“Everything can change in a heartbeat.� -Unknown

***

It was supposed to be a routine bag-and-tag. They were just going to Petty Officer Chris White’s (the murder victim) house to collect evidence for the lab. Ducky already had the body, all they were going to do was canvass, set up a perimeter, bag and tag, et cetera, et cetera. There was not supposed to be a shoot-out in the hallway.

And yet, there was.

“Get down!� Ziva shouted, firing her gun in the direction of the assailants. (Her face was bloody. Flying shrapnel drew a pretty red line down her cheek.) McGee hurled himself to the side, wide-eyed, plump face ashen. His hands shook, but his gun was steady.

Gibbs shot from behind an overturned table that once held flowers and pamphlets and stationary, (Petty Officer White’s apartment complex was very, very nice) the wood and steel dented and splintered under the force of the bullets, but he didn’t notice the splinters buried in his stomach, his chest. (Later that night, he would, and he’d slowly pull them out of his skin, admiring the way they shone, all sticky crimson with blood.)
Tony (the fool, the proud, brave, heroic fool) ducked behind a doorway,
sticking his head out to fire at intervals.

The hallway was a mess of broken wood, shattered glass, and bullets that sang as they crossed paths, weaving a deadly song that throbbed and pumped in the team’s blood. The attacker(s, Gibbs was sure that there were two, at least) also ducking, weaving, hiding, had a large gun and a small gun, and the bullets flattened the reinforced steel on Gibbs’ table and punched through the glass door windows. McGee was bleeding now, from his shoulder, and his face was pale with pain. Tony was also bleeding, a gash on his forehead, but he seemed to neither notice nor care.

The LEOs, where were the damn LEOs? (Late, as usual, outside grabbing coffee at the nearest Starbucks, chatting about the gruesome murder, too late, too relaxed.) The four NCIS agents were taking a beating, pinned down, unable to get a clear shot at their foes, (and one of them was going to get badly, badly hurt, Gibbs knew it) and they desperately needed help, but no one was rushing to their aid.

Gibbs caught a flash of motion; an attacker, face masked, and he raised his gun, but Tony beat him to it. With fierce accuracy, the younger agent fired his gun, and the attacker, dressed in black (mourning colors, how fitting) went down, crimson painting the wall behind him.

“Did I get him?� Tony shouted, stepping out of his doorway. The blood on his face was drying, forming a mask. “Got him!�

Slowly, Ziva and McGee came out of their cover, Ziva scanning with quick dark eyes and Tim still clutching his gun, fingers white, a shard of glass in his shoulder. No more gunshots rang out; Tony had killed the attacker, the fight was over, they were safe, only minor injuries all around.

“Damn.� Gibbs muttered, looking around. He was still jangling with adrenaline, with fear for his people. But the attacker was still, unmoving. Tony’s bullet had killed him, and that was okay with Gibbs.
Tony was grinning, ear to ear, a regular Chesire cat, despite his bloody face and his throbbing heart. He had disposed of the threat, but his gut still churned a warning and his heart was babumpababumpa in his rib cage. He was shaking. Only Gibbs noticed.

“That was unexpected.� Ziva panted, touching her cheek.

“Tell me about it, Zee-vah.� Tony gasped, too-bright eyes glittering. Blood was oozing from his chest, too, and the tell-tale piece of glass glittered like his eyes. “I mean, what the hell was that about?�

Gibbs straightened. (He didn’t feel the splinters, not yet.) “Outside.� He ordered. “Now.�

Tony grinned again, showing all his teeth. “I’ll stay, Boss, process the scene.�

“No, DiNozzo.� Gibbs’ gut was a tense, coiled knot, and he felt as though something very very very bad was going to happen.

The senior field agent sighed gustily, rolled his green green eyes, (so bright, like little green stars) and smiled. He was seriously worrying Gibbs; he was trembling, and his blood surged in his veins, visibly pulsing in his pale neck. “Okay, Boss.�

And then, in the space of a heartbeat, three thunderous peals rent the air, boomboomboom, and Gibbs was on the ground, old Corps training taking over, and his hand was a mess of shards and blood, and Ziva yelled and Tim went sideways, and Tony….

Tony simply was not there.

