Notes: This was written for the 2018 Secret Santa Gift Exchange, to fulfill a wish by Penumbria to see a competent Tony, among other things. This is primarily an action case fic, mostly pre-slash DiNozzo/Gibbs.
To read all the submissions for this year's challenge, go to the NCIS-bang site at LiveJournal. Also at AO3.

As always, comments are appreciated!

Running with Scissors

Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

Tony loved to run. It made him feel alive, stretching his legs, feeling the burn, pushing himself to his limit and beyond. His feet pounded on the frozen ground as he ran through the woods, occasionally slipping slightly on damp leaves despite wearing boots with good tread. He fought his instinct to press on hard, and slowed down a little. He had to pace himself; he had no idea how far he had to go, but the more distance he put between himself and the men trying to catch and kill him, the better.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~

EARLIER

Two dismembered corpses had turned up – or, at least, some parts that indicated they were from two men – at various locations around rural Virginia, and were identified as Navy men who had been missing for three weeks.

"Why is this the first time I've heard of this?" demanded Gibbs.

McGee was quick to say, "Petty Officer Hansen was a gambler and was listed as being AWOL. Petty Officer Green was recently divorced and was on medical leave after back surgery. His superior officer didn't expect to see him for another few days."

Tony cut in to say, "And when the body parts started showing up, the FBI took the case and only just informed us, Boss."

"Well, we've got them now," Gibbs said, "so go down and find out what Ducky has to say, DiNozzo. Ziva, you see what Abby's got. McGee, get Fornell in here now."

The two dead Navy men, petty officers Hansen and Green, had been both stationed miles apart. The men were both athletic and in their thirties, but nothing else in their lives or backgrounds seemed to connect. Even the way they were killed was different. Petty Officer Hansen had been shot long distance, and Petty Officer Green had been knifed in the belly and bled out.

Ducky and Abby agreed that it was likely two people had worked together to kill the victims. They had recovered a partial print and DNA on the plastic wrapping a leg belonging to Hansen, and the same DNA on the second victim, Green's body. But a second man's DNA was also found on Green's clothing, suggesting that two killers may have worked as a team.

Using the forensic findings, the team narrowed down one of the killers to a former Navy SEAL, James T. Huston. The team found out that he had left the Navy a year ago, after doing a ten-year stint, was reputed to be the founder of the Warheads, an extremist group based in Virginia.

The FBI had looked into the Warheads but Fornell, who dropped off a file the FBI had on the group, admitted very little was known about them. "James Huston, the leader, did some rabble-rousing about six months ago, made some threats against the government, and his group incited a riot down in South Carolina. Fifty protestors hurt, damage to property, but nothing could be pinned on Huston or the people with him. Since then, he's kept low on the radar," he told the team.

Tony quickly reviewed the file. "Pinnell is the only other person known to have an affiliation with the Warheads? What's his background?"

Fornell replied. "Justice Pinnell, former army, saw a lot of action: Somalia, Afghanistan. He was investigated for torturing Afghan locals to get information. No charges were ever made. As far as others, we have a list of known associates, but none of them seemed involved in the group."

McGee said, "I'll pull up Pinnell's prints, and see if we have his DNA."

"Huston hasn't done anything illegal, that we know of, and the group hasn't taken credit for anything. So far they're just a name, another extremist group made up of men with military backgrounds. They don't even seem to have a central location. There have been no sightings of Huston for several months. He could be dead, or maybe he's left the country. And with no activity from the group, we've moved on. We have bigger fish to fry."

"So these Warheads are all talk and no action?" Tony asked.

"You calling dead Navy sailors 'no action'?" Gibbs demanded, looking seriously pissed off.

"No, of course not, Boss." Tony backed up a couple of steps and turned on his heel. "How about I look into Huston's background and activities? I'll check his connections to the deceased, and locate anyone who knew him in the Navy," he was quick to say as he headed for his desk.

McGee chimed in, as he made a beeline for his computer, "Bank accounts, money trails."

"See where his pension checks are sent," Gibbs reminded him.

"I will make contact with my Mossad friends…" Ziva said, but Gibbs stopped her.

"Forget that. These Warheads are local. Find them! Do it now! And somebody talk to the dead men's COs."

Fornell watched in amusement as Gibbs' team jumped right into their assigned tasks. "You sure have them trained well. Tell me, do you use a cattle prod or a nice big carrot?"

