A/N: Alright, I know this is a bit of an overused storyline, but I couldn't seem to get my own version out of my head. Maybe some of you will enjoy reading it. Whether you enjoy it or not, please leave a review!

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56…57…58…

Fifty eight breaths so far.

…59…60…61…

Sixty one agonizing intakes of oxygen. Ziva felt her ribs scream in protest as her lungs expanded for the sixty second time since her captor had left her.

…63…64…65…

As long as she counted, as long as she kept concentrating with all her strength on the pain, perhaps it might diminish. She knew she was hoping for a miracle by hoping to be found. It was basic Captive 101: hope only brings disappointment; cooperation only brings disposal; defiance only brings torture; silence will make you loyal.

Ziva snorted, and immediately regretted it. Any type of movement or exertion just made the pressure on her broken bones more forceful. Loyalty. It was a word that had been impounded in her head since she was a child.

Always remain loyal to me. Always remain loyal to Israel.

How many times had her father said that to her? To Tali? To Ari? To all of his officers? The thought of her siblings brought an emotional pain, perhaps worse than the physical pain that currently tormented her.

Of course, loyalty was something that Ziva had longed to claim. How simple the task of remaining loyal seemed when you were young and your hardest assignment was assembling a 45 caliber within your father's time limit. Now, when loyalty was needed the most, it seemed like an impossible accomplishment.

But it wasn't her father's words that had kept her lips sealed for however long she had been held in this shit hole. It was the memory of their faces.

No! Ziva screamed at herself mentally. She could not replay them again. She would only allow herself to see their faces when she was on the brink of breaking. When she knew that she was going to put them in jeopardy, then she would see them and feel the pain of loss, the most torturous pain there was, and remember why she had not divulged everything she knew.

By the ninetieth breath the pain had subsided, however slightly, and she knew she had to relax her body. Being tense would only further the damage, as proven by the ache of protesting muscles. Relaxing was not that easy when you had been roughly tied to a chair.

Now, she was left to ponder. So many things! Why did they want to know about NCIS? What could she possibly know that this terrorist cell would benefit from? Did they know who she was? Was the fact that her father was the director of Mossad more valuable than any scrap of information she could provide about NCIS?

Through the haze of unconsciousness, the befuddlement of these questions became too much to bear, so an uneasy slumber seemed much more inviting. Ziva had already tried to resist the pull of exhaustion, but there was no way to now and, judging by the amount of time that had previously separated the sessions of forceful interrogation, she had a good half hour before she should be back on full guard.

Awoken by the thump of footfalls and the muffled whispers of an unfamiliar dialect, Ziva's eyes shot open, prepared to gauge the nature of the next questioning.

That scraping sound of the lock shifting open had come to haunt her, and, after all her hard work to relax, she tensed at the sound.

"Ah, is the lovely sleeping beauty finally awake?" He asked, his voice sending shivers up Ziva's spine. Damn! How long had she been asleep for? And how did they know?

Cameras. There must be some in the cell she was being held in. Again, Ziva made the mistake of allowing herself to hope, and she felt the faintest flicker of it that maybe Abby or McGee (she winced at the thought of them) would somehow see where she was.

Silence. Remain silent. She commanded herself and did her best to not make eye contact. Eye contact was to intimidate and demand respect, which she was in no position to do. She heard him shift slowly over to her.

"Are you ready to be a good girl now?" He leaned down so that his hot, repulsive breath blew across Ziva's face, even though she kept her head bent down.

Silence. Silence. Loyalty. Remain silent.

"No? Well, that calls for some more…persuasion."

Ziva let out a yelp as he slammed his fist into her midsection, knocking the wind out of her and sending a piercing pain across her rib cage.

When her involuntary gasps quieted, he walked behind her, gently combing her matted hair away from her battered and swollen face.

"Anything? How about just your partner's name? I don't mind starting off slow." He had now gathered all her hair and Ziva winced while his other hand caressed her broken cheekbone.

Seething inside, she acted rashly, turning to spit into his face. Defiance always led to more pain. But he had made her remember Tony. Tony.

Another yelp as he yanked back on her hair, straining her neck back until she could see him out of her good eye. There was the slicing sound of metal and, before she could react, a rusty knife was in his hand, inches from her neck.

"How about now? Just say one little thing, and maybe I will spare you."

With the blade dancing so close to her jugular, the word 'silence' was a hard one to live by. After sucking in a painful gasp, Ziva squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring the dull ache as the left side of her face reminded her that it was damaged, and let the mental images sear into her eyelids.

Gibbs, his solid determination shining on his face.

Ducky, rambling on, with a good natured smile.

Abby, always with a reassuring happiness about her. How Ziva wished for one of her hugs right now.

McGee, so ready to assist and easy to rely on.

Finally, Tony. The most painful one to remember, solely because of how she had mistreated him in her ungrateful and grieving state. Would she ever see that goofy grin that always made her feel a little lighter? Would she ever have someone she looked forward to working with so much?

Those questions were futile, seeing as her chances of escape were slim to none, but they weren't what mattered at the moment. Even though flashing back to the only people she had ever allowed herself to get truly close with made her feel like she was ripping herself apart, it reaffirmed her position to not drag them down with her. If she was going to die, then the less loved ones that had to pay a price, the better.

Her interrogator became impatient, pressing the dull side of the knife just above the collar bone and cutting off her air supply.

"You don't want to talk? Fine, then. I can think of a few other things we can do." He aimed a well placed kick to the side of her knee.

She couldn't hold it in this time; the sharp, searing pain shot up and down her leg and she let out a gasping scream. Lack of air had made her head spin, but no lasting damage there while she twitched her knee to ascertain the exact damage there. Another sharp stab told Ziva what she had probably already known. Broken. That would make running anywhere difficult. Definitely not impossible, though, if it came to that.

"Let's see. I am guessing you know that I have extensive training in the field of—ah--coercion, we will call it." His putrid breath was on her face again.

Instead of responding, Ziva returned to her previous tactic. Silence.

Now he pressed his face close to her swollen cheek so that his lips were centimeters from her ear and hissed, "There are more than a hundred thousand ways I can think of right now to kill you. None of them will be quick or pleasant."

Intimidation. Threats. Pressure points. Lack of oxygen. Pacing the pain. All techniques that Ziva had learned and readily used when working for Mossad. But she would not cave in. She knew the games he was playing. Fear of death was often more persuading than pain. When you threatened death by pain, most of the time the captive would surrender.

Not Ziva. Not Ziva David.

And she knew the worst of it was coming, if not by her own training, then by the sadistic gleam in his eyes as he once again toyed with the knife in his hand.