Chapter Text
When Gibbs regained consciousness, he found himself on the floor in what appeared to be an old-fashioned jail cell, set in the middle of a mostly empty room. Probably some kind of warehouse, given the crates around the edges. Inside the cell was a small army cot, blanket, and bucket. Gibbs quickly tested the bars, but none of them so much as wiggled.
Sitting back on the cot, he took stock. His gun, badge, and pocket knife were gone. His entire ankle holster, with his backup gun and knife, was also missing. His belt knife was still there, so at least he had something.
Stock taken, Gibbs tried to recall what had happened. Their dead Petty Officer had apparently been killed in a drive-by, with the second victim belonging to the local Russian mob. He'd been stonewalled all day, so he'd finally taken Kate and Luiz to the local Bratva watering hole to confront someone. The rest was a blur, but given the lump on his head, he wagered someone had objected to his questions.
The only unknown was whether Kate and Luiz had been taken too, or if they'd managed to escape.
Gibbs's musings were interrupted by a door opening; looking over, he saw a tall, well dressed, brunette man holding a plastic tray of food. He looked far too haughty and well groomed to be a lower level thug, in Gibbs's experience. And in his experience, high level members of the organization didn't schlep food to prisoners unless they wanted something. Though the hint of fading bruises on his jaw might have something to do with it.
The man stopped just outside of the cell door, and Gibbs saw a small bundle of keys on his belt. "So, you're the Navy cop," the man drawled, smirking at Gibbs. "I imagine you hear this all the time, but I never knew the Navy had cops."
"We do get that a lot," Gibbs smirked back. There was something off about the man — something Gibbs couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Well I have to hand it to you," he continued. "Walking into Kamchatka's like that took balls."
He was speaking carefully, choosing his words as though he didn't speak English well, but Gibbs could tell that wasn't the case. His mind shot back over the words, and he found his eye drawn to the man's hands. His right hand supported the tray, but his left… his finger seemed to be absently tapping against the napkin.
"I hear that all the time, too," Gibbs said, focusing on the tapping finger. There was something strange about it.
As the man scoffed, Gibbs realized what it was. The napkin wasn't lying perfectly flat. There was something beneath it — something the man kept tapping. Gibbs's gaze shot to his face. "You don't sound Russian," he said, staring the man in the eyes. "I don't think you quite fit in here."
There was a flash of something in his eyes, and Gibbs knew the message was received. "Oh, I fit in just fine," he said in perfect Russian.
Gibbs raised an eyebrow, but pretended not to understand. The man finally huffed and put down the tray. Then using his foot, he nudged it through the small gap at the bottom of the cell door. Though he appeared annoyed, Gibbs knew the man was in fact watching carefully, and made sure to cup his hand over the napkin when he picked up the tray.
Looking at the food, Gibbs sniffed it, then pretended to sneeze, grabbing the napkin — and what it concealed — in response.
The man huffed, "philistine," and then stalked back to the door.
The object beneath the napkin that he had palmed turned out to be an earwig. Gibbs quickly turned it on and then discretely popped it into his ear, mopping his face with the napkin to cover his motion.
"Do not speak, Agent Gibbs, there are unfriendly eyes and ears on you," an unfamiliar voice said after a moment. "One grunt for yes, two for no."
Gibbs quietly grunted.
"Good. We have piggybacked those eyes and ears, and the rest of your team is safe for the moment. This is Detective Morris, Metro PD. If you are ready, I will go over the plan, step by step, so that you can approve each part. Your Miss Caf-Pow informed us that was the best way to proceed."
Gibbs allowed himself a small grin; if they were coordinating with Abby, then he could probably trust them. He also approved of them not using her actual name. He grunted his acknowledgement.
"Now, I assume, given your earlier actions, that you do not fear the Bratva, and you understand that escaping will put you even further on their shit lists? Are you willing to piss them off even more to get out of here? You'll probably need a protective detail afterwards or something."
Scowling, Gibbs grunted. He didn't mind being hated by criminals, and as long as his team got out, he really didn't care how pissed off he made the bad guys.
"Alright, your funeral." Morris decided. "Now, in theory you will have coms all the way through, but on the off chance something goes wrong, I'll detail the entire plan now. Step one is that our boy will bring you dinner again tonight. At that point, you will come up with a reason for him to open your door and check on you. I suggest faking a medical condition or food allergy, as simple begging or pleading won't move him. Agreed?"