"They're good agents," was Gibbs' succinct answer. Tony started to smile at the praise but Gibbs barked at him, "If you're smiling, you're not working hard enough."

Tony quickly wiped the smile off his face and dove into his work. He was smiling inside, though, because Gibbs had praised them aloud, which was unheard of.

Further investigation found that there was nothing to suggest the two victims had ever crossed paths. They had nothing in common, except both men had been killed within a few days of each other, if not at the same time. Petty Officer Hansen was preparing to leave the Navy, and was said to have substantial gambling debts; Petty Officer Green had been plagued with stress-related medical problems ever since he'd returned from active duty overseas, plus he'd just gone through a divorce.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~

James Huston's former commander remembered him as having problems with authority figures. "Nothing I could write him up for. But it was always there, under the surface, that hint of insubordination. He liked being the lead, and if he hadn't been such a know-it-all prick, he would have risen in rank a lot further than he did."

It was frustrating because Huston neither owned nor rented any property on record, and had no living relatives. Since he'd left the Navy, the Warhead's leader had become a ghost. He didn't use credit cards, there were no phone records and no known vehicles in his name, and so far the MCRT hadn't found any way of tracking him. Wherever Huston was, and whatever he was doing, he was living totally off the grid. They couldn't even ascertain if the Warheads had a physical location.

"These days you can't do anything without leaving some kind of paper trail," Tony pointed out. "So Huston either has a new ID or…"

"Someone's fronting for him?" McGee asked. He turned back to his computer. "Has to be a friend, or someone he knew in the Navy, if he doesn't have any relatives. There's no match yet for the second sample of DNA, so we have no idea who he is."

Ziva said, "Perhaps there is no physical location for the Warheads. They might be made up of small cells of men who have little contact or knowledge of the other cells."

"Or else you're not looking hard enough," Gibbs replied caustically.

Days passed and despite all their efforts, Gibbs' team still hadn't located Huston or the Warheads' headquarters, or even any names of the group's members. Pinnell, the only other member of the group they knew of, was nowhere to be found.

At that point, Vance, who had been following their investigation, called a meeting with Gibbs and Tony in his office. He said he'd decided that someone should go undercover to locate any members of the group and see if anyone knew Huston's whereabouts. "DiNozzo, you're up. Start with gun shows, demonstrations, homegrown agitators' hangouts. And if you get any useful intel, the next step will be to try to infiltrate the Warheads."

Gibbs, annoyed that Vance was giving his agent orders, replied, "You mean when he gets the intel. And this is my investigation, so I'll tell DiNozzo where to look."

"Just get it done," Vance said sharply.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~

"I won't be able to wear a wire," Tony said, as they worked out the details in the bullpen. "Too risky. These guys aren't going to let any strangers in without frisking them."

"If Tony cannot wear a wire, how are we to keep dibs on him?" Ziva asked.

"Tabs," Tony corrected. "Keep tabs on him. I mean, on keep tabs on me." He turned to Gibbs. "Yeah, how are you going to do that, Boss? Last time I did this, that tracking device in my boot didn't work out so well."

McGee pulled a face. "Oh yeah. Jeffrey White. That did not work out well." Ziva elbowed him, looking for more info, but Tony caught McGee's eye and shook his head. The case reminded them of how Tony had gone missing when pretending to be an escaped convict, and how close he had come to getting his throat cut, and how McGee had grown a pair and told the Deputy Secretary of State to shove it, on Gibbs' orders.

They brought Abby into the meeting in the bullpen and she got all excited. "There's this cool new spy-chip we can implant in you, Tony, totally untraceable with a body scanner. Usually, they're injected in the back of the hand, but it'll leave a mark, so we'll have to inject it somewhere else." Her dark red lips slowly parted in a speculative smile. "Looks like you've been working out recently, Tony. I need some muscle, so how about I embed it in your shoulder?"

"How about shooting him in the ass?" Ziva suggested, giving Tony's rear end a quick slap.

Tony warned, "Do that again, Ziva David, and you'll end up on your ass."

"It was simply a playful–"

"Rule number thirty," Tony said, stepping out of her range.

"This is one of Gibbs' rules? Number thirty?" asked Ziva, looking around. "I do not believe I have heard it before."

McGee explained, "It's one of Tony's rules. Never touch a kid's toys… uh, a guy's things." Ziva looked puzzled so he added, rolling his eyes, "No touching. Just… hands off, Ziva."

