Bounds of Freedom

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

Chapter Eight – Just Because You're Not Paranoid, Doesn't Mean They're Not Out to Get You

POV: Ron Butterfield

Spoilers: "HSFTTT;" "ITSOTG;" "20 Hours in America"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. If I did, Jed would be President forever.

Air Force One

1:30 a.m., Thursday

Beijing Time

He came to in pain, mainly a throbbing burn that pumped straight through his shoulder and spread down his chest and left arm. Instinct told him to move, to clutch at the wound, to cry out for help. Training kept him frozen to the floor. Slowly, he opened his eyes to slits, letting in just enough light to illuminate the surroundings. Still dark, he realized, and opened them wider. With effort, he sifted through his memory to the most recent events, working to categorize and analyze what had happened to place him in that particular situation.

The rounded walls and wired cages were instantly familiar, their angles shadowed in the dim lighting. Cargo Bay. Air Force One.

At that moment, grim realization struck. He had been attacked – by the Chinese president's own guards, no less. They had inexplicably and suddenly turned to him as they prepared for take off – and shot. How could he have been so careless? How could he have overlooked such a possibility? They had worked so hard to cover every single base, but the betrayal of Hu Jintao's hand-picked protectors had seemed so unlikely –

He had to get to the President.

What had he been thinking? He had to get to the President.

He had sworn his loyalty, had promised his life, had already been put to the test once. And while he had not really failed, he had not been completely successful, either. The bullet through Jed Bartlet's side was a harsh reminder of that.

Focusing more sharply now, he scanned his surroundings. A preliminary assessment revealed no one with him in what he determined to be the aft bay section. That gave him time to get his bearing, to build a plan. But he knew that this time was not really his – it was the President's. Every second he took might be one less the President had. Josiah Bartlet's death, or kidnapping, or even injury was not something Ron Butterfield was prepared to accept. Not again.

It was bad enough to dash into the Oval Office at a panicked summons to find his charge sprawled face-down on the plush carpet – even if it wasn't anything Ron could have prevented. "Eagle's down!" was not something he ever wanted to hear again. Of course, he hadn't heard that phrase in the limo after Rosslyn. He didn't have to. The bright flash of blood on the President's lips, the sickening splat of darker red that soaked his shirt told the whole story – another failure.

No. Not again. Not another failure. He simply would not accept it. Somehow, he would not let that happen.

But, dear God, what if it already had?

Unaccustomed to having emotion control him, the agent fought to get a grip on the disturbing wave of fear and anguish. He had a job to do. He would do it as he had always done it, as he had through three other Presidents already.

But this wasn't just another President. This was Jed Bartlet.

This was Jed Bartlet.

With a grunt, he drew himself up from the floor and looked around. They had left him, which meant they thought he was either dead or incapacitated enough that he was no longer a threat. At least it provided a moment to think.

First, he needed to know what kind of shape he was in, not for personal concern, but to determine how effective he could be in battle. The shoulder wound was the obvious place to start. Grimacing against the pain, he raised his right hand and explored the area, fingers slick with blood. Beneath the torn skin and muscles, grated the two halves of a severed clavicle. If that was the worst of it, he was good to go. Next time, he would wear the vest even on the plane.

Next time.

Trying not to grunt again, he pushed himself to a sitting position.

Oh God. Not a good idea.

When his vision returned, he worked on getting to his feet. Staying put was not an option.

He glanced at his watch. Damn it! Over an hour since the attack. If this was an assassination attempt, he was most certainly already too late. If it was a kidnapping, they had a chance. They were still on the ground, anyway. By this time, surely people knew what was happening. He reached for his Sig Sauer P229 and radio. Gone, of course.

Okay. The President would have been in his cabin, more than likely, maybe with the First Lady. Maybe they were – No, not yet. They usually waited until the flight was well underway for any "barbecuing." Even through the pain, he smirked at the thought. Charlie and Nancy had come up with the code they jotted down in the President's daily schedule for stolen intimate moments between the President and First Lady. The agent wondered if it would be a footnote in the archives when the Josiah Bartlet Presidential Library opened. No, he figured, no barbecuing on this flight, despite the sexually heated banter between the First Couple the night before at the opera. Xian was too close.

