He was annoying, loud and crude and vulgar. He threw sarcastic jabs at Tony and was viciously prejudice toward you. And after three hours, you were very nearly ready to kill him. So when Tony bets you rock-paper-scissors (you swear Americans have the most bizarre customs) as to who gets to escort the pusher upstairs, you lose. And of course the drug dealer devoutly refuses to make this unappealing task easy, yammering and raving like a lunatic, boycotting your insistence that he board the elevator lest you use force -which you do. Just little love tap. To the jugular. That was all.

You scarcely notice when the metal doors slide open with a bright ding because you are crouched on the floor, attempting to revive your lifeless suspect. Gibbs is bewildered as you look up and pronounce him dead.

It isn't fair to automatically accuse you, you think, just because you are a trained Mossad assassin. You do have some control (you haven't killed Tony yet, after all) and you can exercise restraint. You've spent a year under Gibbs' tutelage and it isn't like you weren't listening. You are an investigator now, not singularly a killer.

You are chained to a desk, doomed to phone calls and paperwork, and right when you think today cannot grow any more dismal, Jenny decides to get kidnapped. And to make matters entirely worse, she is kidnapped by the head drug lord. And the ransom for Jenny is the man's heroin and his brother. Who is lying on a slab in autopsy. So now Gibbs pissed and your anxiousness is building up with no outlet because you are confined to the seclusion of the bullpen.

You've been on the line for two hours and the receiving end, the side with the vital information you need, insists upon placing you on hold. Again. And then McGee materializes, bringing with him a fruitless search and his sympathies, reassuring you that he, at least, is in your corner, believing in your innocence. And isn't that the law, innocent until proven guilty? But you digress, waving him off, refocusing his attention to the number one priority, the safety of Director Jenny Sheppard.

You visit Ducky and he listens patiently, clearly wishing that you were not in his refrigerated domain compromising yourself. When Gibbs strides in, you retreat to maintaining the phones and procuring two mugs of warm tea.

The bad guy calls, offering a final ultimatum: One hour, bring the brother and the drugs, one agent, no back up. And Jenny will be unharmed.

And you're the best shot, aside from Gibbs, so you finally are released from the dreary staleness of the bullpen, soon finding yourself riding in the backseat with a gun taped to your back, Tony's head is in the dead brother's lap and the dead brother is driving in a fashion that rivals your own. But really this doesn't surprise you. Nothing here surprises you anymore.

The big brother calls your bluff, and you end up laying on the dusty floor of a airplane hanger, hands cuffed behind your back, your gun having skidded to the far ends of the earth. You make eye contact with your friend and disregard the fear you see there. And then Tony pops the trunk and shots ring out and the bad guy collapses. And you drag yourself upward and go tend to her, but she is not hurt physically and is no longer afraid, now she just seems amusedly pissed. "It really is an interesting story. . . ."

Later the jury is in and it is concluded that you did not kill the suspect, he had a brain aneurism since birth that had finally reached its bursting point. His death was ruled as natural causes. You cannot tell if Gibbs is pleased or not, though you brush this off and go find Jenny, because she is in need of an amusing story tonight.

You knew how hard you hit the guy. And you knew where you hit the guy.

You can't decide though if NCIS is crazy for keeping you, or if you are really really lucky.