Chapter Text
His shoulder was throbbing, his ribs aching, but he couldn’t stop moving. A gunshot cracked behind him and he threw himself to the ground, gasping as the air rushed out of his lungs. Fire was returned in the opposite direction, but all he could do was lay flat and pray none hit him on the way.
Finally, the shots behind him ceased. Tony waited a moment before he heard an “all clear, Agent DiNozzo.” Then, he hauled himself quickly and painfully to his feet and stumbled toward the military plane, the back of which was open in his direction.
It was his way out—supposed to be their way out. Shoving that thought away, Tony swallowed hard, grit his teeth and kept hobbling toward safety.
He tripped up the deck but didn’t fall, using the new momentum to hurry faster into the safety of the bird.
He only got that lucky once. The second time, he crashed into the side of the plane. Fire raced up his bad shoulder, spots lining his vision and it was only when they'd cleared that Tony could see a soldier was standing in front of him.
The soldier's mouth was moving but Tony's ears were ringing too badly to understand what he was saying.
“I have a man out there,” he tried anyway.
The soldier shook his head, pulled Tony close. “If we don’t launch now, we won’t be able to at all.”
“Get that to Probie and Probie only.”
Get it to him yourself, Mike.
Tony eyed the kid then made a lightning-fast decision that would either get him a medal or buried six feet under.
“I need a gun,” he demanded, his hand going for his pocket where the flash drive sat.
Next thing he knew, he was flat on the ground, pressed against something cold, gasping for breath, while shots rained over his head. A weight was on his back, pinning him in place.
He heard a metallic groan and whipped his aching head around to see the cargo door closing.
“No,” Tony tried, but he couldn’t dislodge the weight on his back.
Red dripped into his eyes and he swiped at his forehead, hissing as his hand touched abraded skin.
“No!” he repeated, bucking harder against the weight.
Then it was gone but hands were on him, lifting him up, pinning him into a seat. “Sorry, Agent DiNozzo,” the soldier was saying.
Tony tried to fight the hold, to get free, to go back, but he was doing little more than flopping his limbs around.
Hands batted his away, quickly and efficiently securing the harness around him.
“Franks!” Tony slurred as he scrabbled ineffectually at the harness' release.
“We’ll send a—” The rest of the conversation was lost as the plane took off, whipping Tony forward. It was too much for his battered body to bear and he slouched against the straps, unconscious.
Hours earlier…
While bullets rained into the fruit cart Tony was currently pinned behind, he found himself cursing his assignment, Vance, each Reynosa he was aware of, and the fact that he was missing Ziva’s citizenship ceremony for yet another questionable director-sanctioned operation that left him without a shred of backup. Tony wasn’t picky: he’d’ve taken Gibbs, Ziva, McGee, Balboa, or hell, even Jardine. He trusted all of them. Franks, despite the fact that he was firing at the people trying to ventilate Tony, not so much.
He didn't have much more time to spare those thoughts. At the smallest of lulls from across the street corner, he raised himself up slightly to return fire.
This whole thing had been a trap. Rivera must have spotted Franks, who hadn’t exactly been winning any awards for stealth when he took off down the sidewalk after shoving Tony down an alley. The shooting had started almost immediately, Franks taking one in the left shoulder before managing to drag himself back behind the fruit cart Tony had advanced to.
He flinched back as another bullet sliced into the cart, sending splinters spraying across him and Franks. Tony didn’t have an exact count, but the shooters should have long been out of ammo. Sad news was, he and Franks were getting close to that themselves.
As if on cue, Franks turned to him, slide ejected. “Out.”
“Two left.” Tony tilted his head across the street, toward an alley that ran between two businesses. “You go. I’ll cover you.”
“Hell, no, I ain't leaving like some glorified damsel in distress.”
“You’re out of ammo and you have a bullet in your shoulder. You really think you should be the one covering me?”
“Hey—”
Franks’ reply was cut off by another spray of bullets.
Tony didn't give him a chance to continue to argue. “We go in one.”
He shifted into position, wincing as the motion pulled on his stiff knee. He knew better than to let his prehab go, but they’d been so busy for so long with finding Saleem, Bell, Mallison Hart and now the Reynosas—goddamn, he needed a vacation—that he hadn’t had time.
No matter, he had years of practice ignoring it and other various injuries.
He crouched into position, pulled in a quick breath. “One.”
Whipping his head over the fruit cart, Tony fired off his last two rounds in the direction of the shots. He heard a scream—that’s two they’d hit—but he knew there were more. Now out of ammo himself, he didn’t have a choice but to sprint across the street towards safety.
He felt more than heard the impact, like someone had kicked him in the chest. He went down hard, pain blooming over his heart, breath stuttering in his lungs.
Someone was grabbing his wrist, pulling him across the uneven street. Tony tried to help but he was too lost in a pain-induced fog to do much of anything.
His shoulder thunked out of its socket. And someone was screaming.
It took longer than it should have to realize it was him.
His cheek burned, Franks’ face coming back into focus.
“You hit?” he demanded, hands running up and down Tony’s sides.
It took a beat before Tony was able to answer. “Vest.”
He watched, unable to make his limbs move, as Franks found the spot, right over his heart, the two perfect holes in his tan button-down.
Holy shit.
“We gotta move, kid,” Franks shouted, then Tony was on his feet again, supported by Franks, his left arm automatically going out to cradle his right.
They were moving, but they didn’t make it very far.
Tony’s vision was sliding around like a kaleidoscope, but even he could recognize the two guns trained on them as they turned the corner.
They froze.
Spanish was being spoken, the words sliding in one ear and out the other.
Then something collided with the back of his head and Tony hit the floor, unconscious.