Transitional States III, Ch1
Part 3: Slouches Toward Bethlehem
Author's Note: Picks up around eighteen months after the previous chapter, placing it somewhere around the season 7 timeline wise (minus the whole Rivkin fiasco & Ziva betraying the team silliness from canon.) Some quick notes: 1) It is public knowledge that Director Shepard died in a gunfight; the cover-up in this case conceals that she was the target of an assassination; 2) Ziva is no longer on the MCRT, but rather acts as an actual liaison officer with NCIS Counterintelligence, which is still based in DC; 3) Technically, Tony and Jethro hold the same ‘rank’ (Supervisory Special Agent), with Gibbs clearly grooming DiNozzo to take over the DC MCRT when Jethro retires again (which he's been hinting at.)
References to canon episodes might be made but do not expect me to go into much detail about how they changed unless they directly apply to the story (which I don't expect them to.) Expect implied sex, explicit violence, harsh language, bad decisions, unlucky breaks, and butt-kicking action. All the things that are best in life ... wait ... that's "to crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women." Ah, Conan.
And yeah, I know it's utterly unrealistic that Tony would be back in fighting form so quickly, but he clearly has a superhuman healing factor based entirely on the canonical fact that he even returned after the events of SWAK ... just like Ziva's ridiculously fast recovery (emotionally and physically) following her Bogus Desert Vacation following "Aliyah" so just roll with it. This is Hollywoodland, where bullet wounds are minor inconveniences, not career-ending injuries.
Updates will be very sporadic.
Tony
Petty Officer Second Class Henziger was a complete moron.
The Navy corpsman was big and beefy, looking more like a linebacker for a football team than a medic, but at the moment, Tony was too busy wondering if the U.S. Navy had reduced its entry requirements in order to allow the functionally brain dead to join up. In his eight-plus years with NCIS, DiNozzo had never before interacted with a criminal this stupid. Even the stoned-out-of-their-minds’ gang-bangers he’d had to deal with in Baltimore before joining Gibbs’ team were smarter than this clown.
“I swear,” he remarked from the chair that he’d been handcuffed to, “you guys have to be the dumbest bank robbers in the history of bank robbery.” Henziger gave him a sour glance, but then turned his attention back to keeping the employees covered with his submachine gun. “I mean, hitting a bank in the middle of a workday is one thing,” he continued, “but the way you did it? Pure amateur hour.”“Shut up,” Henziger growled in a distinctly Bostonian accent. He glared. “And we got the drop on you, didn’t we?”
“That’s not how I remember it,” Tony replied with a bright grin that he didn’t actually feel. His head continued to ache from where one of Henziger’s cohorts had struck him with the butt of his weapon as DiNozzo was emerging from the bathroom. It had been pure unluckiness that landed him in this latest mess - the MCRT didn’t even have a case at the moment! - and knowing that Ziva wouldn’t let him live this down made him grind his teeth. Why did these morons have to hit his bank on the very day he was allowed to officially return to field service after a year and a half of painful rehab and even more excruciating desk duty? And on his damned lunch hour when all he’d wanted to do was withdraw some freaking money! Did he have some sort of ‘kick me’ sign hanging on his back that only bad guys could see?
He shot a quick, annoyed look at the cowering form of Probie Number Six - Cavill? Cahill? Eh, who cared? The guy was almost as big an idiot as these idiots and sure as hell hadn’t been much use so far; what kind of crappy agent didn’t even try to warn his partner that bad guys were in the building? - and then carefully surveyed the five bank robbers. Henziger was the only one not a Marine, and Tony’s stomach twisted into a tight knot as he observed how careless these men were in their treatment of the hostages. They weren’t only stupid, they were callous and dangerous. From the way these men were acting, especially around the more attractive tellers, it seemed like only a matter of time before this got ugly.
Which meant that Tony had run out of time.
He had already managed to pick the lock on his handcuffs (for which he had to remember to thank Ziva for her more … interesting games; who knew they had practical applications?), thanks entirely to the really poor job Henziger had done of patting Tony down. They’d taken his Sig, but missed the back-up .38 strapped to the small of his back, as well as the three knives he had secreted on his person. The lockpicks in his back pocket had obviously been overlooked, but most damning was how they didn’t even bother to check his pockets for a phone. It had taken some very awkward contortions to get the cell out and dial Gibbs - speed dial number two - without letting these clowns (or anyone else for that matter) realize his cuffs were undone. He had hoped that Gibbs would get here before things got out of hand, but that didn’t seem likely.
With the cuffs hanging limply around his left hand, Tony needed to get Henziger close enough for a takedown that wouldn’t endanger any of the civilians on the floor. He smirked as he realized the approach to take. There weren’t very many people who understood that his mouth was as dangerous a weapon as any pistol he carried; pick at someone enough and it would piss them off, which always led to them doing something stupid or sloppy. Stupid and sloppy he could handle.
