And....we're back! I know you are all unbearably excited. It is so wonderful to be here. This fic is moving along so smoothly right now, I can't help but wonder when it's going to freeze up on me. NO! I will *not* think like that. It is self destructive. And I don't want to think like that anyway. Horribly depressing.

I wanted to say as well that I wrote this chapter before the events of September 11th, and I do not mean to mock the tragedy. My thoughts are with the victims and have been since that day.

So, her we have Chapter 4 of 'Under Attack'. Enjoy!

Under Attack
by Lyra Matsuoka

Chapter 4 : Plan of Action
Rated PG-13

This is not a good thing. It is time to review the facts:

1) They were chasing me because they thought that I was Clarice
Starling.

2) Because no one got a clear look at me, they will assume that
I was indeed Clarice Starling, and that I got away.

3) They have my brother, which gives them an advantage. And unless
they are complete idiots (a possibility which has not been ruled out)
they will have realized this.

4) They are not aware that I am on this plane. So the element of
surprise is mine. Goodie.

All right. Feds: 1 Fugitives: 1. I am very confidant in my
ability to tip the scales in my favor. But first I need a plan. And
a plan involves thinking, a process that I am not much able to do just
now. Therefore, I must sleep. Until we touch down, there is nothing I
can do. So I sleep, realizing that I will need my wits about me to
rescue my brother.

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I am awakened not fifteen minutes later by a flight attendant
offering beverages and little packets of assorted pretzels and bagel
chips. They pass me by, on the assumtion that I am sleeping. I need a
plan of action, and my brain is functioning better with even a minimal
amount of sleep. So I lay across the horribly uncomfortable coach chair
staring at a blank wall in front of me. This flight is going to take a while, though I do not know exactly how long. Then I hear the flight attendants talking.

"The criminal needs to go the bathroom," one says.

He is *not* a criminal. Stop referring to him as one.

"You really shouldn't call him that. We don't know if he's done anything wrong."

I like that one. If it gets to the point where I have to take a
hostage, I will make certain it is not her.

"He's handcuffed to the seat. What would you call him?"

They handcuffed my brother to the plane seat? This means war!

"Are they taking the handcuffs off?"

"Yeah. They don't want to alarm the other passengers."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"I doubt it. He doesn't seem like the type to attempt to
hijack the plane."

Hijack the plane? Now there is an idea...

"So he has to walk through coach. Should we warn the passengers?"

Nope. No ammunition and far too many people to be easily fooled.

"No way! I don't want to deal with a mass panic attack. He'll be
escorted by an agent."

They fade away, and I realize that my oportunity is at hand. First, I need to alert Jack to my presence. And that is going to be remarkably easy. My brother and I both have a passion for Vide Cor Meum, and were prone to singing it as children. The older we got, the more it improved. So simply hearing someone humming it should make the hair on his neck stand on end. It will alert him to the possibility of my presence, and that will be enough for now.

So I lay down once more and cover my head with a blanket. Not a word is said in coach, as most sensible people are attempting to grab a few hours of sleep before landing in St. Louis. I am nearly certain that they are taking my brother to St. Louis, though for what reason I cannot tell. It is therefore imperative that I make my move in St. Louis, and that I do it quickly. I need to get my brother to safety, and have a care for myself as well. Easier said than done.

Here they come. I hear the flight attendants giggling in the background, and I know that it must be the young, good looking FBI agent. I am focused on the shoes. A pair of dress blacks and loafers.
I catch the scent of lavender with a touch of fleece. Ambergris base. No doubt about it, that is my brother, smart ass that he is. He is playing with fire. But it is better than a visual glimpse of him. I hum Vide Cor Meum softly. The loafers pause for a moment, and I can almost see Jack tilting his head slightly to one side, looking so much like our father that it would make me laugh. The loafers pick up speed again, but as they pass by my seat, I feel the lightest brush of fingers on my shoulder. So, he knows it is me. Fabulous. Then he will be ready for anything I throw at him.

"Don't touch the passengers," I hear the Fed whisper at my brother. No one gets to boss my brother around but my parents and me. Back off, federal servant. You are *so* far out of your league here. Not that he knows that. The loafers and black dress shoes pass by me, and I settle back to formulate my plan.

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By the time the flight attendants have announced landing, I have a rough idea of what I am going to do. Of course, it all dependant on the bathrooms having air ducts that I can fit through and acquiring a few blocks of C-4. Since that doesn't look like an option, I have decided that I am going to grab my brother and run like hell. All rightie then. BREAK!

The plane taxies into the gate, and comes to a complete stop, with all the passengers remaining in their seats like good little monkeys until it does. All passengers begin unloading their belongings. I rise as well, streching my muscles in preperation for the busy morning ahead. It is still dark outside, which will work to my advantage. I hear the flight attendants chattering again, and I listen carefully.

"I got the younger one's number!" one brags.

"The older one can't be more than thirty five. Two agents for one guy. Must be a fairly high priority."

Two?! That's it? Good Lord, this will easier than I thought.

