morning; it made sense to have some indication of what road conditions might be in case the team was called out, but it didn’t really matter. They’d go out regardless. Even the lumbering NCIS Response Team Truck had rarely been hampered by ice or snow.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs was in his late forties, slim and lean, his hair going prematurely gray and cut in a comfortable version of what he’d worn for many years in the marines. He realized he’d been standing staring out at the gray bleakness for several minutes, lost, not in his thoughts, but in a dark weariness he hadn’t felt in a while, in a gloom that was slowly permeating his whole being.

The telephone on his desk rang, snapping him out of the nothingness. He had a damned job to do. He would lose himself—no, he would focus himself on that. He was at his desk at the back corner of the agent floor by the third ring, picking up the phone and sliding the envelope, still unopened, into his desk drawer. “Special Agent Gibbs.”

He listened for a moment, then hung up on the caller mid-sentence. It wasn’t job related, and he had a hell of a lot of things on his desk that were. They could phone back and leave a message. His cellphone rang then, and he glanced over at the little window on it that said who was calling, but it was unknown, so he ignored it. He flipped open his note pad, picked up the desk phone again, and began making some calls down to the Norfolk police—which is what he should have been doing rather than staring out the damned window.

BURLEY
Friday, 3:45 PM

Driving down an icy Pennsylvania Ave NE in February, often through a messy mixture of slush and snow, was always annoying, NCIS Special Agent Stanley Burley griped. Today had been particularly so—and he couldn’t even blame it on inclement weather this time. Although the temperature outside was just below the freezing mark, the roads had generally been clear and dry, with only a few icy patches, and the noonday sun had been shining around scattered clouds.

Nevertheless, he’d been rear-ended by a car sliding into his NCIS sedan as he slowed down for a late amber light. Regardless of how minor an impact, there had still been delays while both drivers maneuvered their cars through the traffic to a side road and exchanged motor vehicle information; Burley had nodded impatiently, trying to smile reassuringly to the rather traumatized young man who’d been talking on his cellphone and hadn’t noticed the change of lights and now was sure his father—whose car it was—was going to kill him.

The thirty minutes he’d lost then had followed him the rest of the afternoon; it had made him late to drop off the Crosstown gambling data they’d accumulated to the FBI’s Hoover Building, and then late to pick up the 1990 Toyota Corolla hubcaps data from the dealership in town for Abby Sciuto in Forensics so she could try to match their perp’s vehicle, and would also make him late for the regular 3:30 PM weekly meeting between the NCIS Director Tom Morrow, Burley and his senior partner Special Agent Gibbs.

He’d texted the Director when he knew he wouldn’t get back on time; he’d texted Gibbs as well, but that was usually a lost cause; his boss had not yet got his head around the other functions of a cellphone.

Depending on their case load, the Friday afternoon meetings with Director Morrow often included Special Agent Chris Pacci, and sometimes the two probationary agents they were currently assigned to work with: Don Dobbs and Becky Lansdown. Burley sighed; it didn’t look good for him to be tardy, especially as he was barely a week from being transferred to a new assignment on the Navy Aircraft carrier USS Enterprise.

He was glad he was alone in the car, because he knew he had a silly ass smile on his face. He couldn’t help it. He’d spent several years waiting for an Agent Afloat spot to come up. He was all packed and ready to go—all packed meaning one large and one small personal duffel bag plus a backpack with his electronics. He had planned to sell, give away, or throw out everything else but discovered to his surprise that there were a few things he wasn’t ready to let go of, like his childhood photos, his dad’s pipe, his mother’s family tree drawings, and his college transcripts, so he’d ended up packing them in the back of his car. He’d sold everything else in his apartment to the next tenants, a couple just out of college relocating from Idaho to DC mid-month. So as of Wednesday, they were taking over the apartment and he was staying in a motel for two nights and then saying goodbye to DC and moving into his newly rented studio apartment about a fifteen-minute drive from Naval Station Norfolk where the “Big E” docked. His new place was small and furnished—money wasn’t an issue, and all he needed at this point in his career was a place to store a few things and to park his car in the enclosed garage when he was deployed.

Seven more sleeps before he could say goodbye to Gibbs. Eight more sleeps before he would one day be able to sleep through the night. Not that he expected that on an aircraft carrier, but it was the idea of being away from the constant stress of being around NCIS Special Agent Gibbs for way too many hours each week…

Gibbs had been away on an undercover assignment for a few months, and Stan had actually enjoyed going into the squad room each day and working with the newbies and probies in the department, going out on cases with them, talking things over with them at the end of the day. He’d almost turned down the chance of a new assignment, but then Gibbs had arrived back at the beginning of January, and Stan had sent in the paperwork hours later.

He shivered. Yes, Gibbs was brilliant, intuitive, and had been an amazing mentor—although that meant just watching him and trying to keep up on your own; Gibbs wasn’t big on explaining what was going on, he just expected you to figure it out or stay home. Stan had learned so much from the man, but despite the few laughs they’d shared and the impressive cases they’d solved, he was happy at the prospect of never working with the senior agent again. Gibbs was intense. Overly focused. Demanding. Stubborn. Impatient. Rude. And there was a darkness about him that Stan had never been able to decipher. He actually wasn’t sure if Gibbs ever saw him as more than a tool to use to help solve whatever assignment they had. But at least Gibbs knew his name now, after five years, so there was that.

And there were those other rare occasions when Gibbs had been there to help on outside missions, times when Gibbs wasn’t the boss and Stan’s expertise put him in charge. Initially, Stan had found it confusing that Gibbs would indifferently take direction from him for the few hours of the assignment, and then Monday morning would roll around and everything was back to normal between them. Almost. Gibbs was always grouchier afterwards, at least until they got another case for him to bite into.

With a sigh, Burley arrived back at the Washington Navy Yard a few minutes past 4:00 PM, opting to take the stairs down to Abby’s lab rather than waiting for the elevator. By the time he made it back up to the bullpen on the third floor, he could see his team’s desks were still unoccupied. He glanced up to where Director Morrow’s office was on the mezzanine floor. With a shrug he took the stairs there, arriving just as Gibbs and the two probies were leaving the office. “My apologies for missing the meeting,” he said, glancing from Gibbs to the Director. “Did you get my text?”

“I did, yes,” Morrow said, with a nod. He seemed distracted but turned back to add, “I trust you are okay from the accident. No signs of whiplash? Did you get yourself checked out?”

“I’m fine, sir,” Burley responded quickly.

“Special Agent Gibbs will fill you in on the Quantico angle to this.” Morrow returned to his office, and Burley followed the others back to the far side of the bullpen where their desks were. Gibbs’ desk was at the far back corner of the floor, then Intelligence Analyst Hank Crawford’s desk. Hank’s work was primarily with MTAC and Director Morrow, but occasionally he’d been able to help them out with information. Next to Hank’s desk was Burley’s desk, closest to the elevators, and Pacci’s was across the aisle from Burley’s. The two probies were usually at the other end of the floor.

Apparently once Gibbs’ new Major Case Response Team (MCRT) team was assembled, the cubicles would be rearranged so the MCRT team would be sitting together. But meanwhile, “Anything I need to know, Boss?” Burley asked quietly, stopping by Gibbs’ desk.

“Nah. Morrow wanted updates on one of the cases and where I was at with the MCRT team.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Told him I was working on it.” Gibbs deliberately pushed aside the stack of personnel folders on his desk.

The senior agent was a tough man to read, even after five years. As near as Stan could figure, Gibbs was happy enough to lead a Major Case Response Team but was either too picky or too disinterested to choose the people he needed on it. It was going to end up that everyone would be assigned as the Director wanted, and Stan was glad he wasn’t going to be around when that happened. Still, it would have been nice working with three or four experienced field agents on a regular basis, instead of it just being Gibbs and him, plus a few probies to do the grunt work.

“What was the comment about Quantico?” Burley asked now.

Gibbs shrugged. “There’s an outside chance the shooting at Hains Point might have something to do with a fight at Quantico earlier that day. A guy named Evans at the CID office will come by on Monday with information. I’ll leave you to deal with him.” Gibbs flipped open his small notebook with the pertinent info scrawled across the page.

“I don’t recognize his name.” Burley copied the contact information for the new Quantico Criminal Investigation Division special agent. He’d add it to the binder he was trying to put together for whomever ended up replacing him as second in command for Gibb’s new team. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Told him we’re transferring the second Norfolk one to the Norfolk Police Department; there’s no connection to the Pier Six murder.” Gibbs looked up at him, then gave a short laugh. “Let’s see if the kids were paying attention,” he said, and barked out, “Dobbs! Lansdown!”

At their cubicles at the other end of the bullpen floor, both probies jerked their heads up from their computers, eyes startled. They grabbed papers from their desks and hurried over as Gibbs and Burley shared a smile. How many probies had they gone through over the last five years? Burley wondered. He’d lost track. Gibbs had a way of churning through them.

Gibbs leaned back in his chair and gestured to them. “Dobbs: report on where we’re at with the Hains Point murder. Lansdown: when he’s done, we need a recap on the Norfolk dead body on Pier Six.”

Don Dobbs, a tall muscular black man in his late twenties—and Burley thought way too overdressed in a business suit—was ready, papers in hand. He gave his summation report—short bullet points cutting out all the extraneous details of the East Potomac Park drive-by shooting of a navy ensign—just like Gibbs demanded of them. The team tossed around a few ideas, but they already had the shooter in custody, and were waiting on establishing motive and tracking down the driver and vehicle involved. This was the case where Quantico might have a connection, and from Dobbs’ report, Burley could see where CID Special Agent Evans might be able to share some intel. The shooter said the man driving the car had hired him in Triangle, Virginia, just ten minutes outside of Quantico, then dumped him and the weapon elsewhere in the park and took off.

Burley nodded slowly as Dobbs finished up. Dobbs was good, but Stan agreed with Gibbs that he wasn’t ready for second-in-command, only being with NCIS for four months. He was brilliant in his own way but should have finished his law degree and become a JAG, both Gibbs and Burley privately assessed. Investigations were good, he was great at interviews, his interrogations were good, but he wasn’t comfortable in the field, mucking around the terrain, using his weapon—even though he scored high on the ballistics range.

Becky Lansdown was equally tall, a lean former marine self-defence instructor, with ultra-short blonde hair and serious, focused eyes. She lived for the field, restless in the confines of an office. She was married over six years to a pencil-pusher at the Department of Defense at the Pentagon, with 1.8 children, ready to go on maternity leave at any time. She had been transferred to NCIS five months earlier at the request of Director Morrow, mainly to gain insight into investigative work, but when she returned from her leave, she would likely be transferred back to Quantico, to the marine office there.

Burley avoided Gibbs’ eyes as he listened to Lansdown’s report, and he had to admit that he felt a little sorry for Gibbs. Gibbs really could use a junior partner to work with, one who could figure him out, but it didn’t seem that was in the cards. Gibbs would once again get agents placed with him that likely needed training, not experienced team members that could mesh with him long term. That’s what Gibbs needed—what the fledgling MCRT team needed. Time to bond, for lack of another word. Time to learn to trust each other, discover each other’s strengths—and weaknesses—to know they had each other’s six when they were on assignment in the field.

Burley hadn’t meant to spend this long partnered with Gibbs, but he’d found his groove working with the man—on the good days. He’d enjoyed his time these last few months being on his own, keeping watch over a few junior agents, but this was Gibbs’ MCRT team, not his. And now he was ready for the next chapter of his career. And maybe, as Chris Pacci agreed, he wouldn’t need to buy any more of the large economy size boxes of antacids. Gibbs seemed to bring that need out in people around him.

The two probies, summation reports done, were waiting now for instructions and Gibbs obliged, his voice gruff and short, sounding as irritated as ever. “Dobbs: Check with Abby on the hubcaps—she should have it all in her database now. Keep looking for that car. Talk to the shooter again. If he still claims he doesn’t know the guy’s name, get a forensic sketch artist to work with him. Lansdown,” Gibbs paused to look at his watch. It was almost 4:30 PM. “Lansdown,” he said again, stopping to rub at his forehead.

Burley could immediately see what the problem was. Gibbs wanted to tell her to drive to Norfolk, but it was a four-hour drive each way and she had a toddler at home.

“Lansdown, check in with Ducky if he has anything more on the marine’s body and get all the paperwork we need signed, copied, and ready to go. Tomorrow, crack of dawn, you and Dobbs head back to Pier Six at Norfolk and see where we’re at. Find out: did we miss anything? Get some more pictures. Check the security cameras. Make sure the second murder at Pier Six got transferred to the local police. Book an overnight at that Naval Station Econo Lodge we stayed at last week but get back here by midday Sunday.”

“Yes, Gibbs,” the probies both said, grabbing their notepads and heading off—one to the Forensics Lab and one to Autopsy. Yes, it sucked to have to work a weekend, but at least Lansdown’s husband could take care of their child’s daycare, Burley thought.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes passed, and Burley ignored Gibb’s growls of frustration at his desk as he plowed through personnel files. There really wasn’t anything Stan could do to help the MCRT selection; Gibbs would have to keep going through personnel files and find someone by the end of the month to be his senior partner or the second-in-command of the team, or he’d have to take whatever transfer Morrow had in mind.

Burley was occupied tying up the other transfer paperwork Lansdown needed to take down to Norfolk police on the unrelated death near the Naval Station—deemed a heart attack, not homicide—when just after 6:20 PM, as he was packing up to leave, his desk phone rang. He glanced at it, surprised at the inter-office call coming through from the director’s office. “Special Agent Burley,” he said, then, “Yes, Director Morrow... I understand. How many?... Wow. Tonight? I’m available... Yes... I’ll be right up.” He looked over at Gibbs three cubicles away, who slowly met his eyes. Gibbs had been listening. Gibbs was always listening. “Yes, sir. I’ll relay that to Gibbs... We’ll be right up.”

GIBBS
Friday, 6:24 PM

Gibbs’ jaw tightened as he glared up at the director’s office door on the mezzanine.

“Morrow wants to see us,” Burley said, standing.

Gibbs’s eyes narrowed. There was only one reason he could think of why Morrow didn’t call him first. Only one reason. “Why?” he asked anyway.

“He didn’t say.”

Like hell, he didn’t say. “We were done with all that.” Gibbs flipped the files shut on his desk. “The last one was the last one, you said.”

“You know you don’t have to do it.” Burley leaned over and shut his computer down. “If that’s what he wants to talk to us about. He didn’t say specifically. Just asked if I was available this evening.”

“Not interested,” Gibbs said, stubbornly. “I told him no more extra jobs. No more dark, undercover work.”

“Just because it’s at night, doesn’t mean it’s dark.” Burley got up and rapped on the senior agent’s desk. “Maybe it just about a surprise going-away party for me, in appreciation for me sticking with you for almost five years.”

Gibbs snorted at that but remained seated, staring sightlessly at the open file in front of him.

“Let’s hear what he has to say,” Burley said, already walking to the staircase. “We don’t know what he wants.”

“You asked how many,” Gibbs said, his voice low, not hiding his anger. Morrow had called Burley first and then had said to bring Gibbs. There was only one scenario that fit a subordinate getting a direct call from the NCIS Director about a new case, and Gibbs did not have the energy to even think about it.

“Gibbs!” Burley called from halfway up the stairs.

“Yeah.” He got up, almost dragging his feet as he came around his desk. He wasn’t the leader for this. This time, he was the subordinate… if it was what he suspected it was, and if he let himself get dragged into it again.

He glanced out the windows as he walked by them, assessing the weather. It looked damn cold out. Sky already darkening. He headed toward the staircase to the mezzanine level, already clamping down on borderline rage for what Morrow would likely throw at them. Or at Stan, and therefore spilling over on him.

There was no one in the outer office, but the Director’s door was ajar. “Come in; sit down,” Morrow said, when they entered, adding quickly, “Shut the door.”

Morrow was on the phone, motioning for the two men to take a seat. “Short notice, this time,” he said into the receiver, his voice calm and tight. “In all, how many do you suspect are there?” he asked whoever he was talking to.

Gibbs sat next to Burley in the leather armchairs before Morrow’s desk. Waiting.

How many? Stan had asked.

How many do you suspect are there? Morrow was asking now.

The call continued, but Morrow gave no further hints as to what the conversation was about, yet Gibbs knew, beyond a shadow of doubt this was not an official NCIS matter.

“How long do we have?” was followed by “What’s our time window?” Morrow gave a few random yeses and noes. “And their condition?”

That was the question Gibbs hated. The question that made the vein in his temple pound.

“I’ll get back to you in five.” Morrow put down the phone. “Here’s the situation,” he began, but Gibbs cut him off.

“No,” he said, getting to his feet. “I said the last one was the last one. I’m not—”

“Just listen, Gibbs,” Morrow began, before one of his lead Special Agents could voice anything more. “Sit down.” Morrow turned to Burley. “You’re Agent Afloat on the Enterprise in one week. I can give you the next week to do this, if you’re game. Gibbs, I can give you a one-week extension on putting together a MCRT team.”

“I need Burley working with me. We have paperwork on cases unfinished that needs to be done before he leaves, and I don’t have a replacement lined up for him yet,” Gibbs said quickly. Firmly.

“I’m in.” Burley kept his eyes fixed on Morrow, not looking at Gibbs.

Gibbs huffed silently. These JTFHRT unofficial joint-task force missions were Stan’s thing. Gibbs didn’t even know—or care—what the initials stood for. Burley had been working with the group while still a Senator’s aide, before coming to NCIS, before being Gibbs’ partner. Burley’s skill in doing the possibly unofficial, possibly unsanctioned missions had got him hired at NCIS by Morrow with virtually no other experience. He was damn good at it. Damn good at the follow-up, the paperwork.

And their condition? Morrow had asked.

Burley was good at that, too. At one point, Gibbs had come in indirectly. They’d needed an extra person for a new series of rescues, and he was qualified, a sniper—someone to watch their backs—but three JTFHRT missions later, he was done. Absolutely done. It wasn’t part of his job. He didn’t care if the NCIS Director was involved or the FBI Deputy Director.

And their condition? Morrow had asked.

Someone had come for Gibbs once; he remembered what it felt like to realize he was being rescued. And this was just a few hours, not a few months.

Sometimes he hated himself. He knew he’d do the assignment.

So did Morrow. “Here’s the bare bones of what we have,” Morrow said. “And we only have a small window of time. You’ll get the rest on route.”

Chapter 2: "RESCUE"

Chapter Text

GIBBS
Dark & Stormy Kinkhouse
Friday, February 16, 2001
7:30 PM

It wasn’t snowing yet, other than the odd flake that had been tossed around by the icy wind to land for a moment on the truck’s rear window before melting. Less than an hour after his meeting with Morrow—most of that travel time—Gibbs and the others were in place and waiting in the back of an unheated 12-foot-long moving truck that was parked to one side of a narrow gravel parking lot riddled with potholes. The truck had been made to appear much older than it actually was, the painted-over exterior still faintly showing the name of a nationally known moving company.

The front of the truck was facing the Potomac, only a tall chain-link fence between it and the jagged shoreline. The back of the truck, with its small window, faced a squat, two-storey brick building that looked like it was built before the First World War. There was a long row of similar structures along the road, most leased out to businesses as stores, warehouses, clubs, and even a large mega church had renovated one a mile north. Others were empty, windows either boarded up or smashed in.

When they’d arrived, Gibbs had taken a quick look out the window to orient himself, then had sat back on the bench along the side of the truck with Burley and the other members of the hastily assembled six-member rescue group: an FBI Special Agent named Billings—the guy usually in charge of these missions—plus a former Navy SEAL and some guy the Navy SEAL knew from the army reserves who Gibbs had seen before on a previous rescue, and a slim, fierce, retired ATF Special Agent who they called Siggie. She’d driven the truck in each of the rescue missions Gibbs had been involved in. Gibbs hadn’t bothered remembering all the names. Billings. SEAL Guy. Army Reserves Guy. ATF Siggie. And Burley. Way up the chain of command there was an official task force, but right now, it was just the six of them to rescue three men.

Gibbs’ cellphone rang silently, vibrating against his ass. He ignored it and it stopped.

Thirty seconds later, it started up again. He dug it out of his back jean’s pocket, squinted at it, and put it back. His ex-wife. Soon to be ex-wife. They’d technically been separated for a few years, undeniably so after she’d hit him on the head with a baseball bat, but now she suddenly wanted a divorce. Now she wanted a divorce after he’d asked her several times. Now she wanted to get her stuff out of his place, after he’d asked her several times. Fine. He didn’t have lock on his front door. He’d been gone for three months! She could go get all her crap whenever she wanted to. It was exactly where she’d left it.

It started vibrating a third time, and he turned his phone off.

Like it or not he was on a “mission”. He even saw the quote marks around the word “mission” in his head.

At least they been briefed this time on route, however sketchy the details had been. According to Billings, a source had called the FBI at approximately 5:45 PM. The call was rerouted several times and had reached a particular FBI task force desk around 6:00 PM. The lone member of that task force still in place at that hour had then confirmed to the JTFHRT the high plausibility of the information being solid as it matched information submitted from an unknown source a few days earlier. The JTFHRT command team—made up of NCIS Director Morrow and the rest—had by 6:15 PM given an unofficial go-ahead based on preliminary information. By 6:30 PM a team of six was put together, a small covert group who could be at a certain location by 6:55 PM, loaded into a truck, and in place outside an out-of-the-way club by 7:20 PM for a rescue mission scheduled for 7:45 PM. It was ridiculously short notice. They were tasked to investigate and deal with any rescues and be out of the parking lot before 8:15 PM.

Once their “mission” was accomplished, and their targets were successfully acquired, then an official strike team would descend on the place around 9:30 PM when the club was filling up and they had a chance of apprehending the managers and others deemed responsible. The SWAT team was being assembled now, but, as with any two-level operation, these things took time. Mission priority was to rescue the men being held. Mission second priority was to get the group that had kidnapped them and all the evidence they could find.

Right now, they were waiting for the two registered businesses in the warehouse next to the club to close and clear out. The club and the warehouse utilized the same wide driveway into a shared parking lot, and they needed to determine if all the cars in the back lot belonged to staff from that building, or if there was a possibility of people in the old warehouse they were watching. The far side of the renovated building next to them was leased to a parcel pick-up business that had already closed and the staff had left. The side of the building closer to them had a marine boat parts business, that was open until 7:30 PM on Fridays. Gibbs realized once they were there that he’d been to the out-of-the-way place a few years back looking for a VHS sailboat antenna for the boat he was building.

Five cars and trucks had left the neighboring business since they had arrived on location, the lone remaining customer left at 7:25 PM, and the boat parts salesperson locked up and turned off the lights shortly thereafter, pulling out of the parking area at 7:30 PM.

“The warehouse beside us is dark now, with just a single light on the side of the building over the parking lot,” Burley reported, watching through binoculars at one of their truck’s small windows. “All customers and employees appear to have left, but we still have two cars parked next to each other at the far end of that lot.”

A short discussion followed about the cars and where the owners might be, but Gibbs really didn’t care. He let them talk, carefully tuning out 90% of the details. It was cold and uncomfortable in the truck, probably more so outside, but he just wanted them to get on with it. If their goal was to get in and get the kidnapped guys out, then he didn’t care about the club being raided or whatever they wanted to do with it after the fact. It wasn’t his mission.

His cellphone started vibrating again. f*cking Stephanie. He thought he’d turned the thing off. He waited, and it stopped. For a sniper, he was damned impatient tonight. But this wasn’t NCIS, and it was out of his control: it was a murky ill-defined rescue mission thrown together with an hour’s notice. The intel was equally vague—Gibbs had thought so when Morrow had briefed them in a few sentences, and he had voiced his misgivings at the time. His gut… It didn’t feel right. Not like other times. This seemed too risky, for the men they were rescuing as well as the team.

“What more can you tell us on this warehouse?” Gibbs asked. “We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have something concrete.”

“Okay, here’s what we have,” Billings said, adjusting his earpiece. He’d been talking quietly on his cellphone for the last five minutes and had ended his call in time to hear Gibbs’ question. “The warehouse we are watching is leased to a BDSM group called Dark & Stormy Kinkhouse that only uses it Friday night through Sunday night, with the occasional party or whatever. From our past surveillance last fall, then a few days ago from an anonymous source who has been accurate in the past, and again confirmed by the caller who phoned in, on Fridays the employees normally arrive in about 45 minutes, around 8:30 PM, and while the club is officially open from 9:00 PM until 3:00 AM, members don’t usually arrive until 10:00 PM.”

Billings motioned for Stan Burley to continue as he moved through the narrow door from the truck’s box to the cab to take another call.

Burley went on to clarify that they weren’t there because it was a BDSM club—there were a lot of clubs in the DMV, the Washington Metropolitan area, that had operated for years—and as long as people came there voluntarily, it wasn’t an issue. A kink was a kink. This particular BDSM club had been around for about six years and catered to a strictly private membership, both doms and subs. The members generally played their scenes or partied in the large dance/bar area or paid for the use of six private fantasy rooms.

“So why tonight if you were alerted earlier about this location?” Gibbs demanded, not caring if he was the only one asking questions.

Burley answered again as Billings was still on his phone. “The call that came into the FBI office today was from a man identified as Bob, a long-time bartender at the club. A few months ago, Bob had been advised by the club manager that there was a separate area of the club, and the keys to that area were held only by the club manager and building owner. As the night progressed, occasionally patrons left that area, and they would discretely return the keys to the manager—or occasionally to the bartender in the manager’s absence.”

“Late this afternoon,” Burley continued, “Bob was called by the club manager asking if he could do him a favor and come by the building at 5:00 PM tonight and open the outer door of the building for ‘Larry’, and then lock up when Larry left around 6:00 PM, as the man was going to “get things ready” for the clients in that restricted area, and only had keys for the inside door, not the outer doors. This ‘Larry’ is the club’s first-aid attendant—described by the bartender as a big, muscular, usually scowl-faced guy who carried a big Glock. The manager would be able to be there by 9:00 PM to deal with the club opening that evening.”

Billings returned and picked up the briefing saying that the bartender reported that when Larry showed up, he’d casually chatted with Bob as he withdrew several pre-filled needles from his first aid bag, divulging information as though the bartender knew what was going on in the back area. Larry had commented with a laugh that he had to be sure to get the right drugs into the right slaves, as he didn’t want to piss off any of the owners or that evening’s clients because last time the FBI guy had been a jerk, and the new guy didn’t stay under long enough. Larry left then and returned in five minutes, grabbed another pre-filled needle and went through a different locked door that Bob had not seen opened before. Larry reappeared within ten minutes, and by 5:45 PM both Larry and the bartender had left the building and Bob locked the outer doors. As soon as Larry had driven away, the freaked-out bartender called the FBI, and said—repeatedly—that he did not want to be associated with any of this.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Gibbs growled both at Billings and Burley. “One possible mention of an FBI agent? How do you know it’s not a setup?”

Stan Burley stood and double-checked his weapon and gear. “It matches how the group we’re after operates, Gibbs. It’s been the same each time. And this club has been one of three locations currently on our radar because of our anonymous heads-up on the site warning of organized crime links, and because the club itself only appears to occupy one section of the building they’re leasing.”

Billings returned, doublechecking his body armor. “I just confirmed that Larry Jorkle—who we are sure is the first aid attendant being referred to—has a lengthy criminal record, including drug-related charges using Rohypnol and other tranquilizing co*cktails.”

“Who do you expect to find?” Gibbs asked, regretting his question as soon as he’d asked. It really doesn’t matter, he thought. I’m just supposed to watch their six.

Billing checked his watch again. “Who? We currently have nine missing in this NE area that meet our criteria: an FBI Intelligence analyst who disappeared while investigating this group, an FBI surveillance investigator out of Baltimore, two FBI Special Agents from our Public Corruption Unit here in DC, two ATF explosive enforcement officers based in DC, an army sergeant from Fort McNair, a CIA junior agent out of the Head Office, and an NCIS special agent who disappeared after leaving a late-night diner near where he was based at Naval Station, Newport, Rhode Island.”

Gibbs nodded, remembering hearing about the NCIS agent.

“All of these men were taken approximately four to twelve weeks ago,” Billings continued, “they are all in their late 30s or 40s, which matches the kidnapping group we’ve been after, and not one area of their jobs has been compromised.”

“We believe they have not been kidnapped for what they know,” Stan Burley said. “It’s for who they are and if they match the type.”

Gibbs frowned impatiently. “Which is?”

Burley glanced at his watch. “Our team met last week and ran a comparison of everyone we’ve rescued and those still missing. The mean age is 41, all are white, slim, and all generally are not fighters or combat soldiers. They are detectives or investigators or officers. They’re the brains over brawns. They are all men who take care of themselves, present well, and work out—marathon runners, swimmers, hikers—as opposed to body builders and boxers.”

“Okay. 7:45. Time.” FBI Special Agent Billings stood back up. “Our source tells us there are no surveillance cameras, so let’s get in there, get these guys out if they’re here, and be long gone before the strike team takes over.”

Burley opened the back door of the truck and jumped down, followed by the other three men, Gibbs following last. He was dressed in black, his face covered by a balaclava that showed only his eyes. He had his own basic body armor under his jacket. Several of the others, including Burley, had helmets on, as well, but Gibbs found it annoying when he was doing outside coverage. He growled silently, his weapon out before him as four other members of the JTFHRT team half-slid across the dark icy rear parking lot. It wasn’t his op. He would have done things differently. But he was here, and he knew how to follow orders in a situation like this.

There were still no lights showing inside the building the JTFHRT team was approaching, and no lights illuminated the back of the building, unlike the lone light at the attached parking lot. Siggie stayed inside the truck, monitoring the coms, ready to move it when needed, and Gibbs was stationed outside the truck, his sniper weapon sweeping the lot and back door for any sign of movement. Burley entered the building first through an exterior door—an emergency exit with no outside handle or key slot—a door that had been left propped open for them by Bob the bartender. The others followed after Burley, disappearing into the darkness inside.

Eight long minutes went by, then Burley’s voice crackled through the line. “We’ve got them. Coming out.” Two minutes later, the first of their team emerged, the retired Navy SEAL assisting a blanket-wrapped man across the icy back lot. The man was having difficulty walking, and Gibbs’ weapon covered them as they moved. Siggie backed the truck up slowly, meeting them halfway.

When Gibbs turned to look back at the exit, he saw a diagonal flash of light through a crack at a basem*nt window. It was so brief that at first he thought he’d been mistaken or that it had been a reflection on the window of another vehicle, but then Burley was exiting the building with another blanket-wrapped man also barely able to stay upright, and Gibbs had to look away. Siggie jumped from the truck and slipped across the ice to meet them, helping Burley get the guy into the truck as Gibbs stood guard, his eyes looking from the men in the parking lot, over to the two parked cars, over to where he’d thought he’d seen the light flash in the basem*nt, and then to the exit to the club.

Next, Billings exited with the third man, and the Navy SEAL Guy came back from the truck to help him. “There’s four of them,” Billings jubilantly said to Gibbs in passing. The NCIS agent had never seen Billings more animated. “Patrick is still getting Walmor unlocked. Walmor’s our missing FBI intelligence analyst. He doesn’t appear to be drugged like the others; we just had trouble as his cuff locks were jammed.”

“Were they in the basem*nt?” Gibbs asked.

“No,” Billings responded, brushing him off. “All were on the main floor, east side.”

Four men. Not three. Gibbs watched the exit door, waiting for Patrick which was apparently the name of the army reserve guy, but his gut was churning. There were two empty cars in the far lot, and he was positive he’d seen a flash of light in the basem*nt. They had to be connected. He trained the scope on his weapon on the basem*nt windows, and it appeared they were all covered on the inside, except one that had a crack. He blinked. There it was again. A thin glimmer of light, as though a flashlight had passed nearby.

Stan Burley approached, heading from the truck to the exit door, and Gibbs stepped in his path as he got close. “Burley—what’s downstairs? Could anyone be down there?”

“No idea. We were told the building was deserted, except for the men we’re getting out of there,” Burley said with a shake of his head. “We only knew about three held here; I don’t even know who that fourth guy could be. He’s so doped, he doesn’t know what side is up.” Patrick could be seen at the warehouse back door now, helping Walmor down a step. “Gibbs,” Burley said, watching Patrick, “shut the building’s exit door once I help Pat get Wally in the truck.” Burley clapped Gibbs on the shoulder and turned to help Patrick and Walmor as Gibbs walked backwards behind them, his weapon moving from side to side. Burley and Patrick boosted the rescued FBI analyst into the truck.

So that was it. Done. Four men rescued, not three. All good. Still…

When he reached the truck, Gibbs called back inside to the rescued men. “Anyone know of someone being held in the basem*nt?”

Walmor turned to answer him—probably the only one of the four rescued men who could string a sentence together. He started to say ‘no’, then stopped. “Maybe,” he admitted. “I’ve been here about a month, I’m not sure, but I might have heard gunfire lately below us. Screams maybe. When it’s quiet in the building, not when the music is blaring.”

“Gibbs, move it! We’ve got to go,” Billings said, coming around the side of the truck after conferring with Siggie. “We need to be gone before anyone gets here. Get the exit door to the building and scruff up our prints in the snow, whatever you can. Patrick, give him a hand.”

“I’m checking downstairs,” Gibbs said, as he dropped his sniper rifle into the box of the truck. He turned and ran back to the building, ignoring the low-voiced curses hurled after him. f*ck them; they didn’t have his churning gut to deal with. He pulled out his service weapon and slipped inside the propped-open exit door and down a half-flight of stairs, his lockpick out. There was little chance he could pick the heavy-duty lock that quickly, but he had to try.

The door surprisingly was unlocked. Or maybe that made sense.

There were no lights in the basem*nt. As Gibbs slipped inside the large echoing room, there was again a series of brief flashes, the sparse overhead lights flicked rapidly on and off imitating a strobe light. Someone on his far left was laughing, a crude hacking laugh that Gibbs knew he would recognize if he heard it again. There was a loud high echoing clanking, as though steel rods were drumming against a larger metal pole in tandem with the lights. The repeated brightness stabbed Gibbs’ eyes in the darkness, blinding him. The stairwell door behind him had slid closed, the sound masked by the drumming, leaving him in darkness.

“You like this? You like my hand here?” Another voice had come from his right in the far corner of the basem*nt, away from where the laughter had been, and Gibbs took cover behind some crates. A faint, muffled scream followed. Then the sound of something striking a metal chain.

A very thin flashlight beam was suddenly shining upward from where it had been set on the floor. “Listen to me!” A voice, center right, sounded anxious. “I think someone’s here.” The flashlight tilted over and went out.

The voice on the left responded. “You’re imagining it. Just the club slaves banging on their cells.” The overhead lightbulb flicked on and off several times, slowing and stopping, as though the person at the switch was bored. The cackling laughter rang out again.

Gibbs moved forward and to the right, his sense of direction registering where he was from that brief flash of light. Why did they prefer the darkness? He moved low to the ground, silently, his nose twitching at the dankness, the smell of mold, urine, feces, sweat, and… blood. And gunpowder.

There were three distinct voices: Left side, laughter, light switch. Right side, tormenter, with someone captive. Center right, anxious.

“Hey, I’m telling you, I’m sure I heard footsteps above us.” Center right. “We should get out of here.”

Gibbs’ eyes were adapting to the dim light. From what he could tell this was a storage area, filled with crates and boxes on shelves. He ducked behind several large crates, trying to gauge how far he was from the captive on the right.

“Go if you want to go,” left-side bored voice said. “It’s getting late. We should all get going if we want to grab something to eat before heading home.”

“I’m not finished,” the far-right voice said. “We just got here.”

“We’ve been here an hour,” the left-side voice retorted. “Hey, what’s in this new batch of boxes?” A thin flashlight beam came on as someone wrestled with a box. “I want to turn the overhead lights on.”

“No. We don’t want to attract attention. And I’ve no idea what’s in the boxes,” far-right guy said. “You do what you want there; there’s so much more I want to do with this guy.” There was another grunt and the sound of chains. “String him up higher, Moss,” the right-side tormenter voice demanded. Footsteps, boots clicking on the cement floor, then the creaking sound of a winch. “Yeah. That’s good.”

Gibbs struggled to see what was happening without giving away his location.

“Hurry up. I swear there are people upstairs. There shouldn’t be anyone here.” Anxious Voice Moss was to the far right of Gibbs as well now.

Silence for a moment, then the right-side tormenter voice. “I don’t hear anyone. Hold him still for me. I want to carve my initials on his back. Might be my last chance. Where’s your flashlight?”

“Now?” Anxious Voice Moss swore but didn’t say anything more. Chains rattled. The thin flashlight flicked on.

“Stay still!” The dull sound of fists hitting a body. Both men on his right laughed.

Gibbs moved closer, his weapon in his hand, keeping a row of stacked crates between him and the others. Rats scuttled away from him.

A bullet winged by Gibbs coming from his left, sparking as it hit the cement. “Damned rats.”

“He didn’t like the sound of that. Pissed himself,” the tormentor voice said.

Another bullet fired.

“Hey! That makes him move,” complained the tormentor. “I’ve got my knife out here.”

“Hurry up.” The anxious voice. “I want to get out of here. I’m not into the whole thing tonight. I don’t like coming here so close to the freaks being upstairs.”

Another shot was fired from Gibbs’ left, just missing him.

“Hey, don’t shoot up the goods,” the anxious voice said. “We’d get strung up ourselves if they found out we were even here right now.”

“They don’t care. And they know he’s here,” the left-side voice said. “We’re not the only ones having fun with him.” A low laugh. “Even the rats get their turn. Munch, munch, munch.”

“Moss, dose him up again.” Right-side voice.

“Again? How much?”

“I’ve got my kid’s birthday party tomorrow, so enough until Sunday should keep him quiet.”

“I can’t do Sunday night, but I’ll come on Monday with you,” the left-side voice said. “I want to check out these boxes. There’s a stack of wooden crates they haven’t moved since last time.” Yet another shot was fired, again aimed towards where Gibbs was hiding. “Damned rats,” the third voice continued. “Lots of them around tonight.”

Gibbs moved closer, hoping any sound he might make would be attributed to the rats. Where was the rest of the JTFHRT team? Couldn’t they hear the gunfire?

“Okay, he’s good,” came Moss’ voice. “I don’t know if that’s enough for the weekend, but it’s all I’ve got. Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait. I’ll put him out for the weekend. We don’t want him chatting with anyone.” There was a dull thud and then a second thud, followed by what sounded like a long pipe falling to the floor. Footsteps came close to where Gibbs was hidden, a flashlight moving back and forth across the floor as a man walked past him.

Moss’ voice was still by the captive man. “What’d you do that for? You trying to kill him?”

“Well, he won’t talk for a few days,” the tormentor’s voice laughed, now in the center of the space. “He’s in la-la land.”

“We need to put him back in the dog crate. Help me.” Moss’ voice. “Come on.”

There was some swearing as the left-side man started across the basem*nt. “I’ve got the keys. And the detonator. We’re safe. Get him in the doggie crate.”

Now or never. “Freeze, Police!” Gibbs yelled, “I’m a federal agent. NCIS.” He fired a shot toward the far left. “Drop your weapon. Hands up.”

“f*ck you!” There was more swearing, a wooden crate was pushed over on his right, something metallic landed on the floor with a ringing tone.

Gibbs fired blindly toward the left-side voice. He heard a separate outside door open, maybe ten feet from behind where the left-side shooter must have stood, on the other side of the building from where the truck was. The door closed with a resounding bang.

A shot fired near him. A least one of the right-side men had a gun.

Gibbs’ cellphone vibrated. He dug it out and flipped it open, listening to Burley’s voice. “Gibbs? We’re hearing gunfire. One guy left—eluded us. He came up a side way we didn’t know about. Was there more than one? Another shooter?”

Gibbs tapped on the phone twice. Yes.

“Did you find anyone down there?”

He tapped twice again.

“Injured?”

Two more taps.

“Ambulatory?”

One tap.

“Alive?”

Two taps. Gibbs wasn’t entirely sure the man was alive, but if he’d said no, Burley wouldn’t come down there.

Burley was talking to someone else, a disagreement, more than one voice arguing, then Burley came back on. “Okay, I’m coming your way—don’t shoot me.”

Another shot was fired, but far enough to the left of that one to signify there was indeed a second shooter still in the basem*nt. They weren’t by their captive anymore, instead probably trying to get to the far exit door their companion just exited. Gibbs dove from where he’d been standing, twisting as he fell to the rough cement as another bullet came his way, but he was unable to identify where exactly the shot had come from. He didn’t want to shoot blindly and give away his location.

They’d put their flashlight out. Where were they? Gibbs waited, ears, straining, to hear movement, listening… and hearing the sound of someone struggling for air, feeble muffled gasping.

Gibbs could also hear gunfire now from outside, two—three shots fired. Someone from their group returning fire with the first shooter who’d escaped the building.

A crack of sound, the flash of a bullet, the sharp muffled cry. They’d aimed towards the captive—whether or not they’d hit him, he didn’t know. Gibbs again fired towards where the shooter had been, but another door opened, to his right this time, maybe 30 feet away, and another shooter escaped before he could find his target.

Gibbs held back a private snarl. He still couldn’t see anything, but he could hear the gasping now, the pained agony of breathing, groaning. Someone was hurt and with a cautious twist of the flashlight on his utility vest, he blinked at the sight before him. A man was suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains, his wrists in metal cuffs, maybe two feet from the floor. The captive’s legs were spread apart by a pole attached to ankle cuffs. He was naked. Blood ran from his neck, his shoulders, his lower back, and down his legs.

Gibbs crouched down and whipped his flashlight around the room – the meager light ineffective in the cavernous area that had to run the full spread of the upper level—then he flicked the light off, and quickly moved ten feet to his left. There still felt like someone else was here, besides the captive man or was he hearing the rats?

The NCIS special agent silently crossed over to within ten feet of where the suspended man was and reluctantly turned his flashlight on, ran it quickly over the man, then turned it off. He moved ahead and to his right, then reached out blindly in the darkness and found the injured man. His left arm went around the thin man’s thighs and hips, lifting him slightly to take some of the strain off his arms. His gun in his right hand was ready. The man’s body jerked at his touch. “I’m here to help you. My name is Gibbs,” he said softly. “I’m a federal agent. We’re rescuing you.”

There was no response other than a groan or a whimper. There had been a sound at least. The guy was alive. Terrified, shivering. Chains rattled as Gibbs fought to keep them still. There were other sounds here. The rats, yes. But other sounds. There had been a third voice. There had to be a third shooter trying to get to a doorway.

Where the hell was Stan? Gibbs took a chance and, gun in one hand, did another quick arc of his flashlight—on-off—revealed stacks of boxes and packing materials and what looked like an animal crate, the door open.

He turned his head toward the faint sound of a door opening. Probably Burley.

“Gibbs,” Stan’s soft voice drifted towards him across the space. “I’m going to turn the lights on. Get ready.”

Gibbs could hear the snick of a switch, and with the help of two ineffectual bare lightbulbs, one by each doorway, the room became partly visible, looking much like Gibbs had envisioned. A corner of the below-level storage room had become a disgusting makeshift torture chamber of sorts.

For a moment, Gibbs wasn’t here. He was in Iraq during the Gulf War in the middle of a dangerous rescue mission, trying to calm a traumatized, tortured marine. He had done several of those assignments, not always successfully. Actually, only once successfully. As long as this guy was alive, Gibbs had a chance of getting him out of enemy… territory.

They’d get him out.

He blinked and focused.

“Gibbs!” Burley sounded like he’d called several times.

“Careful. I’m sure there’s someone else hiding here,” Gibbs called out in a hoarse whisper, as Burley carefully crossed towards them. He was trying to keep the twitching body still, but it was hard to do so while keeping his weapon ready to fire. “I’ll watch your six.”

“We saw one leave out one door and one out another but couldn’t reach them,” Burley whispered as he approached. “You think there’s more?”

“There were three of them,” Gibbs insisted, trying to see where someone might hide. “Get him down from here.”

Burley hauled out a ring of keys, trying several before finding one that opened the lock on the upper heavy-duty chain, threading it through though D-rings attached to the wrist cuffs. Gibbs grunted as the suspended man’s full weight now shifted against him, then Burley had unlocked the bar separating the man’s legs and was helping Gibbs lower him down to the slimy, cracked, disgusting, uneven cement floor.

“Got him?” Stan whispered.

“Yeah,” Gibbs responded. “There’s someone else here somewhere,” he said again. “And there’s not a lot of places for him to hide.”

“Or us,” Burley muttered.

While Burley tried to move a few crates, giving them a place of cover, Gibbs hissed as he had his first good look at the man’s bearded face, at the leather ball gag in his mouth and mangled silver-gray duct tape wrapped around his head over his eyes. The panicked man was trying desperately to breathe through his nose.

“Get this thing off his mouth,” Gibbs growled, tilting the young man towards him while keeping his weapon ready. The angle allowed Burley space to wrestle with the leather latches holding the gag in place behind the man’s head. The young man began to react, shivering wildly, struggling to get away, but he was weak, and Gibbs was easily able to hold him tight. “Shhh. It’s okay.” He triple-tapped the twitching man’s face and head. “We here to help you. My name is Gibbs. We’re federal agents here to rescue you. You’re safe now. We’re here to help you.” His hands were wearing gloves—he grabbed at the ball gag when Burley got it off and thrust it in one pocket. Evidence.

“So where is this shooter?” Burley stood cautiously to look around, and a shot fired from near the back of the room, an area hardly illuminated by the dim lighting. “Stay flat,” Burley whispered, then he dove behind a crate, firing over them towards the door, cursing as the overhead lights were turned off.

Gibbs dropped down, his body sheltering the young man beneath him as a volley of firing came their way. “Shh. It’s okay,” he whispered in the man’s ear. “You’re safe now.” The young man jerked and twitched instinctually with each bullet fired. “Shh…” Gibbs said, his hand on the man’s forehead.

Over their prone bodies, Burley continued firing towards where the shots were coming from. There was the sound of return gunfire and someone running, then came the sound of another door scraping open at the street side of the building. The shooter exited, firing back at them. As soon as he disappeared from sight, Burley raced after him, calling for backup.

Three voices. Three exits. Gibbs took advantage of the moment and got up to his knees, dragging the battered man in behind some crates that had what looked like Chinese characters stamped along the side. Gibbs leaned back against the frigid cement wall registering the cold skin of the man he was holding. “My name is Gibbs,” he muttered, rubbing the man’s arms. He lightly triple-tapped the man’s face resting against his shoulder. “It’s okay, we’re here to help you. You’re safe now.”

No verbal response other than painful gasping sounds, and no movement other than twitching. The man had been drugged. Maybe he was having difficulty breathing; it was fast and shallow. Or maybe a panic attack. Likely both. Steadying his weapon, Gibbs glanced down quickly, trying to see the man’s face, but he didn’t want to risk his flashlight. Because they really weren’t safe, despite his assurances to the captive. Not yet. “My name is Gibbs. I’m here to help you,” he rambled softly, triple-tapping side of the man’s face again, and peering around trying to see anything. “I know you’ve been hurt, and we’ll get you some medical help asap.”

The shivering became more pronounced, again probably equally from cold and pain as from fear. The man’s body twitched repeatedly. Twitch, Gibbs thought; he needed to call him something. The man had a black leather dog’s collar around his neck with three D-rings on it. His wrists and ankles still had the heavy cuffs on them; there was blood on each as the sharp metal had dug into Twitch’s skin. His body spasmed painfully, likely muscle cramps and panic. His shoulders and back arched as he trembled.

And then something changed, something clicked in Twitch’s head. Gibbs went from being someone who was going to hurt him to being someone who was rescuing him. With an almost silent cry, his left hand taloned onto Gibbs’ jacket and he pulled himself towards Gibbs, registering at some level that Gibbs was safe. He appeared to be seeking refuge against him, his face burrowing against Gibbs’ shoulder and neck. If it wasn’t so desperate, it would be alarming.

Sitting in the darkness, listening to gunfire outside, Gibbs first made sure his weapon was out and ready, then tapped the still-blindfolded man’s jaw three times, continuing to ingrain a code of who he was. He leaned his head down to whisper in Twitch’s ear. “You need to be silent. You’re safe here with me. My name is Gibbs. I’m here to help you.” Again, he did the triple tap, identifying himself. He put a finger over the man’s mouth, indicating he needed to be silent. “Do you understand?” he breathed into the twitching man’s ear. “Nod if you understand.” There was no response other than the ongoing trembling.

The dim lights flickered back on, and Burley was back, swearing, eyes flashing in anger. “This place could go up—Siggie’s at the front hallway near where they exited. Says there’s a stack of military grade C4 by the exit door with what looks like a remote detonator on it.”

“What about that door?” Gibbs asked, gesturing towards the one at the back of the building, where their truck was. “Let me get up.” He tilted the man towards Burley and got to his feet, pulling Twitch up with him. Twitch wouldn’t put his feet down, though, his knees buckling. “Stan, he can’t walk. Fireman carry,” Gibbs demanded, getting himself in position.

Burley swore quietly when he got a look at him. “Bastards,” he muttered. “Got him?”

“Yeah. Good to go.” Gibbs had the man balanced in a fireman lift across his shoulders. Gibbs’ right hand held his weapon. Steady. “Go. I’ll follow you. They were shooting towards him just now, so they may do what they can to silence him.”

Burley was on his cellphone again, talking so quietly Gibbs could barely hear him. “Wait… yes, out the street-side door… closest to the far parking lot. … We’re coming out the river-side middle door. Well, we’re going to try to exit there… Yes, if Siggie’s back at the truck, have her bring it closer.” Burley motioned Gibbs forward, coming behind him to help support the naked man slung across Gibbs’ shoulders.

They got to the top of the stairs, and Burley got the outside door open to see the truck already backed up to them. Hands reached for the fifth rescued man, hauling him into the box truck.

“Careful!” Gibbs snapped. “He’s badly injured. Cut up, possible broken ribs, possible GSW, possible everything else.” Gibbs clamored up into the truck, settled himself into a back corner, and had them carefully pass him the man he’d rescued. “Get me a blanket!” he yelled, catching the silver rescue blanket someone tossed to him, and trying to one-handed drape the thermal film around the violently shaking, still blindfolded man as the truck spun its tires, then lurched forward. “Cuffs!” he ordered. “Burley! Cuffs!”

As the truck went over the pot-holed parking lot, Stan Burley made his way to the back of the box cube, almost collapsing on top of them. He pulled out his trusty ring of keys and within thirty seconds the metal cuffs at both of Twitch’s ankles and wrists were unlocked, and he dropped them into a large evidence bag and shoved it under the bench that ran along one side of the truck.

Gibbs unzipped his jacket and tried to wrap it around Twitch, then rearranged the silver blanket around them both, offering some meager heat in the frigid truck. “I need another blanket,” he called out loudly, interrupting four different conversations going on in the crowded truck as it pitched and rocked its way out of the uneven parking lot.

“I’ll be right there,” Burley said calmly. Squinting in the dim light, Gibbs could see Burley was trying to stay upright as he passed emergency blankets to each of the rescued men. He pulled on some latex safety gloves and tossed an extra pair to Gibbs as he made his way back to them. “You said he was gunshot?”

“Just guessing.” Gibbs struggled to keep the blanket over Twitch’s shoulder as the truck continued to sway as Siggie made the turn onto the main road. There was a loud distant ‘bang’ that had Billings off the bench and over to the truck’s rear window.

“That C4 blew,” Billings said, “and looks like the whole side of the building is going.” The FBI Special Agent moved away from the window, staggering through the truck as he dialed a number, then edging by where Gibbs was to get through a small door leading into the cab of the truck, where he dropped to the passenger seat to make his call. Gibbs could hear him talking intermittently with the driver Siggie to get the details of the amount of C4 that the retired ATF agent had seen in the stairwell.

Stan Burley had taken Billing’s place at the back window, joined by the Navy SEAL guy as they stared out towards the warehouse in the distance, then Stan left the SEAL guy and returned to Gibbs, grabbing one of the first aid bags on route as well as another blanket. “So what are we looking at?” he asked, his attention refocused on Gibbs and the injured man.

“He’s bleeding—from his head, back, thigh. I heard someone say they were carving initials on him. I can’t see if the blood is knife wounds or gunshot. I heard a pipe fall, so he might have been hit with a pipe, too. I don’t know where.” Twitch had shifted himself, his face pushed straight against Gibbs’ chest, his left hand resuming its clenched hold on Gibbs’ jacket, and his right arm caught between his body and the NCIS agent. “Can you get this tape off his eyes?” Gibbs asked, holding the young man as securely as he could, mindful of the possibility of broken or bruised ribs and bones. “And maybe some water for him?”

“Let me check him first before I deal with the duct tape. No use him being able to see if he bleeds out.” Burley reached for a water bottle, cracking it open and handing it to Gibbs. “Easy on the water at first. If he needs surgery…”

Gibbs growled under his breath; he knew that. As Burley handed out the water bottles to the other men, Gibbs held the bottle by Twitch’s mouth, dribbling some in, triple-tapping his cheek. He breathed a sigh of relief when Twitch understood enough to let go of his jacket and grab the bottle. Twitch greedily drank for a moment but didn’t fight when Gibbs pulled the bottle away as he gasped for air. His head again dropped forward, and he slumped against him as though he’d lost consciousness.

Burley was back and used the distraction to shift his flashlight over Twitch, moving the blanket aside at the neck and waist so the light darted over Twitch’s bare back. “What a mess. He’s taken a beating. Something here on his right shoulder… and his head has a recent welt on it. Maybe from that pipe you heard. They were probably trying to knock him unconscious.”

“Trying? He looks unconscious to me,” Gibbs muttered.

“Lot of cuts on his lower back and what looks like scabbed over cuts. He was probably down there awhile.” Burley shifted to one side when Patrick the Army Reserve Guy joined them to look at Twitch’s injuries, murmuring to each other as they pointed at different wounds. Patrick patted Burley’s shoulder and returned to the bench and helped one of the rescued men keep his blanket wrapped around him. Gibbs could see—and smell—that someone else was throwing up, not unusual on these missions but never pleasant in an enclosed truck.

“Boss,” Burley said, drawing back Gibbs’ attention. “We’re going to be at the triage place in about ten minutes. I agree that we interrupted those perps as they were just finishing with him for the night, and it’s very likely that once they realized others were in the building, they would have killed him off to keep him from talking. The C4 explosion would have buried him in the basem*nt.”

Burley lightly touched Twitch’s back, nodding to himself when Twitch jerked away from his hand. “I don’t see any bullet wounds, Boss, but you’re right, there are some definite shallow knife wounds. I’d say he’s been cut into tonight, at least three or four times, and was likely stabbed a few days ago, as well.”

“Right hip,” Gibbs shifted.

“Getting there, Boss.” Burley moved to one side. Twitch’s legs were folded, half sprawled over Gibbs, and Burley shifted the blanket aside to check what he could. “There’s a fairly deep knife wound on the upper outer thigh on this side. Bleeding still. Not an arterial bleed, just oozing, so best we leave him until it can be cleaned before we slap a bandage on him.” Burley tucked the blanket back in place, his hand resting on Twitch’s back. “What’s his name?”

“Hasn’t said a word. He’s spasming, jerking, so I’ve been calling him Twitch.”

“Twitch? Right. Better than John Doe, I guess. Twitch Doe. Good enough for now.” Burley quickly examined the duct tape around Twitch’s eyes. “Looks like there might be a mask below this tape, but it’s stuck into his hair and skin. I don’t want to cut it off in a moving truck. We can do that when we get to Ducky. The head wound is bleeding.” Burley slapped a thick gauze pad over the top left side of Twitch’s head, using a roll of gauze to hold it in place.

Gibbs tried again with the water bottle, and Twitch drank another third of the plastic container, not quite as frantic as before, but the cold was making him shiver. The water really shouldn’t have been so cold, Gibbs grumbled to himself; the bottles had probably left in the truck since the last mission—and drinking it wasn’t helping Twitch get any warmer, but at least it was hydrating him. “Get me another blanket,” Gibbs ordered.

Burley called out for one, caught it, and helped Gibbs wrap it around Twitch’s head and shoulders. A third silver blanket was placed over his legs. Gibbs tried again with the water, but Twitch’s strength was ebbing. The jerking and twitching were slowing as whatever was had been in the needles he’d been given was knocking him out.

Gibbs looked up as there was more shuffling among the men crammed in the small moving truck. The rescued man they’d called Walmor traded places with someone so he could sit on the bench closer to where Gibbs and Burley were. He was dark-haired, tall and broad-shouldered, and even in the semi-darkness of the truck interior, Gibbs could see Walmor was sporting a painful-looking black eye. He had a silver blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders and another tied around his waist like a sarong. “I just want to say thanks to you as well,” Walmor said, leaning forward to talk with Gibbs, who nodded back. “Is he okay? I had no idea there were others in the building, although two of the others here thought they’d heard noises before.”

Burley moved to sit on the other side of the man. “Gibbs, this is Steve Walmor, an FBI Intelligence Analyst with the Victim Assistance Program.”

“Victim Assistance?” Gibbs asked, pulling himself back into the conversation he’d already withdrawn from.

“Yeah. Never thought I’d be the one making use of my own resources,” Walmor said with a grim smile.

“Wally, you’re doing okay at the moment?” Stan asked, and Gibbs got the idea they knew each other in some capacity, although the very nature of the missions Stan had been involved with probably made use of the Victim Assistance Program’s expertise. “They didn’t drug you?”

“I fought back the last time and ended up with an elbow in my eye, so I’m not so pretty, I guess. Had I known, I would have given myself a black eye.” Walmor paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, striving for clarity. “For whatever reason, they didn’t dose me today, but I still feel off, probably an accumulation of the crap they’ve been giving us. You know, I honestly thought I was hallucinating when I saw you guys come in. It will take a few days for this stuff to get out of our system, so I’d say two days ago was my last... let’s call it my last ‘session’. No other sounds in the building that day, I heard just now that it’s a BDSM weekend club. Makes sense. Masters and slaves, dominants and submissives. That’s basically what they made us to be… There wasn’t always music bleeding through the walls; but the creeps who came into our area, generally come during the time the music was playing, although one or two of them would come at other times,” Walmor said, his anger clear, even if his language was tame to what Gibbs was thinking.

Gibbs closed his eyes, hearing the pain and understandable bitterness in the man’s voice. He was not a fan of shrinks, but he could see why these men might need to seek one out, regardless of whether they already worked for the Victim Assistance Program.

Burley swore half under his breath, still staring at Walmor. “Damn. Damn it, Wally. Wish we could have got you out earlier. We came as soon as we got a firm tip where you’d be.”

“Well, we’re all alive, right?” Walmor said with a weak smile, leaning back against the moving truck’s wall with his eyes closed, the blanket wrapped around him tightly for security as much as warmth.

“Another question, do we have names for all these guys here?” Burley asked, speaking loudly over the noises in the back of the moving truck. He had out a pen and paper ready to take down noties.

Walmor open his eyes and pointed to the others on the bench beside him. “Bob Johnson is next to me here. Then Brian Borka is on the other side of him. There was someone else named Kalansky, Simon Kalansky, I think, but he was only there two days and disappeared a week ago. We woke up and he was gone; we’ve no idea what happened to him. And ‘New Guy’—I don’t know his name—is the new guy. He arrived yesterday or the day before; hasn’t talked much. He threw up earlier today, too.”

Lance Billings came back into the box through the access door from the cab, tucking away his phone. “Gibbs—Brian Borka is your missing NCIS agent from Newport.”

“And Basem*nt Guy here?” Burley asked Billings, gesturing to the man he was helping Gibbs keep in place. “Do you think he’s part of all this?”