Gibbs gave Ziva and McGee work to do, and barked, "DiNozzo, you're with me," as he strode towards the elevator.

In the lab, Abby was preparing a special gun that was used to inject the tracker. It looked like a glue gun with a sharp metal tube sticking out of the muzzle. Tony whined, "Is this going to hurt?"

"Only for a moment," Abby assured him. "The tracker is really small."

"But that needle is really big. Maybe I could swallow it instead?"

"Not a good idea," Abby said, with a laugh. "You'd need to dig for it when it…uh… comes out the other end, and swallow it again."

"Like Redford in The Hot Rock? His gang stole a huge gemstone from a museum, but when they ended up in jail they had to hide their loot somewhere."

"So they swallowed it?" Gibbs asked.

Tony nodded. "Oh yeah, one guy did. Had to recycle it, like Abby said. Not a nice image but… It was a great caper movie, despite the bodily evacuation thing. 1972, a Peter Yates film."

"You're stalling," Abby accused, holding the gun at the ready.

"Just take your shirt off, DiNozzo," Gibbs said impatiently.

"Okay, okay." Tony removed his shirt. He was aware of Gibbs' eyes on his bare torso, and, being under such intense scrutiny, he was glad all his working out had resulted in some nicely defined muscles. He quipped, "You know I'll strip for you anytime, Boss. You don't need the old microchip-in-the-shoulder excuse."

Gibbs snorted and watched as Abby injected a small silicon capsule the size of a bead into Tony's shoulder muscle. Tony made a big deal out of it, rubbing his deltoid afterwards and complaining that it hurt, which made Gibbs shake his head.

As Tony buttoned up his shirt and tucked it in, Gibbs said, "I want you to check in regularly."

"If I can. I might not get the opportunity." That didn't seem to satisfy Gibbs, so Tony mollified him, saying with a smile, "C'mon, Boss. There's nothing to worry about. You know me, I'm great at undercover. I can be anyone, and talk to anyone, and I'll bet you that once I locate these Warhead guys, they'll love me."

"I still want you to report back to me. We'll set something up. Vance okayed a place for Tony DiMaio to live, and you can work with Abby on getting it set up."

Abby clapped her hands and Tony grinned at her. "Sounds like fun," he said.

"This is not supposed to be fun, DiNozzo! Unless you want to end up with your dismembered legs in one county and your head in another, you'd better watch your six," Gibbs ground out. "You hear me?"

Knowing that Gibbs was right, and that his gruffness came from a place of concern, Tony nodded. "Sure thing, Boss."

~ • ~ • ~ • ~

Tony immediately got into his DiMaio character, and what had started out as a carefully constructed facade soon became part of his identity as he got deeper undercover. First thing was to change his appearance as well as his attitude, as people judged a book by its cover.

DiMaio was pseudo-military, rough around the edges, and on the lookout for easy money. Tony had been working out since before the op started, and had taken up weight training to bulk up a bit. He really got into his character, had his hair cut, high and tight like Gibbs', and wore layered hunting camo over white tees or, when it got colder, gray thermals. Nothing was new. He'd insisted on it, shopping at second-hand shops in the seedier part of town. Abby had put some extra wear and tear on the clothing by sticking them in a dryer and tumbling them with grit and pebbles.

Gibbs had looked him over with approval, and offered him a pair of his own well-used waterproof tactical boots.

Tony had asked, "You sure, Boss?"

"Yeah, but you'd better bring them back, DiNozzo. It took me a while to break 'em in."

NCIS set him up in an efficiency apartment. It was small and suitably grungy, in a part of town that reminded him of his first apartment in Baltimore. Abby helped him decorate it to look like home, or the kind of home that Tony DiMaio would have, with evidence of his military background including photos of him and his unit aboard the Eisenhower (manufactured by Abby), plus Shooter and SurvivalMan magazines, an oversized TV, a treadmill and a few weights, ratty blinds covering the windows, second- and third-hand furniture, and a brown-leaved potted plant that looked like its days were numbered. The aging pizza boxes stuffed in an overflowing garbage can in the corner of the kitchen, and some dirty socks and crumpled t-shirts strewn on the grungy carpet added to the ambiance.

If anyone checked up on him, they'd see exactly what he wanted them to see: a down and out former military man with no life to speak of, who was in serious need of room freshener and a vacuum cleaner.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~