#mibbs

"Assume 100-meter blast radius from the sand trap."

"It's called a bunker, boss, not a sand trap."

One look from Gibbs shut him right up. Tony backpedaled immediately.

"Blast radius, hundred meters, got it, boss. Probie, you got the woods, I got the far side." He didn’t dare give Ziva any orders.

"Uh…" Tim stalled. Everyone turned toward him.

"What, McGee?"

"Poison ivy, boss. I just… I look at the stuff and I break out."

Gibbs shrugged.

"Don't look."

McGee had no choice but to trudge off toward his leafy nemesis. Meanwhile, Ziva and Tony headed in the opposite direction, careful not to step on charred remains. Ziva remarked,

"Zaka would be busy today."

"Zaka?"

"Orthodox Jews who volunteer to collect body parts from terror attacks."

Gibbs crouched by the bunker, trying to picture what had happened here—and remembering how close he himself had come to ending up like Colonel Cooper just a few months earlier. A woman’s voice cut into his thoughts, firm and polished.

"Agent Gibbs?"

His mood soured instantly. Women at a crime scene usually meant trouble. Hell, women anywhere usually meant trouble. Three divorces had taught him that.

He rose and turned. The voice belonged to a tall, attractive blonde in an unflattering field uniform.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hollis Mann," she said, extending her hand with practiced confidence. Gibbs took it, giving her a once-over, then met her clear, steady gaze with the kind of weary indifference only he could pull off.

"Army Criminal Investigation Division. I believe your director called."

"She did," Gibbs confirmed, just as flatly. He gestured toward his agent adjusting her black NCIS ballcap. "Officer Ziva David."

"Ziva David—yes, I know," Mann nodded politely, then turned back to Gibbs, resting her hands on her hips just below the heavy gun belt. "Army criminal investigative division has excellent intel."

"Good. You can use it to support our investigation." Gibbs walked away, making it plain he didn’t need outside help.

But Mann kept pace, her tone calm but unyielding.

"Our joint investigation. With army in the lead. This isn't the Navy-Army club, it's the Army-Navy club."

"Yeah. That —" Gibbs jabbed a finger at the mangled corpse "—is a dead marine at the Army-Navy club."

He hated jurisdictional disputes. Hated joint cases even more. Didn’t matter what gender the Army sent—he wanted every camo-clad interloper off his crime scene. Gibbs trusted his team. Everyone else just got in the way.

As Gibbs jotted notes from Mann’s report, which she had generously shared—she still seemed to believe in this "joint investigation"—her agents combed the grass for evidence and collected stray fragments of human tissue. Meanwhile, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo employed his own "method": he scooped up a handful of dry grass, tossed it in the air, and followed wherever the wind carried it. Anything to avoid scraping his knees or digging through body parts.

"I had EOD sweep the rest of the sand traps." Mann reported when she and Gibbs regrouped at the blast site.

"Bunkers," Gibbs corrected.

"Excuse me?"

"They call them bunkers, not sand traps." He pointed at the crater—and, to his own surprise, gave her an actual smile. He had no idea why.

She didn’t react, just continued matter-of-factly.

"The Colonel's son said he saw what he thought was a spiderweb in the bunker."

"Trip wire?" Ziva cut in. Mossad training had made her an expert in explosives.

"Possibly," Mann admitted. "It’s hard to verify that at the moment. Of course, we've got a lot of land to cover."

"Eighteen holes on a golf course," Gibbs pointed out.

“You want to divide them up?” she offered readily.

Naïve, Gibbs thought.

"Sure. We’ll take the crime scene. You and your people can take the other seventeen holes."

That earned her a smile—and a hands-on-hips stance that told him she wasn’t backing down.

"You’re not taking away my crime scene. End of story." She stared him straight in the eyes, unflinching. Ziva tilted her head, half-expecting sparks to fly.

Mann went on, "But if you ask nicely, I might just give you the body.."

Wow! Gibbs hadn’t expected that. Not the pushback — he always expected pushback — but not with that kind of disarming smile. Still, he had his counter ready. But before that, he let slip a ghost of a grin.

"I don't really have to ask, seeing as my M.E. got here first."

"Fine." Mann crossed her arms. Her voice was still friendly, but there was steel under it. "Okay. If this is going to be a pissing match, you better bring an umbrella."

She tilted her head, smiling. They stood like that, locked eyes, neither blinking.

"Whoa-ho! Got some good news, Boss!" Tony announced, ducking under the tape at a run. He slowed when he spotted Gibbs and the lieutenant colonel squaring off.

"Did I miss something?"

"Gibbs just found his fourth ex-wife." Ziva murmured.

