Author's Note: These events follow five months after the kidnapping and rescue in the previous story.
September 3rd, 1982
"So Dare's gotten into almost all honors classes this year, just like you knew he would, Dad," Charisa said with a soft smile. "Camelia loves second grade, and Brandon's decided he wants to do baseball this season. He has try-outs tomorrow, and he's nervous, but Niam's been working with him and says he's got a lot of talent. Then there's that kitten of yours… yeah, I still blame you for that little orange monster. You couldn't let us live in peace when Rap finally died, could you?"
"Oh come on," Tore interrupted from behind her. "He's not that bad."
Charisa dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "Yeah, yeah he is." She took a breath, then looked back down at the bouquet of large blue and yellow blossoms, lying fresh and peaceful in front of the gravestone. "Well, I've got to go, Dad. I'll come by again. Promise."
Tore's hand landed gently on her shoulder, and Charisa turned to bury her face in his strong shoulder. "Let's go," he said quietly after a minute. "The kids are waiting."
Charisa nodded. "Yeah, okay." His arm still around her shoulders, they walked back towards the edge of the cemetery. It was a long walk. "Thanks for bringing me by."
"Anytime you want, you know that," Tore replied. "And it's only been a month. I'm still not used to him being gone either."
"Well it was pretty sudden."
At that Tore smiled sideways at her, and gave a half-hearted laugh. "Yeah, jumping in front of a bus to save a random old woman and her granddaughter is usually considered sudden."
It was absurd, and she ought to be angry at the irreverence…. But it was military humor, and it was so something her father would have said. Charisa laughed to choke back the sob. "Yeah. He'd have loved the headlines. He got to be a hero all over again." And it wasn't as if he'd had much time left. He'd been in his nineties; his health had been going slowly downhill again. Charisa doubted he'd given it much thought as he leapt in front of a bus whose breaks had gone out –especially given leaping was not his strong point- but she knew her father would have preferred to go out the hero than just die in bed.
"He was really something." Tore chuckled.
It took several minutes to walk to the car, and Charisa spent the drive home composing herself and her thoughts. She made a point not to visit the grave too often, though she preferred coming in the quiet to the tasteful, but large, funeral that had been held with full military honors; the funeral a former President of the Military deserved. And they had been kind, and buried him right beside her mother, saving space despite how much fuller the cemetery had gotten in the years since.
"I meant what I said about the cat," she said finally, as they pulled up. "I still can't believe Dad missed that furry lump enough to bring home a kitten." A fuzzy little rescue with big blue-green eyes and thick orange-and-white striped fur.
Tore laughed as he parked the car in the driveway. "If the kids didn't play with Butterscotch so much, he'd look like an orange piglet. I'm grateful for the cat. He makes the kids laugh."
"I can't argue with that." Charisa agreed as they went inside. "Mmm…something smells good."
"Thanks!" Krista poked her head out of the kitchen. "We thought you wouldn't mind if we got a head start on cooking."
"I knew there was a reason we took you in," Tore teased their foster-daughter. Grown up and in college as she was, after living with them for three years, she still came over often.
Krista chuckled. "Well Dare's the one handling the pan-fry at the moment. So you should thank him. I'm just mixing the salad."
"What are Camelia and Brandon up to?" Charisa asked. It was far too quiet in the house.
"Oh, they're out back," Dare informed them as they walked into the kitchen, where their teenage son was, indeed, pan-frying strips of beef, broccoli, and sauce.
"Brandon talked her into playing catch so he could practice some more."
"How's that going?" Tore asked, glancing out the kitchen window into the back yard.
"Pretty well actually," Dare grinned. "Turns out she's not half bad herself."
"Maybe we'll have two ball players," Charisa smiled, joining Tore at the window. Outside she could see their son daughter playing, while the kitten tumbled about in the grass chasing late-season butterflies.
"Speaking of ball, we should turn on the game tonight," Dare reminded them. "Uncle Niam's team is playing West City."
"Oh, right." Tore grinned and headed into the living room. "We can't miss the game."
"And that's the report, General," Colonel Wexman smiled across the table as he finished.
Sara Heimler nodded, pleased. "I appreciate your thoroughness, Colonel. It makes my job that much easier." Especially after taking the train all the way from Central to sit in an office in West City for two days while they wrapped up the case. The nature of the materials required confidentiality, seeing as they were confiscated from smugglers who had been pulling alchemical artifacts out of Aerugo. The batch here seemed to have come, primarily, from Havah. A dead man's private collection. Sara looked forward to when the case was no longer confidential, and she could ask her parents if it had anything to do with their undercover mission decades ago.
"It's been interesting," Wexman assured her. "Would you like to see the collection before you go back to Central? We've got it out in Warehouse 8."
"Of course I would," Sara grinned as they both stood, pushing in chairs. "You think I would turn up that kind of opportunity?"
"Well, I never assume," Wexman replied with a shrug. "Fortunately we have time before the evening train."
Sara followed Wexman out the back door of Western HQ, and across the grounds towards the warehouses. Anticipation quickened her steps. She really didn't have long if she didn't want to miss the train home, but there was no way she was going to miss a chance to get her hands on some of the items on that list.
