Lunch Run 1/1
First in a series of five short one-shots that will make up a bingo. This one is gen, we'll see where the muse takes the rest of the series.
Lunch Run
"Boss? It's, umm, kinda past lunch time."
Gibbs looked over at DiNozzo, who was leaning toward the elevator, and rolled his eyes. His senior agent had been antsy all day, ever since interviewing the witness with the blonde hair and the big - assets. He wasn't going to let him get off this easy. "Fine. McGee, make the lunch run."
"Boss?"
"Boss?"
He didn't roll his eyes at the two of them, but it was close. "DiNozzo, you made the lunch run yesterday. McGee can go today."
"If Tony really wants to go..."
The rain was coming down in sheets and Gibbs knew that was why McGee wasn't all that interested in going out. Gibbs almost felt bad about sending him out since he wasn't in the doghouse, but he was the team's probie and sometimes crap came with the territory. Get going, McGee."
"Yes, Boss."
---NCIS---
"Shut up, old man."
The hand that hit his face made him see stars, but Harold Wahl refused to let it show. "Take the money from the cash register and go."
"Eighty-five bucks? That's all you've got?"
"I bet here's more here someplace."
Harold wasn't sure which one of the two he should be more worried about. The young one with the gun waving around was unpredictable, but the older one with the swastika tattoo had a coldness to him that he hadn't seen since he'd been a boy in the camps. Carefully he made sure his sleeve covered the numbers that made up his own tattoo. "I'm sorry, most of my customers pay with a card nowadays."
"What about a safe? You got a safe around here, Gramps?"
He kept his expression very neutral. "Does this place look like it brings in enough cash to warrant a safe? Just take the eighty-five dollars and go."
The nervous one was watching the door. "Shit, there's somebody coming, Z-man. What do we do?"
---NCIS---
Soaked through his NCIS jacket even before he made it out to the car, Tim grumbled all the way to the little deli the team liked. Parking in the nearly empty lot, he pulled his cap down low enough to keep the rain out of his eyes as he ran for the door. Reaching the door, he tugged it open and stepped inside, wiping the water off his face as he called out. "Hey, Mr. Wahl, it's really coming down out -" He barely registered movement off to the side before his world exploded into pain.
"You idiot, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
Pain made his vision swim, but Tim was pretty sure that he was on the floor and that there were at least two of them in the deli, in addition to Mr. Wahl and himself. Trying to roll over and get to his weapon, Tim's jacket moved enough to reveal his badge, clipped to his belt.
"Shit, he's some sort of cop."
Tim still hadn't figured out where they were, but the first boot to his rib cage gave him a pretty good clue. Two more kicks and he felt his ribs give way. Unable to catch his breath, Tim managed to get his hands on his gun at the same time as his attacker. It was a losing battle, he knew that without a doubt, but he had to try. He managed to delay the inevitable for a few minutes, then the hands he was fighting shifted to grab his jacket, lifting him up and slamming his head against the floor
"Stop it, you are killing him."
Mr. Wahl, but he sounded so far away as Tim lost the battle to stay conscious.
---NCIS---
For a split second there was hope, but the young agent was shot as soon as he stepped inside the deli. The heavy rain meant that he was looking down, the brim of his hat protecting his face somewhat from the cold water and he probably never even saw his attackers. The nervous one had fired, then the skinhead was yelling.
"You idiot, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
If they'd been in a strip mall, or if it hadn't been raining so hard, someone might have heard the shot of the subsequent shouting, but they were in a free-standing building on the edge of an industrial area. They were kicking and punching the agent as he struggled to keep them from reaching the gun strapped to his waist.
"Shit, he's some sort of cop."
The blows increased and Harold knew they would murder him if it kept going. He was scared, but he had to do something.
"Stop it, you are killing him."
"Shut up, Gramps."
He watched as they rolled the now unconscious agent onto his back and removed his gun. The skinhead seemed pleased with it, running his hands over the black metal before pointing it down. "These things pack a hell of a punch, Robbie. You wanna see?"
"Yeah, man, do it. Splatter that pig's brains all over the place."
No, he could not allow that to happen. Not to a man devoted to helping others. Not to a customer so polite and kind. Harold picked up his heaviest skillet and charged.
---NCIS---
"Shut up, Gramps." Dismissing the elderly shopkeeper from his mind, Thomas Zablocki used his foot to roll his latest victim over. Grinning, he bent down and pulled the large handgun out of the holster. Sig Sauer, blued finish, it felt nice in his hand - a whole lot better than the small revolver he'd taken from his own grandfather. Standing up, he sighted down the barrel, lining up the dot with the cop's left eye. "These things pack a hell of a punch, Robbie. You wanna see?"
Robbie was a tweaker who loved violence. "Yeah, man, do it. Splatter that pig's brains all over the place."
It would be good, but it would be even better if the pig was awake. Seeing the fear in his eyes would have been the icing on the cake. He waited a few seconds, enjoying the anticipation, but the movement he saw was out of the corner of his eye. Without warning, or even flinching, he turned and fired, a cold smile crossing his face as Harold Wahl's head snapped back and his legs crumpled.
"Should have stayed cowering in the corner, old man. That's what you Jews do best. Get the money, Robbie, we're out of here."
"Sure, man." Robbie gleefully shoved the bills into his pockets. "What are we going to do with him?"
Zablocki looked down at the unconscious man and a plan started to form. "You wanna have some fun?"
