Dum dee dum. Chapter 2 is here, in all its glory. Or all its freakish
misery or whatever. Here you are. I'm actually running short on things
to say for once, so R & R and have a really grand old time!

Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal. If I did, then I would be making a great deal of money off of something like this and I wouldn't be living in mortal fear of being sued. Go figure.


Under Attack
By Lyra Matsuoka

Rated PG-13
Chapter 3 : The Swim and The Plane Ride


The water is a shock. Cold at any time of year, it is near to
freezing this late into autumn. I was right to believe it would hurt.
The speed at which I hit the water yanks my arms out to my sides and
twists my hair around my face. But I survive. I do not kick immediately
for the surface, as I cannot be sure if any of the Feds have night vision goggles. So I kick downstream a ways, waiting until my lungs begin burning beforel I surface. When I do, I make certain that I am breathing quietly.

Circling back to the car is utterly out of the question, but that is irrelevant. I have absolutely no idea whom that car belongs to, and the Feds should be aware that I stole it. And the airline has no 'Starling' or 'Lecter' passengers. They did have a 'Helen Troy', but I know that eventually the Feds will link that ID to me. Such a pity. It
was one of my better ID's. I am something of a smart ass.

I swim downstream. Darkness has fallen completely, and I strongly doubt that anyone will be searching for me tonight. Which gives me around six hours to get to a phone, hire a cab, buy a plane ticket and get to Buenos Aires. I am extraordinarily upset by this turn of events. By heading home, I am as good as admitting that my father is now and has always been right: my brother and I are safer at home, close to our parents.

"Hell. The FBI is going *down*," I vow as I churn my arms and swim diagonal to the current.

I swim for nearly a quarter of a mile, watching for a place where the gulley evens out into flat plains, getting colder and colder as I
go. When I finally reach a safe enough spot to climb out, my limbs are stiff and I must sit for a moment and shiver before I can convince my muscles to work. When they do, it takes another few minutes to climb up the slight embankment and onto the land that runs alongside the highway. Turning, I retrieve the gun and throw it into the darkness, hearing a splash as it hits the surface of the water. I visualize it sinking. I walk up toward the highway. My trench coat is soaking, but my wallet, credit cards, and passport are in a waterproof pouch on the inside. I pat the bulge slightly, reassuring myself that it is there.

I see a car coming, and flag it down. It stops a ways down the road, and I run to it. Chattering, I climb in the backseat of an Oldsmobile, and we drive off. The driver is a middle aged man. He offers me the use of a towel, which I use to squeeze moisture out of my hair. He obviously believes that I should offer him something for the ride. When we arrive at a Wal*Mart I jump out and slam the door, leaving a heartbroken man behind me. Life's a bitch.

"Hey there," a young man with a line of carts greets me. "Rough night?"

"You have no idea," I drawl, touching sarcasm to my tone with ease.

"Go on inside. Up to 50% off on all clothing."

I thank him and go inside. Clothing is a marvelous idea. So is food, and this wonderful place has both.

I buy a cheap, black and white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a windbreaker, a soda and a bag of chips, smiling as I think of my father's shudder. He despises processed food, which is partly the reason I eat so much of it. I make the necessary phone calls using an old calling card that has some 200 minutes left on it. When I am finished, I wipe the card and borrow scissors from a checker to cut it up. Within moments I am booked to fly coach to Buenos Aires via St. Louis and Lima, and Helen Troy's American Express card shows that she is flying first class to Florence via Miami. My tickets are under three
different names, waiting in three different cities. It will therfore appear as though one woman stopped in St. Louis, one stopped in Lima and one stopped in Buenos Aires. Not to mention that ID number four is on her way to Italy.

I love messing with the Feds.

I duck into the Wal*Mart bathroom and use the hand dryer on my hair. I change and bundle up my old things. I purchase a brush and a scrunchie from the store and tame my hair into some semblance of order. I thrust my old clothes into a plastic bag and give them to a homeless man while I wait for my cab. My father is always there, whispering instructions into my ear. I must be careful, I must not be caught.

The cab arrives and takes me to the airport, the very airport where this whole fiasco started. I am careful to look unobtrusive and to avoid all security guards. The terminal is nearly deserted at 1:00 am, but there are a few travelers lugging baggage. As I pick up my tickets, I hear a young woman crying. The flight to Florence has been oversold and she does not have enough money to upgrade to first class. I pull her aside and offer her my ticket. She babbles thanks as I walk away, unaware that she is leading the FBI away from me. I wonder if that makes her an accessory to a crime.

"Now boarding all rows for flight 2435, nonstop to Buenos Aires," chimes a cheerful voice. I pick up the pace slightly, jogging through the corridors of the eerily deserted airport. I arrive at the gate just in time to board the red eye. I head back to my seat, hearing children scream and tired, short tempered parents attempting to calm them. I hate coach. Uncomfortable seats and horrible service. But I settle back anyway. The flight is not full, and there is no one sitting next to me. I stand, grab a pillow and a blanket from the overhead compartments and stretch out.

People are settling in all around me, moving to seats where they can lie down or at least stretch out. No one is paying any attention to the safety instruction lecture that the flight attendants are so carefully giving. I honestly couldn't care less about what to do in case of an emergency landing. So I pull a blanket over my head and attempt to ignore all that is being said around me.

"Ma'am, you'll have to sit up and buckle in for take off," a flight attendant urges me. I am not in the mood to be harassed.

"Is the pilot inebriated?"

"No," the woman says, obviously surprised by the question.

"Is he unfit to fly in any way, shape, or form?"

"Of course not!"

"Then I will take my chances."

She wants to argue, I know she does. But she holds back somehow, resisting the urge to attempt putting me in my place. I settle down to sleep, waiting for the roar of the engines.

I am now off of automatic pilot. My father has been silent for several minutes now. He has stopped whispering advice. Now he is simply a shadow in my mind, waiting for me to return home. I begin to calm, hearing Chopin in my head.I remember my father playing for my mother when he thought we were asleep, and listening in the dark, feeling the music sweep over my body.

I am startled out of my thoughts.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we wish to inform you that members of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation will be accompanying us on this flight..."

FBI agents are boarding the plane. Damn it! What have I done to deserve this? Stifling a groan, I secure the blanket over my head, waiting for the inevitable discovery. I wish desperatly for a weapon.

"They will be seated in first class. Thank you, and enjoy the flight."

I concentrate on slowing my heart down. That was close...too close. I will now have to be doubly careful about when I leave the
plane.

Sleep is elusive now. I am completely determined not to be caught. My father might come for me, and I cannot risk that. He loves my brother and I to distraction, and that worries me at times. I am beginning to calm down when I hear two flight attendants talking.

"That young one is awfully cute," one giggles.

"He works for the FBI. Maybe tall, dark and handsome is a required."

More giggles and the sound of ice being dropped into a glass. I
roll my eyes. This is nausiating.

"The one with purple eyes is so charming," one sighs. I tense.

"He's a criminal! How can you think a criminal is cute?"

This is not happening. I refuse to believe it. They can't have found him. Jack is far too intelligent to be caught by the gorilla's in the FBI.

"I said charming, not cute!"

"He is that. The dark hair, and the looks he gives...he obviously despises
the Feds he's with."

"The six fingers are a little creepy though..."

They fade away.

Fuck.

The Feds have my brother.
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So, yeah. What *will* our heroine do? I wonder. So, don't forget to post me a review. I like those. A whole lot.

Peace, Love and All That Jazz,
Lyra