A fork, a knife, and a frying pan.

.

.

Tom hadn't fought this viciously in years. Even a gun was a step removed in its intimacy from hand-to-hand combat. Primal and potent and savage with whatever items he could find. His assailant was good, trained well to the point where brute strength couldn't temper his enthusiasm alone. Strewn throughout the kitchen, his team struggled as well. Burk, with his nose throbbing and broken from Chandler's fist, Ravit's gun clicking on empty, and Sasha dodging the blows of a man twice her size. Tom was forced back into a shelf, china toppling and crashing to the ground while he fought for the upper hand. Ravit was thrown to the ground, grasping the only tools she could find. Burk, hurling whatever his hands made contact with, a jug, a frying pan, a mallet. Sasha's attacker finally landed a blow, sending her headfirst to the floor where she scrambled to reach a knife.

The President cowered, bewildered while the man 'Tom' assigned to protect him stabbed their men, aiding the three unknown attackers. What the hell was going on? The three stab wounds bought Chandler enough time to grab a handgun from the ground. He fired two shots at his attacker, another at the guy reaching for a different rifle, and one more straight through the head of the one pinning Sasha, just as her fingers found purchase around the knife she'd been stretching for. Blood splattered across her face. Tom moved closer, kicking the rifle away from the body, just in case. With a grunt, Sasha rolled the man off her, panting while she pushed herself to her knees. The cacophony of pots, pans, silverware, and china stopped. So too the yells of Ramsey's men. The only sound remaining, that of collective labored breaths and Ravit's forks when she let them clatter to the ground.

Tom eased his aim, satisfied every threat was neutralized. Exercised trigger discipline by removing his finger from the well and resting it parallel to the barrel instead. He stayed affixed on Sasha as she pulled herself up aided by a counter. She quirked her head, rolling her neck and recovering. "You weren't kidding about a fight."

Burk rounded a corner. His skin limned with sweat. "Exfil point is blown. We can't go out back." Behind him, Ravit followed, grabbing a different weapon from the ground after checking once more for any lingering men.

Jeffrey Michener uncurled himself from his hiding place, hand braced upon metal staring at 'Tom'. "Who are you?"

Tom met his horrified gaze. "Mr. President, we don't have much time. I'm Commander Tom Chandler, we're the United States Navy. Sean Ramsey is not who you think he is, he's a terrorist threatening this country. We gotta get you outta here, right now—"

Michener made to run, but Ravit had already anticipated that. "Ah, ah." She pointed the Glock, fisting the suit jacket of his left arm.

"Sir!" Tom drew his aim again. "With all due respect… let's move."

Sasha, who'd been frisking the bodies for guns, ammo, and weapons—tucking everything she found at her waistband or the holster concealed by jeans, straightened. Lopping the rifle strap over her head, she turned back to Tom. "I'll meet you in the south parking lot. If I'm not there in five minutes, leave."

He clenched his jaw, muscles flexing in his arms with a frown. Splitting up was not part of the plan, but she was already cocking the short barrel MK18 and pacing backward, heading in a different direction. Left him with no choice, and his apparent conflict did not go unnoticed by Burk. The Lieutenant glanced at Ravit. Their Captain's demeanor strained when he forced their mission to the forefront of his mind. "Let's go."

Somehow, she'd made it to her room before hearing gunfire again. Distant, on the other side of complex and outside. The panicked crowds did wonders to mask her mad dash through the lobby, out of the building, across the pool, and into wing 'C'. Corridors empty when she'd sprinted two at a time to the third floor. She slipped in, retrieving the backpack, thrusting her arms through the loops with quick, jerky movements. Was almost at the door again when she heard yells—damnit. In a moment of turnabout, her eyes searched, landing on a desk chair. Sasha picked it up, ripping the curtains open, stepped back, and then ran at the glass with the legs outstretched. The panes shattered, and the chair fell the three stories down, knowing she had seconds to move before Ramsey's men found her. She tore the curtain, throwing it over the jagged mess which remained, offering some protection while she braced her hands and climbed out.

