Hope the time shifts aren't too confusing.

Bounds of Freedom

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

Chapter Four – Cowboy Boots and Versace

POV: C.J. Cregg

Spoilers: "25;"Jefferson Lives"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.

The White House

Wednesday

1:30 p.m. EDT

"C.J.! C.J.!"

It wasn't as if C.J. Cregg had never been in the jostle before. In fact, it was rare that she was out of the jostle. But today was different. Today she fought every emotion in her body, fought against the despair of giving in to what might have happened, fought against the pumping anxiety that preceded a dire revelation, fought against the deep pain that promised a lifetime of nightmarish reruns.

"Okay, here's what we know." What did they know? Not much. Not enough. Not anywhere damned near enough.

The group quieted, their faces mixing the natural anticipation of a huge story and the genuine concern over people they knew – over a man they knew and respected – and truly liked. C.J. reminded herself that these less familiar faces belonged to the second string players, the starters having pulled the plumb assignment to China. Lucky them.

Deep breath. Be professional. God, how she hated being professional.

"Approximately one hour and twenty-five minutes ago there was apparently a disturbance on board Air Force One, which is currently parked on the runway at Beijing Airport. The President and First Lady, along with President Hu Jintao, several members of the Chinese government, Chief of Staff Leo McGarry, and Chief of Communications Toby Zeigler, had boarded the plane en route to Xian, the next scheduled stop on the President's tour. At 12:15 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time, the Chinese government informed us that a possible hostage situation may exist on the plane."

She literally felt the shock jar the room. They knew something was wrong. They knew it must be big. But they had not anticipated the worst. A possible hostage situation. A possible hostage situation – with the President of the United States of America as hostage.

Unthinkable.

"Where's the secret service?" The voice broke protocol by not waiting for her acknowledgement, but no one noticed. They all stared at her for the answer. Where the hell was the secret service?

"There are agents on board. At this time we do not know the status of any of the passengers."

"Including the President?" Steve asked.

"When I said 'any,' I meant 'any'." Don't make me repeat that.

"C.J.!" The hands shot up now, recovered enough to remember procedure. Steve's backup Reuters reporter got the next question at the press secretary's nod.

"Has there been any communication with anyone on the plane or with anyone near the site?"

C.J. Cregg had long ago learned that she didn't lie to the press, but she had become a master at manipulating the answer to her benefit. "We do have agents on the ground. They are working with Chinese security to ascertain the best method of approaching the situation." At least she hoped they were.

"C.J.!"

"Richard."

"Has anyone figured out a motive?"

Well, gee. Why would anyone want to hold the President of the United States hostage? What possible leverage could they have? But she checked her sarcasm and answered as calmly as possible. "I will remind you that this is only a possible hostage situation. So far no demands have been made."

"Has Vice-President Russell assumed the decision-making responsibilities?"

Well, he had decided that he didn't know what the hell to decide. Better keep that to herself. "The Vice-President is in the West Wing conferring with the National Security Advisor, the Joint Chiefs, and various cabinet members."

And hopefully someone would make sure he didn't bomb Taiwan by mistake. She was pretty certain the President would be more than a little pissed if he thought that his fate rested solely in the hands of Bingo Bob.

With that, she had exhausted her very limited knowledge about the situation. No need to stand there and let them speculate for the world. "Okay, that's all I have right now," she told them, closing the notebook. "Expect another briefing in about forty-five minutes."

She dashed from the podium, partly to avoid any extra questions, partly to get back as quickly as possible for any news. Carol met her at the door.

"What?" she asked immediately.

The tall assistant thrust a sheet of paper into her hand. "CNN has footage."

Her heart pounded at the news. Footage – of what?

"What does it show?"

At that moment, the haggard face of Josh Lyman appeared before her, his hair wild, his suit a crumpled mess. "It's audio. One of their reporters got a cell phone call out before he was caught. It's on the air right now."

