Chapter 25: The Distance

Detroit, MI

2206

Kevin froze for a moment, near panic, before his training kicked in. The one thing he couldn't afford was standing still. He dropped the SMG to hang on its sling and grabbed for the grenades hanging off his tactical vest. One, two, three, he pulled them free of the loop on his vest, yanked the pin and banked them through the open doorway off the wall down the hall. Two flash-bangs and the third borrowed grenade, the frag grenade, all in quick succession. All three were out before the first went off, and Kevin was moving. He went and shouldered the door closed, took two steps back and knelt down.

His hand went into his pack and hauled out a fresh claymore. There were a pair of spikes that would allow him to plant it quickly in soft dirt. Carpet was close enough for his purposes, and he jammed the mine down. The spikes thudded through into the wooden planking of the floor. It wasn't as secure as he would have preferred, but the two fold-out support legs helped with somewhat with the issue as well. The mine itself was flat but curved slightly. On the convex side of that curve were the words 'Front Toward Enemy' embossed out of the metal itself, not painted on. It often struck non-military as comical. But anyone who'd seen what an M18 antipersonnel mine could do knew you really didn't want to get that facing the wrong way, silly as it might seem to have it written on the thing.

A claymore mine was little more than a solid brick of C4 with close to seven hundred pellets roughly the size of #3 buck shot-sealed to the front-facing edge with epoxy. The metal case around it would add its own bits of shrapnel to the mix, but even without it, the Claymore boiled down to maybe the world's biggest shotgun blast. Only instead of the soft lead to be found in a standard shotgun shell, the Claymore's pellets were steel. In the 60 degree front-facing arc, the Claymore was deadly out to 100 meters and would defeat just about any personal body armor known to man within that range.

Kevin figured the house would stop most of them, but it'd still be a nasty surprise for the first few gunmen through that door. Even as he wedged the claymore into place, the flash-bangs started going off, and Kevin held his breath for a moment. He hoped he'd pitched that frag far enough down the hall, or any escape he might try was going to end in one big hell of a hurry. The house shook, but thankfully he wasn't cut down immediately by shrapnel. Kevin nodded to himself and looped a length of wire around the doorknob down across the door around the hinge and to the pin on the claymore.

Someone cursed over the radio. "He have any more damn frags?"

"I didn't see any. He must have taken somebody's tactical rig from downstairs. I think he's gotta be out," Danny replied in like fashion.

Kevin grinned. You go on thinking that. He turned and extended his UMP on its sling, firing a dozen rounds through the window frame and leaped out through the half-smashed window pane. He rolled out onto the roof and bit off a scream as he came to his knees. He had three big pieces of glass in his right forearm and two more in his left shin. another was poking up out of his left shoulder. Kevin cursed under his breath and gripped the biggest shard carefully, ripping it out of his shoulder. One more thing the movies always seemed to gloss over. He grit his teeth and tugged out the shards from his forearm in turn. The rest would have to wait. He cursed again and crabbed forward hunched over to stay out of sight through the row of windows. Kevin was halfway back across the roof before the house shook again and he heard someone scream.

He glanced back and thick dark smoke was oozing out the window he'd jumped out. Voices cursed back and forth over the radio, and Kevin couldn't make out much of it, until someone said. "He must be heading down off the roof, then. We're heading out the front."

"I wouldn't if I were you," Kevin replied. Though he didn't bother to key his radio. A moment later the house shook again and smoke began pluming up around the eaves to his right. Kevin kept on to the end of the roof and swung the SMG around the corner. Nobody at the moment, though the trellis he'd spotted on his way in was still right where it should be. Kevin let his SMG fall to hang on its sling and started climbing down gingerly. His wounded shin was beginning to throb painfully through the wash of adrenaline.

He looked up and to his right, just as he heard the voice over the radio. "I've got visual!"

Kevin let out a shouted curse and dropped free of the trellis. The man in the window's eyes widened and he brought his weapon up. As he fell, Kevin whipped his SMG up and squeezed off two bursts into the window. Then his heels hit ground and he fell over backward, landing on his backside before he momentum laid him out flat on his back. His arms, full of SMG swung up and the man coming out the side door of the garage stared at him in shock. Kevin reacted first and put a burst through the man, even though his sight picture was upside down at the moment. The gunman staggered back a step, all three rounds taking him in the chest which was armored. Kevin shifted aim to put a burst through the man's head as he rolled to his side. Tried to, because after that first round, the 25 round magazine in his submachingun ran empty. He cursed yet again and went for his sidearm. As he drew, his thumb flicked the safety off and he whipped his hand up as he rolled onto his belly and fired his pistol. He half-emptied the magazine before the man coming out the garage crumpled. Kevin kept rolling and brought his outstretched arm back down. By then, the man in the window, who'd started the whole mess was wobbling back into view. Kevin must have got lucky and winged him; blood was streaming down the man outlined in the window by the interior lights of the house.

