Here's the next chapter. For those who wanted more angst, you got it! Thanks so much for the feedback.

Bounds of Freedom

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

Chapter Eleven – Survival of the Fittest

POV: Chen Wenyuan

Spoilers: None specfically

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Air Force One

2:30 a.m., Thursday

Beijing Time

This was taking too long, Chen realized. Way too long. But, he supposed, there were some complications to be expected when threatening the life of the First Lady of the United States – not to mention the President. Still, it was taking too long, and as more time passed without response from the either the Americans or his own people, he began to consider the uncomfortable possibility that he had orchestrated a colossal error.

He wondered at what point he had made the mistake. Perhaps it was bringing in power-seeking goons to replace Hu Jintao's body guards – but he couldn't have gotten even this far without them. Perhaps it was not waiting until they were airborne to make the move. Again, the goons made that choice for him. Perhaps it was underestimating the stubbornness of the American President, who, for all that he was a soft and decadent Westerner, had also proven himself stubborn and disturbingly unconcerned with his own well being. Chen had yet to find a weakness that he could exploit.

And so he wavered uncertainly, watching the minutes tick by, caught up in an international incident he had created, an incident that had led – at least within the confines of their cabin – to a communist versus capitalist challenge. Fighting for patience, he watched the two main players in the contest.

Josiah Bartlet leaned against the bulkhead of his office, body stiff and propped, his wife on one side, his bodyman on the other, both looking as if anyone who tried to get to him would definitely have to go through them first. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the Chinese doctor couldn't help but wonder how the trauma to his body was affecting his existing disease. Probably hadn't helped it much.

Hu Jintao still stood by the small window, his own body stiff, not from injury and pain but from all the other ailments of the mind that must be accosting him.

Yes. This was taking too damned long.

"Why don't they call?" Chen asked the room, unable to keep up his vigil of outlasting whoever was making the decisions. Another mistake, perhaps. The big decision makers were there with him. "Why don't they do something about this?"

Bartlet lifted his head and Chen almost recoiled from the hardness of those cool blue eyes. "The United States does not negotiate with terrorists," he quoted the decades-old policy.

Chen's eyes widened at the word. Terrorist! "I am a patriot," he insisted. "I have never been a terrorist."

But the steel gaze of the American President leveled him. "You are now."

No! He was a patriot. He was doing this for good, couldn't they see that?

"And you must understand that I cannot give in to terrorists, Mister President," Hu Jintao interjected immediately. "No matter what their cause. You must know this."

Bartlet nodded, a curt, harsh movement, and shifted his gaze. "I know," he agreed, then took a shallow breath. "But, Mister President, when this is over, if there are real needs – "

"The People's Republic of China takes care of its own," his counterpart declared.

Right, thought Chen. Just like they had taken care of his daughter, and his wife.

"We do not need the 'great' Americans telling us how to run things." Anger flowed from the Chinese leader, but a touch of defensiveness, too.

"I'm not – " the American President began, but broke off as he tried to lift his injured arm. "Damn it!"

It had been almost three hours since the takeover, three hours of almost constant pain, Chen knew, for the President. The only relief he might have had was the thirty minutes he had been out, collapsing after his first appeal to his attackers. The shoulder was still dislocated, the ribs were still broken, and the head was still slashed. All in all, Chen considered it amazing he was even conscious again, much less lucid and logical.

"Abbey," Bartlet bit through clenched teeth, holding one hand against the shoulder. "Can't you do something about this?"

Chen listened carefully, a physician's curiosity to her response, welcoming the distraction from his increasingly unbearable wait.

She frowned. "It would be better to wait until we had the proper medical care. You can't tell what ligaments are damaged – "

He curled the fingers of his good hand around her wrist and tugged her closer to him, lowering his voice, but they could all hear anyway. The cabin was not that big.

"I can't think, Abbey. I can't move." He steadied himself for a breath. "It hurts even to breathe. I can't – I need to be able to think, here. I've got to convince – I need you to put it back in place. I need you to do that."

"The pain when you breathe is from your ribs – "

"Abbey."

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes holding his. Chen saw years of communication behind that look. Years he had never had – would never have – with his own wife.

Finally, she sighed heavily and nodded. "Charlie."

The dark-skinned young man dragged his eyes away from his President. "Ma'am?"

"Hold him."

He frowned himself, hesitating until his boss said, "It's okay, Charlie."

With one arm gingerly cradling the President's waist and the other braced against the middle of his back, Charlie nodded. "Okay."

Despite his attempts to be see these people as simple pawns in his plan, Chen found himself wincing in anticipation of the next move, as Dr. Bartlet took her husband's arm in one hand and pushed against his shoulder with the other.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you this is going to hurt like – "

The pop echoed off the cabin walls, followed immediately by an explosive gasp and fierce curse.

Bartlet's face drained white, and he sagged in his bodyman's grip, sinking to his knees.

"I've got you, sir," Charlie assured the man quietly, pulling the shaking body against him. "I've got you."

They watched as the color slowly crept back into the President's cheeks, as he dared to open his eyes and take quick breaths. After a good three minutes, he pushed away, somehow getting to his feet and gingerly testing the re-located limb. Surprise registered clearly on his features and he almost smiled. "Better," he decided. "Thanks."

His wife clucked her tongue and sighed, her own breath coming a little easier. "Don't mention it."

With renewed vigor, or as much vigor as he could muster and still cope with the pain from his ribs and head, the President turned back to the Chinese leader.

"Don't do it because of this," he argued. "We can say we had already been discussing reforms in our private meetings. You can be a pioneer, Mister President."

