THE FIFTH COLUMN By Kemystre Fifth Column - (noun) - a secret or subversive group that seeks to undermine the efforts of others and promote its own end. ---Encarta World Dictionary AUTHOR: Kemystre RATING: NC-17 for language, violence and sexual content KEYWORDS: post-Sixth Extinction: Amor Fati CLASSIFICATION: MSR, X, MA, SA, SkA (Angst all around), ST, MT ARCHIVE: Yes, as long as all headings and my name remain on it. But please ask first, I'll want to visit it! :) DISCLAIMER: So, okay, they aren't really mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. No money will be made. No infringement is intended. FEEDBACK: Please at kemystre@aol.com SPOILERS: Biogenesis, Sixth Extinction, Sixth Extinction: Amor Fati, Unusual Suspects, Three of a Kind, Squeeze, Tooms, Detour, Pusher, Pilot, Duane Berry, Ascension, One Breath, Triangle, The Unnatural, Fight the Future, Paper Hearts. SUMMARY: After the events of Sixth Extinction: Amor Fati, Mulder and Scully come to a crossroad in their relationship. The decision that Mulder makes will forever change their path together and quite possibly cost Scully her life. AUTHOR'S NOTES AND THANKS: At the end. ~ Introduction ~ Evolution has brought the human being to where it stands today. It has molded and shaped the mind, body and spirit. In doing so, evolution has separated the human from other beasts that walk the Earth. Evolution has given the human being both a mind and a soul, or heart. It has given the human the capacity to be ruled by both, although each is a distinct entity unto itself. The mind is capable of intellectual reasoning. It can solve puzzles, recollect events and then categorize and cross-reference them. It is a warehouse for information and thoughts. It is calm and rational. The heart, however, is the ruler of emotions. It is the center of one's innermost character, feelings and inclinations. The heart is only rational when in agreement with the mind. It is the center of moral judgment, thus creating both the most wonderful aspect and the most vital flaw of the human condition. This duality is an intrinsic aspect of human nature. It shapes the human into the person that they become. It affects every life decision that they make. Often times the heart and mind agree, are as one. But just as often the two are at odds creating the eternal struggle that is forever within man. The heart and mind lead each man down different and distinct paths. These paths are determined by the strength of the man's heart and mind. At each crossroad in his life man must face down the internal struggle that is within him, letting either his heart or mind determine the direction that he will take. Day Three 5:14 a.m. Office of Lieutenant Colonel Norman Brady United States Air Force Undisclosed location. "Sir, we have the aircraft." Lieutenant Colonel Norman Brady leaned forward in his worn leather chair, his forearms firmly resting on the polished, walnut desktop. He nodded his head several times before speaking. "Good. Very good." Those were the exact words he wanted to hear. There had been no room for error on this mission. The plane was the key. Their future depended upon it. Soon they would acquire its contents, too. He felt himself relax, if only slightly. We can continue now, he thought. All of his years of trained military stoicism couldn't discourage the small smile he felt forming on his lips. He knew that this wasn't the end of the ordeal. It was only the beginning. There would be much to do after the contents of the aircraft had been secured. He would, of course, have to ensure that their security was not breeched further, that they would be able to go on, move forward. The airman, having not yet been dismissed, stood stiffly in the doorway to his office. A wistful grin grew out of the lieutenant colonel's stoic smile. He remembered fondly what it felt like to be so young and idealistic. Yes, the young airman was a good solider. His heart was in the right place. He reminded Brady so much of himself when he was that age. He nodded in the direction of the airman, letting his smile turn to one of appreciation. "That will be all," he said. Even after the airman had departed he couldn't shrug the smile that was still upon his lips. For a moment he could feel the years melt away. He had spent the better part of his six decades serving his country. He had flown combat missions in the Vietnam Conflict. He had commanded during the Gulf War. But this post, this assignment, had given him the most pride and fulfillment. With it had come the opportunity that he had waited for his entire life. This was the assignment that he had sacrificed so long for, so hard for. He had watched his friends and his own men die in combat. He had lost his wife and family because of his single-mindedness. Through it all, his beliefs had never wavered. He had been scared, especially over the last few hours. He had physically felt everything slipping away, but it hadn't. Everything was going to be all right. They were not going to be compromised. The project could continue. Day Three 6:06 a.m. Fox Mulder's Hotel Room Fenton, New Mexico Mulder had fallen asleep with his cell phone next to him. He had been sleeping peacefully, for the first time in weeks. He was dreaming, his eyes in constant motion beneath tightly closed lids. When he awoke he would remember an incredible vision, a dream focusing on the conspiracy surrounding "Spam" and the power that it held over those who consumed it. Although still asleep, Mulder lurched forward when his cell phone trilled beside him. The second ring caused him to sit up in bed, awake and alert, with the bed sheets still tangled around his long legs. His hands automatically began groping for the phone in the darkness. He found it, one hand flipping on the bedside lamp, the other hitting the send button. He hesitated for a moment, holding the phone away from his ear, staring at it out of the corner of his eye. For a split second he considered disconnecting the call. He closed his eyes, silently cursing himself for his own weak heart. Even after all that had happened he wasn't strong enough to take the next step. He cleared his throat and brought the phone to his ear. "Mulder," he said. "Uh, Agent Mulder...um, I think I..." "Sheriff Phillips?" he interrupted, unsure of whether he was relieved or disappointed by the caller's identity. "Yeah, um...Deputy Johnson just called and woke me up...well, maybe you should turn on your T.V....You see he gave your partner a ride earlier tonight, to the airport, you know, and well..." Mulder searched through the rumpled and twisted blankets once again, this time for the remote. He flipped on the set and waited for the picture to come into focus. The local morning news was on. He turned up the volume slightly and twisted in bed to get a better view of the set. The sheriff seemed to have been waiting to hear the television come on. He cleared his throat loudly before speaking again, "Anyway, Andy remembers asking Agent Scully what flight she was going to take, you know just making small talk and all, and well...um, the news..." The sheriff's voice faded into the background as Mulder's full attention became focused on the news program. The pretty, blonde news anchor spoke solemnly, "Once again our top story for this morning, American Airlines Flight 247, en route from Santa Fe to Washington, D.C., has apparently been hijacked. As of yet, no one has come forward to claim responsibility for the..." Mulder felt his stomach fall to the floor. "What flight?" he said in a strangled voice. "247." ~ Chapter One - There Is No Turning Back ~ Day Three 6:11 a.m. Fox Mulder's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico He couldn't move. In the space of a second, Mulder felt his body go numb. The cell phone slipped from his hand and fell silently to the floor. A low gurgle of sound escaped from his lips. He was certain that it was the sound of his last breath. The numbness ebbed for a moment, if only to make way for the pain. His chest hurt, a horrible ache, burning and searing through his body, radiating outward from his heart. His mind took control and wrapped itself around that one thought. The muffled sound of the sheriff's voice made its way to the edge of Mulder's perception, pulling him harshly back from the ledge, away from his gut reaction. He concentrated on the muffled sound of the sheriff's voice. He bent slowly at the waist and blindly grasped his phone, at the same time reaching for the pants he had quickly shed and haphazardly discarded only hours before. "Agent Mulder! Agent Mulder! Are you still there? Look, I..." "I'm still here," was his terse reply as he cradled the phone between his face and shoulder, hurriedly slipping one leg into his trousers as he listened to the sheriff. "O...Okay. Like I was saying, um, I put a call into the