He lined up the sights and ran his 45 dry; the man toppled backward out of sight. Coughing air back into his lungs, Kevin scrambled to his feet, ejected the spent mag and reloaded his sidearm, holstered it, then ejected the mag from his SMG, flipped it and re-inserted it. On his way through the side door into the garage he put a three round burst into that man as well, for good measure, when the man groaned and moved his gun-hand feebly.

Closing the door behind him, Kevin produced another claymore and set it on the ground, un-primed in the doorway. He didn't have time to wire it up, but just the sight of the thing would give most men pause for a second.

He unslung the SMG and smashed the buttstock through the driver's side window, of a black SUV, swirled it around in the window frame to get the worst of the fragments clear and reached in to undo the door locks. Kevin slipped out of his pack and tossed it in the backseat, flicked out his knife to pry open the panel and strip the starter wires. He knew he was cutting this one close, but he'd been flying by the seat of his pants since Danny had turned his own pistol on him, so he figured he was doing better than he really had a right to be.

The engine roared to life, and Kevin grinned. Okay, might get out of this after all. He turned around to the back seat and peeled open the pack. Down to seven of the dozen claymores he'd borrowed from that nice couple whose house he'd 'commandeered' to run surveillance for his busted rescue operation. He'd taken the precaution of putting the radio detonators on all the claymores, but never really thought he'd need to use them. And he couldn't detonate them selectively. One push of the plunger, and all of his remaining claymores would go off as one. He probably wouldn't want to do that while he was still in the car with them. Still, he took a few seconds to make sure none of the connections had come loose, and stuck the detonator into an empty pocket on the front of his tactical vest.

There was still no sign of pursuit, though time had a way of becoming fluid in the heat of a running gun battle. It could have been fifteen or twenty seconds, or as much as ten minutes, for all Kevin knew. He'd bet it was closer to the twenty second end of things. "He's in the garage," someone said over the radio at last.

Kevin nodded and keyed his microphone. "Better not all rush him at once, he probably set up more claymores."

"Who the hell is this?"

He shifted into reverse. "Take a wild guess, sparky," Kevin said, and smashed the accelerator down, ducking his head and driving all but blind. He didn't expect the SUV to be armored, since a single blow with the SMG's stock had smashed out the driver's side window, so he poked he muzzle of his SMG over the dash and fired blind. By the time his weapon came up dry, he was nearly to the front gate, and he let up on the gas. Bullets cracked the windshield above his head, and pinged off the grill, sending up steam and smoke from the wounded engine, but Kevin was unharmed. He brought the SUV to a halt and wriggled back between the seats and into the back seat and out the passenger door, keeping the bulk of the vehicle between him and the gunmen. Their muzzle flares lit up the night in tiny patches, triangles of flame telling him they were firing blind as much as he had been. Still, bullets pinged and clattered off the vehicle. The SUV made a big target, and his dark clothes would help hide him for the moment, but going over the fence, he'd outline himself in the glow of the streetlamps. He grinned and dug in his back pocket. "Only got one frag," he muttered. "Who do they think they're dealing with?" Kevin tugged the pin free and lobbed it gently over the SUV, counting slowly to five under his breath. At four he was moving, and he broke the top of the fence at five, just as the grenade boomed, cutting the gunfire short momentarily.

Kevin landed on the sidewalk and hitched the sling of his SMG up tighter, half-limping away as if the explosions and gunfire that had shattered the night were nothing to do with him. His shin was killing him now. He didn't expect the ruse would hold up if anyone got a good look at him, but he'd gotten almost sixty yards down the sidewalk before someone shouted "Freeze!" behind him. "Hands up."

Kevin complied, but as his left hand went up, it dipped into the pouch on his vest where he'd dropped the detonator.

"Turn around, slowly."