Chen watched his leader with minor interest. For the first time, Hu faltered, the new light behind his eyes evidence that he might finally be considering Bartlet's case.

"We are here to serve the people," he assured the American President. "Our government provides for everyone."

Chen narrowed his eyes at Hu Jintao's remarks. "They say they are for the people, but it's not true. They are only for the healthy people, the strong. Let the sick die. We already have too many, anyway. Survival of the fittest, as your Darwin said."

Bartlet extended a hand. "There's a better way to make your case known," he suggested.

"Better than holding hostage the Presidents of China AND the United States?"

"I see your point," Bartlet conceded. He shifted with a not-quite suppressed grimace. "But no one is going to listen to you now. You are a terrorist, whether you want to call yourself that or not. If you hadn't resorted to violence – "

"You would never have been aware of these needs. You would probably not even remember my name."

Strangely, the President chuckled. "My not remembering your name is not necessarily an indication – "

"We wouldn't be here," Chen pointed out.

"I can't argue that with you." He cocked his head curiously, making Chen feel as if those eyes could look straight through him. "What is your reason for all this?"

"I told you, our country needs medical reforms – "

"No. That's not why. Nobody does this for some vague need to be altruistic. What happened to you? Or to your family?"

How could this man know? How could he read him so easily?

"That child at the hospital," The First Lady asked, voice almost gentle. "She was about the same age as your daughter when she died, wasn't she?"

Chen started, noticing similar jolts of surprise from Bartlet and Hu Jintao. The First Lady was just as perceptive as her husband. He had not talked with anyone about that in sixteen years. "How – "

"I saw it in your eyes," the First Lady explained. "The loss. The pain, when you looked at the other girl."

For a moment he wanted to give in, to forget everything, all the sacrifice to that point. He was back to that terrible moment, those dark, dark days. The U.S. President took a tentative step forward, sweat pouring down the side of his face, trailing through the dried blood. He pressed a hand against the newly-relocated shoulder, bracing it for the jarring move. In some distant consciousness, Chen pondered how on earth this man could still be standing.

"Doctor," Bartlet said, extending his good arm in front of him. "Don't let this be the way it ends. Don't let her death be the impetus for more killing." The relief over his shoulder had vanished, and they all saw that he could barely stand, his body shaking again, his speech slurring a little. "Chen." It was soft – one-on-one. He pushed his right hand toward the doctor.

He was persuasive, Chen would give him that. He almost sounded sincere.

"I almost lost my daughter," he whispered, and the First Lady failed to choke back a sob at the thick emotion in his voice.

At that point Chen couldn't see how he was still on his feet, what was keeping him from crumpling right there into the floor.

Willpower. Stubbornness. Courage. Nobility.

It would be so easy. Deep down, Chen knew he really didn't want to kill these people. They had earned the right to live. Certainly, the American President had grown in stature in his attacker's eyes. And the fact that he had not seen anything of the rest of their accomplices in almost an hour loomed ominously. For the first time since he had placed it by the door, he allowed himself a glance at the black case, the last effort, the desperation move.

What would happen if he gave up now? He would die – that much was certain, but would his death bring about the reforms that could have saved his daughter? Would Bartlet be able to talk Hu Jintao into relinquishing enough control over the State-run medicine to make those strides. He looked back at the Chinese president but saw no comprehension, no willingness to bend.

Abbey Bartlet had moved closer, was right next to him, her eyes compassionate, her face soft.

No!

He couldn't let her persuade him. He couldn't let go now. Her touch was light, just a brush of his arm, but he reacted instinctively to the threat of emotion that would break him down. Without even thinking, he drew the limb back hard, his hand slapping her in the jaw and pushing her away from him.

"You son of a bitch!"

It only took an instant, but it was a costly instant. He knew immediately this would be his final mistake.

Before he could turn his body back, someone was on him – someone who looked liked the President of the United States, but was at that moment simply an enraged husband and lover who had shattered any debris of political diplomacy. Chen staggered as the surprisingly powerful fist caught him square in the mouth, sprayed the metallic taste of blood against his tongue.

He should have known. Bartlet did have a weakness.

But before he could respond either to retaliate or to calm, the remaining bulk of a guard had taken matters into his own hands and slammed the butt of his rifle once more into the already fragile ribs of his attacker.

The President dropped to the deck, face twisted in agony, good arm clutching at his stomach. Chen noted that small bubbles of pink foam finally dotted his lips, evidence that the ribs had sliced into his lung. He wouldn't last long, now.

"Mister President!" The cry came from the young bodyman, who took only a moment to stare at his boss before he leapt, with a hideous snarl, toward Chen. Only the guard's rifle aimed directly at the First Lady stopped his impulsive action.

The one directly under threat now paid no attention, all of her focus on the man groaning on the floor. He would be down for some time, now. Forever, possibly, depending on how bad the puncture was.

It was over, Chen saw. Nothing to save them. He wondered if the guard had any idea or if he was also prepared to go down with them. Didn't matter. He didn't have any choice. Reforms would not be forthcoming from this mission; that too was clear. He had failed.

He had failed her. He had failed his country. He had failed himself.

That left him only one choice. His eyes moved again to the plain briefcase. Final hour. It was time.

Like a wave, the resolve swept back over him and he acted before the doubts could weaken him again. He bent, saw his own hand reaching for the case.

Time staggered, breathing slurred.

The sounds in the cabin blurred to incoherence. Only a few more seconds and it would be over. The explosion would be quick. The dust would be left to his ancestors. He would have no descendents.

One more move.

One more.

"No!"

Time snapped back into place with the hoarse cry. Chen looked up just in time to see the blur of two bodies flying at him.