Damn.

Blinking his eyes, he tried to pull back his fragmenting thoughts.

Focus. Focus.

By now the terrorists – and they were, he knew – had made their demands, if any, and had created a plausible threat to the most powerful man in the world. The United States' response would be outrage, of course, but the leadership would not fall into the standard mantra that "the U.S. does not negotiate with terrorists." Not when it was the President of the United States.

He knew he was a key. Discounted as out of action, he could bring the essential element of surprise to their formula. First, he had to determine exactly what they hell was going on. The President had to be alive. He would not consider any other possibility. How could he get to him?

A sound behind him drew his attention, twisting his body painfully around, but he saw nothing past the ceiling-high cages. Stumbling against the wall, he slid toward the tail of the plane, eyes darting back and forth in search of the source. With a sly smile, he reached down patted his calf, smiling as he slid the small Tomcat Beretta from its holster. Not standard issue, but he figured he had earned a few liberties. Apparently, these guys hadn't watched enough American movies.

Gun drawn, left arm dangling uselessly, he continued his path of stealth, halting at each creak, each pop, each distant echo.

He heard it again, almost directly in front of him. He gripped the stubby handle tighter as the soft footsteps drew closer. A shadow flickered on the opposite wall near the aft steps leading down from the press seating. With a careful breath, he raised the weapon and leveled it on the anticipated target.

His brain slowed things down, played out the action in a frame-by-frame mode. One beat. Two beats. The shadow deepened, then merged with a solid body. Ron squeezed gently on the trigger, cutting nanoseconds off his firing time.

One more step – one more beat, and he'd have the guy.

One more –

"Leo!"

The Chief of Staff lurched against the bulkhead, an expletive flying involuntarily from his mouth as one hand clutched at his chest. It had truly been a hair's breath between a living Leo and a dead one. Ron gulped before blowing out a hard breath.

"Geez, you scared the shit out of me," Leo gasped, still letting the wall support his trembling legs.

"Not literally, I hope," Ron deadpanned, his dark humor a defensive mechanism to calm a situation that was anything but calm.

"Close," Leo told him, still dragging in the oxygen way too fast. "Uh, Ron, you can – point that – somewhere else – if you want."

Just realizing he still held the revolver dead level at Leo's heart, the agent swallowed again and slowly lowered it. "Sorry."

Now Leo took notice of the saturated dark material at Ron's shoulder. "Geez. You okay?"

Ron nodded. It didn't matter even if he wasn't. He wasn't the story. "Leo, where's the President?"

Josiah Bartlet's Chief of Staff would know. Jed Bartlet's best friend would know.

But Leo shook his head, pale eyes dulling with the pain behind them. "Not sure. In the suite, last time I – " He paused, and finished, " – when I left."

Ron knew the rest of the sentence anyway: "Last time I saw him."

"Where were you?" It wasn't an accusation. McGarry would already blame himself anyway.

"In the head, can you believe it? I heard – "

"Hu Jintao's agents," Ron completed.

"Yeah." Leo seemed a little stunned at that fact. "They shot a reporter – held them hostage in the press seating area."

"Why didn't they come after you?"

He almost smirked. "The occupied light on the door doesn't work. They didn't bother to do a visual."

"How'd you get out?"

"Waited until I heard the voices move forward. I took a chance. The aft steps were uncovered. I guess they thought you were dead." He took a breath and pushed away from the wall, wiping a trembling hand across his forehead. "We've got to get to the President, Ron."

No argument there.

But he had only taken a couple of steps before they heard the startling new rounds of gunfire. There was no mistaking the direction. It came from the forward section of the plane – from the general direction of the Presidential Suite.

With a groan, Jed Bartlet's best friend lurched forward, face twisted, and hissed, "We've got to get to him."

"Now," Ron agreed.

There was only one question: With the plane controlled by terrorists, how the hell would they do that?