Chapter Text
The bullpen was too quiet.
Tony DiNozzo spun lazily in his chair anyway, one heel hooked on the edge of his desk, counting the squeaks as if they were a soundtrack.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
On squeak number seven, Tim McGee’s fingers froze above his keyboard.
“Tony,” McGee warned, not looking up from his monitor. “You’re going to make me add ‘chair homicide’ to my report.”
Tony threw his arms out, chair tipping back another dangerous inch. “C’mon, Probie. Live a little. Or, you know, let the chair live a little. Bonding exercise. Builds character.”
“There is no character-building in breaking government property,” McGee muttered.
Across from them, Ziva David snapped her file closed with unnecessary precision.
“You sound like my driving instructor in Tel Aviv,” she said. “He did not have much character either. Very… grey.” She waved a hand. “Like wall paint.”
Tony brightened. “Let me guess. You didn’t listen to him, almost killed him, and they gave you a commendation for creativity?”
“I did not almost kill him,” Ziva said, offended. “He jumped from the car. Drama queen.” She leaned back in her chair, dark eyes sliding to Tony. “And in my country, we know how to handle a vehicle without a manual telling us not to hold the steering wheel with our feet.”
“In your country,” Tony replied, pointing a pen at her, “maybe they don’t care about little things like safety regulations, but here we—”
“Oh, yes,” she cut in, lips curving. “America, land of many regulations, and yet somehow your people still manage to drive into buildings. Very impressive.”
McGee winced. “Um, statistically—”
“Not helping, McGeek,” Tony said, not taking his eyes off Ziva. “And for the record? We have great drivers.”
Ziva arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I have seen you park.”
“That was one time. And that fire hydrant was in a really weird spot.”
“It was painted bright red, Tony,” McGee said.
“It was camouflaged by… other red things.” Tony waved that away. “Point is, America invented the road trip, okay? We know cars. We cherish cars. We make blockbuster movies about cars exploding beautifully in slow motion. What does Israel have? Goats crossing dirt roads and people trying not to get blown up?”
“Anthony,” a smooth voice floated from behind them. “Do try to make it to nine o’clock before starting an international incident.”
Ducky ambled down the steps into the bullpen, hands folded behind his back, bow tie slightly askew. His eyes crinkled as he took in the tableau: Tony half-reclined in his chair, Ziva poised like a cat mid-pounce, McGee hovering somewhere between the roles of referee and collateral damage.
“Morning, Duck,” Tony said, letting the chair come back down with a thud. “You come to save us from ourselves?”
“From you, most likely,” Ziva murmured.
Ducky smiled benignly. “I’ve always believed a touch of spirited debate is good for the circulation. Provided no one starts brandishing staplers as weapons.”
Ziva tilted her head. “I prefer something with a little more… impact.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” McGee said.
Tony grinned up at Ducky. “So what brings you topside? Need us to sign a waiver before you go poking around in the dead again?”
“No bodies yet this morning, thank you.” Ducky’s gaze lingered on Tony for a moment—just a fraction too long, something quiet and knowing in it—before he reached into his pocket. “I merely came to return this.” He set a battered leather cap on Tony’s desk.
Tony’s joking expression faltered.
It was an old Marine cap, faded and softened by years of sweat and weather. The brim was frayed; the emblem, though cleaned recently, still had a stubborn stain in one corner.
Tony reached for it without thinking, thumb brushing over the familiar curve.
“Thought I’d lost this,” he said lightly, but his voice had dropped half a register.
“I found it on the autopsy table last night,” Ducky replied. “Your, ah, father was in something of a hurry and left it behind. I assumed you’d see that it got back to him.”
Across the bullpen, McGee’s head snapped up. Ziva’s eyes flicked between Ducky and Tony, curiosity sharpening.
For a heartbeat, Tony’s grip tightened on the cap. Images flickered uninvited: Gibbs standing in the elevator, head bent over a file; Gibbs asleep on the couch at home, that same cap tilted over his eyes; Gibbs, a lifetime ago now, holding it out to a much younger Tony with a gruff, “You lose it, you buy a new one, kid.”
Tony cleared his throat, smoothed his features.
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll, uh— I’ll give it to him.” He spun the cap once on the desk, more to give his hands something to do than for any real flourish.
