Gibbs stared at the dossier in front of him, downing a mason jar of bourbon, and then a second. This assignment came too close to the last, and he didn’t like it. The people who had recruited him were always concerned about his burnout and his cover story. For them to have sent him another assignment so soon was unheard of.
“DiNozzo, Anthony,” he read, his voice quiet in the basement. There was a simple label on the front of the dossier.
Terminate.
Gibbs hated these assignments, but he did what he was told—what he’d been trained to do.
Until he opened up the dossier and stared at the man’s picture. There was no way. He would never kill this guy.
Gibbs didn’t know him as Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. He knew him as Rick Blaine, suave, sophisticated. A jewel thief.
And Gibbs’ lover.
He’d been trying to find Blaine since they’d been together, but the man had disappeared. His hair had been darker then, his eyes blue—contacts, Gibbs assumed. And he looked younger in this picture, his dark, designer suit impeccable, a glass of champagne in his hand, a beautiful woman at his side.
“Mine,” Gibbs muttered darkly. Rick—Anthony—was his and nobody was getting between them. Not the government, not Gibbs’ organization, nobody.
He had to get to DiNozzo before they knew he’d turned.
Turned
Gibbs stared at the dossier in front of him, downing a mason jar of bourbon, and then a second. This assignment came too close to the last, and he didn’t like it. The people who had recruited him were always concerned about his burnout and his cover story. For them to have sent him another assignment so soon was unheard of.
“DiNozzo, Anthony,” he read, his voice quiet in the basement. There was a simple label on the front of the dossier.
Terminate.
Gibbs hated these assignments, but he did what he was told—what he’d been trained to do.
Until he opened up the dossier and stared at the man’s picture. There was no way. He would never kill this guy.
Gibbs didn’t know him as Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. He knew him as Rick Blaine, suave, sophisticated. A jewel thief.
And Gibbs’ lover.
He’d been trying to find Blaine since they’d been together, but the man had disappeared. His hair had been darker then, his eyes blue—contacts, Gibbs assumed. And he looked younger in this picture, his dark, designer suit impeccable, a glass of champagne in his hand, a beautiful woman at his side.
“Mine,” Gibbs muttered darkly. Rick—Anthony—was his and nobody was getting between them. Not the government, not Gibbs’ organization, nobody.
He had to get to DiNozzo before they knew he’d turned.