“Taking out the cameras made sense,” he said, “but stepping in front of them to spray paint the lenses ... while wearing your uniform?” He shook his head in disgust. “Neil McCauley you aren’t.” Henziger gave him a blank, uncomprehending look. “Neil McCauley?” Tony repeated. “Played by Robert De Niro in Michael Mann’s 1995 classic, Heat.”
“I don’t watch movies,” the petty officer grumbled. “Now shut up.” He took a step closer to where Tony sat, brandishing the Intratec TEC-DC9 he held in one hand. Tony ignored him.
“Then you missed a very important morality tale,” he said. “At the end, McCauley was killed by Vincent Hanna, played by the always excellent Al Pacino.” He flashed a smile. “In this example, I’m the good LAPD lieutenant and you … you’re not even Val Kilmer’s character.”
“Do you ever shut up?” Henziger snarled. The petty officer was clutching the butt of his TEC-9 so tightly that his hands were almost white with strain … which was rather telling since the man was African-American. Tony snickered.
“Afraid not,” he replied. “Drives my boss crazy.” He wet his lips. “You know this isn’t going to end well, Henziger,” he said calmly. He watched as the muscles in the petty officer’s jaw twitched but pretended not to notice as he watched the corpsman’s three Marine accomplices continue emptying the teller’s registers while the fourth loitered near the door to keep an eye out for the police. “Either you or one of your buddies is going to do something stupid,” Tony added, “and then somebody will die. After that, all bets are off.”
“Shut up,” Henziger hissed again. Just a little more, Tony told himself. The petty officer was teetering on the edge and only needed a tiny push…
“And I bet you’ll be real popular in prison,” DiNozzo replied. “With that ‘purty’ mouth of yours.”
“Shut up!” the corpsman bellowed. He took two rapid steps toward Tony, raising the TEC-9 as if to shoot him.
And, in that moment, Tony acted.
He sprang up out of the seat, lunging toward the startled Henziger so quickly that the much larger man was caught completely by surprise. With his left hand, Tony grabbed the corpsman’s wrist and redirected the TEC-9 toward the ceiling (just in case it was fired) even as he smashed his right fist into the man’s throat with as much power as he could muster. Henziger reeled backward from the blow, dropping the submachine gun as his hands automatically went to his throat. Ignoring him, Tony crouched, yanking the .38 from its place of concealment and thumbing the hammer back. He took aim at the fourth Marine by the door who was bringing his own SMG around. Their eyes met.
Tony pulled the trigger.
With a boom, the .38 kicked in his hand and the Marine toppled, blood gushing out from the perfect hole in his forehead. Tony spun, locating a second Marine, this one in the process of dropping his bag and clawing for the M4 carbine hanging off his shoulder. DiNozzo fired once more, the boom echoing loudly in the enclosed space, but his aim was slightly off. Instead of hitting the man in the chest, the round struck high, smashing through the Marine’s throat and severing the jugular artery. He fired again, this time aiming squarely for the man’s heart, before sliding closer to where Henziger was kneeling. The corpsman’s face was turning purple from lack of oxygen, but, apart from giving him a solid kick to the head to encourage the hulky moron to pass out, Tony ignored him while he tried to get a bead on the other two Marines. One of them sprang into view, firing his M4 with short, controlled bursts as he bounded forward. Bullets screamed by his head, but Tony pushed the instinctive fear away and hunkered down behind cover - in this case a very nice, very thick desk - between himself and the shooter.
The distinct sound of the man ejecting the magazine from his M4 was the sound DiNozzo was waiting for, and he popped up into view, found his target stupidly standing there fumbling with another magazine, and fired three times. All three rounds struck center mass and the Marine dropped to his knees, a startled look on his face as he touched the bullet holes. He gaped at the blood on his hands and then fell forward.
Empty! Tony’s brain screamed at him as the last of the Marines shuffled into view, hiding behind the useless hunk of flesh that was Probie Number Six. The Marine was holding a pistol to the man’s temple and staring at Tony with very wide eyes.
“Freeze!” the man shouted as DiNozzo began stalking forward, the now useless .38 held at the ready as if he hadn’t just emptied it.
“That’s my line,” Tony replied. “Drop your weapon and let him go.” The Marine’s eyes darted quickly, bouncing back and forth between the unmoving forms of his associates, as well as the moaning, terrified civilians on the floor. His lips began to move and DiNozzo realized the man was counting. “I know what you’re thinking,” he quoted. “Did he fire six shots or only five?” He stepped closer. “I could tell you that I kind of lost track myself, but that would be a lie.” Step. “There are two ways this will end,” Tony said flatly. His aim never wavered and he locked eyes with the Marine. “You can walk out of here in handcuffs or we can carry you out in a body bag. Your call.”