state police in hopes of getting some more information. I'm still waiting for them to return my call." The sheriff paused, as if waiting for a response. When he did not get one, he prompted, "Agent Mulder?" "Yeah," Mulder replied a moment later, only half listening to the sheriff as he searched for the rest of his clothing. "Is there anything else that I can do?" "Call me when you hear back from the state police," he answered, ignoring the wayward emotions flowing freely through his heart. He pushed the cancel button before the sheriff could respond. Amber Evans' stark voice filled the room and Mulder abruptly stopped his search for clothing, turning to watch the newscast. He dialed the number for Information, never taking his eyes away from the program. He asked for American Airlines and roughly pulled his fingers through his already spiked hair. "...The FAA reported, some forty minutes ago, that air traffic control lost radio communication with Flight 247 just moments after take off. The tower assumed there was a malfunction with the aircraft's radio and was working to diagnose the problem. At 5:37 a.m. the pilot radioed air traffic control and simply said, 'I have been instructed to tell you that we have been hijacked.'" Mulder vaguely recognized the click signaling his transfer from Information to the airline. His patience was rewarded with the dull bleating of the busy signal. He hit the cancel button as he dropped the phone on the bed and returned his full attention back to Amber Evans and the newscast. "Flight 247 carries 147 passengers and crew members. American Airlines has informed us that they will not release the identities of the passengers until all family members have been notified. The flight is scheduled for a layover in Dallas, although there is no word yet as to whether it will adhere to its flight plan." When Miss Evans' announced, a few moments later, that she must break for a long overdue commercial, Mulder was left feeling alone, isolated, and frustrated with his helplessness. The small motel room seemed to close in around him as a thousand doubts and questions filled his mind. He tried in vain to remain rational and calm. He tried to resist the urgent pull that he felt from within, imploring him to act, to rush forth and do something, anything. His heart beseeched him, begged for him to listen to its impassioned pleas, insisted that Scully was in trouble, that she needed him. He couldn't listen. He refused to let those feelings overwhelm him. Things were different now. He stood there, in the middle of a motel room in New Mexico, a dangerous and silent battle ragging within him. He didn't know what to do, what to think, how to feel. Everything had changed, Mulder had seen to that himself, and now he was faced with the repercussions, as damning as they were, in all of their glory. Beyond everything that had taken place, all of the hurtful words that had been exchanged over the past two days, he couldn't let go. He had to help her. It wasn't just his heart or mind talking, but his entire being. He was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, interwoven with her, needing her beyond carnal desires, and that was something he could not deny. For a moment he tried to console himself, reasoning that Scully may, in fact, not be on the ill-fated flight, that the sheriff and his deputy were mistaken. In his heart, however, he knew the truth. Without even thinking he picked up his cell phone and dialed. "Skinner." "Sir, Agent Mulder here. I need some information," he said, desperately trying to remain calm, but failing miserably. The Assistant Director paused for a moment. Mulder could hear voices in the background on his boss' end of the line. "Look, Mulder. I've kind of got my hands full right now. I'm helping out Domestic Terrorism. An airplane was hijacked this morning." "Have you received the passenger manifest yet?" he interjected quickly, sensing that Skinner was about to terminate the call. "Yeah," Skinner replied impatiently, "it was just handed to me. Agent Mulder, I really have to go now. I'm expecting a call from..." "Agent Scully may have been on that flight." Day Three 6:24 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Dana Scully sat silently in her seat. The young woman in the seat next to her was starting to make her sea sick, correction--air sick, she was shaking so violently. Scully felt almost certain that their captors would beat the woman senseless at any moment. They were watching her neighbor with great interest. Scully was seriously regretting trading seats with her before the flight began. She felt claustrophobic, trapped between the aircraft and the trembling woman. Scully took a deep breath and slowly surveyed the situation once again, recommitting every detail to memory. She would need the information later to pass along to the proper authorities, and, no doubt, need it to fill out a twenty- page report. Probably in triplicate, she thought wryly. She pushed down against the resurgence of fear, willing it to stay within the confines of her heart, not allowing it to flow freely through her veins, poisoning her. There was no room for doubts, she reminded herself sternly. She had to believe that this ordeal would end and that it would end well. If she couldn't do that, she would never survive the next few tumultuous hours with her sanity intact. She let go of the breath she hadn't realized she was holding and continued her survey. Since she had booked the flight at the last minute, she had been forced to take one of the few remaining seats in the business class section. As of yet only two hijackers kept watch in her section of the plane. Their presence was daunting at best. They loomed near the front of the cabin, guns held at the ready. One was short and lean, his hair slightly graying under the cap that was perched atop his head. He wore a wily look of menace, one that dared the passengers to resist and face the consequences. He seemed eager and impatient to thwart any such attempts as he bounced on the balls of his feet and fidgeted endlessly with his weapon. The other was taller and more relaxed, clearly in charge of the area. He had been the one that had spoken earlier, when they had made their evil intentions known. His voice had been deep and raspy, managing to send a shiver up Scully's spine. In total she had seen five different men now. All were relatively young and clean cut. The other three were dressed the same as the two in her section, and could easily be mistaken for soldiers in camouflage combat gear. All five men carried an assault rifle, an M-16 Scully thought. The captors had been quiet for a while now, ever since their initial insertion. She had yet to see anyone that could clearly be construed as the leader of the group, although Scully thought that he might be in the cockpit. If any of the crewmembers knew why they had been taken hostage in the sky, they had yet to relay that, or any other information to the passengers. She wasn't as apprehensive as she had been initially, although she was still nervous, and understandably so. The quiet, yet ominous, demeanor of the hijackers had calmed her nerves and partially assuaged her fears. Scully was fairly certain that they did not intend to harm anyone, at least for the time being and not without provocation. Although, after this ordeal, Scully felt certain that Mulder would never be able to convince her to get on a plane again. A ragged sigh escaped from her throat as her helpless heart clung to his image, refusing to relinquish its hold. Her heart constricted painfully in her chest as she tried to push the image of him away, out of her thoughts, out of her soul. She refused to go down that path, to think of him, to remember. Yet deep within her she knew it was inevitable. Mulder was a part of her and had been for so very long. Scully closed her eyes in frustration, stamping down tightly against the memories that began to flood her. She cringed inwardly at the lack of control she had over her own will, her own heart. She forced herself to relax then, giving in to the inevitable, allowing him to come to her in the only way he could now. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 7:53 a.m. J. Edgar Hoover Building, Basement Basement Office of Fox Mulder Washington, D.C. Scully arrived at work early. It had been a week since she had last spoken to Mulder, since she had stood in his hallway and he had proclaimed her to be his touchstone. She had needed the time away from him, a chance to reflect, an opportunity to discover what was left in her heart. Everything that Scully held sacred had been challenged. Her faith in God, her belief in a science that had not been able to save him. She had almost lost him. She would have if Diana Fowley had not intervened. Scully could not reconcile herself with that, with everything she had been through, had seen. She had needed this time. She had needed to recover, to rethink, to resolve. Scully moved across the office, a small smile gracing the corners of her lips as she lowered herself into Mulder's chair. She had been unable to resolve her inner struggle with her faith. She had been unable to dismiss the feeling of trepidation that surrounded the events of the last month. So much had happened; so much had changed and only now was she able to realize the implications of it all. Two sleepless nights ago she had stood at her bedroom window, bathed in light from the streetlamp below. She had longed for internal peace, for the raw aching of her heart to subside. As she had stared blindly into the night, scenes flooded her mind, so fresh and vivid that they seemed to have taken place only moments before. The emotions they evoked were as strong as the first time she had experienced them. Scully had watched, passively, as her life was played out before her eyes. Her father's strong hands. Her mother's warm smile. Her sister's impassioned beliefs. Her daughter's lost soul. Her heart ached. His smile. The pain softened. Scully had almost been able to feel his soft touch on the small of her back that night, gently urging her forward. It had just come to her then, almost as an epiphany, a serendipitous discovery. She was ready. The restless feeling that she hadn't been able to shake lately, it had been trying to tell her something. She needed more. Hell, she had thought wryly, even Mulder knew that. Scully had hated to admit that he was right, that he had more insight than she into her own heart than she did, but he had been right. She wanted a life, not an ordinary life, one with him. She didn't have grand notions of being swept off of her feet. He had done that slowly over the past six years. She wasn't envisioning a white picket fence and a dog named Sparky, she didn't need those things. She needed him, a Mulder who was more than a partner, more than a friend. She was ready to take the next step. She wondered if he was ready as well. She had been plagued by that simple question for two days now. She couldn't understand why the answer continued to elude her. She knew, in her heart, that Mulder loved her. She had clung to that truth tightly in the ensuing days and nights. It had insulated her against the doubts that continued to plague her, the lack of instinct she felt concerning her partner's aspirations for their relationship. Scully silently vowed that his intentions would not remain a mystery much longer. Soon, she thought, very soon. Maybe today. She looked down at the file on the center of his desk, reluctantly turning her mind away from her partner. Skinner had sent a file down yesterday afternoon and she hadn't had a chance to read it thoroughly yet. He walked through the door then and she looked up. Scully felt herself tighten as she took him in, memories from their last meeting buzzing through her mind, crackling like electricity. He was wearing her favorite black Armani suit, the one that had caused her more than a few torrid and delicious dreams. Scully smiled as she watched him stride purposefully across the room, expecting to meet his hazel eyes, a sight she had denied herself for far too long. Mulder finished his walk across the office, a stale grimace on his pouty lips, and stopped directly in front of his desk, his eyes never meeting hers. He stood there for a few moments while she regarded him. Her brow furrowed in contemplation as he stood before her, his hands on narrow hips, his haunted eyes focused on his desktop. He looked annoyed, agitated, she noted. Scully rose slowly from his chair, placing her palms flat on the surface of the desk and leaning in. She cleared her throat quietly before speaking, "Good morning Mulder. It's nice to--" "Morning," he said interrupting her. He moved stiffly around to the other side of the desk as Scully took a large step to the side. He still hadn't met her eyes. She stood next to the side of the desk as he sat down heavily and flipped on his computer. Scully studied Mulder for a moment, trying to discern the source of his foul mood. Coming up with no obvious explanation, she opted to ignore his demeanor and get back to work. "Skinner sent this file down yesterday afternoon," she offered, reaching for the file in the center of his desk. No response. She frowned slightly, "I haven't had a chance to go through the details, but it appears to be something we might want to look into. I glanced through it yesterday. Some families in Wilmington, Delaware are claiming that their teenagers have become possessed after visiting an abandoned church. Apparently the local authorities have used Mesa equipment to detect the presence of...spirits," she said, arching an eyebrow in his general direction. "No. I've already got a case," he said tersely. Scully's posture automatically became guarded at the severe tone of his voice. She straightened herself and began to open her mouth to respond to his clipped declaration. At the last moment she opted to bite her tongue instead. Adept at dealing with Mulder's many moods, she decided to try and play along. "So Agent Mulder, care to share with the rest of the class?" she asked in a controlled tone. "No," was his simple reply. A silent and uncomfortable moment passed. He stopped playing with his e-mail and let out a long sigh, scrubbing his face with his hands. Turning in his chair and looking in Scully's direction, he spoke. "I'm trying to confirm a couple of things and then we can talk about it, okay?" he asked her right shoulder. Scully slowly nodded her head, a look of pure confoundment on her face. "Sure Mulder, whatever," she answered in a monotonous voice. With that she walked slowly over to her table and picked up her black leather briefcase. She paused, dropping her head fractionally, as she slipped the thick strap over her shoulder. Without looking at him she said, "I've got a meeting." She walked out of the office and down the hall without looking back. Mulder's ability to erect instantaneous fortresses around himself was nothing new--rare, but certainly not new. What she didn't like was the moat. Sure, he had closed himself off to her before; she couldn't fault him too much for that. She had done it many times herself, pots, kettles and all. She shook her head. What was bothering her, the heart of the matter, was that she thought they should be past all of this, after everything they had been through, especially over the past year, the past few months. Maybe that was all just wishful thinking, she chided herself. Maybe they hadn't come that far after all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Still two days earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 10:25 a.m. J. Edgar Hoover Building Basement Office of Fox Mulder Washington, D.C. Scully had returned from her meeting about an hour after their exchange. She had slipped in quietly, seemingly without him noticing her return. Wordlessly, she lowered herself into her chair, pulled out her laptop and begrudgingly began work on their monthly expense report. She dug in, refusing to spend any more time trying to traverse Mulder's self-built moat. If he wanted her to know what was wrong then he'd just have to lower the drawbridge. After an hour of thick silence, only interrupted by the sound of the two agents pecking at their respective keyboards, he finally spoke, "I need to go see the guys." At the sound of his voice, Scully stopped typing and looked in his direction. He was still staring at his computer monitor, glasses in place. After an endless moment, and what seemed to Scully like an after thought, he asked, "Do you want to come along?" "That depends, Mulder. Do you plan on telling me what's going on?" she asked, her patience with Mulder's distant behavior wearing thin. She was trying very hard to cut him some slack, after all, he had been through a lot lately, but she certainly didn't appreciate being treated as if she didn't exist, as if she was nothing more than a loyal sidekick, especially not today, not after her revelation. Although his eyes never wavered from the computer screen, he seemed to be considering his words. He took in a long breath and let it out before pulling himself up from the chair. "In the car," he said, almost reluctantly, "I'll tell you in the car." He looked in her direction and almost met her eyes. Day One 11:01 a.m. En route to the Lone Gunmen's Lair Washington, D.C. "Well?" she asked after he gave her a very rough overview of the case. His demeanor had softened somewhat since they had left the office, but Scully couldn't manage to keep the edge out of her voice. Something about Mulder's mood didn't set right with her. He was holding something back, she was certain of it. "What, Scully?" he asked, interrupting