Chapter Three
a/n: Thank you for the reviews—if you enjoy this, please send a nod as it is very encouraging. Thank you for reading!
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Mike paced as the drone circled the forest. Diplomatic relations be damned, the Vice President ordered the drone in place. They hadn't found President Asher yet. But they did find the attackers.
And as he suspected, they were searching the woods for someone.
The tension in the room was palpable as they watched the drone's viewpoint. Flying ahead in the direction the men were pursuing, the drone on infrared picked up one heat signature.
Someone in the room stupidly announced it was the President, about twenty seconds after everyone else already knew that. Mike let it go, focusing on the pace of the heat signature. He's moving too slow.
His mind reeled at what Agent Danworth told him. Why had President Asher kept his training a secret? Why was Mike kept out of the loop?
Those were questions for another moment.
"Trouble," he whispered. Trumbull glanced at him before seeing what he saw. Four heat signatures were ahead of Asher.
"Ambush?" Trumbull asked. Mike gave a single nod. He swiped a hand over his face. What he wouldn't give to be there now, to get Ben out of this and take down the latest of psychotic attackers.
"Is the drone weaponized?" Mike asked. Trumbull shook his head. The priority had been the nearest drone to get eyes on—and a weaponized drone really could cause a diplomatic nightmare, though Mike was trying hard not to belittle those details. Russian military units were supposedly en route to the forest, but their ETA wasn't going to help President Asher anytime soon.
The room went silent as the inevitable happened. Some aide had the drone zoom in more clearly and switch back to live video without infrared; the trees were not as thick where the President was.
Mike wasn't sure if he could watch everything play out in real-time.
Until President Asher shot the ambushers.
There were a few gasps of amazement but Mike just stared. The ambushers didn't get up. And the President—whom they could see more clearly now was indeed the President—kept moving.
His pace was labored. And when the President suddenly came to a dropoff, Mike nearly lurched forward as if to catch him. Every person in the room stared at the President's figure as it fell, bumped, hit and slid down the drop-off until it came to a stop.
The President didn't move.
Trumbull barked at the room. "Send his location to the rescue force now!"
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Ben heard the thud when he landed. His mind took him back to London, the huge gas explosion from the building he'd been taken to. Ben didn't remember jumping into that elevator shaft. He was fairly certain Mike pushed him that direction, and then gravity did the rest.
The falling…. Falling, falling. London bridges falling down…. Olympus fell…. Ben's eyes were tightly shut, and he was vaguely cognizant of his memories of then and his fears resurfacing. He squeezed his eyes close harder, willing the memories to go away.
Open your eyes.
With a gasp that tried to compensate for the air being knocked out of him, Ben opened his eyes and came back to the current nightmare he was living. Nerves flashed the awareness throughout his body that he was injured and in pain. Ben moved one leg, then the other. He rolled to his side. His limbs screamed to just rest, but he could move, and that's what mattered.
His hands were empty though.
"No…" The whispered word came out from his lips. He patted around him and checked his pockets, but his gun was gone. That got him to move. The cliff that he'd fallen from was high enough that the gun could be well out of reach. Ben had no idea how long he was out after his fall. He suspected not too long, but he didn't have time to find the gun, even if the cliff would slow down his pursuers.
Ben glanced around quickly in case he could spot it in a last-ditch effort, but it was gone, hidden among the leaves, in crevices of rocks, or who knew where else.
He turned ahead. Forest encompassed every view. His sense of direction was off, but that didn't matter so long as he didn't go backwards towards the attackers. He moved ahead and towards the left. Whether that was west, south, north, or east, he did not know.
Above him on the cliff's edge, Hunter watched. He knew exactly what lay ahead of the American President's path. It gave him a few options…. He could just end it right now and shoot the man, but he'd been instructed to capture him if possible. Injury was completely acceptable, death if no other alternative, but Hunter felt the capture was feasible. Plus, he enjoyed the pursuit.
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"He can't trust the Russians," Mike said.