Ziva was watching him with narrowed eyes, a predator scenting something beneath the surface.
“It is very old,” she observed. “From his Marine days?”
Tony glanced at her. “Whose Marine days?”
“Gibbs’,” she said, as if it were obvious. “You do not strike me as the type who could survive boot camp.”
“Hey! I could totally survive boot camp. I would charm drill instructors. They’d love me.”
Ziva snorted. “They would kill you.”
“Technically,” Ducky put in, “I imagine they would be discouraged from—”
“Okay,” Tony cut in, forcing his smile back up. “Let’s all stop fantasizing about my untimely death, yeah? It’s creepy. Even for this group.”
He slid the cap into his top drawer—not throwing it, not tossing it, just placing it carefully—and pushed the drawer shut with his knee.
Ziva’s gaze lingered on the drawer. Something thoughtful passed through her expression before she shook it off.
“You are very protective over Gibbs’ things,” she said, tone light but probing. “Like a… how do you say it… jealous mistress.”
McGee choked. “Wow. That’s— No, that’s not—”
Tony felt his ears go hot. “I’m not— Okay, first of all, no. Second, this is not ‘Gibbs’ thing.’ It’s just— it’s a hat. Hats are important. We have a sacred bond.”
“Hats,” Ziva repeated, unimpressed. “Only in America would you become sentimental over headwear.”
Ducky chuckled softly, eyes twinkling. “You’d be surprised what people become sentimental over, my dear.”
Before Ziva could respond, the elevator dinged.
Like someone hit a reset button, all three agents straightened subtly. Monitors were refocused on, files shuffled. Tony’s chair squeaked forward into a more regulation position.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs stepped out of the elevator, coffee in hand, expression carved from granite. He paused at the top of the steps, eyes sweeping the bullpen in that way that made it feel like the temperature dropped three degrees.
“Morning, boss,” Tony called, a beat too loud.
Gibbs’ blue gaze flicked to him, narrowing slightly, as if cataloguing the decibel level and filing it under “suspicious.”
“DiNozzo. David. McGee.” He said their names like roll call, like he expected them to respond with “Present, sir.”
“Good morning, Gibbs,” Ziva said smoothly.
“Morning, Boss,” McGee added.
Gibbs came down the steps, the familiar solid weight of him settling over the bullpen. As he passed Ducky, there was the smallest nod exchanged; something unspoken, but understood. Tony felt it like static in the air.
Gibbs reached his desk and set down his coffee. The drawer on Tony’s desk felt like it was glowing.
“Got a case for us, Boss?” Tony leaned back in his chair again, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near overeager. “Or are we just basking in your commanding presence today? Because I, for one, am prepared. SPF 50, metaphorical, of course—”
“Do you ever stop talking, DiNozzo?” Gibbs asked without looking at him, flipping open a folder.
Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. Grinned. “Not voluntarily.”
Ziva smirked. “It is one of his more annoying American traits.”
Gibbs’ eyes lifted to her. “That supposed to be an insult, David?”
Ziva met his gaze steadily. “Is that supposed to be a question, Gibbs?”
For half a second, the corner of his mouth twitched—so quick Tony would’ve missed it if he didn’t have a decade of experience catching those micro-expressions like fireflies.
“Grab your gear,” Gibbs said, the moment gone. “We’ve got a dead Petty Officer at Quantico.”
McGee’s fingers flew over his keyboard. “Victim ID, Boss?”
Gibbs tossed a photo onto Tony’s desk. “Petty Officer Lucas Trent. Found in a training facility locker room. MPs say it’s suicide. I don’t.”
Ziva leaned over, studying the photo. “Why not?”
Gibbs’ gaze slid past her, landing on Tony. There was a flicker there—something that had nothing to do with the crime scene they hadn’t even seen yet.
“Because it doesn’t feel right,” Gibbs said simply. “And I trust my gut.”
Tony held his eyes for a heartbeat too long. The words I trust my gut echoed in his head, overlapping with a memory—Gibbs, standing in a courthouse hallway years ago, rasping, “I’m not letting you go back there, Tony. I trust my gut, remember?”
He shoved the memory down. Not the time.
