Chapter Text
Chapter 18 – Daydreams, Shots, Tomorrow
It is the middle of the night in the NCIS bullpen. The overhead lights burn harsh against tired eyes, coffee cups scattered across every desk. Nobody has gone home. Everyone stays, hunched over monitors and files, the entire team trying to grind out a location on the March brothers and the Aryan Brotherhood. For Jesse. For Kate. For the case that refuses to loosen its grip.
Special Agent Lucy Tara sits at her desk, her posture loose, her hands resting lightly on the keyboard. On her screen, old phone records glow in pale light—Isaiah March’s wife, Dina Samson, a web of calls and numbers stretching back years. But Lucy doesn’t see them. Not really.
Around her, the bullpen hums with motion. Agents pass each other, files under their arms, phones pressed to their ears. But to Lucy, everything slows. Conversations echo like they’re underwater, the shuffle of feet dragging in half-time. She blinks once. Twice. The cursor on her monitor pulses in rhythm with her own heavy breaths.
Her eyes drift past the screen, past the stacks of paperwork, locking on nothing—just the thin line of space between here and somewhere else. The noise of the office fades.
Then—
She’s gone.
Pulled backward, sucked into a memory. Kate’s laughter—low, warm, so close it hums against her ear.
The late afternoon sun dips low over Kilauea Park, painting the court in warm amber light. The steady sound of sneakers scuffing against asphalt mixes with the rhythmic bounce of a basketball.
Lucy dribbles awkwardly, trying to pivot around Kate. Her brow furrows in concentration, tongue caught lightly between her teeth. Kate, grinning ear to ear, shadows her every move, laughter bubbling in her throat. She leans in close, humming right by Lucy’s cheek before giving a quick, mischievous pinch at Lucy’s ticklish side.
“Ahh!” Lucy yelps, flinging the ball into the air without meaning to.
Kate giggles and easily snatches it, dribbling once before laying it up with smooth grace. The ball swishes through the net as Lucy plants herself in the middle of the court, hands on her hips, staring in mock outrage.
“Katherine Whistler!” she exclaims.
“What?” Kate laughs in defense, shifting the ball from one hand to the other, feigning innocence.
Lucy rolls her eyes, shoulders hunching in mock defeat. “This isn’t fair, you’re too tall.”
“I’m too tall?” Kate teases back, raising an eyebrow, her voice dripping with playful flirtation.
Lucy throws her arms wide, exasperated. “You know what I mean… why are we even doing this?”
Kate’s grin softens into a drawl as she strolls closer, her eyes never leaving Lucy’s. “Well, my sweet, you wanted to spend some time together, and you said I could pick.”
“Mmmm.” Lucy hums, nodding slowly, the memory dawning on her.
“And I picked… surfing.” Kate quips, smirk tugging at her lips.
“That wasn’t happening,” Lucy shoots back quickly, eyes narrowing but lips twitching.
“So…” Kate spins away from her, chuckling as she flicks the ball up into the hoop again, the net whispering on the shot. “Here we are.”
Lucy can’t help the small smile tugging at her face as she watches her girlfriend, though her gaze lingers, drifting lower—to Kate’s ass snug in the purple Northwestern cotton shorts.
When Kate turns around, the sly tilt of her head makes it perfectly clear she knows exactly where Lucy’s eyes are. She saunters back over, every step deliberate, grin full of trouble. Kate saunters up, spinning the ball lazily between her hands. Her grin widens when she catches the faint pink coloring Lucy’s cheeks.
“Enjoying the view, Special Agent Tara?” she teases, her voice dipping into that low, silky register that always makes Lucy’s stomach flip.
Lucy groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly hurts. “You’re impossible.”
Kate steps in closer, close enough that their sneakers nearly touch, the basketball bouncing gently between her palms. “Mmm, maybe. But you like me this way.”
Lucy tries to swipe the ball, but Kate jerks it back with a laugh, their shoulders brushing. “Give me the ball, Whistler.”
“Not a chance, Tara.” Kate winks, holding it high above her head, her grin infuriatingly smug.
Lucy huffs, then stretches onto her toes, hands brushing against Kate’s wrists, their bodies pressed together in the struggle. Kate tilts her head, laughter spilling out, warm and musical.
“Lucy…” she breathes, still holding the ball just out of reach. “Is this about basketball… or are you just trying to get close to me?”
