Author's note: Sorry again that this, and all my updates, took forever. This chapter takes place at the same time as an earlier chapter, so please don't get confused by the overlap. I think the time lines are worked out alright, but if you notice any glaring incongruities let me know in a review. In fact, you better leave a review no matter what.
Crumpets Aren't My Style
By Marz
Bad Dog
The weather man had predicted lows in the sixties that day. Airman Geoffrey predicted the weatherman would get a good kick in the pants if he ever saw him. It was three hours since dawn, and the air still hadn't warmed above freezing. He paced back and forth in front of the checkpoint, trying to keep the feeling in his feet. Every breath he took obscured the rest of the world for a few seconds in white mist. He looked toward the little booth where Airman Clark was standing. Geoffrey wanted to be spiteful about the little bit of extra shelter Clark got, but he knew the other man wasn't any warmer. Geoffrey turned back toward the road and let out a long sigh.
As the fog of his exhalation cleared, a man melted into being not five feet in front of him. The over all impression of the stranger was gray; gray coat, gray slacks, light brown hair shot through with gray, grey eyes, even his skin was tinted with that ambivalent non-color. Geoffrey blinked.
"I'd like to speak to Colonel Carter, please," the man said, proving not be some figment of Geoffrey's imagination. He'd never have a hallucination with a British accent. "Is she available?"
"Put your hands on your head and step back!" Airman Geoffrey ordered.
The man shrugged and obeyed. His face was completely passive. Over the years Geoffrey had had to deal with all sorts of nuts trying to get into the base, but that was usually when he was on duty at the first security check point, two miles away from the mountain. Tourists wanted to take pictures of the mountain wildlife. Hippies wanted to protest the nukes and the government. Wackoes wanted to see the aliens and JFK's frozen head. Geoffrey didn't know what was in the mountain and he didn't really care. What he really wanted to know was how a sickly looking British guy had gotten past six other check points. He pushed the talk button on his radio.
"Security breach, Zeta-o-one-red."
A moment later the radio buzzed back. "We have you on camera. Sending back up."
"It is really very urgent that I speak to Colonel Carter or Dr. Jackson if he's available," the man said to the two airmen guarding the door.
In the adjacent room two people watched the man on the security monitor with varying degrees of interest. The guards at the entrance had searched him thoroughly before brining him onto the base. They'd found a set of car keys, a wallet containing twenty seven dollars and fifty cents, and a handkerchief.
"This is one of the guys who attacked you in Surrey?" O'Neill asked.
"No, he's one of the guys who held us captive in London. He introduced himself as Remus Lupin." Daniel said.
"So he's one of the guys who went through your heads?" O'Neill asked.
Daniel nodded. "He was very apologetic about it."
"Which of course makes everything fine," O'Neill said.
Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm just saying that maybe we should give him a chance."
"A chance to snatch some more of my people and go through their heads too? He might even be the one responsible for all the strange stuff going on around here."
"He's not the one people have been seeing wandering around in their dreams," Daniel pointed out.
O'Neill repressed the urge to sigh. He'd sent out what was probably the strangest memo in Air Force history just over two months ago.
If you should, at any time while unconscious, encounter an unusual or suspicious individual who questions you or seems overly interested in the contents of your dreams, do your best to avoid giving said person any information.
He'd actually signed the damn thing too. The craziest part of all was that it seemed to work. The strange dreams had mostly stopped.
"There has to be something else going on here," O'Neill stated. "Why would he just turn himself in?"
"He seemed to have moral objections to what the rest of his…group was doing. Maybe he's defecting."
"Alright. You and Carter go see what he wants. And take a couple of zats with you."
"Mr. Lupin," Daniel said.
He and Carter walked into the room, and nodded to the guards, who left and closed the door after them. Lupin looked up at them with a sort of polite interest that seemed completely out of place. He didn't look as if he'd just been apprehended by military police and locked in a room several hundred feet under ground.
"Dr. Jackson, Colonel Carter," he said politely, nodding to each of them.
Daniel wrinkled up his nose, realized what he was doing, and stopped. It was a strange habit of his he seemed unable to break, despite nearly nine years of teasing and snide comments from Jack. It probably wasn't impressing the prisoner either.
"So," Daniel started. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to know where Harry Potter is," Lupin responded.
"And why would you think he was here?" Carter asked.
