A/N

Approx 2,700 words.

There will be some more POV hopping between different locations and again it is not exactly in real time – IOW they will overlap by the clock. Also, it may take you longer to read about certain events or thought processes than it does for them to actually take place.

Booth ignored the voices on the radio for the moment and shook himself. He needed to pull his head out of his ass and leave the self-pity for later. These bastards had slipped past him, but he still had a job to do. He could only help the people he'd let down if he was focused when another opportunity presented itself to take them out. And the instinctive urge to go charging in the front door right now had to be suppressed because it would accomplish nothing. Instead there was a method to this sort of madness.

"Shoot now, shit later," he reminded himself out loud using the phrase his first drill instructor at Fort Benning had burned into his brains in Basic training all those years ago as the number one rule of combat. No truer words had ever been spoken by a soldier. He needed to become that near contradiction in terms, a highly discriminating killing machine. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths and let the emotion drain away, not gone, but put aside to be dealt with later. Still got it. He was almost calm. He smiled grimly. Back to work.

After all, there actually was one piece of unfinished business he could do something about…

He took another look through the binoculars. They were a lower power magnification than the 6x rifle scope, but they had a broader field of view which made finding the spotter again easier. Gotcha! Better yet, the spotter apparently still had not seen him – which was his first bit of luck since he'd exposed himself like a damned fool a minute ago. At the moment he wasn't even using his binoculars, and the radio was laid on the window sill before him. Apparently the elm trees and parked cars lining the street had kept Booth from standing out too much against the background.

Looking at the broader front of the building he could see small groups of people escaping through the fire exits off to either side. The occasional sound of small arms fire still made it to him from inside the museum.

The radio crackled again and his name caught his attention.

"Booth, are you there? This is Cullen. Local SWAT and a mobile command post are about ten to fifteen minutes out, and a full HRT team coming in by helo from Quantico is probably forty minutes out. Some PD units are already on the way to block traffic and start an outer perimeter. I'm heading down to the Ops Center to meet your Critical Incident Response Group guys. Keep us informed. You've got this channel to yourself. Over."

He keyed the mike, "Got it. Uh, Roger."

The soldier in him had been screaming to take out their eyes and he had a small window in which to do it. Once the terrorists had established their own perimeter and made demands, shooting any of them would be a provocation bringing reprisals against the hostages, and was to be avoided unless it was part of a full assault. But before then, any casualties they took in the act of their assault were fair game in a sense. It sounded insane, but that's the way the psychology worked.

That is, he hoped they were interested in taking hostages and not just hosing down the crowd – the negotiation game would start and play itself out, and that meant there would be some time in which a rescue could be prepped and mounted. But even then he had no illusions about negotiations – all the signs were that these were Islamic terrorists all too pumped for martyrdom -- which he'd be more than happy to assist them with. None of them had bothered to cover their faces, always a bad sign – they didn't care about being ID'ed. Hell, they probably wanted it for fame back home.

Plus, he knew where the spotter was for the moment, but the man could spot him at any time and pick a better hidden vantage point.

But there was one problem with taking out the spotter – best he could tell the man was unarmed and was not himself directly an imminent danger to anyone. And that was a problem for his law enforcement side. But he was an indirect threat to any assault team and would have to be taken out at some point. The soldier said do it now. He considered kicking the problem upstairs and asking for guidance, but he knew that some lawyers over at Justice would spend too much time in a circle jerk before coming back with the answer, 'No'.

He shook his head. There was no time. His dad used to love the expression, "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission," and it seemed all too appropriate now. But still he was troubled – he could still clearly hear Hodgins' voice, full of scorn, "If you see 'em, shoot 'em." But then he remembered Temperance saying she knew he would do his best to make the hard choices. Well this was certainly one of them…

He made up his mind, and he prayed that he was doing the right thing. The shooters were inside because of him. It was his responsibility. He would do what he had to do, and just have to leave the rest up to God and the Attorney General.

Decision made, he started to take off his suit coat but then thought better of it – the black material was less visible than his white shirt even though it was going to get hot. Still staying in the cover provided by the SUV, he verified the distance to the front steps of the Jeffersonian using the rangefinder from his locker. Three hundred ninety-two meters. Well within the 600m range of the PSG-1, which could reliably put fifty rounds in a three inch circle at 300m. He put the rangefinder back. At this distance the 2,850 feet per second muzzle velocity of the match grade .308 ammo meant his rounds would have a travel time downrange to the target of barely half a second.

He picked up the rifle and slung it over his shoulder, then grabbed another loaded twenty round magazine he tucked in a pocket. Ah, screw it. He took up two more mags. Eighty rounds, counting the load already in the PSG-1, were enough for a freakin' war in 'one shot, one kill' sniper terms, but there was no point in half measures today.

Booth put the binocular strap over his head, placed a sandbag he had in back on the ground, and picked up the transceiver. He closed the liftgate to make the SUV less conspicuous and quickly went around to the passenger side, which was out of view of the spotter, and opened the rear door. He wanted to shoot prone for stability, and had decided to use the SUV for a little elevation. He tossed his gear up on the roof, being more careful with the rifle and its scope, then went back and picked up the sandbag which he was going to use as a rest instead of the miniature tripod that was part of the PSG-1's kit. He noticed that several of the bystanders he'd chased off a minute ago had come closer again. The last thing he needed was his own fan club to draw the spotter's eye.

He ordered them back in his best 'command' voice, "You people move back NOW, across the street!" He pointed then said in a more normal voice. "Otherwise you might get shot at." That seemed to get their attention a little better, but he turned his back without waiting to see what they did -- he really didn't have time for this shit.

