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The wind cut through Alden Parker's jacket as he picked his way along the ridge above the Nushagak River. He was supposed to be tracking a fugitive, a Navy contractor who'd fled to the bush with classified encryption codes. But the trail had gone cold three hours ago, and now Alden was following something else entirely-a flash of blue against the gray-green spruce, a Steller's jay calling from the branches ahead.
He'd learned to watch for them. The jays were clever, opportunistic. They followed disturbances. They remembered faces.
Alden paused, adjusting his binoculars. The jay had gone silent. That meant something had spooked it.
He moved forward carefully, boots finding purchase on the moss-slick rocks. The ridge opened onto a small clearing, and there-half-hidden behind a fallen spruce-he saw the blood.
Not much. But enough.
Alden crouched, touching the dark stain. Still tacky. Hours old, not days. He followed the trail, moving silently now, every sense alert. The jay called again, closer this time, guiding him.
He found Leroy Jethro Gibbs in a hollow beneath the roots of an ancient hemlock, his leg twisted at a wrong angle, his face gray with pain and exposure. Gibbs's service weapon lay in the dirt beside him, unfired. His eyes were open but unfocused, staring at something Alden couldn't see.
"Gibbs," Alden said quietly. No response. He tried again, closer. "Leroy."
Gibbs blinked. His hand twitched toward the gun.
"Don't," Alden said. "I'm FBI. Alden Parker. I'm here to help."
Gibbs's eyes focused, sharp and suspicious. "Don't know you."
"Fair enough. But I know you. And I know you're not supposed to be out here alone with a busted leg and half the blood in your body staining the moss." Alden kept his voice level, his movements slow. He shrugged off his pack, pulled out his emergency blanket. "I'm going to check that leg. You can shoot me if you want, but I'd rather you didn't."
Gibbs didn't laugh. But he didn't reach for the gun either.
Alden worked quickly, assessing the break-a clean fracture of the tibia, bad but not catastrophic. He splinted it with branches and his belt, talking the whole time. Not about the case. Not about the fugitive. About the jay.
"Steller's jay," he said, nodding toward the branches where the bird had reappeared. "Intelligent birds. They cache thousands of seeds and remember where every single one is. They also recognize human faces. Hold grudges, too, if you wrong them."
Gibbs grunted. "You a birdwatcher?"
"Ornithologist, originally. Before NCIS. The birds are quieter than people. More honest." Alden finished the splint, sat back on his heels. "You've been out here three days. Your radio's dead. Your backup never came."
"Sent them back," Gibbs said. "Didn't need them."
"Yeah, I can see how well that worked out." Alden pulled out his satellite phone. "I'm calling for evac. And then I'm going to find your fugitive. You can sit here and bleed, or you can let me do my job."
Gibbs stared at him. The look that had intimidated a thousand agents, that had reduced grown Marines to stuttering apologies. Alden met it calmly, waiting.
"You don't flinch," Gibbs observed.
"Not my specialty."
Gibbs was quiet for a long moment. Then: "The fugitive's dead. Found him yesterday. Suicide. I was heading back when I fell."
Alden nodded. "Okay. So we get you out. And then you decide what comes next."
"What comes next," Gibbs repeated, and his voice cracked slightly. "Been asking myself that for a year."
Alden didn't push. He made the call, arranged the coordinates. While they waited, he sat beside Gibbs, sharing his water and his protein bars, talking about migration patterns and Arctic terns that flew forty-four thousand miles a year. Gibbs didn't say much. But he listened.
When the chopper finally came, Gibbs grabbed Alden's arm. "You ever think about leaving? The job. The noise."
"Every day," Alden admitted.
"Why don't you?"
Alden looked out at the wilderness, the endless green and gray, the jay still watching from its branch. "Haven't found the right place to land yet."
Gibbs nodded slowly. "Alaska," he said. "It's quiet here. The kind of quiet that doesn't follow you home."
They loaded him onto the chopper. Alden watched it rise, a black speck against the vast sky, and knew he wouldn't see Leroy Jethro Gibbs in D.C. again.
Director Leon Vance's office smelled of leather and old paper, the same as it had for fifteen years. Alden stood at the window, looking down at the Anacostia River, remembering the green of Alaska.