Wolf watched through his scope, tracking Chandler's mad dash around the parking lot, firing at will from his sniping point to provide them cover. His focus was drawn by the windows smashing in his peripheral, glanced over as a woman climbed down, used the curtain as far as she could before dropping to the ground and rolling to break her fall. His finger flexed on the trigger, she had a weapon, and she was readying it while Chandler gunned directly toward her. Wolf frowned, rapidly trying to assess the situation, didn't look like one of Ramsey's but… the decision was made for him when Burk fired into the window from which she'd jumped. Wolf adjusted the scope, providing cover support there, while Chandler stopped long enough for her to climb in.

Sasha threw herself in the passenger's seat, wheels screeching without traction for a moment when Tom floored it again and drove out onto the streets. He glanced right, both hands gripping the steering wheel.

"You went back to get a bag!?"

Sasha shook flyaway hairs from her face, settling the MK18 out the window and peering through the scope to man their two o'clock. Didn't bother to turn, yelling her response instead. "Just drive!"

Tom bit down on the spike of irritation over her recklessness, same bullshit stunts she'd always pulled before, and pursed his lips.

From the backseat, Burk fired up their radio. "Tiger, Cobra—this is Vulture, what's the extraction point?"

"Rally point's at the baseball field a half a mile north-northeast your whiskey. See you in five." Wolf responded, done packing up his gear and hauling the heavy pack onto his back.

They'd made it to extraction without being shot at, though Tom was sure Ramsey's men were tailing. Could see the silver pick-up a few streets back mirroring his moves in the rearview. He spotted Tex, Danny, and Wolf a hundred yards up ahead and swerved in their direction. Slamming the breaks just in time. Ravit pushed the President out.

Tom got out, heading straight toward them. "Where's our ride?"

"Unclear. Ship's at EMCON," Wolf said.

Sasha was still scanning the road, watching their six. Had been watching that same pick-up tail them since leaving the hotel.

Tom noticed a man sprawled across the hood of a vehicle, recognizing his features in seconds. "Where the hell did you find him?"

Something about his tone drew Sasha's attention, and she turned to look. Whoever it was, they'd taken a gutshot, and Tom's complete lack of concern made clear that he wasn't part of the crew. "Who is that?"

Tom caught her questioning gaze and shook his head a little. "I'll explain later, Helo's inbound. Secure L.Z perimeter. Let's move!" He waited until she was a few steps ahead before following her through the chainlink fence. The rest of the team pursued except Danny. He stopped to pour gasoline over the truck containing those goddamn bears before throwing a lighter.

"Green, what the hell are you doing!? Come on! Move it, move it!"

Sasha turned back. The man in a Hawaiian shirt had yelled at the guy 'Green' who was sprinting to catch up. Flinched on reflex and stopped when the van exploded. Jesus Christ, this was chaos. Tom almost ran into her, grabbed her arm so he wouldn't knock her down. "Come on!"

"We got company!" Tex couldn't complete his warning before bullets started flying again.

Tom saw Sasha turn, likely about to run back and provide cover fire. Without thinking or meaning, he pushed her forward instead, both of them now ducking to avoid the Helo's blades. "They've got it." Propelled them both a few more steps, hand still at her waist and lingering there when he pushed her up. "Get in!"

Less than thirty seconds later, Burk and Wolf were in, and their Helo was off the ground. Leaving nothing but a cabin full of winded people surrounding the President. Sasha pulled the strap from her neck and propped the MK next to her, breathing hard and peering around at Tom's crew. The Hawaiian shirt man, bearded with long, unruly hair, seemed to be looking at her, but she couldn't tell because he wore sunglasses. Tom, staring at the guy who'd been shot with an expression that caused her unease, and the one 'Green' looking at nothing but evidently pissed.

"Thought you and Dr. Scott might wanna have a chat with him!" Tex said to Chandler before nodding his head to either side of the Captain. "Who are they?"

Tom glanced to his right. "Sasha, she's Navy… and he's Jeffrey Michener, Commander in Chief."

Tex pulled off his sunglasses. You gotta be shittin' me. "Come again, boss?!"

"He's the President of the United States!"

