The Boston police station smelled like stale coffee and bureaucracy.
Tyrell sat in a plastic chair in the waiting room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles were white.
Ziva had been in the interrogation room for two hours. Giving her statement. Reliving everything.
He couldn't protect her from this part, and it was destroying him.
She could have died. Again. I wasn't there. Again.
The image wouldn't leave his mind. Timothy with a gun. Ziva cornered in that alley. If the police hadn't arrived when they did.
I should have killed him when I had the chance.
Marcus sat beside him, silent for a long time. Then: "Sir, you can't protect her from everything."
Tyrell's laugh was bitter. "I can try."
"At what cost?" Marcus turned to look at him. "She needs a partner. Not