Gibbs heard her, but didn’t look away from Mann. "What do you got, DiNozzo??"

Only when Tony got close did Gibbs finally break eye contact.

"Found this off the next tee, boss. It was outside the blast radius. Wind must have carried it. Looks like part of a detonator."

"I checked the neighboring tees myself." Mann interjected.

"Well, maybe you shouldhave checked the trash cans," Tony shot back. He turned to Gibbs. "Looks like a hole in one, Boss."

Gibbs allowed himself a faint smirk. "Nice work."

"Thanks." Tony beamed like a kid who’d just been handed candy.

Mann pressed her lips together, then gave Tony a short nod—seemed annoyed more with herself for missing it than with NCIS for finding it. That was new. Usually, outside investigators loved pinning failures on Gibbs’s team.

This investigation was going to be... interesting.

***

Several hours later, after Colonel Cooper’s body and all evidence had been brought to NCIS, medical examiner Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard finally indulged in his favorite pastime: conversing with the newest arrival on his autopsy table.

This time the topic was golf. Ducky mimed a swing with an imaginary golf club.

“…I forget to follow through. And the ball just goes a couple of feet. Not nearly as far as you traveled, my friend.”

At that moment, Lieutenant Colonel Hollis Mann, followed by Special Agent Gibbs, stepped off the elevator and entered Autopsy.

“Is he talking to himself?” Mann asked, surprised.

“The body,” Gibbs corrected, suppressing a smile.

“Ah, Colonel!” Ducky brightened immediately, already acquainted with the blonde at the crime scene. “Your commanding officer just called. Requested copies of my autopsy report,” he told Mann—and with barely a glance at her companion, greeted him with a curt, “Gibbs.” Ducky's gaze returned instantly, almost intently, to Hollis.

Gibbs flicked a sharp look between the two of them. Colonel Mann seemed slightly unsettled by the pathologist’s attention. Gibbs cut in, brisk and no-nonsense:

“The report?”

“Yes, well…” Ducky tore himself away from Colonel and turned back to his duties. “The cause of death appears to be just what you see here. Explosive dismemberment.” To emphasize, he lifted the victim’s severed foot.

Gibbs muttered tightly, “Yeah, got that part.”

Mann interjected: “What we don't have are traceable fragments from that explosion.”

“Yes, Abby was complaining about the dearth of physical evidence from the crime scene. Present company excepted, of course.” Ducky’s eyes drifted meaningfully back to the corpse.

“Bomb shell was plastic,” Gibbs suggested irritably, frustrated that he couldn’t drag Ducky’s attention his way.

“Which means the fragments disintegrated,” Mann finished for him.

“Yes.” Ducky nodded and went on, still directing his words—and gaze—at Colonel. “But luckily for you, not all of them. As the ancients soon discovered, fire and water do not mix. The human body is over two-thirds water…”

He retrieved a specimen jar from a nearby tray. Gibbs stepped forward, expecting the find to be handed to him—but to his annoyance, Ducky bypassed him completely and presented the jar directly to Mann.

“Some of the burning fragments were cooled by the interstitial liquid in the colonel's tissue before they could disintegrate.”

Gibbs’s eyes darted between the two of them. What the hell? Sure, Ducky never missed a chance to charm a pretty woman, but this was… different. And it was needling Gibbs more than he cared to admit.

He growled, “Get that to Abby,” and strode out, leaving the colonel and the pathologist alone.

Ducky watched him go, puzzled. Jethro was never one for pleasantries, but something in his behavior had carried a new edge. Could it be that Tony and Ziva’s jokes weren’t far off the mark?

Hollis handed the specimen back politely, thanked him, and followed Gibbs. Ducky pursed his lips to suppress a grin. The elegant blonde reminded him, for a fleeting moment, of Alice chasing the White Rabbit. Only Gibbs was no rabbit anyone could easily catch.

Ducky chuckled softly. Something was definitely brewing.

***

While Tony was in the conference room interviewing the victim’s son, McGee and Ziva, under Colonel Mann’s direction, were reviewing photos from the crime scene.

“There it is,” McGee said, pulling up a shot of a pale Toyota parked behind a fence.

“Okay, good. Punch in on that,” Mann ordered.

“We can read the entire license plate,” Tim said excitedly.

“I'll update the bolo.” Ziva offered, heading toward her desk.

“Bolo for what?” Tony asked suspiciously, approaching just in time to see the smooth teamwork—without Gibbs and with the new colonel in charge.

“Well, we cleared the course, we vetted everyone as they left, but we don't have any record of this '99 toyota leaving. The owner's a green skeeper at the club,” Hollis Mann began, filling him in.

