I do not own the characters, content or creativity of the Fast and the Furious or Martial Law movies. This is a Fan-Fiction written solely for entertainment and enjoyment

Chapter 7

Lucas Hobbs stood in Hangar 4 of Gabriel Airlines, a small charter company ran out of Northern Los Angeles. Despite looking comfortable in his jeans and t-shirt that stretched across his massive chest, he felt what seemed like for the first time in his life, nervous and alone. The leather jacket stretched a bit taught due to the pistol underneath it. At his feet was a gym bag with what was left of all of his worldly possessions that he could carry.

The FBI had swarmed all over the city looking for him and Toretto's crew. He heard that Dom, Letty, Brian and Mia had gotten away but the rest of them had been captured. As it was, his face was plastered all over the news and any contacts that he may have had in the government had been burnt. He couldn't run the risk of driving cross country without getting picked up by the highway patrol; he had to face it, he stood out. All major lanes of travel were off limits to him and the charter plane he used for covert missions was in Nevada, which he knew there was no way he could make.

Some fast talking and using the last little bit of leverage left he had available to him, he managed to get this small company to charter a flight out of the country. He made sure to use an alias and cash so he couldn't be traced. He shook his head in fury that things had come to this. That he had to go on the lam for getting payback on the man who killed his team. Some punk, rookie agent was willing to turn him in to the Brazilian authorities over a scumbag. Hobbs realized that if he wasn't so angry about it, he'd find the whole thing funny. As it was, all he could find was that irony was a bitch.

Though he couldn't quite explain it, some sense, an animal instinct maybe, told him that something was dreadfully wrong. That same instinct made him reach into his jacket and pull his gun out. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the object of his dread and hatred. That son of a bitch! He mentally screamed and he turned and pointed his Model 629 at the shadow creeping around the corner.

A loud "boom" reverberated throughout the hanger, accompanied by the sparks the bullet made from the impact against the steel wall. Orson ducked right when Hobbes pointed his gun at him. Popping up, Orson returned fire with his Detonics Scoremaster, squeezing off two rounds. Hobbs size belied his speed because he was already moving behind cover when Orson fired. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the forklift Hobbs hid behind.

"I'm impressed!" Hobbs said from behind the forklift. "How the hell did you find me?"

Orson said nothing but scrambled to another position behind some crates in the hopes that he could outflank Hobbs. His opponent saw this, popped up and fired off another round. Orson dropped into a combat roll and managed to get behind the crates. The bullet slammed into the wood crate, sending up dust everywhere.

"You missed Hobbs!"

"I don't miss too many times!" Came the reply. He popped up to return fire again but to find Orson lying on his side and firing his pistol. Seven shots came from the FBI agent, causing Hobbs to duck his head back down as the bullets ricocheted against his sole protection.

Getting back up against the crate, the young FBI agent extracted the empty clip from his pistol and slammed home a fresh one from his belt; his hands shook as he withdrew the clip. I gotta stop throwing away slugs! He thought desperately as he strained his ears for any sounds of movement. The sounds of gunfire made his ears ring so the task was just that much harder. He slowly raised his head for a quick peek just to drop it back down as another bullet from Hobbs' gun slammed into the wood. That one almost parted my hair! That was too close!

"I noticed you came alone! What, no backup?" Hobbs taunted. "Are you here to murder me Agent Willard?"

"I'd certainly like to, you son of a bitch. But no, I'm taking you down Hobbs!" Orson replied. Behind that forklift, he has way too much cover, we're at a stalemate. I have to draw him out somehow Orson calculated. He took three deep breaths and then popped his gun over his head and blind fired three quick shots. After the third shot, he started to run towards Hobbs' right flank. As he hoped, Hobbs fired at the place where he had been, at the crates.

Realizing his mistake, Hobbs whirled around and fired at the last position where he thought he saw Agent Willard and then fired again. He realized that he made another mistake and that his opponent was nearly behind him. He spun around again to see the extended compensator on the barrel of the agent's Scoremaster pointed at him. Willard was laying prone and pointing the pistol up at Hobbs from twenty feet away.

"Drop it Hobbs, it's over!"

