I'll try to make this story a stand-alone, but no promises. If you have any questions, just ask.
THIS GOES FOR THE REST OF THE STORY: I DO NOT OWN NCIS... OTHERWISE IT WOULDN'T BE NEARLY AS GOOD!
Previously...
I slipped quietly through the forest. The encrypted cell they gave me told me the extraction point was right around here.
I felt no shame in shedding my Marine Uniform. Any pride that came with wearing it had been buried in some battlefield. Now it had allowed me to do what I did best.
Kill.
I made it to the extraction point, wearing the clothes of the dead Serb I had put my camies on. A chopper was waiting, along with a team and a man.
I walked up to him. He smiled, "You must be our newbie. Call me Tarquin."
I didn't need to. I already knew his real name. He was Harrison Ambler. A Secretary for the State Department, officially. Unofficially, he was a high member of Consular Operations, the Intelligence Service of the State Department.
"Your new codename is Trev," he says, "Welcome, to the Political Stabilization Unit."
"Booth," said Trev, "Problem."
"Hodgins, I got a mysterious powder for you to identify in exchange for classified intel," I proposed.
The scientists head jerked up, "I think I have a man-crush," he confessed to his wife.
"I got your test results back," he said as he handed me a folder, "Antmethamphedrine. It's a-"
"Neuro-suppressant. Rare, used as a hopeful Huntington's med. Slows down nerve reactions to a almost standstill," I finished.
"Ugh, yeah. It's also called anti-meth. Instead of sending the brain into a frenzy it slows it down," he said, "I found something weird, though."
"How weird?"
"This stuff was coated into tiny capsules of different material," he said, "A wide variety of proteins that would have taken a while to break down in the body. Anywhere from a few seconds to a few days."
A light bulb went over my head, "Keep me from overdosing and from them to continuing to dose me," I said, "This would have taken serious medical and chemical knowledge and equipment. Rules out a pissed of terrorist group. They don't have the patience or brains," I got out of the office.
Sarah McGee has been declared missing at 0400 hours this morning. She had not made contact with anyone and McGee was trying to find out why.
Computers are interesting things. They can store massive amounts of information in a very small space. They can do advance calculations in the blink of an eye. They can measure any similarity down to the atomic structure.
Which is what happened. The lady who gave the computers interesting work, who commanded them with evidence and data, had given them a new piece to analyze.
Computers, being machines, were set to the user's preference, and as such displayed the collected data n a way that made sense to the user. And, being computers, they new nothing of the sadness felt by their mistress. They new nothing of the friendship between their subject and their leader. Currently, it was working piece of blood work.
The computer matched the blood from the body in the autopsy basement to Special Agent Kate Todd. The computer screen showed that it matched Special Agent Todd's blood profile 99.9%.
Computers, being machines, also recorded further the match. In most cases, the match was 99.99999~%.
In this case, it was 99.9143858284950200001%
KT
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Ag- K- To-"
"N-S! F-"
"T-"
"I need coffee."
"You bastard!"
I jerked my eyes open. I could feel the sweat and taste the sourness of morning breath. I rubbed my head and sat up. The headaches set in as they always do. The jumbled images and sounds of my past life still rang in my head. I quickly recorded everything in the notepad I kept by my bed for just such an occasion.
I rolled off the bed and onto my face. I began my morning push-ups. When I reached one hundred I flipped over and began sit ups. Another hundred. I jack-knifed to my feet and got on my treadmill.
Three miles later I helped myself too breakfast. Orange juice and a protein bar. My modest house in the middle of Savannah's suburbs was quiet as a tomb, as it always is. I dressed and grabbed my sketch pad.
I just hoped I wouldn't have to kill anyone today.
Trev
"Wake up, grab beer, grab rear,
shave beard, put on some scene gear,"
I pushed my way through the crowd of clubbers. I hated clubs. They were loud, noisy, smelled of pis, vomit, and sweat, and, unlike a battlefield that also had those attributes, was unlikely to explode in a gunfight. I'll remedy that last part soon enough.
"Gotta get drunk before my mom wakes up,
Break-up with girlfriend so I can bang sluts."
At least the music was good. The Cougars used to listen to Taylor Swift. Well, she is talented and hot. That alone says much about our standards.
I'm undead, unfed
Been sleeping on bunk beds
Since ten
So if I don't booze it, I'm gonna lose it
Everybody get to it, do it, get ruined
I pushed my way to a alcove in the back. A big black guy in a expensive white suit without a tie was sitting down in the alcove. He was surrounded by bigger black guys with poorly concealed weapons. They were also dressed in cheaper clothes. Two young women were pawing the boss and drinking cocktails. It was weird that they were both blond.
The second he saw me he snapped his fingers. I smiled. This would be fun.