Lucy bites back a smile, eyes narrowing even as her pulse quickens. “Can’t it be both?”
Kate’s laughter softens, turning into something sweeter. She lowers the ball slowly, until it rests at her side, and leans in. Their lips meet in a soft, playful kiss that lingers just long enough to blur the edges of the world.
When Lucy pulls back, she uses the moment of distraction to snatch the ball right from Kate’s hands.
“Ha!” Lucy cheers, triumphant.
Kate gasps, mock offense flashing across her face. “You little thief!”
Lucy clutches the ball to her chest, grinning as Kate lunges for it. They entangle into another playful struggle, laughter crashing into kisses—quick, flirty pecks stolen in between the jostling hands and breathless giggles.
Hank places a steady hand on Lucy’s shoulder—firm, warm, grounding.
Lucy jolts slightly under the touch, yanked from whatever spiraling thought had wrapped itself around her brain. Her eyes snap up toward him, unfocused for a beat as she watches him take a seat on the side of her desk.
“Hey.” Hank says gently, his brows knit with concern.
Lucy blinks. “Hey.”
Hank nods toward the hallway with a subtle tilt of his chin. “Why don’t you go take a break. I can cover things here.”
But Lucy shakes her head instantly, almost fiercely, like the idea itself is offensive. Her shoulders stiffen as she pulls herself upright in her seat, eyes snapping back to the glowing monitors in front of her.
“I’m fine.”
Hank stays silent for a second, watching her chest rise and fall faster than she wants to admit. “You’re not fine, darlin’.” He says in a low, quiet voice that doesn’t allow much room for argument. “Let’s just put all the cards on the table. Your girlfriend’s out there… and the bastards who have her made it clear—they want you dead.”
Lucy’s eyes don’t leave the screen, but her jaw tightens like a vice. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, frozen, clenched.
“Let’s just call a spade a spade.” Hank adds softly, not accusing—just honest.
Lucy exhales sharply through her nose and rolls her eyes, but there's no venom behind it. Just fatigue….and fear. She swallows hard and locks her eyes on the screen, as if pure willpower could force it to yield some kind of answer.
“I just need to stay locked in.” Lucy mutters, voice raw. “Focused. Every second I’m not, I feel like something gets further away. Like she…gets further away.”
Hank studies her, his broad frame still perched on the edge of her desk, the smirk gone from his face now. He sees the weight behind her words, the iron that’s more than stubbornness—it’s devotion. His jaw ticks, the older man’s eyes softening even as he keeps his tone firm.
“I get it, Sprout.” Hank says quietly. “I do. But you still need to take the threat against you seriously. They don’t make idle promises, not these bastards.”
Lucy swallows, nodding once, but her gaze sinks to the desk. She goes quiet, lips pressed thin. The silence stretches until she finally breathes out, raw and tired: “I just want to find her.”
Hank dips his head, voice low and steady. “I know.”
For a moment, there’s nothing else. Just the dull hum of the fluorescent lights and the ache in her chest. Then Hank, clearing his throat, tries to nudge them back into the case. He gestures with his chin toward her monitor. “Find anything?”
Lucy exhales, shakes her head, then shrugs her shoulders with reluctance. “She has quite a few calls to a therapist in Dallas, Texas. A Dr. Tammy Ruff.”
“And?” Hank presses, leaning in, his eyes narrowing in expectation.
“They started soon after her sister’s death.” Lucy scrolls with her mouse, the screen filling with time stamped calls.
“You think you can get her to talk?” Hank asks, skepticism rough in his tone. “Don’t they take an oath to keep their yaps shut?”
Lucy’s lips twitch into a faint, humorless smile. She points at the screen. “I ran her name through a quick search. She doesn’t exactly have a degree or a license to practice. Dr. Tammy Ruff is more of a… spiritual, self-help therapist.”
Hank lets out a grunt, shaking his head. “Sounds like a total nut.”
Lucy chuckles under her breath, the sound low and dry, before turning back to the screen. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to dive deeper—
The sound of hurried footsteps cuts through the bullpen. Kai barrels in from the back, his face pale, urgency carved into every line of his expression.
Lucy instantly pushes back from her chair, her pulse leaping. Hank slides off her desk in one smooth motion, squaring himself.
