A firefight, and several reunions.

13

Brains permitted himself a single, joyous whoop. He'd done it! The electronically triggered bombs on Thunderbirds 1 and 2 had been safely jammed. All he had to do now was...

...stay absolutely still. The cold muzzle of a rifle prodded at the back of his neck, and a harsh, accented voice rumbled,

"Shut off jammer! Slowly! No tricks!" Then, once Hackenbacker had complied, "On your feet! Hands behind head and walk toward airships. You like so much to save, you go with them."

Stunned, Brains tried to come up with another plan, but found himself unable to think; all too aware, as he marched slowly forward through the snow, that he was squarely in someone's cross-hairs. Another pace, then a few more. Thunderbird 2 grew bigger with each step. Soon, he'd be within range of the motion sensors, and all would be lost. Looking at them, larger than life and twice as beautiful, Brains had to blink back tears. He'd meant to save the 'Birds, not be turned into the weapon that finished them.

'No!' He thought, angrier than he'd ever been. Shouting aloud now, he added defiantly,

"I won't do it! You c-can shoot m-me dead, you bastard, before I t-take another step!"

The crack of a rifle split the air, suddenly, went echoing and re-echoing off hills, buildings and cliff sides. And... he was somehow still alive. Another voice, this one cultured and feminine, British down to the core, said softly,

"Hiram, Dear, that's far enough."

Startled, Brains spun around, saw Lady Penelope emerge from behind a snowdrift, along with her bundled-up, rifle-toting driver. Improbably outfitted in a chic, hooded ski suit, Penelope looked no more dangerous or threatening than a weekend holiday-maker. Parker, though, was another matter. He looked like what he was; a barely reformed old criminal with more twists and tricks than a carnival barker. Penelope had seen something in him though, and had her faith repaid a thousand times over, usually with a gun.

Adjusting her hair, Lady Penelope turned to her servant, gave him an approving little nod, and added serenely,

"Excellent shooting, Parker, as always."

"Thank you, M'Lady."

Actually grinning, Brains loped over to join them, wringing Parker's hand as though he meant to tear it off.

"Th-Thanks, to, ah... to b-both of you! Lady Penelope, Parker, you c-couldn't be a more, ah... more welcome s-sight!"

"Quite alright, Brains. One does what one can. Now, about that jamming device of yours...?"

"Oh...ah, yes, indeed! G-got to get th-that turned, ah... turned on again b-before a passing squirrel or s-something sends us into, ah... into orbit!" As he raced back up the side of the ridge, careful to keep low, Hackenbacker called back, "Th-the others are, ah... are still at the, ah... the m-mine! W-we'd better h-hurry over there and h-help!"

"Don't distress yourself, Hiram." Penelope chided gently. "Defusing bombs requires a steady hand. Besides, we've what you might call... 'an ace in the hole'... already planted."

Back in the mine office : Hearing voices, Gordon inched his way slowly forward. The room he found himself in was as big as a gymnasium, with metal catwalks and stairs connecting the ground floor to a series of second- and third- storey offices. Far overhead, steel-louvered skylights let in a bit of illumination, and the occasional fine sifting of snow.

Keeping to the shadows, Gordon got within sight of the speaker.

"Mother of God...," he whispered, having to clutch at a stair-rail to keep himself from rushing forward. "Virgil...!"

His brother was chained to the outside of some kind of cage, beaten so badly he looked like a small animal someone had ground underfoot, then kicked aside. The Hood spoke again, seeming to direct his words at Gordon.

"Ah..., company at last. I was beginning to wonder if the American military and the local militia were going to remain alone in their efforts. A few more moments," he said carelessly, "And I would have had my young guest, here, machine-gunned apart, one limb at a time, 'pour encourager les autres', so to speak. Then again, perhaps I shall, anyway."

Before the Hood could complete his lazy hand signal, Gordon leapt from hiding, having lost all thought of stealth, or planning.

"Let him alone!" He shouted, pistol locked onto the Hood's forehead. "I'll shoot y' down where you stand, I swear it!"

"Will you?" The Hood chuckled softly, utterly unafraid. "Will you, truly? Firstly, little boy, you will do nothing without my leave, not even pull a trigger, or breathe."

And somehow, he was right. Gordon found that his body was suddenly frozen. Despite the screaming need to shoot, to draw breath, he could do nothing but stand there, slowly suffocating.

"Secondly," the Hood continued, "even if you succeeded in killing me, my guards would soon make short work of you, then proceed to drag your team mate from life, inch by screaming inch. They've been well trained. But, you see? I am merciful." And with that he released his deadlock on Gordon's mind, freeing him to breathe again, if not to fire.

"And now that I have your respectful attention, I will tell you what moves are allowed, at this stage of our game. You may drop the gun, and take what is coming to you like a man, or stand and watch as our mutual friend is killed in the most horrible manner I can devise. And so, I await your decision."

