Tony’s screams echoing through the woods pierced Gibbs like a bayonet to the heart, and it took everything in him not to launch himself at Chip again, escape plan be damned.

The only thing holding him back was the knife in his hands and the knowledge that he was almost free. He had started working on cutting through the strong, unforgiving nylon rope that held his hands bound behind him as soon as Chip had grabbed Tony. It was difficult to maneuver the bulky knife when his hands were half-numb, but he refused to quit.

With Chip’s attention solely focused on Tony, Gibbs didn’t worry too much about hiding his movements. He had managed to get the knife open and positioned as best he could, but, pressed for time as he was, he had sliced into his left palm. Blood was running down his hands to drip off his fingers, making conditions for working with the knife slippery and difficult.

When he heard the screams, Gibbs had frozen for one blood-chilling moment. He had never heard his Senior Field Agent make such a sound in all their years together, like the keening of some wounded animal in a trap, and he hoped never to hear it again. With a jolt, Gibbs snapped out of his mini-fugue and redoubled his efforts with a low growl of frustration. Heedless of blood or fresh cuts, he sawed with the knife, flexing his arms and shoulders to pull the rope apart as he did. With one final motion, the rope parted, and Gibbs shook himself free of the ensnaring bit of nylon.

Gibbs quickly and quietly shifted himself from a kneeling position to a crouch, shaking his hands to restore feeling, knife resting on his right thigh. Several drops of bright red blood were flung from his hands to land on the leafy forest floor around him like some macabre art project. Chip was completely enthralled in his torment of Tony and hadn’t so much as glanced Gibbs’ way. Gibbs rolled his shoulders to help loosen them from their extended time in one position, grasping the knife in his right hand as he did so.

Silent and dangerous as a wise old wolf, Gibbs rose to his feet and stalked towards Chip, eyes narrowed and focused on his prey. Some preternatural instinct must’ve twinged in his target because at the very last moment Chip turned his head, and their eyes met for a few intense, electric heartbeats.

Had Gibbs been a younger man in his prime, that one moment would not have been enough for Chip to do more than acknowledge his own death reflected in Gibbs’ fierce blue eyes. Unfortunately, the combination of years, injury, and recent encumbrance meant that Gibbs’ movements were a hair too slow, and Chip managed to get half turned and an arm up before Gibbs could drive his knife home.

The ensuing struggle for the knife was too fast and confusing for eyes to follow, but in a few seconds Chip had managed to wrestle the blade away from Gibbs’ bloody hand. Fortunately for Gibbs, that same blood made the knife more slippery than Chip had been expecting, and it soon went flying to land too far away to do either of them any good.

Soon the two men were locked together in close-quarter combat, each seeking an advantage over the other. Chip was strong, stronger than Gibbs had expected, and deceptively quick, but Gibbs had years of experience and training on his side. Gibbs twisted like an eel in Chip’s grasp, riding out blows and launching his own successful counterattacks.

Gibbs growled low in his throat as he fought, his eyes blazing with his rage. Chip’s own eyes reflected a madness and bloodthirsty enjoyment that reminded Gibbs eerily of Kyle Boone. They continued to struggle for a few desperate moments before Chip’s foot snaked out and caught the back of Gibb’s ankle, sending him down hard to land across Tony’s legs.

Gibbs moved with all the speed he could muster, knowing that Chip was already reaching for the Sig he had tucked into the back of his waistband. His right hand found Tony’s left ankle, and he spun as he pulled Tony’s spare from its holster. His arms snapped up, both hands gripping the .22, one elbow half-supporting him as he lay prone across Tony’s legs.

Time seemed to slow as Gibbs locked eyes with Chip. He watched with a sniper’s detached, ruthless gaze as Chip’s eyes began to widen in surprise, his mouth opening in some vain curse of denial and rage. Chip’s arms were moving to bring the Sig up from behind his back, but Gibbs knew he’d caught his foe by surprise. Chip would never get his gun up in time.

If this had been a movie, Gibbs would have had a pithy, snarky one-liner à la James Bond to seal the moment, but Gibbs was neither a film character nor Tony. The closest thing he had was the tiniest upturn of the corner of his mouth, barely able to be called a smirk, as he smoothly pulled the trigger.

The cold rush of fierce satisfaction that flooded Gibbs system as he watched the bullet hole appear in Chip’s forehead and the light leave his eyes was better than any quip in his opinion, anyway.