“Tony!â€� Gibbs roared, rolling to his feet, dazed, confused, his hand bleeding and his eyes searching. A flash of motion caught his eyeâ€"a black-clad man fleeing, large shotgun tucked against his shoulder--

“Tony!�

The name died in his throat. Lying on the floor, spread-eagled, was Tony DiNozzo. The bullet was in the wall directly behind where Tony had been standing. Arterial spray coated the walls, the glass, the table.

And Tony was on the floor, a hole in his heart, his grin frozen on his face. In a heartbeat, Gibbs felt himself come apart, and he looked into the green green eyes, already frosting over, something inside him cried out.

No.

Not DiNozzo.

Not Tony. Please, God, not Tony.

Tony, get up! Get up, DiNozzo, that’s not funny!

“Tony?�

There was no answer. (There never was, really. Never ever, and damn, this was a dream, a nightmare, that’s it, Tony wasn’t dead, like Kate, like Shannon, like Kelly, like Jenny. Nope. He was alive, and Gibbs was only dreaming.)

He took three steps (one for each bullet) and his hand gushed blood, and then he collapsed next to Tony’s body, and the LEOs (the damn late LEOs, reeking of guilt and coffee) arrived to carry him out. He heard Ziva crying, and McGee moan in quiet agony. He was aware of his heart beating, and the fire in his hands, and his chest. (He felt the splinters, now.) He was aware of the still-warm hand that he was clutching. He was holding on to Tony DiNozzo, trying to keep him from slipping away, trying to make him remember the promise he’d made in Bethesda, five years ago, dying of pneumatic plague, and the LEOs were shouting in his ears.

“Let go, sir, there’s nothing you can do for him now.� One of them, a big burly fellow, gray in his hair and beard, pulled at Gibbs. “He’s gone, sir, he’s gone.�

No. Gibbs growled, in the back of his mind. No, you can’t take him from me! Tony, get up! You promised. I haven’t given you permission to die!

He hadn’t fought this hard since Shannon, since Kelly, and his hand tightened on Tony’s. The LEO pulled again, trying not to injure the man further, but getting desperate; Gibbs was bleeding freely from his hand, his chest, his lips.

His stomach hurt, too, but that was different, and his mouth tasted like ashes. Tony’s hand was cooling.

Finally, the bigger officer, with a mighty pull, separated Gibbs and his agent, and the rift shook the former Marine to his core. Kate’s death, Jenny’s death, both had been bad, both had hurt to hell, but this, this was worse, this was beyond hell. (This was Shannon, was Kelly, and Gibbs was helpless to stop it.) Tony had been with him for almost a decade. Tony was Tony; he always shook off his injuries.

Tony was a rock. He held things together while everyone else fell apart. He was on Gibbs’ six, always, and now…. And now he was gone.

In a heartbeat, Gibbs watched as the center of his team, the rock, the man who kept things together when Gibbs himself could not, fell away.

He watched it fall and he howled.

"I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs." -Death, The Book Thief

***

Two

(two hours)

McGee wanted to be numb. He shouldn't, he knew. He should want to be angry, sad, screaming, crying, fighting to find the killer, but he wanted to feel nothing. He wanted to feel like someone reached inside him and turned off his heart.

If only it was that easy. Off on, off on, like a toy, a machine. He would have given anything to be one of his precious computers right now.

(Anything and everything, if only he couldn't feel.)

Timothy McGee, NCIS Special Agent, computer whiz, Probie, and sometimes Senior Agent, sat in his chair, shoulders hunched, trying not to cry. His shoulder ached, but his pain medication stood untouched on his desk.
He didn't deserve it. Why should he, when Tony was dead (such a painful word, such an ugly word) and nothing else would ever be the same again?
Ziva was gone, Tim knew. She hadn't returned to NCIS. Neither had Gibbs, but McGee had nowhere else to go. He couldn't go home, to his apartment, and be alone there. So he sat at his desk and held his tears in, shaking and trying to remember what it felt like to breathe.

Seconds after the Incident, the LEOs (they had been too late to make a difference, why, why?) rushed in and took the shocked, broken NCIS agents out. Their wounds had been treated, but none of the paramedics had the balls to try and detain them, particularly Gibbs, who had sat in the back of the ambulance, steely-eyed, pale, and silent.

So they wandered aimlessly, each scattering, and now Tim was alone and he
hurt and Tony's empty desk sat right next to him, and the proximity of it was like fire to his skin.

He had been awful to Tony, really. He had teased him and made fun of him and laughed at him. It hurt to think that now Tony couldn’t tease back.
Tim’s shoulders convulsed. He shuddered.