That seemed to get all of their attention, and Sasha looked on as Green, the guy whom she'd yet to learn a name for, and Hawaiian shirt stared dumbfounded at Michener. She settled back in her seat, the movement drawing Tom's attention again, though he tried to be subtle. Glancing only through his peripheral to make eye contact with her. She held his gaze for a few seconds, not sure why, before looking away to study the sea below through the small rectangular windows.

USS Nathan James—30 NM Offshore, Palm Coast, Florida

Mike stood perplexed on the deck at the stern of the James. Watched as their land team disembarked. Captain Chandler had ordered their bay doors remain conspicuously closed, an effort to isolate the crew from exposure to their renegade Commander-In-Chief. Familiar faces propelled themselves out of the Seahawk in tandem with two new ones—and the scum of life on Earth—Neils Sorenson. Goddamn Son of a bitch. Mike's jaw clenched, and a deep scowl twisted his features. The sniveling mess of a man propelled himself toward Doc Rios with hands on his gut. Mike wished he'd just shut up and die already instead of yelling about it, but alas, could tell that gunshot wasn't lethal.

Next came a man in his mid to late fifties who appeared bewildered. Fraught with tension and apt to run if the opportunity presented itself. His eyes bounced rapid and unfocused in the commotion, looking between his surroundings and the personnel arriving to execute their landing protocols. And finally, a woman he'd never seen before, the last to leave their Helo. Unlike the older man and Sorenson, she didn't appear under duress. Carried herself in such a way that a ship and its workings didn't seem all too unfamiliar, nor the blood covering her face. Mike made a calculated assumption she must be military, or maybe a contractor like Tex. The gun he spied tucked into her pants when she turned, serving to confirm his inclination further. This wasn't a distressed civilian in need of safe harbor. That was a good thing. They could use all the help they could get, and if she'd been on the ground, maybe she had valuable intel.

Their team was covered in blood and grime, all wearing civilian clothes, different from how they'd disembarked over a day ago. Seemed that whatever had gone down during Chandler's latest escapade wasn't pretty, an idea confirmed by the almost delirious glaze of the Captain's eyes. Chandler inclined his head tightly at his XO in greeting, knowing without words the questions to follow.

"The hell happened out there?"

Tom watched as Doc Rios secured Neils to a stretcher and made for the Med-Bay, guard in tow.

"We found the President." Tom's gaze was intense, dark. Almost feral, still cooked up on adrenaline and fumes from the desperate fight and subsequent bullet storm that ensued. Mike's brows rose clean to the top of his head, lips quirking into a silent 'huh'. Looked back to the man who was protesting his 'capture' and resisting Ravit and Burk's attempts to subdue him, issuing demands to be let go.

With no attempt to hide his glaring skepticism, Mike clarified, "Him?" A long-suffering scowl from the Captain was all he received, for now, at least. Knew better than to push Tom's buttons when he was in this kind of mood. "And her?" Mike changed the subject.

Tom's eyes cast off, slow and steady until they landed. She was removing every weapon from her body, surrendering them to their Master at Arms. The MK was already laid down, the Glock tucked into her waistband next, along with some ammo, the second one holstered at her ankle under boot cut jeans. A knife next, and a second. Sweat glistened at the back of her long neck, delicate hairs sticking where they'd fallen loose from the messy curl-ridden bun. Sensing eyes, she turned, glancing over at him with an unreadable expression. The late afternoon sun caught her features, turning blue to pure celestial aqua as she paused mid-movement. Tom held the contact, reveling in the hint of a reserved smile she gave before turning back to answer his XO's question.

"That's Sasha."

Mike almost laughed over the absurdity of that statement, was pretty sure his face showed as much, but when Tom's demeanor didn't change, realized it wasn't a joke. "I'll be damned." Mike turned to get a better look. The weapons were gone, the contents of her backpack now being inspected—all standard protocol. Feeling watched again, Sasha glanced in their direction, catching the XO's gaze this time. Mike nodded once by way of greeting, his lips pursing together, about as welcoming as he'd get. A show of respect given mostly because he didn't want to be on the ass end of Tom for behaving with his usual acerbic cynicism toward her. The kind he chose to reserve for their newfound President. Sasha reciprocated the gesture before turning back to the crew member who'd deemed her effects safe.