“No idea,” Billings said, pulling off his knitted cap and frowning. “Haven’t had one like him before.” One hand bracing himself on the interior wall of the truck, Billings leaned forward to have a closer look, peeling back the silver emergency blanket to look at what he could see of the man’s face buried against Gibbs’ Kevlar vest. “First impression, I’d say no, unless they have a side racket. He doesn’t fit in with the rest. These four guys from tonight are the same as the others we’ve rescued. Aside from being drugged, they are all showered, shaved, fed, and somewhat groomed. Very few marks on them, with the exception of Wally’s eye here. The one you have, Gibbs, has at least a month-long growth of beard, his hair is straggly and unwashed, he’s likely hypothermic, he’s filthy, quite frankly—bloody and beaten. I mean, I’m glad we were able to get him out of there, but I’m not sure what his story is. Too young, for one thing. I think we’ll keep him separate for now. No need to confuse things; I am 99% sure that he’s not one of ours,” he said dismissively. “We got what we came for, with a bonus of four rather than three.”

Gibbs scowled across the darkness at Billings. “Well, if you open one of the back doors there, we can just push him out onto the road, since he’s not one of yours.” Though his sarcastic words were harsh, he kept his tone low and unthreatening. He was pissed off, but he didn’t want to spook the man he was holding.

“Oh, come on, Gibbs,” Billings said, his voice sharp. “Lose the attitude. Of course, we’re glad to help him out. His lucky day.”

The trembling body Gibbs was holding twitched again, and then a moment later twitched almost violently, before suddenly became heavier, limp and unresponsive in his arms. Gibbs quickly tried to feel for a pulse at his throat, but the spiked dog collar was in the way. He looked up at Burley, surprised at the panic he was feeling. “Hey! He’s not breathing. Get this collar off him.”

Burley crouched down and tilted Twitch back, unlatched the dog collar, his fingers going unerringly to the carotid artery at the side of the man’s neck. A moment was spent trying to gauge the weak, thready pulse while the truck hurried down the road. “He’s got a pulse. He’s hanging in there,” he said, trying for a reassuring smile for Gibbs as he pocketed the collar.

Gibbs did not feel reassured. “Get this duct tape off his eyes,” he ordered.

“I’ll try, Boss. Like I said, it’s a little bumpy in here for me to have scissors by his face, though.” Burley took out a small rounded pair of scissors from his kit and made a cut through the duct tape by Twitch’s right temple, carefully loosening the tape away from his eyes. Burley then cut the tape by Twitch’s left temple, freeing the middle piece to drop into an evidence bag that Gibbs had ready for him. “Looks like there was a blindfold on him first, and they just put duct tape over it, probably to keep it in place. Boss, we don’t know how long he’s been wearing the blindfold; his eyes are going to be ultra-sensitive to any light.”

“Can you get the rest of it off him?” Gibbs asked. “Or give me the scissors, and I’ll do it myself. I don’t want to put you out, since he’s not one of your official rescued men.” He knew he was sounding snide and petty, but that’s exactly how he was feeling.

Burley’s eyes went wider in the dim light. “Seriously? Where’s that coming from, Boss?” He shone his light over the back of Twitch’s head. “Just leave the tape, Gibbs. It’s stuck in his hair; someone can cut it off later. We should get pictures first anyway. He’ll be fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine to me.”

“I don’t want the bandage I put on top of his head to come off. Gibbs, I agree with Lance; I don’t think he’s part of our investigation, but we’ll make sure he gets help,” Burley insisted, as he moved to sit next to Gibbs on the floor of the truck. “We are running behind schedule. We should have been well on the road already. As it is, we’re lucky we haven’t been followed.”

“They blew up part of the building before they left. He’d have been dead before the raid happened.”

“They likely wouldn’t have used the C4 if we hadn’t gone down to the basem*nt,” Burley said, then reconsidered and amended his answer. “Unless they heard us upstairs and got spooked and made sure they had destroyed any evidence there. Once the FBI raid happens—any time now—we’ll be able to trace back through the club owners to their clients, then in turn to whoever their contacts were, and get to the local leaders of this kidnapping group. It might be the breaking point in tracking down this entire group.”

“And Twitch?”

“Twitch?” Lance Billings asked, making his way back to them again.

“That’s what Gibbs is calling the basem*nt guy,” Burley said.

“Twitch.” Billings shrugged. “We’ll pass this Twitch guy over to the authorities at the hospital. They’ll figure it out. Gibbs, I know you didn’t want to come tonight, but with the extra fourth man we got, I’m glad you were there. We needed you.”

“The extra fifth man,” Gibbs griped. “There was a fifth man.”

Chapter 3: Triage

Chapter Text

DUCKY
Washington DC area Army base
Gymnasium Triage
Friday, February 16, 2001
9:05 PM

Dr. Donald Mallard—Ducky to those who knew him—was waiting by the entrance as the repurposed moving truck backed up to the double doors of the Army base gymnasium. This was the NCIS Medical Examiner’s third such ‘mission’, as he called it, and his vast knowledge of crime scene injuries and warzone medical practices made him a valuable member of the team, especially in the recommendations for long-term care of such rescued souls.

He stood next to Colonel Charles Lamott, a retired army combat medic who taught part time at the army base. It was the doctor’s first time assisting with a mission in this manner. The two doctors had spent almost thirty minutes earlier that evening trying to figure out where they had seen each other before, their guesses spanning the globe, hopping from war to war, colleges to academies, and over forty years of service, until they finally realized they had met several months earlier at a mutual friend’s wedding several miles away.

During the last rescue mission, the doctors and medics had used a corner of the Army gymnasium as a triage base and it had worked perfectly, so with short notice, they’d been able to set it up again, securing several junior army medics as assistants. Medical supplies were spread out across several tables, and the two doctors were ready to receive their patients. Three curtained areas had been established with moveable dividers, to offer the men some privacy, and a fourth was ready should someone on the rescue team also need medical attention. If urgent care was required, an ambulance would be there within five minutes.

If things remained as straightforward as they had been on previous missions, the two doctors would primarily be supervising the triage done by the three younger army combat medics-in-training, Jason, Mike, and Starra, who were already outside as the one-ton moving truck’s back door slid upward.

But this was more than just a medical mission, more than just assessing who needed what type of medical attention; this was a joint task force, so Ducky’s job was also to assist the task force leaders in finding out whatever they could from the rescued men on this organized crime group that kidnapped federal agents and military men, and treated them in such a despicable manner. Outrageous, the doctor thought to himself, giving his head a shake. In all his years of treating the sick and injured in war zones around the world, Ducky could never begin to understand mankind’s deplorable sad*stic treatment of fellow human beings.

The truck came to a complete stop and Ducky gave a cheery wave to the retired Navy SEAL, Mitchell Salinger, as he jumped down from the truck’s cab, opened and secured the back doors, then pulled out an aluminum loading ramp. The team leaders, FBI Special Agent Lancelot Billings and NCIS’s own Special Agent Stanley Burley came down, each leading a man wrapped in silver rescue blankets. Those three team members had been on every rescue mission in the past year and a half. Amazing men, all of them.

“The blankets are quite remarkable,” Ducky found himself saying to Colonel Lamott. “Did you know that they were developed by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration in 1964 as a superinsulation based on radiant barrier technology? The material is—” But Lamott had left to help Billings with his very unsteady patient, so Ducky directed a medic to escort Stanley Burley and the man he was assisting to one of the triage curtained areas. The rescued men were clearly under the influence of the usual co*cktail of drugs the kidnappers used.

The thin insulating NASA blankets really were quite amazing, Ducky thought to himself.

Mitchell was next, helping the third man walk down the ramp, and Starra moved quickly to steady the shaking man’s arm. Ducky’s eyes narrowed slightly. Starra seemed a little too familiar with the Navy SEAL, he thought disapprovingly. Or maybe he was just reading into the situation. No, she was smiling up at the good-looking man, … well, she was at least being very helpful with the disoriented rescued man, at least. Still, he’d have to speak with her later, or insist that Colonel Lamott—

“Glad to see Mitch’s daughter Starra is training to be a medic,” Stanley Burley said as he passed Ducky on his way back to the truck.

“His daughter, yes, I was just thinking that,” Ducky said, waiting until Stanley was out of sight before grimacing at his mistake. How had that missed him last time?

And then to Ducky’s surprise, a fourth man emerged sporting a rather painful-looking two-day-old shiner—getting down the ramp from the truck on his own power, although Patrick Hudson, a burly Army Reservist in his late 40s, was shadowing him, ready to catch him if he faltered.

“Unexpected,” Ducky thought, with a smile. Four men rescued, but then, they had over-prepared and did have that fourth examination room, he thought rather smugly, as it had been at his insistence. The fourth man who was brought in —Ducky heard the name Steve Walmor—refused any help, moving to where the other men stood, all wrapped in the warm NASA space blankets while waiting to have photos taken before they were triaged further. All four men were clearly past the simple ABCs of first assessment—airways, breathing, circulation and the “D” of “deadly bleeding”—as they were walking and talking with no visible blood pools. Walmor was speaking with the other three calmly, and it seemed the bleary-eyed men looked to him for instructions as equally as the two leaders Billings and Burley. It would be fascinating to study the interactions of the men as they must have formed their own brothers-in-captivity group and—

“Ah, Stanley,” Ducky said, interrupting his own thoughts as the NCIS special agent appeared at the edge of the truck box. “We seem to have rescued more than we had anticipated. Four men,” he said happily. “Four.”

“Not four,” Stanley said, moving down the ramp as Gibbs appeared behind him.

“Five,” Gibbs said coldly, as he came to the top of the ramp with a man in his arms. “I’ve got one more for you, Duck,” he said to the Medical Examiner’s surprise. “I rescued him. He wasn’t with the others.” Gibbs carefully stepped down the ramp balancing his load as Stanley helped steady him. They carried the man inside the gymnasium as Ducky quickly secured a gurney that fortunately a fourth man hadn’t needed.

The bearded man was a surprise indeed, Ducky saw. He’d been on all the JTFHRT medical teams, and he knew they hadn’t encountered anyone in quite this condition before. He quickly looked beneath the silver emergency blanket; the man was naked, like the others, but he was covered in a layer of grime, dried and fresh blood. He had been non-responsive or unconscious when Gibbs had carried him in, but he’d come around with a disoriented horrible cry when he was laid on his back on the gurney, and Gibbs had stepped away.

He wasn’t with the others, Jethro had said. Was he homeless? Had he been found outdoors? His skin was cold to the touch. Hypothermic? I rescued him, Jethro had said.

Ducky quickly went through a rapid survey of the man’s condition. He checked his pulse—too rapid—and his counted breaths per minute—again, too fast. How much blood had he lost before he’d been rescued? Where were the wounds? What was his blood volume? Ducky turned to one of the medics. “I think we need to call that ambulance. Let me know what their expected ETA is.”

He did the initial triage assessment, then Ducky wrestled for a few moments with whether he should put an immobilization collar on the young man, in the event he had a neck or spine injury, but from the way his patient was moving, it seemed unlikely.

Ducky had tried, but the injured man would not obey any request to stay still. From the disjointed sounds he was making, his head lolling to one side, he appeared to be heavily drugged, but a severe head injury could also cause a similar presentation. Gasping for air, the man’s body began shaking as though he were in a seizure. He was panicking. This was a panic attack—wasn’t it?

Before Ducky could even ask, Gibbs moved forward to the gurney and tried to calm him, leaning over and talking into one ear and tapping his face, of all things. After a few seconds, the man’s left arm reached out blindly, latching on to Gibbs’ jacket, then pulling himself upright to hide his face against his rescuer. What struck the doctor at that moment was that despite the rescued man’s considerable disorientation, when Gibbs had tapped the side of his face, the young man had immediately recognized who this was. He didn’t appear combative, Ducky realized, but… he seemed terrified not so much of what was going on, but that, of all things, that Gibbs would abandon him. Did Jethro know him?

Throughout the man’s movements, Ducky kept his fingers resolutely on the man’s pulse, trying to get a reading. “Hold him still, Jethro. Has he been conscious? Or spoken to you? Or opened his eyes?”

Gibbs cleared his throat. “Uh, he’s been, uh, semi-conscious or unconscious mostly. Nothing spoken,” Gibbs said, shaking his head. “Just holds onto my sweatshirt and pushes his face against me.”

“Can you confirm that he’s been drugged?”

Gibbs nodded, one hand on the man’s back as he held the now shivering man in place. “The men who did this to Twitch... I heard them talking as they gave him a needle… uh… twenty or thirty minutes ago. Maybe longer? I don’t know what it was in it. Likely Twitch was drugged before that, and likely for a long time.”

Twitch. Ducky looked up at the name. Jethro was focussed on keeping the man calm. Twitch.

Stanley jogged over to where they were off to the side of the gymnasium. “Ducky, the medic who called for an ambulance just got through. They estimate ten to twenty minutes and asked if it’s life-or-death. When we told them we have two seasoned doctors, medics and emergency equipment, they said they will get here as soon as they can. It’s been a busy evening for them.”

“We were to have one on standby. They’ve clearly rerouted it.” Ducky swore—not out loud, but he swore, nonetheless—and turned back to his patient still slumped against Jethro, listening for his heart rate, his stethoscope’s chest piece moving around Twitch’s back to listen to his lungs. The unkempt man had some symptoms of hypothermia, but his pulse and breath rate both seemed too fast. The shivering was good, though.

“Interesting one, isn’t he?” Burley said, still standing nearby. He looked up at Gibbs. “Hey, Boss, I was just thinking about what the bartender said about Larry going somewhere with a needle at around 5:30 or so tonight. I’m wondering if he was doing something with your Twitch. Giving him a tranquilizer or ketamine or something.” Gibbs made a noncommittal grunting sound that both Ducky and Burley took to mean that Burley’s comment was a strong possibility. “I’m going to go monitor the photos being taken,” Burley said, when no one responded to him, and he headed off.

“You are calling him Twitch?” Ducky asked Gibbs after a moment. “Or is that his name?” He jotted down the vitals, then glanced up.

“Don’t know his name.”

“Okay.” With his patient still attached to Gibbs, Ducky quickly checked the man’s breathing rate again, and a terrified hoarse sound of distress came from his patient’s throat when he tightly pinched his shoulder. So, the young man responded to pain; that was good. He shifted the top silver blanket aside, revealing the man’s back. The blood seemed to be coming from a head wound on the upper side of his head. Further down showed wounds on his lower back, and when he moved the other blanket, he could see the wound on his thigh and bites on his legs. Twitch’s eyes, surrounded by bruising on his face, were tightly closed, dried tear streaks down his battered cheeks.

“My name is Gibbs. I’m here,” Gibbs whispered, repeating it once more, his index and middle finger together tapping a triple pattern on the side of the young man’s face, on his upper chest, and on his back as the rescued man weakly pushed himself towards Gibbs, one arm flailing. “You’re safe here, Twitch. We are getting you help. I’m here, Twitch.”

He wasn’t trying to get away, Ducky noted again, but trying to get closer. “I will need some assistance here!” he called out.

Jason, one of the medics, came over immediately. “I can help.”

“Excellent. Grab a triage clipboard.” Ducky took it from Jason, quickly wrote in the name Twitch, his last heart and breathing rates, then handed the clipboard to Jason. Making this a teaching moment, he ordered, “Now give me an Initial Glasgow Coma Scale. His eyes?”

After a moment of observation, Jason asked Gibbs. “Has he had his eyes open since being rescued?”

“No.”

Jason continued, addressing Ducky. “He’s eyes are closed now, and there is no recent history of his eyes being open.”

“Verbal?”

Another moment went by as Jason checked with Gibbs before making his own observation. “Sounds only. No words.”

“Motor?”

Jason checked quickly, then said, “He appears to withdraw from painful stimuli.”

“So, what is the score then?” Ducky questioned.

“Uh, Eyes: 1 point. Verbal: 2 points. And Motor: 4 points, maybe 5 points. Total of 7 or 8.” Jason continued, “So his head injury classification is Severe as it is under 8.”

“We have an ambulance on its way, but it may be delayed, so we will continue his assessment, Jason. Please note the time, and I will ask you to check him again in ten minutes, if the ambulance is not yet here. He has been drugged, so the initial assessment for head injury needs to be watched and re-evaluated in short order. He needs oxygen, bring the portable setup here, and then we will resume,” Ducky said. He removed the silver blankets, letting them fall to the floor, slick with blood and dirty from the floor of the truck and likely from being wrapped around the young man. Ducky kicked them towards Jason who was returning with the portable oxygen unit. “Put these blankets on the bench and bag them as evidence. We’ll leave a final blanket on him for now. First, though, his skin is cold to the touch; I need a rectal thermometer to get his core temperature and bring me several warmed blankets; he most likely has at least mild hypothermia and impaired thermo regulation.”

Once the man’s core temperature was taken, Ducky turned and called across the gymnasium. “Mr. Salinger! Let’s get this man’s photos taken straightaway.”

The former Navy SEAL approached the gurney with a Polaroid camera and another camera dangling from a strap at his wrist. “Can he stand?”

“No,” Gibbs said firmly.

“Get some pictures of his feet, legs, hips—especially the left hip where there is what looks like a knife wound—groin, abdomen and chest area,” Ducky said, “and then his face and head.”

Photos taken, Ducky put one of the warmed blankets over Twitch’s front torso and helped Gibbs maneuver the young man so he was sitting on the side of the stretcher leaning forward against the NCIS Special Agent. “Now his back,” Ducky instructed Salinger, “especially his lower back—looks like knife wounds—and the back of his head. …Yes, okay, that should be enough for now. We can take more once he’s been cleaned up.”

Ducky watched his patient, but he watched Jethro, as well, noting that his friend seemed to waver between allowing the photos to be taken and yet wanting to tell Salinger to get lost. It was quite astonishing, Ducky thought, as he watched Gibbs wrap a second warmed blanket around Twitch’s shoulders. Jethro had never before taken an interest in any of those rescued on these missions. Stanley was the one who always dealt with any NCIS agents, Navy, or Marines brought in for triage. Jethro would usually be on his way home by now, back to that shell of a boat in his basem*nt, and a bottle of whiskey.

Instead, Gibbs secured the blankets carefully around the young man. “You’re safe here, Twitch. Gibbs is here,” he said softly.

It was very odd hearing Jethro refer to himself in the third person, but he was clearly establishing who he was, giving the young man a name to hang on to. Very well done, Jethro, Ducky thought, nodding. “We need another warmed blanket over here for this young man’s legs,” Ducky called out to the medics. “His core temperature was 92F. We will bring his temperature up slowly.”

Dr. Lamott came over to offer his assistance, but Ducky held up a hand indicating everything was under control for now. “See to the other lads, Charles,” Ducky said to Lamott. “Perhaps have an intern bring a black coffee for Jethro,” he added.

Gibbs took the additional warmed blanket from Jason and wrapped it over the legs of the distressed man, still talking quietly in his ear trying to calm Twitch’s breathing.

Twitch. An odd name. A nickname of some sort? Standing a few feet away, Ducky quickly and carefully catalogued how Twitch moved, how he breathed—likely bruised ribs—maybe even cracked or broken. Every breath seemed to hurt. And he did twitch. Almost palsied, at times. Or was he on the verge of a seizure? Ducky’s heart went out to the lad. What had they done to him?

With a hoarse whimper, the rescued man settled abruptly, slumping forward against Gibbs as though too drugged or exhausted to continue to struggle, or perhaps—and Ducky hoped this would turn out to be the case—perhaps now hearing Gibbs’ message. His body still trembled and spasmed, though, and his mouth opened and closed trying to bring in air, while his left hand firmly clutched Gibbs’ jacket, and his face was up against Gibbs’ neck, dislodging the oxygen cannula.

“You’re safe, Twitch,” Gibbs said again, adjusting the oxygen. “It’s okay.”

Ducky took in the man’s shoulder-length matted hair, the dirt on hands and feet, and the telltale signs of some level of starvation and the apparent mild to moderate hypothermia, depending on how much his body temperature had climbed before the first core reading had been taken. There appeared to be no actively bleeding wounds besides the oozing head and hip wounds, and the cuts on the lower back, but that didn’t rule out internal bleeding from the beating he’d taken, mainly on his head and back, which could be why he wouldn’t lay flat on the gurney.

“So, who do we have here, Jethro?” Ducky asked quietly, handing a pair of disposable surgical gloves to Gibbs and then putting on a pair himself. “If he hasn’t spoken, I take it you do not know his name.” The remains of what had been a duct-tape blindfold was stuck firmly to his tangled hair; Ducky cut it free, snipping out pieces of hair along with the tape, while Gibbs held Twitch’s head still. Interesting that the young man did not react negatively to Gibbs’ touch.

Ducky cut off more of the hair around the head wound. Once he’d done so, he could see evidence of a previous injury on the back of his skull, dried blood in his matted hair, and then the more recent goose-egg bump at the top, left hemisphere. “Were you there when this happened to Twitch, Jethro?” Ducky asked, pointing to the bump. When Gibbs didn’t respond, he asked, “Did I get the name right? Twitch, is it?”

“It’s what I’ve been calling him.” Gibbs also pointed to the fresh bump. “If that’s from tonight, it’s from a pipe which I think was deflected partly by the chains holding Twitch off the ground,” he said angrily, although keeping his voice level. Twitch was slumped forward, his forehead leaning straight onto Gibbs’ Kevlar vest, carefully breathing in and out, his ragged breaths coming in short hitches. Twitch’s eyelashes fluttered, but his eyes didn’t open more than a crack. It was highly unlikely he knew what was going on.

Ducky gently rested his hand on what appeared to be an undamaged area of the man’s leg. “What history can you tell me, Jethro?” Ducky asked again, allowing Twitch to become familiar with his touch.

He watched with interest as Gibbs’ hand settled over Twitch’s face, shielding his eyes and perhaps giving him somewhere to hide his distraught emotions. “He wasn’t with the other four,” Gibbs said, frowning down at Twitch. “I was outside the building and saw a light or something in a basem*nt window… something my gut said…”. Gibbs seemed to pause and center himself. “I followed a hunch and found him in the basem*nt, a cold, rats’ hole of a place.”

Ducky looked closer when he heard the slight proprietary tone in his friend’s voice. So Twitch had been held, not only in another location in the building, as Jethro had said, but in unmistakably different circ*mstances than the others—different circ*mstances than all the others they had encountered over the past year and a half. What was this about? What was his story? It was not only how he appeared, but his younger age, and the level of neglect and cruelty. “Has anyone else, any of these other men, been able to provide his name, or say who he is or where he’s from?” Ducky asked, while reaching for the cup of coffee that one of the medics brought over.

Gibbs tapped the side of Twitch’s face and his shoulder. “They hadn’t seen him before and had no idea who he is, Ducky,” he muttered, his tone angry. He let out a long sigh and stood straighter. “Twitch has been drugged, his motor function is impaired, and he can’t stand on his own—you might want to check the bottom of his feet, as he didn’t want to put weight on them. Possibly has vertigo. I’ve been calling him Twitch, as he’s been spasming and shaking.”

“And the triple tap?” Ducky asked, intrigued. Jethro Gibbs was generally not a man one would expect to offer comfort—

And then the medical examiner stopped himself. That certainly wasn’t true. While Gibbs certainly didn’t coddle those who worked with him, and while he seemed far too proud that he could be a hard and uncaring taskmaster, and too often bragged about that second B in his surname standing for ‘bastard’, still the special agent had time and time again shown himself to be compassionate and caring with any innocents who got tangled in their cases. As though their plight compelled him to fight for them.

“The triple tap…” Gibbs said, straightening and taking the cup of coffee held out for him, draining most of it in several gulps. “He’s disoriented. Frightened. And the tapping identifies me. Before I was able to get to him, I heard them giving him a shot, enough to last a few days, they said; so I don’t know how much he’s even capable of understanding what is going on right now, but this at least tells him that I am ‘triple tap’. That I’m safe.” Gibbs finished off the coffee and seemed to drift away for a moment, then came back to himself. “I’ve seen the tapping done before.”

“Ah.” Ducky recognized that look on his old friend, the side drift to battles and rescue missions during his time in the Gulf War and in Colombia. “Well, Jethro, perhaps, with luck, your Twitch shall understand that two taps means I am a doctor.” Ducky then did a double tap to the side of Twitch’s cheek. “My name is Doctor Mallard,” he said close to the man’s ear, as Gibbs had done. “I am a medical doctor, here to assist you.” Ducky repeated the double tap. “I am a doctor. A doctor.”

Ducky paused, watching Gibbs as he was able to calm the young man down from his terror of a new person touching him. “Jethro, I need to establish some sort of recent history for the medical intake. If we don’t have a proper name for him, if he hasn’t identified himself and he’s not speaking, we will have to rely on what you briefly heard and saw in this basem*nt area, and what we can tell from his physical condition.”

Ducky looked up at the clock. Almost ten minutes now, and no sign of the ambulance. “Let’s move him into a private area and check in more detail there.” Ducky looked around, then called out again. “Jason!” When the medic came over, the doctor said, “I will need your assistance recording this young man’s injuries and history.” While the medic flipped to the standard triage chart on the clipboard, Ducky studied his patient and Gibbs.

BURLEY
Friday, 9:25 PM

Stan Burley watched, intrigued, as Gibbs let the very unkempt young man they’d rescued cling to his jacket. It was odd, not something he had come to expect from Gibbs over the last five years, unless, as all who knew him agreed, a child was involved and that brief glimpse of Gibbs-as-human-being was revealed.

It was clear that while Twitch showed definite signs of physical abuse and beatings, Stan suspected that the cage he’d been held in—probably in the cold and dark, with rats able to get in and out of it easily—was a possible larger issue here. From the very brief glimpse of the cage—maybe four feet high, six feet long and four feet wide—Twitch would have been unable to stand upright in it. Even laying down would be painful, as the chain link ran beneath the cage as well. There had been a ragged blanket or two—because, after all, if Twitch died of hypothermia, he’d be no use to them. There was a bucket in the corner—probably for him to relieve himself in—and the only evidence of him being given food were McDonald’s cheeseburger wrappers and pop containers littered outside the cage. If that was all that had been occasionally provided for him…

“Ducky!” Stan quickly passed on his observances of the cage to the NCIS Medical Examiner, as it was likely that Gibbs—for all his partner’s legendary ability to catalog a crime scene—had been otherwise occupied during the brief time they were dealing with multiple shooters and rats and a man hanging in chains in the basem*nt.

When Dr Mallard closed the curtain around the more private triage room, Burley turned his attention to where Lance Billings and Mitch Salinger looked at the Polaroid photographs of the four men rescued, documenting any visible injuries noted before Dr. Lamott and the medics did their assessment. Non-Polaroid photographs had also taken, the film put aside to be developed in the FBI labs.

Two of the men—Walmor and Johnson—had been processed already and were now returning from the showers, towels wrapped around their waists, their bodies clean and showcasing only minor injuries—mainly bruises from what Burley could see at a glance, watching as they dried their hair with second towels and spoke with the female medic Starra, Mitch’s daughter, who was adding information to their intake sheets.

The other two men left for the showers walking like mindless zombies, toothbrushes and towels in hand, assisted by one of the other members of the medical team usually attending at these missions. “Do we know who that is yet with Borka?” Stan asked Billings, gesturing to the fourth man.

The FBI Special Agent nodded. “Air Force Staff Sergeant Renwick.” Billings looked down at his clipboard. “Conrad Renwick.”

“Renwick?” Stan frowned. “I don’t remember there being a Renwick on our list.”

Billings shrugged. “From what we’ve been able to get from him, he was supposed to be on vacation starting last week, on the 4^th of February, backpacking. Likely no one knew he had been kidnapped, so no one reported him missing yet.”

“When was he kidnapped? Right on the 4^th or after?”

“He doesn’t remember much, including exactly when, where, and how he was taken. When these drugs wear off, we’ll get more.” Billings looked over at the closed-off examination area. “Strange about that kid Gibbs found.”

“Yeah. Think he’s tied in?” Stan asked.

“Not unless they’re now appealing to a different group of clients. Just the one down in the basem*nt, right? Any sign of others being held there?”

“Just the one cage. It’s mainly a storage area of some kind: All kinds of stacks of boxes, sealed plastic bins, and wooden crates down there, as well as rows of shelving set up at one end with smaller boxes. There are two separate entrances, plus one entrance into the main stairwell—where Gibbs went in. Likely the basem*nt was leased to another group as it didn’t appear related to the kink club. Whoever is storing stuff in the basem*nt apparently has a twisted side interest with that ‘Twitch’.”

Billings nodded. “The building is being checked for other damage or explosives before the SWAT team goes in. They’ll be checking upstairs and down.”

“Did they get the manager and assistant manager?” Burley asked.

“The explosion changed the schedule. The staff arriving at 8:30 were not able to get access to the building, but the manager and assistant manager were apprehended at the scene. I don’t believe they have been questioned yet about the basem*nt and this other kid,” Billings said. “But we have other groups to deal with any illegal activity of that nature, if it’s determined to be a separate group from our investigation—which I’m sure it will be. We’ll leave the guy Gibbs found to the hospital and the local police. We’re not taking on any more side investigations, not within our mandate.”

DUCKY
Friday, 9:30 PM

“Jethro, you said Twitch wasn’t with the others?” Ducky asked, moving around the gurney to tilt his head to see Twitch’s face, still head-butted against Gibbs’ chest. “He was found in a lower level?”

“From outside, I saw some flashing lights in the lower windows and found him in the basem*nt.” Jethro’s fingers tapped on the back of Twitch’s neck, keeping him in place and “safe” as Ducky continued his assessment of the young man’s injuries and wounds, looking for anything he may have missed that was life-threatening. Gibbs stopped talking, his hand still lightly rubbing Twitch’s back.

“You also said they fired a few shots at him,” Ducky said. “Were they trying to kill him?” Ducky glanced over to the intern, Jason, leaning against the gym wall in their tiny enclosure, taking notes.

Gibbs said nothing for a few long seconds, then cleared his throat and seemed to make the journey back from the battlefield or from his last undercover assignment or from wherever he was stalled in his PTSD brain. “Kill him? I don’t know, Duck. If they’d wanted to kill him, they could have done so anytime. Maybe they knew he could identify them, though. One of them had already hit Twitch with a metal pipe to keep him from talking.”

“So initially, why were they shooting? For sport, thinking the building empty?”

Gibbs shrugged. “The first shots I heard were likely to scare the rats. But by the time Burley entered the basem*nt, they realized someone else was there and the shooters took aim at us and at Twitch in the dark, then they took off—I thought Twitch might have been hit before I could get him down.”

“Let’s take a quick look at him then while we’re waiting for the ambulance,” Ducky said. “Jason, bring me a basin of warm water with a small amount of soap. And several small towels.” Ducky paused when Jason left, looking back at Gibbs and Twitch, deciding on a course of action. “I’ll do what I can for him before we send him off; clean him off some here where it’s quieter. He is not testing high enough on the Glasgow Coma Scale to avoid a trip to the emergency room.”

“Are these other guys going to the hospital?”

“No. Charles will be treating them here, taking blood samples, and watching them overnight. We do have an ER room waiting at the local hospital—quiet, lowered lights, private—that we can use if needed. I think the time, uh, Twitch, is spending with you at this present moment, feeling safe and quiet and warming up, will do more for him in the coming hours and days than the chaos of visiting a hospital just yet. He doesn’t appear to be in any immediate danger from his wounds, Jethro, so I’d like to check his blood pressure, reassess him, then take his core temperature and Glasgow Code Scale again in fifteen minutes.”

When Ducky began to inflate the blood pressure cuff wrapped around Twitch’s left arm, Twitch tried to push against the thing hurting his arm. Gibbs gently but firmly took Twitch’s hand and kept it still, and surprisingly, Twitch didn’t fight it; he stayed motionless and silent, his head butted against Gibbs’ chest, his eyes never opening despite the uncomfortable tightness of the procedure.

Jason returned with the requested basin of warm water and brought with him the Polaroid camera to document the injuries found on Twitch once they were cleaned.

“Yes, thank you, Jason. If you could handle the photos, it would be appreciated. You’ve been told what we need.” Ducky jotted down the blood pressure and drew several vials of blood, labelled them, and put them aside. Twitch had not reacted to the initial needle, other than a brief flinch. The crook of his left elbow showed new and older needle marks and bruises. “Twitch will have more bloodwork done at the hospital, but I’ve taken these for Abigail,” Ducky said to Jethro, and Gibbs nodded. They were both sure their forensic scientist would be willing to run whatever additional pathology tests they needed.

Ducky turned back to his patient, noting Twitch’s distress had slowly increased over the past ten minutes, although his only reaction was to hunch his shoulders, tighten his grip on Gibbs’ shirt and press his face further against Gibbs’ chest, which was beginning to wear on the NCIS special agent’s nerves. “Let’s do this as quickly as we can, Jethro. Do stay with him. He seems to be holding onto you for dear life.”

Gibbs gave a quiet grunt but stayed in place, placing the now empty coffee container on the floor behind him. He spoke quietly close to Twitch’s ear, which calmed the young man, whether from what was said or the tone used.

Ducky gently pulled down the blanket Twitch was wrapped in to take a more detailed look at his back. Photos were taken, then Jason took the washcloth, moistened it and began cleaning Twitch’s back, working away from the knife wounds entries which fortunately didn’t appear to be deep.

“Jethro, we’re seeing shallow puncture wounds here on his lower back, likely stabs from a knife and likely done to inflict pain and fear, not to cause severe injury; there are others as well that appear to be a week old, several are infected,” Ducky confirmed with a huff of exasperation.

“I heard someone say he was carving his initials on Twitch’s lower back.”

“These stab wounds are too random to be anyone’s initials,” Ducky mused. The rest of Twitch’s back showed blunt trauma where he’d been punched, probably with brass knuckles. The bruises seemed to be both current and older, some looking a week old, with other bruises almost faded away.

“And what about this scarring?” Ducky asked Jason, his fingers tracing faint lines crisscrossing the young man’s back, only barely visible under the bright lights. “How old would you say these were?”

“Over ten years, maybe even going back to childhood,” Jason said after a moment of puzzlement. “A plastic surgeon would probably be able to tell.”

Ducky nodded in agreement, meeting Jason’s frown with a shrug. Both wrists were cleaned and lightly bandaged, raw from the metal cuffs he had hung from. Twitch was favoring his right wrist, so Ducky took extra care in wrapping it. X-rays would have to wait for the hospital. They checked over his head, looking at a bump on the back of his skull, and a laceration near his left temple, as well as the bruising on his face.

“Jethro, we’re going to gently move Twitch to his back on the gurney, if we can,” Ducky directed. The young man was clearly stressed, not being able to process what was going on, only partly conscious, reacting finally to Gibbs’ tapping that triple pattern.

Ducky and Jason worked as quickly as they could, documenting the bruises on Twitch’s chest, the gasping sound and slight arching when his ribs were checked. His abdomen seemed bruised with more abrasions, but no indication of internal bleeding. And his lack of normal weight for someone his height and age could be natural for him, but more likely was from malnutrition over weeks or maybe even months.

Gibbs looked away, keeping his attention on calming Twitch as Ducky’s gentle hands moved from Twitch’s abdomen to carefully examine his groin and genitals. Ducky and Jason then checked out Twitch’s legs, ankles, and feet, letting the saline solution clean out the cuts and bites, then patted the area dry, applied some antibiotic ointment, and lightly bandaged him.

“How would you describe this bullet scar, Jason?” Ducky asked, indicating a circular scar on Twitch’s leg.

Jason took pictures, front and side. “Yes, Doctor. Uh, on the medial superior side of his left leg, five inches above his knee shows a gunshot wound, appearing to be through and through, as his leg’s posterior side shows a matching exit wound.”

“And how old would that be?” Ducky coached.

Jason took a closer look. “Over five years, possibly even ten years.”

“And these scars?”

“On his legs? Hard to say. This scar down the side of his leg looks a little jagged, so likely not from surgery. Maybe a car accident? Bike accident? He’s probably broken some bones in his legs, and he has had a small skin graft, so maybe some road rash? It’s on his inner forearm, too. My friend has the same thing from a bicycle accident a few years ago, but this guy’s injuries look older.”

“Very good. We shall make note of that, and the hospital will x-ray him. And his wrists?”

Jason muttered as he checked Twitch’s wrists. “Handcuffed?”

“Cuffed and hung up on chains. Suspended,” Ducky said flatly.

Jason blinked, taking in the information as he looked up at the doctor, then back at their patient. “I’ve heard of superficial radial handcuff neuropathy,” Jason offered, “but I wouldn’t make a diagnosis of anything like that without an MRI. I can see the abrasions and swelling, especially on his right wrist, which looks raw. X-rays would show if there are any broken bones.”

“Very good,” Ducky murmured. They moved Twitch to his left side and cleaned the shallow knife wounds on his lower back, quickly examined his buttocks and rectal area, then the larger knife wound to his hip, and then cleaned at least ten bites on the back of his legs, which Ducky deemed were also from rats. “Most of these bites do not appear to be infected and have occurred over the course of several weeks. Several of them do show signs of infection, so appropriate antibiotics are in order. We will advise the hospital and watch for what is called ‘Rat-bite Fever’. Symptoms can begin three to twenty-one days after being bitten, depending on the type of Rat-bite fever.”

GIBBS
Friday, 9:55 PM

Gibbs had watched Ducky’s examination proceed, only half-listening to the often-abbreviated conversation between Ducky and the medic Jason who was recording it all. And he really didn’t want to know about anything called Rat-Bite Fever, or that it had many variants that Ducky felt necessary to go through in great detail to the fascinated Jason.

Gibbs stepped back and pulled off his heavy jacket and Kevlar vest, then glanced at his watch. It was almost 10:00 PM. He had thought the ambulance would be here, and he’d be home by now, but he felt strongly reluctant to just abandon Twitch until then. If Twitch had been one of the other men they’d rescued, it wouldn’t be an issue. At the end of past missions, Gibbs had always made a point to leave as soon as they arrived at the army base or had waited outside for Ducky to finish the quick exams and give Gibbs a ride back to his car at the Navy Yard. He had always known that someone else was charged with the care of those men they’d rescued. It wasn’t his job.

But this kid was different. Twitch was a nobody. Maybe a homeless person kidnapped and held by—some group. Some equally anonymous group.

No one, including Gibbs, believed Twitch had been captured by the same group who had kidnapped the others. The rescue team seemed to be discounting Twitch as a nameless nobody who didn’t match their precious criteria, willing to just hand Twitch over to the local authorities to deal with before they even figured out who he was. Billings seemed annoyed they’d even found him.

It made Gibbs’ blood boil.

The area around the gurney was crowded with Ducky and Jason trying to move around Twitch, so Gibbs stepped further away long enough to put his jacket and vest safely to one side, then he detoured to visit the men’s restroom and wash his hands. He glanced up into the mirror, surprised by his bloodshot eyes and weary face. He knew he was tired, but it was still early for him. This—all this—was draining him.

When he returned to the small curtained-off examining room, the ambulance still hadn’t come. Ducky was working on Twitch’s lower back, stitching up a few of the bigger cuts. Lying curled on his left side, Twitch’s fisted hands were pressed against his own chest. Gibbs could see that he was trembling, so that might mean he was at least subliminally aware of what was going on as he was staying in place, not trying to escape.

Ducky glanced up at Gibbs. “He’s not with us,” the doctor said, his attention back on the needle and surgical thread expertly stitching up an especially jagged cut. “Young Twitch is clearly still lost in a drugged fog; no doubt, fear is clouding his reactions. Since you left, his breathing has been in short intakes of air from his mouth, followed by equally short, ragged exhales through his nose. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say he is afraid—terrified—to move.”

As Ducky continued his ministrations, Twitch’s shuddering and flinches increased as these strange hands poked and prodded him, examining his wounds and bruises, and Gibbs could see how frightened he was just having more strangers touching him and looking at him.

“Would he have any idea what’s going on, Duck?” Gibbs asked, frowning down at Twitch. “That he’s been rescued from that place?”

“On some level, he must. But he is likely trying to figure out if he’s just gone from the frying pan to the fire, poor lad.”

Not knowing how else to help him, Gibbs took Twitch’s left hand in his and tapped, then rubbed Twitch’s palm, immediately feeling the young man’s fingers snap closed on his own fingers. “Give me a minute,” Gibbs said, interrupting Ducky, who immediately stepped back from Twitch. Gibbs leaned forward, his free hand resting on top of Twitch’s head as he tapped Twitch’s cheek and whispered into his ear, “You’re safe here. We rescued you. The doctor is making sure you are okay. You’re with me. With Gibbs. You’re safe.”

Twitch’s shivering only increased, and his grip on Gibbs’ hand grew tighter.

“Ask him to open his eyes,” Ducky said softly.

Gibbs passed on the request, but there was no response. Twitch’s eyes remained tightly closed.

“Jethro, has he ever given any indication that he understands what you’re saying?” Ducky asked. “Or that he can hear you? Or, for that matter, if he can hear at all?”

Gibbs straightened out, considering the question and realizing its importance. “I don’t know, Duck. I’m fairly certain he knows who I am from the tapping. He reacts to that, and there’s a measure of safety. He knows my voice, too, but I can’t tell you if he understands what I am saying to him, or maybe just recognizes my voice. He can hear—he reacted to the sound of gunshots, I remember, but they were loud.”

Ducky looked down at Twitch with a compassion that almost brought tears to Gibbs’ eyes, and he was surprised by his own emotions, seemingly just under the surface.

The doctor nodded slowly. “The drugs in his system could be preventing him from responding. Or perhaps there’s been some sort of brain damage. He is showing signs of hypothermia, and in more advanced stages, we’ve seen that mental activity is negatively affected. This young man has clearly shown himself to be confused, dizzy, and disconnected. Not to worry, they will check him more extensively at the hospital.” Ducky sent Jason to get the other two medics.

Gibbs glanced up at the bright fluorescent ceiling lights of the gymnasium. “Can we get some of those turned off? Maybe it’s bothering his eyes.”

“We’ll be quick, Jethro.” Ducky said, then welcomed the other two medics to come in and observe the rat bites and followed with yet another discussion on the two major different types and symptoms of Rat-bite Fever that again took far more time than Gibbs was comfortable with. As Ducky seemed to start on one of his trademark stories, Gibbs interrupted, and Ducky promptly sent the others away.

A few tears began to run down the young man’s face and Twitch shivered and twisted, grabbing hold of Gibbs again and this time pulling himself to sit upright on the table, his forehead once again butted against Gibbs’ chest, his left hand scrambling to hold on to Gibbs’ sweatshirt. His body shook in what appeared to be shock, panic causing his rapid breathing to become unsteady rattling gasps as he tried to hide from whatever monsters he felt were after him.

“You done?” Gibbs snapped, and when Ducky stepped back and nodded, Gibbs exchanged a blanket that had cooled down for a warm one Starra brought him, and he wrapped it around Twitch and tried to make him feel safe, tuning out the activities of the medical staff around him. Gibbs grabbed another bottle of water, this one at room temperature and let Twitch hold it in his right hand and slowly drink it until twenty seconds later he appeared to be back asleep.

Gibbs closed his eyes. Memories of previous rescues while in the military warred with scattered memories of being rescued himself. Machine gun fire, blood, missing limbs, burned bodies. Abuse. Physical abuse. Sexual abuse. Death.

And the hidden abuse: Psychological. Emotional. PTSD. Being dead but still alive.

“Jethro,” Ducky said, his voice low, from a distance. “Jethro.”

He blinked.

“Jethro, I need your help.”

Gibbs brought himself back, aware of the gymnasium’s harsh light, the “gym” smell, the echoing of voices beyond their curtained off area. “What?” he asked, realizing that Ducky had asked him something.

“We’re fine for the moment, Jethro. Just keep him quiet.” Ducky turned to Jason who had returned. “The ambulance should be here at any time, Jason. Please inform them while they are in route that we have an unidentified patient, male, early to mid 20s. He is non-verbal, semi-conscious and has not opened his eyes. He’s been held as a prisoner for an unknown amount of time—likely a month or more taking into consideration his hair and beard. He appears to be heavily drugged and has been beaten and stabbed. Sexual abuse is clearly indicated but it is unclear at this time the full nature of the abuse without a more detailed examination. He came in with a core temperature of 92 and has multiple sites of infection due to a stab wound on his hip, shallow punctures on his lower back, and a series of bites from rats, some of which are infected. We will also provide information from our initial triage assessment. I’m concerned about the level of disorientation from drugs and injury,” Ducky paused, waiting for Jason to catch up in taking his notes. “Also, please stress that he is one of Dr. Lamott’s patients from the JTFHRT- FBI team. We need the separate quiet room we have used in the past, light adjusted, noise reduced.”

When Jason left them to make his call, Ducky turned to Gibbs. “The ambulance will be here anytime,” he repeated. “I’m concerned about his ribs and head trauma.”

“The head wound from that pipe?”

“Whatever caused it, Twitch was hit on the head quite recently, hard enough to show a medium laceration and a bump. Perhaps that is what is causing his disorientation.” Ducky sighed. “I’ve done what I can here, Jethro. He must be seen in an Emergency Room. You will accompany him, and I will follow you in my car.”

No, no, no, no. Gibbs straightened up. “I can get a ride with someone back to the Navy Yard. No need for me to go.” The words came out more rapidly than he had intended. “I’ve done my part.”

The answering look on Ducky’s face showed his displeasure. Disappointment. And impatience. “You really must go with him, Jethro. Until he comes to himself, you’re his only point of safety. And I fear the lights and noises of an emergency room would be too much for him left alone. He’s lucky to have you on his side. You’ll do just fine.” Ducky patted Gibbs’ arm firmly as he turned to leave them. “I’ll see what I can do to get us out of here quickly when the ambulance arrives.”

Frustrated, Gibbs stared across the small triage area as Ducky disappeared through the curtains. He really didn’t want to commit himself for staying even a minute longer, but, truth be told, despite Ducky’s words, and much as he hated himself for it, he needed to know that someone at the hospital would be actually taking care of Twitch.

It wasn’t NCIS’s jurisdiction, though—unless the kid turned out to be Navy or Marine personnel—so Gibbs really had no compelling reason to stay. He could just make his way back to the Navy Yard, and Ducky would certainly see that Twitch received help. The FBI or maybe even the local police would handle it once Twitch got to the hospital.

And yet… here he stood, gently rubbing the back of the kid he had rescued.

DUCKY
Friday, 10:20 PM

Ducky left the curtained-off booth and located Colonel Lamott. “Charles, any word on the ambulance?”

“Jason just called, and they are five minutes away,” the army doctor said.

“They’ve been five minutes away for twenty minutes now. Charles, how are those rescued?” he asked.

Lamott in turn summoned over one of the medics, apparently also using this as a teaching moment. He handed him the patient clipboards. “Mike, briefly fill in Ducky here on what is the current situation with each of our four rescued men.”

“Five,” Ducky said quietly.

“Sure. Five men rescued. But for my records, I’m only looking at the four men from our investigation,” Lamott said, brushing off Ducky’s correction, and then nodding to the medic. “Mike, brief Dr Mallard.”

The army medic nodded. “Yes, sir. Uh…” Michael quickly studied the clipboards Lamott had passed to him. “Let’s see... Dr. Mallard, physically the four men that were rescued today,” he glanced up, “—sorry, Doctor, the five men rescued today—are all in relatively good health. As for their mental and psychological—”

“I beg to differ, Michael,” Ducky said, interrupting. “The young man I just checked over is most certainly not in good health.”

Michael shrugged, handing the clipboards back to Lamott. “No disrespect to the other man found, Dr Mallard, but FBI Intelligence Analyst Walmor says that he and the others are all trained agents and army personnel; they’ve received instruction on how to survive things like this. They’ve said that their units and teams will help them get on their feet again.”

Ducky stood with his arms crossed as he looked back and forth from Lamott to the army medic and quickly decided that there was no purpose in continuing the conversation. “How fortunate for the unfortunate elite four,” he said tersely. “Michael, please tell me where NCIS Special Agent Burley might be?”

Michael appeared wary of the diminutive doctor. “FBI Special Agent Billings and your NCIS Special Agent Burley are in one of our offices right now interviewing—” Mike glanced at his notes, “—the FBI Intelligence Analyst Steve Walmor and Army Lt. Bob Johnson. Fortunately, as Walmor had not been drugged in the last few days, and Johnson has been deemed able to participate in the conversation, they are both able to give an account of what transpired—at least from the viewpoint of the captives.”

“And the others?”

Michael glanced over to Lamott, then answered Ducky. “The other two, well, they are still in some difficulty. At the moment, NCIS Special Agent Brian Borka and Air Force Staff Sergeant Conrad Renwick are still in the showers, Doctor. They’ll be brought out and given clothing and food when they’re ready, and then formally interviewed as they are able.”

Ducky decided to get in one more punch after all. “And what is being done about the fifth man rescued?”

Colonel Lamott spoke up then. “As you said, the kid Gibbs found will go to the hospital, and they will likely treat him as a John Doe until they can figure out who he is. They get people like that every day. We can pass on our information to the police.”

Ducky’s cellphone thankfully rang then before he could give a likely unprofessional retort, and he peeled off one of his gloves and moved to one side to take the call when he saw it was NCIS dispatch. Two minutes later, he ended the call and stood for a moment trying to figure out what to do next. He peeled his other glove off carefully as he thought. Coming to a decision, he motioned for the army medic to join him. “Michael,” Ducky said, calmly, “please inform Stanley Burley that I would like to speak with him most urgently as soon as he has a moment. I won’t keep him long.”

Chapter 4: Saturday at the Hospital

Chapter Text

GIBBS
Washington, DC, Hospital
Location undisclosed
Saturday, February 17, 2001
12:42 AM

Gibbs exhaled deliberately, evenly, trying to slow down his heart rate as adrenaline continued to pump through his system.

How the hell did I end up here?

How the hell had he ended up sitting on a mattress on the floor in the corner of a hospital’s ER treatment room, a gun in his right hand trained steadily on the closed door, and his left arm wrapped protectively around a half-naked, semiconscious man huddled against him trembling uncontrollably, a man whose name he didn’t even know.

And without a coffee.

Gibbs felt a growl low in his throat, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder still present in the room. He spared a moment and glanced again at the tangle of lines, tubes, and sensors still attached to the man, satisfied for the moment that all were likely functioning and connected to where they were supposed to be. He leaned forward carefully and snagged a blanket from the wheeled bed, arranging it over Twitch’s curled body.

Damn them. He hadn’t wanted to be on the rescue mission in the first place. He’d made that abundantly clear. And yet Director Morrow and Burley had somehow talked him into it. Guilted him into it. Somehow.

And then he hadn’t wanted to stick around at the Army base while they checked Twitch over. Yet he’d stayed initially because no one seemed to give a damn about Twitch, and then he’d stayed longer because somehow Ducky had talked him into it because Twitch was traumatized, and Ducky claimed that Gibbs was the only one able to keep him calm. Somehow.

And then Gibbs definitely hadn’t wanted to be drafted to go with Twitch in the ambulance to the hospital, but Ducky couldn’t go because he had been called back to the Navy Yard by some other NCIS team to deal with two incoming bodies, and Burley and Billings couldn’t go because they were dealing with issues at the army base. So Ducky and Burley had decided that Gibbs had to be the one to go with Twitch, because they said they didn’t want to send Twitch alone or he’d be passed over to the police, treated like any other John Doe, and they had yet to determine if Twitch was part of the JTFHRT mission and fell under their authority. Of course, they said all that knowing that Gibbs had voiced his own concerns earlier on what would happen if Twitch was abandoned at the hospital.

And therefore, since it was mutually decided that Twitch shouldn’t be left unattended, it made sense for Gibbs to stay with him, they had said, as Gibbs was the only one somehow able to keep him calm. Again, somehow.

Somehow…

Somehow, Gibbs hadn’t been able to walk out of the director’s office, or the army base, or the hospital. He was digging a hole for himself, and he was sinking deeper at each missed opportunity to bow out.

He glanced to the clock high up on the wall. Over four and a half hours had gone by since he’d seen that flash of light in the basem*nt window of the Kinkhouse, and they were no closer to finding out Twitch’s identify now than then. Burley had taken a Polaroid photo of Twitch at the army base, and it had been faxed over to the FBI office, but there was no feedback yet, at least none they had relayed to Gibbs. Burley had said they’d know more later on Saturday afternoon, or maybe Sunday or Monday, or hell—maybe a week or a month from now—if his photo even matched any missing persons’ data over the past two years. Before they’d left the Army base, Billings had taken Twitch’s fingerprints, but even once Billings would have a chance to return to the FBI HQ to manually run it through the new IAFIS FBI lab, the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System was only as good as the data it had to work with. Theoretically the new system could take as little as thirty minutes, but since using it on multiple occasions over the past year since it came online, Gibbs had only had sporadic success with it. Abby promised it would get better. Gibbs was going to hold her to it. And all that was if Twitch’s fingerprints were even on file.

The ambulance had arrived at the army base at 10:40 PM, and Twitch had been quickly loaded into it. Their patient had reacted to being moved and jostled, and he twisted away from the paramedics, clinging to one of the railings as he tried to get off the stretcher, his eyes squeezed shut as he made a barely vocal wailing that sounded more injured animal than human.

Gibbs had jumped in the back and had been able to calm Twitch so the attendants could put an oxygen mask on him and hook him up to something that that monitored his heart rate. The ride to the hospital had been twenty minutes of sheer frustration. There were no sirens, but it had still been a battle to stop the semiconscious patient from panicking from the movement of the vehicle, and difficult to keep him in place on the ambulance’s stretcher, especially when Gibbs had stopped the paramedics from using wrist or leg restraints.

There had been some relief from the disturbing wailing noise when the paramedic had adjusted the stretcher so that Twitch was able to lie on his side, but a moment later the sticky patches showing Twitch’s heart rate showed an unstable heartbeat—from shock they said—and he was gasping for breath. The ambulance attendance put a larger oxygen mask over Twitch’s face which he tore off, then Gibbs had sat on the edge of the stretcher and had successfully held the oxygen mask in place, triple-tapping the side of Twitch’s face as the young man had calmed, breathing in the oxygen as one hand grasped hold of Gibbs’ left hand over the mask and his other hand let go of the railing and rooted around until he had Gibbs’ right wrist.

Gibbs had growled quietly. Twitch’s only sign of even partial awareness the past few hours was his need to hold onto him. Which was rather creeping the NCIS agent out.

When they’d arrived at the hospital, the new noises, the bright overhead lights, and the general confusion in the emergency room had only exasperated the problem. They had been immediately moved through to the emergency treatment room Ducky had arranged for them; the lights were dimmed there, and the closed door helped to cut down on the noise. Somebody quickly brought Gibbs a coffee, apparently because of a phoned request from a Dr. Mallard. Ducky was a good man.

The ambulance paramedic had said that Twitch was only marginally aware, in a dazed state heightened by the drugs in his system. Gibbs had discovered that keeping one hand at the back of Twitch’s neck seemed to secure his head from thrashing, while the fingers of Gibbs’ other hand doing a triple tap on Twitch’ cheek now and then seemed to calm him down. The tapping helped when he was fitted with an oxygen cannula, and when the nurses needed to draw additional blood for the large spectrum of tests the hospital required to determine what drugs he’d been given, and when they hooked Twitch up to an IV, catheter, and heart monitors. Gibbs had tapped, and the man had calmed.

It had taken a relatively short time for someone to come and do a quick overview of Twitch’s condition, relying heavily on Ducky’s notes. There wasn’t anything new, though, that Ducky hadn’t already told Gibbs, and Gibbs had relayed to the physician that laying on his back was uncomfortable for Twitch because of the cuts and beating he’d taken, primarily on his upper back between his shoulder blades, and on his lower back, just above his waist. The doctor had noted that, and also the still oozing wound on the left side of Twitch’s head where he’d received the blow from the metal pipe.

Various tests had taken up the next hour, some easier than others. Separated from Gibbs, Twitch would arch his back and tremble, reaching out blindly to find him. The interns and technicians glanced at each other, then accommodated the distraught patient. They’d made it through the x-rays of his ribs, which ended up showing as bruised, not broken, and his right wrist, which appeared to be badly bruised and chafed. X-rays of his legs in the area of his scars showed the possibility of two breaks on one leg and one on the other, but these were old injuries which had healed fully. His left arm also showed the possibility of a previous break, probably as old as the others.

There had been further X-rays of his head, and then CT scans were taken. Fortunately Twitch was unconscious—or possibly asleep—throughout; he stayed ‘sleeping’ even while the machine buzzed and whirred and jerked forward. He ended up remaining motionless for the entire scan, awaking only as the table slid back, which sent him into another panicked, disoriented state.

Gibbs had accompanied Twitch back to the private treatment room in the emergency department while waiting for a doctor to look at the tests. Several times it seemed Twitch was attempting to open his eyes, but he always squeezed them shut again and firmed his grip on Gibbs. The paramedic in the ambulance had speculated vertigo might be causing Twitch’s disorientation. A few times, Twitch appeared to have some sort of abdominal cramps, drawing up his legs, twisting on his side, with a hand over his stomach, his other fist almost white as he grasped Gibbs' hand. Twitch's hands were bruised, his knuckles raw, nails broken and torn.

He's scared. Gibbs wasn’t sure how to reassure him that there were doctors and medical people all around who were there to help him. He told Twitch that, and he told Twitch everything would be okay, and he was in good hands. Maybe it was true, he thought ruefully. Regardless, it really didn’t matter because Twitch was too out of it to hear anything. He only understood the triple-taps, it seemed, and probably just on a subconscious level, one of the interns told him.

A male nurse had brought a fresh hospital gown and the unknown man’s voice had panicked Twitch who again began making disturbing moaning cries of distress. Gibbs sent the nurse away and maneuvered Twitch to sit on the edge of the bed. Aware of the pain in his shoulder joints from having been suspended from his wrists for God only knew how long, Gibbs triple-tapped his arm, then slowly slid one arm into the gown, then the other, and then gently drew the smooth cotton garment over Twitch’s shoulders and tied the closure in the back.

He was just finishing when a female orthopedic surgeon showed up to examine Twitch’s damaged right wrist. Twitch had remained motionless, still sitting upright, his eyes tightly closed. If he was conscious at all, he was completely ignoring her and didn’t respond to any pressure on his wrist or to anything she said. She spoke in a soft cheerful sing-song British accent as she put a compression bandage on his wrist, and then brought in some ice for it. She patted his arm when she left, and Twitch turned his head slightly toward the door when it closed. Whether or not he’d understood her, he might have ‘heard’ her voice, Gibbs thought. Or maybe it was just that it was a female’s voice and his limited reasoning ability had not considered her threatening.

The ER intern who came in to check Twitch periodically had commented that being basically non-vocal and non-responsive was making it difficult to ascertain what Twitch’s pain level was. When he’d checked the dressings and stitches on Twitch’s numerous knife cuts and abrasions when they’d first arrived at the hospital, the examination seemed to evoke no pain response in Twitch, just a fear-based one, and that perhaps one of the drugs he’d been given was a pain-repressor, something like the surgery anesthetics “knock-out” drugs often used in date rape co*cktails.

All in all, it seemed to be a whole lot of “nobody has a clue” about what was happening with the young man. He was just another unknown traumatized patient in a busy hospital emergency room. At 12:35 AM, though , while Gibbs continued to wait with Twitch—still in the same examination room #112b in the corridor just off from main Emergency Room—the sh*t had hit the fan.

The gunfire had come out of the blue while Gibbs was sitting in an easy chair on the far side of the examination bed facing the door. After the hecticness of the evening, he was just starting to relax after being on hyper alert for almost six hours since being summoned to the NCIS Director’s office; Twitch also appeared calmer; the trembling had stopped unless someone came into the room, and the twitches only happened every few minutes instead of every fifteen seconds. Twitch was laying on his left side on the bed facing Gibbs who had a coffee in one hand—again courtesy of someone in response to a second phone request from Ducky. Gibbs’ cellphone was in his right hand, trying to read a text from Ducky, made more difficult as Twitch, even though apparently asleep, had a good grasp on Gibbs’ right sleeve.