Damn it! Could she just ONCE know something before it splattered all over the TV? They dashed to the bank of televisions in the bullpen and stared at the live feed, a distant camera zooming as hard as possible to focus through the dark toward the familiar 747 resting on the pavement. The only indication that there was a problem was the complete lack of movement of humanity around it. No secret service. No honor guard. No welcoming committee. Nothing. Illuminated by the airport lights only, the plane looked abandoned.

Someone shushed, even though no one had actually said anything. They heard the garbled message through heavy static, over and over. " – taken the plane – don't know status of the President – have guns – '

She knew the voice. Jacob Riley. One of her own press corps, third row, seat four.

" – coming over now – he's going to make me give up the phone – "

And then there was a crack, a shot, and that was it.

The tape rolled again, a horrible replay of a human being's final moments. " – don't know status of the President – have guns – "

Before she knew it was even coming, C.J.'s body bolted toward the bathroom just in time for her to dive at the toilet and throw up. This could not be happening. This absolutely could not be happening.

Pale and shaking, she stumbled back to the group, terrified to watch, but terrified not to watch. She made it back in time to hear the anchor, visibly shaken herself, recapping what little they had.

"We are trying to re-establish contact with our reporter, but we aren't sure if he is able to communicate."

No. Probably hard to communicate with a bullet hole in the middle of your forehead, C.J. figured, too shocked to grieve for the correspondent.

1:50 p.m. EDT

C.J. Cregg had been in the Oval Office uncounted times in the past six years, witnessing victories, defeats, celebrations, lamentations, and the worst – those unbelievable hours while the world – and a father and mother – waited for word of a young woman's fate. She had hoped she would never experience anything like Zoey's kidnapping and Jed Bartlet's tortured, courageous act of sacrifice again.

But she had never imagined this, never expected this, never prepared for this.

The mood was decidedly somber, stunned even, despite the presence of capable veterans in the room. General Alexander stood ramrod straight, his eyes tight, his demeanor rigid. Secretary of State Berryhill sat, but his expressive face could not mask his own personal concern over a man who was not only his boss, but a friend. Josh Lyman, filling the un-fillable shoes of Leo McGarry, had the deer-in-the-headlights stare of someone propelled head-first into the last place he wanted to be. The only other woman in the room was Nancy McNally, who propped against the fireplace, arms crossed, staring at the massive desk whose rightful occupant was the subject of their discussion.

"We've heard from no one?" Vice-President Russell asked again, even though he had gotten the same answer twice before.

McNally just shook her head.

"What about the service? What about Ron Butterfield?"

"No one, Mister Vice-President," Alexander supplied patiently, jumping in before the National Security Advisor could answer. They all saw her irritation with the man who was, for the moment, trying to take the place of Josiah Bartlet.

Speaking of un-fillable shoes –

Running a hand through his hair, Josh paced behind a sofa. "Surely we have someone over there who can step in for us, who can negotiate. Where's the Ambassador?"

Secretary Berryhill set his bourbon glass on a table and stood. "He's with the Prime Minister. They're trying to find out more about the terrorists. He's got instructions to call here directly as soon as – "

"Mister Pres – Mister Vice-President?" Debbie Fiderer stood in the doorway, her customarily colorful caftan dull and muted, as if reflecting their mood.

Russell looked up. "Yes?"

"Agent Godwin from the CIA is here to see you."

News. Good or bad?

"Yeah. Send him in."

With dark, close-cropped hair and smooth cheeks, the man looked too young to be delivering such an important message to the highest office in the land, but his demeanor spoke of control and competence.

"Agent Godwin," Russell greeted, not bothering with the formality of a handshake. "What do you have?"

He didn't hesitate. "They've talked with a representative from the Chinese government."

"What do they want?" Dr. McNally asked, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer.

The CIA agent took a deep breath. "Not completely sure yet, but they've said something about medical reforms."

Russell waited a beat. "Does this have something to do with the First Lady?"