Mike tilted his head at Chandler, raising his brow. "Now I know why you never introduced us." The comment was deadpan, and the only reaction Tom gave was a sharp look. "She Navy?"

For a moment, Tom pondered ignoring the question or even lying but thought better of it—wasn't like they could hide it, would take Mike two minutes to pull her file, and he'd already introduced her as such to Tex, Burk, and Ravit. The minute Mike did his homework, the timeline would reveal the rest. "Yes."

Mike considered Tom's expression, reading between the lines with ease, huh—suddenly, the leniency toward Green and Foster made sense. "Take it things weren't exactly above board?"

Tom narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. Tucked his chin in that languid, defensive way and then peered at his XO. Reticent, refusing to elaborate but not denying either. Mike got the message and bobbed his head, already wondering what kind of objectivity issues this would cause. What a giant cluster. Sure, it had been thirteen years, technically, since they broke up. But he'd been there for the profound and pitiful aftermath, nights where Tom crashed on his couch and didn't move all weekend, too low to do it. And there was the matter of a quiet confession made over late-night drinks, something about a night on the beach long after they'd split.

Sasha saved them or rather added to the awkward exchange by wondering over. Features set with determination and confidence which felt all too familiar to Tom. With a subtle glance, she scanned the XO's name badge before addressing him. "What are you gonna do with him?"

As if perfectly timed, Ravit and Burk pushed 'him' past them, his protests loud and indignant, and Mike scoffed in disgust. "Doesn't seem too happy to be with us, does he?"

Tom let the sarcasm from his XO slide, flexing the fingers of his right hand instead. Pretty sure he'd dislocated a knuckle. The fiery numbing tingle shooting daggers up the tendons of his arm indicated as much. "We're gonna change that."

"Won't be easy… if he really is one of them," Mike said.

Sasha interjected. "This country needs a leader almost as much as it needs a cure." Mike snapped attention to her, not sure he was surprised to hear her pushing Chandler's agenda.

Tom lifted his head again, done with pondering his knuckle, and addressed his XO. "Ramsey was gonna use the President to win the hearts and minds of America, and that's exactly what we're gonna do."

XO bobbed his head. Knew better than to keep poking when his Captain was this convinced of a plan. "I'll let you get cleaned up. Ship's yours when you're ready."

Tom leaned back against the hull again, watching Mike's retreat into the belly of the ship. Sasha folded her arms, backpack hanging from her right shoulder, suddenly feeling awkward in the absence of distraction. Here she was. Twenty-four hours ago, she'd been aimlessly wandering in search of the 'chosen' hoping to stumble into something, anything, to explain what the hell she should do, and now this. Standing with Tom. On a US Naval Destroyer.

"What's so important you couldn't leave it there?"

Sasha blinked, ripped from her internal musings. Expression forming genuine confusion. "What?"

"The bag," Tom elaborated.

She looked away, finding a spot on the deck and studying it. "Things I can't get back."

Tom narrowed his eyes, the inflection of her tone communicating the rest. He left it alone, choosing rather to treat it as confirmation that whomever she'd married was dead. She didn't seem ready to share, and he wasn't going to force the subject. He shifted focus to more practical matters, like them both being drenched in blood and smelling like shit. "You need fresh clothes?"

Her hollow expression eased, the prospect of a real shower, and the hope of doing that in private vs. the officer's head too great to pass up. "I do…" Tom stayed still, sensing she wasn't done. "Any chance you'd let me use your shower?" She kept her tone light, but something lurked beneath it.

Tom pushed himself away from the hull. She knew the workings of a ship, the conduct—it would be improper of him to allow it, yet if she'd asked regardless, she obviously had reasons. Surprised that his gut reaction was curiosity rather than reprimand. Maybe even a word beginning with 'C' and ending in 'N' upon which he refused to dwell. "Water ration's two minutes."

Some of the tension eased in her shoulders, the look she gave grateful for granting her grace. "Understood."