The door to the treatment room had suddenly been flung open. Gibbs had less than a second to react as he glimpsed two men wearing dark hoodies, one with a gun out; Gibbs dropped his coffee, hauled Twitch off the bed towards him onto the floor, and drew his own weapon as shots fired towards them. Five shots. Then nothing. Gibbs looked under the examination table toward the door trying to see their legs, but whoever had been there was gone.

He moved across the room and kicked the door closed and shoved the bed up against it, then dragged Twitch to his feet and moved them both against the corner, his weapon still out and ready. Twitch huddled against him, panting in pain or confusion, vibrating and twitching in fear, but otherwise not moving.

While still standing in place, Gibbs put a call through to Burley, who had the decency to answer it on the first ring. “At hospital. Two men in black hoodies shot at Twitch just now, then vanished.” He hung up. He could hear the pandemonium in the Emergency Room outside the treatment room door, and he waited, gun steady, for the next person who tried to open that door.

BURLEY
Washington, DC, Area Army Base
Saturday, 12:42 AM

“On our way, Boss.” At the army base, Stan Burley closed the disconnected line and looked across at FBI Special Agent Lance Billings. “That was Gibbs at the hospital. Two shooters came into the ER just now and tried to kill Twitch.”

“Tried? Did they hit him?” Billings was on his feet and following Stan out the door of the room they’d been holding interviews in.

“Gibbs didn’t say. He probably would have said. Actually, I don’t know if he’d say or not; he can be a tad short with info.” Stan scooped his coat up from one of the bleachers along the side of the gymnasium they were using. “So maybe that kid is connected to the rest of these guys?”

Billings grabbed his own jacket. “I still don’t buy it. The M.O. for the guys we are after is all wrong for this Twitch kid. He doesn’t match anything. They were likely gunning for one of ours and followed the ambulance from here to the hospital; they wouldn’t know which guy was in the ambulance. They get there, find him, and realize it’s not the man they were after. That pissed them off so—” Billings came to an abrupt stop when Stan grabbed his arm.

“Or maybe we really are dealing with two different groups,” Stan said calmly. “And there’s someone after him personally.”

“And there just happens to be two unconnected groups using the same building that are both kidnapping men and holding them as sex slaves? That’s a bigger reach.”

“The kid in the basem*nt wasn’t being held as a sex slave. There was a whole different vibe there. They were into pain and intimidation. Maybe they didn’t care who it was they had, he was just convenient, or maybe it was specifically aimed at that kid. I’ll tell you this, though, I have worked with Gibbs for five years, and when his gut tells him something is up, we follow the trail he’s pointing us to.”

“And what exactly is he pointing us to?” Billings snapped back. “Just his suspicions? His over-the-top protectiveness of that beat-up unknown we saw him going all protector on?” Billings held up a hand in apology. “I’ll agree—I’ll agree that the kid needs coverage at the hospital, regardless of what happened and who is after him. We’ll figure something out later.”

“Call someone,” Stan said, not backing down. “Now.” Billings was someone that Stan couldn’t afford to let push him around. Stan Burley was an NCIS Special Agent the same level as FBI Special Agent Lance Billings, and Stan was about to become the kingpin of a massive naval aircraft carrier USS Enterprise, the only Federal Agent for a small city of just under five thousand staff and crew.

As Burley stared him down, Billings made a disgruntled sound and called his unit at the FBI, arranging for extra personnel at the hospital. “The army can take care of guarding here at the base. And as soon as we can confirm the kid isn’t one of ours, the police can take over guarding him at the hospital.”

Billings walked out to the middle of the gymnasium, raising his voice for all to hear. “We’ve just heard from Gibbs at the hospital,” Billings announced. “Two men entered the emergency room area approximately eight minutes ago and attempted to kill the man found in the basem*nt tonight. We don’t know why they’ve singled him out or if they were even targeting him specifically. Until we know more, we are implementing more stringent security here. Mitch, Patrick, Siggie,” Billings looked at each of the other members of their JTFHRT team. “I’ll need you three to stay here. Keep everyone together in this room, if possible. Colonel Lamott, if you could stay on with your medical team; if anyone needs transportation to a hospital, speak with Mitch Salinger who is in charge. I’ll be back here once we check out what is happening at the hospital.”

Stan Burley went over to Mitch. “I’ll contact FBI Special Agent Fornell, and update him on the situation, especially the young man found in the basem*nt tonight. Fornell has worked as our liaison on other assignments, and we’ve worked with him before on these rescues. Gibbs knows him.”

TJ Fornell and Gibbs had a weird relationship: a mix of respect, annoyance, animosity, and—oddly—friendship. And as much as Gibbs didn’t like to involve Fornell in any of their cases, Stan felt that his soon-to-be former boss actually did trust the man—well, trust him to be a pain in the neck, obstinate, obtuse, and obnoxious but also someone who knew his stuff and had Gibbs’ back when necessary. Stan had never figured out how the two knew each other, only that it probably wasn’t work related and whatever it was had caused a bizarre love/hate relationship—except Stan would never call it a ‘relationship’ or risk being strangled by Gibbs who was quite capable of killing with his bare hands. Gibbs and Fornell weren’t friends. They weren’t enemies. But there definitely was a connection of some kind or other. Frenemies.

Billings went over to where the rescued men were now gathered along one wall. Walmor and Johnson were standing, both dressed in sweats, Johnson struggling to focus. It was clear the two seated men—NCIS special agent Borka and the fourth man, Renwick—were also battling drugs in their system, looking half awake. Billings quickly reassured the men that as soon as it was safe, they’d get back to their families, and meanwhile they would set up some secure phone lines for them to make calls. In a quieter voice he said, “Mitch, make sure they understand not to say where they are. I’ll be arranging for security to cover the families.”

Stan followed Billings out the gymnasium door and over to a black FBI SUV. While Billings called the FBI, arranging for extra coverage at the hospital, Stan called Gibbs back. “Boss, we’ll be there soon.”

“The hospital security just told me that they have an armed guard outside our door. Their other guards are checking the area and viewing security camera tape.”

“Is there a more secure place they can take you?” Stan asked.

“They’re arranging something. We’ll move when you get here.”

“Are you both okay? I didn’t ask before.”

“We’re good now.” Gibbs hung up.

Stan rolled his eyes, then put in a quick call to alert Ducky.

It was ten after one in the morning when Stan showed his NCIS I.D. to the security guard outside the examination room and lightly rapped on the door. “Gibbs?” he called out, before opening the door. It opened an inch before banging against something.

“Hang on,” Gibbs said from inside. “Bed’s in the way.”

Stan could hear some quiet cursing, then a crash as the bed rolled away from where it had been moved to block the entrance. The door opened enough for him to slip inside.

Gibbs had his weapon out, holstering it only when he determined Stan was the only one coming inside. He resettled himself on a mattress on the floor of the small room, his left arm securing Twitch who was huddled next to him.

At least Stan assumed it was Twitch, who was mostly hidden beneath one blanket covering his head and upper body, and another one over his legs. His left hand was clutching Gibbs’ sweatshirt, Stan could see, so that hadn’t changed. “Conscious? Unconscious?” Stan asked.

Gibbs shrugged. “Sleeping. Drugged still. Out of it. Whatever,” Gibbs said unapologetically. “Help me fix this.”

Stan untangled one of the IV cords that had shifted when Gibbs had kicked the bed out of the way. On closer examination, Stan was surprised that neither the IV nor the nutrients bag was actually connected.

A nurse made her way inside the room with two newly warmed blankets for Twitch, and they carefully exchanged them, then coaxed him to lie down on his side with his head on a thin vinyl-covered pillow next to Gibbs. When Stan held up the two detached connections the nurse nodded. “We’ll leave it for now and get him set up when he goes to his new room.” She checked the catheter, which was still strapped to Twitch’s leg, then moved out of the room.

Stan had noticed fresh-looking bandages on Twitch’s calf. “I don’t remember those from the photos we took,” he said, pointing to them. “What happened?”

Gibbs straightened out one of the blankets and used it to once again cover most of Twitch’s head. “The lights hurt his eyes,” Gibbs said, glancing up at the fluorescent tube on the far wall. “His leg—one of the bullets fired at him grazed him. An ER nurse cleaned and bandaged it.”

“Was that from just now?”

“Half an hour ago.”

Twitch started shaking, but Stan wasn’t sure what it was in reaction to. His head turned from side to side, his breathing got quicker until he sounded like he was gasping for breath. Gibbs leaned forward, tugged the blanket off Twitch’s face and talked quietly to him, his hand tapping along Twitch’s arm and stroking his back, successfully descaling what appeared to be a panic attack. Twitch’s breathing calmed, but he pressed closer to Gibbs, one arm clutching at him as he shivered, making a soft whimpering noise. Gibbs pressed his fist against Twitch’s forehead, and the man quietened right away.

“Good trick. Is he warmed up yet?”

“Temperature up to 97F at last reading.” Gibbs leaned back against the wall.

“In the long haul, the floor will probably be more comfortable for your back than leaning over a bed,” Stan said.

“There is no ‘long haul’.” Gibbs looked at Stan with a definite glare of irritation. “I’ve no plans to sit here all night and rock him to sleep.”

“Technically it’s morning already,” Stan said, pointing up to the clock.

“Technically, I could fire you,” Gibbs retorted.

Well, Gibbs couldn’t, so Stan just grinned back at him. Amazing how freeing it was to know he was only at the Navy Yard for six more days. “They’re looking for a room here in the hospital where the staff and our security team can guard him better.” At Gibbs’ shrug, Stan added, “Let me go see where they’re at with that, before you get too settled in here,” he laughed. “Ducky’s on his way; should be here around one-thirty.” He looked at Twitch who was quiet now. “You’ve probably been asked this a lot already, but any idea yet who this is?”

“Nope.”

“Any idea, then, about what he was drugged with?”

Gibbs shrugged. “The intern said that if Twitch was given the typical drugs commonly used in these situations, they should be wearing off six to twelve hours after they were given to him. It would also depend on how long he’s been drugged like this and how much it’s fried his brain.”

Stan nodded. There was an uncomfortable pause while he tried to think of something to say. “Oh, the raid went smooth enough, we heard. Wasn’t much of a raid, more a round-them-up because of the bombing at the building and everyone standing around in the parking lot. All the SWAT team had to do was block the exit road from the two lots, and there was nowhere for anyone to go. They got the manager and assistant manager of the club, as well as the first aid doctor.”

“Those two cars?”

“The parking lot was empty when the SWAT team arrived. They were both rentals. False info.” Stan looked around, not sure what else to say. “Uh, Billings is checking with security here. We’ve contacted Fornell.”

“Fornell?” Gibbs huffed.

“Any idea what the gunmen might have wanted?”

“No, Burley,” Gibbs said, sarcastically. “I didn’t stop and ask them.”

“Do you think they were targeting one or both of you because of the JTFHRT mission or because of something else?”

“Gee, they didn’t say,” Gibbs said harshly. The man was clearly tired and pissed off at being put in this uncomfortable position of having some mystery guy treating him as though he was his lucky rabbit’s foot.

“How is Twitch doing overall?” Stan asked, keeping his voice measured and sounding almost disinterested. “Has been holding onto you—or your shirt—the whole time?”

“More or less.” Gibbs shrugged, pulled out his cellphone when the phone buzzed quietly on vibrate, then shoved it back in his jacket pocket. “I want a copy of that follow-up report. I want to know what they found in the basem*nt.”

“Sure. Fornell will get one for you.”

“When?”

“I don’t know,” Stan said. “They haven’t checked the building yet, other than making sure no one else was in it. It’s still too unstable and dangerous in the darkness. They’re waiting until daylight.” Stan gestured to Twitch again. “Is he talking at all yet?”

“No.” As usual, conversations with Gibbs tended to be short and frustrating.

“How many shots were fired?”

“Five.”

“Do you know where the bullets went?”

Gibbs pointed out where the three slugs had hit the far wall, and two went into the mattress he was sitting on.

“Okay. Were they bad shooters, or just unlucky?”

Gibbs shrugged.

“I mean, how could they have missed him from the doorway?”

“Didn’t miss entirely.”

“The graze. Right. Do you think they were the same guys from the basem*nt earlier?”

A slight shrug this time. “No idea.”

“Anything you need when they move you to a different room?”

“An extra-large coffee. Two of them.”

“How does he want his coffee?” Stan asked, getting to his feet.

“Both mine. Black. If he wants one, he can ask for one.”

Stan walked out into the hallway smiling privately, and he closed the door behind him. Besides everything else, he was pretty sure he was going to win a bet with Lance Billings that Gibbs would still be there in the morning.

DUCKY
Hospital
Saturday, 12:42 AM

Ducky arrived at the hospital just as the staff, along with various guards and federal agents, were moving Twitch from the emergency treatment room to a private room on another floor deemed more easily guarded. Ducky had been delayed in Autopsy at NCIS for almost two hours waiting for the arrival of several bodies tied to an investigation of one of the Navy Yard teams. When Stanley had notified him of the hospital shooting, Ducky had called his assistant Gerald Jackson, relieved that Gerald was able to take over for him.

He quickly moved forward through the procession, catching up to walk alongside Stanley Burley. “How are they?” Ducky asked, trying to see past the parade of towering agents—at least towering compared with his 5’7” height. His assistant Gerald Jackson was 6’4”—dwarfing Ducky easily, as well as Jethro’s six feet. FBI Special Agent Billings, who was leading the procession, towered above most of them, also at 6’4”—Ducky had checked once—and the uniformed hospital security guard Billings was walking with looked about the same height. Back at NCIS, Director Morrow and Special Agent Donald Dobbs, one of the junior agents who worked with Gibbs, were both over six feet.

At least Stanley Burley and Christopher Pacci were just a few inches taller than Ducky. He sighed; it was one of the things he was going to miss about Stanley—not straining his neck while having a conversation with “the tall folk”.

“Ducky, glad you’re here,” Burley said, with one of his genuine smiles that Ducky always appreciated. “Sorry to drag you away from what you were doing.”

“I contacted Gerald to come in and sign for the bodies. We can keep them on ice until tomorrow. I am more concerned about how Jethro is doing with young Twitch.”

Burley laughed and said quietly as they walked, “Between you and me, I’m surprised Gibbs is still here, but appreciative as I would have lost a bet, otherwise.” They turned down a corridor toward the elevators, and Burley leaned over to say confidentially, “I’d like to hear that Gibbs stays involved with the JTFHRT in the future; I know Director Morrow would slot him in anytime.”

“I doubt very much he would do it again.”

“Ducky, it was weird this time. Gibbs asked more questions about the mission beforehand than he would normally; he usually sulks in the corner and refuses to engage as though he was blackmailed into being there. That famous gut of his found that kid, I think. And he stuck around afterwards.”

“It is because that particular young man is so firmly needing of him and no one else. Jethro may appear to be demanding and insensitive often, Stanley, but he can be quite compassionate under different circ*mstances.”

“I won’t say I’ll miss his ‘demanding and insensitive’ nature,” Burley said as they entered the elevator.

The private room was apparently one of several used for prisoners or others such as young Twitch who were under guard being treated at the hospital. It was isolated off to one end of a hallway which facilitated guards being posted outside the door. It all seemed secure enough, Ducky thought, taking a moment to glance around the room from the doorway. There seemed to be an exorbitant number of people in the room already, including three FBI agents all talking into their phones and security mics.

The rolling bed from the emergency area had now been fastened it in place, and one nurse was covering Twitch with a blanket while another nurse reattached the IV and nutrients bags, and then checked the catheter and Twitch’s vitals before removing Twitch’s hand from Gibbs’ sweatshirt sleeve and attaching a pulse oximeter to his left-hand finger. Gibbs took it off and put it on Twitch’s right-hand finger.

Ducky held back a smile. It would have been nice to hear the quick, intense conversation that followed between the two, but Jethro won that one. He was bent over the bed, arranging a blanket over the top of the pillow, then tugging it down so it covered Twitch’s eyes without dislodging the oxygen cannula. It occurred to Ducky that Twitch had probably slept in that cage with his head covered to keep the rats away from his face. One of Jethro’s hands rested on the young man’s forehead and the other lightly pressed down on his sternum, which apparently was calming for Twitch, his hand gingerly covering Gibbs’.

The patient’s room was considerably larger than the treatment room they’d been in by the ER. On the far side of the bed near the barred window was an armchair, the kind of armchair-recliner that could double as something to sleep on. A similar armchair was along the back wall. A small cupboard, likely for supplies and a place for a patient’s personal things, was along the wall opposite the bed. Ducky glanced into the adjoining bathroom which had a walk-in shower with a bench, and a standard sink and a toilet with handrails and safety bars along the wall. Jethro was still at the bed looking around the room, demanding the window’s curtains to be closed, demanding the lighting to be turned down, and was just about to demand all the staff and guards to leave when he caught sight of Ducky.

“You stay,” Gibbs ordered the NCIS medical examiner. “Everyone else, out of here now.”

The medical and security staff and FBI agents all paused and looked over at Gibbs, as though wondering if he actually had the authority to order them around, but they seemed to take his trademarked “glare and stare” as reason enough, and they filed out.

Ducky shrugged. Through the window on the door, Ducky could see Stanley and the FBI team leader Billings speaking with security guards outside the room. Stanley caught Ducky’s eye and smiled, giving him a poor executed salute.

The doctor looked back at Jethro who was still glaring around at the room. With great skill, Ducky held back his smile. It wasn’t often that the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs appeared to be backed into a corner. “So, what is our situation, Jethro?” Ducky asked. He put down Gibbs’ ‘go-bag’, then crossed his arms assertively as he looked back at the NCIS Special Agent.

The harsh glare dropped, and Gibbs just looked tired and frustrated. “I don’t know how Twitch is, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Tell me what you see that is the same, and what has changed.”

“The same? He’s still out of it—either unconscious or asleep most of the time. If he is awake, he’s only marginally there. He hasn’t opened his eyes. Still hasn’t talked. Still doesn’t respond to anything asked or said. He’s still holding on to me. He doesn’t like to lie on his back; it hurts him. Or scares him. He’s scared.”

“And what has changed since I last saw him?”

“Not much. Made it through a bunch of tests. Drank some water, two bottles. Didn’t throw up. Got a new bullet burn on his left calf, small, maybe an inch long.”

“Oh, my,” Ducky exclaimed, glancing beneath the blanket to the bandages on the bare leg. “From the attack here?”

Jethro nodded. “I only noticed his leg bleeding a few minutes later and realized that one of the bullets had grazed his leg. I thought he was just being even more clingy after the attack, frightened by what had happened. But he was in pain and had no way to process it, no way to tell me.” Jethro paused, as though refusing to shoulder the blame for the young man being hurt again, and yet he was blaming himself anyway for not realizing the injury had happened.

“Now, how about you tell me how you feel about the security here in the hospital,” Ducky asked him.

“The security?”

“Yes. What happened in the ER?”

Gibbs grunted, shrugging. “Not overly impressed with the security if two armed individuals could walk in past the reception area and get close enough to our ER treatment room to take several shots at him.”

Ducky motioned for him to keep talking.

“I’m told they just walked in through the main emergency room doors, split up and did a quick circuit of the curtained areas and treatment rooms, checking them out, and then joined up again and went straight to the treatment room we were in, opened the door and started shooting.”

“And then disappeared.”

“Yup. Unless something changed in the last ten minutes, the hospital security hasn’t found the shooters yet, but they found hoodies that had been left in two separate stairwells. Nothing identifying shows on tape—but then a lot of people were rapidly exiting the building after shots were fired.”

Ducky nodded slowly, then changed the subject. “I’ve given the blood samples I took to Abigail.”

“She was still there?” Gibbs glanced up at the clock. “She thought she’d be gone by midnight.”

“She was delayed leaving. Ashley Gochuico’s team had some items for her to look at before they go after a witness tomorrow. I suspect Abigail will run our tests before she heads out tonight.”

“She said she would stop by here,” Gibbs said after a moment. “I asked her to pick up a few things.”

“She mentioned that she had spoken with you. I brought your go-bag.” Ducky picked up the duffel bag and put it on the edge of the bed. “Here’s a change of clothes. I grabbed the bag I found by your desk, rather than finding a way to get the one from your car. I’m sure they are equally well-packed.”

Gibbs nodded his thanks and moved the duffel bag to the floor, half-under the bed.

“I will be back in few minutes, Jethro.” Ducky headed to the door. “Then I’ll keep an eye on the lad, and you can have a shower and put on some fresh clothing.”

Ducky left the room before Gibbs could comment on that and quickly found that none of the medical information he needed had yet been transferred to the nurses’ station on this floor, so he’d retraced his steps to the Emergency Room and was able to speak with Dr. Bautista, the physician who had been overseeing Twitch Gibbs—the name Ducky had written on the forms for the ambulance paramedics. Since Jethro had not complained about the name, he likely had not seen or heard that his name was listed as a family member. The only reason Ducky had put Jethro’s name down was to facilitate Jethro staying with the young man without dealing with The Powers That Be.

Dr Bautista did not have much to go on. Many of the blood and urine test results were not in yet, and the preliminary toxicology reports the doctor had were inconclusive as to the various drugs and their levels in Twitch’s system. Twitch was not technically unconscious but was listed as having altered consciousness—diffuse physiological brain dysfunction, severe vertigo, twitches, he was non-verbal, unable to open eyes, and with a recent and ongoing history of injections of various drugs. ‘Admitted and under observation.’ Nothing yet had been given to counter the drugs in his system, which were not thought at this time to be life-threatening. Another set of drug screens would be taken at the six-hour mark to determine if the bloodwork showed significant changes.

A tetanus shot had been given, Ducky saw on the hospital paperwork, and two different antibiotics had been administered through the IV port to battle several of the knife wounds and rat bites infections. Ducky’s stitches were noted on the deep wound on Twitch’s right thigh. Small burns—deemed to be cigarette burns—had been cleaned and several of them dressed, eleven tiny black circles dotted over his body. A subsequent injury after arriving at the hospital, the gunshot graze, also on his right calf, had been cleaned and bandaged. Twitch’s file showed that when he was last examined, just before being moved to the room he was currently in, he had abdominal pain or cramps and appeared to have a headache or migraine, either of which could be causing vertigo and may be responsible for the patient not opening his eyes and reacting in pain when his eyes were held open during examination. If he was having a severe migraine, it could affect his ability to speak—as could the co*cktail of drugs.

Dr. Bautista stressed that because the patient refused to speak or was unable to speak for whatever reason—medical, psychological, or neurological—it made diagnosis impossible at this time, even though they were expediting his test results.

“What about speech amnesia?” Ducky proposed. “Or post-traumatic amnesia? Or have you considered—”

The doctor held up both hands, stopping the medical examiner from continuing his lengthy list. “It is too early for any kind of diagnosis, Dr. Mallard. And for post-traumatic amnesia, we would expect a brain injury of some sort and the scans taken today show nothing. There is some scarring, though.”

“Perhaps the young man has history of mutism—maybe he has never spoken—or he has an over-excited amygdaladue to the very traumatic situation he found himself in, which has shut down one area of his brain.” Ducky realized he was making suggestions again and stopped himself this time.

“Dr. Mallard, I understand your concern, but we can’t answer your questions with any degree of certainty without excessive testing by neurologists and neurolinguistics specialists at the university and then not until we learn more on this young man’s history. This could simply be nothing more than a side-effect of the drugs he was pumped full of, and it will clear up once their effects have left his system. It could be a biproduct of weakness and disorientation due to hypothermia or stage two starvation. It is simply too early to tell.”

Ducky really had to stop himself from questioning further. The doctor was right, and Ducky knew that he of all people should know not to rush a diagnosis. Thanking the man, he turned and went back to the elevators, pressing the button for the third floor, still considering the situation. There were many reasons why Twitch had not yet spoken. It was frustrating that three of the other men rescued that evening had been given injections around the same time that Twitch had, and they were all able to speak now, yet Twitch was not.

Depending on the etiology of mutism, it could be due to a stroke or many other reasons, Ducky mused, getting on the elevator. True mutism, if this condition existed from childhood, should not affect the ability to hear and to understand the speech of others. The only true response they’d had—at least up until the time Ducky had left for NCIS—was that Jethro’s tapping seemed to have a calming effect on the young man. Ducky, for one, was not about to rule out mutism, although there was probably only a… maybe 4% chance that was the issue here.

Ducky took a moment and stopped by the small staff break room on the third floor and poured a cup of coffee for Jethro and a cup of tea for himself, and then made his way past the rather intense hospital guard and the black-suited FBI guard and into the room.

Gibbs got up and took the coffee from the doctor, nodding his thanks. Twitch was curled on his left side on the hospital bed, apparently asleep.

“I see he has let go of you.”

“He’s asleep now. I think.” Gibbs shrugged. “It’s quiet in here.”

The two friends sat with their hot drinks, and Ducky filled Gibbs in on his conversations with the emergency room physician. For the time being, Twitch was allowed to remain in the room he was currently in providing he had a responsible adult with him at all times in the case of a change in his medical situation. That would be Gibbs.

That went over as well as Ducky expected it would. He talked Jethro into having a shower and changing into some fresh clothes from the go-bag he’d brought, then Gibbs had sat back in one of the armchairs, put his feet on a lower rail of the bed and had fallen asleep. Ducky always begrudged him the ability to do that. He checked on Twitch, then sat in the other chair and made some notes on one of his other active cases. If he was going to be awake at this hour, he would be productive.

BURLEY
Saturday, 3:10 AM

Stan Burley was heading out the hospital Emergency Room doors when he recognized a familiar person heading in with a duffel bag and a shopping bag. “Abby!”

“Stan the Man!” Dr Abigail Sciuto greeted him in delighted surprise. “You’re here? I thought you were being all buddy-buddy with the FBI.”

“Oh, I am,” he laughed. “Gibbs has you running errands for him, I see,” Burley said, pointing to the shopping bag she carried showing the logo of a 24-hour superstore.

Abby smirked at him, slowly shaking her head, her jet-black, shoulder-length hair swinging free. Green eyes gently lined in smudged kohl sparkled at him from under short heavy bangs. With a heavy winter overcoat on, her goth style of dressing wasn’t apparent. “The guy Gibbs found doesn’t have any clothes, so he had me pick up a starter kit for him. It’s kinda nice, you know, Gibbs taking an interest.”

“Kinda weird, if you ask me,” Stan replied, scratching the back of his head. “I’ve never seen Gibbs act like this before with an adult.”

“Like, duh, Stanley.” Abby shuffled both bags over one wrist to count on her fingers. “One, this guy is someone nobody wants. Two, he’s a mystery. Three, Ducky tells me that Gibbs has this code thing where the guy can tell who it is by how many times they tap him. Four, Gibbs is sad you are leaving and is acting out. And five, he is using this to avoid picking a new team like the Director wants him to.”

Burley shook his head. “I see where you’re going with one and two—Gibbs would be consumed with finding out who he was. The code tapping thing, yes, he might be trying it, but there’s no real proof it is working. Gibbs is not sad about me leaving; he cares only about his coffee and solving cases. And the only possible reason he would be sad about me leaving is your fifth point, that me leaving means he has to pick a team by a deadline.”

Abby dropped the bags and threw her arms around Burley’s neck. “I’m going to really miss you, Stan! Ducky said you’re probably not coming back to the Navy Yard this week, that you’ll be working down at FBI HQ.”

“I’m not leaving DC until Friday morning, and I’m positive I will be by the Navy Yard before I go—I have to clear out my desk and pick up some paperwork, so I have to go back.”

“You better, Mister,” she said, a warning finger in his face. “Now, where is Gibbs?” she asked, picking up her abandoned bags.

Stan gave her the room number and general directions, then waved as he headed out into the parking lot in the frigid air. He was seriously going to miss that woman.

GIBBS
Saturday, 3:20 AM

Gibbs was asleep in a chair by the hospital bed, leaning forward, his head resting on his arm on the mattress. He woke immediately hearing the familiar clomp of Abby’s combat boots. They stopped outside the door of the hospital room, and he could faintly hear her talking to Ducky.

He sat up and stretched. “Abbs,” he yawned in greeting as she entered the room and dropped her bags. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow now.”

“Well, it is tomorrow already. I see you got stuck with babysitting duty,” she said, peering at the back of the man on the bed. “Shouldn’t be sleeping on duty,” she added.

“Abigail!” Ducky scolded. “Jethro has had a difficult day.” The medical examiner made a show of handing Gibbs yet another coffee, probably believing that providing enough cups of coffee would keep Gibbs happy.

Gibbs held back a smile. Even he had his caffeine limits; however, he wasn’t about to say anything…yet. For now, he would enjoy another cup, while glowering at Abby.

“Sorry, Gibbs,” Abby said easily enough, clearly not intimidated by either man. “Didn’t mean to ruin your snooze. What’s the mystery guy’s name?”

“I told you several hours ago, Abigail,” Ducky said, with the air of someone who has been talking but no one is listening, “we as yet do not have an official name for him.”

“Seriously? Still?” She looked over at Ducky in surprise, and then to Gibbs. “Nothing yet? Is he all tight-lipped about it?”

“The young man—whom Jethro persists in calling ‘Twitch’—has given no indication of his name and, as I told you earlier, has of yet said nothing aloud.” Ducky rested his hand on the safety railing at the side of the bed, looking down at his patient. “Unfortunately, he was injected with a nasty co*cktail of drugs, several of which the hospital has not been able to identify. Their chemical toxicological analysis is not complete. Did you have any luck in your lab?”

Abby sighed and shook her head. “I just set it running before I left, once I’d finished up with Ashley Gochuico’s stuff. Gibbs, what about fingerprints? Missing persons?”

Ducky spoke up again before Gibbs could answer. “His fingerprints were taken at the army base and will be run through the IAFIS database, but that can take, realistically, a week or so, if his prints are in it at all.”

“Tell me about it,” Abby griped. “I could do it way faster if I had access to what they have, but that won’t happen for another year or so, earliest. I’ll take Twitch’s prints before I go, Gibbs, and see if I can get anywhere on my own when I go in later. I need to get a solid four-hours sleep first, or I won’t be at my best.”

Ducky responded again, and Gibbs sat back down in the chair with his coffee, clearly not needed in the conversation. “Stanley informed me earlier that unfortunately not much assistance is available at the FBI in the early hours of a Saturday morning on a case not considered urgent,” Ducky said. “Perhaps their dedication is not as determined as is your own, my dear. Stanley tells me that they will hear later if there are any missing persons’ matches. Also, according to Stanley, Twitch’s case will likely be handed over to another FBI team, as it doesn’t match with what the JTFHRT’s mandate is. It seems to be clear that young Twitch here was not abducted in the same manner as the others, although there remains the possibility he was abducted but did not measure up to what they wanted and was abandoned.”

“That sucks. Poor guy,” Abby said, moving around the bed, then leaning closer to take a look at him from all of ten inches away.

“Indeed, yes,” the doctor agreed sadly.

“Hmm… how old would you say he was, Ducky?” she asked.

“Oh, I estimate in his mid 20s. What would you say, as a Forensic Scientist?” Ducky asked.

“Well, without getting him under a microscope or analyzing every one of his hair follicles… I’d have to agree with you and say the same: somewhere in his mid 20s.” Moving closer yet, now about six inches from his face, Abby studied Twitch thoughtfully, and Gibbs almost smiled at her serious scrutinization. “Hmmm…” she said softly, “based on accepted research, a guy his age, reasonably healthy, good diet and exercise would likely grow a beard of half an inch per month, so considering he’s had a crappy few months… I’d say he’s been without a shave for about two and a half months, give or take a week. His hair is gross right now—someone has been hacking at it to get at a look at his head wounds—was that you, Ducky? For shame. But from the longer strands of hair here on the right side of his head, it looks like he’s had streaks put in at one point.”

On a roll, Abby leaned into her topic with her usual passion. This time, though, Gibbs didn’t have a clue what she was going on about. “The gauze wrapped around his head is kind of funky. But, if I’m seeing this correctly, Gibbs, and I probably am, Twitch’s hair was likely originally cut shorter at the back, styled, with longer lengths at the front and sides so maybe eight-to-twelve-weeks growth since then. Could he have been missing that long?”

Gibbs shrugged, hiding a smile behind his coffee cup, watching as Abby focused all her attention on an unaware—live—laboratory specimen.

“It’s all straggly and rather repulsive now with the blood and bandages, but Twitch probably had a metrosexual ultra-styled cut that’s all grown out, like a male model would have, all hanging in his eyes like Marcus Schenkenberg—oh, my God, that model is sexy—or Jason Lewis in that sunglasses ad. Gibbs!” she gasped, startled. “Maybe no one recognizes him because not too many hot guys who have nice golden streaks put in their honey brown hair have straggly beards like that. It doesn’t go with the look,” she said disapprovingly, standing up with her hands on her hips. “See what I mean? Metrosexual.” She pointed to the sleeping man’s hair, gesturing and waving her finger.

“Metrosexual?” Gibbs leaned forward, trying to look where Abby was pointing. He’d heard the word before, but hair-styling analysis was admittedly out of his ballpark, especially fancier trendy cuts, anything other than the narrow variety of military cuts he was used to in the marines. There was ‘High and Flat’. ‘Buzz cut.’ ‘Ivy league.’ And his own ‘High and Tight’. But whatever Abby was going on about sounded a lot different than the haircut of any agents, police officers, or military.

“I’m just saying, Gibbs, that it’s unlikely he’s the same as the other men Stan’s team has rescued over the last year or so. Haircuts don’t lie,” she added emphatically.

“That could be, yes, my dear,” Ducky answered. “However, it could simply be that—"

Gibbs stood up and stretched, breaking into the conversation. “Guessing games aside, we won’t know until Twitch starts talking, and right now he’s too drugged to manage anything. Abby, did you bring me what I asked for?”

“Sure did, bossman.” Abby picked up the large shopping bag and a midsize black sports duffel bag from the floor by her feet. “That’s why I’m a little later than I thought. But it only took me twenty minutes at a 24-hour place to get him a starter set of clothes: Underwear, extra-long sweatpants, socks, undershirt, sweatshirt. Toothbrush. Comb. I crammed in an extra jacket of mine, too.” She shrugged. “Wasn’t sure what all you meant by him needing all the basics. I figured this would get him started.”

“Thanks, Abbs.”

“I hear you had some excitement here earlier,” Abby asked carefully.

Gibbs nodded. “Two shooters tried to take him out in the ER. He was lucky to just end up with a bullet graze.”

“That’s not good. Poor guy,” she said again, but this time leaned forward to rest her hand on his forehead.

She clearly had not anticipated the response that her gentle touch generated. Twitch snapped awake in a flash of panic, rolling to his back, his eyes not quite opening, as though just the fringe of light between his long lashes was enough to send stabs of pain across his eyes and temples. He tried to sit up, then bit back on a scream as he grabbed at his lower chest, low sharp cries of pain coming from his dry cracked lips.

Gibbs was back over to him instantly, pulling Twitch upright into his arms, calming him by triple-tapping his back. “It’s okay, Twitch. You’re safe.” Twitch’s face was pressed against his neck. “I’m Gibbs. You’re safe,” he whispered, looking up at Abby who had backed off across the room, eyes wide. “It’s okay, Abbs,” he said over his shoulder to her in the same gentle tone. “You just frightened him. You didn’t know.”

“Ah, Gibbs, he’s so cute,” she gushed, unexpectedly. “He’s clinging to you like a little chimpanzee—well, a little chimpanzee who is probably as tall as you are.”

“Abigail,” Ducky said disapprovingly.

“Well, it’s just sweet that he trusts Gibbs so much. That’s really nice, Gibbs. You must have really made an impression on him.”

“I found him. Maybe he was just waiting for someone to find him,” Gibbs said.

When he spoke, Twitch pulled back away from him, just enough to try to peer at him, his eyes squinting and closing again in what looked to be pain, with another low guttural cry that sounded like a muffled sob.

“First time he’s opened his eyes,” Gibbs said, curious. He triple-tapped Twitch’s cheek. “I’m Gibbs,” he said. “Gibbs.”

Twitch’s eyes opened a fraction again, then closed quickly, perhaps matching Gibbs’ voice and face with the familiar tapping he knew. He leaned forward, butting again against Gibbs’ chest, resting there for a moment, apparently satisfied that Gibbs was safe.

Ducky came to stand beside them and leaned over to double-tap Twitch’s cheek. “I’m your doctor. Your doctor,” he said, and double-tapped again, but Twitch’s eyes remained firmly closed, his face turning slightly away. “Well, opening his eyes for a moment is a start,” Ducky said, sounding overly optimistic. “He seemed more alert than what we’ve seen up to now, and somewhat oriented.”

He didn’t appear either alert or oriented to Gibbs. Still sitting up, Twitch continued to lean his forehead heavily against Gibbs’ chest, and from what Gibbs could see of his face, it was twisted in pain. He could feel the man trembling and noted the ragged breathing and firm hold on Gibbs’ sweatshirt. Looked the same to him, except opening his eyes.

“I heard about you tapping Twitch’s face, Gibbs,” Abby said, intrigued. “That’s really cool, Gibbs. It obviously worked; he really feels safe with you. I bet he hasn’t felt safe in a long time.”

“I’m sure you’re right, my dear,” Ducky said quietly.

Abby gently poked Twitch, but he only tensed up and pushed himself closer to Gibbs. “Hi, Twitch or whatever your name is. I’m Abby!” she said, clearly hoping he’d turn and look at her. “My name is Abby.” She rested the palm of her hand along the side of Twitch’s bearded cheek. When she took her hand away, his left hand let go of Gibbs’ sweatshirt and reached up and scratched at his beard, then tugged at it, before reclaiming his previous hold on Gibb’s sleeve near his shoulder.

“Gibbs, from looking at his hair,” Abby mused, “and how it might have been styled, I bet he’s not used to a beard. I bet it’s uncomfortable. And I brought a razor and shaving cream, so maybe I could shave him? Would you like that?” she asked, leaning towards Twitch’s face. She put her hand on his shoulder, and he jerked away from her, his face again buried against Gibbs’ chest, his body shivering.

Ducky interrupted. “I believe it is too early to try something like that, Abigail. He is very jumpy and in pain. I’ll see if we can get something for him.” The doctor leaned over and pressed the button to call a nurse.

A male nurse came to the door, looked over to where Gibbs was supporting Twitch, spoke with Ducky briefly, and then left. Gibbs could feel Twitch’s response to another unknown male voice in the room, his palsied shaking and gasping breaths.

“He’s going to call for a doctor to look at Twitch.” Ducky studied Twitch for a moment. “Abigail, come over here by me for a minute, and let Jethro calm him. He’s overwhelmed, I fear.”

Sure enough, with several minutes of quietness, Twitch was sleeping again, and Gibbs was able to ease him back to the mattress, again settling him on his side. It uncomfortably reminded Gibbs of lulling a toddler to sleep. He put his hand over Twitch’s and gently relocated it from his sweatshirt’s sleeve to the bed, covering him with the blanket, but leaving his own hand resting on top of Twitch’s shoulder.

Abby looked disappointed. “I could be really gentle, Gibbs,” she said softly. “Maybe I could give him a shower when he wakes up? He’d like that, to feel clean. And why not cut his hair?” she asked, frowning when Gibbs shook his head. Abby had a kind heart, but Twitch had a ways to go before he could be styled by the enthusiastic quirky scientist.

“Maybe tomorrow, Abigail,” Ducky said, and Gibbs scowled at the doctor. “He is becoming more alert, Jethro,” Ducky said in his defense. “And many young men feel more in control if they are suitably groomed.”

“Yes! I could do his hair, Gibbs!” Abby looked ready to start bouncing.

“Abbs—”

“I could. I used to do haircuts with the nuns when we did Shave-and-a-Haircut days for homeless men at the mission. We found that if women helped the men, they relaxed more, and we got the guys helping out to do quicky manicures for the women and cut their hair. You should join us sometime, Gibbs. You’d be good at giving manicures for women.”

Gibbs stared at her speechless, wondering in what world he would be good at giving manicures to homeless women. It was a nice sentiment, but not in his wheelhouse. “Abbs, you’re not touching his hair. Not now, anyway.” He didn’t know how much firmer he could sound. He leaned towards Abby while still keeping contact with Twitch and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “See you later. Thanks for your help in getting the clothes. That will mean a lot to him. And let me know if you get any info on him,” Gibbs said, sitting back on the chair.

Abby glowered at him, her arms crossed, then capitulated when she realized her battle was a lost cause. “Okay then, if I don’t get to cut his hair or give him a bath, then I’m going home.”

“Excellent idea, Abigail,” Ducky said. “Your time will come,” the doctor said, steering her from the room.

Gibbs sighed and sat back in the less-than-comfortable chair with a jaw-aching yawn.

GIBBS
Saturday, 8:10 AM

It was after eight in the morning before Bautista, the doctor from the Emergency Room, came by for a quick-but-thorough follow-up exam. Twitch continued to sleep through the first part, but when Bautista lifted one eyelid and shone a penlight into his eyes, he awoke violently with a painful cry, pushing the doctor away and trying to roll off the bed. Gibbs caught him and set him on the side of the bed while Bautista quickly finished his assessment. The doctor then left with Ducky, taking their subsequent conversation to the corridor.

Twitch had the top of his head pressed straight against Gibbs’ chest, clutching his sweatshirt sleeves with both fists now, but when the door closed behind the two doctors, and the room went quiet, Twitch slowly tried to straighten up, leaning back away from Gibbs and letting go of him. He forced open his eyes, his brows scrunching in pain, and then he jerked in fear and squinted at Gibbs for a few quick seconds, then started shaking again and collapsed forward.

“Hi,” the NCIS special agent said, trying to appear non-threatening. He triple tapped Twitch’s cheek. “I’m Gibbs.”

Twitch’s head turned away, and Gibbs could see his narrowed eyes rolling as he briefly tried to focus and look around the room, but he immediately cried out and grasped hold of Gibbs as vertigo hit him again.

“You’re in the hospital, Twitch. You’ll be okay, though,” Gibbs added, hoping he was telling the truth. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asked. “Been calling you Twitch; don’t know your name.”

Twitch’s eyes remained closed as he pressed his forehead back against Gibbs and sighed heavily.

Not sighing, Gibbs realized. He was crying. Silently.

Gibbs froze, then tilted his head so he could see Twitch’s face. He could see tears falling from Twitch’s closed eyes, and when he gently triple-tapped Twitch’s forehead, he could hear a quiet keening sound and felt Twitch’s shoulders begin to shake. He gently patted the young man’s back, feeling uncomfortable, but there wasn’t much else he could do in that moment. Twitch pulled away on his own after a minute, his breathing catching, and eyes squeezed shut. Gibbs leaned over and grabbed the water cup and straw, relieved that Twitch drank from it, then allowed himself to be resettled on his left side on the bed, shifting so his hand with the compression wrap was not caught below him. He kept a one-fist hold on Gibbs’ sweatshirt, but when Gibbs carefully rested his hand on Twitch’s head, the young man let go of Gibbs’ arm and seemed to fall back asleep.

The male nurse came into the room a few minutes later with the prescribed pain tablet in a small plastic cup, and Gibbs motioned for him to keep silent. Instead, Gibbs took the pill and roused Twitch to take it with some more water. The nurse took more blood from the PICC line and urine samples from the catheter bag, and quickly left.

Twitch was asleep again by the time Ducky returned. It seemed almost odd, Gibbs thought sitting back in the chair, for Twitch not to be clinging to him. Ducky passed on Baptista’s concerns regarding levels of starvation and hypothermia, and their physical effects on the young man on top of the other drugs Twitch had been given.

“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, Ducky?” Gibbs said, finally. “I’ll be fine here.”

“That’s very kind of you, Jethro, but I’ve received permission to make use of one of the physician-sleeping rooms on this floor. Apparently, the one here is rarely used unless there is a prisoner on the ward. I’ll catch a few hours’ sleep, then relieve you.”

Ducky headed out, and Gibbs decided he would take advantage of the momentary quietness to put his feet up on the edge of the bed and lean back in the padded armchair, falling asleep within seconds.

GIBBS
Saturday, 11:15 AM

He woke with a start, looked over at the sleeping Twitch, then quickly glanced up at the clock. He’d slept for all of forty-five minutes since a nurse came by to draw more blood. He stood up and stretched, walking around the room. He popped into the bathroom, dropped two empty coffee containers into the trash, then stretched again and moved over to the bed. The doctor had said the pain tablet would likely knock Twitch out for a few hours. Twitch’s bandaged right wrist had again slipped off the ice pack it had been resting on. As Gibbs fixed it, the door opened, and Tobias Fornell sauntered into the room.

“No knocking?” Gibbs asked impatiently.

“Surprised you’re still here, Jethro. Not like you to stay so focused on an assignment after the fact,” the FBI special agent retorted, handing Gibbs a brown paper bag. Gibbs glanced inside the bag. In it was a wrapped sandwich from the hospital cafeteria. “Double meat special, no mustard.”

“No mustard? I like mustard, Tobias,” Gibbs said.

“Wasn’t sure, but it seemed safer this way. There are a few mustard packages in the bottom of the bag. Salt and pepper packs, too.” When Gibbs kept staring into the bag, Fornell added, “Listen, you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.”

Gibbs dumped the bag’s contents onto the foot of the bed, fished out the mustard, flipped open the top of the sandwich, and squirted the mustard onto it. He slapped the sandwich back together and took a bite, then another. He hadn’t eaten since lunch over twenty-four hours earlier. While he appreciated the coffees everyone kept bringing him, he really needed some food.

“You’re welcome,” Fornell said, rolling his eyes. “You got some mustard on the blanket.”

“What have you found out about him?” Gibbs asked, looking down at Twitch. He took another bite of the sandwich, which was remarkably good. “Hey, you got this downstairs?” he asked, gesturing with the sandwich before Fornell had a chance to answer his first question.

“Yeah. Want another one?” Fornell, in turn, didn’t wait for an answer but opened the door and called out to one of his agents, “Hey, go down to the cafeteria and pick up another sandwich, the double meat special with mustard. Make it two of them.”

Fornell came back into the room and stared as Gibbs reached for the second half of the sandwich with one hand while yet again carefully readjusting the icebag below Twitch’s wrapped wrist with the other. “So, this is your mystery guy.”

“Yup.” He didn’t want to quibble with Twitch being labelled his mystery guy. Not with Fornell. “Twitch.”

“Twitch. That’s what you’re calling him?” The FBI agent came around the bed next to where Gibbs was standing and looked down at Twitch, studying him. “He okay?” Fornell asked finally.

“Docs think he will be. Physically, at least.”

“Surprised Ducky isn’t hovering nearby.”

“He’s sleeping down the hall. The nurse came in about an hour ago to take some more blood tests, so they can update the toxicology reports.”

“Any actual name for him yet? Any idea where he came from or what he was doing there?”

“No. And no. Isn’t that your job to get some answers, since I’ve been stuck in this room?” Gibbs asked, sitting down in his armchair while finishing the sandwich.

“Hoping you’d help pull your weight,” Fornell said, and as usual it was 50-50 on how much he was kidding. Gibbs just ignored it. Fornell continued, “As of forty minutes ago, the JTFHRT team had nothing new on the ‘Basem*nt Guy’, as they so cleverly call him. They’ve been busy, though, monitoring the subsequent raid, processing the four rescued men, and beefing up security since your little gunfire show in the ER here. The FBI now have the two hoodies, found in two different stairwells. They’ve detained the doctor involved at the club, Larry Jorkle, and several of the ‘Johns’ who’d showed up to rent out the kidnapped men for the evening. The assistant manager claimed to know nothing about it, but he was there holding all the keys to the rooms, so that fell a little flat. They’ve all been moved to the Hoover Building, all lawyered up, and Billings will be interviewing them later this afternoon.”

Fornell stepped aside to answer a knock at the door and took two paper bags from the junior agent. “That was fast.” He handed one to Gibbs. “With mustard.”

“Good.” Gibbs nodded as he finished off the first sandwich while accepting the second bag. “So, what did they find about the basem*nt?”

Fornell shrugged. “Not much. The JTFHRT team is now officially not involved in that—and the bombing is considered a separate, but linked, investigation. The club manager said the building’s owners—or their realtor handling the property—leased the basem*nt to a different group, while the area where the JTFHRT’s four men were found was actually a sublet from the Kinkhouse manager.”

Gibbs held up a hand while he swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. “We think Larry the doctor there had a key to where Twitch was, and maybe gave him a shot around 5:30 PM, before the three men who were with Twitch arrived.”

“I hadn’t heard that. I’ll pass it on.”

“Check out Bob the bartender’s statement. He mentions it.”

“Bob the... Will do.”

“Do we know yet who owns the building? Who is doing all this leasing?”

“Jethro, it’s 11:30 on a Saturday morning of a holiday weekend; rather difficult to get at this information. There will be more agents looking at everything when the realtor group handling the leasing gets back to us. When we receive confirmation of who the owners of the building are, we can find out then who to go after.”

“That gives them a lot of lead time to cover everything up.”

“Yeah, maybe. They’ll be running into the same problems if they can’t get at their own contracts.”

The two agents were quiet for a minute or so, working on eating their sandwiches.

“How did they know where Twitch was in the hospital?” Gibbs asked between bites. “How did they even track him to the ER here?”

“Good question,” Fornell said, with a shrug. “Maybe they just assumed he was going to end up at a local hospital in the ER and staked out the closest one to the club. Maybe there were multiple guys watching different hospitals.”

“Maybe,” Gibbs said. He bagged the remaining half of the second sandwich to keep until later. “I thought they were amateurs earlier when they were shooting at Burley and us in that basem*nt. But if they are the same group who got inside the hospital, they got back out without being seen. They knew where the cameras were, it seemed.”

“Do you think he’s safe here?” Fornell asked, and Gibbs thought about a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Even with the enhanced security?” At Gibb’s look of skepticism, Fornell sighed. “Okay, so we’ll move him to a safe house, as soon as he is discharged from the hospital.”

“If he lives that long.”

“I thought you said he was doing fine.”

Gibbs got up and stood by Twitch’s bed. He was fairly certain Twitch was at least partly awake, or at least partly aware, as barely noticeable tremors shook the young man whenever Fornell spoke. Maybe he wasn’t reacting to the words themselves, though, just to a stranger in the room. “Regardless of how Twitch is doing physically,” Gibbs said, turning away from the bed to look directly at Fornell, his voice low, “whoever tried to kill him earlier might try again, especially if they believe he knows something that will get them arrested.”

“Billings suggested that; could be they’ll want to get rid of him before the drugs wear off, and he starts talking.” Fornell crumpled his empty sandwich bag into a ball and aimed it into a trash can. “I’ll leave an extra guard and drop by later tonight. We’ll see where things stand then, maybe try to move him tomorrow morning to a safe house. I’ll phone you or text you if I hear anything before that.”

Gibbs nodded. When Fornell left the room, Gibbs could see Twitch’s eyes open a crack, then close quickly, his left hand grasping at the railing. Twitch tried again to open his eyes, but from the looks of things, he still had enough drugs in his system or maybe just vertigo, but his eyes rolled upwards and closed. Gibbs tapped the side of Twitch’s cheek, and the young man’s left hand reached up to grab at his hand. “I’m still here,” Gibbs said.

The rest of Saturday followed much the same pattern. Twitch opened his eyes wider than he’d done previously, holding them open for another second or two to stare at him blankly, before heavy eyelids slowly closed again. He seemed to be in a deep sleep, broken only by massive panic attacks if there was an unexpected noise, or a male voice other than Ducky’s or Gibbs own. He’d smashed into the bed railing, almost pulling himself over it before Gibbs had been able to calm him, and he only quietened when the blanket was put over his head again, just above the oxygen cannula.

Around 6:30 in the evening, Twitch woke when Ducky came in with food for them, his eyes blinking, trying to open. He squinted at Gibbs, then without a reaction, looked over to where Ducky was setting their dinner on a tray at the foot of his bed. When Ducky left to get some napkins, Twitch looked back at him.

“Hungry?” Gibbs asked.

After ten or fifteen seconds, Twitch moved his left hand to his groin and tapped it twice, then tried to sit up. It took a confusing moment for Gibbs to realize what he likely wanted. “Toilet? You need a toilet?” Gibbs asked, helping him sit upright.

There was no response to his question, but Twitch still seemed to be trying to coordinate himself to sit up.

“I, uh, I don’t think that’s an option for you yet. You still have one of those… external catheters on,” Gibbs started to say, relieved when Ducky entered the room at that moment. This was not a conversation he needed to be a part of.

When he explained to the NCIS doctor what Twitch likely wanted, Ducky made the decision to call a nurse. The nurse, a female this time, removed the condom catheter, but when a discussion started after that over whether a urinal might be a better option than using a toilet, Gibbs stepped back and let the two medical professionals talk. When Ducky started one of his stories, however, Gibbs sighed loudly, moved back to the bed, scooped up the anxious-looking Twitch, set him carefully on his bandaged feet, and together with Ducky quickly joining in, they helped him into the bathroom and over to the toilet, making sure the young man had a grip on the safety bar before they stepped back.

“Well, that’s an improvement,” Ducky said as they waited outside the room. “Has he spoken?”

“Nothing. Just motioned he wanted to use the toilet.”

Ducky seemed surprised but pleased, all the same. “Well, that’s as good a place to start as any,” he said. “I did speak Dr. Bautista again briefly, and there is nothing further on the last batch of test results.” Ducky held back a yawn. “They wish to retest him later this evening, around ten or so, and will re-evaluate the composition of drugs in his system at that time.”

They both turned to the bathroom door and helped a weak and very disoriented Twitch back to his hospital bed. His eyes were tightly closed, and he could barely take a step, his meager strength fading by the time he cleared the bathroom door. They got him seated on the side of the bed, then Gibbs scooped his legs and settled him on the mattress. Twitch’s head turned to one side, and he was sound asleep before Ducky tucked the two blankets over him.

Ducky rested a hand on Twitch’s forehead. “He’s got a way to go yet, Jethro. This is a good start, though. Even if he didn’t vocalize his request, he communicated his need to you and trusted that you would help him.”

Gibbs’ sigh was louder than he had intended.

The two friends ate in relative silence, glancing over to Twitch whenever he moved. “It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I found him. I still don’t know who he is, why he was there, or who did this to him,” Gibbs mused, taking a mouthful of the chocolate pudding, then pushing the rest aside. “While you’re still here, and he’s sleeping, I’m going to walk around. I’m going stir crazy here.”

He did a circuit of the building outside, surprised for a moment at the winter weather outside the hospital doors. He’d been standing staring out the window at the Navy Yard just the day before, watching the beginning flakes of snow. And it appeared it had snowed some overnight, but the roads were clear. He came back in through the Emergency Room, but he didn’t see Baptista anywhere.

Gibbs found the cafeteria, grabbed some bottled water, a bag of chips, and another coffee, then returned to the third-floor ward. Passing by the FBI agent guarding outside the elevator, he walked down the hall and spoke briefly with the guards outside the Twitch’s door—one hospital guard and one FBI junior agent. He entered the darkened patient room, feeling more clear-headed than he had in hours and wondered fleetingly why he was still babysitting this man. There were guards and agents on duty, after all.

Inside, Ducky had packed up to leave, promising to be back in the morning.

“Get some proper rest, Duck,” Gibbs said, following the elderly medical examiner to the doorway.

He deposited the bag of tortilla chips and the water on the tray then stepped closer to the bed. Twitch’s eyes were open a crack looking at him. Gibbs reach forward and tapped his cheek. Twitch sniffed the air, turning to follow the scent to Gibbs’ coffee. He looked at it and sniffed again.

“My coffee,” Gibbs said, watching him closely. He moved the cup closer, and Twitch’s eyes closed wearily, then he sniffed again. Gibbs felt himself smiling. He put the cup down and helped Twitch sit up, then helped him take a sip of the black coffee. Twitch made a soft sound of... contentment? No, Gibbs wasn’t sure what Twitch was feeling, but it seemed to make him happy. Maybe. He took another sip when Gibbs offered it, then closed his eyes and rolled back to his side, falling back asleep.

Gibbs closed the door, pulled the armchair closer to the bed, then leaned back in it to get some rest himself. He sat up a moment later, made sure he had a clear way of pulling his weapon if he needed to, then settled himself back in the padded armchair and closed his eyes. With any luck, the rest of the evening would be quiet, this whole thing would be cleared up by morning, and he could go on with his Sunday plans. Laundry. Pick up groceries for the week. He needed to stop by the hardware store and look for some… some…

Chapter 5: Sunday at the Hospital

Chapter Text

GIBBS
Washington, DC, Hospital
Sunday, February 18, 2001
6:30 AM

“Jethro?”

He knew that voice. Ducky.

“Mr. Gibbs?”

He didn’t know that voice. A woman.

He heard his name being called again and abruptly brought himself to full awareness, pushing back on the recliner so his feet hit the floor. “What?” Gibbs asked grumpily. He glanced quickly over to where Twitch was still asleep on the hospital bed, before looking back to where the NCIS Medical Examiner and a nurse stood near the doorway, two armed guards visible behind them in the corridor. “What?” he repeated, glancing down at his watch, then up at the clock on the wall.

He was surprised at the time. He’d been up around midnight, helping Twitch to the toilet, then getting him back into bed. Twitch had actually called for him, one hand rapping on the bed railing in the same three-tap pattern. The young man had been very unsteady, dizzy, and weak, but Gibbs didn’t feel like involving someone else’s assistance when he could handle it quickly enough on his own. Twitch was back asleep before Gibbs had resettled him.

The agent had been awake for an hour then, pacing the room, remembering the mission that still haunted him, being part of a rescue operation when he was on duty in the Middle East. They’d finally located the soldiers, two dead, two almost dead. The young men had been captured, tortured, and abandoned in a small shack in the middle of the desert. The third soldier had died before they reached help, and the fourth one died later, hung himself, while at the army hospital. It all replayed in Gibbs’ head, always feeling there was something more he could have done, and he found himself getting up to look at Twitch again, reassuring himself that this young man was alive.

And now Ducky was back. With a nurse. “At your suggestion, Jethro,” Ducky said, carefully and Gibbs was awake enough to catch that he should pay attention to the nuances of this conversation, “I checked in at the nursing station to see if Twitch could have a shower or a bed bath, and she is willing to set it up if you approve. When I spoke with Dr Baptista on your behalf, he has given his permission as long as proper precautions are taken, as he agrees with you that it might make Twitch feel more comfortable, especially if we are moving to a Safe House later.”

Gibbs stared at Ducky, trying to come up with a response. Ducky was definitely trying to telegraph something to him, but his brain cells clearly weren’t all awake yet. What seemed odd about the whole thing was why he would have to give permission for this to happen.

The nurse spoke up then. “We would be very careful around your son’s injuries, but for someone who has been through what your son has been through, it might be soothing for him, and definitely good for his skin and hygiene.”

Okay, that was twice she referred to Twitch as his son. He opened his mouth to correct her, only to see Ducky standing behind her, urgently shaking his head.

“My assistant and I weren’t able to clean him much when doing triage on him,” Ducky said, “but I believe you are correct, Jethro, that a nice bed wash and perhaps a hair shampoo would be enjoyable for him.”

Since no such conversation had ever happened, Gibbs looked from Ducky, to Twitch who could certainly benefit from a head-to-toe scrub—as long as Gibbs wasn’t the one doing the bathing. He took a chance and met the nurse’s eyes, doing his best to smile warmly at her. “That would be wonderful, and just what the doctor ordered,” he said, seeing Ducky nodding approval from the corner of his eye.

“Excellent. We’ll send in Luis. He’s just coming off a break soon. Your son will be in excellent hands. When he’s done, we’ll bring in some food for him.” The nurse looked at the almost empty nutrients and IV bags that had been attached to Twitch’s arm, then detached them and left.

Gibbs turned to stare pointedly at Ducky. “My son?”

“Well done, Jethro,” Ducky said.

“My son?”

“Hmm?” Ducky murmured, busying himself getting out some clothes.