"This is the last place we were able to track him. He was brought in but never came out."
"Why do you think he never came out?"
"Because we've been watching," Lupin answered, staring at her with suddenly disturbing intensity.
"He isn't here," Daniel said.
Lupin's nostrils flared. "I know," he said, before taking another slow deep breath through his nose. "He hasn't been here for at least three months. He's gone somewhere else from here. You know where."
"Where could he go from here?" Carter asked, doing her best to play dumb. "We're hundreds of feet under ground."
Lupin reached into the pocked of his coat, and withdrew a thick square of folded parchment. Daniel and Carter both tensed. The prisoner had been searched, so this really shouldn't have been possible. He tossed it toward them. Carter caught it and unfolded it. The Stargate had been sketched out in charcoal. It was a bit smeared from being folded and pocketed, but each of the thirty nine symbols were readily identifiable.
"What's this?" Daniel asked, peaking over Carter's shoulder.
The man sat watching them quietly, and did not answer.
He didn't speak a word, but his rage was fairly obvious. The motel room shuttered. Plaster fell from the ceiling and in the parking lot several car alarms began their distressed bleating. He took a slow breath through clenched teeth, and picked up the note again. It wouldn't do to accidentally implode the motel and bring the N.A.W.C. running, not with Lupin doing his best to summon them anyway.
Severus,
This isn't working. We don't have time. I am going to speak to the muggles directly. Do not try to follow me. I will return shortly with information about Harry.
-R. J. Lupin
If the muggles, the N.A.W.C., or the Death Eaters didn't kill that damn fool werewolf, Snape swore upon his mother's grave that he would.
He'd given Lupin a cauldron full of wolf's bane potion and left him alone in the motel room for the full moon. He'd returned in the morning, expecting to find the werewolf in human form again and the room smelling of wet dog. Only the later half of his expectations were fulfilled. He had found the note on the table between the two beds.
He snatched out his wand and began to weave a tracking spell in the air. The magic flared to life and he had to choke down another outburst of rage. Lupin was already under Cheyenne Mountain.
He picked up the note again. The idea of tearing it up was at the front of his mind, but that thought was banished as he held the parchment up to the light and saw something was written on the other side. He set the note down on the table and smoothed it out. Faint lines of ink were bleeding up through the paper, resolving into a floor plan. Snape recognized it immediately as plans for the base, which he'd been stealing from the minds of its soldiers for the past few months. Tiny dots appeared on the map, labeled Sgt. Walter and Captian Lee. The corner of the map was labeled level sixteen.
Snape tapped the sixteen with his wand. The lines faded and rearranged themselves. A seventeen appeared in the corner and a whole new batch of labeled dots. It was the same map-magic Potter's little gang had used at Hogwarts all those years ago. It was a magic Snape had never been able to master. This map wasn't secured with any particular enchantments though. It seemed Lupin had designed it to activate when he touched it. It probably also explained why the werewolf had gone to the base in person. The magic that was tracing the base personnel had to be cast within the building.
Resolutely Snape began to search the other floors. He still intended to kill the werewolf, but this would at least make it easier to drag him off to a nice, witness free place first.
"If we recall them, all of London will be exposed," Bill Weasley argued, tapping the table spanning map with his wand.
"They're hardly making a difference as it is," Charlie Weasley said.
The two brothers glared at each other for a long moment before Mad-Eye Moody elbowed his way between them to lean over the map.
"With the Aurors all put to guarding the Ministry or Acting as Fudge's personal body guard there is no one else to deal with the Death Eater raids," Bill persisted. "The Order is all the muggle-born have."
"They could come to Hogwarts like Headmaster Dumbledore suggested," Charlie said, giving his older brother another challenging stare over the top of Moody's bent head.
"That's just what we need," said Oliver Wood, one of the newest recruits, as he nodded towards the window.
Few people in the room bothered to follow his glance. They all knew about the tent town out on the school's Quidditch pitch. In the past three months sixty families had come to call the pitch home. They were either muggles with wizarding children or the muggle spouses of wizards; the prime targets of Voldemort's death squads. Dumbledore had invited all the "mixed" families that were on file at the Ministry to seek sanctuary at the school, but very few had taken him up on it. He'd tried to explain, to those who would not trade the comfort of their homes for the security of being behind the schools wards, that if the Ministry knew where they lived, the Death Eaters most certainly did as well. And out of nearly four thousand, sixty had come.