"We don't know if they are complacent in this attack or not," a general said.
"That's not what I meant," Mike said. Trumbull nodded for him to continue. "The President will assume he can't trust the Russians. He's operating on less intel than we have, but he knows he was attacked, inside the country, on a route and itinerary that was supposed to be under wraps. Even if the Russian military team reaches him…"
"The President will fight against them," Trumbull filled in.
Mike nodded. "Or hide from them."
Director Clemmens sat forward in his chair around the table. "He knows the agents who stayed back at the airport and the hotel. If they're with a rescue, the President would trust them."
"Yes," Mike agreed. "Assuming we can trust the rescue they're with."
Trumbull looked to the Secretaries of State and Defense. "We're working on that."
An aide came in and whispered to the general. Mike watched the general's reaction. It wasn't good. The general cleared his throat.
"Mr. Vice President, a storm is moving into the forest," he said. Mike looked quickly to the drone feed. It was getting shaky, and the transmission was getting noisier. "The drone is experiencing some malfunction because of it."
"What are you saying?" Trumbull demanded.
Mike stared at Ben's blip on the screen. They'd switched back to the infrared since the tree canopy was thicker now. The blip disappeared just then.
"We're losing visual on the President. Just until we get another drone in place."
"Satellites?" Trumbull asked.
The general shook his head. "The storm is making it difficult to see clearly."
The screen suddenly went blank. Mike's stomach dropped.
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Ben didn't try to run anymore. He was doing well to be walking. He was weak and the rain was falling heavily now. Flashes of lightning did nothing to help his nerves. It was dark, and some part of him wondered if the lightning would help illuminate where he was to his pursuers. He hadn't heard them much since his fall, but he knew that didn't mean they weren't on his trail.
He kept trying to analyze his situation, to hone in on whatever threads of information he had, like knowing at least some of the attackers were Russian. But that's as far as he got from remembering their shouts he heard in the forest. His focus disintegrated into a circuitous spiral of doubt and fear.
He kept thinking about what he could do right now; sadly, his training sessions with the Secret Service agents didn't include anything on bare essentials survival in a forest. He had his trainers focus on self-defense, hand-to-hand fighting and guns. The knowledge that he was out of his depth now screamed in his mind.
His body shook. His coat was heavy, the wool weighed down by the rain. He was drenched. His legs shook too, and Ben caught his balance by grabbing at a tree trunk. He looked up at the sky, watching the drops come down at him like tiny bombs.
Connor, he thought. He seized on that wonderful thought. He didn't want to think about his son worrying, but that was an inevitable by-product. Again, Ben's focus went to the past….
When he came back from London, Connor had been waiting at the White House. Till 3 in the morning, his son had told him the awful experience from his point of view. Being surrounded by agents and a few friends who were there to be supportive…. Being told he shouldn't watch the video feed but being unable not to. Fearing that his dad would die in front of the whole world…. Ben told Connor he shouldn't have watched, but then Connor admitted he didn't want to miss it if Ben said goodbye to him.
A bright flash of lightning jolted Ben from his memories. The following clap of thunder made him jump too.
Cold, wet, sore and still bleeding from the gash in his side, Ben was afraid of three things. First, that he wouldn't see Connor again. Second, that he wouldn't survive the odds against him.
Third, that he didn't have the courage to keep trying.
Tears leaked from his eyes. All it would take is to let his knees buckle. If he hit the soaked ground right now, he wouldn't get up for some time. His legs shook harder.
Ben wiped a numb hand over his wet face. He blinked away the moisture and his vision cleared briefly.
He stilled. There was a light ahead. Was it? Ben stared ahead at the source. The light was small, fairly distant still. But there was a shadow by it, a large, dark shape against the light. A cabin of some sort.
Shelter! Ben found a flood of hope rush through him. He steeled his legs and pushed himself away from the tree trunk that had supported him. He could make it to whatever he was seeing.
He could. He had to.
