Of alleys in border towns...
It's close to three AM when he finally climbs into his truck. He's exhausted, dirty, and knows he smells like at least three different levels of hell. His face is swollen - he hasn't looked in a mirror yet but the way the federale's fist connected with his face he knows he's got a monster of a bruise.
He hadn't expected it to go down like this, but ops like this are also about improvisation and today he'd had to improv. Today he'd had to go along after hooking up with the cell, flying blind after his wire had been cut by a jamming signal. Using his credentials, they'd made their way across the border into Mexico, flying down past the agents, down dirt roads that twisted and turned and took them into the darkest border town alleys that actually scared him. As they'd stepped from the truck Davis was driving, he had to step over the decaying body of a girl barely older than Kelly had been when she died. It took control he wasn't sure he possessed to not turn tail and vomit. But he was a good marine and fell into the role, following his group through to their contacts - three Federales and one turncoat marine, armed to the teeth, all waiting for their supplies of (bugged) weapons. He stood guard, gun in hand, while the deal went down.
It should have been easy, but ops never were and the Federales didn't like the way he looked. The turncoat smelled a rat and what Gibbs remembered was the fist connecting with his face while he was put through a loyalty test that made the hazing of the marines feel like a comforting memory. He was sure some rib was cracked and he'd rebroken a finger. God, he and Heather were just a fine mess. When one of the Federales pulled a gun out to test, he'd aimed it right between Gibbs' eyes and he'd spent thirty seconds putting up a good front all the while praying that he'd kissed Heather goodbye enough that morning and hoping that she and Jen would find some peace together again after he was gone. But the bullets sprayed around him and he didn't flinch, even when the gravel popped up and cut through his pants, slicing into his skin.
Now, the blood was dry and sticky. He'd put up with the team doc setting his broken finger and tweasing the biggest of the stones free, but he could ice his own face and pull the gravel from his own legs. He didn't need pain killers to take care of his finger. Sleep and bourbon would do enough and he had already been given a pass by the cell to not come back til the next deal so he could sleep off the swelling. He'd get a message when they needed him.
So he'd passed his evidence off to the cleanup team and been cleaned up in the back of a van and then dropped in a safe parking lot where his truck was waiting. Exhausted, he reached for his phone. Three messages waited along with one missed call and voicemail. Heather was trying not to sound worried but he could hear the panic under her voice. The first text message was her daily "Be safe, I love you." The second was timestamped after her voicemail and underwritten with the same panic. Simply, "Leroy?" The third would have made him laugh if he had the energy. He could see Jenny's eyes narrowed in petty anger as she typed out the words "YOU FUCKED MY SISTER" and even put a huge kind of smiley faced thing in the message. The part of him he's been pushing aside, the petty, angry side that is sick and tired of her "I'm so wronged" BS, wants to text her back not just with an affirmative that yes, he did and he has and he is going to in the very near future, but with details as well. The part of him that just wants to go home and wants to avoid being transferred to Mars wins out and he instead responds to one of Heather's texts with a quick, "Home soon."
Groaning, he started the truck and made his way home, begging his eyes to stay open and his body to not collapse until he at least made it to the couch. He was getting too old for this, but in the last sixteen hours he'd learned just how big this deal was. Special ops needed to be running this, not his MCRT. But they were in now and it was too late to back out.
Instinct told him to stop driving and he looked up at the house in front of him. At least he'd made it home. As he cuts the engine and steps from the truck, his mind flashes back to the body of the little girl in the alley and his knees give out for just a moment. He needed to keep it together; Heather couldn't know how dangerous this was. He needed her to be asleep inside, safe with James. All he needed was a moment.
He hadn't expected it to go down like this, but ops like this are also about improvisation and today he'd had to improv. Today he'd had to go along after hooking up with the cell, flying blind after his wire had been cut by a jamming signal. Using his credentials, they'd made their way across the border into Mexico, flying down past the agents, down dirt roads that twisted and turned and took them into the darkest border town alleys that actually scared him. As they'd stepped from the truck Davis was driving, he had to step over the decaying body of a girl barely older than Kelly had been when she died. It took control he wasn't sure he possessed to not turn tail and vomit. But he was a good marine and fell into the role, following his group through to their contacts - three Federales and one turncoat marine, armed to the teeth, all waiting for their supplies of (bugged) weapons. He stood guard, gun in hand, while the deal went down.
It should have been easy, but ops never were and the Federales didn't like the way he looked. The turncoat smelled a rat and what Gibbs remembered was the fist connecting with his face while he was put through a loyalty test that made the hazing of the marines feel like a comforting memory. He was sure some rib was cracked and he'd rebroken a finger. God, he and Heather were just a fine mess. When one of the Federales pulled a gun out to test, he'd aimed it right between Gibbs' eyes and he'd spent thirty seconds putting up a good front all the while praying that he'd kissed Heather goodbye enough that morning and hoping that she and Jen would find some peace together again after he was gone. But the bullets sprayed around him and he didn't flinch, even when the gravel popped up and cut through his pants, slicing into his skin.
Now, the blood was dry and sticky. He'd put up with the team doc setting his broken finger and tweasing the biggest of the stones free, but he could ice his own face and pull the gravel from his own legs. He didn't need pain killers to take care of his finger. Sleep and bourbon would do enough and he had already been given a pass by the cell to not come back til the next deal so he could sleep off the swelling. He'd get a message when they needed him.
So he'd passed his evidence off to the cleanup team and been cleaned up in the back of a van and then dropped in a safe parking lot where his truck was waiting. Exhausted, he reached for his phone. Three messages waited along with one missed call and voicemail. Heather was trying not to sound worried but he could hear the panic under her voice. The first text message was her daily "Be safe, I love you." The second was timestamped after her voicemail and underwritten with the same panic. Simply, "Leroy?" The third would have made him laugh if he had the energy. He could see Jenny's eyes narrowed in petty anger as she typed out the words "YOU FUCKED MY SISTER" and even put a huge kind of smiley faced thing in the message. The part of him he's been pushing aside, the petty, angry side that is sick and tired of her "I'm so wronged" BS, wants to text her back not just with an affirmative that yes, he did and he has and he is going to in the very near future, but with details as well. The part of him that just wants to go home and wants to avoid being transferred to Mars wins out and he instead responds to one of Heather's texts with a quick, "Home soon."
Groaning, he started the truck and made his way home, begging his eyes to stay open and his body to not collapse until he at least made it to the couch. He was getting too old for this, but in the last sixteen hours he'd learned just how big this deal was. Special ops needed to be running this, not his MCRT. But they were in now and it was too late to back out.
Instinct told him to stop driving and he looked up at the house in front of him. At least he'd made it home. As he cuts the engine and steps from the truck, his mind flashes back to the body of the little girl in the alley and his knees give out for just a moment. He needed to keep it together; Heather couldn't know how dangerous this was. He needed her to be asleep inside, safe with James. All he needed was a moment.