She was different here.

It wasn't the quiet storm raging in her eyes, the pain that had persisted since Gibbs had spoken to her in the hospital. It wasn't the tension that had settled in her shoulders, leaving her stiff and reserved. It wasn't the way she'd isolated herself from the rest of the team, shut them out from her new world of hurt she'd found herself in. It wasn't the way she could barely stand to look a Tony, or the way he was scared to stand too close to her.

It was the way she moved through the deceptively bright halls of Mossad, the way her skin seemed to glow in her native sun. It was the way silent eyes followed her wherever she went, observing her lithe form as she went from room to room, focused entirely on getting to the bottom of her father's involvement in her relationship with Rivkin. It was the way men and women straightened imperceptibly as she passed.

In her years at NCIS, she'd become another one of Gibbs' agents—competent, admired, but still humble and unassuming.

But here, she was different.

Here, Ziva David was a legend.

Gibbs knew it the moment Ziva had commanded the other officers on the tarmac. The woman he'd come to know after her brother's death was not the woman who existed in Israel. As time had passed, Ziva the Mossad Liaison Officer had softened, until she'd blended in with the rest of the team.

A stranger observing them would have seen she was different, but it would not be until she chose to reveal her predatory nature that they would realize just how dangerous she truly was.

But the Mossad knew.

She'd only had to look at one of the drivers on the tarmac for the man to wordlessly relinquish his seat behind the wheel. Amit Hadar hadn't dared let his guard down around her—even in turning his back on her, his shoulders had been stiff, his senses on full alert until he was safe inside the glass walls of the building.

Gibbs wondered what stories had graced these halls, which tales were told to the new recruits. Which feats were whispered on late-night stakeouts, and which were distorted through the constraints of need-to-know? Which rumors left people proud, jealous, or in awe? There must be dozens, he reasoned, watching the hooded gazes that shadowed her movements.

These were not the looks that celebrities get. These officers did not stare because she was simply the Director's daughter. No, these were the stares that followed the unofficial heroes, looks of admiration and the pride to be a colleague. It didn't seem to matter that she'd spent the majority of the past four years in America, that none of them had seen her in months.

They were glad to have her back, regardless of the circumstances.

Gibbs wondered if Ziva was aware of the respect she commanded the moment she entered any given room in the building. She barely glanced at her peers, let alone deigning to acknowledge them with a nod or smile.

She had nothing but rage in her eyes, the entirety of it focused squarely on a total of three individuals—Anthony DiNozzo, Amit Hadar, and Director Eli David.

And God help them all.