Wexman opened the smaller door in the large doors, and stepped inside. Sara followed just as Wexman flipped the light switch.
To their right, a different flash, followed by a sharp bang echoed through the metal building.
Immediately on the alert as Wexman fell, Sara spun to face their attacker. But whoever it was in the stack of crates had vanished from site.
The far end of the building exploded as Sara dove for cover.
The sunset outside the large windows of the Hill House spilled across the warm wooden floors of the living room in a splash of golden orange. Where it hit Ed's fluffy white dog, it turned Mal the same vibrant hue. Not that the napping dog cared.
"You lumpy rug," Ed grumbled affectionately as he stepped over Mal, whose napping spot of choice was right between the dinner table and the kitchen.
"You're the one who lets him lie wherever he wants," Winry pointed out as she carried two plates of freshly made lasagna and steamed asparagus to the table.
"Fine, you move him," Ed chuckled, setting down the silver. It was nice to have a quiet meal, just the two of them.
The phone rang as he was folding the napkins.
"Could you get that?" Winry asked, her hands full with glasses of juice.
"Sure." Ed set down what he was doing and went to the phone, stepping once more over the dog. "Hello."
"Dad?" Ethan's voice came over the line. "You've got to turn on the news."
"What's up?" Ed asked, frowning.
"Live coverage! There's been an explosion at Western Headquarters."
"Damn it." Ed almost spat into the phone. "Did they say why?"
"Just turn it on!"
"Fine. Thanks for calling." Ed hung up the phone and hurried towards the television.
"What's going on, Ed?" Winry asked, her expression one of worry.
Ed turned on the television and changed the channel over to the news.
"-just minutes ago. The warehouse is engulfed in flames." The picture, not the best, but live, showed the warehouse in question, and the military fire department doing their best to put it out.
"What happened?" Winry gasped, joining Ed as they stared at the destruction happening right in front of them.
"Rumors are already flying that this planned attack was orchestrated by members of the Hashman Syndicate, which would be in line with their public anti-alchemist and anti-military sentiments. There are further unsubstantiated claims that the Syndicate was responsible for some valuable items confiscated earlier this week, the nature of which is reported classified and no officers have been willing to comment at this time."
"Of course not," Ed snorted. No officer worth his salt was going to blab to the press.
"Though this lack of comment may be related to the fact that two of the officers reported to be involved in the case, Colonel Wexman and General Sara Heimler, were seen heading to the warehouse right before the explosion happened. Several witnesses reported gunshots from within the building just before it went off."
Winry's next gasp matched the sudden twinge of foreboding in Ed's stomach. He found Winry's hand and squeezed it tightly in his. He waited to hear the rest of the report, and desperately wished he had a more direct line to the military. There had to be information flying faster on military channels, and it was likely to be far more accurate.
For once, almost no work was being done in the President of the Military's office. Or, perhaps to be more precise, no work unrelated to the disaster going down hundreds of miles away, when all they could do was stare at the television, and get the updates as they came in from Western Command. Though as most of those calls were going straight to Rehnquist's private line at the moment, there wasn't a whole lot for them to do.
Franz tried to stay calm in the face of what was happening. He was one of the senior-most members on Rehnquist's staff at this point in his career, and panic –even if his wife had just been reported to be heading into the building moments before it exploded- was not an option. Come on, Sara. If you're out of there, show up. If not… you'd better damn well be doing some fabulous alchemy right now and come out of there with whoever did this wishing they'd never dared. Come on, Belle. Where are you?
Aside from the occasional phone, answered immediately by an aide, a message taken, and run into Rehnquist's office or set aside for another time, the office was eerily silent. This, Franz had to admit, was one of the things he both liked and hated about newer technology. It was bad enough to know something awful had happened, or was happening, without being able to watch it happen right in front of him, and be helpless to do anything productive.
The reporter hadn't said a word about Wexman or Sara in several minutes, focusing more on the drama of the firefighters trying to put the fire out, and the lack of evidence of any persons fleeing the scene who might have been at fault.
Finally, the fire was under control, then going out. Then they were sending people inside. Now we'll find her. Franz tried to breathe normally. She's a whiz with air shields. If they didn't get out, she'll have protected them until the firefighters could get in. She's done that before. Or she'll have ripped up the place for walls.
But they were sure taking their sweet time. The reporter didn't know what more was going on. They wouldn't let him closer than the barricade, which was nowhere near the door of the building. So he started repeating the earlier information regarding who they believed was responsible. The Hashman Syndicate, who had just that year previously organized the kidnapping of Charles Fischer in an attempt to get at the Whitewater Alchemist.
Franz didn't pay much attention until he got a tap on the shoulder. "What is it, Major?" he looked at the man standing next to him.
"Phone for you, Sir," the younger man said, looking nervous. "Says it's from Western Command."
Franz bolted from his chair, picking up the receiver and doing his best not to blurt out the questions on his mind. "General Franz Heimler speaking."
"General, this is Colonel Armstrong. They've found your wife."