her silent speculations into his character. "Your theory, Mulder, I assume that you have one," she prompted, not missing a beat, as Mulder pulled into a parking spot near the Lone Gunmen's hideout and cut the engine. "Yeah, I do," he replied as he got out of the car, slamming the door. Scully exited the car slowly, unsure of what had just happened, hell, what had been happening all morning. By the time she stepped up on the curb Mulder was already rounding the corner and heading down the alley. Frohike was standing in the doorway when Scully turned the corner of the alley. He must have heard her thick heels clicking on the uneven pavement because he looked her way. He held the door open for Mulder, who entered without so much as a backwards glance. Frohike stood by the door holding it open for Scully when she approached. "Agent Scully. Nice to see you as always," said the older man, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Scully acknowledged his greeting with a stern look of warning and stepped inside. Ever since she had been tricked into helping them in Las Vegas, he had been looking at her like she was a hot fudge sundae topped with a cherry. She found Mulder standing in the middle of the main room. He and Byers were engaged in a hushed but serious conversation. Byers looked up as Scully entered the room, smiling slightly at her. She managed to nod in acknowledgment. When she took a couple of steps in their direction, Byers' eyes flew to Mulder, who stopped in mid-sentence. Scully let out a silent sigh, wondering once again why Mulder was acting so strangely. After a deep breath, she stepped forward, determined not to let Mulder shut her out, at least not where the case was concerned. Byers looked uncomfortable, something was definitely afoot, she thought. Mentally pushing down her trepidation she moved to stand next to Byers and glanced up at Mulder expectantly. He was still unable to meet her gaze. Well, at least he's consistent, she thought. Byers' cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking. "So you're going to leave in the morning then?" Scully arched an eyebrow, first at Byers, and then directed another one at Mulder. She stared at him for a moment, cocking her head slightly, fully expecting one of the men to explain Byers' statement. In keeping with his mood, Mulder ignored her, again, and addressed the man in front of him. "I think it's only a matter of time before the town is either quarantined or the whole thing is covered up. I need to move fast on this one." Byers nodded his head sagely and hazarded a cautious glance at Scully. "I? Mulder?" she asked, the smoothness of her voice belying the turmoil that raged beneath. Again she did not receive a response. She held back the flippant remark that she felt come to her lips. Scully didn't want to feel angry over Mulder's unwillingness to share the case's details or the distant demeanor that he had adopted since he returned to work that morning. If she were completely honest with herself, she would be forced to admit that Mulder's mood was not the sole source of her disquiet. The morning hadn't went as planned. Mulder hadn't acted as she had anticipated. Had she expected him to pick up where they had left off in his hallway? Was everything suddenly supposed to be different because of the moment they had shared, the feelings she had finally confronted within herself? No, of course not. "Scully," he said, interrupting her thoughts, but never meeting her eyes, "Do you mind? I need to talk to Byers privately." Her mouth opened a fraction, a warm hiss of breath escaping and a cold sense of deprivation wrapping itself tightly around her heart. Mulder just stood there, refusing to meet her eyes, his hands resting sternly on his hips. She mentally threw her hands up in exasperation, turning and walking across the room. She lowered herself onto a nearby ratty couch and closed her eyes, just for a moment, trying desperately to understand what was taking place, why Mulder was pushing her away from this case, from him. She watched absentmindedly as Langly and Frohike exchanged a look and rose from their seats. They crossed the room hastily, stopping next to Mulder. Frohike rested his hand on Mulder's forearm and began to speak. Even though she was only fifteen feet away, Scully could not hear their hushed conversation, but from the look on Mulder's face he was not pleased. "What?!?" yelled Frohike several minutes later, causing Scully to jump in her lumpy seat. She started to stand, quickly thinking better of it. She watched intently as Byers raised his hand, signaling for the older Gunman to back off. His other gripped Mulder's forearm, gently pulling him away from the two Gunmen and out of the room. Langly and Frohike turned and Scully's eyes caught those of the two men, pinning them with her steely blue stare, silently demanding answers. Langly glanced warily at Frohike, who opened his mouth to speak and then seemed to think twice about it. The small man pursed his lips in thought and finally spoke, "Agent Scully, I...well--" He was interrupted by Langly elbowing him sharply in the arm. The Gunman yelped in pain and rubbed his arm gingerly. He shook his head and glared at this friend, "Okay, man." "If you guys have any information concerning--" she started to say, her voice firm and level. "Dana, I can't, I wish I could, but I just can't. I'm sorry," Frohike interrupted softly. He dropped his head and moved across the room to sit in front of a computer terminal. Scully looked up at Langly, feeling the worry playing heavily across her features. He returned her gaze, but only for a moment. He looked to his left as Mulder and Byers reentered the room. "Come on Scully, we've got a plane to catch," Mulder said, not even glancing in her direction as he stalked toward the door. Scully made no move to get up from the ugly couch. Mulder stopped when he reached the door, finally aware that she had not followed. "Scully?" he said impatiently without turning around, "Come on, let's go." Scully directed her gaze toward Mulder before responding, "Excuse me Mulder, did you say something?" She still made no move to leave, not caring if she sounded like a disgruntled wife, she certainly felt like one, at the very least a forgotten sidekick. The Gunmen just stood, together, in the middle of room looking as if they wished to disappear. Mulder finally turned to face her, meeting her eyes for the first time that day. "Yeah," he said, his voice soft, barely audible, "I asked if you were ready to go." Scully held his eyes as she rose from the couch. They just stood there for a moment, eyes locked, each searching the other. Scully could easily read the torment in his eyes. He was hurting. She flinched slightly at the stab of pain in the vicinity of her heart. Her expression softened. She took a step forward, disappointment flooding her as he broke their connection and opened the door. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Later that same day... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 1:03 p.m. Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown Scully waited. In less than thirty minutes, she had packed for their trip to New Mexico. Their flight, however, was not scheduled to leave Dulles until four o'clock that afternoon. Mulder had made the travel arrangements via his cell phone during the long and uncomfortable car ride from the Lone Gunmen's to the Bureau's parking garage. He had told Scully to go home and pack, that he had already filled out the necessary paper work. Although she hadn't appreciated the sentiment behind his quasi-order, she had complied. She understood this Mulder, the one with tunnel vision where a case was concerned. That was what she had told herself then, on their trip to retrieve her car. That he was just focused on the mystery that he intended to solve. That she shouldn't take his behavior personally, that it had not been meant as a slight, that before long all would be well. Yet, her heart had not been able to be so dismissive. It couldn't ignore the pained expression that he had worn, the haunted presence in his eyes. Mulder was in pain, in her heart she knew that, felt it to be true and the truth could not be discounted so easily. Fox Mulder was a complicated man. Scully had known that even before she had met him. She had heard the talk that surrounded him while she was at the Academy. He had once been hailed as the Bureau's fastest rising star, but he had fallen from grace when he had discovered the X-Files. Scully had wondered then, before she knew him, why he had thrown away such a promising career to search the sky for little green men. He had shared the history of his quest with her on their first case together, six years ago. She had felt for him then, sympathized with the pain that he did not bother to