Though a little annoyed at the caveat, Gibbs understood it. They had obviously put a lot of effort into their op — one he hadn't known about — and if Todorov did have eyes and ears on the detention block then they couldn't risk their own undercover's life with an ill-conceived escape. He grunted agreement.
"Alright, step two: our boy is a cautious sort, who will have his gun out. He's a lefty, but you might notice that tonight it will be a truly ambidextrous piece so that you can work it too. Don't worry, he has excellent trigger discipline: you won't be accidentally shot when you wrestle it away from him."
Morris paused, and Gibbs grunted his agreement.
Suddenly, his voice turned hard. "Three, we insist that you only fake the blow to the head to knock out our boy. He doesn't need another concussion right now, and he will play dead for you. This is more important than it sounds: medical didn't even want to clear him as a delivery boy today, but he insisted. He can take it in the legs and even one to the gut, but nothing above the shoulders, clear?"
Gibbs sighed, but grunted his acknowledgement. Clearly, the undercover was risking his own health, in addition to his life, to get Gibbs's team out of there. As much as Gibbs hated ceding jurisdiction to the locals, he wouldn't knowingly damage one — especially one doing him a favor, as this one seemed to be.
"Good!" the more relaxed tone was back. "Once our boy is playing dead and you've got his weapon, search him. You'll find a small injector in his pocket: palm it. I suggest doing that before taking the keys off his belt — more believable. You will then, in clear view of the cameras, pull this injector from somewhere on your own person — shoe, belt, whatever. We want the blame to fall on the mook who patted you down earlier and 'missed' it."
Gibbs grinned at the idea, knowing that if they did have eyes on him, they'd see it.
"Exactly," Morris confirmed. "The injector is safe to use on our boy, and will knock him out, covering the fact that you didn't actually hit him unconscious earlier. Biscep and thigh are the preferred injection areas, but the neck and stomach are acceptable if you must."
Once more, Gibbs grunted in agreement. This was actually a fairly well thought out plan.
"Step five: you'll use the keys to take the second door on the near wall — the same one our boy just went through. In that corridor you'll find your team behind the first two doors on the left. They shouldn't be individually guarded, but on the off chance they are, the injector has four more doses. Our boy will be coming through at shift change, to make it easier for you, but we've got no guarantee on the timing for individual changes. Worst case scenario, both shifts are present, meaning two in the hall and two outside the door. We'd prefer it if you left people alive — bleeding and concussed is fine — and used the injector to keep them down, but we understand that you'll do what you need to in the moment to survive."
He couldn't help but frown; Gibbs didn't like the idea of leaving these people free, other operation or no. One of them had killed his Petty Officer, after all.
"I understand your feeling, Agent Gibbs, but we can't risk our boy's cover." Morris snapped. "If you leave him unconscious, but then kill everyone else you encounter, you paint a neon sign on his back saying that the Feds care if he lives. At that point you might as well go back and shoot him too, as it would be a better end than the torture that Todorov will put him through."
Gibbs sighed and let his head fall back against the bars. Morris was right, damn him. Whatever he did to the undercover needed to be consistent with what he did to the others. He grunted in agreement.
"Thank you," Morris said. "Once you've got your people, the door at the end of the hall with the window is your path out. There will be a guardhouse and a gate about thirty yards to the right. Subdue that guard and hit the big red access button and you're home free. The DEA surveillance van will be more visible than usual tonight, so you should have a clear line of sight. They know to expect you, but you'll want to make a bit of a show for the exterior cameras of not trusting them, etc. I have it on good authority that you don't play well with others, so I'm sure you'll have no trouble with that part."
Gibbs smirked. Always nice when his reputation preceded him.
"I'm sure you've got questions, and just as sure that you know morse code," Morris continued. "I've got someone here who's proficient, so if you want to, go ahead."
Letting his head continue to rest back against the bars, Gibbs closed his eyes, prioritizing his thoughts and composing his messages. Then, apparently absently, he started tapping his thumb on his knee. Team?
"Ah, yes. Your boy Luiz is right next door. He's got a hell of a shiner, and from the way he's holding himself I'd say he took a few licks to the ribs. Other than that he's scowling up a storm. Your girl Todd is next to him. She keeps rubbing her arms like she's cold, but I don't know enough to say if that's physical, emotional, or manipulation. She asked our boy for a blanket when he brought her lunch."
Gibbs let himself relax slightly when Morris finished. His team was alright — for now. Safe to wait? he asked.