The Order had doubled in size in the last month and a half, since the Death Eater raids began in earnest, but they were still outnumbered by Death Eaters three to one in the most conservative counts. Most of the old wizarding families had decided to remain neutral, as if Voldemort's intended genocide was something they could avoid by ignoring. Needless to say the situation was frustrating, and tempers were extremely raw. Bill and Charlie might have gotten into another shouting match, if Dumbledore had not returned to his office at that moment.
They had never seen him so worn down. He was wearing a rather nondescript set of gray robes rather then the garish colors they were used to. His glasses were noticeably scratched and his hands shook as he took out his wand and drew up a chair for himself.
"Any news Headmaster?" asked Oliver after the ancient man had seated himself.
"I am afraid not. I am of course hopeful that the Andersons have simply taken it upon themselves to drop out of sight. There was no sign of disturbance in their home and their neighbors did not observe them leaving. It is not the style of the Death Eaters to leave so little destruction in their wake."
The old man paused for a moment and all in the room waited in respectful silence.
"There has been some progress in obtaining aid from the Spanish and Norwegian Ministries, though the French and German governments insist they won't take sides in a civil war, and the N.A.W.C. is being unusually cryptic in their replies to my inquiries."
"What are they saying, sir?" asked Charlie.
"Their Bureau of Miracles sent us a strange letter containing passages from the Book of Revelations, something about a serpent and fire from above."
"That whole continent is out of its tree," said Moody, peering at the map of the U.K. as if it were acting unusually suspicious. "Half their laws are based on debunked prophesy and astrology."
"Speaking of the Americas," said Professor Flitwick, who until that time had been sitting quietly by the Headmaster's desk, "Have we heard anything from Professor Snape or-"
The fire place flared up in a blast of nearly blinding green light; the extra brilliance an indication of Transatlantic Floo.
"Speak of the Devil…" muttered Moody as Snape's head appeared in the heart of the flames.
"Lupin has doomed us all," the potions professor announced with an unspoken I-told-you-so.
Remus drummed his fingers against his arm. He didn't know how much progress he was making. He knew it was risky hinting that he knew something about that strange circle of metal the muggles were all so obsessed with, especially since he was unable to find any clue as to what it was. Severus said the muggles dreamed about walking through it. Lupin had never heard of such a thing aside from the Veiled Arch in the Department of Mysteries, and what went through that didn't come back.
Dr. Jackson and Colonel Carter had taken the sketch and left for a few minutes, and then returned with several more guards and a change of clothes for him. His own things were taken away for further search. They couldn't figure out where the sketch had come from and he could tell they were greatly disturbed. They wouldn't find anything in his clothes of course. The concealment spells he used kept a few necessary objects in a pocket of magically folded space, linked to his person, rather then to his attire.
They'd brought him here and left him after he'd changed. He now sat in a plastic chair in a concrete room filled with large rumbling and whirring machines, dressed in green "hospital scrubs" as the nurse called them, but he could still reach into the space he'd folded and retrieve his wand if he needed too.
So everything's fine, really, he told himself.
He sniffed the air. It smelled of strange chemicals and bleach and all the other strange things muggles used as medicine. Under all those other strange scents Lupin could detect just a hint of something else. If it was further from the full moon he probably wouldn't have been able to detect it, but as it was he could smell Harry in this room, sick and slightly scarred, but alive. He could also smell a hint of disapproving cat, which gave him hope that McGonagall was still with Harry. She'd keep him out of trouble no matter where they had been sent, he hoped. He shifted a little, eyes wandering back to the huge machines. What had they been doing to Harry in here?
"Sorry to keep you waiting," said a tall Indian woman who had the name Brightman stitched on her white coat. "Please, come stand over here."
Remus obeyed, standing in bare feet on yellow line painted on the concrete floor. He glanced toward the two men in fatigues stationed on either side of the door. One of them had a completely blank expression, well practiced in the art of not seeing what he should not be looking at. The other guard was not so skilled and every few minutes his eyes would wander toward Remus as he was told to stand here, here, and here and then to sit here please and don't blink, and finally to lie on this platform and don't move or we'll have to start again.