At first, Hobbs wanted to prove Willard wrong and put one right between his eyes, but he knew that the agent had the drop on him. He'd seen Agent Willard shoot firsthand and knew that he couldn't miss at this range, especially in the prone position. With a smile and a shrug, he let his .44 Magnum drop to the ground.

"You never answered my question, how did you find me?"

"Alyssa Michaels." Orson replied as he stood up quickly, making sure to still train his gun on Lucas Hobbs. The former DSS agent look confused and Orson took considerable pleasure in enlightening him.

"You see, I found an old picture of you and her in your apartment. What struck me was where the photo taken. Given your training, I knew you wouldn't go to ground in obvious places where you could be easily found. Every conventional route out of the state was closed and your ability to access DSS resources was cut off from you. Even still, there was virtually no tracing you down or predicting where you could possibly go.

"I talked to Alyssa y'see. Granted, the two of you haven't spoke in over ten years but I showed her the picture and asked her where it was taken. Turns out it was taken in Bali. So I started asking myself, 'if I was on the lam, would I go back to a place were I was truly happy?' The answer was yes. So I started checking for flights, charter flights to Bali since you couldn't use the major airports. I found ten charter flights that international capabilities in the greater Los Angeles area. Only one of them had filed flight plans for Bali within the last eight hours. Even the shadiest aircraft companies have to file a flight plan which is federally flagged. So yeah, basically I played a hunch and it paid off."

Smiling, Hobbs started to clap. "You're a pretty bright guy there, Willard. Didn't think anybody would think to look for charter planes, let alone narrow down a location like that. I've gotta say...I'm impressed."

"Enough talk!" Orson snapped! "Agent Lucas Hobbs, I am hereby arresting you for the charges of murder, assaulting federal agents, attempted murder and resisting arrest. Not only that, my jaw still hurts like hell. Lay on the ground and put your hands on your head, now!"

Another shake of his bearded head and a smirk of disgust, Hobbs complied and lay down on the ground. While still pointing the gun on Hobbs, Orson withdrew his hand cuffs and approached the prone man slowly and cautiously; he knew that Hobbs was still extremely dangerous.

"Too bad Hobbs, you almost got away. Your ride to paradise is coming and you're going to miss it."

"No, no I won't!" With a speed coming from years of training, the DSS agent swept Orson's legs out from under him with a slick, sweep kick. As Orson went down, he kicked the gun out of the FBI agent's hand and followed up with another kick to the jaw. He heard a satisfying grunt and felt the impact of boot to flesh. The gun went clattering off into the darkness. Rising to his feet, he ripped his jacket off of him. "You ruined my reputation and you ruined my life! Beating the shit out of you is going to be a real pleasure, boy."

With blood trickling from the side of his mouth, Orson scrambled to his feet as Hobbs took off his jacket. "No, you did all of that yourself. I'm kind of glad it came down to this though because as you're implying, this is personal. You're gonna get every square inch of your ass kicked!" He tossed the handcuffs away but before he could get into a fighting stance, Hobbs came charging at him and tackled Orson into a stack of crates with a gargantuan crash.

An elbow from Orson flew into Hobbs' face, forcing him off and allowing the younger man to get to his feet. Hobbs started swinging furiously making Orson dodge and parry each blow. Trying to create some distance, Orson threw a spinning back kick which connected in the center of Hobbs' massive chest, causing him to stagger back. Seeing his chance, Orson followed up with a scream and a windmill kick which caught Hobbs' flush in the jaw, knocking the big man off of his feet.

For Orson, it was a moral victory to knock Hobbs down and it felt good. Hobbs' lashed out with his hands, trying to grab Orson which made him jump back out of the renegade agent's reach. Hobbs got to his feet and feinted like he was going to attack which made Orson flinch.

"Oh yeah, I forgot you were part of that 'Martial Law' bullshit." Hobbs mocked, wiping the blood from his mouth. "You've got some fancy moves."

"They get much better, trust me." Orson replied.

This time it was Orson on the offensive; he charged Hobbs, punching and kicking at the rogue agent. Hobbs blocked most of them and dodged the rest with that uncanny speed Orson still had trouble believing. He caught Orson with a meaty fist to the jaw that rattled him and made his legs go limp like spaghetti. He tried to follow up with a right cross which Orson ducked and countered with a couple of quick punches to the body and an uppercut.