“And your gut is practically its own federal agency at this point,” Tony said lightly, reaching for his jacket. “NCIG. Naval Criminal Intestinal—”
“Gear, DiNozzo,” Gibbs snapped.
Tony snatched up his bag. “Already on it, Boss.”
Ziva grabbed her backpack, slinging it over one shoulder with practiced ease. “Quantico,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “More Marines.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Tony replied.
“They are loud,” she said. “And stubborn. And obsessed with this…” She gestured vaguely toward Gibbs’ general direction. “Semper-Fi machismo.”
“Hey, careful,” Tony said, nudging her with his shoulder as they headed toward the elevator. “You’re talking about the Corps. That’s like insulting apple pie and baseball in one breath.”
“I do not understand either of those things,” Ziva said.
“You don’t understand apple pie?” Tony demanded. “What did America ever do to you?”
She gave him a sideways look. “Invited me to join your team.”
McGee trotted behind them, juggling his backpack, PDA, and a file. “Uh, technically that was Director Shepard,” he offered.
“Thank you, McGee,” Ziva said, without turning. “Once again, you are very helpful.”
Tony snorted. “He’s like Google with a badge.”
The elevator doors slid open and they stepped inside. Gibbs hit the button for the parking level, coffee still in hand.
As the doors closed, Jenny Shepard watched from the mezzanine, arms folded over the railing. Her red hair was pulled back in a sleek twist, her suit immaculate, but her eyes were softer than her posture suggested as they followed the team.
More specifically, as they followed Tony.
She’d seen Ducky give him the cap. Had seen the way Tony’s hand had curled around it, knuckles white, as if it were more than cloth and thread and memories.
Beside her, Ducky joined her at the railing, looking down through his glasses at the now-empty bullpen.
“I take it you saw our little exchange?” he asked quietly.
Jenny didn’t answer immediately. The elevator lights ticked down: 6… 5… 4…
“He’s careful,” she said at last. “More careful than Gibbs realizes, I think.”
“Anthony has always been careful,” Ducky replied. “He learned very early that the world could be… unforgiving.”
Jenny’s jaw tightened. “Not anymore.”
“No,” Ducky agreed, warmth in his tone. “Not anymore.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the screensavers bounce across idle monitors.
“Do you think they suspect?” Jenny asked, eyes flicking to Tony’s desk, to the drawer that held more than just an old Marine cap.
Ducky hummed. “Timothy is observant, but respectful. Ziva is observant and… less respectful. She senses there is something there, though she cannot quite put her finger on it.” He glanced sideways at her. “Secrets do have a way of leaking out, Director.”
“Not this one,” Jenny said, a little too fast. “When Gibbs is ready, he’ll tell them. Until then…” She exhaled. “Until then, they’re just his senior field agent and his boss.”
“And his adopted son,” Ducky added gently.
Jenny’s gaze dropped once more to the empty bullpen, to the photo still on Tony’s desk.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “And that.”
The elevator numbers ticked to P.
Below, Gibbs and his team stepped out into the garage, the easy bickering starting up again immediately.
“Dibs on driving,” Tony said.
“No,” Gibbs and Ziva said in perfect unison.
Tony spread his hands. “Wow. Okay. Democracy is dead. Long live the benevolent dictatorship.”
“This is not a democracy,” Gibbs reminded him. “This is my team.”
Tony’s grin softened, just a fraction. “Yeah, Boss,” he said. “I know.”
And as they piled into the sedan, siren not yet wailing, coffee not yet finished, case not yet solved, the rhythm of their banter wrapped around them like armor—loud, stubborn, and, despite everything, very American.
Quantico’s humid air hit them as soon as they stepped out of the sedan. The training facility loomed ahead—blocky concrete, windows like narrow eyes, MPs in crisp uniforms at every door.
Tony shaded his eyes theatrically. “Ah, Quantico. Smell that? Fresh-cut grass, gunpowder, and fragile male egos.”
McGee adjusted his backpack. “Pretty sure that’s just CLP and sweat, Tony.”
“Poetic, McBO,” Tony said. “You’re growing.”
Ziva wrinkled her nose, gaze flicking to a group of Marines doing PT in the distance. “Your country turns everything into a… spectacle. Even exercise.”
