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prologue i
june
2007

'something wicked this way comes'

The recruitment office in Eastern Market was humming with the usual brawny male-dominated activity: a Marine Gunnery Sergeant, a Navy Lieutenant, and an Army Corporal were bumming around the empty office shooting the bull.

In the corner, a young Marine Lance Corporal kicked a hacky sack repeatedly at the wall. He lounged lazily in a plastic chair by a jug of lukewarm drinking water—largely ignored by his superiors—and occasionally showed off a lazy, smug kind of skill with the toy as he flipped it around quickly and never let it touch the ground. It was a hot, uneventful Monday in the middle of June, and the joint recruitment office had been a dead zone all morning. The Navy and the Marines were supposed to be there; the Army had dropped in for a chat with the Gunnery Sergeant.

Corporal Clayton Cassidy was leaning against the wall, one leg propped behind him, a thick file tucked under his arm, and a plastic cup of water in his hand. There was sweat on his brow from the relentless sun, and he looked harassed. Lieutenant Matthew Stevens was reading the new recruitment brochures and making snide comments, and Gunnery Sergeant Brock Jarvis was chewing gum sternly and glaring at Cassidy.

"What the hell're you still hangin' around here for?" he groused. "You aimin' to start another civil war?"

Cassidy snorted and rolled his eyes, gulping down his water.

"That a crack about the army or my southern heritage?" he retorted.

"Both," growled Jarvis good-naturedly. He shrugged. "I ain't worried if you G.I. Joe's wanna fight," he blustered gruffly.

"You think the devil dogs can out-fight Green Berets?"

"Got us a coupla' SEALS," Jarvis said, jerking his thumb at Stevens.

"Ain't gonna do you much good on land."

"What're you gonna do, call in the Chair Force for back up?"

The two men snorted with laughter, poking at each other all in good fun. The hacky sack bounced loudly against the wall. Lieutenant Stevens flipped a page in the booklet and snorted, shaking his head at some trussed up, glorified picture of boot camp. Sellin' it beautifully, they were. Jarvis leaned forward and started folding a paper airplane with extreme boredom, raising his brows at Cassidy.

"Who're you avoiding'?" he prompted.

Cassidy gestured at the file under his arm with his plastic cup.

"The Hound," he said grimly, a reluctant look crossing his features.

"I always heard Colonel Shepard was all bark," Stevens said, without looking up from the brochure. He smirked at something else, and Cassidy gave a bark of disbelieving laughter.

"You ain't never felt him bite, then," he said dryly, thinking of the tough as nails, solid as rock, and legendary old Colonel in Georgetown—they called him The Hound because he reminded his men of the German Shepherds they trained: loyal and reliable, but ruthless when need be. And his bark—was definitely not as bad as his vicious bite.

Cassidy scoffed.

"Who the hell told ya he was all bark?" he demanded.

Jarvis leaned back and chucked his paper airplane across the room. It caught a dismal two seconds of airtime and then nose-dived into the floor. The hacky sack still bounced, and the superiors in the room still left the young marine in the corner alone. Jarvis grinned wryly.

"Who?" he asked. "Hell, his puppy, I guess. Met 'er at the Pentagon last year."

Cassidy snorted. He was sure the way Colonel Shepard treated his daughter was vastly different from the way he treated his soldiers. Hell—Shepard did seem like the kind of man who was uncompromising in the field and totally whipped by that ass-kissing little princess of his at home. The Corporal crumpled his cup and chucked it into a trashcan. He took the file and held it up.

"Well, all bark or not, he's gonna bite when he gets an eyeful of this," he growled. "NCIS-Army CID report on the embezzlement going on leads back to his boys at the Pentagon."

Jarvis winced and whistled.

"Damn glad that's not my job," he said gleefully. He inclined his head smugly—he knew the Colonel on a friendly basis; they'd done Marine boot camp together before Shepard bailed and went Army instead. "You'll get twice as much shit from 'im; he just shelled out a hell of a chunk of his bank account for that girl's car."

Cassidy groaned—it was no secret from his army colleagues that the Colonel was in a growly, hell of a mood because of a promise he'd made to his teenage daughter that ended up biting him in his frugal ass.

"Serves 'im right, makin' deals with women," Jarvis chuckled.

Cassidy swore under his breath, and then he seemed to take notice of the hacky sack being kicked around aimlessly. He kicked off the wall he was leaning on and jerked his chin.

"Who's the grunt?" he asked.

Gunny Jarvis glanced over with a practiced lack of interest.

"That's Gibbs," he said flippantly. "He doesn't have a woman, so he spends his leave days convincin' other kids to sell their souls to us."

