I forgot to say this in the first chapter: I do not own Bones. That goes for the rest of the story.

Trev

Well, I was right about my face bruising up. By the time the guy, Bob, picked me up in his totally awesome Ford F150, the right side of my face was almost completely purple. My eye was closed up, and it hurt to eat. Coffee was another matter entirely.

"Jesus, man, your pis will be black," hey, he's the one that had gallons of instant in the front seat. No cream, which is how I like my instant, but still coffee. I am still a Marine at heart.

"I fought in Fallujah the second time completely on coffee," I said "Never underestimate the power of coffee."

"By now you must be a freakin wizard," he surmised.

"Maybe," I shrugged "Could be how I survived things that most would get the heebie-jeebies thinkin about."

"I was in the Army myself," he mussed, "Served in The Unit."

"I was in Fallujah both times," I said, "My respect for the Army before then wasn't something to write home about. Imagine what it's like now."

"Ouch," he winced, "Not like the... what are you?"

"Deceased Force Recon," I smiled.

He scoffed, "Not like the Marines never fluffed up."

"When, in Iwo? Inchon? Or maybe in Tripoli or England?"

"Philippines, first time," he argued.

"A: we were out numbered. B: only a fourth of the forces in the Philippines were Marines. The rest were native guys."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

We spent the next few days like that. He slept in motel rooms, I slept in the car. The Bitch, as I knew her, traced me from something. I wasn't going to make it any easier for them. Besides, it's not like I could walk anyway. My ankle had swollen like a balloon and was an ugly purple color. It shot up pain when a fly landed on it.

After two days we made it to DC. It was about tewlve in the afternoon and I knew exactly where Booth would be.

"Take a right," I instructed, "Left here... keep going forward... forward... left... and were here," the Royal Dinner. I unbuckled and got out, "Thanks for the lift."

"No problem, Marine," Bob replied.

I hobbled to the Dinner, my ankle killing me. I pushed open the door with it's usual cow bell.

"Holy shit, Trev, what happened?" a waitress asked.

"Angry girlfriend," I growled, "Mary, where's Booth?"

She shrugged, "Haven't seen him in a few weeks. He's FBI, so maybe he's undercover?"

I cursed. Colorfully. If Booth was undercover, then I was on my own. I could just find a ride to the White House and punch a Secret Service Agent in the mouth. That would be very therapeutic, but I didn't know whether I was burned, framed, or won the damn lottery. I wouldn't risk it.

"I need to make a phone call," I informed her, "Where's Stan?"

"In the back," she replied.

I started limping painfully to the kitchen. When I burst through, former Seaman Stanley Brown, a cook on a carrier I served on for a week was there.

"Hey, Sergeant," he greeted, "You look like shit."

"No duh, Stan," I grunted, "I need your cell phone."

"Why?"

"I need to call Booth."

He shrugged and handed me the device. I dialed the remembered number. Crap, straight to voice mail. I tried his partners. Same thing. Damn it! This is bad, very bad. I was cut off. Booth was the only one I could trust not to turn on me. He was too damn loyal for that.

Think, Trev think... the Jeffersonian. The "squint squad". They would know where Booth is. Problem was they didn't know about my existence. I remembered their numbers. Me and Booth had a system in place in case one of us needed help. It included a number of caches through out DC and one in every major city in the continental US. These caches had clothes, canned food, money, medicine, weapons, ID for everyone who might need them, even Brennan and the Squint Squad. These were maintained and supplied by me. Booth in turn maintained his apartment as a safe house in case I needed it. He had contacts throughout law enforcement that really like him but hate my guts. We never had to use this system before.

"Stan, I need to use the basement," I said.

Stan blanched. If I wanted to use the basement, something was up. Ha handed me the key.

I hobbled out the back way and into the door that led to the basement. I used the key to open it. The basement is full of extra chairs, party supplies, and non-perishable food. I ignored all that and painfully pushed away a stack of Coke boxes. A trapdoor was underneath.

I lifted the door and carefully climbed down the ladder. The Royal Dinner use to be part of the Underground Railroad, and escaped slaves would hide down here. Before that, it was used by smugglers to hide their cargo until it could be shipped. Now, me and Booth used it as a cache.

This one was absent of weapons and gear, because those are the most expensive to get. It did have medical supplies, ammo, change of clothes, and ID. But those ID were for Booth and the Squint Squad. All the ones I used had warrants out on them, so I burned them.

I wrapped my ankle, and iced it. It would still be painful to walk on, but I could manage more now. I didn't put my arm in a sling, but I grabbed the side of my shirt, which worked as well. I covered my face a hat, so I wouldn't scare off babies at a hundred yards. It was all I could do.

Money, however, was plentiful. I had close $100,000 in small bills in here. I grabbed about $200, which is all I would need. I also grabbed some of the payphone change we had and put on a black windbreaker. I could blend in with any crowd.

I left the key under the rock Stan had agreed on. Unlike Booth's fake rock, this one could actually fool people.

I managed to make it to a payphone. I dialed a number that Booth gave me.

"Hello, Angela Montenegro speaking."

"Hi,I'm a friend of Booth's. Do know where he is at?"

"May I ask how you know him?"

"Old Army buddy," I lied, "I called the first two numbers he gave me to contact him. You're the third on the list."

"Really? I didn't know-"

"Can you please just tell me where he is?"

"Touchy. I don't think he is in the mood to talk right now. The woman he loves in a coma" I heard her voice break a little, "And he hasn't left her bedside since she came to the hospital three weeks ago."

"What hospital?"

"Memorial Ingalls, the new one on intersection of Spring St and Colesville Rd."

Ironic. A Norconian needed help and it was in the hospital named after a Norconian who died for his country. God must have a sense of humor.

"Thanks," I hung up the phone and hailed a taxi, "Memorial Ingalls Hospital, intersection of Spring and Colesville."

My heart hammered as the cabbie drove me there. I kept seeing threats everywhere. A normal person with a normal job would quickly dismiss them. I wasn't a normal person with a normal job. I lived off of my instincts. I didn't even relax when we reached the hospital.

I limped straight to the front desk, "Temperance Brennan, what room is she in?"

"Are you family?" she asked.

"Cousin," I lied, "What room?"

"Room 212. Down the hall on your left."

I left without thanking her. I was nervous. Lots of ways to kill in a hospital. Scalpels , poisons, those thingamajigs that doctors use to listen to your heart make great garrotes. I know that one from experience.

I burst open the door to Brennan's room. She's awake. Woo-hoo. Yadda yadda.

"Booth," I gasped, my ankle killing me, "Problem."

Specialist 4 Class George Alan Ingalls died near Duc Pho in South Vietnam. On April 16, 1967, died after jumping on a grenade to save his comrade. He was awarded the Medal of Honor, and has numerous organizations and buildings have dedicated themselves to his memory, including AFJROTC Unit 20006/7, The Memorial George Alan Ingalls AFJROTC, and Ingalls Park, in his hometown of Norco, California.

Memorial Ingalls Hospital is fictional.

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