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Anatoly tried to hide his fidgeting. His gear was all ready. This would be his first mission in the Russian army that might see action. He could feel the tension around him; though his superiors wouldn't admit it, they were nervous. Some whispered that they feared the Americans' response to losing the American President on Russian soil. Already too many hours had passed without deploying a search. He wondered what was causing the delay.
He felt honored though, at 19 years old, to be included on such an important mission. They would search for President Asher, find him, and bring him to safety.
He followed his team to a large truck and climbed in the back with the other soldiers. The truck revved to life and pulled out.
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It was a modest cabin, and that even might be exaggerating, but to Ben it looked like paradise. All he wanted to do was knock on the door and go inside out of the rain and cold.
He knew better than that. He was too vulnerable physically at the moment to let his guard down. He watched from behind a tarp-covered pile of firewood.
Suddenly the door to the cabin opened, and out stepped a woman. Ben shrunk back out of sight. His heart hammered in his chest. He strained to listen for anything.
Footsteps came closer to him. Were they? The rain was messing with his senses. But then he heard the crunch of ground under her feet. Ben tensed. The tarp with the wood was peeled back, flinging water onto Ben. He shrank away before he could stop himself, and the woman gasped as she saw his movement.
Ben flinched away. So did she. She scurried away from him quickly, until her back was up against the cabin and started yelling at him in Russian.
"No, no, wait!" Ben cried out as loud as he dare. "Please!" He held his hands out for her to see, hoping to calm her down.
The woman quieted, but her eyes were wide with fear.
"I won't hurt you," he said. He stood slowly, bracing his hands on the wood pile to help himself to his feet. His legs buckled, but he caught himself from falling with a gasp. The woman eyed him warily.
"Do you have a phone?" he asked. "Phone?" He brought his hand to his ear, mimicking a phone. The woman shook her head. Ben tried not to let his disappointment show.
He was unsure of what was next. He didn't want to frighten her, but he needed help. His appearance couldn't be helping her fears of him. He wondered if she spoke English, or if she recognized him—which he doubted. She seemed simple, and living out here had to reflect a limited exposure to the world.
She pointed at him. Ben frowned as she kept pointing and saying a word he didn't understand. Her eyes were on his side. Ben looked down. His coat and suit jacket underneath were open and showed a bloody pink stain over his dress shirt.
She sees I'm injured, Ben thought. He nodded to her. Hesitantly, she stepped towards him. She held out her hand to him, waving her fingers in a "follow me" motion. She went to the cabin and waited for him.
Ben swallowed. He could cry if he didn't think it would startle her more. He had little pride left at the moment, but he followed her into the cabin.
She kept her distance from him as he stepped inside, until she saw the puddle his coat was leaving on the floor. She gestured to it, and Ben tried to shed it, but the weight of the coat and his injuries had him struggling. The woman came closer and tentatively gripped the coat. Ben nearly stilled, a bit unsure of her proximity and risking scaring her, but she pulled it from him. The difference in weight was tremendous. Ben felt forty pounds lighter.
He also felt colder, if that were possible. His eyes flickered to a fireplace where small flames danced over well-charred wood. It was the most beautiful thing Ben had seen all day.
The woman left with his coat and disappeared into what looked like the only other room of the cabin. Ben pulled back his suit jacket to get a better view of his side. The once-white dress shirt was torn. The bleeding was minimal now, he thought, though he could see the blood had gone down to his hip and soaked into his suit pants.
He flinched when a towel came into view beneath his gaze. The woman had come back in so quietly. She held out the towel for him, gesturing to his hair. He took it from her, looking her over in the dim light of a lamp. She was dressed in a rain jacket, a flannel shirt and thick pants that resembled some sort of canvas material. Her hair was light brown, her skin bearing just a few wrinkles that made him guess she was in her 30s. Her eyes were a warm brown as well.
"Thank you," he said quietly. Ben gingerly ran the towel through his sopping hair. He glanced at the floor around him. It was quite wet. "Sorry," he mumbled, gesturing to the floor.