"As safe as it can be," Morris said. "Dimitri Junior captured you, but even he wouldn't dare to touch you until Senior gets back. His plane lands just shy of 2030, and Junior will be there waiting for him. Shift change is at 2000, which is when we're making our move. The younger son is with Senior, or I'd worry a little about your girl. Michail isn't known for using his big head, even at the risk of Senior's wrath. Hence, him being kept at heel right now."
Gibbs relaxed a touch further. He knew there wasn't much he could do about the situation, but he hated waiting. Of course, he hated not having a plan more, so he did appreciate what Morris was doing, and trusted his word that it was safe enough to wait. Still, there was something that didn't add up. Delivery boy? In that suit?
Morris laughed, but indulged his curiosity. "After your capture last night, there was a rash of food poisoning through the compound — someone brought in bad Chinese food and fed it to every guard. So they're a little short staffed, and our boy deigned to lower himself to play delivery boy. The family doctor didn't want him doing anything strenuous, but carrying a tray was deemed acceptable. He hates being inactive, and I think they thought giving him something to do was better than letting him get bored in bed."
That fit with the earlier comments about his health: if the undercover already had a concussion, avoiding a second one on top of it was a big deal. It also implied that the same man had been the one to deliver all of the lunch trays, meaning that he had also seen Gibbs's team. Ears for team?
"Too dangerous. Your Director vouched for your discretion, which is why we risked the earwig for you. I won't jeopardize my boy on the acting chops and palming abilities of your team as well."
Agents, Gibbs tapped back, frustrated.
"So was the DEA undercover who got himself and a witness killed two weeks ago, and nearly got my boy dead too," Morris spat. "I don't blindly trust people just because they wear a badge."
Gibbs couldn't really argue with that — he didn't trust half of the agents he'd met over the years either. DEA? he tapped, more out of curiosity than anything else.
"Joint task force," Morris explained sarcastically. "Their boy was following the drugs, we were following the weapons. Funnily enough, we took the time to double check who else was running an op on the Todorov family, and managed to coordinate with each other, instead of running in half-cocked and putting everything at risk."
Gibbs scowled, but bit his tongue before he could reply aloud. He couldn't risk his team by drawing attention to himself before the escape. Instead, he all but stabbed his leg with his thumb. Dead sailor.
"You think your Petty Officer was the first person they killed?" Morris scoffed. "I've got seventeen families waiting for closure, including the DEA boy's. His wife is seven months pregnant, you know. You don't get to swagger in and blow up multiple ops just because there's finally a victim you give a shit about. Had you bothered to ask first, we could have told you that your PO Wilmington wasn't as squeaky clean as you thought. I know you think he was an innocent victim in a drive-by, but he was actually Todorov's main dealer on base."
Without meaning to, Gibbs' head shot up, and he glared at the camera in the corner. Clean. They'd tested him for drugs and Abby wouldn't have gotten that wrong.
"Rein it in, Gunny," Morris snapped. "Don't blow the game. He wasn't a user, but he was definitely a dealer. He was meeting with his supplier up the chain, Solonik, when they were hit by MS-13. Dimitri was pissed as hell and thinks it was a targeted strike. Solonik is easily replaceable, but finding another sailor with access to your base, who can be trusted to keep their head instead of tasting the product, who can reconnect with all of his customers? That's a tall order. PO Wilmington was a key player; we already had the inter-agency paperwork ready to turn him over to NCIS once we made our bust."
"Your little stunt of running roughshod over our ME and snatching both Wilmington's and Solonik's bodies was what put you on Dimitri's radar. You stomping around saying that Solonik was the reason Wilmington was dead, instead of MS-13, pissed him off. You trying to bluster your way into Todorov's home was what put you in that cage. If it wasn't for the fact that Michail and Senior are due back tonight, I'd be tempted to leave you there, where you can't do any more damage, but I wouldn't put your girl through that. If I thought I could get your junior agents out without them going back for you and getting into even more trouble, I'd seriously consider it."
Fuming, Gibbs slumped back against the bars. He hated not being able to snap back at Morris, but even more he hated the idea that the other man was right. Tom had warned him that his cowboy attitude was going to bite him some day, especially as the few TADs he'd found who were able to make nice with the locals and sibling agencies never stuck around for more than a few months.