"Timmy?" Abby's voice floated from the elevator; she saw McGee and grinned, bouncing over to talk. Abby. Who didn't know. Shit.

"Tim, I have to tell you something!" She singsonged. She was holding something and smiling. She stopped at his desk, grinning, waiting for McGee to ask "What, Abby?"

McGee's throat convulsed. He couldn't speak, couldn't tell her. (Make it stop, please, God, please, make it stop.)

"What's wrong?" She asked, taking in his bandaged shoulder, his red, swollen eyes, his crumpled face. "You're hurt." And then she realizes that the bullpen is empty, and her eyes light on the injury again, the held-back tears. "Oh God."

McGee nodded, biting his lip. Blood trickles down his throat, warm and coppery.

Abby understood instantly, knew that one from their family has gone, left the world, and was never, ever coming back. "Who?"

He wanted to tell her. (He wanted to make it go away, to turn back time, but he's only Tim McGee, only Probie, and he just couldn’t.)

His lips, his tongue, wouldn't obey his brain, and he stared at her mutely.

"Gibbs?" The tears were already welling up in Abby's eyes.

He shook his head; his breath splashed out, a wet gasp.

"Ziva?"
Another shake, another splash of pain, of grief, forcing McGee to keep going even though he wanted it to stop.

"Tony?"

And the empty desk behind her gave her the answer. Abby Scuito curled up against Tim McGee, and together they cried like children, their wet, tortured gasps and their quiet sobs the only sound in the bullpen.

***

(three hours)

Ziva David wished she was made of stone. A mountain, an ancient statue, immovable, unfeeling. Then only the elements could hurt her, the wind, the rain, and mortal things like bullets and broken glass wouldn't matter at all.

Her sparring partner is taking a beating. Ziva is all flying fists and lashing feet, fierce in her pain, wild in her agony. It's how she was raised, to punch pain in the face, to kick away despair. (Her sister taught her that. Never let the pain consume you, Ziva. Fight it.)

Her own feet are starting to ache, and tomorrow they'll be a bloody mess. Good. The physical can take the place of the emotional.

The local police had come too late, much much too late, and now all of the dreams, the careful, cautious dreams that she had (just) planned (dared to hope in, to believe in) were lying on a table in Autopsy.
Dead.

It was not possible. Tony was not invincible, but he always bounced back. He took punches, beatings, bullets, plagues, everything, and was back at work a few days later, grinning and making life miserable.

Ziva was not accustomed to helplessness. Tony's killer was free, and now there was not a damn thing she could do about it.

Director Vance, upon learning of the Incident, had pulled Gibbs' team from the case.

And now there was nothing Ziva could do. Her dreams of Tony (of possibly dating and having a kid, maybe, of being the family she never had) were gone. Tony, with his incessant chatter, his constant stream of verbal diarrhea and his pop culture references, was gone.

It hurt.

With a shout, Ziva David leaped at her partner, striking until her partner lay on the mat, stunned, and Ziva’s hands and feet were bleeding.
She straightened her back (a mountain, human to rock, human to rock) and walked out of the ring.

Ziva climbed into her little red car (You trying to kill me, Zee-vah?) and drove home, obeying the laws of traffic for the first time in forever. (She had only driven slower once, when Tony, concussed and exhausted, grudgingly accepted her offer to take him home.)

Inside her apartment, she bandaged her bloody feet and stared at the cuts and bruises forming. The blood dripped sluggishly to the floor (there was a small puddle, now). Ziva blinked, slowly, calmly, though her hands twitched and her heartbeat roared and flickered.

She sat in the dark and watched the moon shine silver on the blood. Her insides twisted. What could she do? She was helpless, really. A foreigner on American soil. She was barely a citizen and barely a federal agent. She had no connections, not anymore, and she had no way of finding out who had dared to rip away Tony. It was like being a young girl all over again; a child in a land of fear and bitterness, with only the synagogue and the rabbi to comfort her, what with her militant father directing Mossad and her siblings running ops all around the world and getting themselves blown
up.

She fingered the necklace around her neck, the mark of her people, her struggle, her faith. She was Jewish by birth and practice.

And the Jews mourned their dead properly.

And then Ziva was gone, racing all the way to the Navy Yard, because she simply could not be helpless any longer.

