FORTUNE HAS FALLEN
a/n: This is a strange piece for me because there is little dialogue given the situation. But that makes for a lot of action, so I think it works. It's been a long time since I've written for this site, but I hope you enjoy. Focus is on Ben Asher but Mike will feature too.
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After the taking of the White House, and the fall of London, Benjamin Asher was certain of one thing: he couldn't rely on perfect timing or Mike Banning forever. At some point, his luck would run out.
In the shadows when no one was looking, the façade of the perfectly in control Commander-in-Chief was gone. He woke up more often than not, sweating and heart racing as he felt the blade of that crude sword against his skin. He could hear the swoosh of it cutting through the air in that London building. His torso still bore the scar from when Kang shot him in Washington, and now he couldn't even watch an action movie with Connor without the sounds of gunfire jolting him.
Logically, he was justified to have these flashbacks. The memories would tear anyone apart. But he wasn't just anyone. And he didn't want those terrorists having such a lasting impact on him. He knew he was kidding himself to think they didn't leave psychological scars. Having Mike around helped, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the man retired. Mike was just as close to death each time, and he knew with a child and his wife, he couldn't expect him to keep laying his life on the line. Even if Mike would do it anyway….
It was four months ago when he realized something had to change. The fireworks from the 4th of July celebration had been expected, but somewhere in the long presentation of beautiful colors and loud explosions, he'd blacked out. Only Connor and two Secret Service agents noticed, but he came to quickly enough to call off any overt reaction from them. If he was honest with himself, he knew the sound had triggered the memory of flying debris scraping against his skin as that warehouse in London exploded.
This all didn't include how clammy his hands got every time he boarded the Marine One helicopter.
So enough was enough. He swore the nighttime Service agents to secrecy, as much as they could obscure or normalize his movements. He didn't want Mike to know, or else the man would never feel like he could retire.
Ben started training.
The Secret Service had excellent self-defense and hand-to-hand combat trainers. For an hour each night, he was in his private gym at the White House, spending more times with his face pressed to the floor mats than he'd care to admit. But he learned. Once a week, he varied it up by going to the Secret Service's shooting range. Handling guns, caring for them, shooting, learning what affected his aim, where the best places to hit were and how they would affect an enemy…. These were the lessons he learned.
In hindsight, training can only prepare you for so much. Ben knew that after his limousine vaulted in the air on impact from an RPG.
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It was supposed to be a goodwill tour of Russia. Diplomatic relations with the country were strained. Four days in the country were supposed to be spent in negotiations, meetings, a gala, and visiting several beauties of the country. Ben had endured little movement in the trade negotiations as well as peaceful solutions to problems in the area. The gala had been boring but Ben put on his best performance of civility.
People flocked to him, which made his Secret Service detail nervous—even if everyone had been screened. Ben shook hands like a good world leader, laughed at jokes that were meant as veiled insults and threats, and managed to leave the gala ahead of schedule.
As he lay in bed that night, in the most secure suite available in the country at a hotel with bullet-proof glass, Benjamin tried a simple exercise of counting down from 549. It was the number of days left as President. It calmed him. When he first started this nightly routine, the number of days lasted longer than his wakefulness.
Not now. Ben couldn't shake the feeling he wouldn't survive his presidency.
Day 3 of the Russia trip included a convoy to a decommissioned nuclear test site; always a hot topic of conversation, and apparently an example of what more progress could be made in countries with similar nuclear powers. The Russian-equivalent of the Secretary of State accompanied him for the day's trip.
"I think you will find the site eye-opening," the statesman said. Ben couldn't remember his name at the moment.
"I'm sure," Ben said. His eyes focused on the green trees whipping by the limousine. The car, along with the armed escort ahead of it and behind it, sped through the countryside. Ben couldn't remember how long it'd been since they'd seen a house or business. Isolation was a good rule of thumb for nuclear sites, active or not.
