Last chapter...of the first part...of the first book...of the series
which is a prelude to...SIDESTEP:EVANGELION. And with a fitting title
too, but...

I think a sigh is in order.

Note: This will be the last part posted to the FFML. Expect parts of
SIDESTEP:EVANGELION after this.

----------

Chronicles of War

Part 1: Way of the Storm

------------------------------------------------------------------------

    "People are important. Without people there would be no tragedy,
     no appreciation, no nation, no state, no power, no riches, no
     poverty, and no meaning. Life is important; everything else is
     chaff in the wind."

    - James Rahn

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 25: To Dust

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ed watch in horror as mercenaries popped out from behind cover. They
surrounded the hostages like a pack of rabid wolves, and everyone around
the guard froze. He only had a split second to lament the fact that
James didn't remind him about the final, obvious ambush, before said
assassin saved the day.

James blew past the stunned guard like a Olympic sprinter, focused on a
trio of evil-looking men. He hadn't bothered to even palm a weapon, and
charged at the group with each arm flapping in the air like a freshly
cut lizard's tail, screaming his head off. He looked like an idiot.

He was drawing all of the attention to himself.

Ed realized it as Carl and Jimmy and Kat did.

They opened fire.

It was over in seconds.

James stood over a trio of bodies, and the area was clear. Ed blinked,
finding his gun empty and not entire certain who or what he was shooting
at just seconds ago. Carl's face seemed to match the confusion ruling
Ed's thoughts. James was herd the hostages towards the door, still a
bundle of nervous energy.

Ed decided to put away coherent thought for a moment, sad that he'd
finally snapped. It was a shame, really. He had always enjoyed his
sanity. He would miss it terribly.

----------

Carl was falling behind, his leg not working right. His brain didn't
seem to be able to reboot either. The shock from the sudden assault, and
their decisive annihilation of said assault. It was wonderful; being
part of a team, working together to save lives. Wasn't that something
any man could be proud of. Isn't that what James--

"Hold on, dude. I've got you."

Was doing right now?

"You took one in the leg. Nasty, but you'll live." James looked him in
the eye even as his struggled to hold up most of Carl's weight.

"I'm in shock," Carl noted.

"Probably," James said. "But you're also in danger. We're getting out of
here, getting bandaged up, and then you can go home and take a nap."

James smiled, and Carl felt his face distort with a subtle smirk. The
two began limping towards the exit. Most of the hostages were outside
already. They were going to make it.

----------

Clark saw them first, purely by chance. The last word from inside came
from a slightly panicked Kate Dogson, telling the cops to wait on that
side of the mall.

A tall woman with long blonde hair came out first, a dark bandage over
her hair, her clothing soaking wet. A sallow kid that looked like a
stick figure given flesh followed her, then a tidal wave of bodies, like
rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Pretty much what he expected. The lack of huge explosions was a nice
plus, but the gunfire he heard a few seconds before their appearance was
something to worry about.

The police officers around him opened the barricades cautiously. The
woman in the lead locked eyes with him for a heartbeat, and somehow he
knew she was woman on the phone. Dogson. He'd get to her in a second. He
didn't dare count the hostages as they streamed out, some crying, some
hyperventilating. He mental heaved a sigh of thanks to whoever had
picked these people; none were old or weak of heart. Every one of them
dashed across the car-filled asphalt of the parking lot to the police
line without missing a step.

So where was the blond, gun-wielding, bad-ass engineer who was at the
center of this?

"He'll be last one out," Cameins said casually, standing next to Clark
like he was soaking up some sun at the beach.

"Of course," Clark said. He wasn't sure James Rahn would bother coming
out.

Sneak out the backdoor while the world watches the front?

The stream of people thinned out, then a massive man in a wet, torn,
pink security uniform with a missing sleeved opened the doors. He didn't
run, but actually stopped and held the door open for two more men to
come out. One was being held up by the other, and even at this distance,
Clark could see that half of one pant leg was stained with blood. The
second man didn't look so hot either. His clothes were also wet, and he
had bundles of cloth around both hands and his torso. He was shirtless
and all manner of bruises and cuts were plainly visible on his pale
skin.

That was him. Clark would have bet everything he owned. And the man was
helping another wounded hostage out? It didn't fit. Maybe a play for
sympathy? Couldn't be. He was even urging the guard to run ahead,
screaming at him like a drill Sergeant.

"Get the fuck over there, Ed! Fucking run, you dumb son of a bitch! Go,
God damn it! GO!"

The guard reached the them, stopping in front of the Chief to throw him
a jaunty salute and say, "Sir, I don't think we're far enough away."

"I know that," Cameins snapped, then nodded to himself and ran to help
Rahn.

Then the whole world exploded.

----------

The first sign that anything had gone off was a sound like a million
gunshots striking the eardrums of every person with a mile. James and
Carl were nearly knocked off their feet, and the fun had not even
started.