“What is it?” Lucy demands, voice sharp.
Kai swallows, throat bobbing as he flicks a glance toward Jane’s office. Through the glass, Jane paces, phone pressed tight to her ear, her voice raised in clipped, rapid bursts.
“There have been four attacks on the island in the last forty-five minutes.” Kai says…breath tight.
Lucy’s eyes widen, her stomach dropping. “What?!”
“Yeah.” Kai nods grimly. “Molotov cocktails through the windows at the African American Studies building at Leeward Community College. An apartment building in Oahu that houses a lot of black senior citizens. A Jewish deli on the Big Island. And…” He falters.
Lucy grips the edge of her desk, dread curling cold through her veins. “And?”
“The Community Center.” Kai finishes.
Lucy’s face goes blank, her voice cracking on the next words. “Is Rocky okay?”
Kai shakes his head quickly. “He wasn’t there. But one of the custodians was just finishing up—he managed to stop the flames before they spread. The other three buildings are all but gone. HFD thinks there are still people trapped in the apartment building.”
Hank’s jaw tightens. His voice drops, clipped and sharp. “Anybody see anything?”
Kai exhales, frustration heavy in the sound. He shakes his head. “No faces… only guys in gray hoodies. Hoods pulled over, nothing to ID.”
“Oh my god.” Lucy whispers, her chest tightening like a vice. She turns to Hank, searching his face. “Any word from Anoka?”
Hank’s expression darkens, but he shakes his head. “If Rafi’s still out there, he thinks he’s close.”
Lucy nods, forcing air into her lungs, grounding herself in the momentum of the moment. Before she can speak again, Jane’s office door swings open, hitting the wall with a crack.
“Everybody upstairs to the War Room!” Jane barks, her voice sharp and commanding. “Ernie’s on his way up.”
Without hesitation, Lucy, Hank, and Kai rush from their desks, feet pounding against the floor as they fall in line toward the stairs, urgency swallowing every other thought.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Hawaiian night stretches wide and endless over the compound. Crickets chirp somewhere out past the fence line, and the distant sound of feral hogs in the trees travels with the air. The porch of the main house creaks beneath Isaiah March’s boots as he stands with his shoulder leaned against a post, unmoving. A low amber light spills from a wall sconce above the door, casting warm shadows across his sharp jaw and tired eyes.
In his hand, a heavy glass of Garrison Brothers Cowboy Bourbon glows gold, the ice barely clinking as he tilts it thoughtfully. The bottle rests beside him on the porch railing—uncorked, half-drained, sweating in the heat. Isaiah glances at his wristwatch. Late.
He clears his throat quietly, then pulls out his phone. The glow of the screen paints his face in pale blue light.
Dina: The kids are asleep. Let me know when you’re headed back to the resort.
Isaiah reads it once, then again, thumb lingering over the screen before he locks it and slides it back into his pocket. His expression stays unreadable—neutral—but his jaw flexes once, and he takes a long sip from the glass.
Behind him, the screen door creaks open.
Damian March steps out, the younger brother’s stride unhurried but firm. His button-down is untucked, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to his temple. There’s dust on his boots, fresh. He joins Isaiah silently at the railing, following his gaze out into the black.
“Randall said you were out here.” Damian says. “I thought you were staying clear ‘til tomorrow morning.”
Isaiah’s throat works. He takes another sip, then replies without looking over. “Your call earlier concerned me. Did you do it?”
Damian nods, slow and measured. “Yeah. We sent the note. She should be meeting our friend in the next half hour.”
Isaiah’s lips twitch, and he bites down lightly on the inside of his cheek. “What about the other spots?”
Damian chuckles—dry, humorless. “Set. All four. Tonight we scare the island animals. Tomorrow…” He pauses and wipes a hand across his scalp. “Tomorrow we kill them all.”
Isaiah nods once and finally turns to walk back into the house. The screen door groans open again behind him—but he stops in the doorway, something pulling at him like static in the air.
“She still alive?”
Damian smirks and grabs the bottle of bourbon off the railing. He lifts it slightly before answering.
“For now.”
Isaiah gives a final nod—no hesitation, no emotion—and disappears inside, the door thudding shut behind him.
Damian remains on the porch, eyes scanning the vast, quiet night. The wind shifts, rustling the trees just beyond the compound fence. He uncorks the bottle, takes a slow pull, and lets the silence settle over him like a blanket.
