A/N

Hang on.

3,200 words.

Jeffersonian Museum, West Wing, Mitchell Exhibition Hall

Booth was on his belly behind the welcome solidity of the modernistic stone bench fighting off a sickening feeling of déjà vu.

Helluva time for regrets…

Pinned down as he was, he made himself ignore the stinging of the gash on his face and the shrapnel in his ass as he snuck another peek through the narrow gap between the bench and the adjacent column with his mirror. He would have laughed at the thought of being wounded in both sets of cheeks if it weren't for the fact he'd apparently piled fuckup on top of fuckup by being so damned gung ho.

When he had jumped for cover behind the blocky bench he'd overshot his target and slid a few feet past it on the tile floor into the open on the other side. He'd had to scramble madly to get back behind cover, but fortunately his miscalculation had been just as much of a surprise to the terrorist barely a dozen yards away. He'd only got off a couple more rounds at Booth, but he'd almost got lucky anyway as one of them knocked a shard off the bench that struck him on the cheek laying it open. If it hadn't been for the goggles he might have lost an eye.

As he was shaking off the sting of the impact he heard the terrorist yell out a curse and a metallic clatter that sounded just like a magazine hitting the hard floor. He's reloading! Booth popped up above the bench seat hoping to take him off guard. He acquired him in his sights for a split second and was about to squeeze off a round when the terrorist slipped behind a screaming woman standing against the left wall of the alcove.

He was stunned for second with a shiver running down his spine at how close he'd come to making the same mistake he'd made in that alley all those years ago, leaving his head in plain sight like a damned fool.

The bomb wearing terrorist finished reloading at the same instant Booth recovered from the shock and dropped out of sight behind the bench. The shot fired that time must have missed his helmet by a mere fraction of an inch.

The large open area, which he was stuck right in the fucking middle of, was in the process of being turned into a recreation of the Greek town – a marketplace, a section of amphitheater, and, across from him, what he guessed what was going to be a one room house with walls on three sides, now occupied by the bomber and his hostages. All the work so far had been on structures and not furnishings so there wasn't shit for cover other than the walls themselves. Booth considered himself lucky that the bench, which clearly clashed with the new theme, was still here. There was a round column to the right of the bench which turned out to be a damned fake, some of the AKs bullets having revealed it for the carved Styrofoam and stucco paint job it was. It was perfectly shitty luck, useless for real cover but impeding his view.

The bastard had taken refuge behind a relatively large blonde woman who had a crying Chinese girl of about five or six clinging to her, probably an adopted daughter. The woman was out front along the left wall of the 'house' and unfortunately provided plenty of cover. Booth would have given anything to have been back a hundred yards with his sniper rifle – even the brief glimpses he was getting of the man's head would have been enough. But this close, practically in spitting distance, he was shit out of luck. Worse, looking around there were no windows or skylights that could be used by a sniper outside. Fuck.

In response to the terrorist's shouted threats, and no doubt the example of the dead woman and her son back in the winding entry corridor, the other women were cowering along the back wall, naturally as far away from him as they could get, twenty-five, maybe thirty feet. They had pushed their children behind them against the wall trying to shield them with their own bodies. But they were still far too close to the bomber for any peace of mind.

Booth's own position was shit. Down low behind the sliver of cover provided by the bench, he could barely see what was going on. He had to settle for quick peeks from between the bench and column, mostly by way of his little mirror. Stick his head up for a shot, even assuming there would be a clear target, and the other man could all to easily shoot it off, helmet or not.

The other man had not fired at him any more other than just a handful of shots after he'd reloaded. The SOB was apparently sharp enough to realize he needed to conserve ammo because Booth could nail him during a reload.

Booth prayed that the crying children, and a few of the women, would settle down. That was the last thing that a twitchy suicide bomber needed to be putting up with.

Problem was, they had themselves a fucked up Mexican standoff though one which seemed lopsided in the terrorist's favor. Booth couldn't attack although he was safe enough behind cover. Small miracle, this man appeared to have no grenades, otherwise it would already be over. On the other hand, the terrorist had his hostages and had him basically pinned down, but if he attempted to move out he became vulnerable to attack.

Shee-it.

Since Booth had no doubt whatsoever the other man was fully prepared to blow himself up, the only reason he hadn't must be that he was still trying to cling to his original mission, which presumably was to drag out a hostage crisis as long as they could. The priority in these things wasn't just a body count in and of itself, but to inflict as much terror and humiliation on the larger populace as possible. Any demands from these assholes were utter bullshit, pure gravy if any of them were met, but generally designed to be impossible. Cocksuckers wanted a situation with no way out so they could go out in a blaze of glory and get their seventy-two virgins.