Clearly Morris didn't have that problem, as he was both working with the DEA and apparently with NCIS: he'd mentioned speaking to both Tom and Abby. Fornell had warned Gibbs, after the Air Force One incident, that if he didn't start playing nice there would be consequences. Being captured and caged by the Russian mafia would definitely count as consequences, he supposed. As would the attitude of Morris, who seemed content to leave him there, if not for Luiz and Kate. Of course, both of them being written up by their respective bosses after that case — Gibbs for putting his then-SFA, Henderson, into a body bag, and Fornell for breaking Henderson's arm by dumping him out of a moving van — had seemed like consequence enough, at the time.
Morris's jab about the other victims and their families had hit home too. A year or so ago his TAD, Darla, had walked off a crime scene and put in for a transfer when he'd tried to take a serial killer case from the BAU. Her official reason was that Gibbs didn't seem to care about the previous victims, or the work already being done by the FBI team, only the marine's wife who had been the latest victim. Gibbs had blustered about it to Tom, but Darla hadn't been entirely wrong. And Morris wasn't wrong now either. Gibbs had to compartmentalize, had to only care about the victims within NCIS's jurisdiction, because there were just too many, otherwise. Caring too much was what burnt out agents like Darla.
Gibbs tried to marshal his thoughts away from his anger about Petty Officer Wilmington and back to the escape. He needed to figure out how to lure the undercover officer into opening his cage. He also needed to fight the man in a believable way — without knowing anything about his style beforehand — and get the upper hand. He hadn't forgotten the instructions not to hit him in the head, either.
An hour or so later, by his guesstimate, Morris spoke again. "Gibbs?"
Doing his best not to tense in surprise, Gibbs flicked his gaze at the camera.
"I've been speaking to your Miss Caf-Pow," Morris said, a hint of laughter in his voice. Gibbs assumed it was due to Abby's choice of code names. He grunted once for yes.
"She said — and I'm quoting here — that you need to play nice. If not, she'll… stab your boat?" Morris's voice trailed up in confusion, and Gibbs couldn't help but smile. That was his girl. "She wants to know if you followed rule nine, or if it was taken." It was clear that Morris wasn't sure what he was asking.
Gibbs, however, knew exactly what Abby meant. Draping his hand over his knee again, so the code would be visible to the cameras, he tapped out, Two gone. One left.
There was a long pause, and Gibbs assumed Morris was relaying that to Abby. Finally, he came back. "Ah, well then, I can tell you that my boy has a high pain tolerance, but personally I'd rather you not stab him too badly if possible. I assume you know where to cut to not leave him bleeding to death before help comes."
Gibbs quickly grunted yes.
"Thank you. Your girl also suggested that, since you are a quote 'silver fox', a heart attack could be your ticket out. You'd need to start showing the symptoms now, though, for a collapse later to be believable."
That wasn't a bad idea. Gibbs scowled and started flexing his left hand, shaking it out. He'd progress to grabbing the arm later.
"Along those lines, our medic recommends playing up the dizziness and nausea. You haven't touched your lunch yet, which would help. She also recommends throwing up, if you're able." Morris suggested. Gibbs grunted his acknowledgement. He'd work on it.
oOo
When Morris whispered, "five minutes," in his ear, Gibbs grunted his acknowledgment, then fell to his hands and knees and hunched over, doing his best to hide his face from the cameras. He'd been progressively playing up his symptoms, and now it was time for the doozy. With his jacket falling over his face, Gibbs quickly jabbed his fingers in his mouth, forcing himself to throw up. He aimed across the floor, creating as big a mess as possible. As soon as the heaves were done, he grabbed his left arm, where it had been supporting him, and slowly crumpled down onto it just as the door clanged open.
"Oscar-worthy performance," Morris teased in his ear. Gibbs pressed his hand to his stomach, palming the knife that was hidden in his belt buckle.
The undercover cop, who Gibbs realized he really needed a name for, scoffed disdainfully. "Unbelievable," he growled.
There was a rustle, and a faint beep, and Gibbs realized that he had pulled out a phone just as he spoke again. Gibbs understood the Russian words, but Morris didn't seem to realize that, and quickly translated in his ear. "He's calling the family doctor."
The man flipped his phone closed with a snap, then sighed gustily and dropped the tray on the ground. Gibbs forced himself not to react to the noise, but to play dead. The man muttered to himself as he pulled out his keys, and Gibbs heard something about expensive shoes through the noise. The door swung open and Gibbs tensed. He needed to play this right. A quiet snap and rustle told him that the man's gun was drawn.