Kevin did as he was ordered. Someone was up on the wall, hunched over it, probably kneeling on the back of the SUV Kevin had blazed out of there in. Tough luck.

"The hell's that in your hand?"

Kevin grimaced. "Exactly what you think it is," he said, and squeezed. The seven claymores in the backseat, the one in the garage and the one out back of the house with the first two men he'd killed this night all went up together, rending the night again.

The unfortunate gunman who had attained the wall first was blown off the wall and halfway across the street. Kevin continued down the street, tossed the detonator in a storm drain and turned the corner, doffed the tactical vest and light body armor into the bed of his 'borrowed' El-Camino and disappeared into the night.

Washington, DC

2340

"Where is he now?" Casey said.

"Well, we aren't exactly sure. He ditched the Ring agents who grabbed him and disappeared. I just got an update from the face recognition on the traffic cameras showing him stealing a bus at gunpoint," Beckman said from the speaker-phone on the dash of the Vic. "And I'm on hold with DC Metro Special Tactics Branch."

"You drop my name?" Casey said. "I know a guy."

"Hold on," Beckman said. Her voice came back a moment later. "You're on with Colonel Casey as well."

"Hey, John. I heard you were dead!"

"Lot of that going around lately," Casey grinned. "It's a whole thing. You got a line on this bus for us?"

"I got two teams shadowing the guy. He's got newspapers lining the windows so we can't tell if he's got any hostages in the thing with him."

"I'd call that a negatory," Jarod said. "Doesn't strike me as the guy's style."

"Who's that?"

"My new partner," Casey said. "And I'd concur. Where's he headed?"

"Currently heading on 267 West, toward Dulles, is my best guess."

"Hmm," Casey said. "Doesn't exactly make sense. He's smarter than this."

"Who exactly is this guy?"

"Classified, Dale. Sorry."

"You gonna make it out to Dulles in time to be there for the gunplay?"

Beckman had stayed out of it so far, but the man from the Special Tactics Branch had said the magic words. "There won't be any gunfire. You're to take him alive."

"He tries to drive a stolen bus through security at the airport, they might not have a hell of a lot of choice, General."

"Then you get there and talk him down, Colonel."

"I'm working on it, Ma'am," Casey said, and put the hammer down.

Jan 8

0010

"We're almost there," Casey said, "Where's our subject vehicle?"

"This damn slow-speed chase is going to drive me crazy," Dale from STB said. "We're still a half-mile out."

Casey grunted. "Okay, I see the roadblock you Metro boys are setting up, I'm hanging up."

He stopped the car and started to get out. "Do we know what we're doing here?" Jarod said.

"Not hardly, kid."

He flashed his badge at the first cop who came up to tell him he couldn't park there. "SSA Coburn, FBI. Who's in charge here."

"Captain Davis," the officer pointed.

Casey even shook his head with an air of command. "Not anymore. Somebody get me a bullhorn. Our man'll be here any minute." He stuck out one hand imperiously, waiting for it to be filled by the bullhorn he'd demanded.

Instead a tall lean man in a DC Metro Police uniform and captain's bars stormed up. He actually had a bullhorn, but he didn't seem like he was too eager to part with it. "Just who the hell do you think you—"

Casey held up a finger and dug out his cell phone. "Ma'am, I'm gonna need that trump card you told me about. Okay. I'm putting you on speaker," he held the phone out to Captain Davis. "It's for you."

Davis scowled and took the phone. "This is Captain Davis, DC Metro, to whom am I speaking."

A woman's voice answered. "Please hold for the president," Davis' jaw dropped open to somewhere down around his knees and his grasp on the bullhorn slacked until he nearly dropped it. Casey swooped in and grabbed the bullhorn, turning away. Jarod followed him a beat later.

"Was that supposed to be the president's secretary? It sounded an awful lot like General Beckman," he whispered.

Casey grinned. "Fancy that," and then he grunted sourly, pointing. "Right on time, too."

He raised the bullhorn to his lips. "Come on, Carmichael," he bellowed through the electrical amplification. "Let's talk about this."

The bus' brakes screamed and the vehicle came to a stop at last.

There was a squeal of interference and another voice boomed out from the bus. "So. Talk!" Chuck said.

"This isn't very smart, Chuck!" Casey said. "Your odds of making this work are pretty abysmal. Just give it up and come in."

"I can't do that, right now, John. I really am sorry," The bus' engine revved and it lurched forward.