“It’s called ‘pride,’ Ziva,” Tony shot back. “You should try it. I hear it’s big in America.”
“I have pride,” she said. “I simply do not shout it while doing push-ups.”
Gibbs didn’t slow down. “Less commentary, more crime scene.”
Inside, the air changed—cooler, the sharp tang of disinfectant layered over something metallic and still. An MP lieutenant met them at the entrance to the locker room, spine so straight it looked painful.
“Special Agent Gibbs,” the lieutenant greeted, extending a hand. “Lieutenant Mark Harlow, base security.”
Gibbs glanced at the hand, then at the line of yellow tape behind him. “What’ve you got, Lieutenant?”
Harlow dropped his hand without missing a beat. “Petty Officer Lucas Trent. Found at oh-six-thirty by Staff Sergeant Rivas. Single gunshot. His sidearm was recovered at the scene. Door was locked from the inside. MPs are calling it self-inflicted.”
“But you’re not,” Tony said, leaning just enough to peer past him.
“No,” Gibbs said.
Tony’s mouth curled. “Knew there was a reason you woke us up, Boss.”
“You were already awake,” McGee pointed out.
“Semantics, McGee.”
They ducked under the tape and stepped into the locker room. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting off metal lockers and white tile. Lucas Trent lay on the floor near the benches, uniform shirt darkened over his chest, pale face turned toward the ceiling.
Ducky was already there, crouched beside the body like an old crow, Palmer hovering with a body bag folded at his feet.
“Ah, Jethro,” Ducky said, straightening with a soft groan. “Good of you to join us. Lucas Trent, twenty-four, single, relatively good health judging from his file. Life cut tragically short, and, I dare say, not by his own choosing.”
Harlow stiffened. “Our preliminary—”
“Is wrong,” Gibbs cut in.
Tony grinned. “And the gut speaks.”
Ziva moved around the body, eyes scanning the room. “If this was suicide, it is very… tidy.”
McGee blinked. “Tidy?”
She gestured. “No mess. No overturned bench, no signs of a struggle. A man decides to end his life, he does not first clean the locker room.”
Tony squinted at her. “You’ve got a very organized view of suicide.”
“In Mossad, we saw many bodies,” she said simply. “There is un chaos to them. This is…” She frowned. “Arranged.”
Ducky nodded, pleased. “She has a point. The angle of the gunshot, for one. Our young Petty Officer appears to have been shot in the chest, slightly upward trajectory.” He tapped the approximate spot on his own sternum. “Difficult to achieve oneself with such precision, unless one is particularly flexible or extraordinarily determined.”
“Right-handed or left-handed?” Gibbs asked.
“Right, according to his file.” Ducky pointed to Trent’s right hand. “And yet the blood pattern suggests the weapon was held more centrally. No stippling near the wound; the gun was likely an inch or more away from his body when fired. Not typical of self-inflicted shots, which tend to be contact or near-contact.”
McGee snapped photos, zooming in on the details. “So someone shoots him at close range, stages it to look like suicide, and locks the door from the inside.” He looked around. “How?”
Tony had already drifted toward the door, inspecting the lock. “Classic locked-room mystery, Probie. Somewhere, Agatha Christie is smiling.”
“Or rolling in her grave,” Ziva muttered.
“There,” Tony said, crouching. “Latch is scratched. Something thin was used from the outside. String, wire…”
“Fishing line would do nicely,” Ducky supplied. “Tie it to the latch, close the door, pull, it clicks into place, and then you reel it under the gap and walk away. A trick as old as murder mystery radio dramas.”
McGee stared. “You two… practice this stuff?”
Tony shrugged. “Some kids had sports. I had late-night TV.”
Ziva knelt beside the body, avoiding the growing pool of blood. “His nails are clean. No skin under them.”
“Check his wrists,” Gibbs said.
She did. “No ligature marks. No bruising.”
“What about his face?” Tony asked. “Any bruising? Swelling?”
Ducky tilted the head slightly. “A small contusion near the jawline. Recent, I’d say. Within the last twenty-four hours.”
Tony snapped another photo. “He takes a hit to the face, then what, calmly comes in here and shoots himself with perfect aim? Nah.”