Then he follows.
Back into the house.
Back into the war they’ve already started.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow, there will be no more warnings.
Down by the bunkhouses, the night is still—too still. The floodlights up by the barns are off for once, casting the entire ridge in a quiet, moonlit haze. Every window in the bunkhouse behind them is dark. The others are asleep. Or pretending to be.
Jesse sits shoulder to shoulder with Kyle, both crouched low on the ground, their knees pulled up to their chests, elbows resting on top. Dust clings to the hems of their jeans, and the air smells faintly of hay, engine grease, and sweat—like all things do down here.
Kyle takes a drag from a half-burned cigarette, the end glowing red in the dark before he exhales a lazy stream of smoke toward the stars. Jesse watches him out of the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched, mind churning.
Time’s running out.
He can feel it in his bones.
The cover—Viper—has held longer than anyone expected, but Jesse knows what the look in Randall’s eye meant today. What the silence in Isaiah’s tone said without saying anything.
Something’s changing. And soon.
Jesse clicks his tongue against the inside of his cheek and finally speaks, voice low and reflective. “Sometimes I forget.”
Kyle’s head turns slightly, confused. “Forget what?”
He holds out the cigarette, but Jesse shakes his head, waving it off. He hasn't touched tobacco since the night of the Shepherd Hill fire, and he's not about to break that now.
Jesse lifts his chin toward the dark stretch of farmland beyond the fence line. “It’s so quiet... peaceful. I sometimes forget our country’s infested with criminals looking to destroy the American dream while bleeding us dry.”
Kyle exhales another slow puff, then gives a half-laugh. “Jesus, that’s heavy.”
Jesse doesn’t smile. “Yeah. Well, it’s true.”
Kyle shrugs. “You think that’s what we’re doing out here? Stopping all that?”
Jesse looks at him. Really looks. Like he’s weighing something.
“That depends,” he says. “You ever ask yourself why you’re out here?”
Kyle doesn’t answer right away. He stubs the cigarette into the dirt. “Nah. I just follow orders.”
“That’s the first problem.” Jesse mutters.
Silence stretches between them, thick and uneasy. Jesse feels it—like an invisible string tightening around his ribs. He knows he’s got to report back soon, get a signal to Pearl, but he also knows if he tips his hand too early, it all burns down around him. And Kyle... Kyle’s too close to the edge. Could go either way. Could be useful. Could be dead weight.
The night deepens around them, quiet and thick like a blanket soaked in sweat and smoke. Down by the bunkhouses, Jesse and Kyle remain seated on the gravel, backs leaned against the weathered siding of the tool shed. The air is still—too still—and it’s eating at Jesse’s nerves.
He lets a moment of silence stretch before he leans into it.
“You ever wonder why Isaiah keeps so many people in the dark?” Jesse asks casually, keeping his tone even, like it’s just conversation and not an attempt to pry open a sealed door.
Kyle sniffs and pulls at the collar of his worn flannel shirt. “He doesn’t owe anyone anything.” He mutters. “Not anymore.”
Jesse raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what I asked.”
Kyle doesn’t bite. He just pulls out another cigarette and lights it, the tip glowing red before fading back into the shadows between them.
Jesse waits a beat, then goes again. “What about the other drops? The signals you all have been moving between the farms? There’s no harvest season that calls for radio silence and coded ledgers.”
Kyle lets out a dry laugh, smoke curling out of his nose. “Man, you ask a lot of questions for someone who’s supposed to trust the plan.”
Jesse shrugs. “I like to know what I’m waking up for.”
Kyle finally turns to him, eyes low but steady. “The March brothers were sent by God, Jesse. To scorch the earth. So something pure can grow.”
Jesse’s jaw tightens, but he forces a calm smile. “Right. God and controlled demolitions.”
Kyle chuckles and flicks ash off the edge of his boot. “You laugh now. But when it starts, you’ll see. You’ll feel it. You’ll understand.”
Jesse leans forward slightly. “When what starts?”
Kyle doesn’t flinch. He takes another drag, then stands up and dusts off his jeans.
“You ask too many questions, Viper.” He says, more amused than suspicious. He claps a heavy hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “I’m gonna hit the head. Then hit the hay.”
Jesse stays sitting, nodding once. “Sleep tight, brother.”