The platform slid into one of the great whirring machines, and carried him with it. There was a sudden loud bang as if someone were beating the outside of the machine with a hammer. He flinched. This wasn't helping his migraine in the least.
"Try not to move," Brightman's voice buzzed through a little grill in the wall beyond his feet.
For half an hour he lay on the platform in the loud machine. Then the platform carried him back out and he got shakily to his feet. Brightman returned with two additional guards in tow. She waved him back to the plastic chair in which he had started. He sat. She rolled up his sleeve and pulled a wet piece of paper out of a small envelope and began to rub the inside of his arm with it.
"What are you doing?" Remus finally asked.
"It's only disinfectant. I need to take a blood sample," she answered.
He pulled his arm away. "I'd rather you didn't," he said as politely as he could.
"Its standard procedure," she said in voice that was attempting to sooth. "We have to make certain you aren't carrying anything contagious. Everyone on the base is screened."
As she spoke she tried maneuver his arm onto a little cart one of the guards had rolled up next to them. The cart was covered in needles, strange cylinders, and plastic tubes. He pulled his arm away from her again and held it against his chest as if he were afraid she was going to run off with it.
"I really must object," he said sliding out of the chair and backing away.
All four guards were looking at him then. Remus wished he still had shoes on. He never felt very intimidating when he was barefoot. He looked to the door. He probably couldn't reach it simply dodging around the guards. He thought about pulling his wand and just going, but he was in the thick of things and it would be a lot of wasted effort and broken rules if he ran for it. On the other hand if the muggles were to do something foolish with his blood so close the full moon the consequences for all of them could be much worse. A guard darted forward trying to catch hold of him as Brightman stepped back out of harm's way. Remus dodged, backing further into the room.
It was not a very good idea, but it was all he could come up with at that moment. Dodging an attempted tackle he jumped backwards on to the platform of the whirring, clacking machine and scrambled into it. It seemed even smaller, despite the fact that the platform was still outside and he was crouched on its tracks. His new shelter wasn't more then six feet deep but Brightman called off the guards when one of them tried to scramble in after him. Apparently the machine was very expensive. Remus new he couldn't have been crouched in there more then five minutes when a new voice entered the room.
"What's…going on here?" asked a loud and slightly caustic voice.
"General O'Neill!" one of the guards said.
The combination of repulsion spells and over-look-me charms made Snape's head hurt as he stared into his reflection in the window of the overcrowded bus. He had intended to apparate to Cheyenne Mountain, but as he prepared to leave the motel, several of his dark detectors went off, suggesting such a taxing use of magic in the area would attract a lot of unwanted attention. So it was either use muggle transportation or walk. He'd have to walk at least six miles anyway, since the bus route did not take it very close the military base. He was starting to wish he had walked the whole way. The bus rattled to a stop and a fat woman in spandex pants took the seat next to him. He needed a stronger repelling charm. The bus started up again.
He took the map of the base from his pocket and looked it over again. Lupin was in one of the lowest levels of the base, in the room labeled "Infirmary Lab 1". He was surrounded by muggles, and was no doubt in a great deal of trouble. Snape snorted, feeling slightly appeased. The bus rattled to a stop again. A flutter of dark cloth drew his attention to the front of the vehicle. He blinked and it was gone. He started at the new passengers as they walked up the isle. Again he thought he saw the fluttering edge of a cloak. He stared harder, using Legilimency to peel away at the illusion spells that concealed the unknown figure. His head ached terribly but it worked. A few strained seconds later the illusion vanished and he was staring at Rookwood. Rookwood was staring back.
"…and then he crawled into the MRI tunnel," Dr. Brightman finished.
"Have you tried offering him a lollypop yet?" O'Neill asked, resisting the urge to lunge into the machine and drag the man out by his ears.
Brightman just looked at him. She was competent, but she didn't have Dr. Frasier's sense of humor, not really any sense of humor for that matter.
"Well you did the MRI scan already, right? We already he know he doesn't have snakes in his head?" O'Neill asked.
"There is another problem with that sir," Brightman said, waving him over to the monitors in the adjoining room.
"For cryin' out loud! It better not be nannites!"
"It isn't."
All the monitors were covered in neat glowy pictures of Mr. Lupin's brain. O'Neill had actually gotten pretty good at understanding such images, and if given a quiz on snake in brain versus no snake in brain, he was confident he'd get a ten out of ten. This guy was not a Goa'uld. Of course there was a "but".