"You helped him," Vance said. Not a question.
"I found him. He helped himself."
"Gibbs isn't coming back, Alden. He's made that clear. He's found something up there. Peace, maybe. Or just enough silence to hear himself think." Vance leaned forward. "I need a team lead for the MCRT. I'm offering you the position."
Alden turned. "I'm not-"
"You're qualified. You're competent. And you're here."
"I'm a stranger to them. They don't know me. I don't know them."
"Then get to know them." Vance stood, walked around his desk. "One case. Try it. If it doesn't work, I'll find someone else. But I think it will work. I think you're exactly what they need."
Alden thought of Gibbs, broken and hiding beneath a tree, refusing to let anyone close. He thought of the team he'd glimpsed in the files-Torres, the former undercover cop with a chip on his shoulder; Knight, the REACT agent trying to prove herself; McGee, the senior agent who'd buried two partners; Jimmy and Kasie, the support staff who'd become family.
"I'll try one case," Alden said. "But I'm not making promises."
"Fair enough."
Alden stood at his desk-positioned on the left side, facing inward-and surveyed his new domain. Across from him sat Nick Torres, already watching him with hooded eyes. Diagonal from Alden, in front of Knight's desk, sat Timothy McGee, his fingers hovering over his keyboard but his attention clearly elsewhere. To Alden's right, Jessica Knight had her head down, reviewing files with deliberate focus.
No one had said good morning. No one had looked up when he arrived.
Alden set his bag on his chair and pulled out a white cardboard box from the bakery on M Street. He didn't arrange anything on a plate. He simply walked the box to Torres's desk, set it down, and opened the lid.
"Almond croissant," Alden said. "Or chocolate, if you prefer. The bakery does both well."
Torres stared at the box like it might bite him. "You brought us pastries?"
"I brought me pastries. I'm offering to share." Alden moved to Knight's desk, set a croissant on a napkin beside her coffee. "They're still warm."
Knight looked up, her expression unreadable. "Gibbs drank black coffee. No food. No conversation until the case was solved."
"Gibbs isn't here," Alden said simply. He crossed to McGee, who accepted the croissant with automatic politeness, his eyes still wary. "And I'm not Gibbs."
He returned to his desk, took out his phone, and opened his birding app. The team exchanged glances-confused, suspicious, grieving.
"Alright," Alden said, clapping his hands together. "Briefing in five. I've got a case file that needs attention, and I'd rather not waste the morning."
The victim was a Navy lieutenant found in Rock Creek Park, single gunshot to the temple. The scene was wrong-no blood spatter where it should be, the body clearly moved.
Alden stood at the plasma screen, pulling up crime scene photos. "What do we see?"
Silence. Then Torres: "Dump site. Someone wanted him found."
"Or wanted us to look in the wrong direction," Knight added.
Alden nodded. "Good. What else?" He zoomed in on the victim's sleeve. "See this residue?"
McGee squinted. "Pollen?"
"Western hemlock. Only grows in coastal Alaska, Washington, Oregon." Alden pulled up a map. "Our vic was stationed in Anchorage two years ago. And according to his phone records, he received three calls in the last week from a number registered to a prepaid cell bought in Juneau."
Torres leaned forward. "So we've got a killer who traveled three thousand miles to shoot a guy in D.C.?"
"Or a killer who never left Alaska," Alden said. "Who followed him here."
He watched them process it, watched the professional interest override their hesitation. This was what they were good at. This was the common ground.
"McGee, I need everything on the vic's Anchorage contacts. Torres, Knight-interview the family again. Someone's lying about something." Alden paused. "And someone should tell Kasie we're going to need lab work on that pollen. Fast."
"I'll go," Jimmy said, appearing from the elevator. "I'm heading down to B2 anyway. New body came in this morning."
Alden nodded. "Thanks, Jimmy."
The team dispersed, moving with the efficiency of professionals who'd done this a thousand times. Alden watched them go, feeling the distance between them like a physical weight.
He was already planning his exit. One case. That was all he'd promised.