"Yeah, man."
"We're taking him with us."
Lunch Run
"Boss? It's, umm, kinda past lunch time."
Gibbs looked over at DiNozzo, who was leaning toward the elevator, and rolled his eyes. His senior agent had been antsy all day, ever since interviewing the witness with the blonde hair and the big - assets. He wasn't going to let him get off this easy. "Fine. McGee, make the lunch run."
"Boss?"
"Boss?"
He didn't roll his eyes at the two of them, but it was close. "DiNozzo, you made the lunch run yesterday. McGee can go today."
"If Tony really wants to go..."
The rain was coming down in sheets and Gibbs knew that was why McGee wasn't all that interested in going out. Gibbs almost felt bad about sending him out since he wasn't in the doghouse, but he was the team's probie and sometimes crap came with the territory. Get going, McGee."
"Yes, Boss."
---NCIS---
"Shut up, old man."
The hand that hit his face made him see stars, but Harold Wahl refused to let it show. "Take the money from the cash register and go."
"Eighty-five bucks? That's all you've got?"
"I bet here's more here someplace."
Harold wasn't sure which one of the two he should be more worried about. The young one with the gun waving around was unpredictable, but the older one with the swastika tattoo had a coldness to him that he hadn't seen since he'd been a boy in the camps. Carefully he made sure his sleeve covered the numbers that made up his own tattoo. "I'm sorry, most of my customers pay with a card nowadays."
"What about a safe? You got a safe around here, Gramps?"
He kept his expression very neutral. "Does this place look like it brings in enough cash to warrant a safe? Just take the eighty-five dollars and go."
The nervous one was watching the door. "Shit, there's somebody coming, Z-man. What do we do?"
---NCIS---
Soaked through his NCIS jacket even before he made it out to the car, Tim grumbled all the way to the little deli the team liked. Parking in the nearly empty lot, he pulled his cap down low enough to keep the rain out of his eyes as he ran for the door. Reaching the door, he tugged it open and stepped inside, wiping the water off his face as he called out. "Hey, Mr. Wahl, it's really coming down out -" He barely registered movement off to the side before his world exploded into pain.
"You idiot, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
Pain made his vision swim, but Tim was pretty sure that he was on the floor and that there were at least two of them in the deli, in addition to Mr. Wahl and himself. Trying to roll over and get to his weapon, Tim's jacket moved enough to reveal his badge, clipped to his belt.
"Shit, he's some sort of cop."
Tim still hadn't figured out where they were, but the first boot to his rib cage gave him a pretty good clue. Two more kicks and he felt his ribs give way. Unable to catch his breath, Tim managed to get his hands on his gun at the same time as his attacker. It was a losing battle, he knew that without a doubt, but he had to try. He managed to delay the inevitable for a few minutes, then the hands he was fighting shifted to grab his jacket, lifting him up and slamming his head against the floor
"Stop it, you are killing him."
Mr. Wahl, but he sounded so far away as Tim lost the battle to stay conscious.
---NCIS---
For a split second there was hope, but the young agent was shot as soon as he stepped inside the deli. The heavy rain meant that he was looking down, the brim of his hat protecting his face somewhat from the cold water and he probably never even saw his attackers. The nervous one had fired, then the skinhead was yelling.
"You idiot, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
If they'd been in a strip mall, or if it hadn't been raining so hard, someone might have heard the shot of the subsequent shouting, but they were in a free-standing building on the edge of an industrial area. They were kicking and punching the agent as he struggled to keep them from reaching the gun strapped to his waist.
"Shit, he's some sort of cop."
The blows increased and Harold knew they would murder him if it kept going. He was scared, but he had to do something.
"Stop it, you are killing him."
"Shut up, Gramps."
He watched as they rolled the now unconscious agent onto his back and removed his gun. The skinhead seemed pleased with it, running his hands over the black metal before pointing it down. "These things pack a hell of a punch, Robbie. You wanna see?"
"Yeah, man, do it. Splatter that pig's brains all over the place."
No, he could not allow that to happen. Not to a man devoted to helping others. Not to a customer so polite and kind. Harold picked up his heaviest skillet and charged.
---NCIS---
"Shut up, Gramps." Dismissing the elderly shopkeeper from his mind, Thomas Zablocki used his foot to roll his latest victim over. Grinning, he bent down and pulled the large handgun out of the holster. Sig Sauer, blued finish, it felt nice in his hand - a whole lot better than the small revolver he'd taken from his own grandfather. Standing up, he sighted down the barrel, lining up the dot with the cop's left eye. "These things pack a hell of a punch, Robbie. You wanna see?"
Robbie was a tweaker who loved violence. "Yeah, man, do it. Splatter that pig's brains all over the place."
It would be good, but it would be even better if the pig was awake. Seeing the fear in his eyes would have been the icing on the cake. He waited a few seconds, enjoying the anticipation, but the movement he saw was out of the corner of his eye. Without warning, or even flinching, he turned and fired, a cold smile crossing his face as Harold Wahl's head snapped back and his legs crumpled.
"Should have stayed cowering in the corner, old man. That's what you Jews do best. Get the money, Robbie, we're out of here."
"Sure, man." Robbie gleefully shoved the bills into his pockets. "What are we going to do with him?"
Zablocki looked down at the unconscious man and a plan started to form. "You wanna have some fun?"
"Yeah, man."
"We're taking him with us."