He ran his finger over the closest monitor. It looked as if there were a second, faint image superimposed over the first, an animal skull as well as a human one. The animal had very big teeth.
"What is that?" he asked.
"I don't know sir. At first I though maybe someone had scanned an animal in the machine, which would have been a major breach of protocol, but I checked the previous entries and the system was clear. I've run all the diagnostics. I even tried cleaning the monitors. I can't explain the image and I can't get rid of it. It's in all the scans. The x-rays came back with similar…distortion."
She opened an envelope and stuck several sheets to the back-lit board. The animal "shadow" was even more apparent in these.
"Is it a…lion?" O'Neill guessed, squinting and turning the picture at different angles.
"Actually sir I have some experience with mammalian osteology. I'd say it was a wolf."
"A wolf?"
"Yes sir. It's larger then any species that currently exist, but the maxillary structure suggests…"
"AH! A yes or no answer is fine, Doctor. What does it mean?"
"I have no idea sir."
"Right." O'Neill said, as he looked back at the guards surrounding their multi-million dollar medical equipment. He sighed. "Are you sure you don't have any lollypops?"
Rookwood had taken a seat one row up on the opposite side of the bus. The seat had a sign bolted above it reading "reserved for the elderly and disabled" of which he was neither. He sat watching Snape and Snape stared right back. Neither one had pulled a wand or spoken. Apparently the Death Eater was just as concerned about drawing the N.A.W.C. as he was.
Snape spared a glance out the windows. They had just passed into an industrial area. He could see several warehouses and very few stray muggles. He supposed this was as good a place as any to take care of things. He pulled the cord that ran along the side of the bus. A sharp "Ding" let the driver know to let him off at the next stop.
The bus rumbled to a halt and Snape stood and slowly stepped across the fat woman in the spandex pants, into the isle. He walked backwards to the rear door of the bus. Rookwood stood and back pedaled to the front door. Never taking their eyes off each other, they synchronously walked down the three short steps to ground. The bus closed its doors and rolled off again in a cloud of foul gray smoke, leaving the two wizards facing off under the glaring noonday sun.
"Nothing to say for yourself, traitor?" Rookwood called, suddenly breaking the silence.
"Avada Kedavra," said Snape.
The bolt of green light flew at Rookwood but he dove out of the way. The spell took too long to cast to be effective in dueling but Snape thought it expressed his intentions very clearly. He'd never dueled with Rookwood, not even at Hogwarts, so he didn't know what to expect from the other man. A blinding hex shot back at him and Snape blocked it, but in the instant it took to counter the spell, Rookwood vanished.
He must have had an invisibility cloak, Snape thought.
"Obfuscate!" he bellowed and thick greenish fog boiled up from the street.
"And now neither of us can see!" Rookwood called laughing. "But I don't need to see you to do this!"
Snape stood tense, senses stretched out, straining to hear the other's foot steps. There was a faint itching sensation in his left forearm. It was all the warning he got.
Black flames erupted from the Dark Mark tattooed there. The entire left side of his body went numb and he fell to the ground, hissing in pain. He saw the fog swirling before him and fired off a blasting hex, but the spell had nothing behind it and Rookwood batted it lazily aside with his wand.
"Expelliarmus!"
Snape's wand slipped from his fingers. The sensation hadn't returned, but Snape still struggled to get to his feet. Rookwood's boot connected with his ribs. A second kick caught him in the forehead and rolled him against the curb.
"Crucio!"
It took several seconds for Snape to remember where he was when the other man let up.
"I was told," Rookwood began in a rather board voice, "That you would be some kind of great challenge to catch. But you're really not so tough are you?"
Snape brought his hands to his sides as if he were going to struggle to his feet again.
"Tough was never really my thing." he hissed.
"I'm going to enjoy this!" Rookwood declared melodramatically as he pointed his wand at Snape.
"I very much doubt that," Snape said, suddenly pressing the palm of his right hand against his own ribs.
There was a faint crackling sound as a tiny glass vial in his pocket shattered under the pressure. Yellow smoke billowed up around the fallen man in a cloud. Rookwood gasped in surprise, so even as he hurriedly conjured up a bubble of clean air around his head, it was too late. He choked. His lungs burned and he coughed falling to his knees. The bubble he'd made collapsed and his next breath drew in more of the yellow smoke. He dropped his wand, clutching at his throat with one hand and searching his pocket for his emergency portkey with the other. The world went dark and he could feel liquid running down his face, from his eyes, nostrils and mouth. He gave one final bubbling cough and pitched forward, face down on the asphalt.
