A/N: Hey there. So first of all, I apologize for the delayed (very delayed...) update. See, I have this story on a flashdrive that I lost but then I found. And so now that AP exams are through with I'm back to updating. I've decided not to change the ending to this story. If anyone is interested in a sequel, let me know and I'll see what I can do. There should be like, two chapters after this one?

Anyway, please enjoy. All comments are welcome.

Thoop

Joe Farrow muttered to himself darkly as he examined his face in the grimy mirror. Having a short supply of medical care products at their hide out, drove about ten miles away to the closet gas station. The station was miserable. It seemed that the musty grime was the only thing keeping the place up. The store was poorly stalked and the cashier seemed as though he could care less. He was looking at a computer behind the desk when Joe walked in. He looked up once and then back down, ignoring the angry looking man with a nose bleed. Probably watching porn, thought Joe with disgust as he grabbed what little medical supplies he could and stalked into the bathroom.

The bathroom was atrocious, home to several cockroaches that scurried when Joe flicked on the crappy, flickering florescent. The floor was sticky and the toilet didn't seem to work, emitting a foul odor that seemed permanent.

Ignoring his disgust, Joe set to work on his nose. Tears leaked from his eyes as he reset it. Cleaning up his face and looking in the mirror, his dark thoughts came.

Why the fuck am I running with that asshole? I didn't go to college to be muscling for thugs. But that's all I am apparently. Trash when I was a kid and trash as an adult. I'm sick of this shit. I didn't sign up to make bombs. All that college chemistry for what? To be making explosives?

Joseph Farrow had made a valiant attempt to straighten out his life. Sure, he ran with a bad crowd as a kid, but he got his act together. He graduated from a decent college with a bachelor in Chemistry. But life got hard again. He couldn't find a job; people wouldn't hire the former gang banger. So, he embraced the gang banger side. Eventually, he crossed paths with Seymour Johnson, or "John Straight". Originally, it had been simple: protect Seymour as goods were transferred from point A to point B. Now, the whole kidnapping business was thrown in. It made Joe sick, that work. He wanted badly to bail. But, there was no real life for him apart from work with Seymour. He would always be gang muscle and nothing could change that.

Little known to Joe, however, the disinterested cashier was not engaging in pornographic entertainment. He was actually checking an advisory sent out to all gas stations. It warned about a violent man driving a dark SUV. As soon as he'd looked at the bloody nosed man, he knew this was who the cops wanted. He phoned it in immediately, exiting his store, fearful of what would happen when the cops showed.

Joe, finally satisfied that his nose had stopped bleeding, exited the restroom. He looked towards the cashier, finding the register empty. He took a moment to glance at the computer screen. A red line was flashing wanted. His heart sunk at the picture of his SUV and the composite sketch of him.

Suddenly scared, he bolted out the front door, throwing it open. He ran into a parking lot surrounded by police and FBI all shouting.

"Freeze!"

"Hands in the air!"

"Freeze!"

"NCIS, stop!"

"Federal Agents, don't move!"

"FBI, freeze!"

"Hands in the air!"

Caught unaware, Joe froze, hands shooting up. Two guys walked up to him, one a Hoover, the other the man he didn't recognize, an NCIS jacket on his body. The FBI agent hung back, but the NCIS one didn't. He grabbed Joe by collar of his jacket, knocking his feet from under him.

Joe went down with a yell. The NCIS agent still held him, pushing him down into the concrete.

"Where are they?" snarled an angry Timothy McGee. Joe, shaking with fear and relief from being found out, sputtered.

"N-not here man. Up the road about ten miles. Take the beaten trail to the right. The main road is wired with explosives. They'll blow your tires."

"How do I know the back road isn't wired?" asked Tim, still angry. He'd never felt so enraged before. He'd never had a reason to.

"Look, I laid the wires down myself. I planted the bomb in NCIS. I'm not lying to you. I-I don't want anything else to do with this. I didn't mean to get caught up in it all. Ten miles up the road, beaten trail to the right. It'll take you to a deserted thrift store. I swear, that's the truth. The guy you want is Seymour Johnson. He's the one, I swear." Tim got to his feet, leaving Joe on the ground, stalking away.

"He's all yours Fornell. I expect him back at NCIS." stated Tim, passing Tobias Fornell on the way to the car where DiNozzo waited.

"Oh, my pleasure McGee."