McGee glanced at Gibbs. “Could be hazing? Fight gone wrong?”
“Hazing is stupid,” Ziva said. “Even for Marines.”
Harlow bristled behind them. “We do not tolerate hazing at this facility, Agent—”
“David,” she supplied, not looking at him. “And forgive me, Lieutenant, but every organization that says that is usually very good at not seeing it.”
Tony whistled softly. “Careful, Zee-vah. You’re insulting the holy Church of Semper Fi now.”
She gave him a cool look. “I do not insult religion. Just bad habits.”
Gibbs straightened, eyes cutting to Harlow. “I want the service records of everyone who trained with Trent. Commanding officers, squad leaders, roommates. Anyone who sneezed near him in the last month.”
“Yes, sir,” Harlow said, jaw tight.
“And I want to talk to the Staff Sergeant who found him,” Gibbs added. “Now.”
As Harlow stepped out to make it happen, Tony watched him go. “He’s defensive,” Tony said quietly. “That normal or ‘oh God NCIS is here, hide the skeletons’ defensive?”
“Could be both,” McGee said.
Gibbs nodded toward the far end of the lockers. “McGee, bag the weapon, log everything. DiNozzo, David, talk to the Marines. See who’s lying.”
Tony sighed dramatically. “Ah yes, my favorite pastime: getting glared at by guys who can bench-press my car.”
“You cannot own a car and also call it ‘my car’ if you treat it like yours,” Ziva said. “That sedan is government property.”
“Way to murder the romance, David.”
“Consider it hazing.”
The makeshift interview room was a repurposed classroom—whiteboard at the front, metal chairs, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Outside, Marines moved past the small window in a steady stream of tan and green.
Staff Sergeant Rivas sat across from Tony and Ziva, arms folded, jaw clenched. His biceps strained his T-shirt, tattoos disappearing under the sleeves.
“So,” Tony said, flipping open his notebook with a flourish. “Staff Sergeant Miguel Rivas. Twenty-eight. Decorated. Alpha company. You found Petty Officer Trent this morning.”
Rivas stared straight ahead. “Yes, sir.”
“NCIS is civilian,” Tony said. “You don’t have to ‘sir’ me. ‘Your Majesty’ is acceptable, though.”
Ziva blinked at him. “What?”
“What?” Tony asked innocently.
Rivas didn’t smile. “I found Trent when he didn’t show up for PT. He’s never late. I checked his room, checked here. Door was locked, so I got the duty officer. We opened it. He was on the floor. Gun. Blood.” He looked down, jaw working. “I called it in.”
“Was he… different lately?” Tony asked. “Moody, withdrawn, listening to bad break-up playlists?”
Rivas frowned. “Sir?”
“Sad music,” Ziva translated, deadpan. “Like your Taylor Swift.”
“My Taylor— I don’t own Taylor Swift,” Tony protested. “She belongs to the world.”
Rivas blinked. “He wasn’t depressed, if that’s what you’re asking. He was squared away. Good at his job. Little cocky, but that’s Marines for you.”
“Some more than others,” Ziva murmured.
Tony pointed his pen at her. “That sounded like a Tony joke. I’m rubbing off on you.”
“If that happens, I will resign,” she said.
Rivas glanced between them, confused.
Tony sobered a little. “Any trouble? Fights? Anyone have an issue with him?”
Rivas hesitated. “We’re Marines, Agent. We have ‘issues’ with everybody. That’s how we bond.”
“That sounds healthy,” Ziva said.
Rivas exhaled. “He had a run-in last week with Sergeant Kane. Over training rotations. Kane thought Trent was cutting corners. They almost got into it, but I broke it up.”
Tony’s pen paused. “Almost got into it how?”
“Chest bumping. Yelling. Kane shoved him.” Rivas’ mouth tightened. “I talked to both of them after. They said it was over.”
“Did Kane mention Lucas this morning?” Ziva asked.
“No. But he was on duty with him last night. Live-fire training exercise. Trent was fine. Laughing. Talking about taking leave next month to see his family in Indiana.”
Tony leaned back. “Guys planning trips don’t usually schedule a bullet to the chest in between.”
Rivas’ eyes flashed. “Petty Officer Trent didn’t do this to himself.”