“Tomorrow’s a big day.” Kyle calls over his shoulder as he walks off into the dark.
Jesse watches him go, his boots crunching the gravel until they vanish around the corner of the bunkhouse. For a moment, it’s just the night again—thick, humming, waiting.
He leans his head back against the shed, eyes scanning the stars overhead.
“Sent by God.” He mutters, more to himself than anyone. And then quieter, into the night air that never stops listening: “Then God’s got a hell of a problem.”
He exhales through his nose, the weight of the mission pressing heavier against his chest, and lets the silence fold in around him once more. The lies are piling up. And so is the risk.
Jesse stays seated on the gravel long after Kyle disappears around the bunkhouse, his footsteps fading into silence, swallowed by the night. The cigarette smoke still lingers, curling in the humid air like a ghost that refuses to leave. Crickets hum softly in the tall grass beyond the fence line. Somewhere far off, a screen door slams shut. The compound exhales—but Jesse doesn’t move.
He shifts his shoulders, adjusting the weight of his jacket against the corrugated metal behind him. The moon is high now, pale and distant, casting long shadows that stretch across the yard like fingers. He pulls one knee tighter to his chest, the denim of his jeans creasing under the strain. Dust clings to his boots and the backs of his calves.
He’s trying to breathe, but it doesn’t come easy—not out here, not tonight.
His hands—weathered, calloused, steady as stone—rest on his knees, but he can feel them twitching ever so slightly. That’s how he knows it’s real. That the line between undercover and exposed is getting too damn thin.
Kyle’s words still ring in his ears. They were sent by God to scorch the earth.
It’s not bravado. It’s belief. Fanaticism, dressed in denim and sun burnt skin.
Jesse has seen things—plenty—but this? This is different. Isaiah’s operation isn’t just a militia or a cult or a criminal ring. It’s all three. And it’s growing, breathing, tightening its grip on this quiet patch of land like a python around the throat of the country.
Jesse looks down at his hands. He flexes his fingers once, then exhales hard through his nose.
He has to get word back to Pearl. Soon.
Before the next movement. Before the next “signal.” Before someone disappears and doesn’t come back.
He finally pushes himself up, his boots crunching against the gravel as he stands. His knees pop softly from the strain—he’s been crouched too long, too tense. He brushes the dust off his jeans, his eyes scanning the surrounding dark for any signs of movement. The barns sit still. The house at the top of the ridge glows faintly behind drawn curtains. A dog barks once and is quickly silenced.
He steps out into the open and tilts his head up to the stars—bright, scattered, silent sentinels watching over the sins of men.
His jaw tightens as he mutters under his breath, “Almost out, Jesse. Almost out.”
But even as he says it, he knows the truth.
He’s deeper in than ever.
And there’s no guarantee he’s making it out at all.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back at Pearl Harbor, later into the dead of night, the warm buzz of streetlights casts a soft glow on the concrete outside NCIS headquarters, bouncing off the glass doors and the silver letters above them. The night is still, but not quiet—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional bark of a city dog, and the low thud of Lucy Tara’s heel tapping the ground keep a subtle rhythm.
She stands just outside the entrance, a green denim jacket pulled around her shoulders, her weight shifting restlessly from one leg to the other. Her phone is pressed tight to her ear, gripped in her hand like it might try to escape if she lets her guard down.
“Come on… come on, come on.” Lucy whispers under her breath, her voice strained with impatience.
The line clicks. Voicemail.
Her jaw tightens as she hears the automated greeting of Dr. Tammy Ruff, followed by the all-too-familiar beep.
Lucy closes her eyes, exhales sharply through her nose, and forces her voice steady as she speaks into the receiver.
“Dr. Ruff… this is Agent Lucy Tara from NCIS… again.” She emphasizes the last word just enough to carry her frustration. “I’m working on an active case, and I need to speak with you about a possible lead as soon as possible. Please call me back at this number at any time—day or night.”
She hangs up, letting her hand fall to her side, phone still in it. She considers calling again—just once more—but glances at the time glowing on her watch and rolls her eyes.
“Probably asleep.” She mutters.
Lucy drags a hand down her face, pressing the base of her palm into one eye, then swiping at her cheek before brushing a few strands of dark hair away from her face. The movement is automatic—habitual—but as her fingers push her bangs aside, something inside her jolts.