He stepped up on the kickplate of the opened door and levered himself up onto the roof, trying to keep a low profile as he did so. He ignored the discomfort of the rooftop rack as he set up. He moved the extra mags, binoculars and transceiver so they would be in reach in to his left, and put the sandbag in front of him as he stretched out on his belly facing the museum. He also ignored something else – the urge to piss just before going in to action had never failed him.

Booth pulled the rifle up from alongside him and situated the barrel hand guard on the sandbag, taking hold of the pistol grip with his right hand. He clicked the elevation adjustment knob on the scope from 300m to 400m , closer to the actual range. Next he licked a finger and tested the wind. A 10mph crosswind would shift his rounds thirteen inches at 400 yards, requiring compensation. Barely moving. Good. He looked at the banners on the light poles in front of the museum for confirmation, and they were sluggish. He gave the windage knob a single click.

He got on his elbows, brought the rifle butt to his shoulder, and settled his face against the elevated cheekpiece on the stock which perfectly aligned his right eye with the rubber eyecup of the scope. The various ergonomic adjustments on the high end rifle meant it fit him like an extension of his body. He flicked the safety off, rested his trigger finger against the outside of the trigger guard, and slewed the rifle to acquire the spotter again through the scope…

He stopped, lifted his head back up from the scope, and stared off into space, seeing nothing for the moment.

Although the man was no ordinary criminal, as far as Booth knew he had directly harmed no one. And this wasn't war, at least not quite. He shivered. What he'd almost done would probably be considered murder. The fact that no one else would probably ever have been the wiser as to the precise circumstances was irrelevant – he would know, damn it. He couldn't do it. He flicked the switch back to 'Safe'.

No, he'd just have to play the waiting game for now. He lowered his head to look again through the scope, and located the spotter again. But this time he received a shock. As he noted that the spotter now had the binoculars raised to his face as he scanned the Mall, Booth saw something he had not caught through the lower power binoculars – the long barrel of what looked like a hunting rifle leaning against the window sill. The sons of bitches had brought their own sniper! Not taking his eye off the other man, Booth reached with his left hand for the radio to report just as he received another shock – the spotter/sniper gave a start, lowered his binoculars briefly to orient himself, and raised them again, it seemed looking directly at his position. Dammit! The other man suddenly dropped the binoculars and reached…

Without any conscious thought Booth dropped the radio, grabbed the forestock, flicked off the safety, took a deep breath, let half of it out and held it briefly as he squeezed off two rounds, the heavy weight of the rifle absorbing nearly all of the recoil. He fired the second round so quickly that the first was still in the air heading downrange. In quick succession they reached the target, and the sniper's head exploded before he dropped from view inside the room. His shots still echoed from buildings along the Mall. There were a few screams from the onlookers behind him.

Forty-four.

Booth exhaled the rest of the held breath then breathed heavily again before settling down. He watched the empty window frame through the scope for a few more seconds as he considered what he'd just done. Lord help him, for the moment at least, he felt nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done.

But for the rest of his life he'd never know for sure whether the other man had been reaching for the gun or the radio.

He quit woolgathering and reached for his radio. There was more work to be done.

Clip-Clop Clip-Clop, Clip-Clop. Clop, Clip, Clop.

Booth must not have heard it sooner because the ringing in his ears caused by the muzzle blasts was still fading. Before he could react he heard an authoritative voice…

"Identify yourself, mister! NOW! Nice and slow…"

Letting go of the rifle he rolled on to his left side to face the rider, a grim-faced woman in the uniform of the National Park Police. On horseback she was as high as he was, but the main thing he noticed was her drawn Glock held in both hands. It wasn't quite aimed at him, but it was close enough and she held it steady as the horse fidgeted restlessly under her. She'd dropped the reins and was controlling her lathered mount with just her knees.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI. I'm reaching for my ID."

Moving slowly, he retrieved it with one hand and offered it to her. She nudged the horse closer and reached out with her left hand to take his eye ID, otherwise keeping well out of his reach. He noted her good technique with professional interest – she'd kept her still drawn pistol in her right hand pulled back so he couldn't grab it, and she backed away a few feet before checking his ID.

"Ok, sorry about that." She tossed the ID back and holstered her pistol. "Nobody said FBI was on scene yet."

"I'm afraid I'm it for now. I just happened to be headed this way and beat the rush."

"Well we just hauled ass from a couple blocks over." She patted the horse with one hand and waved behind her shoulder toward the Washington Monument with the other. "Heard about the bombing then about a man with a rifle." She pointed toward the Jeffersonian. "What's up with the fireworks?"

"I had to take out a sniper." He didn't elaborate.

"Shee-it. So it's not just a bomber." She made a face. "Fucker had it comin' I guess. How can I help?"

"Main thing is to get these people back, at least to Constitution." That was the main street he'd turned off a hundred feet back. In the other direction, south on 14th, he could see where a Washington PD cruiser with flashers on had already blocked off the intersection with Independence a block behind the Jeffersonian. Help was on the way, but there was still no one yet taking charge of the people who'd fled the museum.

"I'm on it." With that the NPP officer drew her baton as she trotted off and started shouting at the rubber-neckers in crowd control mode.

That taken care of, Booth ignored her and turned back to the Jeffersonian for the nastiest surprise yet, after the fact of the attack itself -- he'd missed the arrival of the obviously heavily loaded utility van that careened to a halt at the base of the front steps.

And out of which more armed men began jumping.

A/N

You may disagree with my portrayal of Booth above, but IMO his opening up to Brennan and her support in this story have helped him become more functional as a sniper. Note he is an actor here and not just following orders.

Please R&R. Anonymous reviews ARE turned on!