Booth figured that as long as the other man clung to the front of the wall, indicating that he still had hopes of getting out and over to the intended refuge of the auditorium, that ka-boom time wasn't at hand. But once the pressure started getting to him it was going to get real bad real quick. When the larger mission looked hopeless there would be no reason for him to put off martyrdom and his own reward.

The other man began softly praying in Arabic.

Oh fucking shit. He hoped the terrorist wasn't getting ready to pull that wire ripcord that was dangling out his bomb vest. Several times he'd seen him via the mirror touching it as if reassuring himself his ticket to Paradise was still there. Booth pressed the send button on the radio and muttered his own updated status. He had to simply hope they could understand him. He didn't dare turn up the radio volume so he could hear any response.

Then he used the time to quietly say a couple of prayers himself.

The other man was quiet now, and by some miracle the hostages were pretty quiet too. The short break, if it could be called that, had allowed him to cool off some.

And to realize just how badly he'd fucked things up…

He'd pulled a half-cocked Rambo just like Gregory'd said, totally destabilizing the dangerous situation…

He tried to, but couldn't fully push aside the soul-destroying thought that in his original approach to the exhibition hall he might have been seen or heard, and that the mother and son had been executed specifically to serve as bait for him.

Then in prematurely attacking and cornering the terrorists, he'd thrown off all of the dynamics or, rather, accelerated them. One way or the other, ready or not, this was going to end today – without at least one partner to share watches with, come the first good yawn, or the overpowering need to take a crap, the bomber was going to let it rip. Booth had stupidly and totally forced him into a 'use it or lose it' mode.

Booth just didn't think he could get the drop on him, even if the other man made a small mistake – from his highly constricted spot in cover he just couldn't get up into a decent firing position and acquire the man's head fast enough. The MP5 had to have two hands on it no matter what kind of bullshit you saw in action movies -- yet he needed at least one hand to get up. And the Styrofoam fake column gave no real protection for him to just shift sideways along the floor.

Worse, he'd foolishly deprived himself of the best weapon for his situation…

He glanced at his thigh, and the mouth of the empty holster mocked him. He slapped it in frustration. At this short range the pistol would have been accurate enough, and it was small enough he could have brought it bear on the target fast enough and one handed.

He grimaced. His stupid fucking gesture in giving it to Bones was very probably going to cost some lives.

But as soon as the thought occurred to him he swore he'd never tell her. It was his problem, not hers. He'd take it to his grave – which might now come sooner rather than later making the point moot.

Even shittier, "just wait for backup" in order to let it become someone else's headache wouldn't work either – not that he'd do that anyway. Once the terrorist knew he was surrounded he'd blow, not willing to risk being taken down first, not without his escort of murdered victims.

Still, he might get one chance to take him out.

If the terrorist blew himself up where he stood it was hopeless. But if he really wanted to ensure maximum carnage he would move toward the back into the midst of the hostages.

So he might have a tiny window in which to act.

Problem was… the woman and girl playing human shield in front would likely be caught in his line of fire. But God help him, he'd shoot if he had to in order to save the others -- even though he knew that going down that path meant that he might eat a bullet over it someday. He knew himself too well.

Booth's hands had become sweaty clutching the MP5, and he reseated his hands on the grips nervously. He'd crabbed backwards a couple of feet more so the bench did not block his field of view quite so much, but he dared not go back farther because he had no way of knowing when his legs might become visible over the top of the bench to the terrorist.

After using his mirror for another peek through the gap between the bench and the column, he was considering the risks versus the merits of attempting to turn end over end so that he would be on his back with his feet toward the bench for a better view and mobility – all those crunches should be good for something --when one of his prayers was answered.

His peripheral vision caught some movement to the right, just past the edge of the column.

Thank you, God.

It was the black clad lead man of an element of the local FBI SWAT whom he recognized by sight from prior cases. He tried to remember the name… Davis. The other five men of his team would be stacked up against the wall behind him in the passageway. And they'd had enough sense to not come shouting his name. He still swore he was going to take a scalp over his damned radio situation because between his damaged hearing in the one ear and the need to keep the speaker volume so low that the terrorist couldn't hear – he was effectively deaf when it came to the radio.

The leader, careful to remain hidden in the opening, used his hands to sign, Situation?

Booth signed back, one shooter, hostages, made the shape of a gun with his hand and then patted his own vest and silently mouthed 'bomb'. And of course he pointed in the man's direction through the bench.

Davis replied, Understood.

One more thing Booth had to make crystal clear to him…

He patted his vest again while mouthing 'bomb', tapped his head with his index finger, then made a pistol with his hand aimed at his own head and dropped his thumb like the hammer of a revolver. They had to go for the head shot so they wouldn't set off the bomb themselves. He eyed Davis carefully.