hide. She hadn't believed his tale, couldn't believe that his sister had been taken by beings that could not, did not, exist. Scully had begun to follow him on his quest then, until all too quickly it became hers as well. She had been taken, had been lost for three months and had no recollection of where she had been or what had happened to her. Mulder had professed to know. He had been convinced that she had been taken by aliens. At the time she had refused to believe him, although she was quickly coming to believe in him. He had become an integral part of her life, by some unconscious decision that she couldn't remember making. In her mind, she denied this...then. She saw herself as strong and independent and pretended that she could live without him if she was forced to, all the while making sure that she never had to. Before she knew it, he had become her best friend, her only friend. They had endured much in their days and years together. They had watched friends and loved ones perish, survived her cancer, losing the X-Files, almost losing each other. Through it all they remained strong, together. They had been moving forward, toward each other, slowly. They had been so close to something then, although she could only now admit it to herself. Things, however, had changed when Diana Fowley had walked into their lives. She had leveled the playing field, changed the rules. Scully was no longer the only one Mulder could trust, the only one he turned to. Scully would have been a fool if she hadn't recognized how Diana had changed her relationship with Mulder. It wasn't as easy as it once had been, there was something between them, a barrier that neither one seemed capable of surmounting. They had lost the X-Files then and the thin thread that still connected them threatened to snap. She had tried to walk away, in a vain attempt to save herself, her heart. He hadn't let her, had pulled her back in with his words, his almost kiss. She was lost for good then. The next year, this past year, had been hard on both of them, even after they had been returned to the X-Files. Fowley had survived and still seemed to insert her presence between them, pushing them apart. There were moments though, moments when they moved as one again, moved closer together. A navy hospital. A baseball diamond. Mulder had gotten sick then and Scully had went in search of a cure, of a way to save him, of a way to save them both. She had left him behind in doing so and had gone down her own path of discovery. This path had changed her, had left its marks on her soul. She was filled with doubt, was unable to thrust aside the questions that her trip to Africa had raised. When she had returned, Scully had not been able to save him. She had not been the one that he needed. She had told herself that he was still alive, that he was whole again, and that was all that mattered. Her mind's steady and rational assurances hadn't helped to quell her pain, but he had. Mulder had held her face so gently between his strong hands, and she had felt whole again. The light caress of his lips against her thumbs had re-ignited her soul and his words had given her hope. As she stood next to her bedroom window, Scully was unable to dismiss the unsteady feeling radiating outward from her chest. The same feeling that warned her that all was not right, all was not well. ~ Chapter Two - I've Made Up My Mind ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 7:37 a.m. Santa Fe Airport New Mexico Fox Mulder paced impatiently in front of the gate, anxiously waiting for his flight's departure to be announced. He checked his watch once again and scowled in the direction of the employee seated by the gate's doorway. Although only minutes away from boarding, Mulder still wasn't certain that he had made the right decision. Skinner had urged him to return to D.C. after confirming that Scully's name was indeed listed on the passenger manifest. Not having many other options, Mulder had agreed. He wanted to return, wanted to help Scully, but the thought of being even partially incommunicado throughout the five- hour flight was not appealing. He especially wasn't fond of the fact that Scully's plane would land more than two hours before his own. He clamped down hard against those thoughts, they wouldn't help Scully and they sure as hell wouldn't make the five- hour plane ride any more tolerable. Scully's flight had originally been scheduled for a layover in Dallas/Ft. Worth, but Skinner, who had been in constant contact with the F.A.A., had learned that the plane would not land in Dallas as originally intended. Its flight path, as tracked by radar, indicated that it was moving straight for the nation's capitol. Considering past events in Dallas, Mulder was relieved that the flight was bypassing the city. There were no assurances that the plane would land in D.C., but there was also no indication that the hijackers' intended to land it elsewhere. Skinner had questioned him, of course, asked if Mulder had any insight into the act of terror. Mulder hadn't responded at first. He wasn't sure how much he should divulge to his boss. His own theories were loose, haphazardly thrown together at best. When he finally responded, Mulder had said as much. Skinner had seemed to accept this, allowing him a small amount of leeway on the matter, but eager to be informed the moment Mulder was able to make a concrete connection. Mulder had agreed. Skinner had assured him, personally vowed, that once grounded the plane would not be allowed to take off again. The plane and Scully would be waiting for Mulder when he arrived. Mulder didn't allow himself even a moment of reflection after he ended the conversation with Skinner. He had called the airport, booked himself on a non-stop flight home, and hurriedly thrown his possessions into his suitcase. As Mulder had driven to the airport at breakneck speed, he had called the Lone Gunmen and asked them to look into the theories he relayed to them concerning the hijacking. His friends had obviously been shocked when Mulder told them over the speakerphone that Scully was a passenger on the flight in question. All had been quiet for a solemn moment afterwards. It had been Byers who finally broke the silence. "It's not your fault, Mulder," he had said, as if reading Mulder's mind. Mulder hadn't been able to answer. He had known the truth. He had quietly disconnected the call and concentrated on navigating safely through the airport traffic. Just as he thought he could take the wait no longer his flight's departure was announced over the P.A. system. He grabbed his bag from the floor by his feet and practically ran the rest of the short distance to the gate. Day Three 7:42 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Another hour had passed. The plane hadn't made its scheduled layover in Dallas. Scully couldn't say she was surprised by this turn of events and tried to take the deviation in stride. Hijacking a plane for a short hour-and-a-half jaunt seemed like it would be a little anti-dramatic after all. Over the last hour, the two men stationed in the business class section of the plane had begun to take turns patrolling the area, watching warily for any signs of dissension among the ranks of passengers and crew. They still continued to eye Scully's seatmate with unease. Scully didn't blame them; the woman's incessant whimpering was making her nervous as well. The rustling of the curtain separating the business and first class sections of the plane caught Scully's eye immediately. Every muscle in her body tensed as she sat up straighter in her seat, poised. The curtain parted and a third man cautiously, but confidently stepped through. His dark eyes surveyed the group of passengers quickly before he leaned in and spoke quietly to the taller of his comrades at the front of the section. Scully watched him guardedly, taking careful note of his appearance. He was a good three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than the man he was talking to. Under his helmet, his head appeared to be shaved. He certainly looked the part of a rebel commando and his stiff posture and calm air of defiance certainly spoke of a military background. He was most certainly new. His presence brought the total to six, seven if her assumption that the leader was in the cockpit was indeed correct. The man straightened to his full height and walked purposely toward the coach section of the plane. Scully turned her head slightly, watching, as he stepped through the curtain and disappeared behind the dark blue tapestry. When she turned to face forward again, the tall hijacker with the raspy voice had moved to kneel directly in front of the flight attendant, Nancy, seated at the front of the section. Scully watched their exchange with interest out of the corner of her eye. After a few tense moments, the flight attendant nodded slowly, unbuckled her safety belt, and rose unsteadily from her seat. The raspy voiced hijacker reached out and helped steady her. She paused and the large man nodded in the direction of the curtain in front of them. Nancy responded immediately and disappeared behind the curtain. Scully tensed at the change of routine, readying herself for the unknown. To Scully's relief, the flight attendant emerged from behind the curtain a few minutes later, a beverage cart in tow. She served the two assailants first, coffee Scully noted, and then moved warily to take care of the passengers. Scully relaxed slightly, the imminent danger that she feared now avoided. She glanced down at her watch, attempting to calculate when they might land, where they might land. Scully bit back against the feeling of trepidation that threatened to sliver up her spine. She had to stay in control, had to remain calm and rational. She would be of no use when they landed if she didn't. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax, inadvertently allowing her mind to wander. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 4:25 p.m. American Airlines Flight 321 Scully chanced a glance at her partner. He sat next to her, in the aisle seat, his eyes half closed and trained on the back of the seat directly in front of him. She shook her head in frustration and looked away. Any hopes that Scully had regarding an abrupt change in Mulder's insidious mood had fallen to the wayside. He had arrived at the airport just moments before their flight was announced, meeting her at the gate. He had only managed a terse hello before ignoring and avoiding her throughout the entire boarding procedure. Once they had boarded the plane and safely stowed their carry-on luggage Mulder had wordlessly handed Scully the results from the first three victims' autopsies. He had then mumbled something about taking a nap. His posture and demeanor left no room for interpretation. Mulder wanted to be left alone. Scully considered pressuring him for a moment, asking him what was the matter. He would be a captive audience after all. She quickly decided against it. Now was not the time, not when he had been able to reinforce his walls since their exchange at the Gunmen's. There would be opportunities later to try and break down his walls, storm the fortress. She resigned herself to the task at hand and opened the reports in front of her. The three victims that had been autopsied by the local medical examiner were all adult males, ages 21, 25 and 43. The official cause of death in each case differed, heart failure, pneumonia, and liver failure respectively. The deaths, however, did have a common factor. When the autopsies had been performed, it was discovered that all three men were riddled with cancer, massive tumors invading all parts of their bodies. All but one of the men had died suddenly, at home, in their sleep. The young man that had developed pneumonia had been hospitalized, but died within hours. According to the medical examiner, interviews with the men's families had revealed that all three men had only recently begun to feel ill. In fact the 43-year-old victim had received a thorough physical examination only two weeks prior to his death. No signs or symptoms of cancer had been reported. The medical examiner had concluded that the onset of the cancer had been rapid, its destruction to their bodies unstoppable even if detected. Scully closed the reports in front of her and turned to look out the window. On their way to visit the Lone Gunmen, Mulder had told her that there were five victims in all. The two latest autopsies were being saved for her to perform in the morning. Mulder had not hinted at any connection between the men, other than the fact that they all lived in the same small town. He had yet to share with her the case files he had compiled. That was just another thing she needed to add to her rapidly growing, yet ironic, list entitled "Strange Mulder Behavior." Obviously Mulder had been working on this case over the past week, she reasoned. The autopsy reports had been e- mailed to Mulder, last Wednesday Scully noted as she flipped back through the reports. One look at the autopsy photographs had told her that they had been printed on their quirky office printer. When had he been in the office, Scully asked herself. She had been there herself last week, every day, at least until six p.m... Scully barely suppressed an expletive when the plane began to shake violently as they hit turbulence. The quick jerky movement of the plane startled her. Reflexively, she grasped Mulder's forearm and squeezed, anchoring herself. The moment her fingers met his arm she turned to look at him, suddenly realizing what she was doing. She almost gasped in surprise when he turned in her direction, meeting her eyes. She held them, losing herself in the pain and anguish that she found housed within his hazel depths. The moment was lost as soon as it was found. He swallowed hard and a look of pure torment grew across his face. A heartbeat later he pulled his arm roughly from her grasp, quickly looking away. The turbulence was forgotten as she continued to stare at her partner, stunned beyond words. Mulder crossed his arms over his chest and then met her eyes again, but only for a second before he turned and focused on the aisle carpeting, as if it held all the secrets of the world. She just stared at him, too dazed to move and too hurt to respond. She felt the anger and betrayal battling to take control within her. After everything that she had lost, the reality of losing Mulder was becoming all too real. She could sense it somehow, feel it deep within her. Their connection had been broken, damaged. This wasn't Mulder, wasn't the man that she knew, that she trusted beyond hope and reason, that she loved. A week seemed to have changed everything. The turbulence ended as quickly as it had begun and Scully rose quickly from her seat, intending to pull her heart back under control from the private confines of the restroom. Before she had a chance to figure out the logistics of getting past Mulder's long legs, he rose and stepped aside, making way for her. For a moment she was tempted to look up as she moved past him, to try and capture his gaze. She didn't though, she was too scared of what she might find there, of what his truth might be. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 7:51 a.m. Office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C. "What do you have for me?" Skinner barked into his cell phone. "Assistant Director Skinner? This is John Byers...Mulder asked me to call you with any information that we uncovered." Skinner turned to face the bank of windows behind him, lowering his voice before replying. "What have you got?" "We're not sure, maybe nothing. Would it be possible for us to meet with you? In twenty minutes?" Byers asked. Skinner turned and glanced at the group of agents huddled around his conference table. "Yeah, that'll be fine." Day Three 7:55 a.m. Delta Airlines Flight 176 Fox Mulder sat staring out his window, slowly crunching on a salty sunflower seed. His right knee bounced erratically, thoroughly annoying the woman sitting next to him. He would have noticed had his attention not been so focused elsewhere. He'd called Skinner as soon as the seat belt sign had been turned off. The situation aboard Flight 247 had not changed, and his boss had virtually no new information. Skinner had managed to establish a direct link to the F.A.A.'s radar system, allowing his team to track the aircraft on site. They, along with the F.A.A., were watching closely for any further deviation from the flight plan. So far none had been observed. Skinner had also informed him that the regional FBI office in Santa Fe had sent 20 agents to question airport employees, in hopes of determining the manner in which the hijackers had boarded the plane. So far their inquires had not born fruit. Back in Washington, Skinner and his team were reviewing the passenger manifest with a fine tooth comb, trying to determine if the hijackers were listed there. That route also seemed to be a dead-end. Mulder let out an exasperated sigh as he rested his head against the seat back, his eyes falling shut, his jaw clenching. He felt so removed, so helpless. True, he was not a stranger to those feelings, but that didn't make them any easier to accept. He had almost lost her so many times already, more times in fact than he cared to remember. Mulder took a deep breath and let it out slowly, desperate to allay the inevitable. He kept telling himself that Scully needed him whole right now. That she couldn't afford for him to be blinded by his guilt and pain. That he needed to focus, focus on delivering her safely from harm's way. He tried, but he couldn't. He was helpless