The morgue in the basement, smelled of antiseptic and cold steel. Jimmy Palmer stood over a body, but his attention was on the five people gathered around his autopsy table.
Torres paced. Knight leaned against the wall, arms crossed. McGee sat on a rolling stool, spinning it slowly. Kasie had come up from Level B1, her lab coat still on.
"This isn't working," Torres said. "He's too soft. Too nice."
"He brought us pastries," McGee agreed. "Who does that?"
"Someone who wants us to like him," Knight said. "Which means he's insecure. Which means he's not ready to lead."
Jimmy set down his scalpel. "You know what I think? I think you're all scared."
They turned to look at him.
"Gibbs is gone," Jimmy continued, his voice steady. "And you're all acting like if you just wish hard enough, he'll walk through that door and head-slap Torres back into line. But he's not coming back. He chose Alaska. He chose peace. And you know who gave him the permission to make that choice?"
Silence.
"Parker," Jimmy said. "A complete stranger who found Gibbs broken in the wilderness and didn't treat him like a legend or a problem. Who sat with him. Who talked to him about birds until the evac came. Who gave him the space to decide his own life was worth saving."
Torres stopped pacing. "That was different. That was-"
"That was exactly who Parker is," Jimmy interrupted. "He's been here one week. One week. And in that time, he's worked through three nights straight on this case. He's taken hits for us-literally, Torres, remember when that suspect swung at you yesterday? Parker stepped in front of it. He's never raised his voice. He's never demanded obedience. He's just... shown up. Every day. With pastries and bird facts and this ridiculous hope that we'll eventually stop looking at him like he's trespassing."
"He's not Gibbs," Knight said quietly.
"No," Jimmy agreed. "He's not. Gibbs solved problems alone. Gibbs kept his pain locked up until it ate him alive. Gibbs treated us like Marines-disciplined, silent, obedient. And we loved him. God help us, we loved him. But he left, Knight. He left because he was drowning, and none of us saw it because we were too busy following rules."
Kasie spoke up, her voice small. "Parker asked me about my work yesterday. Not the case-my work. What I liked about it. He wanted to know if I was happy in the lab. No one's ever asked me that before."
"He remembered my daughter's name," McGee said suddenly. "Asked how she was doing in school. Gibbs never-" He stopped. "Gibbs cared. But he didn't say it. Parker just... says it."
Torres ran a hand over his face. "So what are we saying? We just pretend Gibbs never existed? We forget everything he taught us?"
"No," Jimmy said. "We honor him by being the team he built. But we stop punishing Parker for not being his ghost." He looked at each of them. "Parker knows exactly who he is. He's shown us. Selfless. Competent. Kind. He helped Gibbs find peace when Gibbs was a total stranger to him. He's done more for us in one week than we had any right to expect. And we don't know him. Not because he hasn't let us in-because we haven't bothered to look."
Knight pushed off the wall. "So what do we do?"
"We show him," Torres said slowly. "We show him who we are. What kind of team Gibbs built. Fierce. Loyal. Protective as hell." He met Jimmy's eyes. "We prove to him that we're worth staying for."
"Before he packs up and leaves," McGee added. "Because he's planning to. You can see it. He's got one foot out the door already."
"Then we close that door," Knight said. "We surround him. We make it impossible for him to go."
They looked at each other-the five of them, the heart of the team, minus their leader. And for the first time since Gibbs had walked away, they felt like a unit again.
"Alright," Torres said. "Let's go get our boss."
The break came at 2 a.m.
Alden sat alone in the bullpen, the plasma screen casting blue light across the empty desks. He'd sent the team home hours ago, but sleep was pointless. He'd already started packing his personal items into a box-his birding guide, his spare phone charger, the small succulent he'd brought from his apartment.
The case was nearly solved. They'd identified the killer, a former associate from Anchorage with a grudge. The arrest would happen tomorrow. And then Alden would make his exit, honor his promise to Vance, and find somewhere else to be.
He didn't hear the elevator. He didn't hear the footsteps. He just looked up and found them there-Torres, Knight, McGee, Jimmy, and Kasie, filing out of the elevator and into the bullpen like a small army.
"You're here," Alden said, stupidly.