Luis showed up ten minutes later, a Latino man of indeterminable age, pushing a cart that had various basins and towels and bath products. “Doctor. Mr. Gibbs,” he said smiling at them. “So, this is Twitch.” He paused by the bed, looking carefully at Twitch without disturbing his sleep, studying the wrist bandage, then looking at the bumps on his head. “I’ve seen a chart of his injuries and read his file, and I believe we can clean him up without causing any further aggravation to his wounds.” The man’s slightly accented, calm voice was low and modulated.

“We are happy to assist you,” Ducky said, sucking up to the man, Gibbs thought.

“Is it possible to wake him up more?” Luis asked. “I don’t want to startle him, and I was told he still has a lot of drugs in his system. He may not be ready for this, but we can make the offer.”

Gibbs glanced over to Ducky, who gave him a ‘go-ahead’ look. Fine, he thought, trying not to think about the unspoken rules about not waking up sleeping babies, toddlers, or recently rescued traumatized young men. “Twitch?” he called, tapping his code on Twitch’s cheek several times until the man roused with a startled shiver. He took Twitch’s left hand in his, gently massaging his palm.

Twitch’s eyes flickered partway open and then closed tight again. The distress began and Gibbs countered it by quickly leaning forward and whispering quietly in Twitch’s ear, “You’re safe, Twitch. You’re in a hospital. I’m here. Gibbs is here. Can you wake up at all?”

Twitch woke slowly but opening his eyes fully was not on the table yet. He yawned, grasping Gibbs’ sweatshirt. Gibbs sat him up to sit on the edge of the bed, and Twitch sleepily leaned forward so his forehead was firmly pressed against Gibbs’ chest.

“He seems to do this often,” Ducky said to Luis. “We think the feeling of pressure against his forehead helps with his migraines and vertigo.”

Gibbs covered up his frown. It was the first time he’d heard a plausible explanation for the head butting. It actually made some sense, though.

“How can we help you?” Ducky asked Luis.

Under the care aide’s supervision, Ducky helped Luis strip the covers from the bed and put a plastic sheet beneath them. Gibbs’ sole job, he was told by Luis, was to keep Twitch calm. Twitch had a few moments of panic as he was laid back and his neck was rested on an indentation in an inflated plastic basin. But then Luis began speaking to him in that soothing and almost mesmerizing voice, and once he was somewhat aware of what was happening, Twitch seemed to enjoy having his hair washed. Luis kept his expression neutral, but Gibbs frowned at the pieces of hair that fell out, the water changing color quickly, dried blood and dirt loosened and washed away as Luis gently poured water over his patient’s hair, keeping it out of his eyes. The water drained into a lower pail, and Luis paused to change the water, then continued again with shampoo, massaging Twitch’s scalp while staying clear of his two wounds.

A young doctor came in, greeting Luis and looking at a file on a clipboard. “So, this is… Twitch. He has had a difficult journey here,” the doctor said, putting the clipboard down. “I am Doctor Levington, Mr. Gibbs. Or is it more correct to address you as Special Agent Gibbs?”

“Gibbs is fine.”

“Great. Okay, Gibbs, uh, Mr. Gibbs, since Twitch is on my ward, I wanted to check in, in case you have any questions. Dr. Bautista is still listed as his primary doctor here at the hospital, as he is familiar with the group you work with.” They watched as Luis gently massaged Twitch’s scalp. “Luis is magic, isn’t he?” He smiled affectionately at the care aide, who nodded back at him. Then Levington turned to Gibbs. “I realize things have been rather crazy for you all since your arrival, but I have a moment free, and I’d be happy to answer whatever I can.”

“He’s not talking at all. How does his head look?” Gibbs asked. “In simple words.”

“Okay, his file says his head injury is considered a mild Traumatic Brain Injury and there is optimistic full recovery likely in hours or days. He has a fairly recent head injury and one from several weeks ago. This one,” he said pointing to a reddened spot on Twitch’s head, “has a history of him recently being hit with a hard object, identified by the federal agent who witnessed it as a metal pipe.”

“The federal agent was me; I heard it but didn’t see it. I wasn’t able to get to him in time.”

“Due to being shot at yourself,” Ducky added.

Levington looked over at Gibbs sympathetically. “Traumatic all around. The good news is that there has not been a skull fracture, and there is no bleeding inside the skull. He does have a concussion, and that alone can make someone sleepy like this and prove difficult to think clearly.” Levington paused, watching Luis pouring more water slowly over Twitch’s scalp, washing away the shampoo. “Dr. Mallard, you noted an earlier head injury in your initial report,” Levington said, pointing to a different spot on Twitch’s head. “We agree that it likely happened 3-5 weeks ago. It is healed—mostly—but we don’t know if it bled internally at the time and has since been absorbed.” Levington spoke quieter. “Add to that the absolutely horrible situation he was found in, and I suspect he has a lengthy recovery journey ahead of him, not just physical, but emotional, psychological—the whole gamut.” Levington paused. “Right now, you are making him feel safe, and that is crucial to his recovery. Our doctors and therapists can only do so much; your consistent care and gentleness are also healing mechanisms. It’s the consistency that is important—he trusts you and that will let him rest in your care.”

Levington asked again if Gibbs or Ducky had any questions, then he nodded at Luis, and left the room.

Luis was gently shampooing Twitch’s hair a third time. As Ducky brought first one basin and then another, Luis’ rinsed Twitch’s hair until the water was clear. His eyes still closed, Twitch made a purring-type contented sound in his throat, which rather embarrassingly brought tears to Gibbs’ eyes. He had to turn his head away, blinking them back, telling himself he was just overtired. When he looked back, Luis was smiling up at him, nodding as though he understood. He had no idea, Gibbs thought, irritated with himself. He was not this stranger’s father.

Luis had Gibbs hold Twitch by the back of his neck and gently raise him so the shampooing basin could be removed, then Luis carefully towel-dried Twitch’s hair, stopping to check the wounds to make sure all was well. He asked if he could trim back Twitch’s hair, then took some scissors and cut Twitch’s hair to an inch or so in length, apologizing for it being unstyled but saying it would prove to be more manageable. A special lotion was applied to each wound to make sure the area stayed clean of any germs, then his head was wrapped in another dry towel, while a warm damp towel was placed over Twitch’s beard.

Luis explained he would finish bathing Twitch, then shave his beard last. He worked down Twitch’s front side, exposing each area, washing, soaping, rinsing, drying, covering, continuing all the way down to his feet, eliciting very little reaction from Twitch, who would tense as each area was exposed, then relax when Gibbs tapped the triple-tap code which seemed to make him understand that all was well. Luis chatted to him the entire time about the weather outside and a hockey game playing in the patient lounge area, and about his son Michael who was studying to be a doctor. Gibbs was sure that while Twitch likely didn’t understand any of what Luis was saying, the man’s voice was soothing, as were his hands apparently.

Luis continued to speak to Twitch as he rolled him on his left side, and washed his back down to his legs, changing the water often, then he took away the towels around his face, wrapped Twitch in a sheet, and had him stand at the side of the bed, clinging to Gibbs as they helped him into underwear and into a clean hospital gown. Luis had Gibbs sit him back at the edge of the bed while the care aide expertly cut back Twitch’s beard, then used an electric shaver to take off most of the rest of it off leaving behind a short stubble.

Luis finished off applying some lightly scented aftershave and deodorant, then helped Twitch brush his teeth and rinse with mouthwash. His gums bled, but Luis explained to Gibbs that Twitch had not been able to brush his teeth for weeks, maybe months, but they looked previously well cared for, so most likely they would stop bleeding soon, especially once he began to floss.

“I can hardly recognize him,” Ducky said, and Gibbs had to agree. Minus most of his beard and with the short hair, Twitch looked five years younger than Gibbs had thought. Previously unseen bruises marred his face, tiny scratches on his cheeks and neck.

Once Luis put clean sheets on the mattress, he had Gibbs sit Twitch on the edge of the bed again, and Luis sat next to him and used nail clippers to cut Twitch’s ragged fingernails and then his toenails, and of everything, that to Gibbs seemed the kindest thing the man had done, but he wasn’t even sure why he felt that way. But something in the gesture reached Twitch, too. Tears ran down the young man’s face, one hand rubbing his closed eyes. It was clear he was feeling better and comforted by his bath and grooming, but he was overwhelmed and exhausted. When Luis stood up from finishing Twitch’s toenails, Gibbs got Twitch to lay back on the bed and Luis covered him in a blanket. Twitch reached out blindly toward the care aide, and Luis caught his hand and patted it.

“Thank you,” Gibbs said sincerely, looking across to Luis. “I appreciate all this. He appreciates it.”

“You’re welcome,” Luis said. “I’m working tomorrow and if you’re here, I’ll stop by again. It will be good for him. I’ll let the nurse know I am done. She’ll want to check his bandages. I removed the damp ones—none show any current bleeding—but she will want to make sure the wounds are clean and redress them as needed.” Luis quickly gathered up all his things, emptied the basins into the sink, then headed out the door.

“I think we shall have to take his photo again,” Ducky said, looking back at Twitch happily.

“You did good, Duck,” Gibbs said, still surprised by the changes over the past hour. “Thank you for arranging that.”

“He might not be the right type for an JTFHRT case, but right now, he’s our case, and we take care of ours,” Ducky said, fiercely. “Somewhere, he has people looking for him.”

GIBBS
Sunday, 11:40 AM

Gibbs rarely had a headache, but he’d had one for the past three hours. Fortunately, Twitch was completely unaware of the chaos his presence at the hospital had caused just after 8:30 AM, when there was another attempt on his life, not even an hour after Ducky and Luis had left the room.

Posing as a doctor pushing a patient in a wheelchair, two men had accessed the third-floor General Rehabilitation wing of the hospital from a cross corridor leading from the elevators. They had turned to their right down a corridor in the opposite direction from Twitch’s room, using a pass card to go through double doors into the far ward area. Five minutes later, they came back through the double doors, then began to come down the hallway towards Twitch’s room. The FBI agent outside the room got up and began to approach them, asking them to stop. The ‘patient’ suddenly leapt to his feet, revealing a hidden gun, and from a distance of fifty feet, he took two rapid shots at the FBI agent, one bullet hitting him squarely on the vest, and the other bullet missing him but ricocheting off a stainless-steel shelving unit. While the nursing staff at the junction of the corridors quickly took cover, both the fake ‘doctor’ and ‘patient’ bolted down the cross corridor, past the elevators and down a stairwell. As the FBI agent was alone at the time, he was not in a position to follow them as it would have left Twitch’s room unprotected.

The three hours since then had been spent bracing for another attack, with Gibbs catching an hour’s sleep before he had to press the call button for the nurses as Twitch had been curling up holding his stomach and seemed in great pain.

The nurse came, and when she lowered the bedrail, Twitch shoved her away, then had scrambled off the bed, collapsing to the floor, and had curled up, his arms shielding his head, as though expecting to be beaten, Gibbs thought. He crouched beside him, tapping his arms and his back until Twitch stopped trembling and gasping. Twitch had suddenly given a harsh cry, then pushed himself up and burrowed his face against Gibbs’ chest, pressing his forehead against him and half knocking Gibbs backward.

It had taken almost half an hour to get Twitch back into the bed, and being non-verbal, Twitch was unable to give information on what specifically was hurting and where. It seemed all the staff on the floor were coming in and out of the room to change his bandages, bringing in some bland-looking breakfast for Twitch, then Gibbs’ cellphone going off several times, and the FBI guards changing shifts and checking in with him, causing Twitch to have a string of panic attacks that had Gibbs swearing when anyone opened the door to the room.

Gibbs had barely sat down in the armchair and closed his eyes, hoping to get a few minutes sleep, when his cellphone rang and buzzed and flashed yet again—the third call in as many minutes from his soon-to-be ex-wife Stephanie—yes, I will sign the damned papers, Gibbs growled to himself and swore loudly, causing Twitch to fearfully crack his eyes open to look over at him in alarm, shivering.

Great. “It’s okay. Go to sleep!” he ordered gruffly.

He hadn’t answered the previous two calls from Stephanie that morning, nor the ones from the previous day, but she clearly hadn’t got the message that he Did Not Want to Talk to Her. “What?” he demanded loudly, flipping open the phone without looking at it. “What the hell do you want? I’m on a case. I don’t have time for this!”

“Gibbs?” It was Tom Morrow, the Director of NCIS.

Gibbs jumped and snapped the cellphone shut, rubbing at his forehead. It rang again, and when he squinted at the caller ID, it clearly said ‘Morrow’ on it. “Special Agent Gibbs,” he answered calmly.

“Gibbs, are you okay?”

“Yes, sir. We’re into the third hour of a hospital emergency lockdown.”

“Yes, I heard,” Morrow said, drolly. “How’s the search going?”

“No one has reported to me, so your intel is probably better than mine,” Gibbs said. He was attempting to not sound flippant but was likely failing. “I’m assuming if you are calling me, that means they haven’t found these bastards.”

“The FBI has seven agents searching the building and area, along with the hospital security.”

Gibbs nodded, not knowing what to say in response to that.

“Tell me, Gibbs, this young man you rescued,” Morrow went on, “I am aware of what the FBI is telling me, but does your gut tell you that he’s another victim of the group the JTFHRT is after? Or have we stumbled onto something else?”

Gibbs got up and checked Twitch, who was still moving around a little on the bed, probably having difficulty getting back to sleep, as he appeared to be in pain. And he appeared distraught. Gibbs put his hand on the man’s sternum, triple-tapping, and felt him settle. “I don’t know,” Gibbs said to Morrow, with an unseen shrug. “Billings, Fornell, Burley—they all say emphatically that Twitch doesn’t match the usual profile of the men who’ve been kidnapped. The location could be a coincidence.”

“There’s a strong possibility that’s what’s happened. Special Agent Burley and I just spoke on the phone to discuss what went down Friday night, added to the events in the hospital. We’re not sure—and the FBI isn’t sure—what we should do with Twitch, as you call him. Dr. Mallard also joined us on the conference call, and he’s concerned that the young man’s case will be pushed aside and get ‘lost in the shuffle’, as it doesn’t match the normal modus operandi of the group we’ve been after.”

Gibbs rubbed at his forehead; he probably should have taken the Tylenol when it had been offered to him. “Twitch’s situation has been discounted by the JTFHRT ever since I found him,” Gibbs said, flatly. “But there is a case here, sir. Twice now, they’ve tried to kill him. Somebody doesn’t want him to wake up enough to talk. We’re on the clock, waiting for the drugs to clear his system, and hopefully once that happens, he’ll be able to tell us who he is and what happened.”

“Yes, I think we all believe there’s undoubtedly a case, Gibbs. A young man has been kidnapped, imprisoned, and brutalized for many weeks. There is a case. But here is my—NCIS’s—issue: yes, it happened, and it is horrible, but is it an NCIS case? Is it our case?” Morrow asked.

Twitch was again twisting under the blanket, his head slowly moving back and forth. His eyes were scrunched shut, his pale face showing his pain, his breathing was becoming more ragged. If Gibbs had a damned headache, Twitch looked like he had a pounding migraine. Without consciously realizing what he was doing, Gibbs slowly began to massage Twitch’s temple, his fingers pressing into the young man’s forehead, trying to offer some release. It had worked with his first wife Shannon, when she’d had migraines. And after a few seconds, it seemed to be helping Twitch.

“Is it our case?” Morrow repeated.

Damn it. “Yes. Yes, it’s our case.” He paused. “Until we know more, sir, we don’t know he isn’t Navy or Marine. So, until we know, he’s ours.”

Morrow gave a sharp laugh. “That’s one way of swinging it, Gibbs, and it’s in line with what Special Agent Burley indicated you’d say, and what Dr. Mallard also suggested. As the first set of gunmen were shooting at you, as well—an NCIS special agent—this gives us room to be in on it, if we chose to. The FBI has agreed to a safe house for your Twitch until we find out who he is and what his story is. Then if he’s one of ours, it’s our case. If not, he’ll be handed over to the appropriate agency or police force.” Morrow paused. “And until then, he’s your responsibility.”

Gibbs had been nodding, agreeing with what Morrow was saying until the last few words. “Mine?” he asked, startled. “My responsibility?”

“You found him. You tamed him. You can keep an eye on him and fight for him until we find out what we need to know.”

Gibbs frowned at the word ‘tamed’. “I don’t have time to babysit—”

“Is there a problem with your assignment, Special Agent Gibbs?”

Gibbs yanked the phone away from his mouth and let the growl in his throat happen. He moved the cellphone back in place. “No, sir,” he said, keeping his voice calm.

“Good answer. You can make your arrangements through FBI Special Agent Fornell. He’s agreed to work as our liaison. Keep me advised of any changes.” Morrow ended the call.

Gibbs tried to settle Twitch but ended up pushing the call button for a nurse, who arrived with Stan Burley following her into the room.

“Hey, Gibbs,” Burley started, then he stared at Twitch in shock. “My god, is that the same guy? He looks totally different.”

“They cleaned him up,” Gibbs said, stepping back so the newly arrived nurse could check Twitch over. “He’s in pain. Migraine and stomach cramps.”

“I’ve just come on duty and haven’t had a chance to look at his chart. How long has he been like this?” the nurse asked, glancing over the machines hooked up to Twitch.

Gibbs didn’t remember seeing her before. Cliché though it might be, she was a redhead, and he would have noticed. “Uh, he’s been resting on and off for the last three hours, with occasional stomach pain and cramps.”

The nurse stopped to study Twitch’s chart. “Oh, is this your son? This gentleman just called you Gibbs, and the chart says this is Twitch Gibbs.”

The chart said what? Gibbs moved to stand next to her and glanced at the chart she was holding. Damn it, Ducky. The NCIS medical examiner had filled in the original paperwork. No wonder Luis and the other nurses had been referring to Twitch as his son. “No, not my son. He’s a... a relative. A nephew,” he said, peering at the information the medical examiner had completed without so much as a heads up to Gibbs. “I’m, uh, Twitch’s emergency contact. And, uh, medical proxy. Can you give him something? He’s clearly in pain.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” the nurse said, with a hand to his arm, and he wondered for a moment if she was flirting with him or trying to reassure him. “I’m sure they discussed with you the problems associated with this unknown mix of psychoactive drugs in his system.”

“Dr Bautista authorized a pain tablet last night,” Gibbs countered, “so it must be okay.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t even give him mild pain medication without a doctor’s current order.”

Gibbs glanced down at her hand on his arm, then stared at her, his eyes narrowing.

“I’ll call Dr. Bautista,” the nurse said, lifting her hand quickly. “See if you can get your nephew to relax meanwhile and do press the call button again if he gets worse.” The nurse put her hand on Twitch’s forehead, and he seemed to calm with her gentle touch.

She left, and Stan Burley came up to the bed. “Your nephew?” he asked, not successfully hiding a smile. “Hey, did Abby take ‘before’ pics of him? Has anyone taken any ‘after’ pics? Or let Billings know? We might get a match now. I’ll take a few phone shots of Twitch and email them to Lance.”

Twitch shuddered and his eyes opened part-way suddenly. He looked first at Burley in alarm, then tried to track over to Gibbs, standing to his right. He closed his eyes again, scrunching his face and gasping, then and moved his right hand toward Gibbs, the bandaged brace banging against the side bed rail.

“You’re okay,” Gibbs said quietly, moving the wrist back to the pillow it had been resting on. When Twitch struggled to sit up, Gibbs adjusted the head of the bed upward. Twitch opened his eyes a crack again, then caught Gibbs’ attention, and looked over to the bathroom door and back to Gibbs, before shutting his eyes quickly.

“Yeah, okay,” Gibbs said, moving to the other side of the bed, displacing Burley. He lowered the bed and rail, and got Twitch to his feet, steadying him as they moved to towards to bathroom. He got Twitch to the toilet, and left him there, shutting the door partway.

At Burley’s questioning look, Gibbs said, “He bangs on something when he’s done.” Gibbs glared at the NCIS special agent. “Why are you here? Did they catch these nutjobs yet?”

“I guess you’ve heard that the FBI has agreed to put Twitch in a Safe House for a few days until he’s talking or until we figure out who he is.”

“Yeah. I heard. Who besides me is taking care of him?” Gibbs challenged.

“Just you, Boss.”

“Says who?” Gibbs snapped. Burley seemed to try his patience on a regular basis. Not that the man gave him reason to, just… well, Gibbs didn’t know why. The guy smiled too much, and it seemed that was usually enough to piss Gibbs off. “I agreed on Friday for one quick early-evening final rescue mission, not to use up my whole weekend. Can’t you find someone else?”

Burley’s ready smile turned into a frown, uncertain for a moment. “Uh, didn’t Director Morrow speak to you?”

Damn it. Gibbs’s anger abruptly dropped to frustration. “Yeah. Yeah, he did,” he admitted. “Still would like something else to be worked out."

Burley shrugged. “The FBI has a safe house for tonight, Boss. We usually use that six-bedroom house in Chillum, but it’s out of the way, and they wanted something closer to FBI HQ, so we’re using the hotel. The hospital administration would like to transfer Twitch out of here as soon as possible, as they’re concerned about the two attempts on his life and the FBI not able to assure them that there would be no other attacks. Leaving Twitch here puts more patients and staff at risk. As soon as he is medically able to leave, they’d be happy. One problem is that the safe house won’t be ready until early evening.”

Gibbs huffed. His damned headache was getting worse. “Fine. I’ll get a cab and take him to my place for the afternoon. I’ve got things to do. We can go to the Safe House from there.”

“We can arrange for the FBI to drive you and watch your place.”

Gibbs turned as Twitch lightly kicked open the door of the bathroom, still inside and desperately clinging to the sink to stay upright. He was trying unsuccessfully to wash his hands, but it seemed if he let go of the sink for a second, he’d start to fall. Twitch seemed determined to wash up, so Gibbs ended up grabbing a washcloth, getting it wet and wiping down his hands. Then came the ordeal of getting him out of the bathroom and walking toward his bed. His eyes were tightly shut, so clearly his migraine hadn’t lessened, but now he was clingier, and his balance was shot, thanks to the vertigo.

They were halfway to the bed when Dr. Bautista walked briskly into the room, a big smile on his face when he saw his patient somewhat ambulatory. “Well, now, son, I hardly recognized you.”

Twitch stumbled backwards at the unexpected voice, and Gibbs awkwardly got him the rest of the way to the bed. “He doesn’t recognize you,” he snapped at the doctor. “You took him by surprise. He’s got a migraine, I think. And the vertigo is back.”

The doctor apologized to Twitch, who sat on the side of the bed hunched forward, his left-hand clutching at Gibbs. Bautista tilted Twitch’s head up, checking the pale, almost gray skin on his face, raising his eyelids to look at each eye. “So how are you feeling, son? Would you like me to call you Twitch, or is there another name you’d prefer?”

After a moment’s silence, Gibbs said quietly, “He’s not talking yet; we’re not convinced how much he’s understanding. He’s still pretty out of it. And, uh, due to the current risk factor with his safety, we’re planning on taking him out of the hospital in the next hour or so.”

“Medically speaking… that’s not advisable with his long list of current physical and psychological challenges, and everything else you just mentioned. But none of that is important if you can’t keep him alive, correct?” Bautista exhaled slowly, studying Twitch. “Will there be a doctor nearby?”

Stan Burley answered for him. “There will once we’re in a safe house. Colonel Labatt, who you’ve worked with before. And our own Dr Mallard.”

“I’ll prepare information for them and let them know they can contact me any time.”

“I will,” Burley said, apparently taking over the conversation. “What do we need to know for this afternoon?”

Bautista nodded thoughtfully. “Besides the issue of him not speaking, which I have discussed with your Dr. Mallard, Twitch’s lab work shows he still has a mix of psychoactive drugs in his system. He was given a tetanus shot and some antibiotics—he’s been receiving the antibiotics through his IV port, but we will give you some antibiotic tablets to take with you. Make sure he takes them all,” Bautista said, looking from Burley over to Gibbs. “You’ll be his primary caregiver?”

Gibbs winced but nodded. He was positive Bautista knew he wasn’t Twitch’s father and likely wouldn’t buy that he was his uncle either.

“Let’s deal with his migraine and vertigo, which I’m sure is making him feel pretty crappy, on top of everything else that has happened to him.” Bautista turned off the light in the room. He quickly checked Twitch over, asking him questions that Twitch didn’t respond to. “The bump on his head has gone down, but that still may be the cause of his vertigo.” Bautista poured some water from the jug by his bed, put the cup in Twitch’s hand, then brought it to his lips, tilting it until Twitch started swallowing. “We can keep him hydrated—that will go a long way. Keep a cold damp cloth over his eyes and on the back of his neck or forehead. My mother routinely gets vertigo and finds that peppermint tea helps with her nausea; worth a shot.” He jotted something down on his clipboard. “Did the extra-strength Tylenol help last night?”

“Seemed to.”

“Okay, well, we’ll do it again, and I’ll make sure you have some to take with you. I’ll send along some Tylenol 3, as well, in case you need something stronger. The vertigo is unfortunate, but I suspect it will disappear when his headache goes. Meanwhile, I can prescribe something for the motion sickness and nausea, especially as you’ll have him in a vehicle. It will make him sleepy… sleepier. Give me half an hour.”

While the doctor continued talking about the various drugs in Twitch’s system, Gibbs let Burley deal with the conversation. He opened the duffel bag of clothing Abby had purchased for Twitch and dug out a package of multiple pairs of socks, ripping open the plastic and put a pair on Twitch’s feet.

Gibbs took out a pair of black sweatpants and a sweatshirt, both with the NIKE swoosh logo on them. Twitch opened his eyes enough for his fingers to trace over the logo, staring as though this reminded him of something. He needed some help getting the sweatpants on, but he still managed to do it mostly on his own. He studied the NIKE logo again on the sweatshirt, then sighed and put it over his head, wincing as he tried to get the right sleeve past his bandaged wrist. Gibbs threaded his hand back out the sleeve, then took his knife out and cut the sleeve along the seam for three inches by the wrist so Twitch’s arm would fit.

He helped Twitch sit back on the edge of the bed and made sure Twitch watched him putting the knife back on his belt. Twitch peered at him, rubbed at his forehead with his left hand, then leaned forward, his forehead touching Gibbs’ chest, the moment of trust seeming to say that he understood Gibbs wasn’t going to hurt him. It was the first time Gibbs felt a reciprocal connection to Twitch, that there was a young man inside this shell of a person.

The nurse returned with two tablets in a small paper cup; Gibbs took them from her and gave them to Twitch, who put them in his mouth and sipped on some water. He pressed his forehead against Gibbs’ chest again while Gibbs spoke with the nurse, then when she left, Gibbs helped Twist lay down on the bed, hoping he would get some rest and let the pain medication work. Twitch grabbed at Gibbs’s arm. “I’m here,” Gibbs said. Twitch sighed and seemed to drift off to sleep quickly.

When Gibbs turned back, both Stan Burley and Bautista were standing in the doorway. “Good point,” Burley was saying. “I was told this morning that they have given several of the hamburger wrappers to our NCIS forensic scientist to analyze, as they believe his captors likely drugged his food.”

“Yes. That’s entirely plausible,” Bautista agreed. “He would be hungry enough to eat whatever they gave him, and once he’d eaten it, they could do whatever they wanted. Gibbs, you said Twitch was given an injection of something at around 8:00 PM that was to knock him out for several days?”

“One of the men said he wanted to keep him quiet from Friday night until Monday when they returned.”

“We’re still analyzing this, but they were likely mistaken about the longevity of what they had given him. While Twitch is still suffering from side effects of the drugs and the ordeal he’s been through, at the forty-hour mark he does appear to be somewhat oriented to time and place, even if he hasn’t spoken. He trusts you to help him. He’s nonverbally communicated his needs to you, and even if he likely doesn’t comprehend your words yet, he does seem to understand your actions.” Bautista paused. “I’ll speak more on this with Dr. Mallard. Once this danger period of people attacking him has passed, and you are able to bring Twitch back to the hospital, if there are no significant changes in his speech, we’ll have to explore other testing and update our diagnosis.”

Gibbs closed his eyes for a moment, wishing the kind doctor away. Too much information. Ducky could deal with it all soon enough. The doctor left, and two minutes later a different nurse came in and passed Gibbs two Tylenol tablets and some discharge papers.

“You already gave him his pills.”

“These are for you.”

Gibbs was going to refuse them, then realized he had a long day ahead of them and took them, then signed the discharge papers for his nephew.

“Just press the call button when you’re ready to go,” the nurse said, “and we’ll summon security to escort you.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Gibbs mumbled, looking through Twitch’s duffel bag for shoes of any kind, but he couldn’t find any. Socks would have to do.

“Good staff here,” Burley said.

Gibbs nodded. However great they were, he really wanted out of there. His only problem was that no matter how likable Twitch was, and no matter how much he felt sorry for the kid, Gibbs was stuck with him.

BURLEY
Sunday, 1:30 PM

Stan Burley exited the hospital side entrance and slowly scanned the area. It was a cold February Sunday afternoon, the sky gray, snow plowed and pushed along the parking lot and along the side of the road lane. It had snowed some overnight, but currently there were only isolated fine flakes in the air, although a blustery breeze was making the temperatures feel lower than they were.

He went back inside. “It’s getting blustery out there. We’re a few minutes early,” he said to Gibbs, whose only response was to exhale impatiently. Twitch was in a wheelchair, hunched forward and wearing a denim jacket with skulls on it, and black sweatpants. Heavy black socks were on his feet. “Clearly Abby bought all his clothes?” Stan asked with a smirk at the jacket.

“What gave it away?” Gibbs said dryly. “The jacket’s an oversized one of hers. We need to get him a warmer jacket later.”

“And shoes or boots for his feet.” Stan went back outside, but the FBI vehicle hadn’t arrived yet. Coming back in, he rubbed his hands together to warm them. “I heard a short time ago that the FBI have been interviewing the co-manager that they picked up in the raid of the BSDM club. The co-manager says there are several owners of the club; he just manages the day-to-day activities. He admitted he knew there were people being held in the secure area, but he didn’t know the particulars of where they had come from or what they were doing there. They seemed to change off. He thought they were willing participants. His job was only to give keys out to a few regular people when they arrived, and they would hand over the keys when they were done.”

“And the doctor?”

“Larry Jorkel—the doctor—lawyered up and hasn’t said anything.”

Gibbs nodded, but his lack of interest was clear. “What about Twitch? And that lower level?”

“No one seems to know much about it. They continue to claim it was leased out by the owners of the building to a separate group as a storage facility. They maintain they had no idea anyone was down there. Even the bartender who had reported the rest, he was surprised to hear there was someone being held in the basem*nt and didn’t realize that Jorkel had gone into the basem*nt when he had gone elsewhere in the building.”

Stan went outside a third time as a black SUV with government plates pulled up. The car stopped and Stan approached with his NCIS ID out. The FBI agents in the vehicle showed their own identification, then one of them got out of the SUV, and opened the back door.

Stan checked the area again, then motioned for Gibbs to bring the wheelchair outside the hospital side entrance. The FBI agent waiting at the back of the SUV took the two duffel bags and put them in the trunk. They got Twitch to his feet from the wheelchair, and he clutched at Gibbs, his eyes tightly closed against the bright light and vertigo sensation. His legs seemed unable to support his weight, his body hunched slightly protecting his ribs and stomach muscles. They walked Twitch the five steps to the vehicle, then Gibbs left him with Stan and got into the back seat of the SUV and reached to help Stan guide Twitch in. The disoriented young man suddenly twisted and pushed back at Stan, undoubtedly panicked by Gibbs’ apparent absence.

Stan grabbed hold of Twitch’s left wrist and pulled him towards the car. “I need one of those code things you do, Boss,” Stan said, watching as Gibbs caught hold of Twitch and triple-tapped his arm.

“Easy. You’re safe. Easy,” Gibbs said, still tapping Twitch’s arm, then tugging Twitch towards him when the young man stopped fighting him. “You’re safe. You’re with Gibbs,” he said, emphasizing his name, “with Gibbs, and we’re going somewhere safe.”

At least Stan hoped they were taking him somewhere safe. The hospital wasn’t safe, and they didn’t know who was after Twitch, nor why they were after him. Twitch was an unexpected wrinkle in their op, and strangely enough, one Gibbs was feeling surprisingly prickly and guarded about. But on the other hand, being possessive one moment and distancing himself the next was classic Gibbs’ behavior.

Stan watched as Gibbs got Twitch settled in the SUV, the young man pressed towards Gibbs, who had his arms wrapped around him, holding him securely. The movement of the vehicle wasn’t helping Twitch’s vertigo. Stan had only seen Twitch open his eyes once fleetingly since the doctor had seen him an hour before.

Dr Bautista had quietly spoken to Gibbs and Stan before they left, saying that as the mix of drugs was now working out of Twitch’s system and his awareness of his surroundings sharpened, his natural, understandable fear of his situation would rise, fractured memories of what had happened to him over the past weeks, maybe even months, would surface, probably with little sense of the timing of when these things had happened. They should be prepared for him to be combative, angry, withdrawn, and even suicidal.

Stan leaned into the SUV. “Everything okay?”

Gibbs looked back at him. Clearly everything was not okay in Gibbs’ world.

“Right,” Stan grinned. “Well, the safe house will be ready tonight, Boss; they’re just moving someone out this afternoon, and then the hotel has to service it. They’re going to move the other four men there, as well.”

“We’ll be fine at my place. He can rest there; it’s quiet. I don’t want to be cooped up in a hotel.”

“Yeah, we’ve talked about this. The team is concerned that it won’t be safe at your place. It wasn’t safe at the hospital. Director Morrow has authorized the hotel.”

“Tell you what,” Gibbs said, wanting to be on the road already. “If at any point I feel it’s not safe at my place, we can wait at the Navy Yard until the safe house is ready. According to the director, I apparently have nothing else of importance to do but keep an eye on him until then.”

“If you really don’t want to deal with him, Jethro,” Stan said abruptly, “the FBI has agents and staff who can look after him. I could do it, too.” There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and Stan began to reach for Twitch, thinking Gibbs was going to take him up on it.

“I’ve got him,” Gibbs said, bluntly. “I found him. He’s my responsibility until I say he’s not.”

“Your gut?”

“My gut.”

“We’ll go with that, then.” Stan started to close the door, then paused. “My cellphone is on. Make sure yours is on, too. Ducky will come by to check on him wherever you end up. ’m going back to the Hoover Building.”

Gibbs ignored him, apparently finished with the conversation.

Stan watched as the FBI vehicle pulled out and he checked the surroundings again, making sure no cars followed them. Just a few more days and he would be an Agent Afloat. He was so ready for a change.

Chapter 6: Gibbs' Place

Chapter Text

GIBBS
Gibbs’ home
Sunday, February 18, 2001
2:15 PM

Gibbs glared at the FBI agents driving them to his place. They were painfully new, too eager, and seemed way too young. They were undoubtedly intelligent, capable young men, but were clearly unaware that their babble had been agonizingly heard by Gibbs throughout the twenty-minute trip, as they overanalyzed every single thing on route, from the ‘suspicious’ car they were following, to which route to take, the odds of it snowing—which involved checking different radio stations—to whether their watches were synced correctly, speculating if maybe this should have been another training scenario, what to do if they needed to pee while guarding the house, if one of them was supposed to guard the front of the house and the other the back, or were they supposed to stay together, and trying to figure out who their lead agent was on this assignment.

Turns out, they weren’t sure about any of it, Gibbs learned. From their conversation with each other, Gibbs gleaned that Fornell had told them to get directions from NCIS Special Agent Stan Burley, who had told them to take Gibbs to his home and stick around and guard the outside of the house until they went to the Safe House later. So, did that make Fornell their lead agent, or was Burley? Or Gibbs?

When they pulled up outside his place, Gibbs waved off any help from the agents as he slid out of the backseat of the SUV and pulled Twitch along with him—both of them stepping into a puddle of sludgy melted ice water. Gibbs was still wearing his boots, but Twitch had nothing beyond two pairs of socks, and Gibbs had to grab him as Twitch gave a startled yell and blindly turned to make an exit back into the SUV.

“No, no, no!” Gibbs hauled him up to the snowy sidewalk, needing both hands to steady him. With a groan he realized that unfortunately he could use some help from the newbie agents after all. “Hey!” Gibbs barked back toward the car, and one of the agents practically fell out the front passenger door. “Bring the two duffel bags up the front stairs.”

“On it!” The agent—John Halle—ran around to the back of the car, slipping on the ice on his smooth-soled leather shoes—idiot, Gibbs thought—tugged up on the handle and grabbed the bags from the trunk. He followed Gibbs as he steered Twitch up the few stairs to the door of the house. Halle ducked around the NCIS agent, turned the doorknob, and dropped the duffel bags inside the entranceway. “Hey, Mr. Gibbs. I mean, Special Agent Gibbs. Your door was unlocked. Were you expecting anyone? Want us to check out inside? Could be danger.” The annoying agent had already pulled his weapon out. “Let me get Agent Labront to help.”

Gibbs leaped to grab at Twitch who had tripped over the door sill upon entering, his half-open eyes trying to track the gun waving near him and these strangers around him. “We’re fine. The door’s always unlocked.”

“But the lights were on, sir. Did you leave the lights on? Want me to check it out? Want me to call Labront?” Halle whispered loudly into his mic. “Hey, Labront! Better get in here, man. The lights are on!” He tried to move past Gibbs. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll take care of you.”

“No! Tell him, no. Tell him to stay in the car,” Gibbs yelled at Halle, effectively blocking him from going in further. “Stay there.” Gibbs had Twitch by the waist and slowly lowered him to the floor. “Tell him, no. No. Stay outside. Stay there.” He felt like he was talking to a dog.

“Tell who, no?” Halle asked, then waved for Labront to come in.

“Labront can stay outside. You can stay outside. Both of you. Now!”

“There’s a problem outside?” Labront asked, spinning around to look at the front yard.

“You’re the damn problem outside,” Gibbs retorted. “Both of you, get out of here. Calm yourself down. Watch the perimeter. Don’t shoot the neighbors. If you need to use the toilet, there’s one right there and the front door is unlocked,” he said, pointing to the small powder room door just inside the entrance. “Now get out!”

Gibbs kicked the door shut after them, rolling his eyes as Twitch shuddered, making himself as small as he could, curled on the floor. “Not you,” Gibbs said irritably. “You’re okay.” The lack of sleep was getting to him, he knew. Maybe he could get Twitch to sleep, and he could do the same. It was like have a toddler, he groused, then reminded himself why Twitch was so frightened and disoriented, and the anger vanished, redirected to the men who’d done this to Twitch.

He tugged off Twitch’s damp socks. He needed to get shoes for him; he’d already used up two of the pairs of socks Abby had purchased. “Come on,” he said, keeping his voice calm and light. “Up the stairs.” The guest room would do perfectly. Quiet and peaceful. Just for a few hours. He’d get Twitch settled with a hot water bottle for his feet, then Gibbs would lie down in the master bedroom across the hall. Fifteen more steps got them to the top landing, Twitch alternately resisting moving and yet clinging to him.

Gibbs pushed open the door to the guest room to find the light was on in the room. Packing boxes—some empty, some full—seemed to cover every square inch of the floor, and the bed and most of the floor was covered in unorganized, teetering stacks of Stephanie’s clothing and junk. It looked like a bomb had gone off.

“What the hell?” he muttered, frowning at the mess. He tugged Twitch out of the room and steered him across the hall to the master bedroom. The door opened to reveal the king-sized bed was also covered in clothes, shoes, an alarming number of belts and scarves and other things that did not belong on his bed, whether or not he’d made use of said bed in the last few years. Still was his bed, he thought sullenly.

Gibbs stood on the landing, holding Twitch up, trying to figure out what was going on, and which bed would be the easiest to clear off. Twitch was growing heavier in his arms, his left hand covering his eyes. Gibbs glared at the light above them, rotating Twitch to face him while he tried to figure out what to do.

He turned at a noise at the bottom of the stairs, his weapon out. Damned FBI—

Stephanie came around the turn in the stairs with an armful of flattened boxes, and she jumped when she saw him, her earphones tugging free, the faint squawk of music heard. As one, they both yelled, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Gibbs: “You said you’d phone first before you came over. You can’t just show up unannounced!”

Stephanie: “Have you checked your phone lately, Jethro? I’ve called, I’ve left messages, and obviously you haven’t even listened to them.”

Gibbs: “How the hell would I know this is what you were calling about? I thought you were calling to get me to sign the papers.”

Stephanie: “What? You haven’t signed the papers, yet? Jethro!”

Gibbs: “Haven’t signed them yet, but believe me, I will!”

Stephanie: “You better.”

Gibbs: “I will.”

Stephanie: “You better.”

Gibbs: “I said I would.”

Stephanie: “I’m trying to move on with my life, and that means coming over to get my stuff.”

Gibbs: “You’ve had five years to get your stuff. The door is always unlocked. What’s stopping you?”

Stephanie: “Because you said to phone first before coming over.”

Gibbs: “And yet you came over anyway!”

Stephanie: “Because I couldn’t reach you! I figured you must be out of town on assignment or maybe on an undercover assignment, so I decided to just get it over with and pack everything up and be gone before you returned. I was just bringing more boxes in from the back deck.” Stephanie took a few steps up the stairs, then stopped. “And why are you hugging that guy? Did something change with you? Have you had a mid-life epiphany?”

Gibbs: “Long story. And no.”

Stephanie: “Is he drunk? What’s wrong with him?”

Gibbs: “None of your business.”

Stephanie: “It is when you’re standing outside my bedroom—”

Gibbs: “—not your bedroom. Whole place is mine. Always has been. In the pre-nup. My place. My bedroom.”

Stephanie: “Like you’ve used it even once in the last five years since I’ve left. Right? Or for that matter, the year before I left.”

Gibbs: “Still is my bedroom whether I sleep in it or not. And since you have your stuff all over the guest room, get your stuff off the bed in my bedroom, so I can put him there.”

Stephanie: “In your bed? Seriously? You’re putting him in your bed? So, he is your mid-life crisis? Jethro! I’m speechless.”

Gibbs swore. “He’s not my—” He stopped abruptly. Twitch was shaking like a leaf, tears streaming down his face. “Shhh… It’s okay,” he whispered to him, ignoring Stephanie. “You’re safe here. Stephanie and I were just talking. Sometimes people talk loudly. It’s okay. Shhh...” He held onto him, one hand trying to keep him on his feet, his other hand triple-tapping the back of the young man’s head. Other than a few tears down his cheeks, this was the second time now he’d seen Twitch cry. God knows what he thought was going on, with him and Stephanie roaring at each other. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Stephanie inched up the stairs, her voice suddenly low and all caring. “Jethro?”

“I, uh, I rescued him Friday night.” Once he started talking, the words tumbled out. “He had been kidnapped and held in a hellhole for a month or two, maybe longer. Beaten up and I don’t know what else. He’s disoriented, has a concussion, has vertigo on and off, and when I found him, he had a sh*tload of drugs in his system—still does mostly, so he doesn’t know which end is up.”

“Oh, my God. What happened? Who is he? Who did that to him? And tell me, Jethro, that you caught them,” she said, her voice hardening.

Gibbs hadn’t meant to tell her any of this. Damn. “Twitch—I call him Twitch—hasn’t spoken at all, so we don’t know his name or who did this to him.”

“Why didn’t you take him to a hospital?”

He gave her a duh, why didn’t I think of that? look. “I had him at the hospital since Friday night, but he’s going into a safe house tonight because whoever kidnapped him is trying to kill him, to shut him up. Two attempts in the hospital during the time we had him there.”

“Oh, my God,” Stephanie whispered again, and he had to give her credit for not making it about her and her safety. Her concern was all for the kid.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Gibbs took a deep breath. “Listen, Steph, Twitch might be confused and scared, but for some reason, he trusts me.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t expecting you here. I was hoping he could get some sleep while we’re waiting for the safe house to be ready tonight. And I was hoping I could get some sleep. There are two FBI agents out front watching the place. But you walked in the back door, which means they weren’t doing their damned job.”

Twitch made a quiet sound of distress, and Gibbs looked at him and frowned. Yeah, this wasn’t good. He quickly maneuvered him down the hall to the bathroom and flipped the toilet seat up just as the meager lunch Twitch had eaten came up. “It’s okay. Okay.” He grabbed a washcloth, got it wet and wiped down Twitch’s face. “Okay?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Twitch moved closer to Gibbs, shivering in anxiety, clutching at his jacket.

Gibbs looked over to Stephanie, standing in the doorway. “He’s still in panic mode from our yelling; no way he’d understand what was happening. And he’s cold.”

“Sorry about that,” she said. And meant it.

Gibbs nodded absently. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing. I’m sorry it’s taken five years to get my stuff out of the closets and attic. I’ve been couch surfing, travelling. I just got an apartment and need to settle down.”

They stayed in place for several minutes, Twitch on the floor by Gibbs, Gibbs sitting on the side of the tub, and Stephanie standing in the doorway, but Twitch’s stomach seemed to have calmed down as soon as they calmed down.

Stephanie suddenly went all motherly on him, “Come with me, sweetie.” She gently drew Twitch to his feet, bringing him into the master bedroom. As with the nurse at the hospital and Abby, Twitch seemed to have far more trust for females than males, and he followed her willingly without even opening his eyes to look at her. She dragged her things off the bed, turning the lights off except the light from the master bathroom and got him to lie down on top of the bed and tugged off his jacket.

Gibbs moved him onto his side. He grabbed two pairs of socks from his top drawer and eased them over Twitch’s cold feet, then pulled the comforter over him. “Where’s that hot water bottle of yours? His feet are frozen from stepping in a puddle outside.”

Stephanie disappeared into the bathroom. He could hear water running, then she returned with the hot water bottle, tucking it by Twitch’s feet. She went into the bathroom again and brought back a glass of water, helping Twitch sit up to drink it. He took the glass from her without hesitation and drained it, handing it back and sinking back to the bed.

“Jethro, do you want to shower or anything?” Stephanie asked him. “Or get something to eat? I can sit with him for a few minutes.”

The moment she made the offer, suddenly Gibbs could hardly move he was so exhausted. “I showered earlier at the hospital. I’ll grab something to eat though, if you could keep an eye on him for a few minutes.” They were polite and considerate with each other, when they had been screaming at each other only five minutes earlier. That’s the way it had always been with them. Hot and cold. Or more like warm and cool. He sat for a few minutes, his hand on Twitch’s back until he realized the young man was asleep.

Stephanie in turn put a hand on Gibbs’ shoulder. “Get something to eat and lie down on the couch,” Stephanie told him. “I’ll be up here packing boxes, and I’ll keep an ear open for him and call you if he wakes up. Mark will help me move my boxes downstairs and out of the house this evening when the van we rented gets here.”

Mark. It was the first time Gibbs had heard her boyfriend’s name. Mark.

“Thanks,” he muttered. He struggled to his feet and headed down the stairs. He’d planned on going to the kitchen, but ended up on the couch, asleep in seconds.

DUCKY
Sunday, 4:15 PM

Late-afternoon, Ducky let himself into Gibbs’ house, exasperated with the pushiness of the young FBI agent posted at the front walkway. He’d shown the agent his credentials, and the man had leapt to the erroneous conclusion that someone had died and was on his radio, calling it in. He’d had to firmly inform the agent that he was there to see to the living, not the dead. Fortunately, the agent knew there was a “f*cked-up guy” in the house, and he had let him pass.

f*cked-up, indeed, Ducky thought. That FBI agent seemed more fitting of the title.

Inside Gibbs’ home, Ducky put down his medical case and the shopping bags he had been carrying, took his outer layers off and hung them up on the hooks in the small foyer. It was bitterly cold outside, and he was appreciative of the lift Stanley Burley had given him, curious as to why the young man had elected not to come inside. Perhaps he had already said his goodbyes to Jethro. Stanley had been at the Navy Yard to clear out the last of his desk items and his locker, and he’d dropped by Autopsy as he was heading out, hoping to say his goodbyes as he would be working from the FBI offices for the next few days and then he was off on his next adventure on the seas.

Ducky balanced first on one foot and then the other as he wrestled off his over-the-shoe snowboots. They served their purpose, keeping his shoes in good repair, but these latest overboots he’d purchased did not have the ease of access that his ones in the past had had. He paused, trying to remember the last pair he’d purchased that were worth the price he’d paid for them. Perhaps in the early 1980s when he had been at a symposium of Coroners & Medical Examiners in Edinburgh on… on… Wait…was it in Edinburgh? Well, it was somewhere, and he’d bought boots there.

Hmmm. What had the topic been about? he wondered, standing in the foyer for a moment. Strange that it had slipped his mind. He waited, picturing the conference hall it was in, the lecturer, the slides on the overhead projector…. He shrugged and moved on, knowing it would come to him when he least expected it.

Once he stepped into the home, he was surprised to see Jethro in the living room asleep on the couch. He was even more surprised to see Twitch curled up on the floor next to the couch, covered in a thick comforter.

He moved into the room, setting his medical bag on the coffee table and taking out the supplies he needed. He smiled as Gibbs suddenly tweaked to his presence and woke up, pushing himself upright. “Ah, Jethro. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. I was just preparing to awaken Twitch to let me check his dressings.”

“He’s upstairs.”

“He’s actually right here.”

That woke Gibbs up all the way. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, to see that Twitch was sleeping on the floor by him. “Oh.”

Stephanie joined them. “Hi Ducky—I thought I heard your voice. Jethro, I went to check on him and freaked that he was gone from the master bedroom. Found him down here asleep, so I threw a blanket over him.” She bent down to give Ducky a kiss on the cheek. “How are you, Ducky?” she asked warmly.

“Keeping busy. And you? You are looking well, my dear.”

“Keeping busy,” she responded with a shrug. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” he replied. “I was not expecting to see you here today.”

“Well, I think ‘surprised to see you’ was felt by all,” she said, heading out of the room.

Ducky looked down at Twitch. “Well, this is good news,” he said. At Gibbs’ frown, he added, “It means Twitch was able to maneuver the stairs and find you. His vertigo must have cleared. Could you assist me in getting him up on the couch?”

Gibbs tapped firmly on Twitch’s shoulder, then tugged him upright and between the two of them, they got him sitting next to Gibbs on the couch.

Once he was awake, Twitch opened his eyes partway and looked around. He stared for a moment at Gibbs, then nodded slightly, as though checking this person off as safe. Ducky was already busy checking the gunshot burn on his leg, so he had some context for who that was.

From his perch on an ottoman, Ducky looked across at Twitch. “You are looking remarkably well, compared to how you appeared last time I saw you. Are you dizzy at all? Vertigo?”

There was no answer, other than the young man slowly turning his head away from the doctor, taking in more of his surroundings, but there was a blankness about him still, despite his unease at finding himself somewhere unfamiliar. He didn’t look like he was going to jump up and run away or suddenly attack them; instead, he looked like he had precious few thoughts in his head at all, almost like... like a young child who had gone to sleep in one place and woken up in different place altogether and couldn’t figure out how he came to be there.

Sudden Unexpected Infant Death, Ducky thought to himself suddenly, nodding. That’s what the lecture had been about at the Paediatric Pathology panel in Edinburgh.

Ducky touched the side of his face, and Twitch looked at him. “Hello, there. I’m Dr. Mallard. May I ask what your name is?”

Blank eyes stared back at Ducky, blinking slowly, then Twitch turned away and looked back at Gibbs. When Jethro asked him the same question, the young man turned and looked at the fireplace, the bookshelves, and then down to his leg where Ducky had resumed changing the dressing.

Stephanie came in with the tea for Ducky, and she’d brought one for Twitch, as well. She put it carefully in his left hand, then excused herself to continue packing, she said. Twitch leaned forward and sniffed the hot tea, watched as Ducky took a sip of his, then he looked over to Jethro, who was studying him with an odd frown. Jethro gestured for him to drink it, and only then did it look like the thought had even crossed his mind to actually drink the tea. He lifted the teacup to his mouth, blew on the hot drink, and took a cautious sip—all things that showed an ability to process and deal with a particular situation, Ducky thought, nodding.

Ducky took out a pair of gray and burgundy, paisley-patterned slippers with Velcro fastenings which he was delighted to find worked well over Twitch’s bandages and heavy socks. They were perhaps a size large, but they were only to fill a temporary purpose. Better large than small.

Twitch didn’t seem to notice them on his feet, though, his attention still focused on his tea. Ducky paused and studied him again. Was this brain damage from the weeks of forced drug use, perhaps? Ducky wondered. Or perhaps he had always been this way, a nonverbal adult on the autism spectrum. He could be introverted—shy and reserved—but there seemed to be something else going on, something more. Perhaps this was PTSD emotional numbness, and Twitch was mentally and psychologically protecting himself by shutting down any emotional feelings and reactions.

Still, it was too early to make even a preliminary diagnosis, and Ducky was not a trained professional in this area, although he had met his fair share of PTSD patients, and some of those were still alive.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gibbs asked, his voice low.

Ducky finished up with the bandage on Twitch’s leg, taking a moment to refocus his thoughts. “I honestly don’t know, Jethro. He appears to be able to move around on his own now—he walked down the stairs to find you here, and we have seen him eating and drinking, using the toilet—and yet he is remarkably vacant and unaware.”

“The lights are on, but no one is home.”

Ducky sighed, frowning at the turn of phrase. “If you must… Twitch engages somewhat with his surroundings, but yet he does not react when spoken to, possibly because his ability to process what is happening around him is not functioning. Now this is something that could clear up in the next few hours or days, or something requiring assistance from a neurologist and other professionals. Right now, it is clear that his ability to communicate is limited.”

“Limited? He’s not communicating at all.”

“Oh, I disagree, Jethro. He has communicated to you nonverbally on several levels: he’s used gestures to ask to use a toilet, he’s understood that three taps means you, and at least on one occasion, he called for you using three taps—and he has communicated to you his need for proximity, that he wants you to be within reach.”

Gibbs leaned back on the couch. “That’s not a lot to go on. We need to know who he is, what happened to him, who did this to him.”

“And he’s not able to give you that right now, but that’s not saying it’s not going to happen. Look at him. He’s just opened his eyes fully for the first time. That’s a huge step forward. Let’s try something, with the assumption that he does not understand what we are saying. He seems content at the moment to sit here and drink his tea. Why don’t you go into the kitchen and make yourself a cup of coffee? I’d like to see how he reacts.”

Gibbs nodded and stood. Startled, Twitch immediately looked up at him, holding his cup of tea. “I’ll be right back,” Jethro said to him, and walked around the couch and headed to the kitchen.

Twitch looked down at his tea, then pushed the cup toward Ducky and struggled to his feet, following Gibbs into the other room awkwardly walking in the new slippers, his balance in question as he wavered and stumbled. He stopped near Jethro, hands down at his side, stepping back when Jethro turned to pour water into the top of the coffee maker. He watched everything Jethro was doing closely, almost on the edge of panic.

Ducky could hear Jethro talking to him—he really was quite gentle with him, Ducky thought—offering him some coffee, and asking him if he wanted something to eat. When the coffee was ready, he poured Twitch a cup and pushed it along the counter toward him, gesturing that the cup was his. Twitch stared at the mug, then watched Gibbs pour himself a large mug of the strong brew and take a sip. Twitch reached for the cup, smelled it and took a sip, then quickly put it back on the counter, startled, it seemed. Jethro laughed, and Ducky could see him put some milk and sugar into Twitch’s cup and stir it; then he gestured again for Twitch to take it. Twitch reached for it again and took another cautious sip, this time standing and holding it in his hands while he drained it.

Gibbs made simple omelets and buttered toast, setting the table for four and calling Stephanie to join them. The entire time Jethro worked, Ducky could see Twitch standing in the kitchen holding his empty mug, intently watching what Jethro was doing, but not responding to his requests to put things on the table or to go sit at the table. At first, when Jethro would move from the kitchen to the dining room table, Twitch would take a step or two after him, backing up when Jethro returned to the kitchen. After a few cycles of that, Twitch stayed in the kitchen but watched fixedly where Jethro was.

Ducky found it all quite fascinating—and perplexing. He would be leaning towards one explanation for the man’s odd behavior, then a moment later, it would seem to be another explanation. Ah, well. It would sort itself out.

Surprisingly, getting Twitch to sit in a chair was apparently not something the young man was prepared to do. No amount of cajoling or enticing could get him to sit down at the table with Ducky and Stephanie. He ended up backed in a corner of the kitchen, eyes closed, looking panicky—bordering on frightened. Ducky could see that Twitch was indeed feeling emotions over the past hour, but there was a layer of… of, utter bewilderment… covering it all.

Stephanie was watching him, too. “It’s like a movie I saw long ago… he’s like someone from another planet trying to decipher what is going on around him. Like he has nothing to relate it to.”

“Yes, exactly, my dear,” Ducky said softly. “I have an idea—Jethro. Leave him in the kitchen and join us here. Push his chair back so he can see it. He’ll join us when he’s ready,” Ducky counselled. “I’m sure he’s hungry enough.”

Jethro shrugged and, leaving Twitch alone in the kitchen, came into the dining room and sat at the table. When Twitch opened his eyes, he motioned for the young man to come and sit at the chair next to him. There was no reaction, except for Twitch to blankly stare at him… but it was a confused blank stare, as though he was possibly trying to think about what was happening.

“Just eat, Jethro,” Ducky said, pointing to Gibbs’ plate. “Your food is getting cold. Ignore him.”

Sure enough, after several minutes, Twitch ventured into the dining room. Another minute and he had reached Gibbs’ side.

“Sit down, your food is getting cold,” Jethro said, patting the seat of the chair next to him.

Twitch sat on the chair, still looking at Jethro, as though he was not sure he had correctly understood what he was to do. Jethro nodded and pointed to Twitch’s plate, and then to Twitch, then he went back to eating his meal.

“Maybe not an alien... It’s like getting an abused dog from a shelter,” Stephanie said suddenly. “Growing up, my mom used to regularly adopt dogs that had ended up in a shelter because they had been mistreated. It took them awhile to understand that we wouldn’t hurt them or be cruel to them.”

“He’s not a dog,” Jethro said gruffly, reaching over and picking up Twitch’s fork, putting it in the young man’s hand, and then scooping up some eggs. He let go then and went back to eating. “He’ll figure it out.”

And he did, slowly moving the fork in his left hand to his mouth. He moved clumsily, which Ducky figured could well be because he was righthanded, and with the tensor wrap on his right wrist, using his left hand to eat would understandably be awkward. He’d eaten at the hospital though, Ducky recalled, remembering him with a bowl of soup. Twitch had lifted the bowl to his mouth rather than use a spoon, and he’d had some apple juice with a straw in it.

Twitch slowly ate the omelet, chewing it thoughtfully as though he couldn’t quite identify what it was. When he finished, he looked around the table, and, perhaps seeing it was acceptable, he reached for the piece of toast on his plate, picking it up and slowly nibbling at it. His bloodshot eyes were drooping closed, though, and before he’d even finished half of his toast, he was asleep.

“On that note,” Stephanie said with a smile, looking over at Twitch, asleep at the table, “I must take my leave and get back to packing. It’s already five-thirty. Jethro, I hope your stray here figures it all out. He seems to be a nice boy. Or rather, a nice man. Whatever. Thanks for the omelet.” She took their empty plates and put them in the kitchen sink, then went back upstairs.

Twitch woke as they walked him to the couch but went back to sleep immediately, seeming exhausted by his last eventful hour. Ducky made himself more tea as Jethro did up the dishes and the two men quietly discussed the unusual reactions of the man sleeping in the living room.

“This must not be how he is normally, or why would they want to kill him?” Jethro said finally, folding the dishcloth over the base of the tap. “If he doesn’t speak, doesn’t give any clues to who he is or what has happened to him, and if he doesn’t seem to really know what’s going on around him, then he wouldn’t be a threat to anyone.” Jethro poured himself more coffee. “Right now, he’s not even capable of pointing them out in a police lineup.”

“Right now.” Ducky nodded slowly. “They must realize this is only a temporary phase of his recovery. We must remember that several hours ago he had severe vertigo and wouldn’t let go of your sleeve. He’s made a lot of steps since then.”

