Hunting
Follows this.
As with most cases, the break does not come in a huge shower of information that leads directly to a hideout. It doesn’t come with some whispering informant on the other end of the line. It comes late at night, when nothing makes sense, when Mike is getting on his last nerve and Gibbs is ready to set fire to the buildings.
“She’s been able to follow Jenny’s movements,” Gibbs muttered out loud, staring down at the dark of the San Diego night. “Svetlana’s been tracking her for a while.”
“This Svetlana … she was a target in Paris? How did you guys track her?”
It’s a rhetorical question and Gibbs leaves it unanswered. Tracking had always been done, long before computers that linked to secret video cameras, long before the state had become the unwitting but quite willing accomplice to the political and commercial need to spy on the people. Gibbs ran a hand through his hair, scraping his short nails against his scalp. Instead, he mused outloud, needing to work through the case again. “Svetlana was her own creature. Tied to the organization we were taking down but she had her own systems. It was why she was such a tough target.”
“Why was she the probie’s job then?”
“Because we expected women to connect to women. Jenny got close.” He took a breath and shook his head. All the speculation in the world didn’t let him know where she was. Her being one step ahead meant Jenny was still in danger.
His phone beeped. Ziva. Person of interest stopped at a routine checkpoint at the New Mexico border.
Gibbs stared at the grainy photo and took off at a run. Mike yelled after him but didn’t struggle to keep up. The booze and the beach hadn’t softened his reflexes all that much. But it was a ten hour drive (7 with Gibbs driving) and it was easier to race the highways than fly to Phoenix and rent a car. Ziva was already waiting.
Somewhere along the drive, he called Heather who told him to stay safe. Ziva contacted the Marshals. They drove, hoping to beat the clock, to get there before Svetlana was let go from her detention. Across desert night, into dawn, and toward lunch the clock ticked. Gibbs drove, zooming past cops who, miraculously, let him fly by. Thank god for official vehicles.
Eager, Arizona was a nothing town and they passed through to the small immigration checkpoint only to discover they were too late. The guards were both dead, shot with what had to be assumed was one of their service weapons. Ziva called in assistance and stayed with the scene. Gibbs and Mike took off toward Albuquerque.
He wasn’t supposed to know where Jen was holed up, but Stan worked in the Albuquerque office. It made sense and it was a logical first step. If Jenny wasn’t there, the Marshals where she was would be mobilized and she’d be moved. But he wanted to avoid that. He wanted to keep this between him and Svetlana, like it should have been back in Paris.
Svetlana had time and leverage and he sped, glad again for official cars, cutting the four hour drive in half. His mind fixed on Albuquerque, he almost missed it. But his gut told him to stop and he spun around, his eye fixating on the sign to the El Malpias national monument. Gravel spun out as he raced forward, pulling past the vistors center to an empty immigration vehicle stopped near a ramshackle bathroom.
Could he really have caught her on a fucking bathroom break?
Mike waited next to her car, smoking. Gibbs approached the shack with the blue restroom sign. Gun drawn, he waited for any movement, and his patience was rewarded when the door opened and Svetlana stepped out, her forehead in line with his raised weapon.
To her credit, she didn’t blink.
“It took you long enough to find me.” Her cool voice, still thick with a Russian accent, sent shivers up his spine even though he never flinched. Not outwardly. Why the hell had Jenny not killed her when she had the chance?
“You move fast.”
“I left a trail.” She walked around, ignoring the weapon pointed right at her head. If he shot her, he’d get off on a good shoot. If he took her in, she could escape. But he wanted to know the whys that a file would never say.
She had left a trail, an easy one to follow now that he thought about it. She was hunting, wanting to be taken down as much as she wanted to take down Jenny. He had a feeling she’d left him off the list because he’d eventually show, just like he had back in Paris. Back when bullets had flown and the two nation states had covered up sanctioned executions. She kept walking. He kept tracking her through the sight of his gun.
At her stolen car, she paused, positioning herself between Gibbs and Mike. Mike had his gun drawn but not trained.
“I never understood why,” Svetlana began speaking, “your agent did not pull the trigger. But yet, when she did, when her trigger ended the lives of so many.” Gibbs frowned, confused. But Jenny had taken so many operations to a personal level once she became director, not the least of which was The Frog. If something or someone had been tied through Svetlana to the Frog, revenge made sense. But there was more here and the answers lay not with Svetlana but in the case files and in Jenny’s memory.
Her eyes flashed and she walked forward again, reaching for her own gun. This was too easy. She wanted to die and she didn’t care who did it.
The shot echoed around them.