"They're getting off last," one reports.

Oh no they aren't. I *can* do this. Here we go...

"They want us to get off too, in case the guy tries anything."

Someone's gonna try something, that I can damn well gurantee.

I walk forward, ducking into the kitchen where all beverages are kept. The other passengers have emptied the cabin, and I creep down through the plane, and approach the first class cabin. They are treating my brother like a first class criminal. The flight attendants and captain have left temporarily, and it is time for the Feds and my brother to leave as well. The flight attendants were acurate in their reporting. Two agents, one around thirty five, and one twenty five. He must be a trainee. No way would they send two agents to guard my brother. He hasn't done anything, and they have no proof that he's dangerous.

This might be fun, actually.

I walk forward.

"Civilian on deck," the younger one says, standing up.

"I'm really sorry! I had to use the bathroom. Is that they guy the flight chicks were talking about? Is he dangerous?" I can play the part of ditz to the hilt when I want to. And these guys are falling for it hook, line and sinker. But I am unprepared for the younger agent. He is just as gorgeous as the flight attendants were claiming. He has medium brown hair with natural highlights, and green eyes that appear to have gold flecks in them. Well built, muscular, and tall. I'd place him at around 6'2. Damn, the boy is good looking. But, I have no time for attraction. I do believe, however, that he feels the same way about me. That is always a nice feeling.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step off the plane," the younger agent says. Damn, there goes the macho attitude. He just *had* to ruin the picture. He's packing all big and bad, and it is starting to annoy me. No matter. I notice that they uncuffed one of my brother's hands before I got there. He is now picking the other with a spare we both carry in the heels of our shoes. Hey, it pays to be prepared. And neither of the agents have noticed that my brother is nearly free. They also have not noticed our striking resemblance to one another. But the younger one is now studying my face with great intensity, as though he were committing it to memory. He very well may be. Damn.

No time to worry about that now. I am the distraction and I am going to do my job well. Aaaaaaaaaaaand she's off.

Simplicity in all things.

Right. Thanks Daddy.

"But is he? Is he dangerous? What did he do? I'll bet he's a Pisces. What's your sign?" I shoot off rapid questions at the agents. The fact that they have not recognized it as a diversionary tactic only proves how sleepy or stupid they are. I am personally opting for stupid. My brother is loose, standing up, his hand is reaching for the older one's gun, and these two Feds have yet to notice that anything out of the ordinary is happening. Stupid, stupid, stupid. No wonder my father didn't want to toy with any agent except my mother. She was smart. These apes are not. Oh, well. At least the younger one has his looks going for him.

Come on, Jack, do the family proud. The gun is in my brother's hand. YES!!! This is going to be so easy.

"Now, this situation reduces my faith in the American FBI rather drastically," my brother drawls, cocking the gun at the older of the two. "Officer Clairmont, would mind putting your gun down?"

The gun is pressed to the back of the older agent's head. The only agent, I remind myself. Clairmont is just a trainee. That's why my brother addressed him as 'officer'. Oh, hurrah. A little trainee to jerk around. A good looking trainee. Now that will be *quite* enough of that, I tell myself.

I try to look petrified. I must have pulled it off, because Clairmont gives me a small smile as he lifts his hands into the air. He turns slowly.

"There's a gun in the waistband of my pants. Get it, cock the hammer and point it at him," Clairmont whispers. What?! Oh, you crazy
bastard. First, you should never carry a gun in the waistband of your pants. It might discharge and shoot you. Second, you are asking a civilian, a total innocent, to retrieve that weapon and point it at a currently loose criminal.

I believe I will write to Congress about this idiotic display. Oh, well. I will educate Officer Clairmont as to the stupidity of his assumption. Moron. He has *only* his looks going for him.

But I do as he tells me. I get the gun, cock it, and point it at my brother. I will not pass up this opportunity to get hold of a weapon.

"You are an idiot. I believe I shall disown you," I yell in Italian. For all the Feds know, I could be yelling, FBI! FREEZE! With any luck at all, that is what they will believe.

Jack looks at me with strange eyes, and both of us acknowledge that there is no need to put both of us in danger. He is the one who will be guilty of escape, so he is the one who will kill the agents, if killing becomes neccesary.

"Don't move a muscle, Martins. Notice that I am using your name. After your years in Behavioral Science, you should know that this indicates that I think of you as a person. I am not attempting to dehumanize you, nor do I have any desire to kill you. But if you move, so help me, I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your head. Comprende?"

Martins does not give any indication that he has heard. Jack smiles slightly and grabs me. In a move we have practiced numerous times over the years, he grabs my gun and drops me into a chair. In a smooth motion, Jack smashes the but of my gun against Clairmont's temple, knocking him unconcious. Clairmont's head connects with an armrest as he goes down, and blood flows from his nose, but I believe he will live. And Martins does a very stupid thing. He swung around, attempting to disarm my brother. My brother pulled the trigger.

