Chapter 1. Strike.

It had been a calm morning. Tony was still relatively groggy from a late night last night—at a fellow agent's apartment, nonetheless-, and McGee had been ignorant of his surroundings, too absorbed with new computer software. Gibbs was in Autopsy, chatting with Ducky, and Ziva had yet to arrive at work, which might have to do with the fact that Tony had left a rather large hickey on the side of her neck. Not that it was a hickey; if you asked her, she would claim she was hit in the neck during a karate session.

Despite the relaxed atmosphere that surrounded the NCIS building, something was amiss. Gibbs felt it in his gut, his biggest indicator despite the criticism it caused him.

"Jethro?" Ducky called Gibbs's attention back to their conversation. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah, Duck," Gibbs agreed, still slightly absentminded. He forced himself to return to their conversation; there was nothing occurring in his life that should cause his gut feelings, anyways.

Ducky narrowed his eyes at Gibbs, curious as to what was on his friend's mind, but chose to carry on with his story instead of asking.

…

"I am wearing a tortoiseneck," Ziva complained to her boyfriend on the phone as she drove to work. It was true. To sheath the bruise that Tony had left upon her neck, she had been forced to wear the maroon colored shirt.

"Turtleneck," Tony corrected, slightly smirking. He was proud of himself for leaving the bite on her. It only made him hungry for more.

"Yes, whatever," Ziva waved him off. "All the same, it is the middle of summer, Tony. It does look a little suspicious wearing a long-sleeved shirt."

"Everyone already knows we're a couple," he reminded her. A flashback of being walked in on in the janitor closet—by Gibbs of all people—replayed in his head, caused him to wince.

"I know that, Tony," she stated bluntly. "I am just saying that people may question why I am wearing such odd attire in the middle of the hottest season in the year."

Tony squinted his eyes, not believing what she was saying. "Ziva, I don't know who you run into on a daily basis, but I doubt anyone will ask a girl why she is wearing a certain shirt. Who seriously sees those things?"

Ziva raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that you have honestly never stared at a woman's shirt, Tony?"

Tony cleared his throat and straightened his tie. "That's an irrelevant matter, Zi-VAH."

Ziva smiled, knowing that she had caught her prey, whether he was willing to admit it or not.

He hurried to change the subject. "When will you get here? Every time I try to strike up a conversation with McGeek, he rattles on about his motherboard. I'm in desperate need of actual human contact, not robot alien ramblings."

"No such thing as a robot alien, Tony," McGee chimed in, having heard his name during the phone call.

"Shut it, McDweeb!" Tony ordered his partner. "Don't deny what you are!"

Ziva smiled. "I will be there in approximately five minutes."

Tony smiled, too. "Bless your sweet soul. Love you."

She smiled once more at his words. "Love you, too."

She hung up and put her phone away. She was happy, thrilled even, that she finally had someone in her life to tell that she loved them. Her father was too much of an authority figure in her life to receive that kind of affection. She had never felt undividedly loved by her father, but when she was with Tony, she felt those feelings. It was a glorious change.

Ziva gripped the wheel, speeding and weaving past those who were unfortunate enough to share the road with the risky Israeli.

Just then, a motorcyclist wove up to drive steadily along side her car. Ziva glanced at him, always suspicious of her surroundings. His all black attire reminded her of a man she had chased years before. The memories sent her instincts wild, her hand itching to reach for the gun holstered to her side.

The man's dark helmet turned in her direction and then back towards the road as he sped away.

'Calm down, Ziva,' she forced herself to think. 'Not every individual on a motorcycle is a threat.'

But her gut feelings refused to relent. As a compromise, she took the back streets for the rest of the drive, driving through various alleyways and unknown pathways, just in case he was tailing her.

She turned on the radio, hoping it would calm her irrational tension. At least, that's what she assumed it was: irrational. Her viewpoint on that matter changed when three feet ahead of her speeding car, dead center in the road, was a black object. The black backpack reminded her all too well of her training in Mossad. It was a bomb.

As fast as she was capable, she shoved the gear into reverse and slammed her foot on the accelerator. But Ziva was out of luck; either someone was watching her and knew when to detonate the bomb, or they had timed the explosion perfectly. Either way, the bomb exploded just as she hit the accelerator, sending an explosion ricocheting into the underbelly of her car.

Ziva's arms covered her face in defense as her car flew and rolled to the passenger's side, followed by a roll that sent it upside-down, and then a final, rickety settlement on the driver's side. Her windshield had been shattered completely and torn open at various edges.

Slightly shaking, she lowered her arms to see cuts from glass imbedded into her tan skin. Other than those injuries and a few minor bruises, Ziva seemed to have been rescued by her seatbelt and airbags. She pulled her seat belt off and began crawling to the passenger's window, the only side open to her.

Once she emerged, she looked around as she pulled out her gun. Her attacker had to be close by. He would have wanted to see the explosion for himself.

But as she scanned the area, she saw no signs of life. She was in an alley that was channeled by the backsides of various department stores, none of which had opened yet. It appeared as if she was alone, but she knew she was being watched. She could feel their eyes on her skin.

That was when shots were fired. From the rooftop, bullets rained down, all aimed at the NCIS agent. She reacted immediately, quickly ducking for cover behind her car. Her years as a Mossad agent trained her into being capable of dodging the deadly metal as she did so.

Ziva, already having her gun drawn, began to fire back as soon as she reached the shelter of her car. The stand off continued as Ziva's bullets began to quickly and dangerously recede. She was able to fight her opponent off until, finally, the attacker's fire ceased. She couldn't tell if she hit the shooter or not. Either way, she would stay where she was until she had her backup. Her pride only allowed her to dial for one person in particular.

"Gibbs," she murmured into her cellphone. "I need you to come down here."