"Goddammit, Bartowski," Casey grumbled under his breath, before going on into the bullhorn. "We will open fire if you don't stop!"

No further answer came. Casey cursed a blue streak, and the inevitable inertia of the moment took over. Metro Police blasted the bus into a smoking ruin of shattered glass and twisted metal. Casey stared at his hands until the cacophony died out. A team from the DC SWAT-equivalent went out and boarded the ruined bus.

They came back out with weapons slung, shaking their heads. "It's empty!" one of them shouted. Casey was sprinting before he finished speaking. Casey shouldered aside an STB officer and stared into the driver's seat.

There was a webcam affixed to the windshield via suction cup, the wires leading to a black box jammed in on top of the pedals, and an articulated arm of some kind hooked onto the steering wheel. More wires connected everything together, where they weren't severed by gunfire. A more cobbled together piece of junk he'd never seen, but it had worked. "Son of a bitch," Casey breathed and headed back to the roadblock. "Give me my phone," he said to Captain Davis.

"General," Casey said, "it was a decoy. He turned the whole damn thing into a giant RC car. He could be anywhere."

"Actually Colonel," Beckman said. "I think we know exactly where he is."

"We do?"

"Andrews Air Force base just sent out an alert. They've had a security breach."

"Oh, hell. How bad?"

"They found an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel stuffed into his locker in the pilot's locker room. His flight gear was missing."

"And what does he fly?"

"He's scheduled to fly to Edwards out in California."

"Ma'am, I asked what he flies, not when, or where."

Beckman sighed. "I know. It's not your fault, John. Bartowski just stole an F-22. He's took off three minutes ago. He's already disabled the radio and the radar transponder. They don't have an AWACS up right now, and he just went outside our active tracking envelope."

"What's the range on one of those, without airborne refueling?"

"They tell me he's got a full load of external fuel pods. Theoretically, if he bleeds the tanks dry and tries to glide in, 2800 miles, give or take."

"Good lord. That's..."

"Anywhere in the contiguous United States. And most of Canada. Though, there is a bright spot."

"What might that be?"

"He left a note," Beckman said. "'Not to worry, I know what I'm doing. I'm only borrowing the plane. I'll email you the coordinates once I'm safely away.'"

"Oh, crap. He's got a plan. That's never going to end well," Casey grumbled. And then his phone's call waiting beep sounded. "General, can you hold for a second? Somebody's on my other line. I don't recognize the number, but..."

"Go ahead," Beckman said.

Casey flicked over and frowned. "Coburn," he said, on the off chance that they weren't someone who know 'John Casey' wasn't dead.

"Sarah didn't kill Myers," Kevin Woodcomb said in his ear. "Danny's the mole."

Casey heaved a sigh. At this point, given the lengths to which Bartowski had gone to make his escape, he was nearly willing to take that first one on faith. The second one was still a bombshell, though he tried not to let it show in his voice. "You couldn't have called five minutes earlier?"

"This is the thanks I get? Fight my way through twenty to one odds to deliver earth-shattering news and I get, why couldn't you meet your timelines? What happened now?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I've already had a surreal couple of days. Hit me."

"Okay, some of this is still conjecture. But if Bartowski was telling the truth... looks like the bad guys kidnapped Sarah and baby Lisa, and Bartowski just stole an F-22 to go meet up somewhere and hand over Top Secret intelligence to get them back. And now he won't talk to us anymore so I can't tell him I believe him."

Silence on the line for a moment. "You're right. I don't believe you."

"Cute. How fast can you get to DC?"

"Depends. Have you talked to Walsh and O'bannon recently? I'm still topping Detroit PD's ten most wanted. And the running gun-battle and series of explosions I just set off in one of their better suburbs probably isn't helping matters if you want to get picky about it."

Casey pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed soundly. "Alright. Lay low until FBI gets to the bottom of that. Take care of yourself. We'll try to muddle through on our end."

He switched back to General Beckman. "Good news or bad?" she asked.

"A little of both. Kevin says Danny's the mole, but he's still dealing with the smear job in Detroit."

Orion's Secret Airfield

Near Barstow California

0645 PST

As soon as Chuck hauled the canopy back, his dad started shouting at him. "An F-22! You stole an F-22?"

"You stole like six predator drones," Chuck shot back, levering himself out of the cockpit and letting his legs dangle out the side. "And you're giving me grief over one fighter plane?"

