AN: This chapter is broken up into several parts based on point of view, setting, and events. The parts are separated by the asterisk (*). Also I wanted to let you guys know that this fan-fiction is slightly AU. What I mean by that is, this is suppose to take place around the beginning of season 3 however I’m pretending that the team is how they are in the later seasons(mainly how Ziva acts); and I’m also gonna say that Kyle Boone was broken out of jail by his younger brother, Jacob (another child that their prostitute mother had before Kyle had a chance to kill her). Also, in response to a review (reviews are like cookies, feed the cookie monster!), I’m saying that the drinking age is 18 in America. I apologize for any confusion, now back to the story!
Chapter Seven: Kidnapped
I woke up at four to the beautiful scene ever. Through my window, I could see the sun just beginning to rise, painting the sky with astonishing hues of reds and oranges. A smile lit up my features as I walked over to my desk and picked up my sketch pad and pencils. Sitting down on the stone railing of my balcony, I got to work on the tree line, accentuating the lively green of the leaves. I finished my drawing two hours later, when the sun had moved to just above the roof tops of DC. Content with my art work, I began to reflect on my past two days in the states with my uncle. Before I knew it, I was sketching charcoal copies of the team. First was Uncle Ducky, with his shiny glasses and patterned bowtie. I drew him standing next to Gibbs, just like when I had first arrived in this strange country.
Then I drew Tim, Ziva, and Tony, they were standing in the office where I had first been introduced to them. Next came Abby, she was standing in my room, staring wide-eyed at my CD collection. Then, I drew the director, sitting up in her hospital bed, smiling as she offered me a full time position with my uncle and new found friends. Finally, I drew Alex. I drew his warm blue eyes that seemed to jump out of his tanned skin with his cropped dirty blond hair. I sighed silently as I gave my sketches one last look before climbing off of the balcony, setting my book on my bed, and venturing to my closet to pick out today’s outfit. Settling on faded green cotton shorts, a loose white tank-top, light purple scarf, and matching converse All-Stars, I walked downstairs to be greeted by Tyson and Contessa, two of Uncle Ducky’s pet corgis. “And how are you, today?” I asked, bending over to scratch Contessa behind the ear. “Well, I’m doing just fine,” a voice said, as a pair of black combat boots appeared in my vision. Slowly, I stood up before looking at the face of the intruder. “Oh my God, Alex,” I breathed out, “you scared me.” “Good,” he said, as my smile faded into confusion. “Wha–” I was cut off as his arm came around and hit me in the back of the neck, hard. I fell to the ground as my world faded to black. Only the sounds of the dogs barking and a weapon loading were audible as I slipped into unconsciousness.
I woke up much later with a killer migraine. I was lying on my left side, a gag in my mouth, and my hands and feet bound. I heard voices behind me and shut my eyes once more. “Jake! Jake, please!” a girl pleaded, her voice sounded strangled and dry. I winced as the girl let out one last strangled cry before the squishy, gurgling sound of a hunting knife consumed her last dying shriek. I cringed, not wanting to know the torture that that girl must have gone through before her untimely death. “Aw, it’s no fun when they’re dead,” the man known as Jake complained. “Now,” he continued, “whose going to wake up next?” Footsteps. “Shirley?” Thud. “Nope.” More footsteps. “Dana?” Thud. “Nope.” The footsteps grew louder. “How about you, Madison?” A pain shot through my stomach as I flew across the room and into a nearby wall. My eyes shot open as my mouth filled with blood. “Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!” the man yelled, grinning like an idiot. “Alex?” I choked out through the bloodied gag, finally getting to look at my captor. Sure enough, it was Alex, he wore black steel-toed combat boots, multi-shaded grey camouflage cargo pants, and a grey, blood-splattered wife beater. “Actually, the name’s Jacob,” he smirked, squatting down to untie my gag. “Now, tell me,” he said, still smirking at my crippled figure, “have you ever heard of a man by the name of Kyle Boone?”