Flakes of concrete, most no larger than a piece of confetti, hit the
struggling pair like a sandpaper whip. Carl twitched, his arms feeling
like they were set suddenly on fire, a sharp pain driving across his
skin and up his shoulders. James forced him to the ground.

Carl struggled to move the assassin. He had a coat on, James was
bare-chested. Carl knew he should have been on top. What sort of mad--

The second explosion hit them like a sledgehammer in the solo-plexus.
Debris rained down around them like hail. Ears still ringing from the
concussive for the blast, Carl watched the debris bounce and skitter
across the asphalt in utter silence while the ground shuddered.

Another explosion went off, then another, and another. The last two rang
out together, like a god had reached down and up-rooted a nearby
mountain. Carl watched in awe as a chunk of steel plate appeared in the
parking lot surface not three feet from him, embedded the ground like a
shiruken. Then he saw the broken glass littering the ground like freshly
fallen snow.

And slowly, he could hear things landing on the cars and ground around
them. Before even these sounds faded, he could make out the sound of
hundreds of car alarms signaling their displeasure of the rampant
destruction of the mall. People were shouting incoherently in the
background as he grabbed James by the shoulders.

"Are you okay?" He moved his mouth. Did the words come out?

James gave him a thumbs up, rose quickly to his feet, and offered Carl a
hand up. Taking the offered limb, Carl settled his weight onto his good
leg. He couldn't see the mall. He could barely see the police. He could
see a few cars here and there, and yes, he could see the awful dust.

James gestured at the instant fog cloud surrounding them. Carl could
just hear the single word the man uttered. "Concrete."

The bombs had vaporized the mall. If he wasn't in so much pain, Carl
would have laughed. Something about the situation now struck him as
simply hilarious.

----------

The EMT's were in a hurry to treat James' wounds, declaring him the most
injured of the entire mess. Chief Cameins beat them to the punch,
however, deflecting their attention to the hostages first. James might
have been largely covered in blood, but he was standing on two feet and
had all but dragged the other man away from the mall.

The Chief grabbed James' elbow in a steel grip. "I'm Jesse Cameins."

"James Rahn. A pleasure."

"Perhaps," the Chief looked ready to say more, but paused. An older man
in a suit immediately appeared by his side and took James' other elbow.

"I'm afraid we'll have to take you into custody," he said in a tone that
rumbled with authority.

James looked past the Chief's shoulder and saw Dave. Dave was many
things, James' friend for one, but more importantly, a man to be
trusted. Especially now. Dave slowly rotated his left hand at the wrist,
as if trying to stretch some taunt muscles. The simple movement was part
of an elaborate non-verbal language the two had worked out over the
years. Dave was telling him not to let himself be lead off to jail. Not
now. James set his shoulders as if in resignation, signaling Dave that
he understood but didn't have an out right now.

Dave looked in the general direction of the mall, and coughed once.

James' cell phone began to ring.

"Is that yours?" the Chief asked James.

"I think so."

Cameins let go of James' arm to shifted his stance slightly, making
himself a smaller and harder to hit target. With his freed hand, James
answered the phone.

"Hello?"

A familiar voice was on the other end. "You like to live dangerously."

"I think the choice you gave me," snapped James, "was liver dangerously
or not at all."

"Then you made the wrong choice."

"Those bombs weren't designed to be disarmed, where they?" No answer.
"Did you tell your men that?" No answer. "You can't hide, little man."

"And you can't touch me. Mr. Rahn, if that is your real name, your life
is over."

James looked at the suited man, who stared back. "You wanna talk to the
terrorists?"

The suit looked at Cameins, who gestured to James. Goddamn police,
thought James, passing the buck. The voice apparently knew he was
through with the interruption, and continued. "Continue to play this
little charade, whoever you are. It no longer matters. The gentleman in
the suit will have you in cuffs within seconds and deliver you on a
silver platter by dinner. Which reminds me, should I reserve another
seat?"

"Only if you're buying," James said.

"At least you earned that license," the voice said quietly. Then the
line went dead.

James hung up the phone. "Little fuck's out of his mind." He faced the
suit. "Are you with the mob?"

The man smiled, showing white teeth only slightly misaligned. The grip
on James' arm became like iron. "Jason Clark, FBI."

"Excellent. I'll take two Quarter Pounders with cheese, small fries--
small, not a large--and...oh, how about a regular coke, and one of those
cookies."

"It's sad that you think you're funny," Clark said in almost a growl.

"I'm as good as dead, surrounded on all sides by enemies and their
sympathizers. I'm cut, bruised, tired, hungry, and frustrated. All I've
got left is my sense of humor. It may be black as a good cup of joe, but
it's mine."

"You are under arrest for aiding--" Clark cut a phone started ringing
again.

