.

A fork, a Knife, and a Frying Pan

.

.

Tom hadn't fought this viciously in years. Even a gun was a step removed in its intimacy from hand-to-hand combat. Primal and potent and savage with whatever items he could find. His assailant was good, trained well to the point where brute strength couldn't temper his enthusiasm alone. Strewn throughout the kitchen, his team struggled as well. Burk, with his nose throbbing and broken from Chandler's fist, Ravit, whose Glock clicked empty, and Sasha, dodging the blows of a man twice her size. Tom was forced back into a shelf, china toppling and crashing to the ground while he fought for the upper hand. Ravit was thrown down, frantic as she grasped the only tools she could find. Burk, hurling whatever his hands made contact with, a jug, a frying pan, a mallet. Sasha's attacker finally landed a blow, sending her headfirst to the floor where she scrambled to reach a knife.

The President cowered, bewildered while the man 'Tom' assigned to protect him stabbed their men, aiding the three unknown attackers. What the hell was going on? The three stab wounds bought Chandler enough time to grab a handgun from the ground. He fired two shots at his attacker, another at the guy reaching for a different rifle, and one more straight through the head of the one pinning Sasha, just as her fingers found purchase around the knife she'd been stretching for. Blood splattered across her face. Tom moved closer, kicking the rifle away from the body, just in case. With a grunt, Sasha rolled the man off her, panting while she pushed herself to her knees. The cacophony of pots, pans, silverware, and china stopped. So too the yells of Ramsey's men. The only sound remaining, that of collective labored breaths and Ravit's forks when she let them clatter to the ground.

Tom eased his aim, satisfied every threat was neutralized. Exercised trigger discipline by removing his finger from the well and resting it parallel to the barrel instead. He stayed affixed on Sasha as she pulled herself up aided by a counter. She quirked her head, rolling her neck and recovering. "You weren't kidding about a fight."

Burk rounded a corner. His skin limned with sweat. "Exfil point is blown. We can't go out back." Behind him, Ravit followed, grabbing a different weapon from the ground after checking once more for any lingering men.

Jeffrey Michener uncurled from his hiding place, hand braced upon a metal counter, and stared at 'Tom'. "Who are you?"

Tom met his horrified gaze. "Mr. President, we don't have much time. I'm Commander Tom Chandler, we're the United States Navy. Sean Ramsey is not who you think he is, he's a terrorist threatening this country. We gotta get you outta here, right now—"

Michener made to run, but Ravit had already anticipated that. "Ah, ah." She pointed the Glock, fisting the suit jacket of his left arm.

"Sir!" Tom drew his aim again. "With all due respect… let's move."

Sasha, who'd been frisking the bodies for guns, ammo, and weapons—tucking everything she found at her waistband or the holster concealed by jeans, straightened. Lopping the rifle strap over her head, she turned back to Tom. "I'll meet you in the south parking lot. If I'm not there in five minutes, leave."

The tendons in Tom's forearms flexed visibly when his grip tightened. Splitting up was not part of the plan, but she was already cocking a short barrel MK and pacing backward in a different direction. It left him with no choice, and his apparent conflict did not go unnoticed by Burk. The Lieutenant glanced at Ravit. Their Captain's demeanor strained when he forced their mission to the forefront of his mind.

"Let's go," Tom said.

Somehow, Sasha made it to her room before hearing gunfire again. Distant, on the other side of the complex and coming from outside. After scaling the stairs two at a time to reach the third floor, she burst through the door and grabbed a backpack. Only seconds after jerking it on, yells and footfalls thundered from the corridor—damnit. Struck out, Sasha whirled around searching for an alternative exit. Desk chair. She ripped the curtains open, stepped back, then ran at the glass with the legs outstretched, shattering the panes. Knowing she had seconds to move before Ramsey's men found her, she tore down the curtain for protection and climbed out.