The wind cleared the conjured fog and the poisoned smoke faded away. Snape blinked and watched the corpse that lay a few feet away for several minutes. Blood was oozing from Rookwood's eye sockets. He was very glad he'd spent the forty hours brewing the antidote for that particular potion. Dosing himself with antidotes for the poisons he carried was a common practice for him. There were a few annoying side effects from taking so many antidotes, but he could live with the greasy skin, yellow teeth, and strange smells.
His feeling of triumph was short lived. He used his right arm to crawl out of the gutter and collect his wand, but he couldn't feel his left side any longer, and therefore could not disapparate. He coughed and a few drops of blood splattered on the sidewalk. For a moment he thought the antidote for the Demon's Breath potion had failed him, but then a pain flared up in his side, and he concluded it was probably only a punctured lung from where Rookwood had kicked in a few of his ribs.
"Nothing really to worry about," he murmured as the world went dark.
"Unauthorized off world activation!" bellowed a voice through the intercom.
His hand was on the door of his office, but O'Neill immediately turned around. They had finally gotten Lupin out of the MRI and the strange man even gave up a blood sample after Daniel promised him they would destroy it after checking for contagions, and that under no circumstances would anyone drink it. Dr. Brightman had been unable to type it. O'Neill jogged up the steps to the control room. Walter had already closed the iris, and was monitoring the incoming radio frequencies. As he got to the top step, the gate shut down.
"Walter?"
"The rebel Jaffa sir. They'd just sent through their I.D.C. along with a distress signal, when the gate shut down."
"Dial them back."
Walter's fingers flew across the key board, and the inner ring of the gate began to spin.
"Chevron seven will not lock."
"Crap. What did the distress signal say?"
Walter put on his head phones.
"The signal was subjected to some form of interference sir. I'm trying to clean it up now."
O'Neill watched as the tech sergeant messed with little boxes and monitors on the screen. Walter suddenly frowned. He passed the head phones over to O'Neill.
"That's as clear as I could make it sir."
"…-bzt Ba'al's fleet…fssssssssss….from orbit……..the iris….evac-"
"Well that's not good. See if we can get the Tok'ra on the line. They had a base on that world until a week ago. Maybe they left scanning equipment behind."
Walter nodded and rolled his chair over to the subspace communication consol. Carter came running up the steps.
"The Rebels just called in a distress signal from PX499. They're under attack from Ba'al and it looks like their gate's malfunctioned. How long would it take the Prometheus to reach them?"
Carter frowned. "Sir the Prometheus is having its reentry engines overhauled-"
"When is that damn thing ever not being overhauled?"
"It will be at least 72 hours before it can leave orbit."
"Walter any word-"
A loud buzzing echoed through the control room and Carter jumped nearly a foot in the air. She blushed. As the rest of the crew looked on, she pulled her wildly jumping cell phone out of her pocket.
"I didn't think it could get reception down here," she mumbled as she checked the caller I.D.
"So who is it?" O'Neill asked, smirking slightly as he leaned over a free consol to pull up data on PX499.
"Its Pete," she mumbled almost inaudibly.
She really hated it when her fiancé called her at work. It made her feel guilty for reasons she wasn't willing to examine. There was a text message on the cell phone's tiny screen that read Emergency. A moment later a picture popped up.
"Holy Hanna," she muttered.
"What?"
"This picture Pete just sent me-"
"Nothing too dirty I hope," O'Neill muttered.
"What?" Cater said sharply.
"Nothing. What's the picture of?"
She held the phone up in front of his face. Greasy, aka Mr. Smith, the escaped prisoner from London was unconscious and strapped to a gurney. Blood was running down from his hair line. Carter put the phone to her ear.
"Pete says they found him unconscious in an alley in Colorado Springs. There was another guy in the alley, dead with his face melted off. There are burns all over the surrounding buildings, suggesting a battle with energy weapons. He says if we want to take custody from the police we better get somebody down there to grab the guy before the FBI does."
"Right. Go get him, Carter."
"Yes sir."