Gibbs had not fired.
As with most cases, the break does not come in a huge shower of information that leads directly to a hideout. It doesn’t come with some whispering informant on the other end of the line. It comes late at night, when nothing makes sense, when Mike is getting on his last nerve and Gibbs is ready to set fire to the buildings.
“She’s been able to follow Jenny’s movements,” Gibbs muttered out loud, staring down at the dark of the San Diego night. “Svetlana’s been tracking her for a while.”
“This Svetlana … she was a target in Paris? How did you guys track her?”
It’s a rhetorical question and Gibbs leaves it unanswered. Tracking had always been done, long before computers that linked to secret video cameras, long before the state had become the unwitting but quite willing accomplice to the political and commercial need to spy on the people. Gibbs ran a hand through his hair, scraping his short nails against his scalp. Instead, he mused outloud, needing to work through the case again. “Svetlana was her own creature. Tied to the organization we were taking down but she had her own systems. It was why she was such a tough target.”
“Why was she the probie’s job then?”
“Because we expected women to connect to women. Jenny got close.” He took a breath and shook his head. All the speculation in the world didn’t let him know where she was. Her being one step ahead meant Jenny was still in danger.
His phone beeped. Ziva. Person of interest stopped at a routine checkpoint at the New Mexico border.
Gibbs stared at the grainy photo and took off at a run. Mike yelled after him but didn’t struggle to keep up. The booze and the beach hadn’t softened his reflexes all that much. But it was a ten hour drive (7 with Gibbs driving) and it was easier to race the highways than fly to Phoenix and rent a car. Ziva was already waiting.
Somewhere along the drive, he called Heather who told him to stay safe. Ziva contacted the Marshals. They drove, hoping to beat the clock, to get there before Svetlana was let go from her detention. Across desert night, into dawn, and toward lunch the clock ticked. Gibbs drove, zooming past cops who, miraculously, let him fly by. Thank god for official vehicles.
Eager, Arizona was a nothing town and they passed through to the small immigration checkpoint only to discover they were too late. The guards were both dead, shot with what had to be assumed was one of their service weapons. Ziva called in assistance and stayed with the scene. Gibbs and Mike took off toward Albuquerque.
He wasn’t supposed to know where Jen was holed up, but Stan worked in the Albuquerque office. It made sense and it was a logical first step. If Jenny wasn’t there, the Marshals where she was would be mobilized and she’d be moved. But he wanted to avoid that. He wanted to keep this between him and Svetlana, like it should have been back in Paris.
Svetlana had time and leverage and he sped, glad again for official cars, cutting the four hour drive in half. His mind fixed on Albuquerque, he almost missed it. But his gut told him to stop and he spun around, his eye fixating on the sign to the El Malpias national monument. Gravel spun out as he raced forward, pulling past the vistors center to an empty immigration vehicle stopped near a ramshackle bathroom.
Could he really have caught her on a fucking bathroom break?
Mike waited next to her car, smoking. Gibbs approached the shack with the blue restroom sign. Gun drawn, he waited for any movement, and his patience was rewarded when the door opened and Svetlana stepped out, her forehead in line with his raised weapon.
To her credit, she didn’t blink.
“It took you long enough to find me.” Her cool voice, still thick with a Russian accent, sent shivers up his spine even though he never flinched. Not outwardly. Why the hell had Jenny not killed her when she had the chance?
“You move fast.”
“I left a trail.” She walked around, ignoring the weapon pointed right at her head. If he shot her, he’d get off on a good shoot. If he took her in, she could escape. But he wanted to know the whys that a file would never say.
She had left a trail, an easy one to follow now that he thought about it. She was hunting, wanting to be taken down as much as she wanted to take down Jenny. He had a feeling she’d left him off the list because he’d eventually show, just like he had back in Paris. Back when bullets had flown and the two nation states had covered up sanctioned executions. She kept walking. He kept tracking her through the sight of his gun.
At her stolen car, she paused, positioning herself between Gibbs and Mike. Mike had his gun drawn but not trained.
“I never understood why,” Svetlana began speaking, “your agent did not pull the trigger. But yet, when she did, when her trigger ended the lives of so many.” Gibbs frowned, confused. But Jenny had taken so many operations to a personal level once she became director, not the least of which was The Frog. If something or someone had been tied through Svetlana to the Frog, revenge made sense. But there was more here and the answers lay not with Svetlana but in the case files and in Jenny’s memory.
Her eyes flashed and she walked forward again, reaching for her own gun. This was too easy. She wanted to die and she didn’t care who did it.
The shot echoed around them.
Gibbs had not fired.