A memory rises, uninvited and soft.
Not her own hand.
Someone else’s.
Gentle fingertips brushing her hair from her forehead. A thumb tracing lightly along her brow, the warmth of another body close, a voice murmuring something too quiet to hear—but the feeling remains: safety, affection, a moment suspended in time.
Her breath catches, just for a second. Her chest tightens—not from fear, but from longing. From something unspoken that still lingers behind every professional decision, every mission, every risk she takes.
She closes her eyes again, longer this time.
The city keeps moving.
But for a moment, Lucy stays still—caught between duty and memory. And she knows, deep down, this case isn't the only thing unraveling.
The memory washes over Lucy like a tide—warm and slow and achingly soft.
She’s back in that dimly lit bedroom, the hum of the ceiling fan the only sound besides the gentle rustle of sheets and the whispered laughter that bounces off the walls. The morning sun hadn’t yet crept in through the slats of the blinds, leaving them wrapped in that sacred hour where time doesn’t quite exist.
Kate is lying beside her, one arm draped loosely over Lucy’s waist, her body curved to fit hers like a memory that had always existed inside her. Lucy’s dark brown hair falls messily across her eyes, and she squints against it with a smile—until Kate lifts a gentle hand and brushes it back.
Fingertips soft. Reverent.
Kate leans in and places a delicate kiss on Lucy’s nose.
Lucy giggles. Actually giggles. “That tickles.”
Kate grins, kissing her again—nose, cheek, jawline. “Good. Keeps you humble.”
Laughter bubbles between them like something secret and sacred. Lucy shifts beneath the sheets, her hand tracing lazy circles along Kate’s bare belly, just above the waistband of her sleep shorts. Kate’s fingers, in turn, explore the curve of Lucy’s hip, skin against skin, feather-light and curious.
They kiss again, this time slower. Deeper. But still smiling. Always smiling.
“God, I love your laugh.” Kate whispers, her lips brushing Lucy’s ear.
Lucy exhales softly, her fingers curling gently into Kate’s side. “Say it again.”
“I love your laugh.” Kate repeats, but this time, her voice is even quieter—like it’s just for Lucy. “And the way your nose crinkles. And how you say ‘I’m fine’ when you’re clearly not.”
Lucy snorts and hides her face in the crook of Kate’s neck. “I do not.”
Kate runs her knuckles down the side of Lucy’s face, her touch impossibly tender. “You absolutely do.”
They fall into another series of soft kisses and hushed teasing, hands wandering with a mix of playfulness and reverence. Kate touches Lucy’s cheek again and again like she’s grounding herself—like Lucy is something she never thought she’d get to hold.
“Don’t let go,” Lucy murmurs between breaths.
Kate pulls her closer, their legs tangled, the world outside completely forgotten. “Never.”
And even now—especially now—the memory leaves Lucy standing alone in the dark, outside NCIS headquarters, heart clenched in her chest, wondering what it might be like to feel that safe again.
The wind picks up slightly outside NCIS headquarters, curling around Lucy Tara in a strange, whispering chill. She blinks out of the memory—Kate’s soft smile, her warm breath against her skin—fading like a photograph dropped in water. Lucy shakes her head and straightens up, biting her bottom lip, glancing down at her phone one more time.
Still no call back.
She exhales sharply, rolling her eyes and muttering as she slips her phone inside of her jacket pocket. “Fuck.”
And then—everything slows.
The air around her feels strange, too cold for D.C. in late fall. Her instincts flare. Her breath catches. The hair on the back of her neck stands up.
A voice cuts through the stillness like a blade.
“Hey bitch.”
Lucy spins—too late.
The glint of shiny gray metal, a flash of movement, and the bang of a gunshot rips through the silence. Pain blooms instantly in her upper arm as the bullet grazes her. She yells out, stumbling back, hissing through her teeth.
“Shit—!”
She reacts instinctively, adrenaline flooding her system. Her boot connects hard with the man’s shin—crack—and he howls, collapsing to the ground. Another wild shot fires up into the air as his grip slips. Lucy lunges, gritting through the pain, and kicks him again—this time square across the jaw.
“Lucy!” Kai’s voice pierces through the chaos, and she barely registers his shape sprinting from the far side of the lot.