From a sniping point providing ample view of the complex, Wolf tracked Chandler's progress through the parking lot, firing at will upon Ramsey's men. His focus was drawn by a window smashing, and he zeroed in. It was a woman, descending the three stories aided by a curtain until reaching its end, and then she dropped, executing a roll to break her fall. That move was classic paramilitary, and she was up fast, readying a weapon while Chandler gunned directly toward her. His finger flexed on the trigger; didn't look like one of Ramsey's… but if he was wrong?

The decision was made for him. Burk fired into the window from which she'd jumped. Adjusting the scope, Wolf provided cover support while Chandler stopped long enough for her to climb in.

Tom floored it again once Sasha was in, wheels screeching without traction before biting. With both hands gripped white on the steering wheel, he glanced to his right. "You went back to get a bag!?"

Shaking flyaways from her face, Sasha settled the MK through the window and manned their two o'clock. "Just drive!"

Tom bit down on the spike of irritation over her recklessness; same bullshit stunts she'd always pulled in the past.

In the backseat, Burk fired up their radio. "Tiger, Cobra—this is Vulture, what's the extraction point?"

"Rally point's at the baseball field a half a mile north-northeast your whiskey. See you in five." Wolf responded, done packing up his gear and hauling the heavy pack onto his back.

They'd made it to extraction without being shot at, though Tom was sure Ramsey's men were tailing. There was a silver pick-up a few streets back mirroring his moves. Several hundred yards ahead, Tom spotted Tex, Danny, and Wolf and swerved in their direction. Once stopped Ravit pushed the President out of the vehicle, fisting his suit jacket while the rest disembarked.

Tom slammed the door, heading straight toward Danny, Tex, and Wolf. "Where's our ride?"

"Unclear. Ship's at EMCON," Wolf answered.

Behind him, Sasha scanned the road after noticing the same pick-up and provided cover at their six with Burk. He registered the man sprawled across the hood of a vehicle and recognition dawned within seconds. "Where the hell did you find him?"

Something about his tone drew Sasha's attention, and she turned to look. Whoever it was, they'd taken a gut shot, and Tom's complete lack of concern made clear that this man wasn't part of his crew. "Who is that?"

Catching her eye, Tom shook his head. "I'll explain later, Helo's inbound, secure L.Z perimeter. Let's move!" He waited until she was a few steps ahead before following her through the chainlink fence. The rest of the team pursued except Danny, who'd stopped to pour gasoline over the truck containing those bears.

"Green, what the hell are you doing!? Come on! Move it, move it!"

Sasha turned back. The man in a Hawaiian shirt had yelled at the guy 'Green' who was sprinting to catch up, and she reflexively flinched when the van exploded. Jesus Christ, this was chaos. Tom almost ran into her and grabbed her arm when their near collision sent her off balance.

"Come on!"

"We got company!" Tex couldn't complete his warning before bullets started flying again.

Without thinking or meaning, Tom pulled Sasha forward instead when she'd turned to provide cover. "They've got it!" Propelling them both a few more steps, they then ducked to avoid the chopper's blades, his hand insistent at her back and lingering. "Get in!"

Less than thirty seconds later, Burk and Wolf had sprinted back and jumped up, and their Seahawk was off the ground, leaving nothing but a cabin full of winded people surrounding the President. Sasha pulled the strap from her neck and propped the rifle against her leg. Breathing hard, she observed Tom's crew. Hawaiian shirt guy, bearded with long, unruly hair, seemed to be looking at her, but she couldn't tell because of the sunglasses. Tom was staring at the man who'd been shot with an expression that ushered unease, and the one Hawaiian shirt called 'Green' was evidently pissed.

"Thought you and Dr. Scott might wanna have a chat with him!" Tex said to Chandler before nodding his head to either side of the Captain. "Who are they?"

Tom glanced to his right. "Sasha, she's Navy, and Jeffrey Michener, Commander-in-Chief."

Tex pulled off his sunglasses. You gotta be shittin' me. "Come again, boss?!"

"He's The President of the United States!"