My brother and I believe in fair play. A warning is all anyone gets. A warning, and a bullet in the chest. We don't have our father's finesse. Nor do we have the time to be sophisticated about this.

So, the final count is one dead FBI agent, and unconcious trainee, and two triumphant Lecters.

One of these days the Feds will learn not to mess around with our family. We seem to get violent when they do. My brother and I look at each other.

"You heading home?" Jack queries.

"We are heading home. I hope there is an extra seat on the flight to Lima," I quip. My brother nods and we turn together.

"Wait," I say. I turn back to the bodies, divest them of their permits to carry weapons and FBI badges. These we will get rid of as soon as possible, but it always pays to be prepared. But there is something wrong.

"These aren't real," I murmur, running my fingers lightly over the shields. I have seen pictures of the official FBI identification, and these are not them. Everything is perfect, but the metal is off. I cannot explain how I know this but these are not FBI agents. My brother and I exchange a long look.

"They grabbed me off the street in Boston, proving once and for all that no one gives a damn about other people anymore. The badges look real, though, and so do their other forms of identification. There is some serious money behind this operation." By the time Jack has finished his monolauge, he has divested Martins of his handkerchief and is wiping down the guns.

If these are not FBI agents, then there is a very real possibility that the men who chased me were not Feds either. But if that is true...

Who would go to this amount of trouble to get to our family?

"Come, friend, let us away," I say, smiling slightly. My brother rips the handkerchief in half and wraps one half around each gun. We grip them carefully, conceling them as we head for the door.

As my brother and I leave the plane, I wonder how much attention we have inadvertantly called onto our family. Even if the men we have maimed, injured, clubbed or killed are not Federal agents, they are still human. Oh well. Chalk it up to another fugitive and a Clarice Starling look-alike wandering around. There have been dozens of sightings in recent years, and I doubt one more will be enough to warrant opening the case once more. But I worry nonetheless.

The shots appear to have gone unnoticed. Whoever is after my family arranged to have my brother transported on a red eye flight hoping to avoid potential panic from other passengers and detection by the real Feds. But they did not anticipate an escape. And because they did not consider an escape, they also did not consider the idea that asking all passengers and personnel to clear the plane before releasing my brother would result in a complete lack of witnesses. Except me. And if that young trainee survives the blow my brother gave him, he will come looking for me. If only to prove that what he says happened on the flight to St. Louis did indeed happen. It is imparative that we not be found anywhere near this airport.

My brother and I proceed off the plane and into the terminal. It is completly deserted. No one is waiting, no one is passing by. I am convinced of the existance of angels now. Someone is watching over my brother and I. If I didn't know better, I would consider this whole thing a set up.

My brother and I walk into the closest bathrooms and proceed to wipe the guns down again. no use taking chances. My brothers prints are on them both, and mine are on one. Therefore, I am vigilant in wiping them both down. That done, I stuff my gun into the air vent in the women's restroom. The air ducts in airports are fairly easy to unscrew, remove, and snap back into place when you know how. I know how, and I have a metal Leatherman in a platic case conceled. It is a better plan than some. When my brother and I meet again, neither of us inquires as to the whereabouts of the other's gun. I am sure he did something clever with his.

We proceed quickly to the flight desk, and I claim my ticket. There are other seats available, and we purchase a ticket for my brother. By the time we are seated, we can see security running around outside the other plane. As the plane moves to the runway, several black cars pull onto the tarmack near the St. Louis plane. Whoever is behind all this moves fast, I'll give them that.

A 747 to Peru rushes down the runway and jumps into the night, sailing over FBI agents and St. Louis police, and my brother relaxes. I, however, do not. I inherited intuition from both my parents, and I know this is not over. But for the time being, we are safe, my brother and I. So I droop against my seat, and allow sleep to take my tired body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three hours and a brief plane ride later, Andre Clairmont was seated in a limosine, zooming through the night. He held a bag full of ice against his temple as he cursed the loss of the largest amount of money he was likely to see in his lifetime. The shrill of the car phone interrupted his reverie. Clairmont answered.

"Hello? This is he. No. Yes, he is. I regret it too, sir. No, he escaped. Yes sir. No, we don't know where he has gone."

There was a long pause.

"I understand, sir. Thank you, Mr. Verger."

Clairmont dropped the phone after hitting the END button. Marcus Verger, his employer, was not pleased. And that was never good. The limosine sliced through the night quietly, as Clairmont stared off into the distance. There were thousands of stars in the sky. A few blinked as they moved; planes. Clairmont wondered if the prisoner was on one of those planes, or if he had taken to the streets of St. Louis. It didn't matter. He was gone. And it would be Clairmont's job to find him again.

The limosine purred down the highway toward Muskrat Farm, the ancestral Verger home. Clairmont shuddered. He had seen pictures of Mason Veger's murder, and it was no wonder his son wanted revenge.

An eye for an eye. A father for a father.

Hannibal Lecter would die. And his children would watch.

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There you have it! Chapter 4, soon to be followed by Chapter 5. Many thanks to those who reviewed. I love you all! Ja!