Tony froze, startled, then slowly sank into his chair, staring at this strange blonde. She was a boss (not their boss, but a boss), so why was she wasting time explaining all this to him? Gibbs would have just barked: “Where the hell have you been, DiNozzo? Get to work!”—end of story.

Tony shot McGee a wary look, as if asking: “What’s going on here?”

But McGee ignored him and calmly went on working with this conqueror of foreign lands: “He must have used an old service entrance and snuck out before we covered them all.”

“Nice catch, McGee,” Tony praised.

But Mann smiled sweetly.

“No, that’s my catch.” Then, turning to Tim, she added: “Let's see if we can get an address on this.”

The blonde-Colonel turned away, and Tony instantly pulled a face, mocking the suddenly appointed Boss Number Two. A very strange boss. One who smiled, made small talk, and didn’t hand out headslaps. A very wrong boss.

At that very moment, just behind Tony, the armored MTAC door slid open. After a long, tense video call, it released Special Agent Gibbs and Director Shepard back into the bullpen.

“Was it just me, or did the Secretary of Defense seem nervous?” Jenny asked, peering at Jethro’s face.

But he ignored her, leaned on the railing, and stared down at Colonel Mann, who was speaking with McGee.

“Probably has a tee time tomorrow,” Gibbs muttered, still watching Mann.

Jenny, unable to resist, asked casually:

“What's she like?” And it sounded like, ‘She is good?’”

Jethro was clearly unprepared for the question. He hesitated, silent. Jenny hated his reaction instantly. She fixed her probing gaze on her former lover, trying to read his mind.

“I just meant, is she up to the job?”

Again, Gibbs faltered. Opened his mouth, then finally said:

“I’ll let you know.”

The phone saved him. But nothing could save Jenny from the sharp sting of jealousy. That was not the answer she’d expected. Jethro should have tossed off some biting remark about the colonel foisted on him. Instead, Gibbs answered the call.

“Hey, boss, DiNozzo here,” Tony whispered into the phone.

Gibbs lowered the phone and shouted across the bullpen:

“DiNozzo!”

Tony rolled his eyes as if hearing the voice of God. He turned, saw Gibbs waving at him from above, and laughed nervously.

“Hey, that's weird, 'cause I… I thought you were still in MTAC.”

“What do you want?”

“Uh… we…” Tony began, planning to secretly complain about the colonel. But Hollis Mann answered for him.

“Just found an unaccounted for vehicle from the Army-Navy club..”

Tony rolled his eyes again. No one spoke that loudly in this bullpen. No one except Gibbs. Where had this loud blonde come from, and why was she shouting like she owned the place? Surely the boss would set her straight.

But to everyone’s surprise, Gibbs didn’t say a word. He simply hurried down the stairs. Jenny watched him go, then glanced at the colonel. “Damn sand trap… She’s not even a redhead.”

***

Jenny Shepard strode into her office, opened her email, and printed out Hollis Mann’s file.

She’d received it from Army CID that morning, but had only skimmed it then. Her only real thought at the time, while looking at the colonel’s official photo, was: the Army uniform flatters no woman. But in person, the blonde colonel was very attractive — much to Jenny’s irritation.

She still couldn’t understand Jethro’s reaction to this blonde. That look… What the hell was that look?! Jethro only liked redheads. Everybody knew that. By definition, this blonde wasn’t supposed to be his type. No—Jenny told herself. Definitely not.

She nervously smirked, ran a hand through her short red hair, slid her glasses onto the tip of her nose, and began reading.

Damn it. Hollis Mann was no lightweight. Enlisting right out of college, she’d spent the last two decades in some of the most dangerous places on Earth, climbing through the ranks faster than most officers could dream. She’d survived multiple combat deployments, led missions in hostile territories, jumped from planes into enemy zones, and managed to make her mark as a brilliant tactical operations trainer at Fort Bragg, one of the Army’s largest and most elite bases. Being stationed there—and trusted to train soldiers for high-risk operations—was a distinction few officers ever earned. Unmarried, never divorced, no children—her life had been wholly devoted to mastering her profession.

Her file made Jenny’s jaw tighten. Mann wasn’t just decorated—she was tested to the limit. Explosives, intelligence operations, undercover assignments that would have made most men break a sweat, hostage situations, global counter-terror missions… and she’d excelled at every one. Her colleagues and superiors (and even the damn Secretary of the Army) noted in her evaluation her precision with weapons, intelligence, and instincts in the field, as if she could read a battlefield like a chessboard.

