Author's Note: I have ten total chapters planned, hopefully they will all be up soon. Please review! Thanks to you who do!

Chapter Three

Not Ready for the War

Jack Bauer stared up at the wall of prisoners, fighting to maintain his calm demeanor. It wasn't easy when he held a revolver in one hand, raising it to his own temple. Across the small table, Ramon Salazar gazed at him with something like astonishment. Amazed at how far Jack could go and how much he was willing to give up.

Jack's pulse betrayed his inner panic. If either he or Ramon died in this sick game, the entire operation would be shot and the virus would be unleashed on the public. Everything depended on two perfect trigger pulls.

Jack couldn't even rely on Tony right now. For months and months, they planned with Gael, considering every angle and every risk of the plot. They all needed to play their roles, each of them indispensable to success. The last time Jack saw Tony, a gun just like this one brought him to the ground. Tony may have already given his life for the mission. Could Jack do the same?

Taking a deep breath, Jack pulled the trigger. The tiny click flooded him with relief. The prisoners broke into wild cheers.

Once he set the gun on the table, his concerns multiplied as Ramon reached for it. There was no way to be ready for this kind of scenario.

And Jack knew something that he swore to keep private. Tony wasn't really ready either. Day after day, he bemoaned his inability to confide in his wife about the elaborate mission. Jack saw it in his friend's eyes, heard it in his voice as he spoke of the woman he would die for: Michelle came first in his life. He would never hurt her or leave her. Had he known the bullet was coming, would Tony still play his role? Would Tony stare down an imprisoned drug lord and duel him in a harrowing game of Russian roulette in the thin hope of breaking him out of there? Could Tony give everything and everyone he had for the greater good of this mission if Jack were to die here?

Jack didn't know the answers, but he worried about his comatose friend. Tony had sworn two oaths, one to his country and one to his wife. If he pulled through the surgery while Jack perished in prison, which oath would win out in the end?

Jack needed his friend to pull through and stay the course, but at the same time, he envied him with every part of his being. Thank God Tony wasn't like Jack. Thank God he had a wife to fight for on top of a country to serve.

Jack watched Ramon raise the gun to his temple, hoping to find a way out before the game reached its conclusion. Tony, you'd better be ready for the outcome soon.

Meanwhile, the surgeons continued their work.

— — —

Curtis' apartment was not as awful as Tony's. It was small but tastefully decorated, homey with some presence of love. There were even family photos on a corner lamp table. Tony gazed at them in awe.

Curtis' mother insisted on washing his back and dressing his wounds. He closed his eyes, picturing his mother's touch, but wincing at the thought of her betrayal. Mrs. Manning squeezed the rag, and cold hydrogen peroxide trickled down his seared flesh. Tony leaned forward over his knees, clenching his teeth in pain, knuckles white over his jeans. A sharp groan escaped his lips.

"Shh, child," Mrs. Manning hummed. "I got you now." She turned to her son who stood awkwardly in the doorway. "Don't just stand there like a lump, Curtis. Fetch us some clean rags and an aspirin and one of those Yoohoo's you've been hoarding."

Tony fought back tears as Mrs. Manning washed the maze of welts and bandaged his broken skin. In a few minutes, he put on one of Curtis' old sweatshirts and joined the family at the table, chocolate milk clutched in one clammy hand.

Mrs. Manning had cooked a steamy, aromatic Jamaican stew with beef and bok choy. Curtis' middle-school sister Stacey came to the table with her face behind a book, which she only set down when her mother said grace. Tony gladly bowed his head to hide his tears. His gratitude for the Mannings almost matched his feelings of sick rejection and fear for Richard. Maybe he should have refused to leave.

But he needed this, he thought as the soup warmed his insides. He needed this family and this reassurance that love existed in the world.

Still he wished he had his hat.

He slept fitfully on the plush sofa, frequently waking in pain and confusion. In the dead of night, he found himself lying in a cold sweat, breathing hard, thinking of his mother.

Why didn't you fight for me? Doesn't family matter to you?

He went to school with Curtis the next day, feeling gloomy and sore. He didn't realize how much confidence his hat gave him until now.

When they reached the motel to work, Curtis turned on the radio at a reasonable volume. Tony didn't recognize the folksy song that came on: "And the cat's in the cradle and the silver moon..."

He paused, listening, a creeping uneasiness filling his chest as he heard a father's ballad for his son. "He'd say, 'I'm gonna be like you, dad, you know I'm gonna be like you...'"

Tony reached out to change the station.

Curtis dipped his brush and began sweeping it over the wall. "So are you gonna go back?" he muttered.

Tony sighed, still stirring his brush in paint. "I have to, don't I?"

Curtis shrugged. He swept another smooth line of paint, then slapped a white squiggle on the wall. "You're making some dough now, Tony. You can start saving for a real life."

Tony hesitated, unsure about sharing his carefully guarded plan. But if he couldn't trust Curtis, he couldn't trust anyone.

"I am saving up for something," he admitted quietly.

"Yeah? What is it? A car?"

Tony shook his head, a bashful grin breaking through. "It may sound a little silly. I just want to take Richard to the Cubs game in a couple weeks."

Curtis laughed. "Just one game? That's your dream?"

"I only went to one with my dad. It was enough."

Curtis shook his head, smiling. "It sounds really nice, amigo. Hope you can go."

Tony set down his brush in the can. "First you'll have to teach me to fight. Somehow I gotta have some say at home."

"It's not hard." Curtis' brush joined the can. "You just need to be confident. Know what's at stake, know what you're fighting for."

"I know all that."

"Then hit me."

Tony cocked his fists.

A sudden jab caught him off guard. He faltered, recovering.

"Hit me," urged Curtis.

Tony swung, but Curtis dodged and socked him again.

Tony felt the anger rise. If he fought Max like this, he would surely get smacked down and beaten into next week. He couldn't take it anymore. He hauled back and punched Curtis in the jaw. The blow only turned his friend's chin, and Curtis immediately countered with a snap to Tony's nose that burned until it bled.

Angrily, the boy turned away. Why couldn't Tony Almeida win for once in his life?

"You're giving in!" Curtis taunted. "You're making it easy for him!"

Tony spun quickly and slammed a fist into his gut. Curtis gasped, doubling over, wheezing until he laughed.

"Have more confidence," he advised.

Tony swung again, Curtis blocked, they did it again; now Curtis swung, they moved and jabbed back and forth — suddenly Curtis hooked an arm around his neck. Tony heaved all his weight into his side to bring him down, and then they were wrestling.

A rap of nearby gunfire interrupted their game. They rose off the floor together and crept to the window to peek out, careful to stay out of view. A couple young adults stood on the street corner, ducking for cover and huddling around a fallen friend. A dark blue van swerved around the bend, skidding as it took off. The open back window revealed a few young men with guns, glaring out at their victims.

Tony gasped. Just then his gaze met Miguel's.

His brother withdrew inside the van, and the vehicle sped into the distance.

"Damn, that kid looks bad," commented Curtis, watching the people on the curb lift their friend into a parked car.

Tony moved away from the window. "I need to go home," he said.

"Now?"

"Yeah." Tony nodded, feeling completely unprepared to face his family again. "I need to make sure Richard is okay."

Curtis began to clean up. "Protect yourself," he said. "And remember you can stay with me whenever."

"Thanks," said Tony, terrified of what his brother had gotten involved in. He was already bringing the gang life home, and not even Max posed such a threat. But what could Tony really do to make a difference?

— — —

Song lyrics from "Cat's in the Cradle" by Harry Chapin, NOT BY ME