Day of Reckoning
Written for the NFA Ending Seven Challenge
Disclaimer: All names and trademarks recognised as "NCIS" do not belong to me; I've just borrowed the characters for my own purpose.
Characters: Gibbs, Mike Franks, the team
Genres: Gen, Drama, Casefile, Suspense
Warnings: Spoilers for Judgement Day, as well as season six
Summary: Why is someone after Gibbs? What has it got to do with the late Jenny Shepard? And what will they discover that could change everything?
A/N This is AU story based on what potentially (but very unlikely) could happen in the finale of season seven. It was written pre-Truth and Consequences, but that shouldn't make a difference to the story.
Prologue: A Bump in the Night
The night was clear and the moon was full. It and the stars shone down on the earth, illuminating the car parked in the driveway of a Washington D.C. house. All was quiet, all was still. Many of the neighbours' houses were dark, though it wasn't that late. A light was on in the house with the car; it's light peaked through closed curtains.
Then, a twig snapped.
A figure, a shadowy figure, crept silently down the side of the house. He pushed open the gate that gave him access to the backyard. He crept forward and stopped as he heard a dog bark two doors down. The barking stopped and the man moved, silently.
He worked his way over to the backdoor and jiggled the handle. As expected, it opened easily with a little squeak. Pushing it open just enough for him to squeeze through, the figure robed in black slid through, making sure his backpack didn't get caught on the way.
He moved silently, like a tiger stalking its prey. His footsteps were not heard, neither was his breathing. He never bumped into a wall and never tripped over his feet, despite it being dark and without a flashlight. As he thought he heard a noise from upstairs, he froze and flattened himself against the wall. He counted to thirty, and moved again.
Finding his target, the man slipped off his backpack and opened it silently. He pulled out the equipment he needed; a red plastic square, multiple wires . . . and a cell phone. He worked quickly, efficiently, and was done within the hour. He surveyed his handiwork with a grim smile under his ski mask, and stepped back.
He packed up his equipment, slung the bag over his shoulder and crept back to the open backdoor. Silently, he pushed it open, stepped through and pulled it shut with a little click. He stilled as the dog barked again, and moved after its owner had yelled for it to shut up.
He silently manoeuvred himself back over to the side gate, slipping through it with elegant grace. Still silent, he walked casually away from the house, and down the street. He pulled off his mask, and shook out his longish brown hair. Then, he pulled out a cell phone and dialled a number.
Behind him, in the distance, a house exploded.