Gibbs nodded. “There was Clingy Twitch and now Spacey Twitch. Who’s next?”

“Who are you waiting for?”

“Chatty Twitch. Answers Twitch.”

Ducky laughed. “And on that note, Jethro,” Ducky said, imitating Stephanie, “I must take my leave and get about my day.”

Gibbs followed him to the door, noticing then the two shopping bags Ducky had brought. He reached down and pulled a thick winter jacket from one. “I thought you were just going to get some shoes he could wear?”

“He needed more than a thin denim jacket with skulls all over, no disrespect to our Abigail. I went to the shopping mall to purchase some slippers that have Velcro tabs to keep them in place over the bandages, and extra thick socks, and stopped to pick out a suitable jacket for him at the same time—probably a size larger than he needs but better larger than too tight. He’ll need proper shoes later, but they will do nicely for now. When I checked his feet earlier, it appears that the bandages will likely come off tomorrow—they were to protect the bites that were predominantly on the upper part of one foot, and two on the toes of his other foot.” Ducky wrapped his scarf around his neck and put his heavy coat on. “I also bought some sleepwear for him, and a few other items I came across on the way to the checkout.”

“Thanks, Duck.”

“Jethro, I will stop by your room at hotel when the FBI has a place for you. And do let me know if you have need of my services before that. I am heading home for a few hours to see to Mother and take the dogs for a walk.”

Gibbs nodded, yawning. “Thanks for the slippers and coat. For everything.”

FBI Special Agent Tobias Fornell had already waited impatiently for over half an hour when Gibbs finally exited the elevator carrying two duffel bags. “Took you long enough, Jethro—” he started, then stopped short, surprised to see Twitch, as Gibbs referred to him, trailing behind the NCIS special agent. “Well, look who’s up and walking.”

The young man’s eyes were only half-open as he stumbled after Gibbs, but he looked a lot better than the last time the FBI agent had seen him, mostly clean shaven now and his straggly hair buzzed short. There was, not unexpectedly, previously unseen bruises beneath the beard, now showing yellow and purple on the gaunt young man’s pale cheeks and along his jaw. The bruising around his eyes was changing color from red to more multi-colored blue and purple, the whites of both eyes not looking as red. He looked almost familiar, and Fornell thought for a moment that he’d seen Twitch’s face before. Twitch was standing a little straighter, though was clearly still guarding bruised ribs and abdominal muscles. He was wearing a new fleece coat, the right sleeve empty as his injured arm must be tucked against his chest under the body of the jacket. The coat’s price tags were still attached at the end of the hanging sleeve. Twitch’s feet were clad in thick socks and what looked like over-sized hideous-paisley slippers which he appeared to have trouble walking in.

Fornell got up from where he’d been sitting at Gibbs’ desk and approached them. “Hey. Remember me?” he asked Twitch. “How are you feeling?” There was no response other than Twitch moving back a step.

“Sit,” Gibbs said to the younger man, steering him into Burley’s desk alcove closest to the elevator—Burley’s former desk, already cleared out—then Gibbs moved down to his own desk at the far end of the same aisle. “What do you have?” he snapped at Fornell, as he dropped the two duffel bags, powered up his computer, and shrugged out of his coat.

Fornell perched on the edge of Special Agent Pacci’s desk across the aisle from Burley desk’s and frowned at Twitch, standing where Gibbs had left him. The disoriented young man looked like he still had a considerable number of drugs in his system; even after 48 hours, his eyes were heavily lidded and only partly focused, his body swaying slightly. Twitch yawned, covering his mouth automatically with his left hand, and then he blinked, rubbing his eyes.

Or, Fornell thought, maybe Twitch had just woken up and was taking a while getting himself fully awake.

“Tobias!” Gibbs yelled out impatiently, hanging his coat on a hook at the back of his cubicle and punching in his security password on his keyboard. “What do you got?”

Hearing Gibbs’ voice, Twitch roused himself enough to stare blankly across the two cubicles separating him from Gibbs. He looked down at his coat buttons.

“I’m waiting for a callback, Jethro,” Fornell responded, watching as Twitch began to try to undo the coat’s buttons one-handed. “Need any help with that?” Fornell asked him, stepping across the aisle closer to Twitch, who stumbled back away from him, losing his balance, jarring his injured arm and falling to the floor.

“I’ve got it,” Gibbs muttered, moving surprisingly quickly past Fornell and over to Twitch. He helped the young man to sit up, quietly repeating the mantra Fornell had heard him use with Twitch before. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.” Gibbs undid the buttons on the coat, easing one arm out carefully, noticing as he did so that the price tags were still dangling from the empty sleeve. With a grunt, he ripped them off and dropped them in the trash. “Oops,” he said, and must have smiled at Twitch, who responded with the faintest hint of a smile—which was reassuring somehow, Fornell thought, that maybe Gibbs wasn’t always being his usual bastard self, and maybe his old friend was actually a safe choice for the kid to be around.

“He fell back against his right arm,” Fornell offered. “That had to hurt.”

Gibbs didn’t turn around to acknowledge the FBI agent, but Fornell could see Gibbs carefully checking Twitch’s wrist under the tension wrap. “Okay?” Gibbs asked, putting pressure along the bones of Twitch’s forearm and upper arm. Other than wincing a few times, Twitch kept his eyes closed and didn’t answer, but neither did he pull away from the NCIS special agent. Gibbs stood finally, rubbed the top of the kid’s head in something akin to affection, then reached over to hang the new winter jacket on Burley’s coat hook. He helped Twitch get to his feet and settled in the office chair, and then pushed Twitch’s head gently but firmly to the surface of the desk. “Go back to sleep. Sleep.” Twitch shifted so his head rested on his bent left arm, his eyes fluttering closed.

Gibbs waited a few seconds, his hand on Twitch’s upper back, then he moved from behind Burley’s desk and glared at Fornell. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Tobias said, not holding back a smile as Gibbs returned to his own desk.

“Why are you here?”

“Your Special Agent Burley is still working with one of our agents, trying to get an idea on who owns that building Twitch was found in. He was looking for some files from a few years back. Wanted to see if you could match anything from NCIS files.”

Twitch raised his head suddenly, eyes anxiously trying to locate where Gibbs had gone. He struggled to his feet, swaying as he looked back towards Gibbs.

“How are you feeling?” Fornell asked Twitch again, but there was no response.

“Sit!” Gibbs yelled, glaring across the office at Twitch, then he dialed a number on his desk phone, waiting impatiently as it rang. “Sit!” he said again, gesturing down. “Sleep!” he added, putting his hand beside his face, and miming being asleep. “Sleep! I’m trying to work here.”

“He’s still not talking?” Fornell asked.

“Not a word. Now shut up, Tobias. I’m trying to get my voice mail,” Gibbs grumbled.

“Hey, Jethro—" Fornell stepped closer as the young man at Burley’s desk was still more or less standing but was wavering dangerously, close to collapsing.

As Gibbs was punching in his passcode, he looked over at Fornell, then to Twitch. “Hey!” Gibbs barked out again. “Twitch!” he yelled, and the young man twitched right on cue. Gibbs gave a sigh of frustration, and repeated his earlier order, but in a calmer voice this time, “Sit.” Gibbs signed something that likely said for Twitch to sit, followed by what Fornell recognized as a hand sign for a dog to sit. Twitch cautiously lowered himself back to Burley’s office chair, then closed his eyes, his head resting on the desk, his body twitching again, short involuntary spasms that calmed after thirty seconds.

Gibbs bent over his desk scribbling something as he listened to his voice messages, then he hung up his phone. He glanced back at Twitch and continued his response to Fornell. “Yes, he’s still not talking. No, I’m not sure if he understands me or not, and right now, I don’t care. I’m going to find the bastards who did this to him.” Gibbs pulled out a large phone directory and started paging through it. “Why the hell are you still staring at me, Tobias? Don’t you have anything better to do?” he asked harshly.

Fornell held up both hands, as though warding off the bad vibes aimed his way. “Now don’t get your panties in a knot, Jethro. We all know what you’re like when you have a vendetta brewing.”

He watched as Gibbs roughly flipped through the pages in the telephone directory, almost ripping several of them as he searched for the numbers he wanted.

Fornell glanced around the large space. It was mostly deserted at this time on a Sunday, but there was a small team who had been working a case at the opposite side of the floor, now becoming more interested in what Gibbs was up to than what their team leader was saying. The woman raised her voice, regaining their attention and they reluctantly refocused on their case.

Fornell moved over to Gibbs’ desk, his back to the others, and spoke quietly. “We had a conference call with your Dr. Mallard today, as well as Dr. Bautista at the hospital. They went over a lot of reason why Twitch might be like this, specifically why he is not talking and appears emotionless, and they have agreed it might take more than their previous estimated 48 hours, even up to a week before the co*cktail of drugs completely leaves his system. Ducky told you all this, right?”

Gibbs glanced over at him, then back to his notes. “Your point is?”

Fornell’s cellphone rang, and he moved away to answer it, talked to one of the agents in his unit, then wandered back to Gibbs’ desk a few minutes later. “They put me on hold. My point is that we’re here to help you. The FBI, that is. And help him, whoever he is. I just hope he’s not a nefarious drug dealer. Or a terrorist. Or a kidnapped prince of a small European nation.” When there was no response from Gibbs, Fornell continued, “Jethro, you were signing to him. Do you think he might be deaf?”

“He’s not deaf. He reacts to noises. He gets scared by sudden sounds.” Gibbs moved over to the row of filing cabinets across from his desk. “Tell me again what Burley was looking for?”

“File on a case from ’98. Marine was kidnapped, body found badly beaten in a warehouse. NCIS investigated. You were on assignment somewhere and Burley and Pacci handled it.” Fornell was still studying Twitch. “Could be he doesn’t know English.”

“Well, he hasn’t said one word in any language, and he hasn’t responded to Russian or what little I know of Arabic, Farsi, or Chinese.” Gibbs went back to flipping quickly through the filing cabinet drawers when Fornell returned to his phone call.

Barely a minute later, Fornell was back. “The JTFHRT team is stopping for the night,” he said. “They’ll get Burley to call in here before he leaves. And they were wondering if there is a name yet for this guy.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? No first or last name?”

“How could I have a name for him? What part of ‘he’s not said one word’ do you have a confusion about?” Gibbs shot back at him. “If he was talking, I’d know his name.”

“Maybe he has amnesia? Ducky mentioned temporary amnesia.”

“No idea. He’s said nothing.”

“No fingerprints, searches, missing people?”

“Nothing,” Gibbs responded after a moment, still looking through files.

Fornell crossed his arms studying Twitch. “He doesn’t look so great. Should he be out of the hospital?”

“Not safe to keep him there if they can get to him that quickly.” Gibbs stopped and glanced over at the young man in question. “Tobias, the doctors are saying to be patient, so I am being patient. They’re saying he should be okay in a day or so. I’ll give him that long.”

“And meanwhile?”

“Meanwhile, all we know is that he is still somewhat drugged, he sleeps fitfully, has concussion symptoms including headache, confusion, and separation anxiety. And he twitches.” Gibbs pulled a file from the drawer, marking its spot. “Here’s one,” he said, dropping it on top of the filing cabinet.

“Burley says that Twitch sleeps okay when you’re nearby.”

Gibbs gave Fornell a dry glare and tossed a second file on top of the first one.

“Then again,” Fornell continued, “you saved his life—not once, but multiple times. From what I heard, you protected him under gunfire in that rat-filled warehouse basem*nt, you kept him warm in a moving truck filled with strangers, you stayed with him at the too-bright army gym, and in the ambulance, and you were by his side at the sterile hospital with all those nasty needles and terrible tests and x-ray machines and people shooting at him.”

“I also fed him, cleaned him up when he threw up, and got him some clothes. It’s no big deal—he’s trusting me because in his messed-up world, right now, I’m all he’s got.” Gibbs wiped a hand over his face, feeling tired. “He’s skittish. Has every reason to be.”

“Skittish?” Fornell snorted. “He’s not a horse.”

Gibbs ignored him.

Fornell retrieved the two files. “You’re good with him,” Fornell said, almost begrudgingly. “Surprised me.”

“Any word on who was gunning for him at the hospital?” Gibbs asked, flipping through another drawer of files.

Fornell shook his head ruefully. “There are virtually no cameras inside that area of the emergency department. They likely split up and exited with the crowds leaving the building after the gunshots were heard; I told you we found the two black hoodies in two different stairwells. The second group, one appeared to be a doctor. We have an agent working with their security department to try to figure out where the doctor’s lab coat and paraphernalia came from. I’m just waiting to hear from him.”

“Then I’ll keep working on this.”

Fornell shrugged, looking hard over at Twitch. Now that he’d had a haircut and was cleaned up a bit, the kid definitely looked familiar. He’d seen him before, he was sure. But where?

GIBBS
Sunday, 8:30 PM

Over the next half hour, Gibbs found eight files of note; he and Fornell each took four and went to the phones to call around to see if any of the cases were closed or followed up on. After getting nowhere on the first few files, Gibbs slammed his desk drawer shut in a burst of temper, which knocked over a lamp on his desk. Two cubicles down from him, Twitch woke with a startled cry, fell from his chair, and scrambled under the desk.

Gibbs swore and jumped to his feet, but Fornell got to Twitch first, offering a hand to help him to his feet. Twitch blindly moved further under the desk, trying to get away from the FBI agent, shivering, gasping for air in full panic attack and keening low in his throat.

None too gently, Gibbs moved Fornell aside. He crouched down and let his hand rest on Twitch’s leg, keeping a light pressure in place for a moment, then he triple-tapped, identifying himself. “Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s Gibbs. You’re safe here.” With two fingers, he triple-tapped the young man on his shoulder. “It’s Gibbs,” he repeated.

Unable to catch his breath, Twitch raised his head and opened his eyes partway for a moment and looked at Gibbs. Their gazes held for a few seconds, before Twitch gasped for air again and closed his eyes.

Gibbs slowly drew Twitch out from under the desk and helped him back into the chair. Twitch’s left hand shakily grabbed hold of his shirt, and reluctantly, Gibbs let him. Twitch was scared; he didn’t know what was happening, Gibbs told himself. Twitch’s closed eyes leaked tears.

“Just breathe,” Gibbs said softly, and Twitch’s eyes opened again to peer at him. He tried to get Twitch to follow his example breathing out, breathing in, breathing out. “Good. You’re doing good. See that guy? Tobias here is okay. He won’t hurt you. You’re safe here in the building.”

Fornell could see Gibbs tapping the same triple rhythm along Twitch’s arm, the side of his face, and along the back of his neck. “You’re still doing that?”

Gibbs shrugged. “Just making sure he knows it’s me.” Gibbs rubbed the young man’s back in slow circles as he turned him in the chair to face the desk. Twitch’s eyes closed tightly, his head slowly going to the desktop resting in the crook of his arm, his breathing coming under control. He was quiet now, still trembling, still twitching, but he looked like maybe he would go back to sleep.

“I startled him,” Gibbs said, his voice still low. “That was stupid on my part.” With a last pat to Twitch’s back, the NCIS agent stood and stretched, then moved back to his desk. Twitch’s head raised to follow where he was going, but then he put his head back on the desk, his eyes closing again.

“He sure is fixated on you.”

“You getting anywhere with your files?” Gibbs asked Fornell, changing the topic.

The FBI agent was still studying Twitch, though, and it seemed to take him a moment to scroll back to what Gibbs had asked and find some kind of response. “Uh, not really,” he admitted, looking over to Gibbs. “I still have another file to go through, but it’s almost 8:30 on a Sunday night. We might have to wait until tomorrow—or Tuesday, since Monday’s a holiday. And the weather is getting horrible. No one is in unless they have to be. At least no one at the security level we are looking for.”

“I’m here. You’re here. They’re here—” Gibbs said, gesturing to Ashley Gochuico’s team. Gibbs sighed, frustrated. “We’ve got more files downstairs; I am going to see what I can find and take them with me to the Safe House tonight. It’ll give me something to do while he’s sleeping tonight,” Gibbs said. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“Bring me a coffee if you’re getting one.”

“Get your own; there’s a vending machine around the corner. Or you could put a pot on in the break room. Nothing’s open close by at this time on a Sunday.”

Gibbs started to head to the elevator, then paused at Burley’s desk. Right. The kid. Well, maybe not technically a kid—looked to be early-to-mid-twenties—but definitely younger than Burley and Pacci, or even Don Dobbs and Becky Lansdown his two probationary agents. His two current probationary agents. He doubted they’d be staying long once Burley left. Which made him think about the team he was supposed to be putting together, which made him even grouchier.

“Hey,” Gibbs said, adjusting his tone and volume to something milder than he felt, but he was still surprised when Twitch lifted his head immediately, rubbing his eyes. “I’m going downstairs to the file storage. I won’t be long.” Twitch gave no response—of course—but when Gibbs headed to the elevator, he could hear Twitch scramble to follow him. He thought about sending him back, but he was under orders to keep the young man calm.

Inside the elevator, Gibbs pressed the button for the lowest level, glancing sideways over at Twitch, who was holding onto the railing, eyes closed. He did look like crap; Fornell was right. Pale. Weary. Headache. Running on virtually nothing but a few scrambled eggs and half a piece of toast.

But still, better than he had been, Gibbs thought. Twitch was standing on his own two feet and not clinging to Gibbs. He’d willingly gone with the NCIS agent from Gibbs’ home to the Navy Yard. Scared, yes, especially when Gibbs had yelled at the FBI driver to back the vehicle up, so they didn’t have to step in the puddle of water again.

Gibbs shook his head and exited the elevator, hearing the soft pad of the thick-soled slippered feet behind him. Although he was tempted to move at his normal quick pace, he slowed down, so Twitch could keep up. They walked down the corridor, Twitch’s left hand on the wall as they moved, compensating for his lack of balance. Down one hall, then halfway down the next, and Gibbs reached the archive storage. Twitch followed him inside, clearly uncertain of what was happening, but it was good to see his eyes open more than they had been, Gibbs thought, and taking a confused interest in his surroundings.

Gibbs keyed in the passcode to the file storage and went straight to the area he was after. He found three files right away in the January-June 1999 cabinet, handing them to Twitch who managed to hold two of them under his good arm, only dropping one. That caused a major panic scene, as though Gibbs was going to beat him up for his negligence. Interesting... Gibbs calmed him down, smiling more than he had in several years to communicate he wasn’t angry, then Gibbs moved further into the room, locating another few files from the last half of 1998. That should do it.

They made their way slowly back down the corridor and up the elevator, and he took the files from Twitch and motioned for him to go back into Burley’s cubicle. Gibbs was at his desk before he noticed that Twitch hadn’t followed his instructions. The young man he had rescued stood wavering, looking around at his surroundings, appearing puzzled at this place he was in. He blinked, squinting up at the high ceiling, and then his eyes followed up the staircase to look at the mezzanine floor railing circling the side and back of the bullpen. He turned back to the wall of windows, the glass reflecting the squad room, and as he cautiously stepped closer, the windows showed him a nighttime view of lights around the Navy Yard and glimpses of the river. He moved closer yet and leaned against the window, rubbing his eyes, and Gibbs could see the discomfort he was trying to hide. Dr Bautista had provided some over-the-counter meds, and it might be time for another dose.

Well, they’d find out who Twitch was soon enough. Get him back to his people. Or maybe he was one of the bad guys, and they’d haul him off to prison. Gibbs didn’t think so, though. His gut… his gut still said something else was going on. He just hadn’t sorted it out yet.

He glanced around the squad room, but the room was empty now. Gochuico’s team had left while they were downstairs, so it was just the three of them—him, Twitch, and Tobias. On the floor one down from them, other employees were on duty, but on a Sunday evening with no active cases, the squad room was deserted. Twitch was okay where he was, Gibbs told himself. The kid was safe standing there behind bullet-proof tinted glass. He could see out, but no one outside could see him.

Gibbs went back to his desk and opened one of the files they had retrieved. There was little chance that the chief of police or the deputy chief of the Purcellville Police were on duty, but someone surely was there to answer his questions. He dialed the number, making his way through the guy who answered the call, to whoever his supervisor was. All he needed was someone to look up a case for him. And yes, he said for the second time now, he knew it was Sunday night, and, no, he didn’t want to call back Tuesday after 9:00 AM when the station opened because Monday was Presidents’ Day, and the administrative office would be closed anyway. Even though Fornell had mentioned it earlier, Gibbs had forgotten about the holiday momentarily, but he wasn’t about to admit it. So, he pushed forward with his request, demanding someone there help him.

Trying to concentrate on what the irate sergeant was going on about, Gibbs was distracted when Twitch started moving around the empty NCIS bullpen. The young man seemed to be walking aimlessly, half-stumbling over his own feet, just staring at computers and desks as he drifted down the aisles. Twitch wasn’t stopping to examine anything, but Gibbs didn’t like him straying away from where he was, especially since he looked like he would fall over at any moment. Damn it, Twitch was supposed to be resting. Ducky would be meeting them at the hotel where the FBI was putting them up, and the doctor had stressed that Twitch needed to rest.

Trapped on the phone listening to the sergeant babble on, Gibbs was unable to call Twitch over, so he tried to gesture for him to come back. He ended up again snapping his fingers twice to get his attention.

Twitch froze, then his head turned quickly, staring at Gibbs, his half-lidded eyes blinking in confusion, his mouth open in stunned surprise. He stumbled, grabbing at a desk near him in the middle of the squad room. Gibbs saw Fornell stand up, watching Twitch intently. Gibbs looked away and yelled for the Purcellville sergeant to put someone else on the phone if he couldn’t help him.

When he looked back a moment later, Twitch still stared across the room at him, standing like a wobbling statue. Fornell looked like he had stomach gas, his eyes drilled into Twitch. Gibbs rubbed at his neck, trying to rid his tension as he waited for the sergeant in Purcellville to contact his supervisor. Annoyed, Gibbs snapped his fingers twice again, then pointed for Twitch to come back, making it clear he wanted Twitch to stop wandering around and come back to where Gibbs was, instead of staring at him like Gibbs was yelling at him and not the idiot on the other end of the telephone line.

Fornell suddenly said to Twitch, “Obbediscigli, ragazzo.”

Twitch’s eyes darted to Fornell then, his body trembling, and Gibbs was ready to drop the phone if the kid keeled over. The young man did not need any more bumps or bruises on his body.

“Obbediscigli,” Fornell repeated, his voice firm and calm. “Immediatamente! Fallo ora.”

Twitch started to move back towards Gibbs. Which was good because the Purcellville sergeant had returned to the call and announced the deputy chief was coming on the phone. Gibbs sat back at his desk and worked his way through the file with the deputy chief, trying to collaborate the information Burley was after. Did they have anything on the marine who had died in their custody three years earlier? Again, he was told to call back when the station opened in the morning. Well, not on Monday, because it was holiday. Definitely call back on Tuesday.

Gibbs slammed down the phone and turned his attention to Fornell. “What was that all about?” he asked, gruffly.

Fornell was on the phone now and also madly typing on the laptop computer he was using. “Give me a minute. Take a look at Twitch,” Fornell tossed back.

Gibbs did, looking around and then down, his eyebrows dangerously high. Twitch was kneeling at Gibbs’ side, his head down, eyes closed, the palms of his hands resting on his thighs, and he was shaking like a leaf.

What the hell?

Gibbs’s phone rang. He growled at it but then answered and dealt with the Purcellville deputy chief again, the man sounding as annoyed as he was. Absently, Gibbs transferred the phone to his right hand and put his left hand down to Twitch’s neck, hoping his touch could help calm him. Gibbs was increasingly pissed off that no one could help him at the police headquarters. He was told once again to call back on Tuesday morning. This time he hung up.

His hand on Twitch’s neck seemed to work as the shaking had stopped. Something had scared Twitch, something Fornell had said to him.

“What was that? Italian?” Gibbs asked, frowning over at Fornell. “What did you say to him?”

“Just an idea. When he looked over at you when you snapped your fingers… Reminded me of something my buddy in the Public Corruption Unit told me about a few weeks ago. Something he was doing research on.” Fornell turned his attention back to his mobile phone, “Yeah, Fred? …Tobias. Did Tommy pass my message on? … Right…. You’ve got the info? Great. Like I said, I’m not sure, but it’s kinda freaky, if you ask me… Yeah, email it to me when you get a chance. I might have something for you. Yeah, not tonight. Gibbs and the young mystery guy they rescued are going to the Madison… Right…. Later.”

Ignoring Gibbs, Fornell looked up from his computer and over to Twitch. “Come ti chiami, ragazzo?" he called out.

Twitch at first didn’t move, then he crumpled forward into an almost fetal position, his shoulders shaking again. Gibbs’s hand that had been on his neck, moved down to his back rubbing small circles trying to calm him. “What did you say to him?” Gibbs demanded.

“Just asked him his name.”

“Why Italian?”

“I might have figured out why he looked familiar.”

“What did you say to him before?”

“Before? I told him to obey you. You snapped your fingers at him.” Fornell was busy on his laptop. “Just wait; I have to get some more info.”

“What’s the problem with me snapping my fingers at him?” Gibbs coaxed the exhausted young man to curl up on the carpet by his desk and dragged his own coat from the hook to cover him. When he went to stand up, he could see tears on Twitch’s face, his eyes scrunched closed. Gibbs hesitantly touched Twitch’s forehead and was surprised he felt cold. He opened the filing cabinet across the aisle from his desk and took out two blankets from the bottom drawer. He folded one and lifted Twitch’s head slightly making a pillow and put the other one over him. Satisfied the young man was okay for the time being, he got back to his feet.

“What?” he asked, impatiently joining the FBI agent, who had been studying him thoughtfully. “Ducky said to get him to rest some. So why Italian?”

“I have a question for you, first. Why did you snap your fingers at him?”

“Why?” Gibbs stared at Fornell. “What’s it to do with you? What’s this all about?”

“Just answer my question.”

Gibbs shrugged. “A few minutes ago? I was on the phone; I didn’t want him wandering around, that’s all. I was listening to the police sergeant and couldn’t call out to Twitch. I wanted to get his attention and come back to my desk,” Gibbs said, frowning. “Is there a problem with that?”

“No, not really. I was thinking about what Twitch did next.”

“He came back to my desk.”

“And knelt beside you like he was your slave.”

“My slave?” A wave of anger hit Gibbs. “What are you talking about?” he hissed.

“I think Twitch has been someone’s slave before all this. I think there was a reason we found him at that BDSM club basem*nt. He knelt beside you when summoned and then he got scared. So, tell me, Jethro, how did you know exactly how to calm him? Have you been holding out on me?”

When Gibbs just stared at him, Fornell went on, “Your slave returns to you as ordered by you clicking your fingers and pointing to the floor next to you. He’s scared, so how did you calm him down? You put your hand on the back of his neck, another slave command. It imparts and demands calmness, shows possession, and orders that they stop fidgeting and worrying; their master has everything under control.”

sh*t. Gibbs started to refute it, but he couldn’t. That’s what he’d done. When he was on the phone, he could sense the young man’s distress, and he needed Twitch to calm down so that he could concentrate on his call. Gibbs spun and looked at Twitch now, motionless beneath the blanket.

Fornell signed. “And you’ve probably no idea what that blanket signals to him?”

“He was cold,” Gibbs said tersely. “I suppose throwing a blanket over him is some slave code to warm up?”

“Putting a blanket—or coat, whatever—over him means he must stay there, motionless, until you remove the blanket. Standard BDSM master/slave codes. What’s interesting is… when did he transfer all this over to you in his mind? When did you become his master?”

Gibbs looked back to Fornell, not holding back the anger he was feeling. “How do you know all this BDSM crap?”

“Sadly, too many cases.” The FBI special agent shook his head regretfully. “These BDSM clubs we’ve been watching for our missing agents and servicemen, it’s all play and make believe with them… unless it’s not. That’s what happened to Walmor and the others. Some players, maybe even players at the KinkHouse club, wanted more than just willing slaves playing a ‘game’, they wanted actual slaves, captives who could be forced to do exactly what their masters wanted. Walmor and the others were kidnapped, humiliated, raped, all in a very antiseptic environment, one that got the owners more money if their slaves were fed and kept healthy and in good condition. Big money. Big bucks.”

“Twitch is not remotely in good condition.”

“Whatever happened to this one,” Fornell said, gesturing to the young man curled asleep by Gibb’s desk, “he wasn’t a slave in the traditional master/slave relationship in that basem*nt. The men abusing him got their kicks from beating him, shooting at him, maybe raping him, terrifying him for sure, letting him lie in his own filth.”

“So, now what are you saying? That he wasn’t a slave in the basem*nt? Just a captive? Kidnapped?”

“Yes. In that basem*nt, he was just a captive that they took their hostility out on. For whatever their reasons, they were enjoying beating him up. But before Twitch was taken to that basem*nt, Jethro, I’m telling you, he was someone’s slave, whether it was just extreme roleplay or something more.” Fornell’s cellphone rang, and he answered it. “Yeah…. Twenty minutes?... I’ll have them at the main entrance….” He hung up. “The safe house is ready. Grab the files and let’s go.”

Gibbs was looking back at Twitch, his heart thumping in his chest. This was wrong on so many levels. “Tobias, I don’t want him to be afraid of me or think I’m his master. We need someone else to watch him then. I don’t want him to—”

“You don’t want him to think he’s your slave? Then don’t treat him like a slave—and I’m not saying you mean to,” Fornell added quickly. “You’re showing him kindness, and I don’t think he’s had a lot of that in his life lately. In a day or two these drugs will be out of his system and his memories will be coming back, and he’ll be gone. Right now, I hate to admit it, he needs you and you’re doing okay, Jethro. No one else has been able to connect with him. A little refinement here and there on signals you didn’t know you’re sending, but you’re doing great.” Fornell glanced up at the clock. “We’ve got to get downstairs; our cars will be waiting.”

“You get the files. I’ll get Twitch,” Gibbs muttered. He stopped by Burley’s alcove and grabbed Twitch’s parka, then went over to the where the young man lay, covered by the blanket. Any other time, if it was Burley or Hobbs sleeping, Gibbs would have just given a short kick to get them awake and up, but he stopped before he moved. This was not the time. This was a frightened young man trying to make scattered sense of what was going on around him.

Gibb got his own things together, his gun in its shoulder holster under his coat, trying to shake off his discomfort. He crouched down and gently lifted the blanket, then paused and gave his triple tap to the top of Twitch’s head. The young man shifted slightly and when Gibbs tapped again, Twitch’s eyes opened partway, and he sat up.

“Come on, let’s get you on your feet. We gotta go.” Gibbs held out his hand and the young man took it, somewhat warily.

“Dobbiamo scendere al piano di sotto alla macchina,” Fornell called out from across the room. “I told him we have to go downstairs to the car.”

Twitch glanced towards Fornell, took a gulp of air, and started shaking again. Gibbs grabbed Twitch’s chin and turned Twitch’s face towards him—hoping that didn’t have some hidden slave/master meaning. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me.” Somewhere he again found a hopefully reassuring smile for the young man, who at first stared at him blankly, then wiped a tear from his eye.

Aware of the healing injuries, Gibbs carefully helped him to his feet, noting how he still guarded his ribs and abdomen. Twitch appeared to be dizzy, his eyes closing as though he had a killer headache and having his eyes open was too much input. “Tired?” he asked, trying to coax a smile from him as he got Twitch’s good arm in one sleeve, then zipped the jacket up so it would stay on, the empty sleeve dangling.

Twitch wavered unsteadily, leaning heavily against Gibbs, his eyes closing. Again, there was that trust. And it has nothing to do with slavery, Gibbs bristled angrily. What was Fornell going on about?

Gibbs put both their go-bags over his shoulder, his briefcase with his laptop in his left hand, then with his right hand he started to steer Twitch towards where Fornell waited, holding open the elevator door. He moved them to the back of the elevator, turning Twitch to face him and not Fornell.

Fornell raised an eyebrow at Gibbs and smirked, then pressed the button for the main floor. “Ask him his name,” the FBI agent persisted, and Gibbs felt like punching him. “Come ti chiami?” Fornell asked.

Twitch muffled a sob as he shuffled as far away from Fornell as he could get, pushing his face further into Gibbs’ chest, seemingly closing in on himself. “Not now,” Gibbs said shortly. “He’s asleep on his feet, and his head hurts.” As the elevator doors closed, Gibbs wrapped his arms around the young man, holding him upright, not caring what Fornell thought.

“Now is the perfect time,” Fornell said, not shutting up. “If he thinks you are calling the shots for him, that you’re his padrone now, he’ll have to answer your question.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Gibbs looked across at Fornell and shook his head in warning. “Not now,” he repeated coldly. He couldn’t explain why he wouldn’t say the Italian phrase, though. Something felt off; his heart felt like it was beating double time, his gut uneasy. Something wasn’t adding up. Why had Twitch been in the basem*nt of a BDSM Club in DC? Who had beat the crap out of him? And if Fornell was right, before that, who had made him a slave? Had Twitch freely chosen this or had he been forced to?

Why would someone choose to be a slave? How would someone be forced to…?

The questions ran through his thoughts lightning fast, vanishing as the elevator doors opened on the exit to the parking lot. There were two black Ford SUVs waiting for them. Fornell held the elevator door open, then roughly yanked up the hood of Twitch’s new parka as they moved past him.

Swearing, Gibbs had to fight to get Twitch under control as the young man collapsed to the cement in fright at the unexpected assault. “What the hell, Tobias?” Gibbs yelled, kneeling and calming Twitch.

“It’s cold outside,” the FBI special agent said with a snarky, unrepentant grin. The FBI agent retrieved Gibbs’ briefcase and motioned for one of the other agents to retrieve the dropped go-bags and put them in the back of the first SUV.

Trying to keep his anger from his hands, Gibbs carefully pulled Twitch back to his feet and struggled to get him into the second waiting black vehicle. Finally, Gibbs got in first and Twitch frantically half-dived in after him as though afraid to lose contact.

Fornell got in the front seat, turning to look at them. “Don’t get too cozy. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive.”

“I know where the Madison is,” Gibbs shot back. Twitch was bent double in the seat beside him, gasping and hacking, his body shaking in spasms while Gibbs tried to rub circles on his back and get him to breathe properly. “What was that business with his hood?”

“Okay, I didn’t mean it to be so rough. Or scare him like that. Just went to tug it up and overplayed it.”

“Do it again, and I’ll show you what’s rough,” Gibbs threatened.

“Take it easy, Jethro. Scusa se ti ho spaventato, ragazzo.” Fornell sounded faintly apologetic. “I told him I was sorry that I scared him. How’s that? Come ti chiami?” Fornell asked Twitch, leaning towards them. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Shut the f*ck up, Tobias!” Gibbs snarled.

“Come ti chiami?” Fornell repeated in a firmer voice. “Ask him, Jethro. He’ll probably answer if you ask him.”

Gibbs ignored him, concentrating on the young man next to him. By the time they reached the Madison, Twitch was calmer and was breathing easier, but despite being pale, his face felt hot to Gibbs’ hands. “Is Ducky going to be at the Madison?”

Fornell turned back and looked at him. “He’ll be there soon.”

“Good.”

“Jethro, the kid has got to start talking.”

“Let’s get inside first.” Gibbs triple-tapped the back of Twitch’s hand. A moment later, he felt a tentative triple-tap back. Step at a time.

Chapter 7: Angel

Chapter Text

GIBBS
Madison Hotel, Washington, DC
Sunday, February 18
10:15 PM

The two black FBI SUVs pulled up to the front of the Madison. A string of taxis were lined up outside the hotel, leaving only enough room for the two vehicles to get in front in the no-parking zone. Two agents in the first SUV got out, talking on their headsets. One went inside and the other agent waited outside by the second SUV holding the two NCIS go-bags. These were seasoned agents, Gibbs noted, not the two young agents from earlier in the day.

Fornell twisted in the passenger seat and looked at Gibbs and Twitch, then said a few sentences in Italian to Twitch, who gave no sign of understanding him, his eyes closed, his head turned towards Gibbs’ shoulder. That seemed to irritate Fornell, but he shook it off and shrugged. “So, I’ll tell you the same thing I just attempted to tell him,” Fornell said to Gibbs. “We’re securing an elevator. Once we have one and all looks clear, we’re going to be walking into the hotel, heading straight to the elevator. Don’t look around. Don’t rush. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself. You’re just tourists returning after a day sightseeing. Or maybe after a trip to the hospital, in his case.”

“Fine.” Gibbs gave Twitch a gentle shake. The young man sat up, shifting away from him; Twitch opened his eyes, then shut them again quickly against the bright lights on the outside of the downtown hotel. He put one hand up shielding his face, rubbing his forehead.

Fornell got out of the front of the SUV, holding the NCIS files and Gibbs’ briefcase, and one of the agents opened the rear door. Gibbs backed out, drawing Twitch with him. Much as he hated all the FBI’s cloak-and-dagger stuff, he was getting to be just as tired and headachy as Twitch and wanted to get them both upstairs and safe. It had been a long weekend.

“It’s cold out,” Fornell said. “You might want to zip up that jacket.”

“It’s ten feet to the front entrance.”

“Okay, fine, if he gets sick, don’t come crying to me. And apparently if I touch his hood again, I’ll get my hand slapped off.”

Gibbs tried to get a look at Twitch’s face; it was difficult to see if the young man was awake with his eyes closed or had just gone back to sleep on his feet. “Wake up,” he tried, triple-tapping firmly on Twitch’s shoulder to try to get him on board with the program as they both prepared to enter the hotel. Gibbs turned his back on Fornell and zipped up Twitch’s jacket. “Let’s go.” He went to grab Twitch’s upper arm, then remembered the massive number of bruises and reached instead for… well, there wasn’t much he could do but tuck his arm under Twitch’s elbow.

Twitch ended up clamped onto Gibbs’ right forearm with his good left hand and was able to keep himself upright as they walked. With his eyes closed, he looked blind, which wouldn’t explain the bruises on his face and around his eyes.

In amongst the wealthy, trendy guests in the lobby—a lot of suits and fancy dresses as they were coming and going to whatever party was happening—there was one old bat in the lobby wearing a voluminous lacy black dress, several tangled strands of pearls, and far too much makeup, who looked down her heavily powered nose at Twitch’s paisley slippers and then pointed them out to her ancient husband who sported thick-lensed, dark-rimmed glasses, a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, creased black tuxedo pants, and carrying an unlit pipe in his hands.

“What’s wrong with that?” the old man asked his wife loudly. “They look comfortable on his feet. Smart young fellow. My shoes are too tight, Ophelia.”

The elevator took Fornell, Gibbs, and Twitch up to the sub-penthouse floor, and they were met by three more FBI agents all wearing stereotypical black suits and security headsets. Apparently, they had the whole floor. Following Fornell, Gibbs led Twitch down the long hall and into their hotel room, immediately dousing all but one of the lights as they entered. “His eyes,” Gibbs said in explanation.

Fornell placed the files and Gibbs’ briefcase on the table, nodding at the FBI agent who put their two go-bags just inside the door. “If you want anything from room service, Gibbs, just ask one of the guys in the corridor to get it for you. Same with water, ice, coffee, food, beer—anything like that.”

“What about Ducky?”

“He’s not here yet, but he said he would be here after ten o’clock, so he should be arriving any time.” Fornell glanced back at Twitch, irritated. “Don’t get too attached to the kid, Jethro, especially if he is what I think he is. With that lifestyle, he’s bound to be trouble.”

“We don’t know his story yet.” Gibbs steered Twitch to one of the beds and unzipped his jacket. He looked back over his shoulder at Fornell, still standing at the door. “What? No more helpful advice?”

Fornell shrugged. “Not if it’s ignored. Need anything from room service before I go?”

“A coffee for me. Hot chocolate for Twitch. Hot tea for Ducky.”

“Sure,” Fornell said, with a smirk. “I can arrange that. What was it again?” He then stood aside as a young FBI agent entered the hotel suite at that moment with a room service tray with the three drinks already on it. “However did I guess?” Fornell laughed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Gibbs sighed and took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the desk chair, then lifted the coffee from the drink tray and took a swallow. It wasn’t as hot as it could be, but it would do. He turned around and stared at Twitch sitting on the edge of one of the beds, looking weary beyond words—well, beyond words if he would ever say anything. The NCIS agent wondered fleetingly what Twitch would do if Gibbs snapped his fingers. Would he really come and kneel at his feet?

No, he didn’t want to know. He really didn’t want to know.

Without speaking to him, Gibbs went over and carefully took off Twitch’s coat, mindful of his shoulders, hanging the down jacket in the small closet. He tugged off the damp paisley slippers and socks and laid them over the heater grates. Detouring to the bathroom, he grabbed a fluffy white monogrammed towel and brought it to the young man, drying his feet. He glanced up, surprised to see Twitch looking down at him blankly.

“You’re not my slave if I’m the one drying your feet. Got that?” Gibbs asked, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He pulled an extra blanket from the closet near the door and wrapped it around the young man’s shoulders, still sitting on the edge of the bed. Satisfied Twitch wasn’t about to tip over, Gibbs got the cup of hot chocolate and placed it in Twitch’s good hand. “Hot chocolate.”

Twitch sniffed it, then took a deep breath, as though bringing himself back from a great distance. He smiled faintly and took a sip. “Cioccolata calda americana,” he whispered so softly that Gibbs wasn’t sure he’d even heard it. Whatever he’d said, it sounded Italian. Gibbs hated that Fornell might be right. But at least it meant Twitch was capable of speaking.

Gibbs retrieved his coffee and sat on the other queen bed opposite Twitch; the two men companionably drank their hot drinks in silence. Fortunately, Twitch had finished his hot chocolate by the time a knock came to their door, as the noise startled him and the empty cup dropped from his hand to land on the carpet. “It’s okay,” Gibbs said as he bent to retrieve it, tapping the young man’s chin and smiling as he stood up.

One of the FBI agents in the corridor opened the door and Ducky breezed inside, setting his medical satchel on the floor as he took off his winter overcoat and scarf. “Chilly out there,” Ducky said, then spotted the small teapot and cup on the tray on the dresser. “I saw Tobias in the lobby, and he said there was some Earl Grey for me here. Splendid. They have arranged for a room for me elsewhere in the hotel, so I had them take my personal bag there directly. And how is young Twitch?” the ME asked, looking over his shoulder at Twitch as he poured his tea and added milk and sugar.

“He has a splitting headache, I think. And he said his first words.”

“Not daddy and mummy, I presume,” Ducky said with a smile.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. “I gave him a cup of hot chocolate and he said something back to me in Italian—at least, Fornell thinks he understands Italian. And one of the words could have been chocolate.”

“Which might explain why he has not responded to our questions earlier.” Ducky sipped at his tea. “My Italian is limited, mainly to medical terms and a few pleasantries and other such things, although I was able to converse in Latin with great proficiency at one time when I was younger. And then there was this Italian contessa who I…” Ducky trailed off, lost in a memory.

“Ducky?”

“Hmm… Oh, yes. Twitch. Let’s see if I can ask him how he is feeling.” The doctor sat on the bed across from Twitch who was already falling back asleep. “Twitch, come ti senti? Hai qualche dolore?”

Twitch looked at Ducky nervously, then glanced to Gibbs, who nodded at him to respond. “Sto bene,” he whispered, his eyes lowered.

“Ah. He did understand. He said that he feels fine. I quite doubt that, young Twitch.” Ducky put down his cup on the night table between the two beds. “Twitch is such a dreadful name, Jethro. Surely you could have done better than that. Come ti chiami, giovanotto?”

Twitch didn’t raise his head or respond to what Gibbs was starting to recognize as a request for his name. Ducky didn’t seem deterred by it, though, and kept up a light monolog in English while he checked the young man over carefully, gently pressing on bruises, on his stomach muscles, on his ribs, then coaxing him to lay on his stomach as he changed the bandages over the knife wounds on his lower back. Other than a soft intake of air as the doctor pressed on sore areas, or a slight flinching as bruises were checked or a light shone in his eyes, Twitch made no response.

“Stai guarendo bene,” Ducky said to Twitch with a gentle smile, then said to Gibbs, “He seems to be healing well. He’s been through a traumatic time, and I’m sure he is still not sure who he can trust—well, at least, besides you.”

Gibbs nodded. He wanted to think that if Director Morrow hadn’t basically ordered him to find a way of finding out who Twitch was and why he was being held in the basem*nt of the club, Gibbs would not be still involved with this. But now, whether he liked it or not, Twitch had gotten under his skin. Gibbs was invested in finding out who Twitch was and what had happened to him. The whole companion/slave thing was creepy, but his gut—yes, his gut—was telling him there was another layer to this.

“You said he had a bad headache, Jethro. Looks like you have one, too,” Ducky remarked, gently checking the bump still partially visible on the side of Twitch’s head.

“Yeah.”

“I have Tylenol for you both. I would have hoped his headaches were diminishing, but it appears it is getting worse. Would you agree?”

“Maybe in the last hour. He seems to be less coordinated, and his balance is off again.”

“One of the reasons they kept him at the hospital as long as they did was to monitor his concussion. Someone hit him pretty hard with a metal object, on his back, his shoulder and his head. The simple fact that he’d lost consciousness shows that his concussion is a real concern.” Ducky turned to Twitch. “Prima in bagno, poi a letto,” he said, drawing Twitch to his feet and steadying him. It seemed odd seeing the diminutive doctor taking care of the tall, slim young man who was easily Gibbs’ height. “Give me a hand here, Jethro; I’ve told him we’d get him to the bathroom, and then he should get to bed.”

“He was walking better earlier this evening,” Gibbs said, accompanying them. “We were at the Navy Yard, and he followed me down to where we keep our archived files.”

“He’s had an exhausting day, then; likely he’s overtired now. By tomorrow morning, if he sleeps well tonight, we should see another leap of improvement in him. He might also become more emotional than he would normally be, as he becomes cognisant of his situation—but then again, we don’t know what ‘normal’ might look for him.”

Once they reached the bathroom, Twitch moved on his own to the alcove with the toilet. Ducky stayed in the room with him, while Gibbs retrieved the go-bag he’d brought for Twitch, taking the new toothbrush and small travel-sized toothpaste out and leaving it on the bathroom counter. When Ducky came back in the main room a short time later, it took both of them to guide the shaking young man back to the bed.

Gibbs started to help Twitch change into the pajama bottoms and t-shirt he’d had bought for him earlier that day, but once they had the sweatpants and sweatshirt off him, Ducky stopped him.

“I checked and bandaged his wounds earlier, but I’d like to see if he can tell me if he’s in pain. He wouldn’t respond to me when we were in the lavatory, but perhaps with you here, Jethro?”

Gibbs sat at the side of the bed by Twitch and triple-tapped his arm. Twitch leaned sideways against him. He didn’t seem distressed or anything, perhaps just a little confused as to what Gibbs wanted him to do. Gibbs pointed to Ducky, and Twitch looked over at him.

Ducky leaned forward, and murmured, “Oh, I do hope I say this correctly. Stai soffrendo? Are you in pain?” He lightly touched Twitch’s wrist, “Is this painful? È doloroso?” He touched the knife wound on Twitch’s hip and his leg’s gunshot wound, the cuts on his lower back, the bruises on his face. “È doloroso?” he asked each time.

Rather than responding to Ducky, Twitch looked over at Gibbs, his eyes trying to focus. He gave a short nod when asked about his hip and the gunshot wound. He looked almost frightened to admit to anything, so Gibbs tried to nod reassuringly and put his arm around Twitch’s shoulder.

“What about here?” Ducky rested his hand on Twitch’s forehead. “È doloroso?”

Tears fell down Twitch’s cheeks. He gave a brief nod, his eyes closing.

“Oh, laddie,” Ducky said, his hand resting on Twitch’s leg. “Jethro, I’m going to give him something more substantial than Tylenol for the pain. Dr Bautista did provide something should the over-the-counter medication not be enough.”

While Ducky went to his medical bag, Gibbs helped Twitch into the pajama bottoms and black t-shirt Duck had bought at the store earlier that day, then into bed. Ducky returned with several pain tablets and a glass of water. Twitch looked over to Gibbs, who nodded it was okay, and only then he took them from Ducky and swallowed them, draining the glass.

They helped him lay down and Ducky covered him. “Dormi bene,” Ducky told him, patting his shoulder affectionately, then resting his hand on his forehead again. “Sleep well and pleasant dreams, son. Er…Sogni piacevoli, figliolo.”

Twitch’s eyes were closed already, but as Gibbs got to his feet, Twitch grabbed at the agent’s arm. “Gibbs?” he whispered urgently. “Gibbs, il mio nome è Angel.”

“Your name is Angel?” Ducky said, his voice light. “Now that’s a lovely name. Dormi bene, Angel.”

Twitch forced his eyes open and turned to Gibbs. “Il mio nome è Angel,” he repeated.

Gibbs nodded. “Thank you for telling me, Angel.” The young man looked at him and frowned, his eyes fluttering in distress. “It’s okay,” Gibbs said, and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Dormi bene. Sleep well,” Ducky said softly.

“Dormi bene,” Gibbs repeated, as Angel’s eyes closed.

They waited, finishing their coffee and tea, their eyes watching him until they were sure he was out. The pain tablets wouldn’t have worked yet, but hopefully he would get some sleep.

His eyes still staring at the young man, Gibbs said quietly to Ducky, “Angel? What kind of a name is Angel?”

“Likely a diminutive of Angelo.”

“Seems like a strange name for an adult to have.” Gibbs put his empty mug aside. “Tobias thinks he’s a slave of some kind,” he said, putting the idea out there.

“A slave?” Ducky looked as though his heart was breaking. “Jethro, are you referring to an actual person sold into slavery or on the black market, or do you mean a consensual BDSM ‘Master/Slave’?” Ducky asked. “The other gentlemen we rescued yesterday might fit into the former category, used as slaves, but I assume you are referring to the latter, considering the BDSM club building he was found in.”

Gibbs frowned. “You think he’s into all that?”

“That’s—” Ducky looked over at him sharply. “Jethro, what aren’t you telling me?”

Gibbs reluctantly told him about snapping his fingers and Twitch coming to kneel beside him. “Tobias thinks he had a ‘master’ before and has transferred that over to me now.”

Ducky nodded, considering it. “He’s a lovely young lad,” he said, studying Twitch. “Angel,” he said softly, drawing out the name. “Angel.” He sat for a moment, mulling it over, then seemed to put the matter aside. “When his headache clears, Jethro, it will be interesting to hear what has happened to him.” Ducky stood. “I am told I am in 804. Please call me if you need me at all during the night. Likely the pain tablets will start working and give him some relief. They’ll make him light-headed, but he should sleep through all that. You take the ones I left by your bed, too. Not as strong a medication, but it should help your headache.”

“Thanks, Duck.” Gibbs watched the doctor gather his things and leave, then he stared at… Angel… for a few minutes before heading to bed himself.

GIBBS
Madison Hotel, Washington, DC
Monday, February 19, 2001
8:10 AM

By eight o’clock the next morning, a bright sunny Monday at odds with his dark, overcast mood, Gibbs was already on his third cup of coffee and was halfway through the HR files he’d brought with him to go through.

He hadn’t slept well. Twitch—Angel—had slept fitfully all night, waking from nightmares with muffled screams, scared and disoriented as Gibbs tried to calm him down and reassure him he was safe. By 3:30 AM, he’d finally called Ducky who came and gave Angel something to ease his pain and let him sleep, the doctor again saying it was a good sign Angel was hurting, as it meant the illegal drugs were largely out of his system. Gibbs really didn’t care; he just wanted the young man’s palsied shaking to stop and the fear to ease.

Angel was trying to be calmer; Gibbs could see that. Eyes tightly closed, the young man would put a hand over his mouth and whisper something to himself over and over as though trying to brace himself from whatever memories were emerging. Ducky was gentle with him, caring and compassionate, but it was still Gibbs he clung to until the sedative and painkiller knocked him out.

At the table, Gibbs jumped, startled, when Fornell breezed into the hotel room without so much as a knock. When he urgently waved indicating Angel was sleeping, Fornell nodded quickly and joined Gibbs at the small round table in the corner of the room.

The FBI agent seemed to be vibrating with excitement. “Jethro,” he said, keeping his voice low, “I think I know who this kid is.” As Gibbs moved his finished breakfast tray to the floor, the FBI agent took out a laptop, plugged it in and connected it to the internet jack. “Last night, remember, I said I was sure I’d seen Twitch before, but I couldn’t remember where. It was only later when I saw his response to you snapping your fingers that started to click for me,” Fornell said. “The whole slave thing.”

Gibbs glared back at him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more, for some unsettling reason that he didn’t want to think about.

Fornell continued, talking quickly. “A little context here: my buddy Fred is an intelligence analyst in the Criminal Investigative Division, more specifically in the FBI’s Public Corruption Program. We’ve known each other for twenty years easily. A few months back—you were undercover with that militia group, remember?—”

Yes, I remember, Gibbs thought dryly.

“—well, there was a real shakeup in his department. Special Agent Torvetti was leading an investigation into two police detectives in northern Virginia accepting bribes, when he was killed right outside the Hoover building, a targeted drive-by shooting in broad daylight. It was assumed that it had something to do with the case he was investigating. Really shattered Fred, as Torvetti was a good friend. But then just over a month later, two other agents from that same investigation disappeared up in Philadelphia.”

“Rough.”

“Yeah. It’s hard enough to lose one colleague, but to lose three in a short time—That’s brutal. A few weeks before Christmas I went out for drinks with Fred and Louella—an analyst he works with—and I could see they were still… well, upset. I got the impression though that there was something else going on besides Torvetti’s death, something they hadn’t told anyone. Fred was edgy and Louella was teary, so I needled them for information on what was bothering them.”

“In your delicate way…”

“Whatever. Now, Jethro, you have to keep this tight,” Fornell said, leaning forward, his voice dropping even quieter, “but they told me about some research they had done for Torvetti, a side investigation, unofficial, nothing to do with their corruption case. Torvetti had asked if they would watch for information about a particular young guy in the inner sanctum of a Baltimore crime family. Hank and Louella had pieced together when the kid arrived from Italy in September, then found a few reports of him being seen, but then suddenly Torvetti is gunned down. Then the other two agents vanished, and the kid disappears, and Louella was all weepy because she’s convinced the kid was probably dead.”

“She was upset about a Mafia guy?”

“Well, that’s just it. That’s what Fred and Louella were talking to me about when we went for drinks. Fred said the Organized Crime Unit had a group following Luigi “The Warrior” Galluccio—at the time he was the head of the Baltimore Camorra. “

Gibbs stifled a groan as his heart sank. He knew the name Galluccio. He didn’t like the idea of Twitch being associated with the mafia—of Angel being there.

“So, this young guy appeared on the scene in September, flown in from Italy by Galluccio, and the OC unit had speculated he might have been a relative of Luigi’s, someone brought in from Italy to be groomed for the business, but then within a short time the pieces didn’t add up… he seemed too... pretty, Louella said. Too pampered. Too… out of it. He didn’t appear to have anything to do with any of the group’s businesses. In public, he followed Galluccio around and said nothing to anyone else. No eye contact, no interaction. His entire focus was on the Italian mafia boss guy.”

Gibbs glared at Fornell. “Meaning what? You still think he was a slave, but now to the head of the Baltimore mafia?”

“I’m getting there, Jethro. Torvetti had asked Fred and Louella to unofficially keep him up-to-date on any developments with this Galluccio. Fred had found out from his OC contact that they had an inside man, a low-level Camarro member in Baltimore—more of a messenger boy than anything else—so he was mainly working off rumors within the gang. The only thing he gave the OC unit when they asked him specifically about the kid they’d seen with Galluccio, was that the kid was considered hands off, the property of Galluccio—his boy toy, they called him.”

Gibbs could feel a growl in his throat. “The mafia boss’s boy toy?”

“Yes. Sort of. But... un compagno sottomesso. Uno schiavo.”

“Which means?”

“Fred said that the kid was likely brought in as a ‘submissive companion’. Basically, an indentured servant or slave—which is what made me think of him when I saw how Twitch reacted in your bullpen yesterday at the Navy Yard when you snapped your fingers. Oh, Fred had said the inside man said the young guy only spoke Italian, which is why I tried talking to him in Italian.”

“Doesn’t make him this guy, just because he speaks Italian.”

“And he responded to you snapping your fingers.”

Gibbs got up and went to check on Angel, who was getting restless again. Before he reached the bed, Angel woke with a gasp and half-sat up, pulled out of yet another nightmare, looking around in confusion as best he could with two bruised eyes, and then scrambling to get away, rolling off the far side of the bed, scrambling backward until he hit the wall, then putting his hands over his face and curling up.

Gibbs sighed. He was getting good at calming him now, despite the language difficulty. It only took a minute or two to get through to Angel that he was safe, then he was able to get the young man uncurled and back on the bed. He sat with him for a moment longer, waiting until Angel had fallen back asleep, his hand on the kid’s shoulder.

“I need more coffee,” Gibbs announced as he reluctantly returned to where Fornell was rapidly typing on his laptop.

“Get me one, too.”

“Yup.” Gibbs went to the door and requested two more cups. The agent in the hallways just nodded, realizing this would be an ongoing request from this room.

Fornell seemed to be opening his email. “Fred said he would send me… Oh, there they are. Well, two of them.”

“Send you what?”

“Some videos. Fred was reluctant to send them, said it would only open a bundle of worms, but I—”

“Can of worms.”

“What?”

“Open a can of worms.” Gibbs didn’t even know why he bothered to correct the other man. Fornell stared at him, irritated, and seemed stalled until the NCIS agent waved for him to continue. “Yeah, yeah, Fred didn’t want to send the videos, but you convinced him to. So, let’s see them, Tobias,” Gibbs snapped tiredly.

“Right.” Fornell scowled at him a moment longer, then clicked play on the first video, which opened to show a broad-shouldered, square-jawed man in a dark suit and scarf about their own age exiting a building followed by a young man and then four men who appeared to be bodyguards from their build and the way they studied their surroundings as they moved, searching out the crowd.

Fornell freeze framed on the young man. “I haven’t seen this video before. Uh, Fred wrote that this was filmed in early November in Boston. It sure looks like Twitch.”

Maybe it was Twitch/Angel, maybe it wasn’t, Gibbs thought, staring intently at the screen. The black-and-white picture quality was slightly grainy, probably film taken from security camera videos. It was a windy day, and the young man in the video had his head down as he walked, wearing some sort of expensive-looking suit jacket over a thin pullover sweater and possibly what were plaid, almost skin-tight pants. He wore shoes without socks. In the winter. He looked like one of those rich-blooded models who Abby adored, who had just stepped off an Italian runway, nothing at all like the stocky men moving with him in standard black suits, white shirts and dark ties, three of them also wearing heavy jackets and scarves. The young man’s hair was longer than theirs, straight and cut in an odd “trendy” style. The freeze frame caught him looking back over his shoulder, as though trying to avoid being touched by the bodyguard behind him. “Who’s the man he’s following?” Gibbs asked pointing to the apparent head guy of the bunch.

“That’s Luigi Galluccio,’ Fornell said. “Last summer it was rumored Galluccio was moving away from the Camorra and was in talks to merge with one of the Sicilian Philadelphia groups or something like that. Not sure why he was in Boston in November; crime families aren’t my thing. I know enough that it’s weird for a Camorra Crime Family to join up with a different Crime Family.”

Gibbs nodded, glancing back to the bed where Angel fitfully rolled from one side to the other. They weren’t speaking loud enough to wake him, but Gibbs was really hoping the kid would sleep longer.

“So, this second video is the one I originally saw with Fred,” Fornell went on, “and it is much better quality—according to Fred’s notes here, it was taken ten days later by one of our Organized Crime surveillance teams in Baltimore. There’s no sound, though.”