Blood flew out of Hobbs' mouth and he saw black spots. With Hobbs' looking like he was out on his feet, Orson attacked with a jump, spinning back kick which connected with the jaw, spinning Hobbs around like a top; it was like out of a movie. In desperation mode and partly out of delirium, he put all of his weight into a massive tackle which slammed Orson to the ground.

He was all over Orson with huge, hammering fists raining down on the FBI agent. It was all Orson can do to cover up and weather the storm as best he could. There was a momentary lapse in the action as Hobbs paused while trying to figure out a more vulnerable part to concentrate his beating. Orson knew that it was now or never; he threw up his legs and wrapped Hobbs' attacking arm utilizing his Judo techniques. The much larger man screamed in pain as he felt his arm being torqued into an unnatural position.

Seeing Hobbs scream in pain, Orson cried out too but in triumph and intense effort as he gripped even tighter. He had every intention of breaking Hobbs' arm or ripping it off if he could. The two glared at each other with intense hatred as they exerted themselves. Orson extended his hips trying to get more leverage to deliver on his silent vow. He allowed himself a slight smile when he heard something of Hobbs, pop.

Sweat pouring down his face and grunting with effort and pain, Hobbs lifted Orson off the ground, to the young FBI agent's disbelief. Hobbs pulled and pulled until Orson's prone body was eye level with Hobbs. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Orson's stomach as he knew what was going to happen next but was unable to do anything about it. Oh shi... Orson thought in fear. At the last second, Orson twisted to his right.

With all of the force he could muster, Hobbs slammed Orson down onto the concrete, driving the air out of the man with a grunt. Orson lay on the ground wondering if he was paralyzed. Meanwhile, Hobbs stumbled away holding his hurt arm. Stars swam around Orson's eyes as he tried to catch his breath. Pain wracked his entire body but as he began to move his legs, his fear about paralysis was allayed. He slowly crawled to his side, holding himself and groaning.

"Is...is that...all you've...got?" Orson managed to choke out as he slowly got back to his feet. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth and nose. "You...bitch."

That got Hobbs to turn around. "You're a lot tougher than I gave you credit for, I'll give you that. You fucked my arm up something good! But I only need one to beat you."

Swinging with his good arm, Hobbs lashed out, very nearly taking Orson's head off with his massive blow. Orson ducked and the effort caused him to grunt with pain; he knew he had cracked ribs from the power-bomb he received. He caught a knee to the face for his troubles; blood exploded from his nose and he felt a couple of teeth give too.

Again Hobbs swung but Orson gritted his remaining teeth and countered with a sweep-kick which knocked the big man off of his feet. The shock traveled through Orson's body and aggravated his rib injury. He lashed out with a kick to Hobbs' face, paying him back in kind for the similar kick he took earlier.

Both men got to their feet, both swaying and gasping like a couple of punch-drunk fighters. Again Hobbs charged but this time, Orson wrapped his arm around Hobbs' thick neck and squeezed. Simultaneously, he delivered vicious knees to the body with all the ferociousness of a blood-thirsty beast. Hobbs grunted with each blow but continued to drive forward, rushing toward a nearby wall.

The two of them slammed into the wall and through it; it was dry-wall not concrete like the both of them expected. Still the impact knocked the two of them senseless and they crawled around in the dark office like blind turtles. Hobbs got to his feet first but he was noticeably slower from the damage he took.

Orson reached for a couple of broken pieces of wood and stood up. "It's over... you're...over." He managed to gasp out. "I'm...taking you down!"

With a mighty effort, Hobbs swung but Orson parried with one of the sticks and followed up with a furious combo to the head and body, his body remembering the long hours of weapons katas he'd practiced in Shotokan Karate. The sticks made wet sounds of wood smacking on flesh. He spun around and slammed both sticks on Hobbs' head, breaking them. Finally, the rogue agent went down in a heap.

What remained of his improvised weapons, Orson dropped to the ground. Mercifully, Orson followed them, slumping against a wall, trying to catch his breath and blink the blood dripping into his eyes. He could hear sirens growing louder in the distance. He couldn't tell if they were faint because they were a long ways out or because he was hovering on the brink of consciousness. At the moment he really didn't care because he succumbed to the blackness.