He looks through the scope of the rifle, the bent glass magnifying his target enough to see the smile on her lips and the twinkle of laughter in her eyes. The four little lines that come oh so close to meeting help him guide her vulnerable, beautiful head exactly where he wants it. The center. The killzone.

His blissfully ignorant mark gives a final smile and opens her mouth to speak the words no one yet knows will be her last. His own farewell cuts hers far too short.

"Sorry, Caitlin."

All it takes is the tiny, insignificant muscles in his finger to contract, and with that there is a loud bang, apathetic and unforgiving. Her last sentence falls away as a small piece of perfectly shaped metal pierces the air, spinning towards its target at a velocity invisible to the naked eye.

But then the wind blows, and so many futures stray off course just as the bullet does.

What follows next is gunfire and shouting, words and orders and panic all carried along by the gale that saved a life and condemned others.

By the time the sun sets that day, Ari Haswari is dead. His now cold body lies prone on the ground, blood and corruption and vengeance spilling from his wounds.

Ari Haswari is dead, Caitlin Todd is alive, and the storm preceded by that fatal gust of wind brings a downpour of cleansing rain upon Washington D.C.

It does not rain on that spring day in Tel Aviv. There is only the sweltering sun, constant and baking and expected. When the overbearing cargo plane lands on the dry Tarmac, one can see, even through the heat wave-bent light, a box be unceremoniously unloaded and carried off into the sweet air conditioning of the building.

The absence of a proud Israeli flag- white and blue and adorned with a star that means so much to so many people-draped atop the long, skinny box is profound, for inside the box rests eternally not a soldier but a traitor.

The only spectator stands off to the side in the blessed shade of the building, hoping to hide not from the sun but from anyone who would see the glint of tears in her eyes.

She fondles that sacred star around her neck and tries so futilely to come to grips with how very, very wrong she was about someone she once thought to be the epitome of good judgment. He fell so very far, until he came to a final resting place six feet below.

The girl who has now been made an only child tries so very hard to keep the tears at bay as she hopes and prays that this is the last time.

The next day, there is a funeral. There is black clothing and silence and even a prayer. It is small and low in attendance.

It breaks the hard-worn heart of the only one who seems to care.

Her dress is white, pristine, the color of the first snowfall and of dewy cotton. The cathedral is beautiful and the sun streams gently through the stained-glass windows. Her face is radiant.

And once he sees hers, his is too. His green eyes sparkle with love for the woman who started out as a partner but became so much more.

There are rings and vows and rice and whispered expressions of love that make her blush. Later there are kisses and moans and crinkled bed sheets, then tired but happy eyes close.

The beginning of the rest of their lives.

She goes all over the world, tracking and killing and tricking and carving her heart hollow with mission after

mission. Orders are all there is, orders to mark and lure and trap. She does this in Serbia, in France, in Egypt, in Turkey. She does this in America where she meets the people that played a part in the death of her brother. She meets a lot of people. She does a lot of things.

It blurs together.

He is late to the hospital, something which he knows he will never live down, but it no longer matters because in his arms is a human being so tiny and perfect that everything else in existence gets swallowed up. He thought he knew love before, when it was just him and her.

Now it is them, and they are happy.

It is many years later that her orders carry her down the red sea and to the Horn of Africa. In a bustling port her injured teammate relays to her the orders of the Director of Mossad.

The mission at all costs, even when that cost is his daughter.

It stings, like alcohol on a fresh wound, but it is an order and she is a soldier. She is twenty seven years old, and she has lived and fought a good life.

Ziva David is tired of fighting.

She makes her way through the swarm of people and away from her team, her past, her troubles and losses and heartbreak. Does not glance back; does not know about the suffering that awaits her at her destination.

Some people just aren't meant for happy endings.