AN: Apologies to any Hotel actually called the 'Prince of Denmark'…. This one's about to get a bit smashed up. Oh, and I'm starting the story in the middle. And btw, it helps if you've seen 'Sandblast' to know who Josh is, there are two OCs from another of my things, but you don't need to have read it to get who they are.
Graduation Celebration Confrontation
Prologue: Starting in the Middle. (Can a prologue do that?)
The cordon that had been thrown round the five star Prince of Denmark Hotel had proved to be effective, but it had no answer to a former Marine who flashed a badge, snarled, and walked through it. At his side, a small woman who managed to look exotic and formidable at the same time, treated it as if it wasn't there.
Gibbs' bark wasn't particularly loud, but it got attention. "Who's in charge here?"
A tall grey haired veteran turned to face him. "I'm Lieutenant Barraclough. Who the hell are you?"
"Gibbs. NCIS. They told me you're sending a SWAT team in; we're going with them."
"On whose say-so?"
"Didn't they tell you we were coming? There are naval personnel and marine dependants in there – to say –"
"Two of you?" the cop said derisively. "Anyway, you're too late, they've already begun." As if to prove it, there came the noise of stun grenades, and windows blowing out. Gibbs and Ziva set off at a run.
The SWAT team had entered stealthily, looking out for guards on point in areas outside the ballroom, where they'd been told the hostages were, but there didn't seem to be any activity. Outside the closed double doors they listened, but heard nothing. The leader signalled, the doors were smashed open, one left hanging off its hinges, and two stunners were thrown in. As the uncomfortable wave of percussion swept across the room, there were a few cries of pain and discomfort heard above the sound of breaking glass, but no gunfire. The team doubled into the room, some sweeping their gun-barrels high, some low, but apart from people in evening dress, lying in a huddle, there was no movement in the elegant room.
The trained men ran through the room, knocking chairs and tables out of their path, and tearing down curtains to alcoves since it was quicker and more effective than drawing them back. They aimed guns at the long table where the remains of the buffet were laid, and upturned it to see if anyone hid beneath it. No-one. A movement caught the leader's eye. "There!"
A man in evening wear was coming very slowly down the short corridor from the cloak rooms; he carried a hand gun, holding it in two hands as if he knew how to use it. Three police officers were on him in a flash, tackling him to the ground; one wrenched the gun from his hand. As he tried to lift his head, the same officer pushed his face into the carpet. His hands were wrenched behind him and cuffed, the team leader put his knee in between the man's shoulder blades, and pulled his head up by the hair. "Where are your friends?"
The man's voice was hardly audible, but the derision in it was clear.
"My friends?" He choked out a laugh, and tried to draw a breath to say something else.
"I won't ask you again," the SWAT man said, poking the man's temple hard with the muzzle of his gun.
A woman in a sapphire blue ball-gown had staggered to her feet, and was trying to speak, but one of the cops led her away. "You come and sit down, ma'am, we'll deal with him… you're safe now…" He righted a chair and sat her down, and went back to his team without hearing her.
"Check the cloak rooms," the leader barked, then turned his attention to the prisoner again.
"They're not in the cloak rooms… you think they're hiding in the toilets?" the man ground out into the carpet. One of the team called him something physically impossible, and jerked his cuffed wrists. The prisoner yelped in pain, and the cop was about to snag the cuffs even harder, when an enraged voice bellowed at him, and he was roughly pushed aside.
"Get the hell away from my agent, you damn fools," Jethro Gibbs roared. "Move. Now!"
He paid the cops no further attention, leaving Ziva to flash her badge and deal with them, as he produced his own key, released the cuffed wrists, and turned the man onto his back. Tony DiNozzo moaned softly, and looked up at his boss, green eyes trying to focus. His shirt was bloodsoaked. Ziva came to kneel beside him, bringing some tablecloths, and the lady in sapphire blue came with her. DiNozzo reached one shaky hand up to grab Gibbs' jacket.
"Boss… Tim, and Marianne… they took them… and Josh and Anne-Marie…"
"Are they ok?" Gibbs asked, pressing the table linen down on Tony's shoulder, aware that Gillian, Josh Cooper's mother, didn't want to ask, but was desperate to know.
"Yeah… McGee was keeping them all calm… reckon they shot me… just to make sure he'd co-operate… but he was doin' good last I saw… he'll look after them… McGee's OK… sorry, Gill… but hey, don't you worry… McGee'll keep Josh safe…" he closed his eyes with an exhausted sigh.
More AN: I know SWAT teams aren't really so ham fisted… and sorry it's the shortest opening I ever wrote, just wanted to get the habitual whump in quick!