Stephen Bartowski stood with his mouth open for a long moment. "Okay. Good point. I got fresh clothes for you in the trunk. I assume you want me to drive?"

"Thanks," Chuck said.

A minute later he piled in the passenger side. "You got the laptop like I asked?"

"Did you one better," he said, passing over a somewhat familiar device.

"Is this your wrist computer?"

"No. I built you the new model. It's got 4G."

"What doesn't these days? Thanks again."

"So. You going to fill me in on what's going on now?" Chuck told him. "No. I won't let you. You're my son. Going to that meeting is suicide."

"He's got my wife and daughter," Chuck pointed out. "And you haven't heard my plan yet."

"Oh, so the plan isn't to go to the meet and get a sniper bullet through the head?"

"No. It's much better than that," Chuck explained on for a few minutes. "So, it depends. How much of that can't you lay your hands to in the next, oh... ninety minutes? If you had to."

"The flash-bangs and the infra-red masking smoke grenades are no problem. The C4 might be a little more problematic. I suppose I could strip out the secondary demolition charges on the Orion Cave."

"The what charges in the what cave?"

"The Orion cave, you know like—"

"No, no, I get it. You have a Batcave. That's great. I'm just kind of upset you couldn't tell me this when I was eight and I could lord it over all the other kids."

"To be fair, when you were eight you didn't have Top Secret clearance. And with good reason, apparently."

Chuck scowled at him for a moment, then turned away and started feeding data into his wrist-computer. He refused to talk to his father for the next ten minutes.

Detroit, MI

915 CST

Internet Cafe

"Dude," the man at the counter said. "You know you're bleeding on my counter?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that," He dug his wallet out and handed over a hundred dollar bill. "That take care of it?"

"Sure."

"Good answer. I'm gonna need some time on one of the computers. Keep the change."

The clerk looked at the hundred dubiously. "You okay, man?"

"Had better days," Kevin plopped himself down and inspected the bandage on his forearm. It wasn't bleeding much, just a little had seeped through. He'd need to go put on fresh once he was done, but he didn't think he'd popped a stitch. Devon had practiced sutures on oranges when he was in med-school, and Kevin had learned quite a bit on the subject then. And subsequently during his Delta Force training. The skill-flash on the subject was largely redundant.

Logging into his email was a pain. He always forgot his passwords, but he decided if he was going incommunicado he at least he should check and make sure— the most recent email raised an eyebrow. The sender's email address was just a jumble of numbers and letters at hotmail; that was enough to send up alarm bells all by itself. The header read simply: 911. Against his better judgment—opening dubious emails was something they warned against during his CIA training—he clicked the icon and read. Kevin glanced at his watch and shook his head. It would be tight, but he could probably make that. "I really hope you're not crazy," he said. "I hope I'm not crazy for going along with it, too."

He went back to the counter. "I need the phone."

"Make up your mind, dude," the cashier said. "That'll be two bucks."

Kevin grit his teeth and glared at him. "How 'bout I break your face instead."

"Here's the phone."

He took the receiver more testily than the man deserved. "It's been a rough couple of days."

The man nodded sagely, though he obviously had no idea just how bad. "Oh, I get it."

Kevin put the receiver to his ear and reached over, punching in the phone number. It rang, and then a voice answered.

"O'Bannon," the voice said.

"It's me," he said, looking right at the Internet Cafe cashier. Who couldn't help but hear every word. "I need you to smuggle me to California. "Yeah, you heard me right. No, I'm not high on goofballs. Uh-huh. Thanks. The contact's name? Uh-huh. I"ll be there." Kevin passed the phone back again. "Be honest with me, deal?"

The man swallowed. "Yeah?"

A news broadcast was playing on the TV set over Kevin's shoulder, relaying more news about the wanted fugitive who'd blown up a house for orphans now. Kevin thought that was laying it on a little thick, himself. He pointed at the TV without looking. "You call the cops yet?"

He shook his head. "N-no...?"

Kevin grinned. "Somehow I find you less than convincing. So I'm going to steal your car. Okay?" He stuck out his hand palm up, waiting.

"...Okay," he said, and handed over the keys.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: So another big chapter coming up, with all kind of hijinks. And Tomfoolery. And explosions. I don't think there's more than one or two chapter left in this story without explosions. Explosions are important.

Keep the reviews coming. Maybe I'll finish Chapter 26 tomorrow if I get enough feedback on this one...