The young Marine—Gibbs—ignored the smart ass jibe from his superior officer and snatched the hacky sack from the air, throwing it up and catching it in his hand. He turned and fixed a mild sort of glare on Cassidy. He had a sullen, stern look to him, and calculating blue eyes—the Corporal considered him for a minute and then grinned, and turned back to Jarvis.

"You mind if I borrow him?"

"For what?" asked Jarvis blandly. "Kid's already been hazed."

"Yeah, but no hazing beats taking bad news to The Hound," Cassidy pointed out smugly.

Jarvis considered it for a minute, and then grinned, swiveling in his chair and snapping at Gibbs authoritatively.

"Lance Corporal," he barked.

The young man bolted to his feet, tucking his hacky sack into his pocket and eyeing Jarvis sternly and obediently. Jarvis jerked his thumb at Cassidy, gesturing to the file in his hands.

"Your new assignment is to stop being a pain in my ass and take that file to the Pentagon—"

"Naw, Colonel's at home today."

"—to Georgetown," Jarvis corrected smoothly. He cracked another annoying little smile and narrowed his eyes. "You make it out alive, I'll toss you a challenge coin."

Gibbs nodded and stepped forward, his eyes on Cassidy. He waited for further instruction, and Cassidy surveyed him curtly, discerning if he could trust the kid or not. He finally gave a short nod and thrust the file out, tapping on it.

"Hand-deliver this gem to Colonel Shepard," he ordered abruptly. "That's Army Colonel Jasper Shepard, at his brownstone in Georgetown." Cassidy grabbed a pen off the desk and scrawled the address on the outside of the manila file. He handed it off to Gibbs. "Think you can find it?"

"Yes, sir," Gibbs answered firmly.

"Gibbs was top of his class when we threw 'em out in the woods to navigate home," Jarvis drawled. "Likes to remind us of it, too."

Gibbs' face didn't move, but there was an arrogant sort of glint in his eyes. Cassidy glared at him, and then let it go—The Hound would probably take care of that, once he realized what the boy was delivering. There was nothing else to be said, and Gibbs gave a curt nod and slipped past Cassidy, swiping his cover from a hook and fitting on his head as he left the recruitment office and started down the street. The door closed behind him, and the bell jingled obnoxiously.

Cassidy picked up the paper airplane on the floor. Jarvis leaned back and rubbed his jaw, snorting.

"How old's Jenny Shepard these days?" he asked wryly, well aware she was off school for Summer holidays, and probably hanging around her house.

Cassidy shrugged.

"Eh, maybe sixteen, 'bout," he muttered. He paused, holding the paper airplane, and glared at Jarvis. "Aw, hell, Brock, don't play cupid with my boss's daughter and your damn Marines. He'll blow a gasket."

Jarvis waved his hand.

"That leatherneck's got to get a girl or he's gonna make Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps at twenty-five."

Cassidy chucked the paper airplane at him.

It soared.

He didn't mind the walk to Georgetown from the Foggy Bottom metro; he had nothing to do and time to kill. He took the narrow, historic cobblestone streets past the swanky shops and found his way to the maze of elegant old brownstones spanning out from the university. The Colonel's was easy to find—it was on a quieter, older street, and bragged of more space between it and its neighbors.

There was a glossy black truck parked on the street outside the house, and in a pebbled, stunted driveway, there sat what looked like a brand new, shockingly red Mustang convertible. Gibbs raised his eyebrows and whistled quietly to himself, crossing the street slowly. He glanced around the mellow neighborhood—there was a dog barking lazily in a backyard, behind a fence—and approached the Mustang, his eyes glued to the sheer beauty of it.

It reminded him of the old Dodge Challenger he'd been restoring back at home, except this baby was fresh from the manufacturer and screaming to be broken in. He prowled around the side of it, his eyes roaming hungrily over the body—it was spotless, sparkling like it had just been expertly washed and waxed, and he realized this must be the car Jarvis mentioned the Colonel breaking his bank on—for some woman?

Hell of a woman she must be, Gibbs thought.

He tucked the file under his arm and bent forward, eyeing his reflection in the paint job. He reached out gingerly, his fingers itching—

"Hey!"

A sharp shout stopped him, just as his palm was lingering over the shiny red finish.

"I just waxed that. I am not above using the armed forces database to identify you using any and all fingerprints you leave."

He looked up, and then executed a smooth move to look as if he'd merely been examining the car.