Clark glared at James, then looked around. Cameins was also searching
the crowd, then returned his eyes to James as the noise cut out.

James looked at Clark. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Help me cuff him," Clark said to Cameins.

The Chief didn't move to help the agent. "He needs medical attention
first."

Another phone rang. James cursed, and answered his cell phone. "What?!"

Dave tapped the police chief on the shoulder, holding out another phone.
"It's James' mother."

"I'll take it," the chief said.

"She wants to talk to James. She can be...trying," Dave tried to explain
with a helpless shrug.

Cameins held out his hand. "Let me see the phone."

James watched Dave and the chief talk out of the corner of his eye while
he listened to his line. "Unfinished business, Mr. whoever. The blue
T-type somewhere in that parking lot is carrying enough dynamite to put
a good chunk of this crowd in the hospital. Take it to the Pasco
airport--without the police helping you control traffic--and I may let
you live."

James gulped.

"No ma'am, I don't--" The chief looked at James, "Okay, he's right
here," he held the phone out for the engineer.

James shrugged. This was actually kind of amusing, in a poorly-written
Laurel and Hardy sketch sort of way. "Mom?"

"What the hell are you doing out there, young man? Mall destroyed?
People killed? Were you running around with a bunch of terrorists?! What
would your father say?"

James held the phone at arm's length. "If the pope calls, we'll have
ourselves a bona fide party."

"That wasn't funny," Clark said.

A bald man with a well-trimmed beard came up to the chief and whispered
in his ear. The Chief then waved Handleton back and gestured to the bald
man and a guy with a square face and a haircut that reminded James of
carpeting. "This is Peter Bates and Justin Limbaugh. They're detectives
working for me, and recording everything that's been going on your
phone."

James nodded.

"A T-type, what's that?"

"Buick, late eighties. Turbocharged V6, two door. Looks vaguely like a
two-door Olds Eighty Eight," said Dave from behind the Chief, as if he
were reminding the older man of the current weather conditions.

James leaned towards Clark and whispered to him conspiratorially. "It
gets any more crowded here and we'll need a conference table."

Clark frowned, but even as James finished speaking, a stocky man with
black hair came up the Chief. James pegged the short guy a fireman,
mostly on account of the T-shirt proclaiming him a member of the local
fire department. Words were exchanged. Dave began introducing himself to
the detectives. Clark asked some lady for hand cuffs, and just as the
chaos reached a crescendo, Cameins raised his hands into the air get
everyone's attention.

"ENOUGH!"

Mercifully, everyone stopped talking. "James, you need to find that car.
We'll get out of your way, but clearly we can't help you with traffic.
Clark, can you start checking the airport? Get some people over here,
get in the computers, whatever it takes. Bates can get you hooked up
with our people there."

Clark looked like he'd swallowed a quart of bad milk, but let go of
James without hesitation, and said, "Good luck."

"Thank you," James said, honestly meaning it.

"Dave, get the hell out of my hair, and keep his mother from calling me
back. Limbaugh, you keep working on our investigation. Barry, the fire
department can use ten officers from around the mall. SWAT's going to
pull back. And...I'll get everyone else the hell out of here. This place
is officially a disaster area."

"James?"

Everyone turned to face the new voice. James hung up Dave's phone and
returned it to his friend. The two still hadn't exchanged a word.

"Who are you?" Clark asked the new arrival.

"My name is John Bakker. With two k's, and no you can't pronounce it
right."

"You know this man?" Clark indicated James.

"We went to high school together."

Clark shook his head. The woman who had _____ earlier remarked, "What is
this? A reunion?"

John looked pointedly in the direction of where the mall used to be. "I
none of the others are like this."

"Well," John drawled, "At least we'd know who to blame."

James smirked. "Good one."

"Gentlemen," the chief cut in. "Car and bomb?"

James sighed. Loitering in the frying pan or jumping into the fire? It
wasn't as if he liked either choice, but there were few times in the
last years that he did like his choices. "Get me a first aid kit and a
coat," James said to the chief, "If John wants to talk to me, he can
ride shotgun. Dave, clear the parking lot of civilians. The fucker said
I can't get help from the cops. Mr. Clark, your help would be
appreciated."

The woman standing by Clark stopped rubbing her hands together and
watched him closely. The others were silent, and the fire chief slipped
away while Clark considered James' words.

"All right," he pointed to the entrance nearest the freeway. "That one?"

"Yeah," James said. "Mr. Cameins?"

"Yes?"

"For what it's worth," James took a deep breath. The dust was getting
into his eyes, making them tear up. He rubbed at his face. Stupid dust.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. One was killed." Having nothing else to
say, he turned away from the mall. An EMT shoved a box under his arm,
and a minute later, Dave threw his coat over James' shoulders.

"Good luck."

"Pretend I said something witty yet deep in return," James said, then
began jogging between the many rows of cars. John followed.



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