She nodded at his side. "Hurt," she said simply. Ben was surprised at the English word but he acknowledged her observation with a nod. She reached for him, grasping at his suit jacket. She circled him to free it from his shoulders. Ben held still but let her take the jacket. She set it aside on a chair by a small table. Ben shivered. She frowned as she saw this. He looked away from her, not liking being so helpless in front of a witness. He draped the towel around him like a blanket, groaning slightly as the pull his movements created in his side and overall bruised body.
The woman shook her head at him.
"What?" he asked. She pointed to his shirt, then to a button on her own shirt, followed by pointing again at his own. She motioned like he should take off the mangled shirt.
Slowly, he worked his numb fingers to pull away his tie completely and start at the button at his neck. He kept his eyes down as he unbuttoned it. If not for his horrendous day, the moment would seem entirely too intimate.
She left the room again, and Ben unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. He pulled it off his left arm easily enough but struggled with the right arm. The woman came back with a cloth and a small tin box. She set it on the table and gestured for him to come closer. Ben obeyed. She took the dress shirt by the right sleeve and worked it off his arm. He was left in an undershirt and his suit pants. She took him by the hand and led him to the fire. Ben's legs felt rubbery with each step. He couldn't ever remember feeling so weary before.
Ben gingerly knelt down to be closer to the fire. The woman picked up the tin box from the table and opened it up. Ben saw a few meager first aid supplies. She knelt by him, and after hesitating a moment, she lifted up the undershirt from his side, raising it to his chest. Ben tried to hold still as she gently felt around the edges of the wound. Ben shut his eyes, trying not to groan aloud.
She dabbed at it with the cloth. Ben felt her fingertips over his skin, and his tired mind jumped to the memory of his wife. Maggie's beautiful, kind face, smiling at him… Since her death, he hadn't even considered loving anyone else. It was entirely too complicated in Washington anyway. But the ministering touches of this stranger had Ben wanting some closeness. He missed it.
He bit his lip as the woman wrapped his wound with some gauze, the pressure driving shards of pain through him. Ben drove his prior thoughts from his mind.
"What's your name?" he asked. He couldn't think of the words in his limited Russian. She looked up to him. He tapped his chest and said, "Ben. I'm Ben." He pointed to her.
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Yula."
Ben smiled softly. "Thank you, Yula."
She finished bandaging his side and pulled his undershirt down over it. Yula gestured to the fire. Ben sat back closer to it. He closed his eyes at the warmth, letting it wash over him. His remaining clothes were still wet but this was the closest to comfortable he'd felt since the attack.
Yula put a tea kettle on the stove. It honestly looked like a wood-burning stove. Ben marveled at that briefly. He watched as she picked up a blanket and brought it to him. He reached for it, but Yula opened it and laid it over his shoulders. He felt her hands rest against his shoulders for a moment.
Ben shifted his body closer to the wall by the fireplace, leaning back. His eyes grew heavier as he watched Yula ready a cup of something. He vaguely was aware that he was hungry, but he was more exhausted. His eyes slipped shut.
He felt a cool hand against his cheek. That's the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.
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"President Asher, you must be aware of the speculation about you," Cynthia Halstrom, news personality and anchor extraordinare, asked him during a post-London primetime special. "With not just one but two attacks on you, being held hostage twice, even assumed dead and nearly executed…."
Ben still remembered the desire he had to kick her as she paused dramatically. He hated these interviews, but politically, he needed to reassure everyone—politicians, citizens, world leaders—that he was fine and a fully-functioning Commander in Chief again.
"…Well, how do you cope?"
Ben had done all he could to stay seated with an appropriate, reassuring smile on his face.
"There are always risks," he had said that day. "And I'm not unsettled about any danger because I'm working for something greater: this country."
"But you still have quite a bit of time left in office," Cynthia said. Ben clenched his jaw but then tried to relax it. The camera would pick up on those clues. He tried to remain as impassive as he could. "Aren't you afraid it could happen again?"