"You're packing," Torres observed, nodding at the box.
Alden didn't deny it. "Case is almost closed. I figured-"
"You figured wrong," Knight said. She walked to his desk, picked up the succulent, and set it back in its place. "This stays."
"Knight-"
"Shut up," Torres said. Not unkindly. He moved around the desks, positioning himself between Alden and the elevator. McGee took the other side. Jimmy and Kasie blocked the path to the stairs.
"What is this?" Alden asked, his heart pounding.
"This," Torres said, "is us showing you who we are."
"We're not good at talking," Knight added. "Gibbs taught us to communicate with looks and head-slaps. But you-you need words. So here they are."
McGee stepped forward. "You stepped in front of a punch for Torres yesterday. You didn't hesitate. You just... moved."
"You remembered my daughter's name," McGee continued. "You asked Kasie if she was happy. You brought Jimmy herbal tea when he had a migraine, because you noticed he doesn't drink coffee."
"You found Gibbs," Jimmy said quietly. "You didn't have to. You could have called it in, let someone else handle the legend. But you went up that ridge alone. You sat with him. You gave him permission to be human."
"And you came back here," Torres said, "even though you were terrified. Even though you knew we didn't want you. You brought pastries and bird facts and this ridiculous hope that we'd eventually come around."
Alden's throat tightened. "I don't-"
"You don't understand," Knight finished for him. "We know. We didn't make it easy. We were grieving, and we took it out on you, and that wasn't fair." She moved closer, close enough to touch. "But Alden-we see you now. We know exactly who you are. The man who helps strangers. Who sacrifices sleep and safety for people who haven't earned it yet. Who treats us like peers when he could demand obedience."
"We're not asking you to be Gibbs," Torres said. "We're asking you to be you. And we're asking you to stay."
Alden looked at them-at the fierce loyalty in Torres's eyes, the vulnerability in Knight's, the quiet acceptance in McGee's, the warmth in Jimmy's and Kasie's. He thought of the box on his desk, the exit he'd been planning, the distance he'd kept because it hurt less than hoping.
"I don't know how to do this," Alden admitted, his voice rough. "The team thing. The family thing. I've always been... separate."
"Yeah," Torres said. "We noticed. So we're going to teach you."
He stepped forward, close enough to touch, and did something Alden never expected. He hugged him. A real hug, fierce and unapologetic, the kind Gibbs would never have given.
Knight joined, her arms wrapping around both of them. McGee came next, then Jimmy, then Kasie, until they were a tangled knot of bodies in the center of the bullpen, surrounded by orange walls and desks and the ghost of a man who'd taught them how to be a team.
"We've got you," Torres murmured against Alden's shoulder. "You don't have to carry it alone anymore."
Alden closed his eyes. He felt the warmth of them, the solid reality of their presence, and something inside him cracked open-not broken, but finally unlocked.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
The morning sun hit the plasma screen, turning it golden. Alden sat at his desk, the succulent in its place, the empty box kicked under his chair. The team worked around him-Torres on the phone with a witness, Knight reviewing surveillance, McGee typing up the arrest report.
It wasn't perfect. Torres still rolled his eyes when Alden referenced obscure bird migration patterns. Knight still preferred action to conversation. McGee still missed Gibbs's certainty.
But when Alden walked in with a box of danishes from the new bakery on Seventh, Torres took one without complaint. When Alden mentioned he'd spotted a red-tailed hawk on his commute, Knight asked what it was hunting. When he suggested they wrap early to celebrate the closed case, McGee didn't argue.
They were learning each other. Building something new from the wreckage of what they'd lost.
Alden sat back in his chair, watching them work. He thought of Alaska, of the quiet that had almost claimed Gibbs. He thought of the ridge, the jay, the moment he'd chosen to sit with a stranger rather than walk away.
He'd been looking for a place to land. And somehow, impossibly, he'd found it.
"Hey, boss," Torres called out. "You coming to grab drinks with us tonight?"
Alden smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I'm coming."
The bullpen filled with noise and warmth and the smell of something new. And Alden Parker-former ornithologist, reluctant team lead, man who'd never learned how to belong-finally let himself believe he was home.