When I start drinking
My dick does all my thinking
Hoes want to be scene with me
And I like their big thick titties
The one on the right tried to grab my arm. I shot my left arm forward and broke his elbow. I used my right hand to grab his neck and threw him into his buddy.
I spun around and knocked away the handgun of the guy behind me. I kicked his knee to the side, breaking it. I finished with a blow to the junction between the jaw and skull. A knockout.
Another came out of the crowd. I pushed his gun to the outside. I grabbed his neck and pivoted, throwing him to the ground. I jerked my hand forward, crushing his windpipe.
Drink fast and enjoy your buzz
Take back streets to avoid the fuzz
I wanna take you home but your friends won't let ya'
I got a 40 in my Ford Fiesta
Another guy came out. Well , this is the ghetto. These guys breed like rabbits. I just settled for a kick to the groin and a blow to the back of the neck. Hey, I was annoyed.
I turned to the boss. He was doing a good job of keeping calm. Not against my eyes, however. He was essentially sweating bullets under his calm demeanor.
Dear God, another one came out. He tried to charge me. Guns have a range for a reason. Then again, these guys were probably bad shots. I backhanded him in the jaw and hit him I the back of the neck. Judging by the increased worry, that was the last one.
So I'll beat my meat like I'm a fuckin' butcher
And I'll punk the pussy like I'm Ashton Kutcher!
I walked up to the now unprotected gang boss and grabbed his collar. I threw him into the ground. I brought my boot down onto his stomach. He gasped in pain and curled into a ball. I took him by the back of his collar and dragged him into the bathroom.
I shoved him against the wall. I said, "Here's how it works. I ask a question. You answer with absolute honesty, and you don't leave here a black Jew," for emphasis, I drew my K-bar fighting knife.
He scowled at me, "You don't kno-"
I hit him in the nose with the but of my knife. His nose started to bleed profusely. I grabbed his neck and pushed him against the wall, blade at his face, "Yes, I do know who I am messing with. I'm not afraid or impressed. However, I need some info that you can provide."
"What?"
"A few months ago a woman entered the city. I want to know who she was."
"What makes-"
I pressed the blade harder, drawing blood, "She's black ops. Better than the usual hitman you get. No one that good enters a city and leaves unnoticed. She probably bought supplies or gear. You knew, I want to know where she came from."
"I don't know!" he protested truthfully, "Some city on the east coast, that's all I know, I swear!"
I let him drop to the ground. I wiped my blade on his ruined suit. I placed my knife back in it's sheath. I got out of the club. If she came from the east coast, then their was one city she probably came from.
DC was full of rich, powerful men with secrets and loose morals, plus weak stomachs. It was the Los Angeles of assassins.
Here's what I know:
Someone's out to kill me. No surprise.
Someone who actually has a good chance at killing me. That's a surprise.
First they tried to capture me. They used a rare drug, coated in proteins designed to be broken down in my body at different intervals so that I wouldn't OD.
The drug came from J&J's Pharmaceuticals.
From the records I stole from J&J, the batch used on me was delivered to a warehouse owned by Armorex Corp. Armorex makes the armor plating used by the Navy.
Armorex is a dummy corp. it is owned by Hellborne Industries, which makes all the wonderful toys so beloved by those who like killing people. People like me.
J&J is owned by Sarah Anderson, a bleeding heart who sends money and meds to Doctors Without Borders. She built a school in Niger, where tribes are fighting for control. Hellborne is owned by Robert Claypool, who is believed to have started that war to sell weapons. I had a money laundering buddy of mine look into it, and there was no money transfer. That meant it had to be pro bono. That meant the two had too see eye-to-eye. Not likely.
No connection. At least, not one that made sense. Because, though Brennan will consistently say that it does no matter why, only how, that's not how I work. Booth is with me on that. How is only have the answer. Why tells you more. Why tells you were else to look. Why tells you if it is justified or not.
Why tells you their emotions. It tells you if they lie at a glance. I read people. Why is important.
But at this point, I'm looking if their birthdays are close together. I got nothing.
I had all the stuff I could get on the two leads, The Bitch that almost beat me and the companies. The Bitch is obviously connected to the companies. They probably paid her. She's probably just some hired muscle. Problem was, how the hell, with all my contacts in the underworld, did I miss such a skilled colleague? I should have at least a small bit of knowledge.
Her fighting style was unique. That throw was textbook Secret Service. Her other maneuvers, however, were her own style, a mix of Judo and Krav Maga. I had always prided myself in my specialty in hand-to-hand combat. No one could beat me on equal ground like that. She hadn't even fired her weapon.
I rubbed my brow. It was getting late. I needed to hit the streets tomorrow, see if any one of my contacts know someone who fits the description. I put my Mk 23 under my pillow and turn out the lights, falling into the light coma that constituted sleep for me.
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