Ziva studied him. “You are certain.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ziva glanced at Tony over Rivas’ shoulder, a quick, silent exchange: He’s not lying.
Tony nodded slightly. “You see anyone hanging around the locker room this morning? Anyone who didn’t belong?”
“Just Kane, coming off shift. Couple of guys from Bravo walking past.” Rivas shifted. “Look, this— this isn’t right. Trent was good. You going to find out who did this?”
Tony’s gaze softened, something quietly fierce behind the easy smile. “That’s the idea, Staff Sergeant.”
Down the hall, McGee sat with Lieutenant Harlow in a cramped office cluttered with training manuals and commendation plaques. Gibbs leaned against the filing cabinet, arms crossed.
“Trent’s record is clean,” McGee said, scrolling on his tablet. “Commended twice, no disciplinary actions. High marks from instructors.”
Harlow nodded curtly. “He was one of our best. That’s why this is… difficult to accept.”
Gibbs’ gaze sharpened. “But?”
Harlow’s eyes flickered. “But good Marines crack too, Agent Gibbs. We put them through hell here. Some don’t make it out.”
“Cracking doesn’t look like this,” Gibbs said. “Who was he close to?”
Harlow rubbed a hand over his face. “Rivas, mostly. A couple of guys in his squad. He kept his head down off-duty. Went to the gym, made calls home, did everything right.”
“Any reports of hazing?” McGee asked.
Harlow stiffened. “We have a zero-tolerance policy.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Gibbs said.
Harlow met his eyes, something wary there. “Nothing formal. Marines bust each other’s chops, push each other. It’s part of building resilience.”
“Bullying with better PR,” McGee murmured.
Gibbs didn’t look away. “Anyone ride Trent harder than the rest?”
Harlow hesitated just a fraction too long. “Sergeant Kane.”
“There it is,” McGee muttered.
Harlow sighed. “Kane’s old-school. Believes in… pressure. We’ve had conversations about his methods.”
“Conversations,” Gibbs repeated. “Or warnings?”
“Both,” Harlow admitted. “But he gets results.”
“Yeah,” Gibbs said. “We’ve seen one of them.”
Back in the classroom, Ziva and Tony watched Sergeant Kane walk in like the room belonged to him.
Square jaw, buzz cut, eyes that sized them up and discarded them in a second. He sat without being asked, legs spread, arms resting on the table as if he were at a bar, not an interview.
“Sergeant Brad Kane,” Tony read off the file. “You were on duty with Petty Officer Trent last night.”
“Yeah.” Kane’s voice was rough, amused. “You DiNozzo?”
Tony blinked. “Uh… yeah. Why?”
“Heard about you,” Kane said. “Some of the guys at Norfolk still talk about your little undercover op with the gun runners.” He shrugged. “Said you were annoying, but you get the job done.”
Tony’s brows shot up. “Annoying but effective,” he said. “I’ll take it.”
Ziva folded her arms. “Agent David. I do not care what you have heard about me.”
Kane gave her a once-over that was just shy of disrespectful. “Mossad girl. We heard about you, too.”
Tony’s smile thinned. “Funny how my resume is ‘annoying,’ and hers is ‘Mossad girl.’”
Kane shrugged. “You wanted ‘princess’ instead?”
Ziva’s eyes cooled several degrees. “I have killed men for less.”
Tony held up a hand. “Whoa, okay, and this is where we remember we’re in America now, where HR gets twitchy about death threats in the workplace.”
Kane smirked. “You two always this cute?”
Tony’s smile vanished. “Tell us about Trent.”
Kane leaned back. “Good Marine. Fast learner. Thought he was hot stuff sometimes. I reminded him he wasn’t.”
“Reminded him how?” Ziva asked.
“PT. Extra drills. Little smoke sessions.” Kane’s eyes dared them to object. “He wanted to be here. You want to wear my uniform, you don’t get to half-ass it.”
Tony tapped his pen. “Witnesses say you almost came to blows last week.”
“Disagreement,” Kane said. “He cut a corner, I called him on it. He didn’t like it. Rivas stepped in. End of story.”
Ziva studied him. “You hit him.”
Kane’s jaw ticked. “I shoved him. Once. He shoved back. Then it was over. We’re Marines, David, we don’t cry about it.”