That seemed to draw everyone's attention, and Sasha looked on as Green, the guy whom she'd yet to learn a name for, and Hawaiian shirt stared dumbfounded at Michener. She settled back in her seat, the movement drawing Tom's attention again, though he tried to be subtle, glancing only through peripheral to make eye contact with her. For a few seconds, she held his gaze, unsure of what it meant, before dropping to study the sea below through the small rectangular windows.

USS Nathan James—30 NM Offshore, Palm Coast, Florida

Mike stood perplexed on the deck at the stern of the James and watched their land team disembark. Captain Chandler had ordered their hanger bay doors remain conspicuously closed in effort to isolate the crew from exposure to their renegade Commander-In-Chief. Familiar faces propelled themselves out of the Seahawk in tandem with two new ones—and the scum of life on Earth—Neils Sorenson. Goddamn Son of a bitch. Mike's jaw clenched, and a deep scowl twisted his features. The sniveling mess of a man propelled himself toward Doc Rios with hands on his gut. Mike wished he'd just shut up and die already instead of yelling about it, but alas, could tell that wound wasn't lethal if he received care.

Next came a man in his mid to late fifties who appeared bewildered. Fraught with tension and apt to run if the opportunity presented itself. His eyes bounced rapid and unfocused in the commotion, looking between his surroundings and the personnel arriving to execute their landing protocols. And finally, a woman he'd never seen before, the last to leave their Helo. Unlike the older man and Sorenson, she didn't appear under duress. Carried herself in such a way that a ship and its workings didn't seem all too unfamiliar, nor the blood covering her face. Mike made the calculated assumption she must be military, or former like Tex; inclination confirmed further when he noticed the Glock tucked in her waistband and watched her retrieve an MK from the cabin. This wasn't a distressed civilian in need of safe harbor. That was a good thing. They could use all the help they could get, and if she'd been on the ground, maybe she had valuable intel.

Their team was covered in blood and grime, all wearing civilian clothes, different from how they'd disembarked over a day ago. Seemed that whatever had gone down during Chandler's latest escapade wasn't pretty… an idea confirmed by the almost delirious glaze of the Captain's eyes.

Chandler inclined his head tightly at his XO in greeting, knowing without words the questions to follow.

"The hell happened out there?"

Tom watched as Doc Rios secured Neils to a stretcher and made for medical, guard in tow. "We found the President." Tom's gaze was intense, dark. Almost feral, still cooked up on adrenaline and fumes from the desperate fight and subsequent bullet storm.

Mike's brows rose clean to the top of his head, lips quirking into a silent 'huh'. He looked back to the man who was protesting his 'capture' and resisting Ravit and Burk's attempts to subdue him, issuing demands to be let go. With no attempt to hide his glaring skepticism, Mike clarified, "Him?"

A long-suffering scowl from the Captain was all he received, for now, at least. Knew better than to push Tom's buttons when he was in this state.

"And her?" Mike changed the subject.

Tom's focus moved slow and steady until it landed. She was removing every weapon from her body, surrendering them to their Master at Arms. The MK and Glock were already laid down along with some ammo. A knife after that, and a second, tucked near her ankle under bootcut jeans. Sweat glistened at the back of her long neck, delicate hairs sticking where they'd fallen loose from the messy curl-ridden bun. Sensing his eyes, she turned, glancing with an unreadable expression. The late afternoon sun caught her features, transforming that blue to pure celestial aqua and she paused mid-movement. Tom held the contact, reveling in the hint of a reserved smile she gave before resuming her ministrations.

"That's Sasha."

Mike almost laughed over the absurdity of that statement; was pretty sure his face showed as much, but when Tom's demeanor didn't change, he realized it wasn't a joke.

"I'll be damned," he murmured.

Mike turned to get a better look.

The weapons were gone, the contents of her backpack now being inspected—all standard protocol. Feeling watched again, Sasha glanced in their direction, catching the XO's this time. Mike nodded once by way of greeting, his lips pressed together; about as welcoming as he'd get. A show of respect given mostly because he didn't want to be on the ass end of Tom for behaving with his usual acerbic cynicism toward her. That, he was choosing to reserve for their newfound President. Sasha reciprocated the gesture and turned back to the crew member who'd deemed her effects safe.