Fornell opened the second, much larger attached file. A muscular, broad-shouldered man emerged from a set of double doors, a bodyguard perhaps, looking around the area, then looking down to a car that was waiting at the foot of a steep flight of stairs. He gestured inside the building. From the open doorway, another man appeared, likely another guard, and he ran down the stairs to stand on the sidewalk outside the car. The first bodyguard then stepped aside and the same mafia boss, Galluccio, exited the building—maybe a courthouse or something like that—and started to make his way down the flight of stairs. He was in the same sort of clothing as before, a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, but this time he had a long overcoat on and a scarf. The surveillance camera tightened onto his face, the color film quality much improved on the last one. The man was on a cellphone, talking angrily about something, his hand gesturing.

Then the camera pulled back slightly and caught two men appearing behind Galluccio, one on his right side—clearly another bodyguard—and on Galluccio’s left was the same young man as before, following a step or two behind the mafia boss. Two more bodyguards appeared behind them. This time Angel—if it was actually him, and Gibbs still wasn’t 100% convinced—was wearing a pale gray, single-breasted suit with tight tailored pants, a collarless white shirt, and again no socks with his pointy-toed shoes, and his light brown hair was styled different, longer on top but smoothed back off his face. His hands were loose at his sides, he moved seemingly gracefully down the stairs, each step measured, in stark contrast to the five burly, flat-footed bodyguards around the pair. The young man didn’t look up at his surroundings, but paused when the mafia boss paused, then stepped again when the boss did, seemingly synched to the man’s movements.

There was something about how he held himself, though... Gibbs frowned as he stared at it. “Wind it back.”

“The video’s not done.”

“Do it. Back to when he appears.”

Furnell backed it up ten seconds, and Gibbs leaned closer and watched it again. “He’s hurt. He’s protecting his ribs. His stomach muscles, maybe.”

“Yeah, that’s what it looks like. Watch the rest,” Fornell said quietly.

The silent video went on and the mafia boss jerking suddenly, stumbling and falling, clearly shot multiple times as his body rolled down the stairs. Startled, Gibbs blinked, watching with growing dread. He hadn’t heard that Galluccio was dead. When was this again? The middle of November?

In mid-October, Morrow had arranged for Gibbs to take an undercover case to try to locate spent nuclear fuel rods in a militant antigovernment militia group. He’d been gone all of a week when the Al Qaeda attacked the naval vessel USS Cole in Yemen. Undercover, Gibbs had to pretend not to care when news of seventeen sailors being killed and thirty-seven injured came over the radio and television. What really ate at him was that he couldn’t help in the NCIS investigation because of the assignment. When the case ended in early January, he’d had a backlog of paperwork, getting up to speed with the USS Cole inquiry, plus Morrow pressuring him to form an MCRT team.

So, unsurprisingly, he hadn’t heard that some mafia guy in Baltimore was dead.

As the video continued, the bodyguard who had been just in front of Galluccio was also gunned down. The young man was frozen on the stairs, one foot halfway to the next step. The camera followed Galluccio lying motionless on the stairs, then swung back to the young man, still immobile, his face blank and closed.

Gibbs knew that expression. That was definitely Twitch. Angel.

The camera pulled back to take in the entire scene and Gibbs watched as the bodyguard that had been following directly behind Galluccio grabbed the slim young man’s arm and manhandled him roughly down the stairs. That bodyguard was also shot and fell, dragging down Angel with him. Two of the remaining guards jumped forward and grabbed the young man, one by his hair and the other by his arm, and dragged him down the rest of the stairs, shoving him into a dark sedan that had been idling in the no-parking area on the street before them. The camera shifted from the sedan moving off to the two bodyguards and the mob boss’s unmoving bodies sprawled on the stairs as police and others converged on the scene.

Gibbs stared at the small laptop screen. “So, you are saying that was Twitch?” Gibbs asked, guardedly.

“Looks like him, right?”

Gibbs shrugged, not wanting to agree. “Hard to say. Possibly. What’s his name?”

“Fred wasn’t sure when I asked him. He was just called ‘Luigi’s Angel’ in the Organized Crime Unit’s notes with the video. According to Fred’s source, no one knew him by any other name. No one was allowed to speak to him directly or touch him. He was Luigi’s alone.”

Gibbs’ eyes narrowed at that. Angel. Damn. “The young man in your video was this guy’s slave? A BDSM thing, like the club? That’s what you’re saying?”

Fornell shook his head. “Yes, and no. There was no indication Luigi Galluccio was gay, so it may not have been sexual, but they tell me a submissive companion doesn’t have to be a sexual toy… just everything else.” Fornell shrugged. “If it was suspected Galluccio was gay, his own mafia members might have taken him out—and who knows? Maybe they did suspect it and killed him. We’ve no idea if the kid was sexually used or abused, but we can’t rule that out until we can talk to him.”

“If it wasn’t sexual, then why… uh, why would Galluccio even keep… uh, someone like that?” Gibbs said, frustrated at finding himself stumbling over his words.

“Because Luigi Galluccio was filthy rich and if this was his boy toy, then that gave him someone who obeyed him instantly, who hung on his every word, who did what the guy ordered, someone he could knock around when he wanted, punch and kick, but also show off when he wanted, as a showpiece or a beautiful family member—whatever. Did you notice the kid’s clothing, that gray suit the kid was wearing? Fred told me that the task force watching Galluccio had the suit identified as an Ermenegildo Zegna and cost over $15,000. For one suit. Galluccio pampered the kid, dressed him up and showed him off, but as you noticed, Jethro, it looks like he also beat him up some, too, physically and maybe sexually. Or lent him out, who knows?”

“So, he was a captive?”

“Probably. The notes say he was brought in from Naples, Italy, where Galluccio was from, where Galluccio grew up part of the Camorra there.”

“But Galluccio’s definitely dead?”

“Yeah. Luigi Galluccio’s dead. Dead and buried. Like I said, we don’t know who shot him, though.”

“Where did that sedan in the video take… Angel?”

“No idea. The vehicle disappeared off their radar. And those three surviving bodyguards also in the sedan haven’t been seen again. No idea who they are or where they went; Fred said this morning that they are believed to be out of the country by now and it was thought they had taken Angel with them.”

Fornell closed down the computer file, packed up his laptop, and placed it in his briefcase as Gibbs stared blankly out the window, trying to put the pieces together. “Sorry, Jethro, that’s all I can tell you. This isn’t my area.”

“There’s more to the story than this,” Gibbs said stubbornly.

“I’m sure there is. But when you double-snapped your fingers at him last night, Twitch or Angel—if that’s who he is—knew what that signal meant. I could see it in his face. He was scared, and he didn’t know what to do. When you did it a second time, I told him in Italian to go to you. So, he did, and fell down on his knees in his submissive stance.”

“That doesn’t mean…” Gibbs’ voice trailed off. He didn’t know what it meant or didn’t mean. “I need to see everything you have on this Angel person and Galluccio.”

“I’ve arranged for you to have access to whatever Fred and Louella can give me. And I’ve already forwarded those two videos I just showed you to your NCIS email address.”

“You’re absolutely convinced this is the same—”

Fornell cut him off. “Jethro, listen to me. He understood Italian, he understood what I said to him, he understood that two clicks of your fingers meant for him to return to you and kneel at your feet—and somehow in his mind, I think he transferred Galluccio’s ownership of him to you.”

“I didn’t do anything to—”

“I know that,” Fornell said, brushing aside whatever Gibbs was going to say. “Listen, I wish I had more information for you, but we don’t know a lot—” Fornell shut up and gestured to the bed where Angel was in the process of sitting up, his hand over his eyes. “Sleeping beauty has awakened again. Buongiorno, Twitch.”

“His name is Angel,” Gibbs said reluctantly. “He told us last night,”

Fornell stared at Gibbs in open shock. “Seriously, Jethro? You couldn’t have told me that earlier?”

Gibbs went over to the young man, then pointed toward the bathroom. Angel nodded, and Gibbs helped him get out of bed. He was hunched over and seemed to be in pain, moving slowly and shakily to the bathroom, clinging to Gibbs, his balance shot. Gibbs got him over to the toilet, then left the room, leaving him inside alone. “Do you want breakfast?” he asked Fornell.

“Is he okay in there alone?”

“Yeah.”

“He looks pretty shaky.”

“He had a bad night.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Gibbs rubbed the back of his head. He wasn’t sure how much of this he wanted to talk about. “Ducky thinks his subconscious mind is trying to remember. He had nightmares.”

Fornell nodded slowly. “I think we’ve all been there,” he said, half under his breath. “And yes to breakfast.”

Gibbs opened the door to the corridor and the FBI agent on duty approached him again.

“More coffees?”

“I need four of them. Cream and sugar on the side. And a couple Danishes, three orders of toast and scrambled eggs. And two glasses of orange juice.” He closed the door and looked over at Fornell. “Before he joins us, what else do they have on Angel?”

“Not much. The Organized Crime team on this assignment were focused on Galluccio, not Angel. He was just a side curiosity. And Fred said they’re not interested in Galluccio anymore, since he’s dead. They’re all about the new guy who took over the crime family. They wrote the others off as they haven’t been seen since, including Angel, who was labelled as ‘missing, presumed dead’.”

Gibbs nodded. That made sense.

Fornell continued. “So, Fred and Louella have been basically sitting on this information about Galluccio and Angel. No one else is interested. Torvetti was originally interested in Galluccio because a friend of his was believed to have been killed by the Camorra. And then Torvetti was killed.”

“How was he killed again?”

“He was gunned down outside FBI HQ by two gunmen shooting from the front and back passenger side of a vehicle later found abandoned six blocks away. Wiped clean. That was in mid-October. The other two members of the team went missing over three months ago now in Philadelphia, and we keep hoping we’ll find them during one of these rescue missions we’ve been doing. But we’re more likely to find their bodies if it was a Mafia hit.”

“Did they disappear before or after Galluccio was gunned down?”

“A week before.”

Gibbs paused, then barrelled on. “Could Angel have been with Galluccio willingly?”

“He could have agreed to becoming Galluccio’s schiavo compagno—his slave companion—many are into that sort of thing. Patrone e schiavo. Master and slave. Or he could have been forced to do it or needed the money. He could be a Napoletano family member and was convinced to go to America and his sugar daddy/uncle would keep him in riches. He may have been told he was an apprentice to the family business, but when he arrived in America, it was totally different. We don’t know his story. Lots of possibilities.”

The door to the bathroom opened. Gibbs got up and helped Angel back to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. The young man seemed shakier, his face pale and fearful. He peered through bloodshot and still swollen eyes around the room, his hand clutching Gibbs’ arm was trembling. Gibbs slowly massaged the back of his neck, and he could feel Angel leaning into it. Headache. Bad headache.

He shook a few tablets from the Tylenol bottle Ducky had left and coaxed Angel to take them with a glass of water that Fornell brought over. Angel then leaned sideways against Gibbs again, eyes still shut. It would take a while for the medication to work.

“What’s wrong?” Gibbs asked him, slowly rubbing his back. Angel seemed to switch from being clingy like this to being more curious of his surroundings and moving around on his own, like at the Navy Yard.

After a few minutes, Angel raised his head, tears welled in his eyes. He looked past Gibbs to Fornell, who was on his laptop. “Parli italiano?” Angel whispered to the FBI agent.

Fornell turned his head in surprise and nodded slowly. “Io parlo italiano. Posso aiutarti, Angel? Jethro, he’s talking now?”

“Besides telling us his name, last night, and maybe saying hot chocolate in Italian, this is the first he’s spoken,” Gibbs said to Fornell, equally surprised.

Angel pointed to the telephone and looked at Gibbs hopefully. "Voglio chiamare mia madre. Per favore."

Fornell came and sat on the other bed across from them, facing Angel. “Jethro, he says he wants to call his mother. Dove vive tua madre?" the FBI agent asked Angel.

"Napoli." Tears began to stream down Angel’s face, and he wiped them away fearfully. “Per favore, per favore,” Angel whispered desperately, sliding from the bed and dropping to his knees in front of Gibbs, his head down. “Per favore.”

Gibbs immediately dragged him back up to sit beside him again. It took a moment to get his own anger under control before he could try to calm Angel, who was on the verge having a panic attack believing he had done something wrong, gasping for air and trembling. “Tell him I’m not mad at him, Tobias. I just don’t want him to kneel in front of me, or beside me.”

Fornell translated, then added, “You scared him.”

“Yeah, I got that.” With a sigh, Gibbs deliberately pulled Angel to him in a gentle hug, patting his back. As expected, that calmed the young man quickly, his face again forward against Gibbs’ chest, much as he had in the moving truck—was that only two and a half days ago? It seemed like weeks. “Okay? Twitch? Uh, Angel?”

"Mi dispiace, padrone!" Angel moaned quietly. "Mi dispiace!"

“He says he’s sorry,” Fornell translated, then added reluctantly, “And, uh, he called you his master.”

Gibbs groaned. “Oh, crap. Well, tell him he can phone his mother. Tell him I’m not his master. I’m just, uh, a friend.”

Fornell once again translated, but it still took a minute for Angel to catch his breath and breathe normally.

Gibbs gruffly nodded toward Angel. “Let him call. On speaker,” he added. He waited while Fornell translated, then handed Angel a piece of paper and a pen. “Tell him to write down the phone number.”

Fornell passed on the request, and Gibbs took the number and then wrote down another number below it. “I’m not putting it through the hotel phone,” Gibbs said, “just in case it gets traced here. He can use my cellphone. That’s my number in case he needs to give his mother a way of contacting him.” Fornell translated that as Gibbs dialled the number Angel had written down, then put the phone on speaker, and handed it to Angel.

Angel’s face was scrunched up as tears fell unguarded while the call went through. He was also rubbing his forehead in pain.

The call was picked up by an answering machine, and Angel gave a low groan of anguish. Gibbs glanced to Fornell and saw he was recording it all. Finally, a beep sounded at the end of the message, and Angel began speaking, then crying into the phone. "Mamma! È Angel. Mamma, dove sei? Dove sei? Mamma, non mi permetteva di chiamarti e non era come diceva lui e poi gli hanno sparato e io sono stato rapito e loro—e loro—e loro—e—e chiamami, mamma". With difficulty because of his streaming eyes, he read off Gibbs’ cellphone number then thrust the cellphone back to Gibbs. He grabbed a pillow from the bed, pulled it over his lap and buried his face in it, his shoulders shaking as he hunched over.

Gibbs put his cellphone on the nightstand and leaned over to place a hand on Angel’s back, gently rubbing it as the young man tried get ahold of himself and breathe. Ducky said he might be emotional as the drugs left his system; well, he was right.

Fornell quietly said in English what Angel’s message to his mother had been, that no one had let him call her, that things weren’t as he’d been led to believe, that the man had hurt him and then had died, and he had been kidnapped.

Their coffees and the breakfast items arrived ten minutes later, and Gibbs had Angel join them at the table, coaxing him into eating a mouthful of the eggs and nibbling on the toast, but Angel didn’t have much of an appetite, sitting miserably between them, eyes closed. Gibbs and Fornell talked about other things as they ate, trying to ignore the third person at their table, discussing mainly how Fornell’s year-old daughter was doing and how one of Jethro’s ex-wives, Diane—now Tobias’ wife—was loving being a mother.

Gibbs’ cellphone rang, and when he picked it up, he could see it was long distance. He handed the phone to Fornell, who answered. “Ciao?” Fornell put the cellphone on speaker, so they could all hear.

“C'è mio figlio? Angelo?”

“Sì, lo è.” Fornell placed the phone on the table in front of Angel who was shaking again and gasping for air.

Gibbs reluctantly put his hand at the back of Angel’s neck, which did seem to calm him. "Mamma?" Angel whispered.

"Angelino! Mio caro figlio. È passato così tanto tempo."

"Ti amo, mamma. Volevo parlarvi ma padrone Luigi non me lo permetteva.”

Not following the conversation, Gibbs glanced to Fornell, who was listening intently and recording the call again. Later he found out that Angel had told his mother that his ‘Master’ Luigi had not allowed him to make phone calls to his mother, apparently going against a previous agreement. Galluccio had been mean to him. Others had been mean, too. Angel had told her that Galluccio was dead, that he had been kidnapped, and that he’d only just been rescued. He felt strange and had been drugged and his head really hurt. She had then wanted to know if he was alone; Angel had told her he was with Gibbs—the man who had rescued him—and another man who spoke Italian. She’d asked if he’d spoken with his cousin, and Angel broke into tears again that he couldn’t remember the numbers and couldn’t remember how and he couldn’t think right.

Fornell took the phone from him. "Angel, qual è il nome di tua madre?”

“Mi madre? Daniela Leone.”

“Mrs. Leone,” Fornell said into the phone, “do you speak English?”

“Yes,” she responded.

Fornell exhaled. “That’s wonderful, ma’am. My name is Tobias Fornell, and I am a special agent with the FBI, the Federal Bureau of Investigation here in Washington, DC. We were able to rescue your son on Friday night, but he has been heavily drugged for an unknown amount of time. This morning is the first he’s been able to speak to tell us his name and your phone number.”

“The FBI? Thank you so much for finding him, Signor Fornelli.” She spoke with a distinct accent, but her English was excellent.

“He’s safe with us, right now, Signora. I apologize, but I must let you know that your son was mistreated during the time he was kidnapped, and possibly before that when he was with Galluccio. He was in the hospital for the last few days as they monitored his concussion, and the doctors are still waiting on some of the drugs in his system to dissipate. We are at a Safe House currently, as his life is in danger.”

There was a longer than expected moment of silence at the other end of the phone, then Daniela Leone spoke again. “You are with the FBI? And this ‘Gibbs’?”

“Special Agent Gibbs is with NCIS, that is the Naval Criminal—”

“Yes,” Leone said. “I am familiar with NCIS. Why are they involved?”

Gibbs raised his eyebrows in surprise. Not many in America seemed to have ever heard of NCIS. How did this woman in Italy know about it?

“Special Agent Gibbs and his team located and rescued your son,” Fornell said, “and Gibbs has been caring for him ever since. Angel is somewhat attached to him now.”

Another moment of silence. The clicking of a keyboard could be heard over the phone line.

Angel leaned toward the phone. “Mamma, voglio tornare a casa.”

More clicking from a computer keyboard. “Angel, I will make some telephone calls and then phone you again,” she said, in English.

Angel squinted at the phone in confusion. “Mamma?”

She gave a laugh, realizing what she’d done, then she switched to Italian, still sounding distracted. “Angel, cuore mio, farò qualche chiamata e poi ti richiamerò." Then in English she said, “Agent FornelIi, I will see what I can arrange and will call this number back. It may take me awhile. Please take care of him for me.”

The line went dead, and Angel leaped for the phone. “Mamma? Mamma?”

Gibbs looked over at Fornell. “What did he ask her?”

“He said he wanted to come home.”

“Something’s not right.” Gibbs took his cellphone from Angel, then caught the young man as he collapsed in tears, clutching at his head. “Phone Ducky,” he said to Fornell, holding Angel in his arms. “We might need to call 911.”

DUCKY
Monday, 10:05 AM

Ducky hurried out of his hotel room, holding his medical bag in one hand and a just-poured cup of tea in the other. Fortunately, he had finished his lovely, relaxed breakfast in his room, as he was concerned about being unavailable if he visited the downstairs restaurant. He’d planned to head up to Gibbs’ 15^th floor room to check on his young patient once he’d finished his tea, and while he had anticipated a phone call, he’d hoped it would be delayed by another thirty minutes or so. It had been a dreadfully busy 48 hours, and he was quite frankly amazed that he had only been interrupted once overnight.

When the call from Agent Fornell had come in shortly after 10:00 AM, Ducky had quickly refilled his teacup—pleased that the hotel didn’t use mugs for a fine tea which really put one off the entire experience—and he’d made his way upstairs. It had been a short, rather distressing phone call from Fornell especially as Ducky had hoped Angel was on his way to full recuperation—at least physically; it was a good sign that he had actually begun to speak, regardless of the language. He’d hoped that Gibbs had managed to cope with Angel not speaking English.

When he was let into the suite, he was surprised at Gibbs’ apparent anxiousness as he was waved over. “Duck? He’s in a lot of pain.” The NCIS special agent was sitting on the edge of one of the beds holding Angel whose face was pressed up against him, clinging to his arm.

“Oh, my. I can see that,” Ducky said, putting down his teacup and quickly moving to the bed. “Did something trigger this? What precipitated it?”

“Woke with a bad headache, but it’s been getting worse. And he spoke with his mother,” Gibbs said, trying to pull away from Angel so Ducky could see the young man’s face.

Fornell expanded on Gibbs’ too-brief explanation. “He didn’t look that great when he woke up, but Angel asked me, in Italian, to call his mother, so we set that up on speaker phone, and he fell apart when the call went to voice mail, then he was upset again when speaking to her a few minutes later. She ended the call rather suddenly when he said he wanted to go home—I assume he meant back to Naples. She told him she would see what she could arrange and call us back, and that set him over the edge.”

Ducky nodded. “That is helpful, thank you.” He looked pointedly at Gibbs, silently chastising him on his previous lack of details. “Jethro, perhaps you could tell me how long ago you gave him some pain medication?”

Gibbs glanced at his watch. “When he woke up, maybe 30 minutes ago, give or take.”

“Give or take what?”

“Five or ten minutes. I wasn’t tracking it,” Gibbs said impatiently.

The doctor took his patient’s blood pressure, temperature, and checked him over, especially checking his skull where he’d been hit by the pipe. The bump seemed to have gone down considerably, although it was still sensitive. The area around Angel’s eyes were looking tender, and the one eye had almost completely cleared, while the other was still bloodshot. When he was done, Ducky sat on the bed opposite them, watching as Angel once again tried to take shelter, head facing into Gibbs’ chest, somehow feeling safest there, clinging to his arm. It was amazing how small he could make himself. It was even more amazing that Jethro was holding him, but Ducky sought to keep his own facial expression neutral.

“Can’t he lay down?” Gibbs asked uncomfortably after a minute. “I can’t sit here all day.”

“Let’s try.” Ducky helped Gibbs settle Angel back in the queen-sized bed. Angel was reluctant to separate from Jethro but nodded his head and let go of Gibbs’ arm. That in itself was a positive step.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gibbs asked, with just the faintest edge of annoyance in his voice. “I thought since he was speaking and moving around on his own that he was getting better.”

Ducky sighed, gently covering Angel, who opened his less swollen right eye seeking out where Gibbs was, then apparently falling asleep. “This likely stems from his concussion. He does have a slight fever, but that could also be related to his concussion, as are symptoms of amnesia, dizziness and vertigo, leading to his confusion and this dazed vacant look. Angel?” Ducky called out softly, but the young man only rolled onto his side, facing away from them.

“Do we call 911?” Fornell asked, as he watched from across the room.

Ducky thought for a moment. “There is always concern if there is bleeding around the brain, or damage or swelling to brain tissue with a blow such as he received from a pipe. His skull was x-rayed for fractures and appeared whole, and his CT scan came back clear.” Ducky got up and looked sadly at his now cold tea. “For bleeding, it can sometimes occur after the fact, and it is something for us to monitor. However, this young man has been through a lot of additional trauma, so what is normal must be set aside. For example, the treatment for concussion and traumatic head injuries such as his should be 48 hours of no activity, of full bedrest, of avoiding triggers, of drinking plenty of water and eating small meals regularly.” Ducky shook his head. “Regrettably, that has not been the case and has set him back in this regard, although he has made several steps forward.”

“Such as?” Gibbs said, sounding weary.

“As you said, he is speaking now, we have a name for him—Angel—and he has at least eaten some food, he makes use of the lavatory, he walks unaided at times. He knew his mother’s name and phone number.”

“He knew Gibbs’ name,” Fornell added. “He told his mother he was with Gibbs, who rescued him.”

“All very good, Jethro,” Ducky said. “Let him rest. I think that is best at this time. Let me retrieve my book from my room, and I can stay with him. Perhaps you can take your work elsewhere, and we can let him sleep undisturbed.”

“I’ll get someone to get your book. Where is it?” Fornell asked.

“On the nightstand.”

“I should leave my cellphone with you in case his mother phones back,” Gibbs said.

“Take your phone with you, and when she calls explain that he has a concussion and is sleeping right now under a doctor’s care. She can call back later,” Ducky said firmly.

Fornell called for an agent to retrieve Ducky’s book, then he and Gibbs gathered their things.

“Will you be okay here?” Gibbs asked, turning back at the doorway. “We’ll be down the hall if you need us.”

“There are plenty of guards outside the door.” Ducky waved them away and shut the door quietly, hoping Angel wouldn’t wake up. The young man needed his rest.

GIBBS
Monday, 10:35 AM

Gibbs followed Fornell down the hotel corridor and into a large one-bedroom corner suite bathed in sunlight filtered through the curtains. “This is all yours?” he asked surprised, then noticed an agent sprawled on the couch reading the paper.

“It’s an FBI holding suite for the six agents, and I just got tacked on,” Fornell said quietly. “They are watching all ten rooms on this floor. The separate bedroom here has two beds which lets two agents catch some sleep, and they change off, so we can always keep three guards in the corridor, one at each end of the hall and one by the elevators and a fourth downstairs in the lobby.” Fornell dropped his things on a large table that had been set up along one wall, so Gibbs put his files down, as well.

“Where are we at, then?” Gibbs asked as they got settled.

“Making some headway,” Fornell started, pulling out a pad of lined paper and giving a second pad to Gibbs, “we know the kid is likely Angel Leone, and he is from Naples,” he wrote, then immediately crossed off Leone. “Or to be more precise, we know his first name is Angel, last name unknown, and his mother Daniela Leone lives in Naples.”

“We should be able to get his last name now.”

“Let me see if I can dig out what Angel’s last name is before we hear back from his mother. I think I saw it somewhere in all the paperwork—I am pretty sure it wasn’t Leone.”

“About the mother,” Gibbs said, writing down Daniela Leone’s name. “A few odd things. For one thing, she speaks English, granted with a strong accent that could be faked, and the kid doesn’t appear to speak any English. I would expect it to be the other way around.”

Fornell nodded. “I agree; most students in Europe learn English and are fairly fluent by the time they graduate. Why doesn’t her son know English?”

“And Leone knew about NCIS and what the initials stand for,” Gibbs said, putting down ‘knows NCIS’ on the paper. “The NCIS Europe and Africa Field Office happens to be there in Naples, but it would be unusual for someone to be familiar with just one of the fifty plus programs there working under the one name of US Naval Support Activity.”

Fornell tapped his pen on the paper. “I’m going to arrange to bring in some of the Organized Crime Unit who worked on Galluccio and his gang to help us with this, but we can’t do that until tomorrow.” Fornell dug out his cellphone. “Meanwhile...” He made a call which went to voice mail. “Hey, Fred, thanks for the two videos and info. I am looking further into that Galluccio assassination two months back, specifically anything you have on that kid you were telling me about, Luigi’s Angel—where he came from and what happened to him after Galluccio was killed. If you have any other videos with him in it, email them over. Give me a call on my cellphone. We’re working out of the Madison 15^th floor.”

A few minutes later, Fornell’s phone rang, and he put it on speaker but kept the volume low. “Hey, Toby. Louella Fry here,” a woman said. She had a lovely, rolling southern drawl, the kind that sounded great for a few minutes, but Gibbs suspected would get old fast. “What are you doing working on a holiday, darling? I thought you were all about your daughter on days off.”

“Unfortunately, I’m working this weekend, Louella. What about you? I wasn’t expecting a callback until tomorrow.”

“I was off last week and Fred’s taking these next seven days off—he and the wife are fixing to take their grandkids to Disneyworld, so I’m trying to get a head start on the week. Now what got you onto Luigi? He’s out of your area.”

“Louella, I’ve got you on speaker phone, and I’m with NCIS Special Agent Gibbs. When we got together before Christmas for drinks, Louella, you were telling me about Luigi’s Angel. Gibbs and I are actually looking for info on him.”

“Ah, the Angel. He was a cutie.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“The Angel? No, I know Paul was trying to trace him along with the rest of the Galluccio group, but then Paul was killed, and Angel disappeared when Galluccio was killed—Galluccio’s three henchmen left alive grabbed Angel and drove off. Probably afraid he would blab and tell everyone Luigi’s secrets. He’s likely dead,” she said bluntly. “Mind you, no one’s been looking for him at the FBI, as far as I know. He fell off our radar.”

Fornell paused before replying, glancing over at Gibbs, who gave a short nod. “We may have found him, Louella.”

There was a squeal. A definite squeal from her, Gibbs thought, alarmed.

“Shut. Your. Face. You found him, Toby? Alive, I hope!”

When Gibbs rolled his eyes at her expressions, Fornell waved him to stay quiet. He scribbled on his pad, “Lou’s always like this.” Out loud, Fornell said, “Yeah, he’s alive. An NCIS special agent found him Friday night. We just figured out who he was an hour or so ago. He doesn’t seem to be able to give us much information yet. He was found heavily drugged and rather beaten up. Not in the best condition. Looks like he’d been held there for at least a month and likely much longer—possibly since Galluccio’s murder.”

“That poor baby. He did not belong with that freakshow.” Louella was silent for a moment, then erupted again with, “Shut. Your. Face, Toby! I can’t believe y’all found him. Fred and me wondered what had happened to him. You arrest anyone?”

“Not yet. We’re still sifting through the evidence and findings. What can you tell us about Galluccio?”

“Galluccio... Let’s see… History lesson 101 off the top of my curly blonde head: Luigi Galluccio was the Boss of the Baltimore Camorra from about 1992 until when he was knocked off. He was a disaster in the making, that’s for sure. Galluccio was heading the Baltimore Camorra and was getting a lot of flak from the other east coast Camorra groups. He was an odd f*cker—excuse my language—filthy rich, liked everything all fancy and the best. It had to be the best. Well, maybe he wore fancy suits, but he still looked like every other Italian mug—his whole gang looked like they all fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Gotta say this, though, I bet that even though no one in the Camorra—here or in Napoli—could figure him out, and even if he was crackers, he was absobloodylutely amazing for the mob business in Baltimore; built it up in seven years, knocked off all his opponents and set himself up as kingpin. He was sly as a fox in a hen house, smart as a whip, but—and here’s what got him killed—he was eccentric to the max and had grand ideas for their group—like wanting them to leave the Camorra and merge with one of the Sicilian Philadelphia or Boston crime groups. He’d been working on it for over two years, planning on expanding his market.”

Louella paused for a moment, and Fornell jumped in. “What do you know about Angel, specifically? Last name maybe?”

“Let me look it up. I think we have it here—we just have stacks of notes and videos everywhere, haven’t had a chance to get on top of it since Torv died—Special Agent Torvetti; he was the deputy head of the Public Corruption Program here, did I tell you that? But then Lucky and the Saint disappeared—Luciano and Santino disappeared, and we pulled double duty with the agents brought in to replace them to work on our actual case, investigating a couple of detectives in Harrisonburg who are suspected of dealing under the table. It’s been sh*tface crazy here getting them up to speed. It’s why Freddy and me needed a break, even a week off each.”

She took a breath and continued, “You know, speaking of Angel, I found something… Where is it… Where is it… Hang on….” They could hear paper rustling and few unidentifiable thumps. “Okay, here: There was an inside man who was a low-level Camarro member in Baltimore—more of a messenger boy than anything else—who was inside Galluccio’s apartment once; Galluccio had the entire top floor of an apartment building in Little Italy, Baltimore, and our informant said it didn’t look real, like everything was out of a fancy catalog. That’s the first time we heard someone mention the Angel, maybe in early October. The FBI informant said that while he was waiting for Galluccio to write a reply to the message he’d brought, this young guy covered in bruises comes into the room, looking half awake. He was barefoot, and all he was wearing was a pair of pink-and-white-striped swim shorts and an unbuttoned matching cabana shirt—and I remembering thinking when I heard that: ‘Hey, just like the Ken doll I had when I was a kid’. So, Ken Doll—that’s what we ended up calling him until later we heard him being called Luigi’s Angel—Angel slowly walks over to the chair where Galluccio was sitting at the table writing his note, and he sank down to his knees beside him like he was in a trance. Didn’t seem to notice the messenger at all. He just stayed there in place, his eyes shut. Freaked our guy out good. Morino.” She paused ever so briefly. “Angel Morino. Probably Angelo Morino, but Angel was the name on his passport and the name that Galluccio called him.”

Gibbs felt like his head was spinning. Between the colloquialisms and the rush of information, it was all a little much. Yet they had asked for information, and she was certainly providing it. “Angel Morino.” If he’d known it was going to take this long, he would have topped up his coffee first. “M-O-R-I-N-O.”

“That’s it.”

“Louella, one more question, and we’ll let you go for now,” Fornell said. “Who killed Galluccio? And who took Angel?”

“Technically two questions, Toby, darling. But, well, hard to say. Hey, I’ve got a name for you: Tony DiNozzo. Find him. He’s a Philadelphia cop who our Philadelphia FBI field office put Torv in touch with —that’s Special Agent Paul Torvetti, Gibbs—he really wanted to bring DiNozzo onto our team, but DiNozzo wasn’t interested. Had a girlfriend and said he didn’t want to move from Philly to Washington. Torvetti met him while investigating his friend’s murder in Philly; DiNozzo was the cop who found the body. Police were covering it up, DiNozzo felt, and went to the FBI field office there.Luciano and Santino, DiNozzo first met with them… maybe a year ago, year and a half. Other than him, our field office in Philadelphia might be able to help you, but I’d check out DiNozzo first.” She rattled off the precinct and phone number in Philadelphia. “We called and left a message for him about Torv being killed, but he’d probably already saw it in the papers. It made the news. And then when Luciano and Santino went missing the next week...” She sniffed dramatically. “Lordy.”

“Thanks, Louella,” Fornell said. “We’ll make the calls.”

“Let me know if you find anything good. And I am so glad you got the Angel. He sure looked like a kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He is who he is, God love him, even if his elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor, if you know what I mean. And I think he only spoke Italian. From Italy somewhere, Naples probably, I could maybe dig out exactly where. I do remember that when we started checking the Angel out we found video footage of him being taken through customs at Dulles in the middle of September when he was brought into the country. Get this, a private plane rented by Galluccio. The customs paperwork says he was here on vacation and would be staying with relatives in Baltimore.”

“So was he related to Galluccio?”

“No idea.”

“I asked Fred, but I’ll ask you, too: was Galluccio gay or suspected of being gay?”

“We were 50/50 on that. The jury was still out. Never any blatant indication, unless you want to say that just because the guy liked ultra-quality clothes and had a fancy penthouse apartment with gold taps, that made him gay? No idea, really, sweetheart. It was hard to say what his relationship was to Angel. We thought he was a family member, but maybe he wasn’t. Angel is the one you have to ask about that... I can’t believe the skinny airhead is alive.”

Chapter 8: Angel Emerges

Chapter Text

ANGEL
Madison Hotel, Washington DC
Monday, February 19, 2001
11:50 AM

Angel woke up slowly, gradually becoming aware that he was... that he was thinking, and that he was maybe awake. He didn’t want to move because he knew right away that his head still hurt, but not like before when it felt like hot spikes. His body hurt, too. Aching in so many places that he didn’t want to think about.

But… he didn’t remember why… why he didn’t want to think.

He felt his body twitch, the sharp movement jarring him. The words he must remember moved slowly into his conscious thoughts. Mi chiamo Angel. Io appartengo a Luigi Galluccio. Sono nato il 22 marzo 1974 a Napoli, Italia. Ho 26 anni. Mia madre è Daniela Leone.

Sometimes he still forgot who he was. His mother said it was because of the motorcycle accident. He didn’t remember the motorcycle accident. He remembered riding a motorcycle, but not… not an accident. She said that he had trouble remembering because of the accident.

At the special classes in Milano, he had learned to say “the words” every morning: his name, who he belonged to, his birthdate and place of birth, his age, and his emergency contact information—his mother’s name and phone number. It was supposed to be the first thing he said to himself when waking up and the last thing before going to sleep.

His mother told him that he’d hit his head too hard once and now things were fuzzy. He’d remembered that. That she told him he’d had a motorcycle accident. He’d hit his head. A long time ago. And now he’d hit his head on something again, he thought sadly. Or something had hit his head.

He remembered the old ladies in their apartment building patting his hand when his mother told them he’d hit his head too hard once and now things were fuzzy. They would bring him sweets and say, “Che caro ragazzo.” What a darling boy. And they would call him angioletto. Little angel. Little Angel.

He thought about that now, the faded memories drifting over, and he could hear their words from a distance, and almost feel their palms gentle on the side of his face and see the tears in their kind eyes. Sweet old ladies, he thought, feeling a small smile on his face.

Angioletto.

My name is Angel. I belong to... He felt a moment of panic, not knowing where Three-Tap was. Where was Three-Tap? Eyes still closed, Angel carefully moved his left arm around, looking for him. He lifted his right arm, but that sent a stab of pain through his wrist and right up to his shoulder. Maybe he wouldn’t move it; he drew it close to his chest.

A spasm of terror shook him, tightening all the abused muscles in his chest. Where was he? Where was he? Where was Three-Tap?

I am in a bed.

He was in a bed, he thought, his eyes tightly shut. If he opened his eyes, everything was going to hurt. A lot. And… what could that mean, that he was in a bed? It had to be a good thing. Unless…unless it was a bad thing. Bad things had happened in bed. He could feel the sheets beneath his fingers. He remembered being in a bed, and Three-Tap was there, and Three-Tap hadn’t hurt him. So maybe it was okay.

He had to pee.

That’s probably what had woken him up. That he had to pee. But he really didn’t want to leave the bed, because it was soft and warm and somehow felt safe, like a cocoon, because even if Three-Tap wasn’t within reach, he must be close by. Right? Or was Three-Tap gone now? Had he left him?

Angel’s head hurt now, a lot, and he really had to pee.

It was a struggle to get even one eye to open, even a little bit. The light in the room stabbed him in the eyeball. He groaned, even though he was supposed to be silent. He was breaking the rules. The rules were so very important, or he’d get in trouble. And the padrone would hit him. Or they might find out that…

that…something.

Three-Tap didn’t seem to mind him making a noise. His new padrone.

With another very, very quiet groan, he sat up.

“Hello, Angel. Do you need to use the toilet?” a familiar voice asked him in passable Italian. The doctor. Angel thought of him as Two-Tap, because he sometimes made that sign on Angel’s arm. Three-Tap thought Two-Tap was safe, so Angel had to believe that, too.

He’d hit his head too hard once and now things were fuzzy. Did the doctor know that? His padrone Luigi knew that and thought it was funny.

The Words started cycling through his thoughts again. Mi chiamo Angel. Io appartengo a … Gibbs. I belong to Gibbs. Gibbs did not laugh at him. And Luigi was… wasn’t… Luigi wasn’t around anymore.

“Do you need to use the toilet?” the doctor asked again in Italian.

“Yes. Quickly, please,” Angel answered politely in Italian.

Two-Tap helped him sit up and then stand up. The world spun around him crazily, and his head hurt more, and he thought for a moment he was going to throw up, but he was able to move with Two-Tap helping him to the bathroom and help him get to the toilet. The doctor was not very tall, he realized. The doctor was very nice and helpful, Angel knew as he sat hunched over on the toilet and let his body do what it needed to do. Apparently, it needed to do a lot.

A soft warm bed and a toilet that flushed. These were such good things. Such amazing things. Sometimes he’d thought he’d never have them again.

Memories brushed up against him of darkness and fear and confusion and pain, and he gasped in bewilderment of what it all meant.

The doctor was a safe doctor who took a warm washcloth and helped to clean him up. He felt better afterwards, and the doctor, who said his name was Ducky, took him back to his bed. Doctor Ducky. Angel nodded when Doctor Ducky spoke Italian. He understood mostly what Doctor Two-Tap was saying although the doctor wasn’t very fluent in Italian.

Tea. He preferred coffee, but his brain couldn’t remember how to ask for coffee, so he drank tea because that’s what the doctor brought him. Tea was okay. It was hot and pleasant and…

He started shaking and almost spilled the tea, as his brain pushed memories at him of being in the cage and being so thirsty that he licked at the damp floor which didn’t taste good, but it was damp, almost like water. Doctor Ducky Two-Tap held his hand steady and said calming things that Angel didn’t understand, and it almost held back all the big and little pieces of bad memories that were tumbling out into the open. Just when he thought the memories were going to smother him, because he couldn’t breathe, then suddenly Three-Tap was there, tapping the top of his head, and the cup was gone from Angel’s hand, and he lunged for the stability and strength of Three-Tap.

He held on tightly and tried to make his heart beat normally and his lungs breathe normally. He pushed his forehead against Three-Tap’s chest. He didn’t know why it made him feel safe, but it did. It shouldn’t. It wasn’t a normal thing to do. But he had sort of forgotten how to be normal right now. He just wanted to find that safe spot so he could breathe easier and have his heartbeat not hurting in his chest and his head not exploding. Three-Tap made him feel like his head wasn’t exploding.

After a few minutes, Three-Tap pulled away, talking words that Angel couldn’t sort out, but strong hands were gentle on his forehead and massaged the pain away and Angel whispered, “Grazie, grazie, grazie” in a little whispered chant and his one hand that worked properly grabbed hold of Three-Tap’s shirt, to anchor himself in the spinning world.

Three-Tap and Doctor Ducky were talking. At first, he didn’t know their English talking words from school—sleep—except for when a word bled through—pain—from a part of his brain—toilet—that remembered little bit and pieces of English. He’d forgotten any English he’d managed to learn, his aunt had told him when she’d looked after him, because his beat-up brain didn’t have room for it after the accident. Angel heard Three-Tap say his name, Angel, and his padrone’s name, Luigi.

His old padrone, he reminded himself, feeling his heart cheer and then want to cry. That name made him start shivering, and then shaking, and Three-Tap pulled him back in his arms and they didn’t say the bad man’s name again. The f*cking asshole creep’s name.

Angel blinked at his own thought. He gasped and his eyes opened. Gibbs was there, and he wasn’t afraid of Gibbs. “Three-Tap” was his name when Angel’s eyes were closed, but it was “Gibbs” when his eyes were open. But they were the same person.

Doctor Ducky was sitting on the bed across from him, where Gibbs had slept the night before. Angel had woken up in the night and panicked a little because Three-Tap wasn’t there, but then he’d opened his eyes in the darkness and seen Gibbs sleeping in the other bed, and he knew everything was okay if Gibbs was asleep and Gibbs wasn’t worried about people shooting at him.

Doctor Ducky was talking to him in Italian again, and Angel had to concentrate because his thoughts were like a slow whirlwind in his head. Oh, it was about his mother, his mother Daniela Leone. He thought about her phone number as it drifted past his thoughts. He’d forgotten the other numbers, but not her number, because he’d known it the longest. He loved his mother’s sfogliatelle. It was so flaky and melted in his mouth. He had missed them when he went to the school in Milano that his cousin had found. They had sfogliatelle there one day for an evening snack, and he’d been shocked how awful they were. The school had been difficult, too, but he hadn’t told her, because she and his cousin had been proud of him for agreeing to go to the school. When he came back home after he’d finished in Milano, she had laughed at how many he had eaten the week he came home from his classes, before he’d left Napoli for America. Before everything had gone wrong.

He sighed. He would love to have one of her sfogliatelle right now.

Doctor Ducky lifted up his chin and spoke again, because Angel figured the doctor knew that Angel hadn’t really been listening to what he was saying. “Your mother has called,” Doctor Ducky said again in Italian, “and she said she is trying to arrange to come here, as you are not ready to travel yet.”

“She will come here?” Angel asked, disappointed. He really wanted to go back to Napoli and to her sfogliatelle. He liked his 180^o view of the bay right from his bedroom window and the statua di Umberto that he could look down on. He wished it was always his bedroom, but it was his mother’s study with a day bed in it for him when he came to visit. Because… because he didn’t live with her. Where did he live? Where…? He closed his eyes and could see the Gulf of Salerno—the Sea of Tyrrhenian. Why couldn’t he stay there in the Salerno house on the beach? He hadn’t really wanted to leave; it was nice. Oh… yes… because he was an adult and his cousin had found him work in America. And Angel had wanted to go to America and work for his godfather. His room would always be there for him, his mother had told him. But he was too old to just live with his mother or his aunt, and his cousin had found him work with… with his godfather, who was an important man they had told him, a man they all hated… a childhood friend of his father’s.

He didn’t remember his father. Or why they hated his godfather. Or why he wanted to work for his hated godfather. But maybe that memory would come back later.

That thought shuffled through his brain until he found a memory that said his father had died because of a bullet in his brain from a rival group in Napoli. He didn’t know this because it was just a year after he was born… it was just a stored-away thing. His father’s name was Gabriele, in case someone asked him, his mother had said, but she didn’t like to talk about him much.

Gabriele Morino. Angel had wondered about him. He hadn’t been involved with the Camorra, his mother had said, but Gabriele’s father and brothers and cousins were. His mother said he wasn’t Camorra, but everyone else said he was.

“Angel?” Three-Tap called, and Angel nodded quickly. He’d drifted away from what they were saying to each other and what they were saying to him. He should be listening. It was important. But nodding had not been a good idea, as his head split open again on his right side, on his temple and up to the top of his head. He gave a little cry, and the doctor and Three-Tap were moving him around, turning his head slowly, and making him feel nauseous. He heard them say 911 and he knew what that meant—118—and he didn’t want to go to the hospital, so he said, “Ti prego, ti prego, no. No, no, no, no, no.”

It got to be too much for him, so he found his safe spot with Three-Tap and pushed his head against him as hard as he could, and it felt calm then inside his mind and his body, and he went back to darkness.

GIBBS
Monday, 12:20 PM

Gibbs frowned down at Angel’s head pressed into his chest. Ducky had said before that pressure on Angel's forehead relieved some of his pain. Ducky then waxed on about pressure points and headache relief, and Gibbs carefully tuned him out, massaging the back of Angel’s neck.

He hadn’t been sure what to expect when one of the FBI agents on duty opened the door to where he and Fornell were working and said that Ducky needed him right away. It was both irritating and gratifying that Angel calmed so quickly with him, his panicked gasping for air smoothing out to a sudden heaviness. He stirred a moment later, resurfacing but not moving.

The kid was still in pain, the headache overwhelming him. Ducky was on the phone trying to connect with Dr Bautista to see if there was anything they could do without taking Angel back to the hospital. Angel had been fine when they were at NCIS the day before and had managed to be at the table at Gibbs’ house earlier. Ducky was concerned that the worsening headache was a possible side-effect of the concussion that needed to be checked. And again there was the concern that the drugs Angel had been given were wearing off and leaving him in pain.

The door to their suite opened and Fornell ventured in. “Everything okay?” the FBI agent asked, and Gibbs was grateful that Tobias didn’t make one of his usual snide remarks, especially about the NCIS agent sitting on the edge of the bed gently massaging Angel’s scalp and neck.

“Really bad migraine, Ducky thinks, likely from his concussion. He’s trying to get authorization from the hospital to give him something.”

Fornell nodded, hesitantly wandering closer. “Good.”

Angel was breathing in tight, short gasps, his eyes pressed closed. His forehead, where Gibbs was massaging, felt warm. “Is that Louella for real?” Gibbs asked, trying to think of something to say.

“No,” Fornell snorted. “She’s a fake. The accent and everything.”

That wasn’t what Gibbs had expected. “Not from the South?”

“Tacoma, Washington. Torvetti and the others checked her out a few years ago when she transferred in.”

“Then why—?”

“Why the Southern drawl and all those corny expressions?” Fornell shrugged, laughing. “No idea. Fred told me at one point she figured they were onto her, but if she needed to hide behind the Southern belle charm, then he and Torvetti were fine with it. She’s damn good at her job, so they would have been happy if she said Klingon was her mother tongue.” Fornell shook his head slowly. “Damn shame about Torvetti. Good guy.”

“You said he was gunned down here in DC?”

“Yeah. Just outside our building. Middle of October. His Public Corruption Unit practically fell apart because the guy kept everything in his head. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but he was foolish to be so stingy sharing info, not writing things down, not sharing more with the others in his unit. f*cking shame. Fred told me that Torvetti had Campise and De Bonis to do the leg work for him on the unofficial stuff they were doing, and Fred and Louella to do the unofficial research. Doesn’t work, Fred told me, if you don’t share.”

“Like you share all the time, Tobias,” Gibbs said with a laugh.

“Hey, I’m sharing now, ain’t I?”

“True enough.” Gibbs held back a yawn, surprised at how tired he was.

“I tried calling that Philadelphia cop Louella mentioned. DiNozzo.” Fornell scratched the back of his head. “He doesn’t work anymore at the Philly precinct Louella had given us. The guy I spoke to was new and had to ask somebody there who DiNozzo was. He came back to the phone and said DiNozzo just disappeared on them last year about this time. He was there walking a beat with his partner one day, and he was gone the next. They suggested we talk to Human Resources at the Philly Head Office. They’d likely know.” Fornell shrugged. “Maybe the JTFHRT has him on one of their lists of cops who have disappeared.”

“Swell,” Gibbs muttered. Angel was shivering again, gasping in pain, and it seemed the massage Gibbs was doing wasn’t enough anymore.

Ducky ended his phone call with the hospital, went to his medical bag, and a minute later came over with a needle that had Fornell backing away so the doctor could take his place. “Jethro, help me here,” Ducky said, carefully putting the needle down. “I’m going to inject this into his hip. Help me roll him to his side.” They did so, and Ducky quickly administered the pain relief. “Dr. Bautista said the initial scans Friday night came back showing that there was no brain bleed, but that doesn’t mean it might have occurred anyway later. If this doesn’t offer Angel some relief, then we should bring him in, just in case.”

Fornell excused himself and went out of the room. Gibbs waited until Angel was asleep, then he and Ducky settled the young man back on the bed and covered him.

“Sleep will do him good,” Ducky said, then looked at his watch. “Jethro, I must go back to Autopsy and see how Gerald is doing with our guests. Are you able to keep watch on this young man? He shall likely just sleep away the afternoon. I shall be back by dinner, as I’d like to see what is available from room service here. Perhaps you could join me for a nice leisurely meal, and we could charge it to the FBI?”

Gibbs nodded, still distracted by Angel. “What if he wakes up in pain like he was before?”

“Then call 911, by all means. It shouldn’t be necessary, though. He finds a degree of calmness in your presence, for reasons I won’t begin to guess at,” Ducky teased. He continued to chat while putting on his coat, gathering up his other things that he’d left in the suite the evening before, and then he quietly slipped out.

Gibbs closed the door after him and looked around the room. Angel was asleep—out for the count, which was just as well, as they couldn’t communicate without Fornell or Ducky being present. There was a stack of files Burley had requested sitting on the table, but he had no reason to go through them any longer. The files were to assist the JTFHRT team, and Gibbs wasn’t interested in actively investigating the on-going kidnapping group case. Morrow hadn’t ordered him to do anything but babysit Angel.

Gibbs called Burley and left a message on his cell phone to let him know he had Burley’s requested NCIS case files at the hotel with him. If Burley was still at the FBI offices, it would be easy enough for him to pick them up. Technically, the files shouldn’t have left the NCIS building, but if they passed in custody from Gibbs to Burley—who was still on the NCIS Navy Yards payroll for another few days, it would be fine. It should be fine.

Burley called back. “Just take the files back to NCIS, Gibbs. Thanks, but I won’t have time to get at them now. I’ve been called to another meeting. I went to DiNozzo’s apartment, but no one was there. Kind of a small place, a one-room bed-sit, with a tiny kitchen, a tiny bathroom, and a small window with bars on it. Minimal food in the fridge—milk and yogurt are recent and a newspaper from yesterday. The guy likes takeout.—I’m back in my car; didn’t want him to come home and find me there.”

“I’ll return the files,” Gibbs said and hung up. Needing more coffee—and lunch—he opened the door to the hallway and placed an order with one of the guards for a toasted clubhouse sandwich, soup of the day, and one coffee, black. A moment later, he went back to the corridor and caught the FBI agent, adding an additional carafe of black coffee. The cups the coffee was served in were ridiculously small.

That accomplished, he went to the desk, pushed the files aside, and started jotting down what he could remember of the timeline with Angel Morino and Luigi Galluccio, trying to see any patterns. Tracking down mob connections wasn’t really his area, but since he had nothing else to do—again courtesy of Director Morrow—he’d get something done at least. It was also quite likely that whatever group did this to Angel had nothing to do with the crime syndicates, and it was a similar situation to the group the JTFHRT rescue team was after. Or Angel had just been passed around after Galluccio died and had ended up chained up in a cage while whoever paid for the privilege could beat him up or sexually abuse him.

A wave of anger rushed over him. Angel seemed like a nice enough kid, although Louella had insinuated that he was a little… simple or naive. That made how he was treated even more infuriating. He hated when innocents were involved in cases.

Tomorrow, Tuesday, Pacci would be back, and he’d get him and Dobbs maybe to see what they could come up with. Gibbs frowned; he couldn’t remember if he’d told them about the Federal holiday when he saw them on Friday—before all this happened. Well, they would know about Presidents Day, but did he tell them to take the holiday? Abby would be there, tomorrow, and Gibbs knew she’d help out by running a few names. If she wasn’t already their Chief Forensic Scientist, she’d have been great as an intelligence analyst. He would have put her on his team already and this second stack of HR files wouldn’t be sitting on the table waiting for him to make a decision. He would have got her to decide for him. Maybe he would anyway.

He frowned abruptly and looked down at his watch. Dobbs and Lansdown would have returned from Norfolk on Sunday. He pulled out his notes on the Pier 6 murders and called Dobbs. Might as well keep working, if he was on the clock. And the kid would be asleep for hours.

FORNELL
Monday, 3:55 PM

Tobias Fornell put down his phone with a sigh of frustration. He’d been talking with Louella again trying to nail down some dates of when Angel had been seen coming into the country, and anything on his life in Italy, but there was actually very little she could give him. The focus of the investigation had been on Galluccio; Angel had just been an oddity that Fred and Louella had been surprised by when he suddenly appeared on the scene at Galluccio’s side, without any mob-affiliated reason that they could decipher, and Torvetti had been extremely, keenly interested in him.

Fornell glanced at the time. It was almost 4:00 PM. That would be 10:00 PM in Naples. Too late to call Angel’s mother? Maybe. But they’d been waiting for her to call, so he had a plausible reason to check in with her.

After five minutes of trying to decide what to do, he risked it, pulled out his notebook, and dialed the number he’d recorded for her.

“Pronto.”

It sounded like her. “Mrs. Leone? This is FBI Special Agent Fornell in Washington, DC.”

“Ah! Special Agent Fornelli. Buonasera.”

“I apologize if I am calling too late.”

“It is still early here. I have just finished dinner.”

“I am wondering what you have decided about your son. When will you be arriving?”

“Agent Fornelli, I am—”

“Pardon me, but it’s just Fornell, signora. Tobias Fornell. My father’s family dropped the last ‘i’ when they came to America when he was a child.”

“My apologies, Agent Fornell,” she said, correcting how she said his name. “Please call me Daniela.”

“Tobias,” he responded, unconsciously adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair. She had a beautiful rich voice, and if she was as good looking as she sounded… then again, he wasn’t divorced yet, even if that’s where he and Diane were heading. He’d hoped the fact that both of them doted on baby Emily would save their marriage, but he’d learned the hard way that there was a reason why Diane—Jethro Gibbs’ ex-wife—was indeed Jethro Gibbs’ ex-wife. The man had warned him, but Fornell had thought he knew better. “So, what have you decided about your son, Daniela?”

“I am still trying to make arrangements to fly there, but I need to wait until businesses open tomorrow morning. I also must arrange to take some time off work, as I gather Angel is not able to fly yet.”

“We do need to keep him here while the FBI Organized Crime Unit does their investigation.” Fornell paused, suddenly uncomfortable with how to continue, but he needed information. “Daniela, your son lived with Luigi Galluccio, a known leader of a crime syndicate, for several months before Galluccio’s death, and it is believed Angel will have some valuable information on how that particular group is set up. So, yes, besides his medical issues, we need to keep him here for a few weeks, maybe more, as there are criminal investigations.”

“Criminal, I understand,” Daniela Leone said, her voice irritated. “Had we known before what his cousin had promised… well. But medical? Please, is something wrong? I understood that Angel was getting better when I spoke with him.”

“He was sleeping last I saw him a few hours ago,” Fornell quickly reassured her, but in all honesty, he had to say more. “Angel’s had some very bad headaches from his concussion. There’s been a doctor-on-call watching him in the event he has a brain bleed. Please, rest assured that we take his health very seriously.”

“Tobias, I appreciate all you and NCIS Special Agent Gibbs are doing for my son. I am trying to understand what happened to Angel. Is he safe now? In a safe location?”

“Yes, we have him in a safe house with Gibbs.”

“A safe house. In Washington, DC, or Baltimore?”

Fornell paused. “I’m sorry. I can’t give out that information. Just, that he is safe. Daniela, could you tell me how Angel came to be working for Luigi Galluccio?”

“I will word this carefully… Luigi Galluccio was an acquaintance of my late husband’s, a childhood friend of his, and he was Angel’s godfather. A cousin arranged for Angel to get special training to work as Luigi’s assistant in Baltimore for two weeks, while Angel was in America on vacation. Luigi promised it would only be in his personal legitimate business, as neither Angel’s cousin nor I wanted my son to be involved in anything… illegal. I was worried about his safety, but it was a good opportunity for Angel, employment as a valet in America, and we… and we didn’t want to pass it up, let’s say. To get a positive report on his work ability from someone as high up as Galluccio’s name would be beneficial for Angel. I’d given Angel some other numbers to call in case of emergency, and he told me he hadn’t been allowed to call them.”

Fornell frowned as she spoke, wondering why this was considered a good opportunity to work for the head of a crime family if she was worried about his safety. She sounded rehearsed to his ear. “Neither Special Agent Gibbs nor I know anything about your son’s previous situation, Daniela. Gibbs was involved in another apparently unconnected case when he stumbled upon Angel on Friday evening. It took two days before your son was able to say his first name on Sunday night, and it wasn’t until he started saying a few words in Italian this morning that he asked to call you. He seems very vague as to what has happened to him. Any information you might have to spread light on the situation is appreciated.”

Daniela was silent for a moment. “I’m in a rather difficult—delicate—situation here, and I must tread carefully. There are people I need to speak to before giving any information, as I don’t want to put Angel or myself in danger. Although he was not a member of the Camorra, Angel’s father had direct ties to them, and I’ve tried calling his uncle in America several times over the last few months. He confirmed with me when Angel arrived in America and was with Luigi, and then after that, there was no answer on his cellphone, and the line was disconnected. He had promised to keep an eye on Angel for me. I tried getting a message to Luigi Galluccio directly, to let him know that I wanted to speak with my son, but his handlers or his bodyguards would not pass on my request. And then I had heard Luigi was dead and saw it in the newspapers here, but I still couldn’t locate my son or find out what happened to his American uncle.”

“I could look into that for you,” Fornell offered. “What is his uncle’s name?”

There was a longer pause. “Let me call you back tomorrow morning, once I speak with someone else here. I am concerned about my son’s legal situation here. And his uncle’s. He might be hiding. When the Camorra are in the picture, one must proceed carefully.” Daniela took a deep breath. “Tobias, Angel... he is going to be okay, isn’t he? Physically? I’m worried about how he sounded on the phone.”

Fornell stared at the paper-littered table surface and wished he didn’t have to discuss this with her, as she seemed like a nice lady. “As I told you earlier today, Daniela, Angel has been through a lot these past three months since Luigi Galluccio was killed, and likely before that with Galluccio. Now that he is speaking, we are hoping he can tell us more about what happened.”

“Tesoro mio,” she whispered, and he heard her swearing quietly. “My sweetheart. Is he… will he be alright?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure he will be happy to see you again, Daniela.” Fornell moved some papers around on the table randomly, then spotted a note he’d written to himself. “I must ask you one thing, Daniela: I am surprised Angel only speaks Italian, or does he speak some English?”

Daniela hesitated, then gave a little laugh. “No English?... Angel does have a little English from his scuola media superiore—his upper high school classes—but all that was ten years ago, and he’s probably forgotten most of it. There was an accident…” Her voice caught, and Fornell could hear her take a steadying breath. “He and I, we only spoke in Italian, and the school he attended recently in Milano was only in Italian.”