She throws herself at the attacker, wrestling the gun from his hand just as Kai slides in beside her. Together they pin him to the ground. Lucy presses a knee into his chest as Kai grabs his wrist and wrenches the weapon away.
Within seconds, armed security storms in, guns drawn, barking orders. The man stops struggling, chest heaving, eyes wild. The guards grab him roughly and pull him up. As they drag him toward the floodlights, one of them yanks down the hood of the grey sweatshirt.
A tan Navy uniform underneath.
“What the hell…?” Kai breathes out, staring.
The attacker—a man maybe in his mid-twenties, pale-faced, furious—stares directly at Lucy. His eyes burn.
“I missed.” He growls, voice low, guttural. “But they won’t.”
Lucy stumbles back instinctively, drawing closer to Kai, who steps forward and throws a hand up.
“Get him out of here.” Kai commands the MPs. “Bring him upstairs. Now.”
The officers nod and drag the man off, disappearing into the building.
Kai exhales hard, then turns to Lucy, who's rubbing her hand over her forehead, jaw clenched, trying to catch her breath. Her left sleeve is soaked with blood now, sticky and dark.
“You okay?” Kai asks, huffing as he steps toward her.
Lucy winces and looks at the wound. “Just a graze.” She mutters, then glances down toward the direction the attacker was taken. “But what the hell was that?”
Kai doesn’t answer. He pulls off his long-sleeve t-shirt in one fluid motion, revealing the black muscle tee beneath, and starts wrapping the fabric tightly around her arm.
“Here.” He says, focused, jaw tense.
Lucy hisses, her head falling forward slightly. “Son of a—”
“I know.” Kai grits out.
They both look down the hallway again.
Silence.
Lucy stares down at the crimson-streaked cotton wrapped around her arm. Her voice is quieter now. “That guy wasn’t here by accident.”
Kai nods grimly, lips pressed tight. “No. He was here for you.”
And for the first time in hours, the air outside NCIS doesn’t feel too cold anymore. It feels heavy. Like the start of something they’re not ready for.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile…on a different island, the middle of the night is heavy over the old farm, the kind of darkness that swallows sound and bends the air tight against Jesse’s chest. He moves carefully, every step measured on the gravel paths that crisscross the compound. The tiny stones crunch softly beneath his boots, each sound a gunshot in his ears. His breathing is ragged, rushed, but he traps it high in his chest, forcing himself to swallow the panic, to be quieter than the night itself.
His eyes sweep the shadows, darting from one low building to the next. He knows the Brotherhood is close—he can feel them in the air, their laughter spilling faintly through cracked windows, their boots clomping against wood floors. Every sound is a reminder of what’s at stake. The day of cleansing is tomorrow. Tomorrow. And still, no contact with Tennant, no word to the others. The seconds slip through his hands like sand, and Jesse knows time is running out.
He edges around the corner of a storage shed, hugging the rough boards with his shoulder, his body small against the wall. His gaze flickers across the open stretch of ground—and that’s when he sees them.
A neat line of white delivery trucks, their panels dull under the moonlight, parked shoulder to shoulder by the barn. The sight makes his stomach plunge, cold and bottomless. They’re lined up too neatly, too deliberately. Waiting.
Jesse leans forward, careful to angle his face away from the glare of a floodlight perched above the barn. The harsh beam sweeps out in an arc across the gravel, and he hugs the shadows like a second skin. His ears strain against the silence, pulling in every murmur and whisper from the compound.
And there it is—movement.
The muffled cadence of voices, laughter bubbling over, drifting closer. A group of men spill out from one of the side doors, their boots loud, their swagger louder. They’re horsing around, trading jabs and easy jokes as they cut across the yard toward the row of trucks.
Jesse reacts instantly, jerking back into the deep shadows, pressing himself against the rough wood of the building. The bark of laughter grows louder as they near, and Jesse’s pulse slams in his throat. He tilts his head back, rests it gently against the wall, and closes his eyes.
His breath trembles, fighting to escape. He holds it tight, staring upward at the thin slice of stars visible through the floodlight’s glare. The sky feels impossibly far away, a reminder of the world beyond this compound, beyond the suffocating weight of tonight.
He keeps still, every muscle taut, as the men shuffle past, their voices carrying like gravel dragged across the ground. Jesse doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. He waits, chest aching, until the sound of them fades into the distance, leaving only the faint hum of the farm and the thrum of blood in his ears.