The voice belonged to a young redhead in denim Daisy Dukes and an unevenly buttoned flannel shirt that obscured an orange faded bikini top. She stood at the hood of the Mustang with a hand on her hip, one long, tan leg extended in a threatening, tense pose. There was a dirty white rag hanging from one of her belt loops.

He straightened up immediately. He pointed at the car.

"You missed a spot."

She approached him and whipped the rag from her hip, twisting it into a tight rat-tail and snapping it coolly at his hand, deliberately missing him—just as a warning.

"I did not," she said simply, without affording the car even the slightest glance.

He lifted his brows.

"The armed forces database is for identifying the dead," he informed her neutrally, meeting her eyes.

"Dead is what you'll be if you touch my car," she retorted without missing a beat or batting a thick eyelash.

He grinned in spite of himself, and she cocked an eyebrow. Her eyes were green, her lips a slightly sunburnt, chapped red, and her legs were long—he noticed, because his eyes were wandering in a not-so-subtle way. The bikini top peaking out of her shirt was a garish orange that clashed violently with her hair.

She dipped her head forward, catching his eye.

"You see something you like, Marine?" she challenged quietly.

He tilted his head and looked back at her mildly.

"I haven't decided yet," he drawled, turning on a little charm—she smirked, and he tapped the file under his arm, transferring it to his hand. "Colonel Jasper Shepard here?"

She nodded slowly and jerked her thumb at the house.

"Study at the end of the hall. You'll run into a cloud of Cuban cigar smoke," she instructed, and turned to survey the car. In an instant, she removed herself from the conversation, an air of dismissiveness surrounding her.

He nodded, eyeing the house for a minute. He started towards it, and then turned around, walking backwards to the porch.

"Great body," he said, and flicked his cover up with a respectful wink when she turned to look at him sharply. He lifted his chin and pointed. "The car," he clarified smugly, and pivoted on his heel, turning his back to her and strolling into the brownstone.

Colonel Jasper Shepard—the infamous Hound—was bent over several documents with bold, black redactions puncturing them, and the promised cloud of cigar smoke was engulfing his head. From what Gibbs could see of his inclined head, he was a big man with broad shoulders, slowly greying hair, and a sharp, square jawline that seemed permanently set in a stern growl.

He grunted when he heard the noise in the doorway and lifted his hand, waving it.

"What?" he barked.

Gibbs slapped the file against the doorway.

"Got a file for you, sir."

The Colonel looked up and squinted roughly at the kid in his study. He narrowed his eyes.

"You're a goddamn leatherneck," he stated harshly.

Gibbs nodded, confirming the obvious.

"What the hell are you doin' in my house?"

Gibbs stepped forward.

"NCIS-Army CID report for you, sir," he said, hardly rattled by the Colonel's rough attitude. He'd had worse in boot camp—much worse. He was damn sure the Colonel had, too. "Ran 'em to you as a favor to Corporal Cassidy."

The Colonel grunted hoarsely and bit down on his cigar, his jaw tightening.

"Cassidy, that old candy ass," he growled shortly. "Must be bad news," he muttered, and held his hand out, demanding the file.

Gibbs stepped forward and dropped it steadily into his hand, stepping back and sweeping his cover off of his head abruptly. He watched the Colonel open it and started to glare through it swiftly. Shepard swore callously, and then slammed the file shut and chucked it into a pile on his desk.

"Those sailor fucks at NCIS can't handle police work if it bites 'em in the balls…" he started to himself, throwing out another random bout of swear words for good measure.

He yanked his cigar from his mouth and leaned back, glaring narrowly at Gibbs for a moment as if he were trying to figure out how to shoot the messenger without getting blood on the carpet. He grunted angrily, his lip curling, and Gibbs noticed that for all the rough and ready fight in the lines of his face, he had the same deep green eyes as the redhead in the driveway.

"You got somethin' else for me, Marine?" he barked sarcastically, implicitly asking why the hell Gibbs was still taking up space in his study.

Gibbs gave him a respectful inclination of the head and turned about face on his heel to go. He made it to the doorway before the reckless, stubborn part of his nature got the best of him and turned around, bracing his elbow against the doorway. He rubbed his jaw roughly.

"Sir," he said confidently. "You mind if I ask your daughter for a date?"

The Colonel stared at him, his mouth stern. Gibbs couldn't read his face, and for a split, silent moment, he thought he might have made a terrible, irreparable mistake—he saw his military career and even his life flashing before his eyes—and then Shepard just grunted dismissively and leaned forward, bending back over his papers.

He growled something under his breath about every goddamn enlisted prick that drops something off here trying to run off with her and popped his cigar back in his mouth irreverently.

