XIV

"Mr. President!" The assembled staff and family jolted awake with a collective start as Ron Butterfield charged towards the Oval Office.

"Ron!" There was no trace of the President's usual reluctance to rise this particular morning. "What have you got for me?"

Perhaps it was contrary to protocol so many extraneous bodies to cram into the Oval Office, but cram they did. Butterfield, with perfect Secret Service composure, looked only to the President.

"Mr. President, we have a possible location." Everybody seemed to breath out at once.

"Quiet!" snapped the President with a school-teacherly air, although no one would have dared to speak for fear of missing Ron's words.

Perhaps the Secret Service leader was conscious that the people around him probably didn't have security clearance for such information, but he was smart enough to read the President's unspoken permission. "Mr. President, we've located a residence out of town that belonged to Trachtenberg's aunt. We have reason to believe Mr. McGarry is being held either in the house or the grounds there."

"And your men-?"

"On their way, Mr. President." He touched the ever-present Secret Service radiolink. "You'll know as soon as they're in position."

"Make it happen," said the President, with a sharp nod.

Leo was slammed out of a tentative doze by the door rebounding. Were Trace's visits getting closer together? He couldn't tell. The light outside was dim, but was it early morning or late evening?

The scarred ex-pilot stepped inside, rifle in hand. Today, though, he didn't seem content to swipe Leo about the head with it. Instead, he raised it as if in preparation to fire.

"Trace!" Leo scrambled urgently up into a sitting position. If the trigger was pulled, there was no way the shot could miss him. For just a brief second, the memory of a gunshot echoed in his mind. His father, pulling the trigger in his own mouth out in the garage. Then, as a trembling teenage boy, Leo had gone down with his mother to see what was to be seen.

Now, four decades later, who would come to find or identify the body of Leo McGarry?

"Trace!" he said again, urgently. Perhaps his long-ago friend's dementia could work to his advantage. He was clearly a long way from his right mind, and if he had come here with murder in his thoughts, Leo might still distract him from his purpose. "Trace, please, listen for a-"

"Quiet!" he shouted, sounding barely controlled. The rifle was still raised, but his hands were shaking.

"Trace. Robert." He fought for some reason, some excuse that he might accept. "You can't, you can't shoot me... They might hear you."

He himself had no idea who he meant when he said 'they', but the phrase seemed to electrify Trace. He whipped his head around urgently. "No. You're lying. You're lying. They're not here!"

Leo seized on what little leverage he'd found. "They're everywhere," he said softly, thinking Trace must be flashing back to the time when he'd been captured. Whatever had been done to him before he was returned to US shores, it couldn't have been pleasant.

Trace seemed uncertain, allowing the rifle to point towards the floor of the trailer. Leo wanted to let out a huge breath of relief, but he didn't dare. "I told them," he said quietly. "I told the doctors, but they didn't believe me. They're following me. They're everywhere."

"I know, I know," said Leo soothingly. He reached back in his memory for the days when Mallory had been just a tiny baby, when the wonder at this little life he'd created had been enough to stave off even the nightmares and the alcohol for a while. He doubted Trace was truly comprehending much more of his words than his little baby daughter could have, but the tone of voice could be everything. "I believe you," he said quietly.

"You believe me?" For an instant, all seemed frozen as Trace contemplated that with wonder in his voice. Then, sudden as a nervous twitch, he jerked the gun back up to point at Leo's chest.

"You don't believe me!" he snarled. "You're a liar! And this is all your fault. This is all your fault!"

Leo closed his eyes in the dark, and tried to remember how to pray. One wrong move could destroy it all.

"Trace," he tried again. "Trace, you have to listen to me..."

Butterfield touched the earpiece at the side of his head for a moment, and everybody in the Oval forgot how to breathe.

"Sir, our agents are moving into place," he reported.

"Well?" demanded Jed urgently. "What do they see?"

Another endless pause as the agent listened to voices they couldn't hear. "There's some kind of trailer in the grounds of the house. Our agents report movement in the area; they think that's where Trachtenberg is holding Mr. McGarry. We have reason to believe that he's armed."

"He's in there with him?" demanded Josh, eyes wide. They all felt the icy grip of terror as they contemplated Leo alone in a tiny trailer with a madman.

"Are your men in position?" snapped the President brusquely, to cover his own sudden fears. Beside him, Abbey reached out and lightly touched his hand. The blaze of love he felt just then should by rights have set the room on fire.