to stop the flood of guilt that he was drowning in. He knew this would happen, that if he stopped, gave himself a chance to reflect, that he would do just that. Regardless of Byers' words, he had laid the blame directly on his own two broad shoulders, and frankly, he was scared to death that Scully's demise would rest there as well. He knew, in his heart, that he could not live with that, could not live without her. Even though that was what he had been prepared to do. He had been determined to go on without her, to set her free. He had been ready to do that. He had actually started to do that. He had thought he could survive, alone, without her. A breath hitched in his chest. Mulder steeled himself against the angry tears that were threatening to fall. Steeled himself against his heart. He chastised himself inwardly, trying to rebuild his resolve. He straightened himself in the seat. The decision had already been made. It had been made before any of this had happened, he reminded himself, five nights ago as he had sat alone in his apartment, unable to take the pain any longer. Byers had been the one to find him that night, blind drunk and laughing hysterically because he didn't want to cry. He had asked his friend to leave, but Byers hadn't. He had asked his friend to understand, but Byers couldn't. He stayed with Mulder that night listening to his drunken ramblings, watching as Mulder's heart crashed to the floor, shattering beyond repair. As he sat staring out the window at the stark white clouds below, Mulder resigned himself. In his mind he knew that he was doing the right thing, the right thing for Scully. He stomped down on his guilt, on the dull aching of his heart. He hadn't known that his decision was going to put her in peril, he reasoned to himself. He had no way of knowing that. He was doing what he thought he had to do. He nodded his head softly. That is what he had intended to do, what he had set out to do. His breath quivered in his chest. A soft moan escaped from his lips as his head shook fervently. Day Three 8:15 a.m. Office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C. "Okay, let's make this quick. I've got a dozen agents waiting on me." John Byers stepped up to the conference table and threw down a stack of manila file folders. Langly and Frohike moved to stand next to him, their expressions guarded. Byers only hesitated a moment before speaking. "As I told you on the phone, we may have something." "Let's hear it then," Skinner said, placing his hands on his hips. "We may have hit on something when we were going over the passenger manifest," Byers started to explain. Skinner held up both of his hands, effectively quieting Byers. "Okay, first of all, I don't want to know how you guys managed to...obtain...that list. But I'm going to tell you right now that I had half a dozen agents go over that same list. Everything checked out. There is no way the hijackers are listed there." Frohike cleared his throat. "We thought the same thing, initially. On the surface, it looks good. Every name on the list checks out. They all have addresses, phone numbers, next of kin. And according to American Airlines and the FAA, all of the crewmembers' families have been notified along with 127 out of the 135 passengers. They feel confident that they will be able to contact the others. It's just a matter of time." Byers jumped in, "Statistically speaking, 98.3 percent of terrorists are male. Based on that assumption, we felt that in all probability--" Frohike rolled his eyes at his long-winded friend and interrupted, "It's obvious that the hijackers did not board the plane under assumed names, we aren't arguing that. Out of the 135 passengers, 87 are male. We divided up those 87 names and put them into a databank program we developed. Twelve of those names brought up red flags." Byers picked up the folders from the table and fanned them out. "These twelve men," he said, tapping the folders with his fingers for emphasis, "all have records that are sealed. Sealed so tight that, well, we can't even get at them, not without putting a substantial amount of time into it." "What kinds of records?" Skinner asked warily. "We found nothing of the sort." "Nothing like DMV information or social security records. Nothing obvious. Things like birth certificates and tax returns," he paused. "And military records." Day Three 8:25 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 She had seen another one. He was the eighth. He had come to speak to the two already there, only a few minutes ago. Scully's seat was near the front of the section and the men had been less than ten feet from her. She had strained her ears in hopes of catching part of their conversation, but they'd spoken too softly. The first two men moved to stand at the beginning of each of the two aisles as the eighth left. It was the second who spoke, the tall one with the raspy voice, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we ask those of you sitting next to a window to please pull down your shades." Both men watched closely as the passengers complied quietly. Once all the shades had been pulled, he spoke again, calmly and with authority. "We also ask that everyone buckle their safety belts, and leave them buckled until we land. We will allow anyone who wishes to use the restroom or get a beverage to do so in the next few minutes," he paused, allowing his words to sink in, "After that everyone must remain in their seats." With that, they resumed their patrol, insuring compliance. Scully let out a sigh as she buckled her seat belt with slightly trembling fingers. Were they going to land? What would happen then? Would people die? Her breathing became ragged in her chest, fear closing in around her heart as questions rushed through her mind, pushing everything else out for a few panicked moments. She felt those ejected emotions flowing freely through her arteries and back into her veins. She surged when they returned to her heart, altering its rhythm. Panic replaced by serenity. Fear replaced by love. Despair replaced by? Replaced by what? Hope? No. Hope was dead, lying bare and broken on a cold motel room floor. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 9:02 p.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Dana Scully looked around as she dropped her luggage onto the carpet. The motel was just another rat-trap found along the highway of their lives, the same kind Mulder always seemed to find. She had stayed in hundreds of roadside motels just like this one, yet this one felt so different. The energy in the room was almost palpable, surging around her, filling the room. She sighed, trying to shrug away the feeling of unease. She had been a bundle of nerves for hours now. Her heart was racing, but she felt so drained, so lifeless. But this room...there was something about it, something she couldn't label or categorize. She let her gaze wander over it, taking in every detail, looking for any obvious source of disquiet. Pale green carpeting covered the floor, clashing with the lime green and blue bedspread. The room contained the usual array of furniture, a bureau, a bed, a nightstand, table and chairs. An old and fading seascape hung on the wall over the bed, a lighthouse beckoning to a long lost ship that could not be seen or saved. She felt drawn to the painting, but quickly dismissed it, determined to continue her perusal of the room. There was, of course, the obligatory door connecting Mulder's room to hers. Or was it separating this time? Scully was drawn to the door, walking toward it as if in a daze, her survey of the room forgotten. She stopped just inches from it, placing her hand atop the cool grainy wood. Her ear followed her hand, the side of her face brushing against the door, her eyes falling closed. She could hear him. Scully listened intently as he unzipped his suitcase. She could hear his strong and steady footsteps as he strode across the room. Drawers opened and closed. Footsteps again. Involuntarily, her hand reached for the knob, feeling for the cold metal it knew it would find. She stepped back as her hand moved to twist the knob. It didn't move. She looked down at her hand, as if first realizing what she had attempted to do and not understanding how it had happened. Her gaze traveled up the length of the offending door. It was locked, she realized. Her hand fell away from the knob and she looked down at it, her palm up. She stepped backwards, away from the door, until she felt the bed at the back of her knees. She surrendered, letting herself fall backwards, before turning and moving up to the head of the bed. Her eyes were once again drawn to the lighthouse in the painting, to the beacon, begging for it to lead her home, to the truth. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Several hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 3:12 a.