“Your English is impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“What school did Angel attend in Milano?”

She seemed to stammer on the phone. “I, uh, I’m rather embarrassed, but I don’t know the name; his cousin arranged for it and paid the bills. A private school to help Angel and give him job opportunities. I’ll see what I can find out. Maybe one of his friends knows.” Daniela paused again. “Thank you for helping Angel, Tobias. When I get to America, we will go have a glass of wine together, so I can personally thank you. Please tell my Angel there that I love him dearly, and I will call him later.” Her voice caught again, and the call ended abruptly.

Fornell frowned as he stared at his cellphone. Why would she not know the name of the school her son was at in Milano? And while Angel’s mother seemed honestly concerned about her son, why had she allowed—maybe even encouraged—him to go to America, so far away, to work for a gangster? It didn’t make any sense.

ANGEL
Monday, 5:10 PM

When Angel woke up the next time, it was to the smell of food, and for the first time, he really, really wanted to eat something. Maybe. It took him awhile to wake up more than just his sense of smell. He realized his head didn’t hurt, at least not like it had before. There was a pressure in his skull, but not the too-much-pain-to-think kind of hurt that he’d had earlier. He wasn’t sure if it had just gone away on its own, or if they’d given him something. Doctor… somebody… had been helping him, and Three-Tap had been there.

He drifted.

There was that sensation again of being in a soft bed, and warm, and it smelled nice and he wondered if he could hear the waves on the beach. Angel could hear voices talking quietly across the room, but the sounds were jumbled, and he didn’t know any of them. Except he heard his name sometimes.

My name is Angel... He said “the Words” in his head, all of them, so he would remember. And he said the Words, too, because the drugs that Galluccio, his padrone, put in his food made him feel fuzzy sometimes, and he got scared that he might forget who he was.

“You should be proud of who you are,” his master would tell him. “You are the godson and treasured companion to Luigi Galluccio, who rules Baltimore and will soon control all of the eastern seaboard.”

He had soon learned that Luigi Galluccio was crazy. He always remembered that, even if he didn’t remember his own name some days.

So, in the quiet of his mind, never out loud, he would think the Words he’d been taught to recite: his name, who he belonged to, his birthdate and where he was born, and his mother’s name. He missed her. He would think her telephone number and it made him feel connected to her. And he would think of the American uncle. Somewhere along the line he had forgotten his uncle’s phone number. Sometimes he tried to remember what it was, but he hadn’t remembered yet. And his cousin… there were things about his cousin. There were other things he should have remembered, too, but he had forgotten what they were. He missed his cousin a lot, but he was mad at him for some other reason.

The drugs messed up Angel’s head and made him sleepy, and it was hard to think because other thoughts sometimes interrupted. At the school in Milano, he had learned the art of submission, so he would be perfect for Luigi Galluccio. He didn’t remember why he needed to be perfect, but the uncle and his cousin had said that Angel needed to be. He wasn’t always perfect, but he had learned to blend into a room, so no one would see him. To be so submissive, that he was invisible. He had learned to walk behind Galluccio and on his left side, a shadow who stopped when he stopped and moved when he moved, in synch. He’d learned how to speak to his padrone with respect. How to never be out of his sight, unless Galluccio locked him in his room. How to kneel beside him when he was seated, and how to stand behind him, within reach but out of the way. He could think bad things and rebellious things in his head, but his body had to be relaxed, head bowed, eyes lowered, and his hands linked behind his back. He couldn’t be reckless. He had to be perfect all the time.

He wasn’t sure why… why…. Why had he been there?

But his family had arranged it, so it must be a good thing.

He loved his family and they loved him... But where was the uncle? And his cousin? What were their names? he wondered.

The food smelled good. Angel’s head was pounding from all the thinking he was doing now, and the pressure was building more. Thinking had its drawbacks. He was starting to feel fuzzy again, and it was hard to hold onto his thoughts. His mother blamed it on the accident. And she had said he could blame it on the accident.

There sure was a lot of things blamed on a motorcycle accident he couldn’t even remember. He just remembered the “after the motorcycle accident” parts. His broken legs, his head. His arms and back.

My name is Angel…

He felt the bed move slightly, as someone came and sat on the edge of the mattress beside him. Someone put their hand on his forehead and very lightly triple-tapped, and he knew who it was. He tried to open his eyes to look at him, and he succeeded, mostly. Gibbs was looking down at him, and he looked sad and curious and wondering.

Gibbs was his padrone now. That, too, was a good thing. Galluccio had never looked at him like he was sad or curious or wondering. Galluccio had been demanding and dismissive and angry when things didn’t happen the way he wanted them to happen. And then he would get angry at Angel—but not really at Angel. Angel knew that he had become the substitution for whatever the person Galluccio was currently angry at. Luigi would tell him he loved him, but that was just a lie, because Luigi didn’t.

But now Gibbs was saying things to him. Maybe to do with food, Angel hoped. The words were messed up in his head.

“Hai fame?” the other guy asked him, the guy who spoke more Italian than the doctor. Angel could hear him walking to the side of the bed. “Abbiamo una zuppa e un panino. Pastrami di segale.”

Yes, he was hungry. And the soup sounded good and the pastrami on rye sounded… too much. Angel could think that, but he couldn’t get his mouth to work. Galluccio had never wanted him to talk, but maybe Gibbs wouldn’t mind. Gibbs moved his hand from Angel’s forehead to the sides of his face. He was checking for fever, Angel realized. He thought maybe he had a fever. Gibbs was kind.

How had he gone from being the companion to Galluccio to being the companion to Gibbs? How had that happened? And the things that had happened in between those times when he had been in that dark ratty place—why had that happened to him? Would it happen again? Would these men hurt him and—?

His whole body jerked and convulsed, and the air seemed to be trapped in his lungs. All the thoughts of being in that place, naked, hurting, hungry, afraid—afraid the people would come back and hurt him again, afraid that they wouldn’t come back, and he would starve to death and the rats would eat his body. All the fractured thoughts came at once and seemed to take over his body.

Gibbs shifted him to sit upright and was rubbing circles on his back and saying mysterious things that were probably supposed to calm him down, and after a long time he felt himself calming down even if he didn’t know what Gibbs had said. Gibbs could be very demanding, too, but in a different way than Galluccio.

His body stopped shaking, but he felt tired and heavy, and he realized he was crying a little because… well, he didn’t know why, but because of that bad place… and those men… And because that was over now. He couldn’t imagine Gibbs letting that happen to him. Unless Gibbs got dead like Galluccio had.

Gibbs just held him until he stopped shaking. The two men—Gibbs and the Italian-speaking man—then stuck pillows behind him so he could sit up in bed, and they brought him the soup that smelled wonderful, leaving him to eat it when he discovered he could do that by himself. It was a little awkward eating with his left hand, but he could do it.

A brief memory flittered by again of sitting at a table—Gibbs’ table—and eating an omelet that Gibbs had made for him. The doctor had been there and a woman that Gibbs had yelled at loudly, at first, and then was nice to. Gibbs had made them all toast and omelets. That had been strange.

The soup bowl was empty, and Angel realized he’d eaten it all. The Italian-speaking guy brought him his sandwich and took away the bowl, as Gibbs was on the phone. The guy said things to Angel, but Angel did his best not to listen to him. Do not engage with others without the padrone’s direction to do so.

The sandwich was really good, after all, he thought, chowing down on it.

GIBBS
Monday, 5:45 PM

Gibbs stared at his wall of yellow Post-it^© notes. He was once again stuck alone in this hotel room with Angel. It was already Monday evening, and Gibbs had hoped by this point everything would be straightened out and Angel’s mother would be on her way to claim him. Angel seemed to be a nice enough kid, maybe even an innocent kid who had been put in an impossible situation, maneuvered into an impossible situation by his mother and his uncle and cousin. What had they been thinking? And that mother—Daniela—definitely knew something she wasn’t telling them. And where had this uncle ended up? Dead? Hiding? Held captive somewhere?

Well, maybe someone would show up to take responsibility for Angel until the mother came to collect him, or until Angel was able to take care of himself. Or the FBI decided to accept responsibility for him and... and...

Gibbs huffed quietly. No one seemed to want to want to take responsibility for Angel, though. And to his knowledge, aside from Fornell and him putting Post- it^© notes on a hotel room wall, no one seemed to care one way or another about Angel or what had led to him being held in that basem*nt. Gibbs had yet to hear the report from the Friday night raid on the club or the Saturday investigation into the bombed out building and the basem*nt warehouse. What had been in the boxes and crates? Did they even look? Who owned the building, and who leased the basem*nt? Did the owners know someone had been held there in chains?

Fornell had left just after 5:30 PM to have a quick Monday night dinner with his wife as Diane was getting frustrated with all his time away from home that weekend—some things never changed, Gibbs thought—plus Tobias hadn’t seen his baby Emily in several days. Tobias had felt guilty for leaving Gibbs alone with Angel, since he had no way of talking with him, but Gibbs ended up pushing him out of the room. He’d figure it out; he had been left with people who didn’t speak English before.

Fornell would be back for a meeting scheduled for 7:30 PM in the large suite down the hall with Special Agent Billings and the JTFHRT rescued men, to discuss when the four men were going home. Ducky was returning from NCIS to have dinner with Gibbs, but that could be any time in the next several hours. Gibbs was hoping to be able to attend the JTFHRT meeting, just to push his own agenda about Angel, if Ducky arrived on time.

Angel, meanwhile, had been fading over the past fifteen minutes, managing only half of his sandwich before dozing off sitting up. With a sigh, Gibbs took the sandwich plate away and roused Angel to the bathroom, and while he waited, he again studied the makeshift linked notes he and Tobias had stuck on the wall behind the table they’d brought into the room.

They were attempting to find ways of expanding what little information they knew to determine who had held Angel in the basem*nt, and who was trying to kill him. Because they had nothing else to do, they had begun to assemble different charts of Angel’s confusing timeline and connections—such as, who exactly was this uncle who had manipulated Angel into “working” for Galluccio; surely if the guy knew Galluccio, he must have been cognizant of how his nephew would be treated. There was also another grouping of notes of who the FBI members of the Organized Crime Unit were who were actually working on the Baltimore Camorra cases, and what had happened to the FBI members of the Public Corruption Unit who were unofficially working the case. Using different colors of Post-it^© notes, he and Fornell had just started putting up the names of Luigi Galluccio’s organization, and then Tobias had left.

When Angel came back into the room from the bathroom, he walked unsteadily to Gibbs’s side and stood swaying, looking curiously through squinted eyes at all the Post-it^© notes. He blinked at them, probably recognizing some of the names and dates, then looked blankly at Gibbs, almost as though asking for permission for something. Gibbs handed him a pen and pushed a square pad of lime green notes over to him.

Awkwardly holding the pen in his right hand, hampered by the tension bandage, Angel went down on his knees next to Gibbs, so he could write at the table. In small precise handwriting, he carefully listed a series of names. “Guardie del corpo di Galluccio: Lorenzo Cicciano, Leonardo Cicciano, Larry Gargiulol, Gold Tooth Mallardo, and Romano Romano.” He handed the paper to Gibbs, then using his left index finger and thumb, mimed a gun and shot at the first two names—likely brothers, as they had the same surname.

Gibbs studied what he’d written. After a moment, he figured ‘Guardie del corpo’ might mean ‘bodyguards’. There was one way of verifying which bodyguard was which, and that was by showing Angel the surveillance footage of the day Galluccio had been shot. He debated the wisdom of subjecting Angel to a visual reminder of the shooting, but maybe it would make some connections in the young man’s scrambled memories.

Gibbs opened his laptop and found the email Fornell had forwarded to him with the surveillance videos, and he clicked on the one from November 20, 2000 of Galluccio’s assassination in Baltimore. It began playing, starting with the camera trained on the double doors at the top of the stairs. Gibbs clicked it again to make it bigger on the screen, quietly pleased with himself for remembering how to do that.

A few moments later, on the surveillance footage, one of the bodyguards emerged through the doors. He remained at the top of the stairs, looking around. Gibbs stopped the video and pointed to the bodyguard. Angel pointed to Leonardo Cicciano’s name on one of the Post-it^© notes. Probably the head bodyguard, since Angel had written his name first, and Leonardo Cicciano’s posture and actions bore that out.

Another bodyguard appeared through the doors, and at a gesture from Leonardo Cicciano, he ran down the stairs to a waiting car. Angel pointed to Romano Romano’s name, and then exhaled unevenly and wiped tears from his eyes. Gibbs studied the young man beside him, seeing the distress—was he afraid of the man or... what else was behind the tears? Gibbs debated a moment, then pressed play again, and Galluccio appeared with a third bodyguard on his right and Angel behind him on his left. A fourth bodyguard came through the doors to follow directly behind Angel. Galluccio was talking angrily into a cellphone. Gibbs froze the screen.

Angel had gone whiter, if that was possible, grabbing at the table. He sank lower on his knees, sitting on his heels as he stared at the screen, his eyes wide. He shivered. Gibbs put his hand on the back of Angel’s neck, which calmed him right away.

And then Gibbs remembered why it calmed him, and he took his hand away.

What a f*cked-up world.

Gibbs pointed to the young man in the gray suit and then to Angel. Several heartbeats later, Angel gasped for breath and nodded. Gibbs put his hand on Angel’s shoulder, but it didn’t help much, so he once again reluctantly placed his hand on the back of his neck, and Angel relaxed, breathing out in short bursts, trying to calm himself. The young man pointed to the bodyguard next to Galluccio, and to Lorenzo Cicciano’s name on his list. The bodyguard behind Angel was Gargiulol, and then when the final guard appeared, Angel pointed to Mallardo, his hand shaking.

As the rest of video played out, showing Galluccio and the two Cicciano brothers being killed, and Angel being taken away by the other three bodyguards—Romano, Gargiulol, and Mallardo. Angel had leaned forward from where he was kneeling, his forehead coming to rest against the table edge, Gibbs’ hand still on his neck, feeling Angel’s body trembling.

Gibbs stood up and pulled Angel to his feet, and then walked him over to the bed, Angel unsteady and shaking, his eyes closed. He half-fell to the mattress, curling slightly away from Gibbs, then rolling back to face him. Gibbs was surprised when Angel grabbed Gibbs’ hand and put it on his forehead, pressing it tight, and then Angel let go and grabbed Gibbs’ shirt. He communicated very clearly that his head hurt again, and he didn’t want Gibbs to go anywhere.

Several minutes passed while Gibbs sat on the side of the bed putting the needed pressure on Angel’s forehead, and Angel’s tremors gradually slowed and stopped, either asleep or dozing. Another few minutes and Angel’s grip loosened from Gibbs’ shirt, and Gibbs carefully placed the young man’s hand on the pillow by his cheek, watching as it curled into a fist and pressed against his own forehead. He watched and listened to Angel’s breathing, uneven and labored. He was in pain. Ducky wasn’t due for another hour or two at the earliest.

Not wanting to leave him alone, Gibbs stayed there thinking, his hand again resting on the young man’s head, slowly massaging it, easing the pressure.

Angel probably knew a lot of things about the Baltimore Camorra, maybe even more than the young man might think he knew, enough perhaps to put a lot of people behind bars. Reason enough to try to silence him. And since whoever was trying to kill him didn’t know what Angel might have already told them, would they stop trying? Those other three bodyguards… Angel had reacted upon seeing all of them on the video. Not the two Cicciano brothers, but the other three. The three who were alive, or who were alive at the end of November. Were they the men Gibbs had encountered in the basem*nt of that Kinkhouse? He didn’t think so. The three missing bodyguards were all big, stocky, square-shouldered musclemen, while the shooters in the basem*nt had average, slimmer builds, from what Gibbs had seen from the shadows.

And the shooters in the hospital? Gibbs frowned. Different body types. Both were tall and slim. They didn’t seem to fit either category. How many different groups were involved?

“Mi chiamo Angel.”

Gibbs looked down at the sleeping young man, surprised by the slurred whisper.

“Mi chiamo Angel. Mi chiamo Angel. Io appartengo a Luigi … no, no, a … a Gibbs.”

Apparetengo. Gibbs repeated the word a few times. He would have to ask Tobias or Ducky what that meant, although he was fairly sure he didn’t want to know. He waited a few minutes, but Angel whispered nothing more. His lips moved, silently reciting a mantra of some kind, his brow tightened in pain, his fists pressed against his forehead.

Frustrated that there was no one around to advise him what to do, and mad at himself for leaving his cellphone across the room, Gibbs stayed in place, one hand massaging Angel’s temples until he was certain he was asleep.

He went back to the table and the Post-it^© notes on the wall, taking the first group down one at a time and filling in the names Angel had provided. He thought about emailing Fred or Louella—he had their email addresses from a group email that Fornell had sent out—but he decided he would leave that for Tobias to do. Gibbs wasn’t a part of that agency or any joint taskforce, and he didn’t want to get involved at this point.

Gibbs looked at his pad of paper. Questions...

1) Why had the murdered Paul Torvetti been involved in this Galluccio-Camorra case at all—especially unofficially—if he was in the FBI’s Public Corruption Unit working out of DC?

2) What had happened to the other two special agents in the Public Corruption Unit, Campise and De Bonis?

3) What exactly had Luigi Galluccio been into? Drug trafficking? Firearms? Then the ATF might have—should have—been involved. Migrant smuggling, human trafficking, money laundering, extortion, counterfeit goods, cyber crimes? Any of those would have meant bringing in other agencies or other sections of the FBI.

The questions kept crowding Gibbs’ thoughts, looping.

4) How was Angel involved in this? Would Angel even know what Galluccio was involved with, or about the day-to-day running of Galluccio’s group, besides the names of his bodyguards? How exactly was he trained to be Galluccio’s assistant? From Louella’s earlier comments, it sounded as though Angel did not have the ‘smarts’ to be capable of any business dealings.

As an NCIS special agent, there had been times Gibbs had been involved in cases dealing with organized crime, and in almost every case, NCIS joined with other agencies. What he had taken away from those assignments was it seemed that all these transnational organized crime groups, like Galluccio’s Camorra group, were always seeking more: more power, more influence, and more monetary gains, and were in the business of shutting down anyone who interfered with them. Gibbs had no idea if Galluccio operated only in America, or if he’d had some close connections to groups in Italy.

Regardless, if Galluccio was such a high-level player, then the FBI would have been involved in a plan to dismantle and disrupt his enterprises, not just make a sole grab to take down the man himself. It wasn’t how they worked.

Gibbs jotted down another question:

5) What was being stored in the basem*nt of the BDSM Club? – He followed that with several question marks, then underlined the question. Had Galluccio been connected at all to that location or by whatever was in those boxes? Surely someone at the FBI had opened those boxes by now. The fact that Angel had been found down there should have produced warrants to enter and search the area.

Gibbs flipped to a new page on his pad of paper.

6) The Public Corruption Unit in DC. Deputy SA Paul Torvetti and his two PCU field agents SA Luciano Campise and SA Santino De Bonis, plus his two PCU intelligence agents Fred somebody and Louella Fry. All worked out of the Public Corruption Unit in DC. If this was about Baltimore, then why no connection to the Baltimore field office?

7) Why had Fred and Louella sat on this intel for almost four months after Torvetti had been murdered and three months after the two Special Agents disappeared? What were they doing with the information they had found?

Behind him, he could hear that Angel was restless, his head still hurting. Gibbs returned to his bedside, bringing his phone this time, along with his notepad. Angel was curled on his side facing Gibbs, his hands covering his face, his breathing in short gasps.

Gibbs’ cellphone rang, startling him. It was Ducky calling to say he was on his way, likely there in half an hour.

“He’s got another really bad headache,” Gibbs said.

“The same as earlier today? Is he feverish?”

Gibbs shrugged. “I’d say the headache is the same as when you gave him a shot earlier. And his skin is hot, but he’s shivering.”

“I’ll be on my way soon. I should be there by 7:30. Colonel Lamott might be at the hotel already checking on the other men before our meeting at 7:30 PM. If Angel gets worse, loses consciousness, or has a seizure, by all means call for an ambulance.”

“Okay,” Gibbs said ending the call. With a sigh, he got on top of the bed with Angel, arranging the young man so he could keep massaging his head without wrecking his own back. As before, Angel calmed and seemed to be drifting but not asleep, his eyes partially open. Gibbs wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to just sit there for half an hour, but he didn’t speak Italian, so he couldn’t have a conversation with Angel.

“Here’s the problem,” Gibbs said aloud, speaking softly, knowing from the last few days that the sound of his voice calmed Angel, just as it had with his Kelly so long ago. His late daughter Kelly had colic as a baby, and when it was his turn to walk back and forth rocking her, he’d just talked about what was on his mind, whether it was something top secret or work related. He’d talked about pros and cons of going back for another tour of duty, of difficulties with those in his chain of command, both up and down, and what parts to order for his car. And whether or not to build a boat.

“The problem, Angel, is that you’re a bit of mystery for us,” Gibbs said now, looking down at his notes. “People are trying to kill you, but we don’t know who they are or why they are trying to do it. We know you are from Naples, Italy,” Gibbs said, flipping the pages on his notepad back to the info on Angel. “We know you came into Dulles Airport on September 15, 2000, on a private flight. According to Louella, you had an Italian passport and an Italian personal identification card. Your mother says you were in America to be an assistant to Luigi Galluccio, a businessman, who we know to be a Crime Boss in Baltimore. We know that FBI Special Agent Paul Torvetti, in charge of an investigation that seems to have nothing at all to do with you, was gunned down in DC shortly after your arrival. I don’t know if there is an actual connection between those two things, or if he was killed for another reason. What I’m trying to put together is—”

His cellphone rang again. He sighed. “Gibbs,” he said, answering it.

“Is this NCIS Special Agent Gibbs?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Captain Ben Miller, and I’m calling from Baltimore Police Department headquarters. I’m following up a request from the FBI, saying you are looking for one of our Homicide detectives, Anthony DiNozzo?”

“Yes. Tony DiNozzo.”

“According to our paperwork, he is listed as working out of our Central District for the last year, although he was on loan to our head office for part of that time. Last we show is that he transferred to homicide last May, which was in his original request when he came to Baltimore. In the morning, call and ask for Police Major Frank Raimey at the Central District office, and he’ll let you know how to contact him. I’ll send the major an email and let him know you and FBI Special Agent Fornell are both approved for the information, and you can set up a meeting with DiNozzo from there. Sorry for the runaround, but we don’t normally give out the names and locations of our detectives.”

“Thanks.” Gibbs disconnected the phone, deciding he’d let Tobias handle Tony DiNozzo and the Baltimore Police. He had his hands full with another Italian. Gibbs leaned back against the cushioned headboard. “There’s something off with Paul Torvetti,” he said, talking again to Angel as the young man shifted restlessly. “Some missing pieces we don’t know. People are talking, but everyone is leaving out pieces of our puzzle.”

Angel’s body jerked suddenly, and Gibbs gave a yelp of surprise. The jerking turned into a seizure, and he scrambled to get Angel onto his side and hold him steady as his body continued to shake. Scrambled bits of information from first aid courses taken over the years flew through Gibbs’ mind, directions on what to do when someone was having a seizure, the dangers involved, and how long one needed to wait before calling for help.

f*ck. He was calling for help.

Gibbs ran for the door to the corridor, yelling at the FBI agents in the corridor to call 911. They were on it immediately, as he ran back to the bed. One of the agents, clearly the one in charge, followed him into the room and over to where Gibbs was kneeling by the side of the bed. The seizure had stopped, but Angel appeared to be unconscious and was twitching again.

“I’ve got this,” the tall dark-skinned FBI agent said calmly, as he put on some latex gloves. “We haven’t met. I’m Special Agent Pete Moghe. And you are?”

“Special Agent Gibbs. NCIS.”

“Watch at the door please, Special Agent Gibbs. With me here, we are down one. Do you have your weapon in the room’s safe?”

Gibbs turned slightly, so Moghe could see the SIG Sauer P228 in his hip holster.

Moghe glanced up at him questioningly, his hand on Angel’s shoulder, steadying him.

“I’ve had it out three times already in the last 24 hours,” Gibbs said grimly, “two of those times at the hospital we’re heading to now.”

“Did you discharge your weapon at either time?” Moghe asked in his dry emotionless voice.

“Didn’t have time. I stayed with him all three times, and the subjects got away.”

“That won’t happen again,” Moghe said calmly and firmly, and Gibbs believed him. “Please keep an eye on the corridor from the doorway,” Moghe repeated, and Gibbs realized he was still standing in place. He moved to the door, glanced up and down the empty corridor, then back to where Moghe was quickly checking Angel. The man definitely knew what he was doing, appearing to have paramedical training, his touch gentle and confident. “How long was he seizing?” Moghe asked him.

Gibbs glanced to his watch and thought about it a moment. “Maybe a minute?” It had felt like it had been a longer. A lot longer. Gibbs looked up and down the corridor again. All was quiet. He could see a guard at the far end of the hallway, and one at the elevator door; both men were hyper aware of him.

Gibbs looked back at Moghe who had pulled back his glove and rested the back of his hand on Angel’s forehead, then the side of his face. “He has a fever,” Moghe said calmly.

“And I believe he has a bad headache.”

The agent touched his earpiece, speaking into a mic on his jacket. “Anyone know if the army doctor is here yet? I haven’t seen him. Colonel Lamott... No? Okay, an ambulance has been called. Let me know when it gets here. Keep them downstairs until I give the go-ahead.”

The agent looked over at Gibbs. The guy seemed almost robotic, Gibbs thought, he was so calm. “Why do you want an ambulance, Special Agent Gibbs? Has he had a seizure before or is this his first one?”

Gibbs shrugged. “First one I’ve seen over the last few days. Never met him before.”

“Well,” Moghe said, “his seizure is over, it was under five minutes, he’s breathing fine, and if he’s just had the one, he’s fine staying here. Or is there something else?” His tone was light, measured. Not accusatory; Moghe just needed to know.

“Uh, there is a concern about bleeding on the brain,” Gibbs told him, feeling unusually scattered.

“Why?”

“He was clocked with a metal pipe on Friday.”

“Did he have an MRI? A CAT-scan?”

“Results came back okay on Friday night, but we were told it could happen after the fact. Plus, he seized just now, which we were told to watch for.”

Moghe nodded, the fingers of one hand taking Angel’s pulse, the other hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You’re going to the hospital with him?” he asked, looking back at Gibbs.

Gibbs nodded reluctantly. “He’s in my custody.” At Moghe’s continued stare, Gibbs clarified, “He’s my protectee.”

Angel opened his eyes partly, registering Gibbs’ voice, his unfocused gaze darting anxiously from Moghe over to Gibbs. He shrugged Moghe’s hand off his shoulder, his hand reached past the FBI agent toward Gibbs. Moghe stood, and Gibbs left the doorway and took his place, allowing Angel to grasp hold of his hand. Angel’s heavy-lidded eyes closed again, but Moghe took note of the tight grip on Gibbs.

“He’s not listed with the other group we’re watching,” Moghe stated. “Different case, I understand. Tobias Fornell is running it.”

“My protectee is connected to a case attached to the JTFHRT. It is being run as an NCIS-FBI Joint taskforce,” Gibbs said smoothly. “Special Agent Fornell is running the FBI part, I’m handling the NCIS.”

Moghe nodded, watching as Gibbs calmed Angel down. Apparently deciding Gibbs was able to handle Angel, Moghe stepped out into the hallway, returning a few minutes later with a first aid bag. He took out a thermometer, then tapped the end of Angel’s nose, which made him open his eyes. He showed Angel the thermometer, then touched it to his lips; Angel opened his mouth and accepted it.

A few minutes later, Moghe took a look at it. “He has a fever of 103^o,” he announced, then he spoke rapidly into his mic again, firing out orders. “Cummings? Report: Is the ambulance there? Yes? Okay, send them up once you’ve checked them out. Be discrete. We want the Madison to let us use this location again. Kirby and Wilson, are you on? Yes? Go advise our other guests on the floor here to lock their doors and not to open them until we give an all clear. Cover each other and watch the corridor. Cummings? Yes? Okay, send the ambulance attendants up on their own. Garcia? All hands on deck. Wake up Thatcher and you both go to the Lobby. Have Thatcher go outside and watch the ambulance, so no one goes near it. Garcia, stay with Cummings in the Lobby until I get there.”

FBI Special Agent Moghe then turned to Gibbs. “Gather anything you need to take with you. Everything: clothes, toiletries, paperwork, supplies. His things, too. Assume you will not be coming back to this location.”

Gibbs wasn’t about to argue with him—Moghe had all the power at that moment. He spoke as though he was former military from his decisive, take-charge manner, although, Gibbs allowed, it could also just be his experience showing through. Gibbs extracted his hand from Angel’s, calmed him down again as Angel’s anxiety seemed to be rising in tandem with his fever, then he moved across the room and swiftly repacked the two duffel bags with their things.

What was he supposed to do? Gibbs stopped for a moment, getting himself back in control of the flurry of things he was doing. The bags… packing up… He glanced around the room to see if he was missing anything. He saw Moghe glancing over at questioningly at the Post-it notes on the wall, and Gibbs quickly crossed over to them and took them down, sliding them and his laptop into his bag.

He was distracted by Angel’s situation, he knew, not thinking clearly. He didn’t like the feeling; he needed to focus. He looked around the hotel room, his eyes stopping on the bathroom door. Giving his head a small shake, he went in the bathroom and gathered his toiletry kit and put Angel’s things back in the plastic bag they’d been in. He had an extra zipped bag at home; he’d give it to Angel to use. To have.

Ducky called Gibbs’ cellphone just as the paramedics came into the hotel room, agreeing to meet Gibbs at the hospital. “I’ll have a coffee waiting,” Ducky said jauntily.

GIBBS
Washington, DC, Hospital
Monday, February 19, 2001
8:00 PM

The brief ride to the hospital was uneventful, the traffic at night sparse as they covered the few blocks. Moghe didn’t accompany them; he stayed with the men he was responsible for on the 15^th floor. FBI Special Agent Cummings followed them to the hospital and had insisted that the paramedics keep Angel in the ambulance until he’d checked the area.

Once inside the hospital they had to stay in a different ER room while waiting to be processed—the one they’d been in before was a crime scene now, yellow tape across the doorway. Gibbs stood by the stretcher; Angel wasn’t speaking, other than making a few unintelligible noises. Gibbs worried that he’d had a stroke, but Angel’s grip on Gibbs' wrist was firm, so… maybe not. It was almost 8:00 PM before a nurse brought over Angel’s hospital I.D. wristband.

When Dr. Bautista came over to them, Angel refused to let go of Gibbs. “No, no, no.” he whispered.

“This is Twitch Gibbs? Correct?” Bautista asked, then double-checked the wristband. “Now he is John Mallard?” The ER doctor nodded. “Okay then. John, it is.”

Gibbs blinked at the unfamiliar name, then nodded. Cummings and Moghe had set up a different alias. Probably a good idea. “We’ve discovered that, uh, John, only speaks Italian, no English.”

“He’s still connected to you, I see,” Bautista said, trying to shine a light into Angel’s eyes and gesturing to Angel’s grasp on Gibbs.

“At times,” Gibbs said shortly. “If he’s scared. We’re not sure what his awareness level is right now.”

“Describe his highest level of awareness.”

“His highest levels? Having lunch at my place yesterday in the afternoon. Speaking with his mother on the phone this morning. Working with me to identify people on a video.”

“All sounds good. And his lowest level of awareness?”

“It seems to be coming and going during the same twenty-four hours since we left the hospital. He’ll seem to be aware of his surroundings, then it falls apart. It’s hard to know what is going through his head.” Gibbs shrugged. “His lowest level…. When he’s in pain,” Gibbs demonstrated, “he just wants me to put pressure on his forehead or massage his forehead like this.”

Bautista straightened up. “Dr. Mallard and I have been discussing a tentative diagnosis of retrograde amnesia, which is common after a TBI—Traumatic Brain Injury—such as... John... endured on Friday night on the left side of his skull here. Getting hit on the head can account for that easily,” Bautista said, checking over the wound on Angel’s head. “He doesn’t appear to have a skull fracture or brain bleed or swelling, but we’ll have him checked again now. It says here that John hasn’t been seen yet by a neurologist, but his condition could equally be dissociative amnesia, where following an extremely traumatic event, a patient forgets his past and perhaps who he is, his name and identity. John has been through a lot, held hostage, beaten, drugged, sexually assaulted—and dissociative amnesia fits that diagnosis. He would have to be examined in more detail by a neurologist, but if that is the case, the good news is that considering his youth, his supposed health prior, and the support he’s been given by you in particular, there is generally a great chance of a full recovery.”

“That’s good to hear. I haven’t done much, though—”

“Don’t kid yourself. You’ve been immensely helpful to him, providing him with a consistent, trustworthy person that he knows will keep him safe. If he was moved around from person to person, in his condition he wouldn’t be able to cope with keeping track of who he can trust.” Bautista again went over Angel’s current condition and recent history with Gibbs, to update Angel’s file, ending with, “We’ll take some blood tests and see what they show about the drugs in his system. Let’s get some more scans under the name John Mallard and see what’s happening in his head. As I said, I’m not convinced he has a brain bleed, but I don’t want to take the chance I’m wrong. I think it’s likely that he just has a mother of a headache from his injuries that he’s really feeling now. We’ll take him up to get those scans done in a few minutes. While he’s gone, you can wait here in the, uh, family room for him.”

“As long as there’s coffee there,” Ducky said, coming up beside them. “Hello, laddie,” he said to Angel, bending over the stretcher and smiling softly, one hand moving to Angel’s forehead. “I hear you have a bad headache again. Let’s see… Ho sentito che hai di nuovo un fortissimo mal di testa.”

Angel wiped at his eyes, then gave a soft cry, the palms of his hands pressed over his eyes, the bandages on his right hand hampering his movements.

“We’ll be here when they bring you back,” Gibbs said, and Ducky translated.

“No, no, no,” Angel whispered.

An orderly appeared and checked Angel’s name on his wristband. “I’ll be taking Mr Mallard upstairs for his tests,” he said.

It was Ducky’s turn to blink in surprise at the name on Angel’s wristband. “John Mallard?”

The orderly went to move the stretcher, and Angel let out a strangled howl, trying to sit up. “Gibbs!” He rolled to his left side, his arm reaching out trying to find him, as the stretcher was taken out of emergency and down the corridor to where the elevators were.

“Jethro,” Ducky said, “his fever and anxiety is too high. Do stay with him until I pick up my visitor medical consultant badge. They said it is ready for me. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

“Gibbs?” Angel called out anxiously, his eyes tightly closed. “Gibbs!” He banged the side bar of the stretcher three times.

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m here,” Gibbs said, jogging to catch up with him.

FORNELL
Monday, 11:10 PM

It took Fornell awhile to track down where Gibbs was in the hospital, since it was frowned on to use a cellphone inside the building. He’d tried flashing his badge, but that just seemed to reroute him from one place to another. He finally caught sight of the ER doctor, Bautista, who fortunately remembered him, directing him to the third floor where the young man currently known as John Mallard was being seen by a neurologist. Bautista said he’d be joining them shortly.

Neurologist. That didn’t sound good.

He recognized one of the FBI guards, Cummings, standing parked outside the doorway of a room. Fornell gave a nod to the agent, opened the door and walked in. Gibbs was standing on the far side of the bed next to Ducky listening to a tall, middle-aged doctor who appeared to be in the middle of explaining something. Angel looked to be asleep.

“Ah,” Ducky said, interrupting the doctor and brightening when he saw Fornell enter. “Our FBI translator is here.”

“Ducky. Gibbs.” Fornell nodded to them, then turned to the new doctor. “And you are?”

“I am Dr. Hetland, one of the neurologists at the hospital, and I was asked by Dr. Bautista to do a consult on this case.”

“FBI Special Agent Fornell,” he responded, one eyebrow raised. “I’m on the FBI side of this case, with NICS Special gent Gibbs co-running it with me. To clarify, although I speak Italian, I’m not 100% fluent, and I’m definitely not an official translator about medical issues.”

Hetland gestured for Fornell and the others to pull up chairs. “Let’s sit down for a few minutes; John is asleep now as they sedated him for the MRI exam.”

A moment later, the Emergency Room doctor, Bautista, breezed into the room. “I only have a few minutes, but I’m glad I can join you. Go ahead, Don,” Bautista said.

The neurologist glanced at the clipboard in his hands, and then set it aside. “John Mallard was brought to the hospital tonight with symptoms of nausea, confusion, excessive drowsiness, and a rather fierce headache. Considering the history we have on file from when he was first admitted on Friday night under the name Twitch Gibbs, Dr Bautista ordered an additional set of scans to be done. As I was there when the MRI brain scan was taken, the radiologist and I were able to compare this scan with the previous CT, MRI, and X-rays from Friday night. That speeds things up, believe me.”

Dr Hetland looked around the room, his gaze stopping at Gibbs. “Let me reassure you of several things,” the neurologist continued, ‘and I’ll start with what this isn’t. This isn’t a brain bleed. This isn’t a major skull fracture. There does appear to be a very minor linear closed skull fracture from where John was hit on the head with the pipe. We call it a closed fracture as the skin was not damaged by the bones of the skull. While it needs to be monitored, it should heal on its own. His swollen eye is starting to go down, and while it looks painful, there is no damage to the bones around the eye. There is no other concerning difference between the scans taken on Friday evening, and now, 48 hours later.”

Fornell glanced over at Gibbs and Ducky, as all three nodded, taking in the neurologist’s words.

“Do you have any questions for me?” the neurologist asked.

Bautista asked two questions in an abbreviated medical jargon, likely not in an effort to hide anything, Fornell suspected, but just making his exact question clear to the other doctor. Heltand responded to Bautista in the same indecipherable manner, then Dr Hetland said goodbye to them, and left the room.

“What about this headache?” Gibbs asked, looking back at where Angel lay on the bed.

Dr Bautista took over. “Let me put forward an example of what this could be—and we’re in early days with this case, so things might change, but this is my educated guess. We had three main areas of concern when this young man was brought in. First, he was suffering from intense physical trauma. He’d been held for weeks, maybe months, and to be blunt, he was in a cage, in the dark, often blindfolded, he’d been beaten, abused, bitten by rats, fed and given water and food just enough to keep him alive. The most significant wounds he had were several knife wounds on his lower back which we have stitched up and they’re healing nicely, he has a more significant thigh wound, bruised intercostal muscles—between his ribs—and where he was hit on the head, plus he had been hit by his left eye, which was swollen shut when he arrived here.”

“Second,” Bautista continued, “he was drugged. That’s a game changer, because until we understood what he was drugged with, it was almost impossible to tell which symptoms he was manifesting had to do with the drugs, and what was physical or psychological. We needed to know what drugs, so we could safely give him other drugs to help his pain and other conditions.

“Third, the physical part of this we can help with, but the post-traumatic stress he is going through could perhaps be dissociative amnesia. But just so you know, this almost always resolves itself. We have several levels we are looking at. Initially, you said he didn’t speak or appear to understand what you said, which could be a form of aphasia where someone has difficulties producing or understanding speech and language. Again, if this was the case here, we have every reason to believe it is a temporary thing. He was hit on the head on the left hemisphere where the language center is, and that is healing. Also, as we’ve come to understand, this young man was being spoken to in English, and now that you’ve been in contact with his mother, she’s told you he speaks little to no English, so that must be taken into consideration.”

“On our second level, Gibbs, you’ve told me tonight that the young man in your protection began understanding Italian spoken to him, then saying a few words in Italian on his own, has had conversations with Dr. Mallard and, you Special Agent Fornell, and has been heard speaking rapidly to his mother on the phone. His ability to speak Italian fluently is encouraging. We can set up appointments for him to speak with therapists and specialists in Italian who check to make sure he has transitioned to a natural level of communication, or if he is returning soon to Italy, we will include the suggestion in our files for the Italian doctors.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ducky said. He paused, rubbing at his chin. “One major concern at this time is to find out what his baseline was before this all happened—the history we have now from his mother is that he apparently was in a bad motorcycle accident ten years ago which has left him… somewhat hampered. His mother will no doubt be able to assist us in that. Also, more urgently, can something be done about his headaches?”

“Yes. Many of the drugs he’d been given while kidnapped would mask pain, or, in turn, were used to enhance pain. Now that these drugs are largely out of his system, he is likely feeling the natural pain one would feel from his various bites, knife wounds, head wounds, drug withdrawal, and stress itself. I’m sure it is all very overwhelming for him. He’s sleeping now, as we’ve given him a similar shot to what I had you give him yesterday afternoon, Dr. Mallard. I would also like to make sure he continues the antibiotics.”

Fornell looked from Ducky to Gibbs. They were both looking rather overwhelmed by everything. “Thanks, Doc,” Fornell said, leaning forward to shake Dr. Bautista’s hand. “We appreciate you taking the time to explain all this to us. Now what happens? Can he be taken back to the Safe House tonight? Or does he need to stay here?”

Bautista seemed to consider it all. “That’s up to you. Yes, he could stay at the hospital, we could even admit him, but I doubt he’d be comfortable here. Here’s what he needs: he needs to be quiet and undisturbed; he needs to rest and destress. You can do that here or elsewhere. His world is very small right now, probably restricted to you three men. More than anything, he needs to feel secure, that he’s safe, that someone familiar to him is looking after him, caring for him. Gibbs, you are the lucky one he calls out for. If you could just be there for him for the next day or so, he’ll come out of this far better than if he’s passed from person to person. It is the Consistency of Care that he needs to believe in. Even when his mother comes, it still may be important that he knows you are still there, as your acceptance of him—considering what has happened to him—is crucial.”

If the circ*mstances were any different, Fornell would have laughed at the look of dejection on Jethro’s face. But he was pleased that his friend nodded his acceptance of his continued role.

“He can get… clingy,” Gibbs said with a sigh.

“That’s part of the dissociative amnesia. Childlike and clingy behavior. Here are few things to do—and I think the reason you’ve had success with him, is that you are doing these things already. Tell him who you are each time he awakens. You were doing that with the tapping code, and I believe Dr. Mallard told me you also said your name to him repeatedly and that he was safe. He may not understand the English words, but he does understand the tone. Despite what you may be feeling inside, Special Agent Gibbs, you are calm and patient with him, which is another life saver for him. He has a very good chance of complete recovery, and much of that is because of you. He is making huge strides and this headache he has now is just a symptom that has emerged as the drugs have left his system.”

Bautista stood, “I need to get back to my rounds—we have a full house tonight. Let me know what you decide to do.”

When Bautista left, Fornell stood up and stretched, looking down at where Gibbs sat, still looking tired and dejected. “So, gentlemen, what do we do?”

Gibbs shrugged. “Beats me.”

Fornell thought about it, exchanging looks with Ducky, both silently agreeing that Jethro needed to be the one to take the reins on this one. “Let’s break this into pieces. Option One for tonight: do we leave him here? Pros: he’s here. Doctors are here in case something happens. Cons: he’s been located here by people trying to kill him twice already. Also, it’s physically uncomfortable for any of us to be here. While he has a bed, we don’t. Option Two: We could take him back to the Safe House – the room you were in at the Madison is still available. Pros: Full guards and meals served. Cons: well…”

“It’s a hotel,” Gibbs muttered. “If we take him to my home, can we get some proper guards outside? We could call in Dobbs, an agent who works with me at the Navy Yard. I’m sure Morrow would spring a few agents to help out during the day.”

“We can offer some agents to guard the place, as well.” Fornell looked at them both, at Ducky’s big yawn. “Your place it is, Jethro. And Ducky, go home and get some sleep. Sounds like Jethro and I can look after this guy,” he said, gesturing to Angel.

Gibbs got to his feet and with a short shake of his head to clear the cobwebs, he seemed to get himself in gear. He scooped up Angel’s clothes from the side of the bed. “Come on, kiddo,” he said, maneuvering the sleeping man to sit up and twist sideways on the bed so his legs were over the edge. “Let’s get you dressed and out of here.” Angel slumped forward and Gibbs rested his hand on the back of Angel’s neck for a moment, letting everyone take a deep breath, and then they got him changed and into a wheelchair.

Chapter 9: Puzzle Pieces

Chapter Text

GIBBS
Gibbs’ Home
Tuesday, February 20, 2001
12:25 AM

Gibbs leaned against the guest-room door frame, his arms crossed. He was tired, fed up with all the time-consuming procedures necessary to get Angel out of the hospital. He knew that even for himself, he was getting overly impatient with the whole situation—and he didn’t want to start taking it out on Angel who had, through no fault of his own, taken over his entire life these past few days.

With their go-bags in tow, Gibbs had helped Angel in from Fornell’s SUV, up the icy front stairs, into the bathroom, dug out a toothbrush for him, got him into pajamas, and was waiting for the young man to use the toilet so he could get him into bed. Angel was especially dopey; whatever was in the shot that Bautista had given him for his headache at the hospital had left him back to square one, only minimally aware of what was going on around him. Which was just as well, as Gibbs wasn’t feeling very talkative. Not that it mattered, as Angel seemed to understand all of six words or phrases in English—verified by Ducky. Stop. Sit down. Eat. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m here.

Fortunately, Stephanie had left the guest room tidy, absent of all her boxes and piles of clothes, and the bed was clear—she had cleaned both the master bedroom and the guest room before she’d left, even changing the sheets on both beds. Considering the mess the rooms were in on Sunday, if they’d been anything else but ship-shape, he would have given her a call to get over there and fix it. But he had to admit, she’d gone the second mile. She’d been enamored of the kid, her heart going out to him in a way that reminded Gibbs of what had attracted him to her in the first place. When she wasn’t being batsh*t crazy, she had a kind heart for “the least and the lost”.

Angel walked unsteadily out of the bathroom, his eyes half closed as he careened off the hallway wall walking the few steps to Gibbs waiting for him at the guest room door. Gibbs pulled back the covers and maneuvered Angel into the bed. He turned off the bedside lamp, the light from the hallway keeping away the darkness. Still, when Gibbs got up to leave the room, Angel half fell out of the bed as he tried to come after him. With a quiet growl, Gibbs ended up walking him to the guest room door, and then pointed from the master bedroom across the hall to himself a few times, hoping Angel would understand that Gibbs would be close by.

After a moment, Angel nodded in understanding, tears in his eyes. He took a deep breath, pulled away from Gibbs, and resolutely made his way back to the guest room’s bed. He half-fell to sit on the edge of the mattress and leaned forward, his hands covering his face, his breathing coming in ragged gasps as he rocked back and forth.

Gibbs suddenly flashed on that damp, dark, smelly, cold basem*nt and the man he’d found hanging from chains, bound, beaten, gagged, and blindfolded. He flashed on the stark pictures he’d seen of the cramped cage Angel had been held in for weeks, maybe months, in darkness, with only a filthy blanket, a stinking bucket, the cement floor littered with crumpled cheeseburger wrappers and empty soda bottles, and rat feces.

Angel had been through hell there. Angel had been through hell, and he hadn’t made it all the way back yet.

He hadn’t had time. In the last three and a half days since Gibbs had carried him away from that prison across his shoulders out into the snowy icy night, Angel had been taken for a ride in a drafty moving truck, to a brightly lit army base gym where he’d been poked and prodded, to multiple rooms in the hospital where he’d been given needles and exams and put in MRI tubes and shot at, to Gibbs’ home where he’d seen Gibbs and Stephanie screaming at each other, to the Navy Yard building and the Madison hotel and back to the hospital… and now here.

How could he possibly impart to Angel that he was safe here? That not only was Gibbs sleeping across the hall, but Fornell was sleeping on the couch downstairs? That guards watched the house outside? That they were doing everything they could to make his world right again and find out who had done this to him?

With a sigh of frustration, Gibbs walked over to the bed and placed his hands on Angel’s head, then silently knelt in front of him, put his arms around him, and gently drew him into a hug, feeling the young man’s struggle to breathe, the held-back sobs choking him, and then also feeling the fear gradually drain away as Angel finally relaxed into his arms, his ragged breathing evening out, his body gradually growing heavy as sleep overtook him. Gibbs stayed there until his knees threatened to revolt, then stood, easing Angel back onto the bed and on his side, once again covering him with the blankets. He bent over the bed, his hand resting on Angel’s back, his fingers gently triple-tapping several times. He stood and stretched, turning towards the door.

“Grazie, Gibbs,” he heard Angel whisper, his voice barely heard. “Grazie.”

GIBBS
Tuesday, 8:45 AM

Gibbs looked from the piles of papers spread out over his dining room table, to the Post-it^© notes he’d taken down at the hotel the night before and then reassembled on his dining room wall this morning. Mafia guys. Unknown hospital shooters. Unknown nightclub basem*nt shooters. The body types of the three missing mafia bodyguard guys didn’t match the hospital shooters or the nightclub shooters. Three groups acting independently? One group hired by one of the other groups?

He had been woken up by his phone ringing at 7:00 AM and had not been surprised that Director Morrow wanted him to continue to work with Tobias and investigate what had happened to Angel. Morrow’s original assignment to Gibbs had still been the assumption that Angel was somehow tied into the JTFHRT investigation, however, now that Angel’s case was steering more towards an organized crime angle, this was an area neither he nor Tobias were up on. Gibbs put this forward to Morrow, yet the NCIS Director stayed firm that the investigation should stay with the two of them until they had more pieces to move forward.

“What kind of pieces?” Fornell had griped when Gibbs had gone downstairs for coffee and had relayed the conversation to a groggy Fornell. “Does Morrow know more than he’s telling us?”

Gibbs had shrugged, but he was wondering the same thing. More likely Morrow had suspicions but was not ready to voice them. The NCIS director had, however, authorized Gibbs to check interagency connections, especially those on the JTFHRT task force. As he mulled it over, he made a pot of coffee and waited for it to finish dripping while trying to decide which way to go on this.

“So, we’re just supposed to poke around and see what we can find?” Fornell asked, coming into the kitchen.

“Yeah. I told him we’d had some help from a few FBI intelligence analysts, and he said to update him if we found anything. And he wants to know if Angel’s mother came up with any other information.”

Fornell made a quick trip into the FBI offices then and picked up a box of files containing the initial interviews with the men rescued on Friday night, plus an initial report of the Friday operation and the Saturday/Sunday search of the premises, including a thin file of the search of the nightclub’s basem*nt. Fornell had grabbed an agent and assigned him to bring the cardboard bankers box—as well as a second box of files from Louella—and take them directly to Gibbs’ place. Fornell was stopping by his home for a shower and breakfast with wife Diane, then heading to Baltimore to the FBI office there.

The two boxes had arrived fifteen minutes ago, and Gibbs had unpacked them, sorting piles to add to the stacks of files already crowding his dining room table surface. Lots of piles of files. He had a group of files from Morrow on HR picks he was supposed to go through for the MCRT team. He picked those up and dropped them on one end of the coffee table in his living room.

Back at his dining room table, he rounded up the files he had pulled for Burley, who had paged through them in five minutes and handed them back. They weren’t what Burley was looking for. So, they were back in Gibbs’ possession, and since he was the one who took them from the NCIS building archives, he had to return them there. He picked them up and dropped them on the other end of the living room coffee table.

In the one box of hastily copied files that Louella had sent over were documents she had pulled together on Luigi Galluccio and his five bodyguards which Angel had given names for. She had somehow found time to hunt down files on the men, some computer printouts, and some obvious photocopies of files including photocopies of photos and handwritten notes.

The two lead bodyguards—the Cicciano brothers, Leonardo and Lorenzo—hailed from Naples, Italy, growing up with Luigi Galluccio. Galluccio’s sister was married to their younger brother Luca, who in turn was a bigwig in one of the Neapolitan Camorra clans in Italy. The Cicciano brothers were proud, solid Camorristi who took their jobs seriously. It was no coincidence that if someone had murdered their capo Galluccio, they would be targeted as well.

The other three bodyguards Angel had named were all born in America, Gibbs read. Two of them were raised in New York City, but their families had left the fractured Camorra group there and moved out to Boston when the three were young teens. Larry Gargiulol and Graziano “Gold Tooth” Mallardo soon worked their way into the local Camorra clans, and eventually relocated to Baltimore alongside the other bodyguard with the unfortunate double name of Romano Romano, of which nothing was known. He was believed to have been from Naples.

Gibbs looked up at his wall with the Post-it^© notes. He could link the Cicciano family with the Galluccio family, all cozy. But where did Angel’s mother fit in? And Angel’s uncle, who they still did not have a name for? Why was Daniela being cagey about providing it? How did this uncle arrange for her son to end up working in America?

Gibbs found a thin file folder with copies of paperwork on Angel. His birth certificate showing he was born Angelo Gabriele Pietro Morino in Naples, Italy. His parents’ names were listed. His father’s death certificate was there.

Gibbs glanced at the date, then Angel’s date of birth. Gabriele Morino had died barely a year after his son Angelo was born; Daniela Leone had raised him on her own. The folder contained copies of Angel’s school records, school graduation, and entry into what appeared to be the national police academy, and then his name in a small newspaper clipping of a motorcycle accident almost ten years ago. A photo of Angel looking very young on a hospital bed, broken bones in his legs and one arm, his head wrapped in bandages, his eyes dark-bruised circles; he must have been in his late teens when it happened. It mentioned he skidded on his back, so maybe those were the barely seen scars across his back that Ducky mentioned. No records of what happened to him after that. Gibbs looked through the file but there was nothing in it spanning 1993 until 2000 when photocopies of his Italian identification card and passport were taken on his arrival at Dulles Airport.

Gibbs closed that file and looked through the others. Nothing on Daniela Leone. Several files on Galluccio, a few other bodyguards, plus speculation of other top people in the Baltimore Camorra. Gibbs closed the files and put them aside.

ANGEL
Tuesday, 9:00 AM

He woke slowly, awareness gradually seeping through the fuzziness in his head. With a catch of his breath, he realized he might still be in a bed, warm and comfortable. It wasn’t a soothing daydream he had imagined. Or... he wondered if he might still be dreaming, and he didn’t want to open his eyes and find out he was… back there.

“Mi chiamo Angel,” he whispered urgently. “Mi chiamo Angel.” He shivered. He didn’t know what time it was or where he was. He was supposed to say other things, but he couldn’t think of them right now in this nice bed. His eyes slowly opened—well, one eye opened—and he could see light between the room’s dark curtains. He turned his head and saw a clock on the night table by the bed. It was just after nine o’clock, and it was light out, so it was in the morning.

He should get up. And….

He floated for a while.

He should get up and eat something. He was hungry. And thirsty.

And he had to pee.

There was a clock on the night table by the bed. How odd.

He dozed for another few minutes, then woke himself up with the memory of being in Gibbs’ home. He remembered being here before. There was a bathroom down the hall, and he was free to use it when he wanted to, the man who spoke Italian had told him. With more effort than he’d expected he’d need, Angel pushed back the blankets and got his legs out and onto the floor, and then pushed himself up from the mattress. His head whirled dizzily at the movement, and he paused until everything calmed down before continuing to his feet, standing unsteadily. As soon as he was upright, pain registered all over his body, and he fell back to the bed, panting.

He waited until it became more manageable, but he really had to get to the bathroom in short order. With one hand keeping his balance along the walls, he made it there, used the toilet, and then studied the folded bath towel that had been left on the back of the toilet, with a smaller towel and a disposable shaving blade and a spray can of shaving cream similar to one he’d used before—before all this had happened. The towels were well laundered, much thinner than the decadent fluffy towels Galluccio’d had. But these were clean and clearly laid out for him to use.

Maybe he could… He looked at the clawfoot bathtub. Una vasca da bagno con piedini. He knew the clawfoot word in English because padrone Galluccio had one in the bathroom in Angel’s bedroom and also in his own bedroom’s bathroom, and he had called them “clawfoot” bathtubs. It sounded a little scary. Claws were like artiglio. Talons.

It had been nice to soak in, though.

One of his jobs had been to prepare the bath for the padrone at night. There were showers in both their rooms for the morning, but baths were for at night.

He shook his head gently to make the memory go away. Here at Gibbs’ house, there was a clawfoot bathtub and a round circle of pipes attached to the ceiling with a clear shower curtain—actually several clear shower curtains all the way around. He looked closer. Someone had used a stapler to staple the seams together. Unusual, but functional.

He looked back at the bathroom door, then slowly closed it all the way. He stared at the doorknob, then opened the door and closed it again. There was a lock on the back of the knob, so if he wanted, he could lock the door so no one could come in when he was naked. His heart started beating faster. He wanted to lock it, but it had not been allowed with Galluccio, so maybe not here with Gibbs. He didn’t want Gibbs to be angry. He stared at the lock, trying to figure out what else it was telling him.

He left it unlocked and turned back to the shower setup inside the bathtub. This was familiar. He had one like it before in—

He tilted his head and frowned. Not at his mother’s place. No. Maybe not. Maybe at his room in Milano at the… he couldn’t remember where.

He unwound the tensor on his right wrist and caught his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, he didn’t know who that was looking back at him. His left eye was still a little swollen, and the area around it was changing from purple to more blueish and even a little green and yellow around the edges. His right eye wasn’t swollen, but below it was green and yellow so maybe that was from an earlier blow. He knew he’d been punched in the face sometimes, so maybe his eyes would look like this now. There were also fine stitches along his left temple near the hairline. His fingers lightly touched them.

His face didn’t look like his face. He didn’t recognize himself. He’d seen glimpses of himself in the mirror before at the hotel, but his eyes had been more swollen and he couldn’t see very well, so he hadn’t really looked at his reflection.

He didn’t want to look at himself. Instead, he carefully got into the bathtub and eight minutes later, he turned off the shower and stepped out of the bathtub, feeling more like himself, he thought, although the cuts and bites and scrapes all over his body stung fiercely. He hoped the steam had cleared out the cloggy corners of his brain, but he was fairly sure it hadn’t. He still felt very fuzzy brained, like it was difficult to think or follow a thought from A to B.

The bandages had come off in the shower, but there was a bag of supplies from the hospital on a stool by the sink, maybe from Dr. Ducky; Angel was able to put ointment and a large bandage on his outer thigh and stuck a series of Band-Aids on his feet and ankles. He tried to look in the mirror to see his lower back, because he knew there were stitches there, but maybe they didn’t need bandages. He couldn’t see anything because the mirror was all foggy. The cuts and bites and sores all made him nervous because he couldn’t quite remember how he’d come by them—and he was sure that he didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to remember any of it.

There were other medical creams he was supposed to put on the bites on his feet, but he’d already put on the Band-Aids, so he decided not to. There was other ointment that was supposed to go on his genitals, because the skin hurt and there was an uncomfortable rash. Dr. Ducky had showed him how and said that Gibbs would not put the ointment on him; he had to do it himself.

He was glad Gibbs would not be putting the ointment there; it felt weird enough to do that himself.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, and looked down at his chest, at all the scrapes and welts and bruises. It scared him, and he gasped at the sight as the fan began to get rid of the fog, feeling invisible hands hitting him again.

Just shave, he thought, and looked away, letting the shaving foam swell into his hand. He began to dab the shaving cream on his face and glanced up to look at his face in the mirror. It was difficult to find a place to shave. The man at the hospital who had shaved him had just cut it back to short with an electric razor.

He stared as he continued to put the shaving cream on, slowly rubbing it on his face. He looked away. He used to brush his teeth while waiting for the cream to condition his face. He looked around and found the plastic grocery bag Gibbs had put the stuff in; as his hand touched it, he saw another toiletry wash bag made of soft Italian leather with two top zippers because he liked to keep his shaving stuff separate from his dental stuff and combs. Where was it? Had he left it in Italy? Had he taken it with him to Galluccio’s? He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it.

He brushed his teeth quickly and shaved, ignoring the tears overflowing from his eyes and running down his face. There was some aftershave lotion, but he didn’t use it because his nose turned up at the smell. He remembered a different scent. This one smelled like Gibbs, and while it was okay for the older guy, it didn’t smell like him.