“I’ll kill him!” the sergeant exclaimed, his eyes wide with fear.
“No, you won’t,” DiNozzo replied. He slid carefully to the side, which in turn caused the Marine - Womack, according to his nametag - to backpedal slightly. “If you kill him, then there’s absolutely nothing keeping me from shooting you in the head.” Tony shifted again, frowning darkly as the ever-present ache in his shoulders - a gift from the late, unlamented Viggo Drantyev that kept on giving - intensified. It wasn’t bad enough to inhibit motion or affect his ability in the field, but was always there, a dull pain that never really went away except when he was on painkillers, which had drawbacks of their own. No one - except for Ziva, of course - even knew about the chronic pain and, while she worried about him, she understood his need to get back into the saddle as quickly as possible. “This is your only way out that doesn’t include you on an autopsy slab, Sergeant,” he said coldly. Womack was silent for a very long moment and, when his eyes met Tony’s, he visibly recoiled.
“I don’t want to die,” the Marine said softly.
“Neither does he,” Tony replied. “Let him go and drop your weapon.” Womack obeyed, dropping the pistol and raising his hands into the air. “Cuff him,” DiNozzo ordered, the .38 still trained on Sergeant Womack. The moment Probie Number Six - dammit, what was his name? Gibbs had used it just this morning! - snapped the cuffs onto the Marine, Tony lowered the pistol and headed toward the front door, pulling his badge off his belt as he did. He didn’t have to wait long.
With a screech of braking tires, Gibbs and McGee arrived in one of the NCIS Chargers. Mere seconds later, four other vehicles arrived - three local LEOs and another Charger, this one carrying Fornell and … oh, God, Sacks himself. This day just kept getting better and better. Tony shook his head in disgust before pushing the door open and brandishing his badge.
“About time you showed up, Boss,” he groused as the LEOs raced inside to assume control of the situation. Frightened - or excited, as in the case of a teenager barely old enough to shave - civilians rushed out of the building where more police officers began segregating them for statements.
“What’s the situation, DiNutso?” Fornell asked, frowning at the splatter of blood and brains that caked one of the doors.
“Under control,” Tony retorted coolly. He focused his attention on Gibbs. “Four Marines, one Navy corpsman. Three are dead, one is probably dead, and the fifth is in cuffs.”
“Probably dead?” Sacks interjected contemptuously. Tony shrugged and moved out of the way so the newly arriving paramedics could enter. One of them he vaguely recognized as a girl he’d dated a couple years back, but he pretended not to see the wink she sent him as Gibbs gave the bank a quick glance before shaking his head.
“One day, DiNozzo,” he said, wry amusement in his voice. “You’re back in the field for one day and you get into a shoot-out.”
“At a bank, no less,” Fornell pointed out. “I think your people intentionally try to make my job difficult, Jethro.” He and Gibbs exchanged long-suffering looks, and Tony marveled at how they seemed to communicate without even speaking. Fornell raised both eyebrows, Gibbs shrugged, and Fornell nodded. “Walk me through this, DiNutso,” he ordered once all non-law enforcement personnel had been escorted out of the building. Tony glanced at Gibbs who nodded.
“I came out of the bathroom,” he said in a bored voice, “two of them jumped me, grabbed my Sig - which I’d like back sometime soon - and then cuffed me to a chair.”
“And where was your partner during this?”
“I dunno,” Tony replied. “Where were you, McGee?” Tim did a poor job hiding his smile as Probie Number Six flushed and looked down. “The probie was already on the ground when they threw me in the chair,” DiNozzo continued. “I picked the lock, got my cell, contacted Gibbs, and waited.” He frowned. “And then they started acting stupid - shoving people around, threatening some of the women…” His voice cracked slightly on this last remark and Gibbs gave him a quick look that no one else seemed to notice. “So I acted before they hurt any of the hostages.” He pointed toward the door and the first Marine. “Took out the petty officer, pulled my back-up gun - did I mention these guys were stupid? - and got a lucky shot on that guy. Put two rounds into number two, and then three into him.” He ended the explanation by pointing to the Marine in question.
“That’s six shots,” Probie Number Six said, suddenly remarkably pale.
“Stop the presses,” Tony growled. “He can actually count.”
“You didn’t have any bullets left!” the probie said with wide eyes. “He had a gun to my head and you didn’t have any bullets left!” Muttering something under his breath, he stormed away.
“Ah, crap,” DiNozzo muttered. “Think he’ll come back?”
“Not likely,” Gibbs replied before shaking his head. “That’s five you’ve chased off, DiNozzo.”
“Six, Boss.” Tony winced the moment the words left his lips.
“The director’s going to love this,” McGee offered with a grin.
Tony sighed. And to think, the day had started out so nicely.