His Wife or Her Grave

The Choice

Tyrell was on his knees in the center of the lights.

Blood matted his hair. His shirt was torn. Zip ties cut into his wrists behind his back.

But his eyes, when they found Ziva in the darkness, were alive. Burning.

Telling her to run.

James Keene stood behind him, one hand resting on Tyrell's shoulder like they were old friends. In his other hand: a gun. Pressed against the back of Tyrell's head.

Ziva's hands tightened on her own gun. Marcus stood beside her, weapon raised, scanning for targets.

Six men that she could see. Probably more in the shadows beyond the lights.

They were outgunned. Outmanned. Trapped.

"Let him go." Ziva's voice didn't sound like hers.

James smiled. "Of course. After we come to an understanding."

"What kind of understanding?"

"It's simple, really." James pressed the gun harder against Tyrell's skull. Tyrell didn't flinch. "Come with me, and I will let him live."

Ziva's heart stopped.

"And if I don't?"

James' finger moved to the trigger. "Then you watch him die. Right here. And I take you anyway. So really, the only variable is whether Mr. Smart survives the night."

Tyrell's voice was rough. "Ziva, don't. Run."

James c****d the gun. The sound was impossibly loud. "I said quiet."

Tyrell went silent, but his eyes never left Ziva's.

Ziva took a step forward.

Marcus grabbed her arm. "Ms. Wilson"

She shook him off. "Let him go first."

James laughed. "Do I look stupid?"

"Then how do I know you'll keep your word?"

James considered that. Then nodded to one of his men. "Cut him loose."

The man moved forward, pulled out a knife, sliced through the zip ties.

Tyrell stumbled forward, nearly fell. Marcus caught him, held him upright.

"There," James said pleasantly. "Good faith. Now, Ziva. Your turn."

Ziva looked at Tyrell.

Blood on his face. Bruises forming. Eyes begging her not to do this.

She thought about everything that had brought her here. And she realized something.

Tyrell had never asked her for anything. Not really.

The only thing he'd ever truly asked was for her to live.

So she would.

Ziva stepped toward James.

"NO!" Tyrell's scream tore through the night.

He lunged forward. Two of James' men grabbed him, slammed him back down to his knees.

"Ziva, don't! Please"

Ziva kept walking. Her sprained ankle screaming with each footfall.

She couldn't look at him. If she looked at him, she'd break.

James extended his hand.

She took it.

His grip was ice-cold. Possessive.

"Good girl," he murmured.

Timothy jammed the needle into her neck.

Fire burned through her veins. The world tilted sideways.

"I'm sorry," Timothy whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Ziva's legs gave out. James caught her, held her up.

The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her was Tyrell fighting. Four men holding him down.

Ziva woke to motion.

Her head pounded like someone was driving nails through her skull. Her mouth tasted like copper and chemicals.

She tried to move. Couldn't.

Her hands were zip-tied in front of her. Her ankles too.

She was in the back of a van.

James Keene sat across from her on a bench seat, watching her with the patient attention of a scientist observing an experiment.

"Welcome back, darling."

Ziva's voice came out hoarse. "Where are you taking me?"

"Home." James smiled. "Where you've always belonged."

Ziva pulled against the restraints. The plastic bit into her wrists. "Tyrell will come for me."

"I'm counting on it." James leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "In fact, I'm rather hoping he does. It will make things so much more... interesting."

The van slowed. Turned. Stopped.

The back doors opened.

Daylight flooded in, blinding after the darkness. Ziva squinted against it.

James stood, helped her to her feet. His hand on her arm was gentle.

"Come. Let me show you your new home."

Ziva stumbled out of the van.

And stopped.

They were in front of a massive estate. All dark stone and pointed arches. Surrounded by high walls topped with security cameras. Armed guards at every entrance.

A fortress.

A prison.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" James guided her forward. "This is where your mother lived, before she ran."

Ziva's blood turned to ice.

She turned to stare at him. "My mother?"

James' eyes gleamed with something that looked like satisfaction. "Oh, darling. There's so much you don't know."

"What are you talking about?"

"Elise." James' voice went soft. Reverent. "Your mother's name was Elise. She lived here with me for three years. In that room, right there." He pointed to a window on the third floor. "Until she betrayed me."

Ziva couldn't breathe. "You're lying."

"Am I?" James pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, held it up.

An old, faded photo of a woman in her twenties.

Ziva's face.

Or close enough that it didn't matter.

The same eyes. Same bone structure. Same everything.

"She ran when she found out she was pregnant," James continued. "I searched for years. Never found her." His hand tightened on Ziva's arm. "But I found you instead, and this time..." His smile turned cold. "This time, I won't make the same mistakes."

Ziva's vision blurred. "She's not my mother. My mother died when I was sixteen."

"Car accident. I know." James started walking again, pulling her with him. "I arranged it."

The world stopped.

"You..."

"They were hiding you," James said calmly. "The people you thought were your parents. Elise's friends. They changed your name. Moved you across the country. Kept you from me." He looked at her. "But you can't hide forever. Eventually, everyone surfaces."

Ziva couldn't make it make sense.

Her parents. Her whole life. A lie.

"Why?" The word came out broken.

"Because you're mine, Ziva." James stopped at the entrance. Massive oak doors. "You were always mine. From the moment you were born. Elise stole that from me, but I have you back now."

The doors opened.

James led her through hallways, up a grand staircase, to a bedroom.

The same one from the photo. She recognized the windows.

"This was your mother's room," James said. "Now it's yours."

He cut the zip ties on her ankles. Left the ones on her wrists.

"Rest," he said. "We'll talk more when you've adjusted."

He walked to the door. Stopped. Looked back.

"Welcome home."

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

Ziva stood in the center of the room, staring at nothing.

Daughter.

James Keene was her father.