Mike raised a brow. "Now I know why you never introduced us." The comment was deadpan, and Tom's only reaction was a sharp look. "She Navy?"

For a moment, he pondered ignoring that question or even lying—wasn't like they could hide it, and he'd already introduced her as such to Tex, Burk, and Ravit. The minute Mike did his homework and pulled Sasha's file, the timeline would reveal the rest. "Yes."

Huh—suddenly, the leniency toward Green and Foster made sense. "Take it things weren't exactly above board?"

Eyes narrowed, Tom tucked his chin in that languid defensive way and then peered at his XO. Reticent, refusing to elaborate but not denying either.

Mike got the message and bobbed his head, already wondering what kind of objectivity issues this would cause. What a giant cluster. Sure, it had been thirteen years, technically, since they'd broken up. But he'd been there for the profound and pitiful aftermath. Nights where Tom crashed on his couch and didn't move all weekend, too low to do it before running clear to San Diego. And there was the matter of a quiet confession made over drinks, something about a night on the beach long after they'd split…

Sasha saved them or rather added to the awkward exchange by wandering over. Features set with determination and confidence. With a subtle glance, she scanned the XO's name badge before addressing Tom. "What are you gonna do with him?"

As though timed Ravit and Burk pushed 'him' past them. Protests loud and indignant, and Mike scoffed.

"Doesn't seem too happy to be with us, does he?"

Tom let the sarcasm from his XO slide, flexing the fingers of his right hand instead. Pretty sure he'd dislocated a knuckle. The fiery numbing tingle shooting daggers up the tendons of his arm indicated it. "We're gonna change that."

"Won't be easy… if he really is one of them," Mike warned.

Sasha interjected, "Country needs a leader almost as much as it needs a cure."

Mike snapped attention to her, not sure he was surprised to hear her already pushing Chandler's agenda.

Done with pondering his knuckle, Tom lifted his head once more and addressed his XO. "Ramsey was gonna use him to win the hearts and minds of America. That's exactly what we're gonna do."

XO bobbed his head. Knew better than to keep poking when his Captain was this convinced of a plan. Instead, he squared posture. "I'll let you get cleaned up. Ship's yours when you're ready."

Tom leaned back against the hull again, watching Mike retreat into the belly of Nathan James.

Backpack hanging from her right shoulder, Sasha folded her arms, suddenly feeling awkward in the absence of distraction. Here she was. Twenty-four hours prior, she'd been aimlessly wandering in search of the 'chosen', hoping to stumble into something, anything, to explain what the hell she should do, and now this. Standing with Tom. On a US Naval Destroyer.

"What's so important that you couldn't leave it behind?"

Sasha blinked, ripped from her internal musings. "Huh?"

"The bag," Tom elaborated.

She found a spot on the deck and studied it. "Things I can't get back."

The inflection of her tone screamed, and he left it alone, choosing instead to treat it as confirmation that whomever she'd married was dead. Shifting to more practical matters, like them both being drenched in blood and smelling like shit, he amended his posture. "You need fresh clothes?"

"I do." That hollow expression eased, the prospect of a real shower, and the hope of doing that in private versus the officer's head too great to pass up.

He sensed she wasn't done.

"Any chance you'd let me use your shower?" She'd aimed to hide it with humor, but something lurked beneath it.

Damn. Tom couldn't deny that his gut reaction was curiosity over reprimand. Perhaps even a word beginning with 'C' and ending with 'N' upon which he refused to dwell. Sasha knew the workings of a ship. The conduct. It would be improper of him to allow it, and yet she'd still asked.

Again, he rolled that knuckle. "Water ration's three minutes."

Some of the tension leeched from her shoulders, and the look she gave was grateful for the extension of his grace.

"Understood."