For the life of him, Gordon couldn't think what to do. Murphy had said that if things got out of hand, he'd be ready to help, but Gordon had the sinking feeling that even the Navy Seals were mere pieces on the Hood's board, to be moved about at will.

All at once, a burst of gunfire turned the Hood's attention toward the building's entrance. Alan and TinTin! Gordon tried to shout, desperate to warn them off, but couldn't so much as whisper. With a terrible effort, possible only because his captor's concentration was divided, Gordon rotated his right hand and smashed the wrist comm's face against his thigh, holding it there for several long seconds.

Outside, Alan and TinTin jumped, shocked at the sudden urgent squeals from their own wrist comms. No picture came up, nor any sound but the alert. The signal originated from Gordon, but...

"He's in trouble?" TinTin shouted worriedly, over the sound of sporadic gunfire. Most of the guards had already gone down, but a few were still stubbornly returning fire, refusing all offers of quarter.

"No...," Alan replied, shaking his head. "Knowing Gordon he'd wait to call for help from his hospital bed. He's trying to warn us, bet me!"

"So what do we do!"

"What're you kidding? Ignore it and go help him. Very, very carefully."

Nodding, TinTin turned and shouted their plan to Krste, who informed one of the officers. He was holding a wadded up shirt against a girl's leg wound, and shouted something back that sounded less than encouraging. Alan seized TinTin's arm, yelling,

"C'mon, while we still can't understand him! We gotta get in there and help Gordon!"

Inside the building, Gordon managed a single, rubber-legged step, got a shot off about four feet too high, and then froze again, as what felt like the chisel end of a pry bar smashed through his skull. And then again, and once more, with just enough respite in between to make the next onslaught truly agonizing. Then, all at once, it stopped.

Alan had shot the front doors apart, and he and TinTin came racing into the office, followed by an angry mob. The Hood's remaining men fired on the crowd, or tried to. Three of them collapsed in rapid succession, felled by precision sniping; the Seals.

Then the Hood held up a hand, palm outward, and everything just... stopped. No sound or movement, not even a gasp or shuffle. Everyone simply froze. Familiar with the sensation, Gordon didn't waste time wondering what had happened to his body, or listening to the Hood's smug comments. Instead, he decided what to do next. The gun. It lay on the concrete floor, about two feet in front of him, and a little to the left. When... if... he was able to move again, he'd seize his pistol and put that gloating sadist out of business for good. Long athletic training had taught him the value of mental practice, so now, instead of an up-coming swim meet, Gordon pictured his dive, grab, roll and shoot.

"Well, well...," the Hood purred softly, obliviously. "So much to work with, one hardly knows where to begin! This venture has exceeded all expectations. But, all good things must come to an end, and as I am now quite possibly the wealthiest man on Earth," he'd reached into his robes, pulled forth some sort of electronic signaling device, "I will close our little session with a bang."

"No, you won't," someone corrected coldly, from an upper catwalk. Three shots split the air. The Hood jerked three times, then crashed to the floor, pierced through the heart. All hell immediately broke loose. The twenty or so guards still alive began firing on the Macedonians, who fired back. The Seals went back to work as well, filling the chamber with hollow points, and some kind of lung-searing gas. Gordon leapt. Not for the gun, but for his brother, still fastened to the cage and completely vulnerable. With a flying tackle worthy of the rugby field, Gordon crossed the distance between them, flung himself against Virgil, and knocked him, cage and all, to the ground.

The chaos continued forever, it seemed; bullets whining and spanging off metal, concrete chips flying, people yelling, gas grenades popping and hissing. Through it all Gordon did his best to shelter his comatose brother, as the fighting raged all over and around them.

Then a silence of sorts fell. Not the Hood's icy stasis, though. This one contained moans and curses in several languages, and the sounds of nervous survivors patting themselves down, or coughing through rigged-up cloth masks. Someone clasped Gordon's shoulder and gave it a fond little shake.

"You know," a familiar, slightly sardonic voice informed him, "It'd be a real shame for Virgil to survive all this just to get crushed to death by you. How about rolling off?"

"John!" Gordon sat bolt upright, gave his older brother a relieved grin and a welcoming gut-punch. "How'd you get here!"

"Emergency escape pod," John replied, easily dodging the playful blow. "I timed the release to put me down as close to the danger zone as possible, and Penny brought me the rest of the way. Thought you could use a hand."

"That was you, then? Up on the scaffold?"

John nodded solemnly. "That was me. I came in through the roof. Figured he wouldn't expect someone dropping down on him like that. Bad news is, I can't find his body anywhere. I could swear I nailed him...!"

"So, he tucked tail and ran. At least y' got him off us! More n' the rest of us could do, and God knows there were some true professionals trying." Out loud, Gordon would no more betray concern or strong emotion than his brothers would. Inside, though, he was worried. John had hit him; three times, in the heart. How could the Hood have survived? To cover his confusion, he got out his cutting tools and set about freeing Virgil. The cuffs and leg irons came off in seconds and were hurled aside. Then Gordon gently lifted his older brother and set him down on a desk top John had swept clear of debris. Virgil came around at last, saying so quietly that Gordon had to lean close to hear him,

"Hey, Kid... How y' doing?"