Butterfield hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Well?" demanded Jed impatiently.

"We're awaiting your orders, sir. Do we go in now, or wait for Trachenberg to emerge?"

The entire universe suddenly shrank down to the size of the Oval Office. Jed was aware of the entire weight of his Presidency bearing down on him. Move, or wait?

If the Secret Service stormed the trailer, they could get Leo killed. But if they waited, and this was the moment Trachtenberg had chosen to pull the trigger...

Jed looked across the table at Josh. The Deputy Chief of Staff had his eyes closed, and his lips were moving; Jed couldn't tell if it was a prayer or a plea for his leader to make the right decision. Lines of protocol momentarily disregarded, Donna was tightly clutching his hand in both of her own.

Beside Josh, Sam and CJ and then Toby all met his eyes. Though Sam and CJ wore their emotions more openly, he could read the same thing in all of their faces. Trust. Trust that he would make the right decision. Even Hoynes gave him a respectful nod as Jed's gaze glided over him.

He looked to Margaret, her knuckles white as she clutched the arm of Hoynes's assistant. The young man, Isaac, looked deeply concerned, but amazingly enough Margaret managed to give the President a watery smile and a weak nod. She's strong as steel, under it all... but then, we should have known that.

Then, most painfully, his gaze settled on Jenny and Mallory. They clung to each other so tightly it must hurt, but as he looked to them they both nodded.

Last of all, his eyes fell on Abbey at his side. The love he saw glowing in her eyes was enough to fill him with all the strength he needed.

He turned back to Ron Butterfield. If he sent them in, he could kill his best friend. If he didn't send them in, he could be standing by when his best friend was killed. The decision was his.

He made it.

"Ron. Send them in."

Trace's head suddenly snapped up, like a hunting dog. "They're here!"

For a second Leo thought his captor's insanity had reached a whole new level. Then, suddenly, he was being yanked off his feet, the rifle barrel pressing into his neck. Trace dragged him out of the trailer, and as he fought to see against the unaccustomed sunlight he saw the ring of armed men surrounding them.

"Drop your weapon, Trachtenberg!" shouted an unnaturally loud voice. Leo couldn't tell if it was boosted by a loudhailer or just his echoing in his neglected hearing. "Put the rifle down, and step away from Mr. McGarry. Put the rifle down."

As the shouting continued, Leo felt Trace's grip tighten on him painfully. If it was doing that on his shoulder, what was it doing to the rifle trigger...?

In his weakened, disoriented state, the shouting was merging into one meaningless blur, making his head spin. So what was it doing to Trace?

Leo sucked in one huge breath of air, and bellowed "Shut up!" Mercifully, the Secret Service men fell silent.

For a couple of heartbeats, nothing happened. Leo could hear Trace's breathing, heavy and laboured, right against his ear.

"Trace," he said softly. "Trace, it's time to let go. Let me go. Put the rifle down on the ground, and let go." He kept on talking in that same gentle, soothing voice, and took a moment to thank the universe for the low, gravelly tones he'd always been blessed with.

Please, Trace, please. Listen to me. Just for a moment, just listen to me.

Slowly, very slowly, Trace's grip on him started to loosen.

"Now, all these gentlemen here are going to lower their guns," Leo continued. "And then you're going to lower yours, okay?"

The Secret Service men didn't move, until Leo fixed them with a glare. Do it, he mouthed. None of them looked happy, but slowly they lowered their weapons to point at the ground. He felt Trace's body relax further against him.

"Okay. It's okay, see? It's all gonna be okay. Now let go of me. Can you do that? Let go of me, and step away. It'll be okay, if you just let go of me and step away."

All too slowly, Trace began to pull away from him. He took one step backwards, and another. The rifle was still pointed at his prisoner, but as Leo held his gaze evenly, Trace gradually began to lower it, until it was held limply in one hand. Leo allowed himself to breathe out, and take a single, gentle step backwards. "Okay," he repeated. "It's okay."

Trace's grip on the rifle started to loosen, and as it did so, his other hand sought his chest, ducking inside his shirt. Leo recognised the gesture for what it was; instinctively feeling for the photograph of his girl that he'd carried all through the war, though Leo doubted that the picture was even there any more.

Leo recognised the gesture; the Secret Service didn't. As a half dozen sniper rifles suddenly snapped back up into position, Trace flinched as if he'd been struck and whipped his own weapon back up.

"Wait!" Before Leo could even yell at them to stop, his words were drowned in a hail of gunfire.