"Hey, hey you," the cop said, tapping Gibbs's foot with his own. Gibbs waited. The man sighed gustily again. "If you're faking, I will shoot you, old man," he warned. Gibbs waited.
Finally, the man moved closer to his head, clothes rustling as he bent over. The second Gibbs felt cool fingers press into his neck, he moved. Whipping his legs around, he tangled them in the cop's, grabbing the hand near his neck at the same time. The double assault was enough to overbalance the cop, even as he brought his gun around to bear. Distantly, Gibbs noticed that he did indeed have his finger alongside the barrel, not anywhere near the trigger.
His free hand was the one with the knife in it, and Gibbs quickly slashed at the man's left shoulder, trying to incapacitate his gun arm. The cop cried out, but also managed to stomp his boot into Gibbs' thigh. Gibbs accepted the twist in position, using it to toss his leg over the man's gun arm and get more leverage. The gun fired into the thin air beneath his knee. From his new angle, Gibbs was able to put his knife to the cop's throat.
He continued to wiggle, so Gibbs pressed lightly — enough to draw blood but not enough to accidentally cut deeper if they shifted. He heard Morris inhale sharply in his ear.
"He'll kill you," the undercover spat venomously. "Unless he gives you to me to play with."
Gibbs didn't acknowledge the threat, just worked his other arm free enough to fake punching him in the head. As promised, the cop snapped his head to the side with a grunt. He paused for a moment, then turned back to Gibbs, grinning evilly. Gibbs fake punched him again. This time the cop stayed down, head swaying drunkenly. Gibbs took the opportunity to relieve him of his gun. Then, reversing it, he pretended to bring it back down on his head. The man instantly collapsed, the tension draining out of his body.
It was an impressive performance, Gibbs had to admit. Tucking the gun into his waistband, Gibbs quickly made a show of searching the cop. He found the injector in his inner pocket, along with a wallet, which he drew to cover his actions. Thumbing through it, he found an ID for Antonio DiMarco. "Italian, huh?" he said aloud, knowing the cameras would pick it up. Nice to have a name — even a fake one — to go along with the face. But it did beg the question of why an apparent Italian mobster was involved with the Russian Bratva.
Morris snorted in his ear.
Gibbs tossed the wallet aside and finished his pat down, grabbing the keys and a pair of knives from wrist holsters, which Gibbs tucked into his boot. Then, ensuring the camera had a clean view of his leg, but not the inside of his ankle, Gibbs palmed the injector and then fussed with his boot heel for a moment before pulling it out with a flick of his wrist.
Eying the man beneath him for a long moment, Gibbs reached out and injected his closest shoulder. Because he was looking for it, he saw the man — Antonio — relax ever so slightly as the drugs went to work. Nodding over his handiwork, Gibbs pocketed the injector, picked up his knife in his off hand, drew the gun, and slipped out of the cage.
"Second door," Morris said in his ear as he looked over the keys for the one that fit in the lock. "Day shift guard is gone, night is chatting with him outside. If you move fast you can get into the first door for your boy without being seen. Go now!"
Gibbs wrenched open the door, holding the gun ready as though he didn't know what to expect. Yanking the door closed behind him, he dashed to the next one and wrenched it open, grateful that the keys were only needed on the inside locks. Peering inside, he saw Luiz, in his own cell, but otherwise alone.
"Boss!" He whispered, wide eyed.
Gibbs quickly slipped inside and closed the door behind him. It only took a few fumbles to find the right key for the second cage. As soon as it was open, he handed Luiz the keys, followed by the gun, and one of Antonio's knives from his boot. Gibbs switched his own knife back to his right hand and then pulled out the injector with his left.
"They're wrapping it up outside. If you want to be in position before him, get a move on," Morris said.
"Only use that if you have to," Gibbs said, gesturing at the gun. "Follow me."
Luiz nodded and fell in behind him, the arm with the knife he wrapped around his ribs, confirming Morris's guess that he'd taken a few hits there.
Gibbs opened the door quietly and looked around. The guard hadn't returned, so he gestured for Luiz to try the next door, where Morris had told him Kate was. Once Luiz started going through the keys, Gibbs crept up to the exit door.
A second after Luiz had entered Kate's room, the outer door opened. Gibbs heard the men laughing, and held his breath. As the door slid shut and the man turned towards him, Gibbs dove forward, jabbing the injector into his neck and pulling the trigger. His other hand wrapped around the man's mouth, slamming his jaw shut and cutting off his yelp. The man struggled weakly, but the drugs in the injector were fast, and he was limp in a minute.