***

(four hours)

Donald Mallard wished that he had chosen another career, teaching, maybe. Teachers never had to deal with this, with dead bodies of friends and gaping bullet holes and frosted green eyes. It hadn't been so bad with Caitlin. (But then, two years compared to ten.) He was able to set aside his affections for the young woman and do his job. But this…

He should have been a teacher. Maybe that way, he wouldn't be staring at Anthony's too-pale too-still face, wondering if the boy had had felt anything.

Judging by the proximity of the wound to the heart and the mass of damage (and the infernal grin, etched into the dead, still face, oh God) it was unlikely. Anthony hadn't suffered at all. His death had been quick and painless.

Small mercies.

Ducky had not been overly fond of Anthony, no more so than he was of Ziva and Timothy. The field agents did not penetrate the world of Autopsy often, but still, the doctor was fond of the boy. He was like Jethro had been, back before serial killers and mass murderers and his own crippling pain hardened him. Anthony was life, and it was rather refreshing to see him in a place where death ruled.

But not like this.

Anthony, full of resilient energy and passion, should never lie on a table, stone cold, cut down. The boy was white, colorless. His hair was flat, damp from the washing-down. The congealed blood had been washed away, the last swirls of crimson vanishing down the drain. His chest, with its numerous scars, was pale in the bright light.

His green eyes were closed, and with some effort, his face had been repositioned, the awful grin gone.

He could be sleeping.

(Except he was too��"fragile��"too small and shrunken. And the wound, the wound, gaping, grinning, let's not forget that, Duck.)

It was his job, as the medical examiner, to determine the cause of death of any and all NCIS agents, but really, was it necessary? It was rather obvious.

Vance was adamant, however, and insisted that an autopsy be preformed. Perhaps he thought that seeing Tony, cut open and stitched together like a toy, a great, lifeless doll, would lessen the grief of the team.
Dehumanize the man, make him another of the hundreds of bodies Ducky autopsied, and perhaps the pain and the loss would go away.

Vance was a fool.

But Ducky, the humble servant, picked up his tools, put on his mask. Mr. Palmer had gone home. Poor lad. He was Anthony's friend, and frankly, Ducky was glad he left. Young Jimmy didn't need to see the once-strong man cut to pieces, reduced to nothing but parts on a table.

He pressed the blade to the hollow of Anthony's throat.

"Anthony, my dear boy…" He said softly to the still corpse. The blade hovered. One cut. One swift motion and Anthony would cease to be Anthony, like Caitlin had ceased to be Caitlin.

Dehumanize.

Push the pain away.

Transform it.

A man without humanity is a man you cannot mourn.

The blade gleamed on the pale chest that was dotted with (too many)scars.

"Anthony…." Ducky blinked. Tears swam in his eyes; he forced them away. He was a medical examiner. Cold. Unfeeling. His job was to find answers, to honor the dead by solving their final mysteries, not to cry over them.

He pressed down. The skin parted beneath his knife.

(So, whaddaya got for me, Duck?)

He was a medical examiner.

But more importantly, he was a friend.

For the first time in his life, Dr. Donald Mallard, M.E., put aside his knife and walked out of Autopsy.

***

(five hours)

Abby held Bert the hippo and cried. That's all she'd done the past few hours; cling to whatever offered the most comfort and cry. McGee had gone, forced out by Vance, and the forensic scientist was left alone to cradle the hippo and sob.

There was a hole in Abby's world, and it hurt. Everyone felt it. It was a tangible absence, a great gaping wound that sat in the center of the squad room, and every agent, officer, or even janitor who walked past it winced and averted their eyes, refusing to even glance at Anthony DiNozzo's empty desk.

The hole seemed to suck in people, however. Far too many had tramped past in the five hours since Tony's death, casting a swift glance at the empty quartet of desks and then hurrying on, as though ashamed of walking past the desks belonging to one Team Gibbs.

They should be ashamed. Tony was dead. (Abby choked back a sob.) He was dead and gone and everyone should be wearing black, crying, clinging to one another as the hole in the bullpen bled tears.

Abby wasn't really aware of what was going on outside of the little bubble she created. (It consisted of pain, Bert, and herself.) At some point, Palmer, ashen-faced, red-eyed, had arrived with a box full of Tony (his clothes, his blood, the bullet that had torn him from the world) and then rushed out.

Poor Jimmy.

Vance had attempted to come in at least twice since McGee left the building, attempting to talk her into working the evidence. She refused to go near the Box. It sat in the dark (where it belonged) and Abby buried her face in Bert to avoid looking at it.