And then, with his back pressed hard to the wall, Jesse opens his eyes, staring up at the sky. His breath finally escapes in a quiet rush, shaky and uneven, as he forces himself to focus. Tomorrow looms, but tonight—tonight he has to survive long enough to make it matter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back at NCIS headquarters, Lucy Tara sits on the edge of her desk, body slightly hunched and tense as she cradles her injured arm. Her boots barely touch the floor, toes tapping anxiously against the metal drawer below. Her breath catches as Commander Chase applies antiseptic to the bullet graze, and her entire body jolts in a reflexive flinch.
“Ah—damn it.” Lucy hisses through gritted teeth.
Commander Chase raises an eyebrow, her tone dry but not without warmth. “Again, Special Agent Tara, I really think we should take you in to get this properly examined.”
Lucy, jaw clenched, shakes her head and tightens her grip on the edge of the desk. “I have full confidence in you, Commander Chase.”
The older woman smirks faintly, continuing to clean the wound with practiced precision. “I’m fully confident in my capabilities. I do, however, think the gentle nurses—and the possibility of lime Jell-O—help with the healing process.”
Lucy lets out a low grunt of reluctant amusement, even as another wave of stinging pain washes over her. “Mmmm.” She hums, closing her eyes briefly, jaw twitching.
Across the bullpen, Kai paces like a caged animal, phone pressed tight to his ear, his voice low and clipped. The muscles in his back and shoulders stay rigid with frustration.
Then the bullpen doors swing open with force.
“Where is she?” Jane Tennant’s voice booms first.
Hank McCoy follows her in with urgency, cowboy hat in hand and worry etched deep in his furrowed brow.
“What the hell happened?!” Hank bellows, eyes immediately landing on Lucy.
Kai clicks his phone off and steps forward. “They’ll delay processing the shooter so we can interrogate him ourselves.” He says quickly, then glances at Jane. “He’s upstairs in holding. Two armed guards.”
Jane gives a sharp nod, already moving to triage the situation in her mind.
But Hank ignores the logistics and goes straight to Lucy. “What happened?” He asks, trying to mask the fear underneath his bark.
Lucy exhales shakily, her voice flat from adrenaline wearing off. “I was outside—getting some air. A guy came up behind me and said, ‘Hey bitch.’ I turned around, saw the gun. We fought, he fired. The bullet grazed me. I got him on the ground. Kai showed up.”
Kai shifts on his feet and adds. “He said he missed. But they won’t.”
“Son of a bitch.” Hank mutters, barely audible, his fists clenching at his sides.
Jane turns to Commander Chase. “Is she okay?”
“She will be.” Chase replies, cool and direct. “The wound is superficial. I disinfected it, stitched her up, and gave her something to fight off infection.”
Lucy lifts her chin, trying to steady her voice. “I’m fine. Pissed as hell, but fine.”
Hank eyes Chase skeptically. “No offense, but… don’t you mostly work on dead people?”
Commander Chase offers a calm smile without missing a beat. “No offense taken.”
Lucy lets out a scoffing laugh and rolls her eyes. “She’s a brilliant doctor. Can we please focus? Jesse and Kate are still out there.”
Kai nods and gestures upstairs. “We should talk to the shooter. Right away.”
But Jane’s sharp tone stops him cold. “No.”
Kai blinks. “Why not? We need answers.”
Jane’s eyes narrow. “Something’s off. This many attacks? This coordinated? It’s not their pattern.”
She goes quiet, her thoughts churning. You can almost see the neural gears grinding behind her steady eyes. “Unless…”
Lucy freezes. Her stomach drops. “Unless they want us distracted.”
“Exactly.” Jane’s voice hardens.
“These bastards are trying to throw us off their trail.” Hank growls, slamming his palm against a desk. “Shit.”
“So…?” Kai’s voice trails off, half-question, half-panic, waiting for direction.
Lucy’s gaze stays fixed forward, barely blinking. Her throat goes dry. “It’s tomorrow…it’s happening tomorrow.”
The air seems to still.
Jane locks eyes with her and nods. “Commander Chase… how long until sunrise?”
Chase doesn’t even hesitate. “Two hours and fifty-three minutes.” She replies, her voice like a ticking clock. “And counting.”
And all that is left between the four agents…silence.