Davis gave him a thumbs up then pointed through the wall in the direction of the terrorist and then finally made a pistol and fired at his own head. Booth nodded and gave him a thumbs up in return. Thank God for small miracles.

He signed another question although he already knew the answer. Do you have the shot?

Davis shook his head No then signaled Wait.

Another team member inched forward into view on his belly beside Davis with a flexible fiber optic scope. He carefully bent the thin gooseneck shroud into a rounded off right angle and carefully eased it out into the open, past the end of their wall near floor level.

Booth held his breath…

The scope guy turned to Davis where Booth couldn't see his answer.

Davis shook his head, No shot. The scope man went prone again to keep watch.

Fuck. Just as Booth had feared, the ends of the wall of the entryway and the wall the terrorist had his back to behind the hostage came the same distance out into the lager room. There was no way the SWAT team could see the terrorist for a shot without exposing themselves. Worse, with his back mostly to the left wall of the display, the bomber was already half facing the direction from which the assault would come – which was further complicated by the fact that as right-handers they'd have to come much farther out into the open to aim their weapons. Fuck.

They both knew they needed a diversion. Booth gave Davis an exaggerated one-armed shrug, Any ideas?

Davis held up a hand, Wait, and turned back to the man behind him then turned around again. He held up a flash bang grenade. This?

Booth considered it for a moment then reluctantly but vigorously shook his head No, and made the movie director's 'cut' motion across his throat for emphasis.

The deafening sound and blinding flash of the special grenade were designed to disorient the target so he could not fight back effectively. But with a suicide bomber that was not all they were worried about – even deafened and blinded it would be no great difficulty for him to simply detonate, blowing himself and those around him straight to hell. And this particular motherfucker had shown some ability to think on his feet. Plus with that flaky TATP shit, just the concussion of the flash bang might set it off. Shit.

Booth racked his brains for a few seconds in vain. He could only think of one diversion even though he didn't much care for it. But it should definitely work. The hostages couldn't wait all day for them to come up with a better one because at any moment the terrorist might realize the jig was up anyway and decide to 'Allahu Akhbar' himself into the arms of those promised seventy-two virgins.

He waved for Davis' attention then gestured...

You. Head shot. On me. Understand?

Davis nodded and gave a thumbs up. From the look his in eyes he really did understand.

Booth took stock of himself. He carefully stretched and flexed his limbs to the limited extent that was safe then he rechecked his weapon. He took one more peek using his mirror to confirm the position of the bomber. Still the same. But the praying had resumed a bit more fervently this time, and Booth still thought that was a bad sign.

He grimaced then nodded as he pre-positioned himself as best he could given the need to stay hidden just a little longer. He owed the women on the other side – he was the one who'd been too slow to stop the first batch of assholes to which this bomber and the one he'd already whacked belonged. No one else was going to die if he could possibly help it. Anyway, who knew? He might even get lucky.

He gestured to Davis, Ready?

He got a thumbs up in return. Davis had flattened himself against the wall to make room for another man beside him who was already turned to his right, the butt of his weapon up to his shoulder at the ready. Must be his best close quarters man…

Booth let go of the pistol grip of the MP5 with his right hand briefly.

He made the Sign of the Cross.

He gripped his weapon again and reached across it with his left and gestured On Me! Go!

Rising up to stand was every bit as awkward and slow as he'd expected.

The woman saw him move a split second before the terrorist and screamed just as the man's eyes widened behind her. Just as Booth had hoped, he couldn't resist the provocation and violently elbowed the woman aside as he aimed his AK from the hip, only a small change from its currently slung position…

The woman and her daughter were falling to the floor…

Booth's weapon was only starting to come to bear, in his case having to come all the way up to his shoulder for an aimed head shot…

Not even close. He took his finger off the trigger so it wouldn't accidentally go off, but continued to raise the weapon maintaining the charade…

The terrorist's eyes narrowed as he squeezed his trigger...

…on full auto.

Booth's old sergeants were wrong. Even half deaf he distinctly heard the muzzle blast of each and every shot.

The first two rounds missed him low to his left, but the recoil made the AK's barrel rise as the shooter corrected his aim laterally.

The rest of the burst stitched diagonally across Booth's armor from his left hip up toward the right side of his rib cage.

The Teflon-coated tungsten tipped armor piercing rounds bashed and slipped their way through the Kevlar fibers of the vest.

Burning sledgehammer blows knocked the breath out of him as he staggered back until a final deep lance of fire took him to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

But on the way down he heard the double bark of the SWAT shooter's M4 assault rifle blowing the other man's brains out on to the wall beside him.