“Did you hit him again?” Tony asked calmly. “Last night, maybe?”
Kane’s gaze turned flinty. “You accusing me of something, Agent?”
“That depends,” Tony said. “Were you in the locker room with him this morning?”
“No,” Kane snapped. “I got off shift at oh-four-hundred. Went to sleep. Woke up to MPs banging on my door about Trent.”
Ziva tilted her head. “You do not seem very upset that someone under your command is dead.”
Kane’s face hardened. “I’m pissed as hell that one of my Marines is gone. But sitting here sobbing about it doesn’t bring him back.” His eyes dropped briefly to the table, hands flexing. “He was a good kid.”
Tony watched that flicker, filed it away. “Anyone hate him enough to want him dead?”
Kane shrugged. “Hate’s a big word, DiNozzo. Marines don’t waste energy on hate. They either fix the problem or they deal with it.”
“That sounded like a ‘yes’ with extra steps,” Tony said.
Kane smirked. “We’re done here?”
“Far from it,” Ziva said. “Where were you between oh-five-hundred and oh-six-thirty?”
Kane hesitated. “Gym. Then chow. Lots of people saw me.”
“We’ll check,” Tony said, his tone light but his eyes not. “Don’t leave base.”
Kane snorted. “I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
Back at the crime scene, Gibbs watched as Trent’s body was zipped into the bag.
Ducky placed a hand briefly on the black plastic, eyes closing in a moment of private ritual. “We’ll take good care of you, my boy.”
Gibbs’ phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen: Shepard.
“Yeah,” he answered.
Jenny’s voice was crisp. “How bad?”
“Staged suicide,” Gibbs said. “Young Marine. No good reason for him to be dead.”
“That narrows it down to ‘almost every Marine you’ve ever met,’” Jenny said quietly. “You need anything?”
Gibbs watched Tony through the open doorway, across the hall—DiNozzo was gesturing animatedly, Ziva standing with arms folded, McGee typing, the three of them orbiting each other in a familiar messy pattern.
“Yeah,” Gibbs said, softer.
“What?”
He cleared his throat. “Just keep Ducky’s table open.”
Jenny paused, hearing everything he wasn’t saying. “You’ll find who did it, Jethro.”
“We always do,” he said.
After he hung up, he stepped into the hall just as Tony, Ziva, and McGee approached.
“Well?” he asked.
“Base is a pressure cooker,” Tony said. “Rivas swears Trent wouldn’t kill himself. Kane thinks hazing is a love language and says it was all just ‘motivation.’”
“Zero tolerance policy,” McGee added. “Which basically translates to ‘we tolerate it as long as no one files paperwork.’”
Ziva nodded. “Many people respected Trent. I did not meet anyone who did not. But they are Marines. They do not speak... easily.”
“They will,” Gibbs said. “McGee, dig into Kane’s background. Any complaints, unofficial reports, disciplinary actions, I want to know. Ziva, check Trent’s financials, phone records. See who he talked to last.”
“And me, Boss?” Tony asked.
Gibbs held his gaze. “Family notification. Trent’s parents are in Indiana.”
Tony’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. “Got it.”
Ziva glanced between them, sensing again that subtle shift, that invisible thread she couldn’t quite name.
“Try not to bring up apple pie,” she said lightly. “They are grieving.”
Tony snorted. “You think I’m going to crack jokes to a kid’s parents?”
“Based on the time you called my informant’s cousin ‘the Israeli Steve Buscemi,’ yes.”
“That was accurate!” Tony protested. “You saw the teeth.”
Gibbs smacked the back of his head, not hard but not gentle. “Focus.”
Tony rubbed his skull, offering an exaggerated wince. “Abuse. Witnessed by multiple people. Noted for the record.”
McGee smiled faintly. “You say that like you’re not going to follow him anyway.”
Tony’s expression softened for a moment, something private and unguarded flickering through. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
They moved out, their banter trailing them down the hallway like a familiar, mismatched chorus—bickering layered over grief, sarcasm wrapped around determination.
Somewhere in the middle of all that noise, a dead Marine was waiting for justice.
And this team—loud, arrogant, American, and something more besides—was very, very good at giving it.