The remnants of Tony were in that box. It was like desecrating a dead body to touch his clothes, to rifle through everything that had been in his pockets. It was sacrilege, it was destroying some holy thing. Everything in the Box was tony, was all of him, and taking it apart was horrible.

Besides, if she didn't learn anything about Tony's death, she wouldn’t have to look into Gibbs' eyes and tell him she couldn't tell him anything. She wouldn’t have to lie. Vance had pulled Gibbs’ team from the case with explicit orders to everyone that they were not to be told anything.

At all.

It felt like a betrayal, to Gibbs, to the team, and to Tony. So Abby wouldn't do it.

She would stay inside her bubble, cuddle Bert, and cry.

Really, Abs? Tony would have said. Really?

"Yes, really." She whispered into Bert.

You're gonna leave me there? You're not gonna find out who killed me? Tony's memory glared at her with sharp eyes. I would have, for you.

Abby screwed her eyes shut, her heart twisting, and prepared for the onslaught of sobbing. None came. Tony's memory urged her to her feet and she staggered, unsteady.

Later, she could curl up in her coffin and cry until her head hurt as much as her heart and her mascara made her look like a raccoon. But now there was work to be done.

And Gibbs would know about it, Vance be damned.

Bert farted in agreement.

Shakily, Abby stumbled from her bubble, inhaling the rush of outside world, still leaking tears, and made her way to the Box on the table. She set Bert aside and, hands trembling (but fingers steady) she opened the Box.

Inside was what was left of Tony's clothes and the things he carried with him at all times, as well as evidence from the scene itself: bullets, shrapnel, blood. Tony's clothes rested on top. (He had been nicely dressed today, all formal in a white dress shirt and a gray vest, a red tie tucked in, snappy shoes, gray Armani pants and jacket. Why did she wait to tell him he looked nice? Why? Why?) The .50-cal holes in his vest and shirt were soaked in blood.

She trembled.

Abs. The memory said. She set the clothes aside. His wallet, his dress pants, his NCIS badge, his SIG immerged from the depths of the Box. The silver watch McGee had given him two Christmases ago, an apology for Deep Six. His fraternity ring, hooked on his car keys, from which dangled a plastic thing from Puerto Rico and a bright orange miniature Converse, as well as his apartment key and a set of odds and ends.

Abby knew those odds and ends.

There was a red hospital bracelet, worn at the ends, with Attending: Dr. J. Benoit imprinted next to Tony's name and birthday. There was a rather frayed friendship bracelet (from Abby) with a silver skull braided into it, looped tightly about the key ring. There was a carved wooden badge (from Gibbs, last Christmas) with 'NCIS' carefully scratched into the surface. There was an Israeli symbol, made from gold, and a lead bullet McGee had found on his vacation to Gettysburg. The orange shoe, too, from Kate, way back when.

Abby choked back a sob, realizing what the keychain meant, what it stood for (everything). She grabbed Tony's clothes, determined, and quickly gathered her equipment.

This would be her very best work ever, for Tony (and the odds and ends he carried, always, a reminder of his friends, his family).

Abby Sciuto, forensic scientist extraordinaire, set to work, pulling trace, running the bullet through database after database, and glaring fiercely all the while, tears slipping down her cheeks.

In the seclusion of her lab, no one saw Abby slip the colorful, eclectic keychain into her pocket.

***
(six hours)

Leroy Jethro Gibbs sat in the dark of his basement, and his heart was ringed in stone. He had spent hours (ever since Leon, damn him, had kicked him from the case) hardening the wall, placing each stone, cementing them with memories (Tony laughing, smiling, working, a feverish gleam in his eyes, determined, brave) and making sure they would not collapse, leaving his heart open and vulnerable.

He needed to be focused, cold, aloof. He could not afford to lose control. Tony's memory depended on it.

His hand, neatly bandaged, stitched up and mended (in the back of an ambulance, because Gibbs refused to go to the hospital, not when his agent was dead in the ambulance next to his) and the painkillers sit on the table, next to the bottle of bourbon. Neither of them were opened.

He couldn't take the comfort of either of them, not now. He needed to be hurt, angry. A wounded bear was more dangerous, less afraid to lash out, swing its claws, gnash its teeth. A wounded bear could get revenge.
His stomach and chest offered protests as he moved, stood, staggered to the boat. (The splinters lay on the table, bloodied, and they gleam in the half-light.) He ran his fingers over the smooth wood, inhaling the familiar smell of cut lumber and sawdust.