Gordon smiled at him. "Better than you, I'm thinking." Then, "Y'know what, Virgil? I'm tired of this place. Let's go home."

"Works... for me. B' what about Scott? Where's Scott?"

Another worry toshrug off. "Oh, outside somewhere, talkin' shop with the Marines. You know how he is."

Virgil knew how Gordon was.

"Go find him, okay? He might... might be hurt."

In the meantime, Alan had come over with TinTin and a first aid kit; said he'd gotten it from the first guy he'd met in Macedonia who actually spoke English. "... He said to tell you that it still needs work, and that you'd know what he was talking about."

Great. He was receiving absentee stealth criticism now. Just what he needed. Shaking his head, Gordon took the kit and began seeing to the worst of Virgil's injuries. His brother was going to need serious medical attention, and soon, but there was a lot Gordon could do in the meantime to stabilize him, and make him more comfortable. Then, immediacies seen to, he turned Virgil over to Alan, just as a well-armed Marine came in through the shattered doors, looked around, then headed over to the little group beside Virgil. Focusing on the only person present in the proper uniform, he asked John,

"International Rescue?"

John nodded, bracing himself for the worst. The young Marine continued,

"There's something outside I think you'll want to see, Sir. Will one of you please come with me?"

John signaled Gordon with a slight jerk of his head, adding under his breath, "Talk to me first, before you say anything to the others."

"Right." And Gordon followed the Marine back outside, past a wrecked assault vehicle and over to a makeshift triage center. Little more than a canvas tent supported by crates and aluminum poles, it was heavy on supplies and equipment, light on medical personnel.

The first thing Gordon saw was the wheeled stretcher. Then, who was on it. Scott; eyes shut, terribly still, but unsheeted.

"Scott!" He raced over to the stretcher, slipped on an icy bit, and nearly tipped his oldest brother into the snow, regaining his balance at the last instant by clutching at the gurney's metal rail. Jolted back to consciousness by the impact, Scott opened his eyes.

"In a hurry?" He asked drowsily, too loaded down with painkillers to yell.

"Oh..., uh... no. Just... wanted t' see how you're doin'. You know, curious, is all."

"M' okay. Got a few new holes in my hide..., but nothing Brains can't patch up. How's Virge?"

"Busted up a bit, actually. Looks like he'll be complainin' his way through a couple of weeks' TV n' bed rest, again."

"He c'n just shut up and take it. S' good for him. Everybody else?"

"Good. All in one piece, Scott. Really. So, go back t' sleep and stop worryin', before you bust a stitch, or something. I'll even promise not to tip you over again."

His brother chuckled. "You're funny... I'm glad someone... in this family has talent. Listen, Gordon... before I black out...again... I need you to do me a favor. There's... a girl. Go get 'er. She comes...with us."

"A girl?" Gordon repeated confusedly, rubbing at a crick in the back of his own neck. "There's about fifty of 'em out here, Scott. Anyone 'll do? Just pop her over the head and stow her in the hold?"

"No...! Idiot." Apparently, Scott wasn't THAT heavily sedated. "Cindy. Cindy... Taylor. Prettiest one out here. Can't... miss 'er."

"Cindy... The reporter! You want t' bring the press along on a launch!"

"Just... do it!"

Gordon shook his head dubiously. "Right. You're in charge, Scott. Just work on those excuses n' pleas f'r mercy; the one's you'll be tryin' to fend Father off with."

And off he went to find the reporter, stopping only long enough to tell John the good news. Then, back to the triage center, where he found a very busy field medic stabilizing people for transport.

As a certified lifeguard and first responder, Gordon was well-versed in first aid and field medicine. Without thinking about it, he began assisting the harried medic. She did a quick double-take, then shrugged and accepted the help.

"Beg pardon, Ma'am," Gordon inquired politely, as they hurriedly splinted a fractured leg, "But there's a reporter out here somewhere, and if...,"

"You mean Taylor? (Tie that off, will you? Thanks.)"

"Yeah. (Careful. Big exit wound in the back, there.) We'd like t' bring her with us, if it's all the same t' you."

"She's an American citizen (More pressure... Good job... just hold that steady while I pour in the quick clot.)... We'll take her to Incerlik, and get her treated at the base hospital there."

"I promise you, Ma'am (Here's a good vein. Have that blood pressure back up in no time...!), we c'n get her to a hospital in the States faster than you folks."

"Hmm... You're probably right. (Okay... one... two... three...and over he goes! Relax, Corporal. You're gonna be okay.) Tell you what; help me finish up here, and Lois Lane is all yours."

"Deal." He would have done, anyway. Part of the job