He had smiled and said he and the country were stronger than ever and he knew no matter what, the country, its freedom and democracy would continue on. The interview concluded not too much longer, but he had felt the bile churning in his gut.
As soon as he was clear of the interview room, Ben had stopped by the nearest bathroom and lost everything in his stomach. Was he afraid it could happen again? Of course he was! And after two impossible scenarios that no one actually thought would ever happen, he had seen how vulnerable he was.
He startled himself awake. Instantly he remember his predicament, but for now, seeing the cabin around him and sensing the comforting presence of Yula, he calmed down.
Yula smiled at him.
Ben's head ached. He blinked, trying to clear his mind. He looked to the window of the cabin. It was still dark outside. Yula gestured to his side, where a mug of tea waited.
"Thanks," he said. He took it and carefully sipped at it. It wasn't very hot anymore but warm enough. He remembered Yula making the tea, so he couldn't have been asleep for long.
He didn't want to, but Ben knew he had to think about what to do next. The cabin was an obvious choice to search if his pursuers caught up with him. He had to get to Moscow, back to what was left of his detail and out of this country. A phone would certainly help but he struck out here.
One thing at a time, he thought to himself.
"Do you have a car?" he asked Yula. He mimed holding onto a steering wheel. Yula shook her head.
For her benefit, he hid his frustration.
"Is there anyone close by who has a phone or car?" he asked. Yula frowned. She didn't understand him. "It's okay," he said.
He had to move again then. The problem was he didn't trust his body to last, not without more rest at the least. Ben sipped the tea and let it soothe his throat. He finished the mug quickly.
Ben started to stand. His torso ached, and glancing at his arms, Ben saw a variety of bruises from the day's falls. His legs felt slightly stronger but they ached as well. He tried to ignore his feet all together; dress shoes were horrible for a normal day, but running over uneven ground? Disaster.
Yula frowned at him but didn't interfere when he stood.
He checked out the window. Everything was dark outside still, the only light coming from her little cabin. The rain had stopped.
Ben turned to Yula with a smile. "My coat?" He reached for his suit jacket and held it up as an example. Yula frowned and shook her head. Ben gingerly put on his suit jacket, but Yula stopped him, pulling it from him. She shook her head again.
"I need to go," he said.
She frowned again. She reached out and touched his undershirt. He felt the cool press of the fabric against his skin. He assumed she was pointing out he was still damp. She gestured to the room.
Ben wasn't sure what she meant. Yula grabbed his hand and led him to the room. It held a simple bed and a shabby dresser. She pointed to the bed and pushed him towards it while she opened a drawer from the dresser.
The back of Ben's legs hit the edge of the bed, and he stumbled. The room was tiny; he ended up letting himself sit on the bed rather than fall off balance completely.
Yula pulled out a gray long-sleeved knit shirt and handed it to him. She turned her back on him, as if to give him some privacy.
Ben rubbed the dry fabric between his fingers before setting it aside and removing his undershirt. He groaned sharply when he tried to raise his arms. He recoiled. Yula turned to face him, looking… amused? Before he could be sure, Yula grasped the bottom of his shirt. Her fingertips grazed his skin, and Ben couldn't suppress a ticklish shiver.
She said something in Russian softly, then lifted the shirt up. Ben obliged by carefully raising his arms. The undershirt came free. Having the damp undershirt off felt like a step in the right direction for warmth. Yula slowly took the dry long-sleeved shirt from him and unfolded it. Ben reached to help put it on, but Yula said something and put a gentle hand on his chest.
Ben stilled at the contact on his skin. He looked away, his heart rate picking up. He wasn't sure if she was being caring or… seducing him?
She raised the shirt over his head and helped pull it on him. Her fingers touched against his skin again when she pulled it done to cover his chest. Her hand rested on his right side.
Ben cleared his throat. "Thank you." He pushed himself off the bed and stood, not meeting Yula's eyes.
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"Any sign of him?" Trumbull asked.