"You'n ask 'er whatever you damn please," he muttered. "She'll stop waxin' the goddamn Mustang long enough to shoot you down."

Gibbs grinned.

"Hell, sir, guess it's a good thing I got a bulletproof vest," he retorted smugly.

The Colonel looked up sharply, and his lip curled—Gibbs was pretty sure he'd get that challenge coin when he reported back to Jarvis that he'd made the old hound laugh.

She was sitting on the hood of the car, arms stretched up over her head as she tied up her thick, wavy red hair. Her shirt rose up and bared a generous strip of midriff, and his eyes followed the bend of her legs over the red car as he strolled down the sidewalk. A full-grown, energetic German Shepherd came bounding over to him, wagging its tail and barking madly. She shot the dog a look, glanced at Gibbs, and gave no command for the animal to back off. It didn't matter—Gibbs wasn't afraid of him; He rubbed the dog's ears and back and let him sniff around his feet.

There was a torn paperback book on the car hood next to the redhead. He stopped, reached for it—and received a sharp, quick slap to the hand. He stole a look at the title—it was an annotated copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth—and then smirked, glancing back up at her slowly. The dog stood on his hind legs, and placed his front paws on her knees, brilliantly avoiding scratching the car. She finished tying up her hair and leaned forward to scratch his ears, her sharp eyes on the Marine standing in front of her.

He jerked his head at the house casually.

"Your old man said I could take you out," he said easily.

She pursed her lips.

"And with my dowry, did he include the proper amount of goats and milking cows?"

Gibbs cocked an eyebrow, amused. She narrowed her eyes, and the corners of her mouth turned up.

"In this century, you ask the daughter for the date, not the father." Her eyes ran over the top of his uniform, resting on his nametag. "Gibbs," she pronounced crisply, making it sound as if every single letter was its own syllable.

He wasn't so much embarrassed as drawn in by the curt attitude she gave him. He considered her for a minute, still smirking, and stepped forward—he ran his hand over the dog in a calculated move; the German didn't growl at him; he wagged his tail contently, and Gibbs made sure his hands stumbled into hers while he pet the dog. She bit her tongue and tilted her head—she highly doubted her father had told this Marine he could take her out; it was more likely that he assumed she'd do what she always did—say no and go back to whatever she was doing.

But—this one was kind of cute.

He pushed her dog's ears up into a cute, perky position.

"You want to let me take you out?" he asked.

She pursed her lips and sighed, pretending to look over him critically. Her eyes fell back on his nametag, and she then looked to the dog for consultation—and when she finally looked back up at him, she swept her tongue along her lower lip flippantly and shrugged her shoulders.

"I haven't decided yet," she answered coolly, flicking his earlier words back in his face.

He looked taken aback—and then, when he realized what had just happened, he grinned.

"Tell me your name," he drawled persuasively.

She pretended to absently study the rank insignia on his uniform, and then cut her eyes at him through her lashes.

"Jenny," she said finally, arching a brow. "Shepard."

He darted forward and snatched her beaten up Shakespeare book from the hood of the car, flipping it in his hand and holding it away from her. She looked at him patiently, cocking her head thoughtfully, and he flicked through the pages.

"You want to finish your book," he paused for effect, "Jenny?" he tried out her name, and he liked how it felt on his lips. He grinned roguishly. "I'll give it back to you after dinner."

She parted her lips.

"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes," she quoted the masterpiece lazily, pretending to be torn in her decision. She flashed him a winning smile and bat her eyelashes. "Tell you what, Marine. You run off to wherever Marines play with that book, and if I run into you again before I need to buy a new copy, I'll know dinner with you is fate."

He considered it, fathomless blue eyes on hers. Her lashes fluttered, and he flipped the book in the air again, catching it, and shoving it into the back of his pants, using his belt as a pocket for it.

He adjusted his cover on his head, tipped it to her, and sidestepped the dog, accepting her terms with a sort of anticipatory sense of rightness in his veins. She turned on the hood and yelled to him as he was leaving.

"Lance Corporal!" she shouted, impressing him when she showed she'd correctly identified his insignia. She shielded her eyes from the shining sun. "You just Gibbs?" she asked, requesting his name.

He grinned, and in a swift movement, yanked his dog tags from his collar and broke one off. He tossed it to her in a high arc and she threw her hand up—and caught it. He smirked, turned, and swept his hand across her car's flank in a daring move, disappearing down the street with a smug spring in his step.

She shook her head, biting her lower lip, and turned the cool metal over in her hand, eyes running over the lettering—she laughed out loud.

Gibbs, Leroy Jethro.

prologue i
june
2007

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