Godwin hesitated, then swallowed, and C.J. saw the shimmer in his eyes, the haunted look of someone who saw the very real horror that awaited them. "It has a lot to do with the First Lady, but not the way you think."

"How?" McNally wanted to know.

"If they don't get a promise of these reforms, they'll start killing hostages – starting with the First Lady."

Dear God. Dear God.

"Who the hell do they think they are?" Josh spat, his lanky body dropped hard into a chair, the very chair the President used when they all sat around the conference area.

"Terrorists," Russell answered unnecessarily. C.J. pondered the misfortune that this idiot was their leader – in name anyway.

"Is there any way we can speak to the President?" Berryhill asked Godwin. "We can tell them we need proof that – that – "

"That he's not already dead," Russell finished tactlessly, and C.J. felt the surge of fury from every other person in the room. How dare he voice what they all feared.

Alexander's shoulders shifted. "They said they would start killing hostages. That means they're still alive. At least for now."

"And they said they would kill Abbey first," Josh murmured, his voice breaking at the blunt reminder.

The simple use of the First Lady's name jarred them all with its personal level. This was not just the President and First Lady. This was not just two political leaders. This was Jed and Abbey.

This was unbelievable.

For a long moment no one spoke. No one knew what to say.

"We're going to need to decide how to tell the press," the Vice-President finally mused, walking behind the huge desk and running a hand over the chair. So help her, if he sat in Jed Bartlet's chair –

But he kept going with only a quick glance at the coveted seat. After a stolen look toward Nancy McNally, C.J. was pretty sure she would have had company jerking him out if he had foolishly decided to sit.

"Mister Vice-President," the National Security Advisor said, finally breaking her silence. "We've got to have something to tell them first."

"What?" He stopped suddenly, and his pants leg caught on the top of his boot. Cowboy boots and Versace. What a fashion statement. Even John Hoynes knew better – and he was from Texas.

"What do we have that we could tell them? We haven't heard from anyone except CNN. We don't have any intelligence from inside yet – assuming we ever have any. We're not even clear on what the terms are." As usual, her arguments were solid.

"We have to tell them something," Russell ventured tentatively, the question in his voice giving way too much evidence of his uncertainty.

"No," Secretary Berryhill said from the couch. "No, we don't. We wait and see what their next move is."

Dear God, wait? What if – "What if their next move is to kill Abbey Bartlet?" C.J. had not planned on entering the conversation, had meant only to listen in order to get an idea of how to brief the press next go round. But she couldn't let that go without comment.

"They want medical reforms. If they kill their leverage, they lose their chance for negotiations," Berryhill argued.

"She not leverage!" C.J. snapped, face flushing with anger. "She's the First Lady of the United States. She's Abigail Bartlet!"

But Berryhill ignored her emotion and stated evenly, "To them, she's leverage. It gives us the opportunity to talk with the Chinese, to see how we can meet their demands."

General Alexander cleared his throat to draw their attention. "Have you all forgotten something?"

They stared at him, many possibilities – all unpleasant – running through their minds.

He clenched his teeth. "The United States of American does not negotiate with terrorists."

Even if it is for the life of the President of the United States?

The Secretary flinched, guard dropping with the flat statement. "Surely we can't just let them – surely we have to find some arrangement. General, you're not suggesting that we leave Jed Bartlet in their hands?"

To their surprise, Alexander sagged. "No," he admitted, shoulders slumping perhaps for the first time in his career. "I'm not suggesting that, but I don't see how we can give in to their demands without compromising U.S. policy."

Voice pitched higher with the stress, Josh Lyman braced his hands on the table in front of him and leaned forward. "What the hell do they mean by medical reforms anyway? Where do we start? Don't they know we don't control China? Are they crazy?"

They stared at him, then at each other.

Calm as usual, despite the surreal situation, the Nancy McNally cocked her head and laid it out for them quite plainly. "Well, they're holding the President of the United States and the President of China hostage, and they're going to start killing them unless we cure cancer. I'd say our chances that they are crazy are pretty damned good."