He looked on as Chip fell backwards, sightless eyes wide open, to land on the rich, fertile forest floor. A nimbus of blood, brain, and bone sprayed out behind him like some unholy halo, settling on the fallen leaves and loam around his body while more blood pumped out of the hole where the back of his head had been.

With a short, sharp nod, Gibbs turned his eyes away from Chip and rolled off of Tony, groaning as his hitherto unnoticed fresh bruises and cuts made themselves known in a cacophony of aches, pains, and general complaints. His bum knee popped as if to make a point that you’re getting too old for this crap, Marine – not, of course, that Gibbs would ever admit it or surrender to the ravages of time.

With a start, Gibbs realized that Tony’s screams had stopped. He scrambled to crawl across the loam to reach his SFA, concern growing with every frantic heartbeat.

Tony lay face-down in the dirt, still and silent, chest barely moving with the rise and fall of his too-shallow breaths. His back was a mess of blood and shredded fabric. Gibbs checked the pulse at Tony’s neck; the weak, rapid flutter beneath his fingers did little to reassure him. He gave his SFA a shake in an effort to rouse the younger man but received no response. Tony was out like a light.

Gibbs didn’t dare turn Tony onto his back. He let out a sulfurous curse and turned to grab both his and Chip’s packs before returning to sit next to Tony. He pulled Tony so he was half-reposed on his right side across Gibbs’ thighs, curled into Gibb’s chest.

Fear, cold and tight, wound its way through Gibbs’ gut, panic threatening to rise up and swallow him. He rode out those first terrifying moments as the fading adrenaline rush resurged through him, ignoring his body’s instinctual response and focusing on the problem at hand. He’d long ago learned to control his fear; that ability had kept him alive through more scrapes than he could count.

Gibbs leaned his head down to whisper into Tony’s ear, all his fear and determination sharpening his words into points like daggers thrusting into the heart of his enemies.

“You listen to me, Tony. You still do not have my permission to die. I am going to get you out of here, and we are going to get you through this. You hold on. I’ve never left a man behind, and I’m certainly not going to start with you. You. Will. Not. Die. I’ve got your six.”

The slightest shift in Tony's position was all the response he received, but Gibbs was sure that Tony had heard him. Gibbs wasn’t so arrogant as to believe he could literally command Death to leave somebody alone (though he was sure there were people who believed that he actually could), but he knew Tony. Tony would do everything in his power not to disappoint him, and that little speech might be the difference between Tony giving up and Tony fighting to hang on. Gibbs knew better than most how important that little bit of determination was when it came to survival.

Satisfied that he had done all he could to shore up Tony mentally, Gibbs turned to more practical matters. He hurriedly opened Chip’s pack, digging through his supplies for what he prayed was in there somewhere. Sure enough, he soon pulled out a radio frequency jammer. Turning it in his hands for a few moments, he saw what he hoped was a power button and flipped the switch. To his great relief, the lights turned off; he hoped that meant it was powered down.

Setting the jammer aside, Gibbs reached into his pack and pulled out his handheld two-way radio. Gibbs rarely bothered to buy cheap gear; there really was no point in risking his life and the lives of others to save a few dollars. His two-way was a higher-end model with strong battery life and crisp reception. He switched it on and tuned it to the emergency channel before radioing in.

“Mayday, mayday, this is NCIS Special Agent Jethro Gibbs. I have a man down, I repeat, I have an agent down. Does anybody copy, over?”

Gibbs released the call button and waited, muscles tense, for a reply.

The seconds ticked by, each one moving with all the speed of a geological epoch. Gibbs was just about to repeat his message when his radio crackled to life.

“Agent Gibbs, this is Ranger Andrew Rossford with the National Park Service. We copy. What is your 20, over?”

Gibbs sagged with relief, the sudden rush leaving him almost giddy – not, of course, that Gibbs ever got giddy. With a snort at that, Gibbs radioed back his position and more details of Tony and his situation, giving orders to have the scene secured and NCIS called in. He ended the conversation with only slightly more tact than the usual click of his cell phone snapping shut, a brusque “over and out” his slightly more verbose sign-off.

Gibbs sighed wearily and readjusted his grip on his injured agent, hoping with all his might that help would be there soon. All around, the woods were settling into full night, pale beams of moonlight just barely penetrating the treetops. Gibbs pulled a blanket out of his pack and wrapped Tony the best he could. He clutched Tony’s backup tightly in one hand and cradled Tony’s body with the other, whispering reassurances in the darkness.

“You hear that, Tony? Help’s coming. Just hold on, son. Hold on.”