Jenny exhaled, running her fingers through her hair. Heavy artillery, indeed. This was the kind of woman who made generals blink, who could walk into a room and instantly command respect without raising her voice. A woman who had no time for distractions, no patience for incompetence—and clearly, no fear of Gibbs.

For the last decade she’d served as an Army CID special agent in Arlington, blending tactical mastery with investigative skill. She was still officially listed at Fort Bragg as a trainer in the Airborne Division, drilling soldiers in combat readiness. Every mission, every badge, every award—none of it was decoration for the shelf. It all had teeth.

In short, Hollis Mann had faced every challenge the Army could throw at her—and left them all trembling behind her. Jenny couldn’t help but feel a flicker of… awe—and professional envy. Women like this didn’t just survive—they dominated. They climbed, they led, they owned a man’s world. Exactly the type Jethro should avoid after what had happened seven years ago between him and Jenny in Paris.

Jenny almost exhaled with relief, almost convinced herself that once Jethro realized what a powerhouse Hollis Mann was—someone who could be above him—he’d set distance. Besides, he wouldn’t risk breaking his own Rule #12: Never date a co-worker. Even if this was just inter-agency cooperation.

But damn… this Hollis Mann… Jenny could see her. Hollis Mann was beautiful—it was… How did Tony put it? Jenny had overheard. “Army-Barby”. Mann wasn’t a grunt—even in dull Army camouflage, she was a queen. Jenny was ready to hate her.

On the other hand, Jenny knew Gibbs’s type: a chauvinist at heart. He didn’t need a successful lady-colonel, and a queen wasn’t on the list either. His ex-wives may have been witches, but his ideal was the Stepford wife—sweet, proper, patient, waiting with dinner on the table. That’s how Jenny imagined Shannon Gibbs. That’s probably how Jethro once imagined Jenny, when he asked her to quit the Paris op seven years ago and marry him. She’d said no—and ended up as Director of NCIS. But she still loved him.

***

A black Dodge Charger roared under the old concrete bridge. Gibbs and DiNozzo stepped out just in time to see—of course—Colonel Hollis Mann already there.

“Woman’s everywhere,” Tony thought bitterly, straightening his stylish jacket.

“DiNozzo,” Gibbs signaled him to get to work. But Mann was faster:

“The suspect is already in CID custody, Agent Gibbs.My people can handle the interrogation.”

Gibbs turned, stunned, to Tony. DiNozzo threw up his hands, silently: “Not my fault! What the hell is going on?!”

“What are you doing?” Gibbs growled and Tony bolted back toward the car.

“Divorced, right?” Hollis asked suddenly.

“Three times,” Jethro replied, almost proudly. Let her know who she was dealing with. Deep down, though, he realized the words were sharpened by Jenny’s earlier question still echoing in his head. What's she like? Damn right, she’s good.

“Only three?” The colonel was unimpressed. “Well, I'll be sure to let my superiors know how you assisted.”

Gibbs only smirked.

Meanwhile, Army EOD cracked open the Toyota’s trunk. Moments later Gibbs had another reason to smirk: just a stash of marijuana.

“Okay, drugs,” Hollis sighed, shoulders dropping, but refused to give up. “Doesn't mean he didn't plant the bomb.”

Nice twist, Gibbs thought. It gave him the perfect excuse to slip away from the confusing blonde and work the case his way.

He smiled, wolf-like, slipping free of the red flags around him. “YYou can have that interrogation. I'll look for who did.”

***

As always, Leroy Jethro Gibbs spent the evening in the basement of his house, working on his boat, trying to detach from the day’s events. But it wasn’t that easy.

“Agent Gibbs!” a loud voice cut through his solitude at the worst possible moment. Gibbs looked up, startled, and saw Hollis Mann at the top of the stairs, smiling at him with a confident, yet slightly embarrassed smile.

“I… I've been ringing your bell for the last three minutes,” she said.

“Yeah... I've been meaning to fix that,” Gibbs muttered, returning to his task: he was just preparing paint to finish the name on the stern of his boat. He didn’t need company—but he said nothing aloud. And Mann came down the stairs into his “holy of holies,” remarking:

“Well, the door was unlocked, so…”

“So this would be trespassing, not breaking and entering,” Gibbs replied, not particularly politely. Mann ignored the tone, glanced around, then tilted her head, looked at the boat, and, of course, asked:

“‘Kelly’?”

Gibbs immediately set down the brush, turned toward his uninvited guest, and, unsure how to react to her appearance, asked dryly:

“Is there a reason you... broke into my house?”

Mann paused for a few seconds, seemingly regretting her decision to come. Finally, she said conciliatorily:

“This is a joint investigation. I thought maybe we could share some information.”

