Gibbs watched silently from above, given clear view of the scene unfolding below.

Watching the officers converge on Ziva's broken form, it seemed like the pivotal scene in an overrated action film. In a movie, Ziva would suddenly get to her feet, and miraculously succeed in eliminating each and every one of the new threats that surrounded her. Her father would watch on in shock, until Ziva finally turned her fury on him. And then Eli would have no time to question what had gone wrong with his world-ending plot before he died.

But this wasn't a movie plot—overrated or otherwise.

This was real life, real time.

Ziva didn't get to her feet. In fact, Gibbs could see that she was exerting most of her energy just to remain sitting upright. Vicious coughs wracked her body, and then blood was spat to the tarmac—more evidence that her lungs were failing.

And then, the devil in white stalked through the sea of black shirts, coming to a stop only when he was aligned with Ziva's position, no doubt taking in the failure she had inevitably become. Gibbs could not see Ziva's face, but seeing Eli's lips move in short, sharp bursts told him that father and daughter were conversing. Blue eyes memorized every curl and sneer of those Hebrew-speaking lips, wondering how a father could ever talk to his child that way.

He'd gotten upset with Kelly before, exasperated and frustrated, and yes, he had yelled at his daughter.

But never so demeaning, never so coldly.

With a pang of guilt, Gibbs wondered if he had seemed as such, the first time she'd come into their lives at NCIS. Not when she became Liaison, that much was certain. By then she'd had his trust. But when she was trying to protect Ari, seeming so aloof and superior—had his tone ever been so condescending as Eli's lips looked at this moment? Had his eyes ever been so coldly calculating?

He couldn't say for sure.

But before another thought could cross his mind, the scene below him drastically altered. A flash was all he saw, and then Ziva and Eli were aiming their weapons at each other. Gibbs heard Tony suck in a breath, felt the younger man stiffen beside him. Smirking lips framed more words, finally curling into a smug, satisfied smirk.

And then, the real world ended.

Time went on, the Earth kept turning.

But the world perceived by Leroy Jethro Gibbs ceased to be real.

The scene would replay itself in his head for months and years to come. He would forever remember the muffled double fire that somehow made its way past the thupthupthup of the helicopter's propellers, the sight of Ziva's dark head jerking backwards with the force of the bullet. His nightmares would show him flashes of the dark spray of blood that shadowed the pavement behind her for a split second before she fell and the halo of blood covered all.

But at that moment what stuck out to him the most was the sight of her hand falling limply to the tarmac, the gun he'd given her slipping from her lax fingers. Her body was instantly still, her struggle to breathe over for good.

He saw it as clear as day, every minute detail, but it was as though his mind couldn't process it properly. It happened inches from his eyes, and yet it seemed as though he were miles away. And though all he saw was her, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that she was not the only one to fall.

There had been a splash of red on white, and a grey haired head had snapped back. Chino-clad legs crumpled, and Eli David had dropped like a stone to the tarmac. A muddy puddle of blood framed his head, revealing the precision of Ziva's single shot, accurate to the last.

She'd done it.

She'd fulfilled her final vow.

It had ended on her terms. She'd ended her father's reign of tyranny, and by so doing had ensured that the family she had chosen as her own would forever be free from his clutches. No one would come hunting. Too many witnesses had been present at Eli's death for anyone to try blaming the Americans for the Director's death.

Vaguely, Gibbs wondered which of the two bloody corpses left behind would be considered the martyr of the Mossad.

The demon in holy man's white, or the angel in black?

He barely noticed that the chopper had finally left Israel and its single true treasure behind. He didn't notice the passage of time, or that he'd turned around to sit properly in the seat available to him. He didn't see the Eiffel Tower grow in the distance, and when he set foot on Parisian soil, he didn't feel the rush of nostalgia that usually accosted him when he thought of the city of romance.

All he saw was Ziva, bloody and broken like a shattered porcelain doll. He stared into eyes that could be so expressive, now and forever glassy—as empty as the body left behind.

Alone, abandoned.

And with the scene playing over and over in his mind, Gibbs realized that it was truly over. He had witnessed it with his own eyes. He'd said his goodbyes. He would not be able to hide in the possibility that the news of her death was fake, as he had for Shannon and Kelly. This time, he knew it was reality.

He'd born witness to her demise.

He knew it to be the Gods honest truth.

Just as abruptly as she'd slipped into their lives, she'd slipped right back out again.

She was gone, though the legend of Ziva David would persist. Those officers of Mossad, those whose eyes had followed her... they would remember her and honor her memory, her sacrifice, her success. They would remember her feats, and her loyalty. Her devotion would be talked about for years to come.

But NCIS—they would remember Ziva David.

Not the legend, not the stories. They would remember her— Ziva David. They would remember the woman she trusted them enough to reveal from behind years' worth of layered defenses. They would honor the friend, the sister, the confidant, and the guardian they'd all come to love.

They'd remember the heart behind the legend that was Ziva David.

Their angel in black.