Dragging him down the hall slightly, enough to be out of the way, Gibbs stood ready by the exit. Within a minute, Luiz poked his head out from the door, and Gibbs beckoned him forward. Kate followed, holding the knife that Luiz had obviously passed on. Rolling his eyes, Gibbs pulled Antonio's second knife out of his boot and handed it over. Then he handed Kate the new guard's gun.
"One outside," he whispered. "Heard him talking with the other. I'll drag him in. Watch my six."
Luiz and Kate nodded, and after a three count, Gibbs swung the door open. In a textbook marine maneuver, he had pulled the other guard off balance and through the door, wrapping his hand around his mouth and slamming the injector into his neck. As Gibbs hauled the man backwards, Kate grabbed the door and pulled it shut, hiding the short scuffle from passersby.
The injector worked as before, and the man was down for the count in a minute. Kate had been peeking through the window. "Guard shack and a gate," she whispered.
"Same as before," Gibbs nodded. "Our goal is to get out, not to get caught in a firefight or a hostage situation." He waited until both of them nodded in understanding before easing the door open.
"Wait until the far guard rounds the corner," Morris warned in his ear.
"Alright," Gibbs agreed, knowing that his agents would think he was talking to them.
"Go!"
Gibbs went, pulling open the door and half-ducking as he jogged towards the guard shack. The guard, who was flipping through a magazine, didn't look up until they were a few feet away. Eyes wide, he reached for the desk — for a gun or an alarm, Gibbs didn't care — but Luiz beat him to it, throwing his knife through the open window and perfectly hitting the outstretched hand.
The guard recoiled with a yelp, clutching his hand to his chest. Gibbs reached the shack window and leaned in, injecting the man as quickly as possible. He couldn't stop the man from calling the alarm, but he could keep him from shooting them in the back.
Examining the booth, Gibbs grabbed the gun on the counter that the guard had been reaching for and aimed it at him. "Kate, get in there and get that gate open."
Kate quickly slipped around the other side and leaned in the far window, examining the buttons and levers as Gibbs kept the guard covered. Just as he slumped completely to the ground, Kate gave an "Aha!" and turned a key while pushing a red button.
"Let's go!" Gibbs said.
"It's a deadman's switch— It'll close when I let go," Kate cut him off. "We need to wait for it to get far enough open for us to slip through before it closes again."
Gibbs huffed, but refrained from growling at her.
"Would you expect anything less of the bratva?" Morris sounded far too amused with this situation.
"Luiz, take point," Gibbs said, instead of growling at either of them.
Thankfully, he simply nodded and did as he was told.
Once the gate was over halfway open, Gibbs leaned back out of the window. "Time to go, Kate," he said.
She nodded and braced herself, then let go of the controls. The gate closed far faster than it opened, and they pelted towards it. With a few seconds to spare, Gibbs followed Kate through it, and tumbled into Luiz, who had been covering their escape.
"Now what?" Kate asked, panting, her hands on her knees.
Gibbs looked around and saw what he presumed was the DEA van, about fifty yards down the road. "I vote we knock and see who's at home down there," he said, gesturing at the out-of-place utility van.
"That's not one of ours," Luiz said, shifting his grip on the gun. Kate hefted her knife.
"No, it isn't," he agreed, approving of their caution.
"What do you think, organized crime?" she asked cheerfully as they started down the road, spreading out slightly to make less of a target of themselves.
"Feebs," Luiz disagreed.
Gibbs hid a smirk, knowing that he had an advantage here. "Nah, DEA." Morris snorted in his ear.
"You're on," Kate agreed.
As they drew closer, the van's back door opened, but no one stepped into sight. Gibbs approved of their caution. "Federal agents! Don't move!" said the voice inside.
Gibbs raised his hands slowly. "Also federal agents," he said, nodding for Luiz and Kate to surrender.
"Wait while we verify," said the voice, and then they shone a flashlight in his face, clearly trying to see him better. Gibbs wanted to protest, but he would have done the same thing in their shoes. He just hoped that Abby and Morris had already provided this team with their photos, so it wouldn't take too long to identify them.
The light went away, but Gibbs was still blinking spots when Kate yelped. A moment later, the agent in the van sighed. "That's them. Grant, let NCIS know we've got their missing people. Come on in, you three."
Gibbs shrugged and strode towards the van.