His Wife or Her Grave

The Extraction

The SUV tore down the dark road, trees blurring past the windows.

Ziva pressed her forehead against the cold glass, trying to breathe. Trying not to think about the gunshot. The silence that followed.

He saved me. Again. And I let him.

Her hands were shaking. She clenched them into fists, nails biting into her palms.

What if he was dead? What if the last thing she'd ever said to him was "I don't know if I can love you back"?

What if she never got the chance to tell him she'd been wrong?

"Where are we going?" Her voice came out hoarse.

Marcus didn't take his eyes off the road. "Safe house. Two hours north."

"We can't leave him."

"We're not." Marcus glanced at the rear-view mirror. "I'm tracking his phone. Once we're clear, we regroup and extract him."

"What if there's no time?"

Marcus' jaw tightened. "Then we make time."

Ziva stared at her hands. There was dirt under her nails, scratches on her arms from branches. She could still feel Tyrell's lips from the kiss earlier.

She refused to let it be goodbye.

The SUV hit a pothole. Ziva's ankle screamed in protest.

She'd twisted it somewhere in the woods. Adrenaline had carried her through, but now that she was sitting, not running, the pain was catching up.

Marcus pulled off the main road onto a gravel path barely visible through the trees. He drove for another five minutes before stopping in front of what looked like an abandoned hunting cabin.

"Out," he said. "We need to check you for injuries."

Ziva limped after him into the cabin. Marcus flipped a switch and generator-powered lights flickered on, revealing a surprisingly well-equipped space. Medical supplies. Weapons. Communication equipment.

"Sit." Marcus pointed to a chair.

Ziva sat.

He knelt in front of her, gently prodded her ankle. She hissed in pain.

"Sprained, not broken." He wrapped it efficiently with an elastic bandage from a first aid kit. "You'll live."

"What about Tyrell?"

Marcus pulled out a tablet, tapped the screen. A map appeared. A single red dot pulsed in the middle of a green expanse.

"His GPS is still active," Marcus said. "That means his phone is intact."

"Does it mean he's alive?"

Marcus didn't answer immediately. "His location hasn't changed in thirty minutes. He's stopped moving."

Ziva's heart sank. "Is he...?"

"Could be hiding. Could be injured. Could be..." Marcus stopped himself. "We won't know until we get there."

Ziva stared at the red dot. Unmoving. "How long would it take to reach him?"

"From here? Fifteen minutes, but that's assuming we don't run into James' men. Which we will."

"Then we go around them."

"There is no around. They've got the area locked down. Dogs, drones, thermal imaging." Marcus met her eyes. "It's a kill box, Ms. Wilson. They're waiting for us to come back."

Ziva stood, testing her ankle. It held. Barely. "I don't care. We're not leaving him."

"Ms. Wilson"

"I don't care!" Her voice cracked. "He gave himself up so I could escape. And now you want me to just... what? Drive away? Leave him to die?"

Marcus studied her. Something shifted in his expression. "No. I want you to think clearly, because going back means we're probably both going to die."

"Then we die." Ziva's voice was certain. "But we don't leave him."

Marcus was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once. "Okay. But we do this smart."

He moved to a locked cabinet, pulled out keys, opened it. Inside: bulletproof vests, weapons, night-vision equipment.

He handed Ziva a vest. "Put this on."

She did, fingers fumbling with the straps.

Marcus held out a gun. Matte black. Compact. "Do you know how to use this?"

Ziva stared at the weapon. It was heavier than she expected. "No."

"Safety's here." He showed her. "Point. Pull trigger. Don't shoot unless I tell you to."

Ziva took the gun. Her hands were still shaking.

"Stay behind me," Marcus continued, pulling on his own vest, checking his weapons with practiced efficiency. "Do exactly what I say when I say it. If I tell you to run, you run. Understood?"

"Yes."

Marcus checked Tyrell's location again. Still not moving. "We go in quiet. Extract him. Get out before they realize what happened."

"And if they realize?"

"Then we improvise." Marcus didn't sound confident about that part.

They geared up in silence. Ziva kept glancing at that unmoving red dot.

Please be alive.

Marcus handed her the phone. "You hold onto this. If we get separated, you follow that dot. Don't stop. Don't look back."

Ziva nodded, throat tight.

Marcus started toward the door. Stopped. Looked back at her.

"Ms. Wilson, Ziva. If this goes sideways, if I tell you to leave without him"

"I won't."

"You have to."

"I won't," Ziva repeated. "Not again."

Marcus searched her face. Then nodded slowly. "Alright."

They headed back to the SUV. Marcus started the engine.

As they pulled back onto the road, heading toward the woods where they'd left Tyrell, the radio crackled to life.

"Marcus Hayes. We know you're coming."

Marcus' knuckles went white on the steering wheel.

"And we're waiting."

Ziva's blood turned to ice. "Who is that?"

Marcus didn't answer. Just stared straight ahead, jaw locked.

The voice continued, almost pleasant. "Bring the girl to these coordinates in ten minutes. Or we kill Smart. Your choice."

GPS coordinates flashed across the radio display.

Then silence.

Ziva looked at Marcus. "It's a trap."

"I know."

"They'll kill us both."

"Probably."

"And if we don't go"

"They kill Tyrell." Marcus' voice was flat.

Ziva stared at the coordinates on the screen. Different location from where Tyrell's phone was. They'd moved him. Or they wanted her to think they had.

"What do we do?"

Marcus was quiet for a long moment. Then his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Something darker. More dangerous.

"We spring it."

He gunned the engine, turned off the road, heading cross-country toward the coordinates.

Ziva gripped the gun in her lap. "What's the plan?"

"Plan is we don't die." Marcus glanced at her. "Everything else is negotiable."

"That's not a plan."

"Best I've got on short notice."

The SUV bounced over rough terrain, headlights cutting through darkness. Trees pressed close on both sides.

Ziva's mind raced. They were driving straight into a trap, and somewhere in the middle of it all.

Tyrell.

Alive or dead, she didn't know.

But she was going to find out.

Marcus' radio crackled again.

"Five minutes, Mr. Hayes. Don't be late."

The voice was amused. Like this was all a game.

Ziva's grip tightened on the gun.

"I'm not good at this," she said quietly.

Marcus didn't look at her. "You will be. Fear makes you sharp."

"I'm terrified."

"Good. Use it."

The coordinates were close now. Half a mile.

Marcus killed the headlights. Slowed to a crawl.

Through the windshield, Ziva could see lights ahead. Multiple vehicles arranged in a circle. Floodlights pointed inward.

Creating a stage.

Marcus stopped the SUV just outside the ring of light. Engine still running.

"Last chance to run," he said.

Ziva looked at the lights. At the trap laid out like an invitation.

Somewhere in there, Tyrell was waiting.

"Let's go," she said.

Marcus nodded once. "Stay close."

They got out of the SUV. Marcus moved like a shadow, gun up, scanning the darkness.

Ziva followed, trying to keep her breathing quiet, her footsteps light. The gun felt wrong in her hands.

They stopped at the edge of the light.

In the center of the circle was Tyrell.

On his knees. Hands zip-tied behind his back. Blood on his face. But alive.

Alive.

Ziva's heart slammed against her ribs.

James Keene stood behind him, hand resting almost casually on Tyrell's shoulder.

Timothy was there too. And six armed men. Maybe more in the shadows.

James smiled when he saw them.

"Right on time. I do appreciate punctuality."

His eyes found Ziva.

"Hello again, darling. Ready to come home?"