Gibbs paused before answering. After all, far less pleasant visitors had shown up uninvited in his basement. Hollis Mann, at least, came with friendly intentions—and no reason to want him dead… yet. So…

“Beer?”

“Beer?” His unexpected offer took her by surprise.

Gibbs didn’t answer verbally, but with unprecedented hospitality, he waved the stick he held toward his workbench, where the last unopened bottle sat.

“Uh… sure.”

In reality, it was a distraction. As Mann shrugged off her coat and headed to the far end of the basement, Gibbs peeked from behind the boat’s hull, sneakily admiring her long legs, finally free of the ridiculous military uniform. He had already decided that the uniform deserved to be burned: it unfairly aged a blooming beautiful woman and rendered her faceless. In civilian clothes, hair down, the uninvited guest was exactly the type DiNozzo called a “strawberry-sugar blonde”—nothing like the colonel they’d met earlier on the golf course.

Yeah… and now Hollis Mann, all neat as a figurine, friendly and pretty, casually showed up in his basement at night… uninvited. Definitely should have locked the door.

As these thoughts ran through his mind, Mann took the slightly wet bottle lying on a metal tray of melting ice, wrapped the neck with the rag he usually used to wipe sawdust, and unscrewed the cap. Gibbs quickly turned away before she could catch him staring. But he immediately felt her assessing gaze on the small of his back. And somehow, the idea of a joint investigation now seemed like a compelling plan.

Still, he wasn’t happy to see her — or anyone — in his basement. He wanted to be alone with "Kelly".

The guest, unaware of his thoughts, shared news about the investigation as promised:

“I got the results on the swabs from the Toyota. There were traces of diesel fuel and fertilizer. Same thing that McVeigh used to blow up the federal building in Oklahoma.”

“Yeah. Guy driving the Toyota was a greenskeeper.”

“I know,” the colonel agreed, slowly walking along the hull of the boat, his hand tracing the varnished surface. “He's around fertilizer and diesel fuel all day. It was a bad lead," she said, shrugging in a cartoonish gesture. “Anything you'd like to share?”

“Well, I got some sardines upstair.” Gibbs replied stubbornly, trying to focus on the boat.

“I meant about the case. But, then, you knew that.”

He couldn’t resist a glance at the colonel, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He admired that she didn’t give up—but said nothing.

In truth, he had nothing to share. The investigation had stalled. CID had a bag of marijuana and the gardener-dealer. NCIS had… nothing.

Suddenly, Mann snapped her fingers loudly and asked something she really shouldn’t have:

“Girlfriend. Is… hm… Kelly—your… your girlfriend?”

Gibbs flinched, pressed his lips together, set down the brush, and sat motionless for a few moments, staring into space. Then he looked at her and shook his head, aware that the bitterness had flashed in his eyes. Mann noticed and her look softening with understanding, slowly stepped back. Gibbs was glad she didn’t need further explanation.

“Okay…” She stepped a couple paces away, rested her hand on the boat, and only then did Gibbs return to his work. “Look. CID intel did a profile on you for me. I know you flaunt authority, especially in front of a female...”

“A female write that, too?”

“Yep. She also wrote you were a sniper, a good one, but your eyesight's shot, you're injury-prone, if not in a state of near death-wish fulfillment…” The colonel spoke in calm measured tones, but then suddenly got more animated, mechanically scratching a crack running along the hull. “And though you're pressured and impatient, you're also passionate and loyal, in spite of the fact that you don't trust anyone.”

Gibbs decisively grabbed her hand, stopping her from further defacing his "Kelly". And then the colonel hit him with words, speaking coaxingly yet firmly:

“You are gonna have to trust me.”

Gibbs didn’t know whether to be annoyed or admit that this woman, crashing in like a snowstorm, had somehow captivated him.

He’d thought, having lost his first love and survived three ex-wives and Jenny Shepard, he’d seen it all. But the colonel was a sand trap and an explosion in one.

He asked, his voice lightly irritated but masking confusion:

“Is there anything I should know about you before we get... involved?”

“Involved?” she frowned in puzzlement.

Gibbs barely suppressed a smirk. “In the case.”

Oh no. At that moment, he wasn’t talking about the investigation at all. She’d intrigued him since the golf course earlier that morning, and the effect had only grown. Now Mann had him hooked for real. Something about her was special.

Judging by her reaction, the hint he’d embedded when he mentioned “getting involved” had caught Hollis Mann off guard. It seemed she hadn’t been thinking of "getting involved" in any way. Too bad…

Finally, she replied, steering the conversation back to work:

“You can have NCIS intel do a profile on me, if you'd like.”

“Oh, I could. But I like surprises.”