Volume Three, Chapter Seven: The Interrogation
The safehouse was unusually quiet as Gibbs slipped out the back door, blending into the humid Miami night. He moved with practiced ease, every sense alert, but even he couldn't anticipate the black SUV that screeched to a halt at the curb. Before he could react, two men in tactical gear grabbed him, shoving a hood over his head and forcing him into the back seat.
He didn't struggle. He'd been here before—just not on this side of the game.
The ride was short and silent. When the hood came off, Gibbs found himself in a dimly lit warehouse, hands cuffed to a metal chair. Across from him stood a man with a hard jaw, piercing eyes, and a reputation for getting answers: Hank Voight.
Voight leaned in, his voice low and gravelly. "You've made a lot of powerful people very nervous, Gibbs. That's not easy to do."
Gibbs met his gaze, unflinching. "You want to talk, or you want to threaten me?"
Voight smirked. "I don't need to threaten you. You know how this works. You're ex-NCIS. You know the rules."
Gibbs shrugged. "Rules change."
Voight circled the chair, never breaking eye contact. "You're sitting on a powder keg. CIA black ops, mind control, monsters let loose on the world. You expect me to believe you're the good guy in all this?"
"I'm not here to be the good guy," Gibbs replied. "I'm here to stop the bad ones."
Voight paused, considering. "You know, I've seen a lot of monsters in my day. Most of them started out as victims. You think you're any different?"
Gibbs's jaw tightened. "I know what I am. I know what I've done. Can you say the same?"
For a moment, the two men stared each other down, the air thick with mutual respect and suspicion.
Voight finally broke the silence. "You're not the only one who wants answers. My city's been hit by this program before. Kids disappearing. Cops turning up dead. If you're telling the truth, I want in."
Gibbs studied him, weighing the risk. "You play by your own rules, Voight. This isn't just about Chicago. It's bigger than anything you've seen."
Voight leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then you'd better hope you're on the right side."
A door slammed open, and a young detective hurried in. "Boss, we've got company. Feds are sweeping the area."
Voight uncuffed Gibbs with a flick of his wrist. "You want to walk out of here, you tell me everything you know. Right now."
Gibbs nodded, rubbing his wrists. "You'll get your answers. But you have to trust me."
Voight hesitated, then nodded. "Let's move."
They slipped out a side door, blending into the shadows as federal agents swarmed the warehouse. Gibbs led Voight through a maze of back alleys, finally ducking into a deserted parking garage.
"Why me?" Voight asked, catching his breath.
"Because you don't scare easy," Gibbs replied. "And you're not afraid to get your hands dirty."
Voight grinned. "You got that right."
Gibbs handed him a burner phone. "Stay in touch. When the time comes, I'll call."
As Voight disappeared into the night, Gibbs allowed himself a rare smile. The coalition had just gained a new ally—one who understood that sometimes, to fight monsters, you had to become one yourself.
He melted into the darkness, making his way back to the safehouse. The game had changed. The stakes were higher. And the line between friend and foe had never been thinner.
End of Chapter Seven