All that was left now was the actual hunting down of the killer, which was going to be a challenge because the Director (the word tasted like ashes) thought that taking Gibbs from the case would help the healing process, would ensure a clean collar, no deaths, no torture.

He was woefully, woefully wrong.

There would be death, oh yes. Gibbs would not, could not, allow the death of one of his own to go unpunished. Leon was either too stupid or too naïve to realize it. The agent in charge of the investigation��"Agent Owens, fresh out of Hawaii��"had no clue how to lead such an investigation. Sooner or later, Gibbs would get the case, or get the information from the case, and run his own investigation, off to the side, and then--

Closure.

It would be quick, unfortunately. The murderer wouldn't suffer overmuch, only a little, though he deserved excruciating, gut-wrenching agony, like his heart was being torn out, his chest ripped open, his ribs, like broken toys, cast aside.

He deserved to feel the pain that Gibbs was feeling.

But he couldn't. Gibbs had to be careful, had to leave no trace, because Leon (damn him) would not hesitate to investigate Gibbs and the murder. As much as he wanted the murderer to suffer, he also knew that being locked up in jail wouldn't do anyone any good.

It would be quick, then.

If only Gibbs had something. Owens was in the NCIS building (which Gibbs was banned from until further notice) and Abby hadn't called. She would, though. Her loyalty to Gibbs, to Tony, was far greater than her loyalty to Vance.

But the silence, the waiting, it was like fire, burning, in his stomach. He wanted to throw up, to purge himself of the fire (out of the ashes, rises��"?) but he couldn't. Not yet.

The hours ticked by. Gibbs felt them, each second, sliding across his skin like knives (splinters) and he bit back a groan. He was waiting for Abby. She would help him, he knew, because Tony was her family too, and she was far more loyal than Vance gave her credit for.

Pins and needles, all down his arms, his face, his back. His hand hurt. His stomach burned. But his heart, his heart, felt nothing.

Not yet.

The wall of memories held back the bullet. Not for forever, but for long enough.

2100. Nothing. Silence, splinters, a dead husk of a boat, six hours since Tony was blown off the face of the world.

2200.

2300.

2400. His eyes started to droop. He refused to sleep, and smashed his wounded hand against the wall. The pain woke him up, forced air through his lungs. (It always did.) He waited.

0100.

0200. He started to see things, in the dark. The images were all blood, all death, and he looked away.

0300. Nothing, until--"

The ring of his cell phone brought Gibbs back to Earth, and the bloody images disappeared. He didn't pause to look at the number. It had to be Abby.

"Abs--"" (how raspy he sounded, like he hadn't spoken in years, but it's only been hours, right?)

A soft laugh rumbled from the phone. Gibbs' blood turned to ice.

"I am not Ms. Sciuto." The other voice hissed. Snakelike. Chilling. "Sorry."

Gibbs licked his lips, forced air between his teeth. "Who are you?" There, that sounded threatening. A low growl, like a bear.

"You don't need to know." Said the voice, and Gibbs could feel him smiling.

"Why are you calling?" The agent asked, and he knew, he knew that this was the man who had ended Tony’s life.

The other man paused, his wet breath ghosting thoughtfully over the phone line. "To make sure you stay focused."

“Who are you?� Gibbs demanded again, standing, as though the man was in the room with him.

The man chuckled, the sound rolling across the phone. “I’m the man who killed your boy.�

And the line went dead.

Gibbs stood in the dark of his basement, clenching his phone to his ear, shaking. To make sure you stay focused. The urge to throw up was almost overwhelming.

With all the force he could muster, Gibbs threw his phone against the wall. It shattered on the floor, and the NCIS agent buried his head in his hands. Blood was seeping through the bandages, the wounds burning.
His mouth was heavy, filled with unsaid words and ashes.

Tony--

The wall around his heart shuddered. He forced them up, as always, and winced at the effort, and realized that waiting around in the dark for someone to do something was not going to work. (Did it ever?)

Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS Special Agent, stood up, hand on fire, stomach burning, and walked up the stairs and straight out the door, his face carved from stone.

His mouth, still full of unspoken things and ashes, twisted. There was hell to pay.

I promise you, Tony. We're gonna find the men who did this.

A tiny voice, buried his head, called back. I know, Boss. I know.

Out of the ashes, rises--?