He took the comb and brought it through his short hair, careful of the wound on the left side, combing it back from his face. Again, he paused, staring at himself.

“Mi chiamo Angel,” he whispered to the person in the mirror. He looked at all the bruises, abrasions, knife wounds, whip marks, and other signs of abuse on his body. Fleeting memories again surfaced on how they got there, then blended all together, and he shivered, grabbing hold of the sink as everything around him seemed to blur and he thought he was going to pass out.

It faded. “Mi chiamo Angel.” There was a moment of panic as he forgot the rest again. Then it came in a rush, “Mi chiamo Angel. Io appartengo a Luigi Galluccio. Sono nato il 22 marzo 1974 a Napoli, Italia. Ho 26 anni. Mia madre è Daniela Leone.” Except he wasn’t… with… Galluccio. He was with Gibbs now. Padrone Gibbs wasn’t the same, though. Not like Galluccio, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.

He wanted to talk to his mother again. Why hadn’t she called him? He had done what they’d asked him to do. He’d done everything his uncle and cousin had asked him to do. And more.

Damn them!

He shivered at the burst of anger. He tried to push it back away and hide it.

He put the comb and the shaving things away and picked up his night clothes, then walked to the room he had slept in. He hung the towel on a hook and found another pair of underwear in the duffel bag and with shaking hands he tried putting on the dark jeans that Dr. Ducky had bought for him. He hadn’t worn them yet; they were long enough but a little loose. He liked his jeans tighter, but they would be okay. They made him feel better. He didn’t like to wear sweatpants that much. Sweatpants were for... running. He wasn’t sure what he liked to wear, though. In the videos padrone Gibbs had showed him, he was wearing nice suits, and he remembered when he saw them on the video that they felt good on. He’d remembered other things, then, that he didn’t want to remember.

He found a sweatshirt on the chair in the room he had slept in. The sweatshirt said NCIS on it. That was the place he had been to the day before. NCIS. He didn’t know what it stood for, but it was on Gibbs’ identification and badge that Gibbs had showed him. Gibbs had read it out to him slowly, but he still didn’t know what the English words all meant. Gibbs had let him hold the NCIS identification wallet when Angel had put his hand out, and Angel had looked at it closely and opened it and closed it and opened it and closed it.

He pulled the sweatshirt over his head and, wincing, he pulled it down, staring at himself in the mirror. And remembering again holding Gibbs’ credentials in his hands. The feel of the leather wallet. He could see an Italian version of it. Alessio’s.

Alessio. Alessio.

“Mi chiamo Angel,” he whispered quickly, his eyes closing as images bombarded him, his throat tightening as remembered hands circling his neck relentlessly pressing his airway. Of a leather collar. Leather straps. Leather whips. He could feel them touching him, sharp chills and pain and pain and… He could hear them laughing. Mocking him.

“Mi chiamo Angel,” he insisted defiantly, fighting the voices who wanted more than Angel would give. He repeated the words he had been told to remember. “Sono nato il 22 marzo 1974 a Napoli, Italia. Ho 26 anni. Mia madre è Daniela Leone. Mi chiamo, mi chiamo….” And his world came crashing, crashing, down. He leaned forward, balancing his hands on his thighs, trying to stop the tsunami from pulling his feet out from under him.

It calmed down after a few minutes, and he felt like he was pushing everything swirling in his brain into a suitcase, stuffing it in, making sure nothing was sticking out so he could close the zipper and keep all that before stuff and bad stuff locked up. He let Alessio stay out, though. He needed to remember who Alessio was. Alessio was important.

He had to go downstairs and present himself. There was a long mirror in the room, and he stood in front of it frowning. He didn’t look very presentable.

He carefully went down the stairs a step at a time, careful not to fall. Five steps, a landing, and then a bunch of steps. Around the corner was a living room, and then there was Gibbs sitting at a table, concentrating, his eyebrows furled, looking unhappily at papers. He glanced up at Angel but didn’t say anything other than a very, very brief nod, which said maybe that Gibbs was busy and was only acknowledging his presence. Gibbs then, without looking up again, used his thumb to point to the kitchen, so Angel walked very slowly and very softly past him to the kitchen.

There was coffee in a glass carafe on a burner of a large coffee drip machine, and a mug beside it. And a spoon. And an empty bowl and a box of cereal. And a larger spoon. And a banana. Angel looked into the sink and there was a bowl and a spoon that had been used, so maybe Gibbs had eaten already, and this was for him. He quickly cut up the banana, put it in the bowl, and added cereal. He didn’t know what to do with the banana peel, though. There wasn’t a banana peel in the garbage can, but he could see tiny bits of banana in the bowl in the sink.

He stood holding the banana peel, wondering what to do with it when suddenly Gibbs was beside him. Gibbs opened the lid on a metal can on the counter, and he tossed the banana peel inside it. “Compost,” he said to Angel, then poured himself a cup of coffee, filled the other mug and pushed it toward Angel, then left to go back to the dining room.

“Compost,” Angel repeated. “Ah, composta.” He finished eating the bowl of bananas and cereal and topped with a lot of sugar and milk, and then drank his cup of coffee with a lot of sugar and milk. Padrone Gibbs made very strong coffee. He washed the few dishes because he didn’t think Gibbs had a housekeeper. He put them on the counter, then found a thin towel to dry them. Finding out where to store everything was easy as the bowls went with bowls and the spoons and knives went in the plastic cutlery holder in the top drawer.

Then he wasn’t sure what to do. He quietly walked to the dining room and knelt beside Gibbs. About five minutes later, he must have made a sound as Gibbs glanced down at him, looked back to the paper he was reading, and then quickly looked back at him again, as though he hadn’t really seen him the first time. Gibbs’s eyes looked large and startled, and for a moment Angel thought Gibbs was going to hit him.

“No. No,” Gibbs said, looking disturbed and almost angry, and Angel cringed because he wasn’t sure what he’d done, which in turn scared the crap out of him.

He had to… to… blend. That’s what he’d been taught. To be quiet and to blend. To…

“Sit here.”

He knew the word ‘sit’. Gibbs wanted him to sit on the chair beside his. At the table. In front of all the papers. Oh.

It was all in English, which made Angel close his eyes and the headache started. He looked around the room instead, at the yellow and pink and green notes sticking on the wall—he recognized his own handwriting in some of the green notes.

Gibbs probably wanted to know what had happened in Galluccio’s places. Gibbs was a Federal Agent. This was a good thing, because Galluccio’s business was a bad thing. Angel closed his eyes, wishes his brain would snap together. Everything was still so fuzzy.

Mi chiamo Angel. Mi chiamo Angel.

He didn’t think he’d forget who he was now, but it made him feel better to say it today. He felt very shaky. Maybe his mother would phone him again.

He wanted to help Gibbs, but he didn’t know how. He could see the pad of green notes on the table and slowly, slowly, slowly, he reached for them. Just as the tips of his fingers reached the pad, Gibbs noticed and made a sound like a horse breathing heavily through his nose, and he picked up the green pad and plunked it down in front of Angel, and then dropped a pen beside it, but then Gibbs didn’t look at him at all, which was weird.

Angel wrote his home address—well, Galluccio’s home address, in Baltimore. And Galluccio’s business address. And Galluccio’s warehouse address. He tore off the three pieces of paper and gave them to Gibbs.

“Indirizzo di casa. Recapito di lavoro. Indirizzo del magazzino.” Gibbs read it out loud, then made a growly sound. He dialed a phone number, said something, and then held the phone out for Angel.

It was the guy who spoke Italian, Fornell. He asked Angel what he’d written, so Angel told him about the three addresses. Fornell was nice and thanked him, then he told him to hand the phone back to Gibbs. He did, and then Fornell must have told Gibbs, and Gibbs disconnected the call then.

And Gibbs nodded at him, like a thank you. Then Gibbs handed him his mug and pointed to the kitchen, so Angel quickly went and got him a coffee and a cup for himself. Then he made more coffee because the carafe was empty, adding twice as much ground coffee as he normally would because Gibbs made coffee very strong. Then he came back and sat beside Gibbs at the table, trying to think of what else he could do.

Gibbs opened a file and took out a newspaper clipping. It was in Italian, about his motorcycle accident. Angel didn’t remember the actual motorcycle accident, because his head had been injured and stuff, but he remembered seeing the newspaper article before. Madalina had died; he didn’t really remember her, except her name and that she was his girlfriend. Had been his girlfriend. Madalina. Somebody had driven into them, and they had gone flying and then skidded along the pavement and he’d hit his head a bunch of times.

Mamma said that was why his head hurt sometimes and why he sometimes had trouble remembering things or finding words. Or math, he’d thought, but she told him he’d always had trouble with math. That hadn’t changed. There had been court cases and rehab and private rehab and then he’d just stayed with his aunt and cousin because he wasn’t good for anything else.

He remembered walking on the beach, and partying with Alessio. Alessio.

Angel blinked. Oh. Alessio was his cousin. They would dance and sing, and sometimes drive around to other beaches and parties. He liked the Africana Famous Club in particular at a cave not far from Salerno. A really big cave. It seemed so long ago. Another lifetime ago.

There wasn’t much else in the file. Just a copy of his identity papers and the newspaper clipping of the motorcycle accident. He sighed. It had been a nice motorcycle. He remembered riding a motorcycle. Not the accident nor Madalina, though. Memories were strange things.

Gibbs took the newspaper clipping back and looked at his passport again, then at his birth certificate, and then he looked over at Angel. He put the clipping back in the file and moved it further down the table, so the file was by itself. Then Gibbs opened more files and kept working.

Angel sat beside him quietly. It reminded him of having to sit next to Galluccio while he did business, although with Galluccio he had to kneel on the floor beside him and here Gibbs wanted him to sit on a chair. Angel thought about it and realized it was the same, but Gibbs just didn’t want him to kneel on the floor. Maybe he could also get up and walk around. He thought about that for a while, then he got up and walked into the kitchen with his empty coffee cup. Then he came back into the dining room and looked around. This was a very bland home. Everything looked old and worn and scruffy. No, actually everything was well-mended and maintained but old and sad. The whole house felt like it was sad. It made him feel sad.

He walked around more because he felt stiff and sore all over his body. The wall with the multi-colored bright squares of paper drew him over and he looked at what he’d written down, and then he looked at all the other names. Galluccio and Amato and Santaniello and Minichino. The accountant had a funny name. Ermanno Minichino. Angel took a pen from the table and wrote on the blue piece of paper stuck to the wall: Ermanno Minichino, commercialista di Galluccio.

Gibbs pointed to the word commercialista, and Angel thought for a moment and then on a piece of blank paper wrote ₤400+₤400=₤800 and then he drew a stick-figure man with a pad of paper and a circle above his head with a ₤ sign and a $ sign and a bunch of question marks. Gibbs smiled at him then, and Angel felt good. Gibbs took down the names Galluccio and Amato and Santaniello and Prisco, and Angel put a #1 by Galluccio’s name, and then added in the other men’s first names and their level in the business: Gianni Amato #2, Fortino Santaniello #3 and Al Prisco #4.

Gibbs seemed happy with what he’d done, which made Angel happy. Except for his headache which was getting worse, but he seemed to almost always have a headache.

He got up again when he noticed three orange-colored notes off by themselves. There were names on them. SA Torvetti. SA Campise. SA De Bonis. He stared at the names which made his brain itchy, but he couldn’t make them mean anything.

SA meant something, like a title. He stared at the name Torvetti the longest, feeling he should know it. He’d heard Galluccio say that name. Angrily. Fanculo! Ucciderò quel fottuto Torvetti! Cazzo!

He remembered being scared. Luigi would rage, and he really knew how to swear. A lot. He’d said he wanted to kill Torvetti. Angel had been glad Luigi hadn’t wanted to kill him, because Luigi could be very mean, and it would hurt a lot.

He shrugged and went back to the table, trying to think what else he could do. Well, there were his secret photos, he remembered. His head started hurting then, and his hand trembled when he reached for Gibbs’ laptop. He pulled his hand back, as though he was afraid again that Gibbs would hit him, but then he remembered that Gibbs had never hit him, so maybe it would be okay. He closed his eyes and tried to think. He still felt foggy, like memories were hidden behind tuffs of clouds. But he was afraid for the clouds to go, because he knew he wouldn’t like the memories.

Angel took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and pointed to the laptop, then looked over at Gibbs and tried to smile politely so his padrone would not be angry at him, but then again he remembered that Gibbs had never been angry at him, so maybe asking to use the laptop would be okay, too. Plus the guy who spoke Italian said that Gibbs kept saying he was not Angel’s padrone, something which also made Angel’s head hurt. It made him feel untethered. More untethered. He’d been untethered for a long time, since he left Italy.

He was shivering.

Gibbs said something to him quietly and put his hand on Angel’s back.

Strange how that helped.

Right now, Gibbs was just looking at him… curiously, maybe… and then he nudged the laptop closer to Angel.

Angel carefully did the switch thing to go to the Internet, and then he went to the Hotmail online place and put in his email address. Not the one that his padrone Galluccio had approved, but his secret one from before when he was in Italy: sfogliate, the first letters of his favorite dessert. He put in his password, and he was happy that his fingers remembered it, because he had no idea what it was. It opened right away, and he opened one of the emails. There were only about ten emails altogether, because he was the only one who knew about the email account.

Just after he’d arrived in America, there had been a big party for San Gennaro, the patron saint of Napoli. It was a big holiday in Napoli and celebrated by the people who worked for Galluccio, too, since most of them were also from Napoli. Because he was new, they bought him gifts, like a little laptop from padrone Luigi and some new clothes, and a fancy watch from one of Galluccio’s top men, and another one gave him a digital camera. That guy had showed him how to pop out the little square thing from his camera—what was that thing called?—and pop it in the computer slot and move the pictures to his computer so he could delete them from the memory card and put it back in his camera to take more photos.

Oh, right. A memory card. He’d known the word after all. Memory card. He laughed. But he wasn’t sure why.

He didn’t have the watch or the computer or the camera anymore, but he did have the secret email place. Some of the emails had pictures attached, and he clicked on one email that he thought padrone Gibbs might want to know about and showed the photos to Gibbs who was watching very intently. It was a party he had gone to with Galluccio. He had taken a lot of pictures secretly with his little digital camera. He pointed to a picture of Galluccio and some other people who were important, he thought. He was pretty sure they were important. Gibbs nodded at him, then forwarded the email with the photos to his own email address.

His head was really hurting then, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He felt Gibbs get him to his feet and walk him over to the couch and had him lie down. Gibbs was then talking on the phone, and then Angel felt Gibbs’ hand under his neck tilting his head and getting him to swallow a pill. Galluccio used to make Angel swallow pills every morning and every night which made him feel all weird, but Gibbs’ pills only made him sleepy and took away his headache.

Angel wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but he was pretty sure he was safe again. And maybe a little tethered.

And maybe something was going to happen. But first, he was going to sleep again.

He sure slept a lot.

GIBBS
Tuesday, 10:30 AM

Gibbs looked up when Fornell came in, stopping to stomp the snow from his boots before slipping out of them and heading to the dining room. Angel was still sleeping on the couch, and Fornell stopped and looked down at the young man, surprised to see him so restless, turning his head back and forth on the old pillow. “He okay?”

Gibbs shrugged. “A little overwhelmed. He got up on his own, had a shower, got himself dressed and made himself breakfast, then he gave me some full names in the hierarchy of Galluccio’s Camorra. He did good.”

“Trying to impress his new padrone,” Fornell said.

Gibbs ignored him. “His headache flared again. I gave him some Tylenol, and he’s been asleep for maybe fifteen minutes now. I’m still reading all the files Louella Fry sent over.” Gibbs slid his coffee mug over to Fornell. “He made some coffee half an hour ago, not half bad.”

Fornell picked up the mug and headed to the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, “I had a conversation with Louella and found out something surprising.”

“Yeah?”

“Get a load of this, Jethro,” Tobias said, coming back into the dining room a minute later with two mugs of coffee. “Louella admitted again they were all doing the unofficial investigation into Galluccio, because Torvetti was convinced that Galluccio was responsible for a murder over a year ago in Philadelphia.”

“I thought you were going to Baltimore. Why are you here?”

“Heading out in an hour or so.”

“Whose murder in Philadelphia?”

“A friend of Torvetti’s, a Baltimore FBI agent named Blanchard. Public Corruption Unit there. I asked her more about it, but she didn’t say—wouldn’t say or maybe she really didn’t know. She said Torvetti didn’t take notes, just kept everything in his head. She said it’s all over: Torvetti is dead, Galluccio is dead, and we have Angel, so she’s passed everything on to us, and she and Fred have decided they are off limits on this. They can’t afford to get in trouble for Torvetti’s passion project.”

Gibbs nodded and gave a slight shrug as he looked down at the papers. They all did it. Investigators looked into possible cases not formally assigned to them because of something that wasn’t ringing true. Torvetti was likely being cautious, listening to his own gut and putting pieces together until he had what he needed to present to the higher-ups.

“When’s your Baltimore FBI appointment?”

Fornell glanced up at the clock on Gibbs’ wall. “This afternoon to talk to two members of the Public Corruption Unit about Blanchard. That gives me an hour before I have to go, so let’s see what we can find here.”

“Baltimore… You going to check on DiNozzo while you’re in Baltimore?” Gibbs asked. “I got a phone call last night that he’s at the Baltimore Central District office, either in Homicide or Vice. Talk to Homicide’s Police Major Frank Raimey, and he’ll connect you to DiNozzo.”

“Yeah. Good plan. That was the last thing Louella said to me—that DiNozzo probably knew what Paul was up to. And that the two missing agents also knew DiNozzo.”

Gibbs shook his head slowly. “We keep coming back to DiNozzo.” He picked up his phone and made a call. “Abby, you at your lab?”

“I am. What can I do for your highness?”

“I am looking for info on a cop named DiNozzo. D-I-N-O-Z-Z-O. Goes by Anthony or Tony. Was in Philadelphia but we’ve been told he’s in Baltimore now. See what you can find on him. Concentrate on the time from end of 1999, up until now. Get Pacci to help if you need someone to make some calls. ”

“Is this personal you or case-related you? I just need to know how to log it or how to fudge it.”

“Case-related. The kid I’m guarding for the director.”

“Twitch. Will do. I’m working on a few things, but I can get a search started.”

“Good. I’ll be by later to get it,” he said, and disconnected the call.

While Angel slept on, Fornell and Gibbs stayed busy, assembling a timeline of their official/unofficial case with light blue Post-it^© notes on the far-left side of the available dining room wall. “So a murder is what explains Torvetti’s sudden fascination with Luigi Galluccio?” Gibbs asked.

“In November 1999.”

“You said his name was Blanchard?” Gibbs wrote: Dec 1999 = Torvetti starts investigating Galluccio. Blanchard Murder? and put it up top.

They quickly added a few other dates.

Sept 15, 2000 = Angel Morino arrives in USA

Oct 10, 2000 = Torvetti killed outside of DC Office

Nov 10, 2000 = Video of Angel and Galluccio in Boston

Nov 20, 2000 = Galluccio gunned down in Baltimore. Angel kidnapped?

Feb 16, 2001 = Angel rescued in warehouse basem*nt

“So what happened between December 1999 and October 10, 2000 that got Torvetti killed?” Gibbs mused.

“Hmmm…” Fornell looked up from an open file a few minutes later. “It says here that they were investigating something based on some translating DiNozzo did for Torvetti in mid-January 2000.”

“We’re back to DiNozzo. So how did Torvetti know a Philly cop named DiNozzo?”

“Oh, I asked Louella. According to her—and none of this is documented—Torvetti met DiNozzo in Philadelphia about this Blanchard murder. DiNozzo was the Philly police officer who found Blanchard’s body, and Torvetti privately asked him to do some translation for him about Galluccio, because he didn’t want to use the FBI translators as his investigation was under the table. DiNozzo’s American-Italian—and like Torvetti, he’d never lived in Italy—but the guy speaks multiple languages, including Italian fluently.”

“What about Torvetti and the other two agents who are missing?” Gibbs asked. “They’re all Italian.”

“Italian background, but none of them spoke very much Italian, though.”

Gibbs slapped a Post-it^© note on the wall.

Nov 1999 = DiNozzo tie-in. Murder in Philadelphia.

Jan 2000 = DiNozzo translating documents into English for Torvetti

Another ten minutes went by, and Fornell slid a file over to Gibbs. “It says here that Campise and De Bonis had agency business in Boston the week before Galluccio was gunned down, so that would be the middle of November 2000. They had checked into their hotel rooms in Boston on the 9th of November for a week. However, on the 15^th of November they were seen over 300 miles away—a five-and-a-half-hour drive under the best conditions—at an FBI satellite agency in South Jersey, just fifteen minutes from where the two men were last seen in Philadelphia later that day.”

“November 10, 2000, was the video of Galluccio and Angel in Boston. Campise and De Bonis would have arrived in Boston the day before.” Gibbs added that to the timeline, then flipped back through his papers. “So what were they doing in Boston? What case? And what information were they after at the FBI South Jersey office?”

It took almost ten minutes for Fornell to find a file with a computer printout. “Okay this is the interview with the FBI agents in South Jersey after Campise and De Bonis disappeared. ” Fornell turned a page, scanning it, then reading, “Special Agent Campise and Special Agent De Bonis were asking about Milton Milan, the mayor of Camden, New Jersey who was charged with corruption.” Fornell looked up. “That was their legitimate case. Checking out if there were tie-ins between Milan and an electoral campaign in Boston. And the last time Campise and De Bonis were seen was leaving a restaurant in Philadelphia after speaking with members of Milton Milan’s legal team.”

Fornell looked up, kept reading the interview. “Interesting… the South Jersey FBI agents say that the two DC FBI agents also asked if they had anything current on Joey Merlino, a Philadelphia Mafia bigwig, and they all talked about the guy for an hour. They seemed really interested in him, even though it wasn’t their case. And when they left, they were heading out to meet a Philadelphia police officer for lunch to talk about Merlino.” Fornell’s eyebrows went up. “Bet they were meeting up with DiNozzo.”

“And then they disappear later that day, and five days later Galluccio is gunned down in Baltimore.” Gibbs stood looking at their timeline.

“Yeah… I hate to say it about FBI agents, but I am wondering if Campise and De Bonis killed off Galluccio, in retaliation for Torvetti’s death,” Fornell said uneasily. “Or maybe DiNozzo did. Or all three of them conspired to knock him off.”

“I need more coffee,” Gibbs muttered, heading for the kitchen.

Fornell followed him. “Or maybe the Philadelphia Police officer killed Campise and De Bonis just before Galluccio was killed and made them disappear. Fred said that when they were declared missing at the beginning of December, that the Philadelphia Police only told the FBI investigators that their investigation showed that the two men were last seen leaving a restaurant.”

“And where was DiNozzo then?”

“In late November 2000, when the FBI were asking around about Campise and De Bonis, the FBI were trying to figure out which Philadelphia police officer the missing men were going to meet for lunch. They didn’t get anywhere on it.”

“Here...” Gibbs straightened out a paper that was folded in the box. “Here... in the spring, no date, handwritten—not signed... It says: FBI agents in South Jersey said it might be DiNozzo, but he was not available to be interviewed as Philly police said he had quit some time before. They sounded pissed off about it. Said the guy just didn’t show up for work one day in February 2000 and phoned in his resignation. They told the FBI agent interviewing them that DiNozzo had not had any cases that tied in with Merlino or the FBI. He was just a beat cop who left suddenly. He joined the Baltimore police. And that’s all the Philly police gave them.”

“Gives you something to talk to DiNozzo about today,” Gibbs said, taking the file and looking over the interview. “Are you going to phone ahead?”

“No. I’d rather not give him a chance to disappear on me.” Fornell got up. “I’m starving. Any leftovers from last night?” They’d ordered a late-night dinner from a local pizza place that Gibbs used. “I’ve got to head out soon.”

“In the fridge. Heat it up,” Gibbs said, staring at the wall.

Fornell disappeared into the kitchen. “You know, one thing Fred said to me,” he called back, “is that Joey Merlino—the Philly mob guy—is one crazy, violent flamboyant gangster. Loved the whole party scene and would show up with his whole entourage, similar to Galluccio. Even though they were in two different crime families—the Philly Mob and Galluccio’s Baltimore Camorra group, they were known to party in the same circles.”

“Party…” Gibbs murmured, thinking about the photos that Angel had taken.

He got up and went into the living room and knelt beside where Angel slept on the couch, seeming caught in a nightmare, his eyes tightly closed, his breathing short and labored.

“Angel?” He carefully touched the young man’s arm, not surprised when Angel threw himself upward, eyes opening to see Gibbs, then snapping shut and lunging forward, his arms reaching for him. “It’s okay,” Gibbs said softly. “You’re safe. It’s Gibbs. I’m here.”

Angel was shaking, his body was twitching in a way it hadn’t for twenty-four hours. But he got himself under control, pushing away from Gibbs, clearly embarrassed. He took some big breaths and calmed himself, then shifted to lie back on the couch. “Mi dispiace,” he whispered, covering his face.

Fornell came and stood nearby, eating reheated pizza. “He said he was sorry. Hey, conosci Joey Merlino?" he asked. “Do you know Joey Merlino?”

Angel turned and looked at him, nodding, then shrugging. “Luigi lo conosceva. Penso che fossero amici.”

“He said that Luigi and Merlino were friends.”

Angel looked up at Gibbs. “Ad alcune persone non piaceva che Merlino fosse suo amico.”

“Some people didn’t like that Merlino was Luigi’s friend.” Fornell went to put his plate back in the kitchen. “Could be another reason he was killed.”

“Could be lots of reasons.”

Angel got to his feet and pointed to the powder room door. Gibbs nodded, still thinking back on the parties and the photos Angel had taken.

Fornell came back in the living room and glanced at his watch. “I’m heading out. It’ll take me an hour to get to Baltimore in this weather, and I have 3:00 meeting at the FBI Baltimore field Office. I’ll stop by and talk to DiNozzo on the way. Where did you say he was?”

“Baltimore HR said he was at the Central Precinct.”

“Okay then,” Fornell said, shrugging into his coat. “Let’s go get DiNozzo and figure out what the hell is going on here. Maybe we can get him assigned to work with us while we investigate this. It would just take a call from the Director of the FBI or NCIS to do that. I’ll try to get a feeling about what information DiNozzo has. Then again, he might be a dud.” Fornell stepped into his boots and headed out into the winter snow and sludge.

Gibbs closed the door after him, finding himself frustrated that he was basically stuck at home. He went back in the dining room and looked at the notes on the wall and at the timeline. He needed more information. There were pieces missing.

Angel wandered into the room, still stumbling slightly, his balance off and looking drunk, and stood beside him studying the wall and the notes. Gibbs glanced over at him, wondering what he made of all this.

From a basket in the corner of the living room, Gibbs rummaged through a much thumbed through collection of maps, then extracted one that showed Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. He unfolded it, then refolded it to show just the roads between Baltimore and Philadelphia, pinning it to the wall.

They stood in silence looking at the map, and after a few minutes of concentration, Gibbs glanced over to Angel, surprised to see him studying the map carefully, thoughtfully. “What are you looking at?” Gibbs asked.

Angel turned to him, then looked back at the map. He pointed to Baltimore, then to Philadelphia, then stood biting his bottom lip in indecision. He then pointed to Aberdeen, Maryland, tapping it.

Gibbs retrieved his cellphone and put a call in to Ducky, who was at home, taking advantage of the holiday. “Ducky, can you ask Angel what is so special about Aberdeen, Maryland?” He handed the phone to Angel, who took it gingerly, listened to the question, then responded. Ducky asked him a few more questions that seemed to just require a yes or no answer, then Angel handed the phone back to Gibbs. “So?”

“Jethro, Angel said he didn’t know what was so special about Aberdeen. His eyes just kept looking at it, he said.”

“His eyes just kept…”. Gibbs frowned, staring at the map, then looking at Angel’s attention fixed on Aberdeen. “Ducky, what else did you ask him?”

“Just how he was feeling. He said he was feeling much better. He had a headache and now it’s gone.”

“Good. Ask him if he wants to go for a short drive. I’ve got a few errands.”

“How long a drive are you thinking of, Jethro? He’s barely out of the hospital.” Ducky was sounding a tad perturbed. “He has a brain injury. He’s got very sore muscles, a few bruised ribs, and bandages all over his body. I’d think any type of journey in a car seat would be uncomfortable.”

“Just to the Navy Yard.” Gibbs felt a smile tease at the corners of his mouth, feeling unrepentant. “And a few errands after that. Just a short drive.”

“Well, check the wounds on his back and thigh to make sure they are healing okay without infection. If he’s going to be sitting in a vehicle, he’s going to want to be comfortable.”

Gibbs waved at Angel to come over and handed the phone to him. Angel took the cellphone and spoke with Ducky in Italian, then uncomfortably raised the back of his sweatshirt and let Gibbs look at his back. The wounds all looked fine, so Gibbs gave Angel a thumbs up. Another short conversation then happened between Ducky and Angel, presumably about his thigh wound, but fortunately Gibbs wasn’t called upon to check it. Angel nodded a few times in response to Ducky’s questions, then he handed the phone back to Gibbs.

“Jethro, I’ve told him to let you know right away if he needs some pain tablets, or if he needs to sit down or rest, or have you pull over so he can get out of the car and stand for a few minutes. Show him how to adjust the car seat. And, Jethro, listen to me: be careful with him. We don’t know what his emotional state is or when he might suddenly unravel. He has been through a harrowing situation and has not yet started to deal with what has happened to him.”

Gibbs walked into the kitchen with the phone, under the pretense of washing the coffee carafe. He ran the water in sink, glancing back at Angel, who was again staring at the map, his fingers touching Boston now. There was something not quite right about Angel, about his delicateness, his naivety of the world, his voluntary servitude to first a crime boss and now his guileless attachment to Gibbs. It seemed that Angel was waking up… becoming more himself, but, like Ducky said, that could fracture at any time when his memories might surface and overwhelm him, might knock him off his feet. Gibbs really didn’t want to be alone with him when it happened… and yet… and yet there was no one else around who Angel trusted who could be there for him, in all honesty, not until his mother arrived.

“I’ll be careful with him,” he promised the doctor. “He seems happy enough to be with me right now.”

“He clearly thinks the world of you,” Ducky said, and Gibbs grimaced and ended the call.

Barely ten seconds later his phone rang again and he answered it, thinking it might be Ducky calling back. “Yeah?”

“Tobias?” a woman asked.

He frowned. “No, this is Gibbs. Fornell isn’t here.”

“Ah, Special Agent Gibbs. This is Daniela Leone, Angel’s mother.”

Gibbs glanced back to the dining room where Angel was still looking at the map. “Oh, uh, hello. What can I help you with?”

“Could I speak with my son? Is he there?”

Gibbs thought to put the call on speaker, but since he wouldn’t be able to understand them anyway, he just said, “Angel?”

The young man looked at the phone being held out to him, then smiled widely when he heard his mother’s voice. He excitedly greeted her, talking quickly, but his smile gradually faded as she talked to him, and he slid down the wall, his head down as he listened sadly, nodding silently. He spoke quietly, resolutely, and then he handed Gibbs the phone back, his hands covering his face.

“Ms Leone, may I ask what happened?” Gibbs asked. “Your son seems upset.”

“I won’t be able to fly to Washington, DC, for at least a week. I am in the middle of something here, and it may not be a good time for me to travel.”

“Are you in danger?”

She was quiet for a moment. “I will say this carefully. Word has reached the Camorra here in Napoli that Angel has reappeared in Washington. I am temporarily staying with friends outside of Napoli while we see what the… temperature of the Camorra is about this. I’ve had a death threat against me.”

“Is Angel in danger?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand what happened,” she said, and he could hear the anger in her voice. “I don’t know what happened, how I got talked into this.” She paused, getting herself under control. “I don’t know why Angel disappeared for those months, and if it was the Camorra who hurt him, or some other group. Have you found out anything?” she asked. “Anything?”

“We are looking for answers to those same questions,” he told her.

“I must go. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who to believe. Please take care of Angel. I will call again in a day or two,” she said, and the line went dead.

Gibbs looked down at Angel, then offered him a hand to stand up.

FORNELL
Central District Police Department, Baltimore
Tuesday, 12:40 PM

“What are you doing here?” Tobias Fornell frowned as Stan Burley walked up to stand next to him at the Baltimore’s Central District Police Department front desk, brushing snow from his jacket.

“Heard you’d be here.” Burley grinned at him. “Besides I was in the neighborhood.”

“Heard from who?”

“Gibbs.”

“In the neighborhood?” Fornell shot back.

“Saying goodbye to my grannie. I’ll be away for a while.” Burley took out his wallet and showed Fornell a photo of Burley and a small grey-haired woman. “She’s a sweetie. Raised me after my parents died when I was twelve. Just came from seeing her.” Burley smiled affectionately at the photo, then pocketed it in his wallet. “Any luck?”

“Not yet,” Fornell said, momentarily wondering how odd it was for an agent to keep a picture of their grandmother in their wallet. “Uh, the receptionist is at lunch and the officer filling in is pretending not to see me,” Fornell said, just loud enough for the man to hear.

The police officer at the counter motioned for him to come over. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Fornell showed his badge. “As I said earlier, I’d like to speak with Detective DiNozzo. Anthony DiNozzo.” Fornell glanced at the man’s nametag. “Officer Kunsinski.”

Kunsinski paused just a moment too long, looking from Fornell to Burley, then back to Fornell. “Okay, then, just one moment.” Kunsinski fumbled with a notepad. “Could you spell that name?”

Fornell nodded and wrote it down on the back of one of his business cards, slipping it across to the officer. “Thank you.”

Officer Kuninski frowned at the name written on the card as he typed it into the computer. “This the right spelling? D-I-N-O-Z-Z-O?”

“Yup,” Fornell responded. “DiNozzo.”

Burley looked over his shoulder. “DiNozzo. Looks like it should sound like ‘Di-Nose-so”.”

“No. It’s Italian. Dee-Nutzo.”

Kuninski looked back at them. “Well, no matter how you want to say it, no one here by that name.”

“Check again. We had confirmation yesterday from your head office’s personnel department that he was based here.”

Kuninski shook his head. “Sorry. It’s not in my database here.”

“I’d like to speak to the head of your homicide department then. Major Frank Raimey.”

The police officer looked back at Fornell evenly. “I’ll call the department and see if he’s in yet. He worked yesterday, which was a holiday—”

“Yes, I am aware it was Presidents’ Day. Happens every year around this time,” Fornell added dryly.

“He might have the day off, then, because he worked yesterday. Have a seat,” Kuninski said, pointing to a waiting area at the side of the lobby.

“I’m fine. I’ll wait right here,” Fornell said, staying where he was at the counter.

“Wait over there, Special Agent Fornell,” Kuninski said evenly, standing in place until the two men moved to the side of the room and took a seat in the appropriately named waiting area.

Ten minutes later, a tall, heavyset man sauntered over to them. He was wearing a navy checked, off-the-rack suit with an over-washed pale blue shirt and a tie with psychedelic waves in multiple shades of brown and possibly purple or pink that made you not want to look very closely at it. But it still made you look.

“Yowzah,” Burley muttered, looking back down at the magazine he’d been paging through.

The guy stopped near them. “You Fornell?”

Tobias glanced over at Burley, then stood, looking in the guy’s eyes and avoiding the tie from hell. “Yes. You are—?”

“Major Raimey. Homicide. Listen, there’s clearly been a mix-up with our head office personnel department. DiNozzo came here to our Homicide Department maybe a year ago or thereabouts, then transferred to a different district in Baltimore, going back to Vice, I think. Last I heard he’d transferred to a different city. He’s flighty. A couple years here, a couple years there. You’ll have to check with Personnel again and get them to update their records properly.”

“You can’t see where a Baltimore police detective is located in your city?”

“Not that we can give out any information.”

“You realize I’m with the FBI. It’s important we contact DiNozzo.”

“’Da-Nutso’, is right,” Raimey said, sneering at Fornell’s pronunciation of the name. “The guy was a kook. The less I say about him, the better. Good luck.” The husky department chief left them and headed off down a hallway, stopping to speak to two men waiting for him in the hallway. One of them glanced over to where Fornell was standing.

“Well, that went well,” Burley said, getting up.

Fornell stared back at the three men. If he was Gibbs, he’d say his gut was telling him something was wrong; Raimey knew more than he was saying, for sure. Fornell turned to go back to Officer Kuninski, when he could see Kuninski was on his phone, his back slightly turned, laughing about something that Fornell was positive had everything to do with them.

“Let’s grab a coffee and get some info,” Fornell said quietly to Burley. They headed out, stopping briefly at the coffee shop across the street, but Fornell only glanced around inside and steered them out.

“What? No donuts in sight?” Burley asked.

“No cops in sight.” Fornell gestured to another diner down the block, and they entered to see a group of six around a table, four in uniform and a male and female in more casual wear. “This will do,” he said quietly, and they took a table next to the laughing group.

A waitress brought them coffee and took a lunch order from Tobias.

They listened to the chatter at the table next to them—talking about some cute thing one of their kids said—then Tobias turned in his chair, and addressed the group, “Hey, maybe you guys can help me. I was just at the Central Division and getting nowhere with a guy named Raimey, who I think just lied to my face.”

The group fell silent when Raimey’s name was mentioned. The female plainclothes detective, who looked in her early twenties but was likely ten years older than that, spoke up. “What do you want?” she asked coolly, casually glancing at the red-haired man next to her, the outline of his holstered gun seen under a fashionable corduroy blazer. The uniformed officers were all staring down at the table or suddenly consumed with eating their various donuts or pastries.

“I’m trying to find my nephew. Anyone know a guy named Tony DiNozzo?”

The female plainclothes officer stared back at him; Fornell had to admit that she was good, but he had caught the flicker of her eye.

“I’m Tony’s uncle,” Fornell continued. “He said he was transferring here a year ago, but then we never heard from him, and he missed showing up at my wife’s 40th birthday bash this last October and missed our annual Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas party. Getting worried, and no one will give me a straight answer. Your Head Office’s Human Resources told me he worked Homicide at Central Division, but some guy named Raimey said he didn’t.”

“Any ID?” the woman asked.

Fornell thought a moment, and then took out his FBI badge and identification. “I’m asking personally though. Unofficially.”

Again, there was a look between the two plainclothes detectives. The uniformed officers all quickly downed the rest of their coffee and left, stampeding to the door.

“Why are you looking for him?” the male plainclothes officer asked.

“Like I said, my nephew’s missing. Who are you? Do you know him?” Fornell asked.

“You can call me Danny,” the red-haired man said, after a moment. He seemed to deliberate whether to say anything. “Yes, I know Tony. Or knew him a little. Worked with him for a few months, uh... May last year to July. Partnered up on some cases, then he left suddenly in the middle of July and went to Italy as there was a family emergency. Surprised you don’t know about it, if you’re family.”

“A family emergency? Well, must have been his father’s side,” Fornell said, since he’d just told them he was DiNozzo’s uncle. “Did he come back?”

The female nodded. “He returned to Baltimore by the end of July. Someone from HQ told Raimey that DiNozzo would be doing some grunt work for an interagency task force, but he’d be returning to our department.”

“Raimey told you that?”

They both laughed at that. Danny shook his head “We only found out because Tony sent me an email filling me in; said I should try not to miss him as he’d be back in two or three months. Then in... I guess it was September, because I was on vacation, Tony sends me another email saying that the assignment had ended early due to his spectacular input—typical Tony—and he’d talked them into giving him a six-month unpaid leave so he could take the cross-America road trip he’d been talking about while we were partners.”

“Six-months?” Fornell asked.

Danny shrugged. “He must have done something right. I could barely get them to sign me off for a week. But he has someone batting for him high up.”

“Could I ask,” Fornell began, trying to sound worried, “have you heard from him since then?”

Danny eyeballed him, reluctant to say anything more.

“You don’t have to say where he is, we’re just concerned that he’s all right, and my wife has been pestering me to find out. I’m not sure what else to do.”

“Tony sends a postcard or two a month, the bastard,” Danny said with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t worry about him.” Danny waved to the waitress for their bill.

The female plainclothes detective stood and pulled on her heavy jacket. “Your nephew didn’t talk much about personal things. He seemed nice enough, did the job, was smart and funny. Had a flighty past, though, so maybe he’s moved on.”

“We just can’t figure out why he didn’t call us,” Fornell said, sounding confused.

“Did you ask his girlfriend?” she asked. “I forget her name. In the symphony, something like that.” She motioned for Danny to head out.

“His former high school music teacher. A school teacher somewhere,” Danny added, putting on his heavy overcoat and following her.

“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend. Thanks. I’ll check with your Human Resources. They might have the info on file. Strange they didn’t let me know he was on leave.”

“Can’t help you there,” Danny said gruffly, turning his back and heading to the door. “When his leave is over in a few weeks, I’ll be just as interested as the next guy to where he ends up. He mentioned something about the FBI once, so maybe he’s in your organization somewhere.”

“Never thought of looking there,” Fornell said with a laugh. “We’re just worried, you know. My wife and me. So anything else you might have—”

Danny paused and looked back at Fornell evenly. “We’re done here. If Tony wanted you to know where he was, he would have told you. We’ve got to get back.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your time,” Fornell said, shifting his chair back in place as the waitress set his clubhouse sandwich down on his table, and the two plainclothes officers left.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” she asked Burley, who caved and ordered a bran muffin.

“Now what?” Burley asked him.

Fornell took a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. “I’m going to call their Human Resources again. No—no, I’m going to drop in on them. Something’s smelling rotten.”

ANGEL
Gibbs’ Home
Tuesday, 1:00 PM

Gibbs was making grilled cheese sandwiches again and talking to him, but Angel wasn’t sure what he was talking about. That was okay, though, because it seemed that Gibbs wasn’t expecting him to answer. English words made a roaring sound in his brain, hissing like white noise. He wished they wouldn’t do that, but his brain kept trying to understand them.

And Angel couldn’t stop thinking about what his mother had told him, that she wasn’t able to come to the city to help him, because of the situation in Napoli. It had something to do with him still being alive when he was supposed to be dead, Angel thought.

He was supposed to be dead.

He remembered watching the video when Luigi was shot and when Leonardo and Lorenzo were shot and remembered the bullet that had whizzed by his head, a whisper burn on the skin by the side of his left eye. Maybe he was supposed to be dead and had just barely not been killed. He didn’t remember what happened that day, just being shoved into the back of a car, with Mallardo pushing his head down so he was out of sight, wedged in between the front and back seat.

On the phone, his mother had asked him if his head was better and if his memories were back, but he had just told her ‘no’. He didn’t know too much about his head, other than the headaches. And he didn’t want to think too much about what had happened to him. He tried to keep all the badness pushed back, pushed away, pushed down. It made him scared. Like it would be too much for him to deal with. All the fogginess had made it easy to push away. Now it was growing more difficult. He was supposed to be dead. And now his mother was in danger because he wasn’t dead.

Alarm bells were going off in his head.

He wiped the tears from his eyes, carefully dabbing at his left eye that was still swollen, and tried not to think about that, and just eat his sandwich. It was good, but kind of hard to eat with a split lip. Gibbs handed him a paper towel and motioned to his mouth, and Angel dapped at the blood on his mouth. Gibbs didn’t seem concerned about it, so Angel figured it was okay.

They ate their grilled cheese sandwiches in silence, and he drifted for a while, going through the motions, taking a small bite, chewing, dabbing his lip, and taking another bite. Gibbs gave him a cup of coffee to drink, but he only sipped at it. The warmth made him feel better, though. He ate and drank what he could, and then Gibbs handed him the heavy winter jacket Ducky Doctor had bought him, and Angel remembered he was going for a ride.

“Aberdeen,” Gibbs said, and that made Angel’s heart beat really fast, as he couldn’t remember why Alessio had told him to go to Aberdeen. Or when his cousin had told him to go to Aberdeen. Would Alessio be there? But how would Alessio know he was going to Aberdeen?

Why did thinking make his head hurt? he wondered.

Gibbs brought over the big slippers that Ducky Doctor had bought him, and Gibbs helped him into the jacket and then wrapped plastic bags over the slippers, probably so they wouldn’t get wet outside in all the slush and puddles.

Gibbs grabbed a bag and put Angel’s medication in it and some food, and then he helped Angel outside and down the walk to the where the big black car waited, and they got in the back of the FBI car, and the driver took them somewhere. Angel wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, but that was also okay, because it felt good to be doing something, even though all the muscles in his body were telling him to curl up and be still and hide. His body was trembling all over, and he was nervous about being outside, but he still felt it was all okay. He was okay because he was with Gibbs, and Gibbs would protect him even if Luigi hadn’t.

He was worried that Gibbs might get shot, though, and then he would have nothing again. He’d watched the video of Luigi and Leonardo and Lorenzo getting shot and killed. When they went places, Leonardo Cicciano would watch after Luigi and Lorenzo Cicciano would watch after Angel. At first, he was afraid of Lorenzo, but the man was funny and told jokes and made him laugh. Once... Lorenzo quietly told him that he didn’t like that Luigi made Angel take pills that made him sleepy or... kind of have no way to think properly. Lorenzo apologized to Angel about it, but it wasn’t Lorenzo’s place to interfere. Angel remembered that. He didn’t remember a lot of things, but he remembered that, and being sad that Lorenzo was killed. Lorenzo’s brother Leonardo was kind of mean and didn’t like Angel being there, so he didn’t feel so sad about Leonardo getting killed.

Or Luigi.

He roused himself from all his thinking when they got to the NCIS, a place Angel vaguely knew he had been before. They got out of the FBI car, and Gibbs sent the FBI people away, and Angel went with Gibbs into the building. The security man put a visitor badge on Angel’s jacket—at least the word in big letters looked like the Italian word visitatore, so it probably meant visitor. It was just missing letters. Gibbs moved quickly into the elevator, then had to hold the door for Angel—Gibbs moved really fast—and they went to a different floor than he had expected—not the same as before—and then down a hall to a place with loud music. Gibbs was very impatient, which made Angel nervous, and Gibbs tugged him along by his sleeve, which was annoying. Moving quickly hurt, and his padrone forgot that sometimes. Gibbs wasn’t really being mean; he just had other things occupying most of his thoughts, Angel had to remind himself.

A woman came racing up to them as they entered her… room, he thought, which was interesting until she got closer and closer and wasn’t slowing down and was going to attack him—and he panicked and turned to run out the door. Gibbs grabbed hold of his sleeve again and spun him back, which made him dizzy, and he ended up in a painful heap on the floor in front of Gibbs. The woman started talking really quickly and saying she was sorry—he knew that word—and Gibbs barked at her, and she jumped backwards which would have been kind of funny if he hadn’t almost peed himself a few seconds earlier. Almost. He didn’t really trust himself much with peeing yet, because he didn’t think he’d worn clothes for a long time… and…

Some tears ran down his face, and he choked back a sob and quickly scrubbed them off with the sleeve of his jacket. Gibbs got him back on his feet, still kind of yelling at the female. Angel patted Gibbs’ arm to let him know he was okay and that she had just startled him. She seemed very nice—when she wasn’t attacking him. He still couldn’t see very well out of one eye, but she had very black, shoulder-length hair with thick bangs, and nice green eyes, and she was Italian! At least her name on her doctor’s white coat was Italian. Or maybe she was wearing a scientist’s lab coat. Maybe a mad scientist. She smiled nicely at him, but then suddenly flung her arms around him, and he yelped in pain, not only because it hurt, but because she startled him, and he hid behind Gibbs, which immediately was really embarrassing but he’d had no choice because he was really scared. Gibbs got angry at her again, and she apologized to Angel in Italian and said she was really glad to see him.

Apparently, that was almost all the Italian she knew, though. That and she said she knew how to ask where the bathroom was: “Dov'è il bagno?” but she said it like “Do vai anno?” which meant something else and didn’t make sense and no one would show you where the bathroom was unless they were used to tourists.

Angel sat in an office chair and spun around a few times while Gibbs and Abby talked, but it made him feel sick, so he stopped. And just sat and waited. He was used to sitting and waiting. Or usually kneeling and waiting.

Gibbs and the woman—Abby—were talking to each other in a way that let Angel know that they were good friends. Or maybe more than good friends. Hmm? He wasn’t sure. He got up and slowly wandered around and looked at all the machines in the lab, his hands behind his back so they wouldn’t touch anything, and then Abby disappeared for almost ten minutes while Gibbs made a phone call, and then she came back with a pair of boots that fit him! Angel was surprised; he wasn’t expecting that. The boots were rather scuffed and had dried mud on them, but they had good laces and were much better than plastic bags over slippers. He tried to thank her profusely, but it only made her want to hug him.

Why wouldn’t his mother come for him? he wondered, again suddenly. Was he… was he tainted because of what had happened to him? He didn’t think that Gibbs or Abby thought he was tainted. Or the guy who spoke Italian or Doctor Ducky. Did his own mother think that? Is that why she was not coming to get him?

Angel knew the word bathroom in English. It was an important word. He turned to Gibbs and said, “Bathroom?” and he tried not to say it too urgently, but Gibbs still arched his brow in surprise, for some reason, and then showed him where Abby’s little bathroom was. Just in time. He was getting worried about his bladder. He wanted to ask the Ducky Doctor guy, but he was a little embarrassed. And whenever he thought of it, Ducky Doctor wasn’t there.

The mirror in the bathroom had skulls all around the outside of it, which was a little creepy, he thought. It made him sad, but he didn’t know why. And that just made him tired.

GIBBS
NCIS
Tuesday, 1:45 PM

As soon as he’d steered Angel to the bathroom, Gibbs turned to Abby. “So what did you find out?”

“Bits and pieces. Anthony DiNozzo started out as a cop in Peoria, then moved about two years later to Philadelphia. He suddenly left Philadelphia Police about a year ago in February 2000. Two weeks later he was hired by the Baltimore Police, which must have been planned, as that’s a quick hire. I tried to trace his activity with Baltimore Police, but it’s spotty. Like he was there, but not there, maybe? Near as I can tell, he’s on leave right now, but things are murky.”

“Spotty? Murky?” Gibbs echoed.

“Vague. Hinky,” she responded, sounding all mysterious and smiling. “He’s still listed as an employee of the Baltimore Police in some files and not in other files. I could only work my way into their records so far—we need a computer hacker working with us, Gibbs.”

“No hacker. What did you find out?”

“You realize I’m hacking here, don’t you? You can’t really officially use any of it?” Abby shrugged and kept going. “So, March and April 2000, he was listed as working at Baltimore Police headquarters, but no one department was listed. In May, he was assigned to Central Division, Homicide. Mid-July, he took an emergency family leave for two weeks, travelling to Italy and back. He then worked for the Baltimore Police headquarters again for two months in August and September, then took an unpaid personal leave that is scheduled to end in about two weeks, on March 5. Interesting to note, Gibbs, his leaves in July, plus the ‘without pay’ longer one, were signed off by top people in the Baltimore Police, not his supervisors, which makes me wonder what’s going on.”

“Any idea what he’s been doing since October 2000?”

”He appears to be travelling around the country. He uses his credit card for everything—hotels, food, gas, clothing—and pays it off completely each month, so he’s careful with his funds.”

“Where and when did he travel? Did he leave the country?”

Abby scrolled back through bank credit card statements, then opened up a map on the next monitor. “Okay... his credit card shows a plane ticket to and from Naples, Italy, in early April 2000—just for four days—and again to Naples in the middle of July 2000 returning two weeks later, flying out of Milan. His credit card lists a few purchases while he was in Italy but nothing substantial. Touristy things. Swim trunks. Some nice shoes. A shirt. Restaurants. Hotels in Naples the first trip but not the second. His credit card purchases the second trip were from multiple cities in Italy, so he was travelling around at least for a few days. Naples, Salerno, Rome, Florence, Milan. Doesn’t sound much like an emergency family leave, but who knows?”

“So, he returned to Baltimore from Milan at the end of July?”

“Yup. Well, August 1, according to his passport. Flew out of Milan with a stopover in Atlanta. You can see him here in this photo at BWI airport on August 1, getting his luggage. Took me awhile to find him. Not the greatest shot, but identifiable. I like his When in Rome... baseball cap.” Abby put up another photo. “Here he’s leaving BWI on July 17, and you can see the same jacket. Nice smile. Doesn’t look like he’s going to a family emergency, but he’s much sadder looking coming back. Maybe someone died.”

“Finances.”

“Let’s see... his finances since returning... he didn’t have much in the bank when he left in July 2000, but he returned to work and drew a salary from Baltimore Police Department for the months of August and September—like I said, returning not to Central Division but to headquarters.”

“And now?”

“Well, interesting that he hasn’t quit, Gibbs. He’s still listed as employed by the Baltimore Police… just on unpaid leave. And he’s paying into a few things like the medical plan while he’s gone; it’s coming out of his bank account. I found the address of his apartment there in Baltimore; he paid a lump sum in advance up until the end of this month.”

“You said he had no money in the bank in July 2000. So how is he covering his travel expenses for this unpaid leave, especially if he’s paying for the medical coverage and all this rent?”

“Looking at his bank account, besides his Baltimore Police paychecks in August and September, there were regular deposits made of $1,000 per month beginning then, so he was working for someone or getting automatic pay—I haven’t been able to trace where the money came from. He occasionally drew cash from his bank account on the road, but everything else went on his credit card which was paid off every month from a different bank in Baltimore.”

“What do you have on this road trip he was on?”

“That’s easier to follow. Beginning on September 27, he appears to be on a motorcycle trip as credit card receipts follow—” Abby brought up a map on the screen. “See, all along the coast down to Disney World Florida. He took three days going down, stayed there for three days, then headed to New Orleans, which he did in three days. He only stayed there for a few days, though, and flew back to Baltimore on October 8, last year. Then a few receipts just showing gas and restaurant receipts on his bank card.”

Gibbs stared at the map, picturing the timeline on his wall dining room wall. “Was he in Baltimore on October 10 when Torvetti was killed?”

She looked down at her computer, flipping through screens of credit card statements. “Likely. I don’t show any hotel receipts, but if he was in Baltimore, he’d be staying at his own apartment. The next thing I show is November 21, 2000, when he flew to Los Angeles. He appears to have a motorcycle again, so maybe he sold his one in New Orleans and bought or rented another one in Los Angeles. His credit card shows he went to Disneyland twice and Universal Studios twice while he was there,” she laughed. “Then he drove north to San Francisco, stayed a few days, then returned to Los Angeles. He flew back to Baltimore December 7. Then nothing on that card until January 3, a few weeks ago.”

Gibbs studied her timeline. “So DiNozzo was in this area around October 10, when the FBI agent Paul Torvetti was gunned down; there’s a dinner receipt for a restaurant in Silver Springs on October 9. He was in Philadelphia when the other two FBI agents went missing, November 15. A restaurant receipt. And he was in the Baltimore area on November 20 when Galluccio and his bodyguards were killed?”

“Near as we can tell.” She put up a photo from DiNozzo’s current driver’s licence still from Pennsylvania. “Nice, huh? I’d do him.” The photo showed a clean-shaven young man with straight brown hair and short bangs, and longer squared-off sideburns. “Looks a little like your run-of-the-mill, cute Italian cop.”

Gibbs frowned. It was hard to get a read on the young man, but there was an edge to his look. DiNozzo stared almost defiantly, determinedly at the camera but still had an annoying slight smile on his face, as though daring the person looking at his photo to misjudge him.

“It’s like his face says, ‘I’m a cop; trust me… or maybe not trust me; I really don’t care,’” Abby mused. “Psychopath maybe? Gibbs, he was in the same place where each murder happened; do you think he might have been the killer?”

Gibbs’ sharp eyes continued to stare at the photo, trying to get a read on the man. Was this the same guy Louella and Fred thought would help him out? They’d only had positive things to say about DiNozzo. And this cop had found the original body—the FBI agent’s body which had started Torvetti off on his crusade. “There’s no driver’s license from Maryland?” Gibbs asked. “If he was working and living in Baltimore, there should be one.”

“Not that I found.” Abby flipped through some photos on the screen. “Here’s another picture from Philadelphia.” It was a group shot of ten or so Philadelphia police officers, all who had been there a year. “It says he’s the guy on the right.”

The uniformed officer stood slightly off to one side of the group, as though he was keeping a careful distance, not really wanting to be associated with the others, Gibbs thought. He was taller than most of the other uniformed officers, over six feet, likely around 6’1 or 6’2”. He had the body of an ex-athlete, football player, probably in the 190-210 pound range. Again, he had a rather sullen look about him, like he had a chip on his shoulder, or maybe he was just bored and going through the motions.

“I wonder if DiNozzo has Mafia ties—check into it,” Gibbs asked her.

“Maybe that was his connection with Torvetti. I’ll need more time for that. But didn’t your FBI contacts vouch for him? Didn’t they say that he helped out Torvetti and was invaluable to him—all that?”

“Let’s just get whatever we can on him. He might have had his reasons for killing some or all of these men.”

Gibbs turned as Angel trudged back into the room, walking heavily in the boots. The young man looked tired, his eyes barely open. He walked up to Gibbs almost bumping into him, then looked up at the driver’s licence photo still up on the screen. “Oh,” he said, looking puzzled. “Lo conosco. Conosco quell'uomo.”

“Abbs, do you know what he just said?”

“Maybe. Something about he knows this guy?”

Gibbs growled and took his cellphone out of his pocket and called Fornell. “Tobias, our Forensics expert put up a photo of DiNozzo, and Angel appears to recognize him. Okay, you’re on speakerphone,” he added, setting the phone down on the counter.

Fornell’s voice came on then, speaking in Italian, and Angel responded to him quietly, his eyes closed. He half-dropped into the lab chair and leaned forward, one hand over his face.

“Gibbs?” Fornell said then, “The kid says he thinks the guy in the photo’s name is Tonio. He was vague on how he knew him, just said Alessio liked Tonio and then didn’t like him anymore because he made a mistake.”

“Who is Alessio?”

There was a pause while Fornell asked Angel who Alessio was, then he translated Angel’s angry reply, “Near as I can tell by his answer… Alessio is Angel’s cousin. Angel’s mad at Alessio and his uncle for not coming to get him. They apparently promised Angel that if anything went wrong, they would get him out of Luigi’s place immediately. They didn’t.”

“Why did he say that Alessio didn’t like Tonio?”

Fornell asked the question and got a short answer. “Alessio didn’t think Tonio trusted Angel to do his job.”

“What job?”

When Fornell relayed the question, Angel wiped his eyes from sudden tears and replied, “Luigi. Avrei dovuto spiare Luigi.”

Fornell laughed. “So, Jethro, Angel—our Angel there—says he was supposed to spy on Galluccio. In his dreams.”

“Tobias, what did you find out about DiNozzo this morning?” Gibbs asked tiredly.

“I went to Baltimore’s Central District and got conflicting information on Detective DiNozzo. I’m just driving now, heading over to the Main Office’s Human Resources to get some answers even if I have to rattle a few cages. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“One last question…” Gibbs frowned as Abby gave Angel what was meant to be a reassuring hug and a tissue to wipe his eyes. Angel clearly still didn’t know what to make of Abby, and Gibbs shooed her away. He studied Angel, then asked Fornell, “Tobias, what would a Baltimore cop and an FBI agent have to do with an Italian young man going to work for the head of the Baltimore Camorra, Luigi Galluccio, as a submissive companion?” He waited while Fornell asked the question and Angel mumbled an answer.

Fornell translated, “According to Angel, DiNozzo worked with Paul Torvetti, which we knew already, and Paul Torvetti was Alessio’s uncle, which we didn’t know—Daniela Leone never gave us the uncle’s name—and that is why Angel is mad that his cousin and his uncle never came to see him.” There was a short pause, while Fornell said something to Angel about Torvetti. Then, Fornell asked, “Uh, Gibbs, does Angel know that Torvetti is dead?”

Gibbs looked over to Angel, who was staring at him in distress. “I think he knows now.”

Thanks. This ends the first part of "The Fifth Man". The story continues in Part Two: "When Tony Meets Angel".