His Secret Service driver, Costas, and Agent Wilmington, sitting next to him, didn't see the RPGs coming until it was too late. Ben saw multiple streaks of light and smoke coming at the convoy. He had just enough time to yell out "RPG!" before one hit the limo.
The limo vaulted off the ground, the entire vehicle shuddering from the impact. Screams filled the vehicle but Ben didn't remember making a sound. He grasped the seat belt with his hands, anchoring himself better as the car flipped upside down.
Ben felt the jolt of the car's roof hitting the ground. It rattled his bones, and pain flooded his body. He could already smell smoke, but he registered that the car hadn't stopped moving. It was skidding on its roof.
Suddenly something slammed into the limo from behind. Instinctively he knew it was one of the escort vehicles. The sound of another explosion reached his ears, maybe even a third if he thought about it enough, but without seeing exactly what was going on, the noise blurred everything.
Gunfire was next. Ben blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. The Russian statesman, Wilmington and Costas weren't moving. He heard bullets hit the car.
His hand reached for the seat beat buckle. He pushed at it until he fell free. Ben looked out the cracked window. He could see ahead on the road, where multiple SUVs were approaching. The gunfire flashed from those SUVs.
They're attacking. You have to move for cover.
Behind him, more SUVs approached. Another explosion finished off one of the president's many escort vehicles. None seemed unharmed. Ben swallowed dryly. Normally he would hear lots of shouting by now, someone frantically pulling him from the car or rushing to "secure" the President. No one was doing that this time.
No one is able. And Mike hadn't come on this trip, for once staying back home for a family-related reason that escaped Ben at the moment.
Ben took three breaths, his mind racing during that time. The road was off limits. He'd die or be captured there. But the forest was clear enough. The attack was coming from the SUVs. They could only go so far in the forest.
Ben crawled to Wilmington. The unnatural angle of his neck told Ben Wilmington wasn't with him anymore. Ben searched the man's jacket until he found his holstered gun and two extra clips of ammo on his belt. He continued searching for a phone, but suddenly a bullet found its way right through the limo's interior. It slammed into the seat next to Ben.
He yelled out and recoiled; he couldn't help it.
Shouts from outside the vehicle called his attention. They weren't in English. And they didn't sound scared either. Ben pocketed the two clips of ammunition.
"They're coming," Ben said aloud. It grounded him into action.
The back of the limo was facing the forest treeline. The back window was cracked, but not completely broken. He kicked it; even cracked, it held fast. He tried again, three times, four—it wavered but held.
Ben aimed Wilmington's gun at the back window. With a quick flip of the safety, he followed with a shaky squeeze of the trigger. The sound hurt his ears, but the bullet weakened the glass. It partly gave way. Ben kicked it twice more, and the glass fell away as a semi-intact panel from the limo.
Ben grabbed his wool dress coat that had been set aside in the limo. He crawled through the back window. He kept the gun tightly in hand. Once free of the vehicle, he risked a look around from the cover the limo provided.
His detail was decimated. Only a few men made it out of the escort vehicles, but they were motionless on the ground. The Russian security was killed as well.
He heard the SUVs screech to a stop. Whoever the attackers were, they were here, ready to claim their prize.
Ben shut out all thoughts other than RUN! He kept low to the ground and hurried towards the forest. He knew he had to put distance between himself and the attackers, and not stop. He braced himself for a bullet to gun him down.
But he made it to the treeline unharmed. He risked looking back from behind the cover of the trees. What he saw made him realize this was another attack that he was unlikely to survive.
Twelve men, maybe fifteen even, spread out over the fiery scene. They were heavily armed, and each wore black tactical gear and coats. Where there were bodies of their victims, the attackers shot them in the head. Ben felt sick. There was no chance of survivors.
They converged on the limo, their chatter and shouts growing louder.
Ben turned away and moved deeper in the forest.
They knew he wasn't there. He had gotten away.
Now the chase began.