"Negative, sir."
Mike paced a small corner of the room. Despite the searches of the replacement drones and satellites, they couldn't find the President in the forest. They couldn't find the attackers either now, and that disturbed Mike even more.
"The Russian rescue team is combing the forest but their odds will be better in daylight," a general reported. Mike didn't point out that a lot could happen between now and daylight in Russia.
And every hour the President remained missing, the world was in turmoil. Trumbull already suspended trading with the markets, and the news coverage was rampant with speculation. The White House Press Secretary was constantly denying rumors that President Asher was dead.
Mike clenched his jaw tightly. No one this side of the Atlantic ocean knew if the President was alive either. He just had to hope. That was all he could do.
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The truck he rode in ambled down a dirt road, not much more than a path. In the distance, Anatoly could see a cabin in the slight pre-dawn glow. He and his team had stopped at a few other cabins and homes tucked away in this remote area, but this was the further-most from civilization.
Anatoly was the first to hop out of the truck when it stopped. He followed the team's leader to the door of the cabin. The leader raised his hand to knock but stopped as engines could be heard. Anatoly looked back to the road, where an SUV could be seen coming towards them. Anatoly frowned. Who else would be out here?
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An old painting on the wall rattled from where it hung. Ben frowned, first thinking it was an earthquake until he heard the source of the sound:
"Engines," he whispered. He brushed past Yula and went to the main room of the cabin.
Through the window he saw a military truck, as well as soldiers.
"Russian military," he muttered. Could they be trusted?
But his heart nearly stopped when he saw a dark SUV drive up behind the truck. The soldiers faced the SUV. Three men from the SUV came out and talked to the soldiers. But Ben recognized the SUV. It was identical to the others that ambushed his convoy.
The three men, in perfect synchronization, pulled handguns out and fired at the soldiers.
"No!" Ben shouted. He stared, horrified. A young soldier fell to the ground.
Ben stumbled back. Think, think! He had to evade them, or fight back. He looked to Yula. Her hands covered her mouth in horror.
"Hide," he whispered urgently. He grabbed her hand and motioned for her to go to the bedroom. He went over to the kitchen and searched for any sort of weapon. He pulled a knife from a butcher block.
He remembered a small window was in the bedroom, away from the front of the cabin. If he could just get out without being seen, maybe he could lose them in the woods again. He hurried to the bedroom.
Voices shouted outside the cabin. Yula stood aside as Ben went to open the window. The glass was a solid pane—not something that opened and closed again. He swore under his breath. If he broke the glass, they would certainly hear.
Ben didn't have many options. He turned to find something to break the window with.
"Drop the knife, Mr. President."
Ben froze in his place. The words clearly came from Yula's mouth, which would have shocked him enough, but the gun in her hand clarified his situation. She looked upon him with just a slight measure of satisfaction, but mostly he saw her disciplined stance with the gun.
She was one of them.
He had walked right into a trap, meant to lull him into feeling safe.
She nodded again at the knife. Ben dropped it on the bed.
"Out," she said simply, nodding towards the main room of the cabin. Ben slowly moved that way, his eyes staying on hers.
The cabin door was kicked in and the three men from outside screamed a variety of orders at him. Ben stared at Yula, his eyes boring into hers while the men seized him and yanked him from the cabin.
The cool air that hit him outside made him focus. He thought back to his night-time training sessions and drilled his elbow into one of his captors. The hold on him lessened, and he quickly pressed the advantage to throw off one of the others, but the third captor came forward and kicked him solidly in the chest.
Ben fell to the ground, gasping. His mind screamed at him to get up, to fight, to find a weakness he could exploit. Yula joined the three men in a circle around him and grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head to look up at her.
"Don't embarrass yourself," she said clearly. Gone was any hesitation in her language. She spoke English perfectly well, though he could hear an accent that was European, if not Russian. "You are weak."
Ben's eyes flashed at the words. But before he could resist further and defy her assessment, a sharp needle was shoved into his neck.