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Benton, New Mexico Scully awoke, startled from a restless sleep, sitting upright in bed, dazed and confused. Her heart was beating heavily in her chest. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the lights she'd left on so many hours ago. She glanced around, finally remembering where she was. She looked down at herself, a disgusted sigh escaping through her grimaced lips. She'd fallen asleep in her clothes. Scully shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her mind. She had been dreaming. She tried to wrap her tired brain around the essence of the dream but all she could remember was feeling panicked, like she was lost, and a light, a moving light far off in the distance. Her chin dropped to her chest as she searched for the elusive memories. "Scuuullllll...leeeeeehhhhhhh!!!!" Her head snapped straight up, eyes immediately landing on the connecting door. She was out of her bed like a shot, nearly tripping over the suitcase she had carelessly left in the middle of the floor. She didn't even notice. Mulder was calling for her. Mulder needed her. She reached out for the door handle, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal. Her wrist twisted and her arm pulled, hard. She froze. It was still locked. Scully looked down at the unyielding knob expectantly, as if it could explain its present state. She stood there, hand frozen against the knob, battling with her own indecision, weighing each possible action in her mind. She could hear him, whimpering in his sleep beyond the door. The fear from his nightmare was almost palpable, even through the piece of wood separating them. Scully raised a tenuous fist to the door, rapping, lightly at first. Moving closer to the door, she listened for any sound signaling that he was awake. Scully could see him in her mind's eye as she listened to his labored breathing. His lean legs hopelessly entangled in the sheets. Sweat glistening off of his brow. Eyes tightly closed, tears clinging to his long lashes. She had witnessed that same scene countless times, on so many nights just like this, almost like this. On those nights, he hadn't locked her out. "Shhhh, Mulder. I'm right here," she whispered to the door. "Noooooooo!!!! Noooooo!!!" he screamed, startling her. She heard the springs of his bed creak, followed closely by the groans of the floor. Scully moved closer to the door, pressing the side of her face against the wood, resting both palms flat against its surface. She heard his steps and felt the heat of his presence as he moved closer to the door. A gleam of metal caught her eye as he moved the knob, imperceptibly, from the other side. Her breathing stopped as she waited, watching the knob. It didn't move again, not all night long. ~ Chapter Three - So You Can Get On With Your Life ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 29 hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 8:43 a.m. Delta Airlines Flight 176 "Just tell me!" Mulder barked into the phone, a menacing look in his eyes. A nearby flight attendant eyed him wearily and scurried away quickly. "Agent Mulder, you're going to have to calm yourself down. Working yourself into a manic state is not going to help Agent Scully," Skinner firmly replied. Mulder took a rough breath through his nostrils, his facial muscles tensing as he tried to control the anger in his voice. "I'm not really doing her a hell of a lot of good now, anyway, am I, Sir?" he replied, his voice dripping with angry sarcasm. "Agent, I'm not going to get into that with you again," said Skinner, leaving no room for discussion. He let out a long sigh before continuing, "Look Mulder, I know what's going through your head right now and I'm here to tell you that you've got to keep it together. Scully needs you to keep it together right now." Mulder closed his eyes in resignation. Skinner was right. His voice was softer, calmer, when he responded, "Finish what you were saying, Sir." "I have my team checking into the twelve names your friends supplied, but I sincerely doubt that we'll get anywhere on that." Mulder huffed in agreement. "But I have called in a few favors at the Department of Defense, a couple of old buddies of mine have promised to get back to me with what they can," Skinner continued, not sounding hopeful. He paused then, an alarming and uncomfortable silence ensuing. Mulder knew what was going on. Skinner was choosing his words, trying not to upset him, not wanting to set off a loose cannon aboard an aircraft full of innocent civilians. "There's something else Mulder. Word just came down from the F.A.A., they're shutting down D.C. to air traffic as of 9:30 a.m., all flights are being rerouted to Baltimore- Washington." Mulder took in a ragged breath. Skinner spoke first, before Mulder could unleash the verbal assault that was on the tip of his tongue. "I've already arranged for a helicopter to meet you at the airport and I've spoken to the F.A.A., they're willing to clear you to land at Dulles." Skinner waited for Mulder's response, when he got none, he added, "And, Agent Mulder, we'll keep her safe until you arrive. You have my word on that." "Thank you, Sir," was all Mulder could manage to say before disconnecting the call. He slunk back to his seat, pain and weariness weighing him down. His neighbor had disappeared and that suited Mulder just fine. He no longer had the energy to fidget, but had no doubt that he would get his second wind before they began their final descent. He laid his head back against the seat and stared out the window, trying to imagine where they were at the moment. He needed to keep his mind away from Scully, away from the pain that continued to radiate outward from his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the Earth below the beautiful white clouds. He could see fields of long yellow grass, glistening in the morning sun. He could see mountains, their peaks sprinkled with a dusting of snow. He could see trees, their branches swaying in the breeze as they stood proud in a beautiful forest. An image flashed before him. He tightened his eyes against it, hoping to shut it out as it blinded him. Another flashed. Then he was there, bound to his hell once again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 30 hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 2:58 a.m. Fox Mulder's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico He felt his feet pound against uneven terrain, her laughter floating all around him. When he looked up, he could see her--running ahead of him in the forest, jumping over fallen tree trunks with the grace of a gazelle. She was laughing, smiling at him. Her eyes, they were so damn bright, the brightest blue he'd ever seen in all of his life, blinding him only to her. He was running after her. He could hear his own laughter, but it sounded so faint, so far away. Everything was her, her laughter and those bright blue eyes. He blinked and she turned, running sideways for a moment, beckoning to him with her hands, urging him forward, to her. He ran faster, his heart racing. He knew it wasn't from the exercise, it was her, she was everything. His breath. His love. His life. His soul. And then she was in his arms, in the middle of the forest. There were birds, but he couldn't hear them, couldn't see them. She was in his arms, smiling, laughing with those bright blue eyes. She was happy. She was everything. He felt her arms snake around his back, pulling him closer, closer to her everything. And she quieted, her look softening, but her eyes, her eyes were still that incredible bright blue that he would never forget now that he had seen it. She held everything in her eyes and he held everything in his arms. He leaned forward then, hands moving up to capture her face in his palms. His thumbs making soft circles on her skin as he searched her bright blue depths. He could feel his own hands shaking in anticipation, he wanted to kiss her, he had wanted to for so long, he had wanted everything for so long. He inched his face closer, never breaking contact with her bright blue eyes. His lips almost grazed hers, almost, he almost had everything. He thought he screamed her name in terror as the ground opened up beneath her, pulling her down. But he heard her, heard her scream his name, wrenching his soul. He fell to his knees in front of the bottomless chasm before him. She was there, his everything, holding tightly to a thin ledge. He reached out for her then, to pull her back, but he couldn't reach. She was too far away. He couldn't reach her. He dropped to his stomach, extending his arm. He looked to her again then, pleading, begging to a God that he didn't believe in. "Take my hand, Scully," he had said then, but he didn't hear it. He could only hear her, only her, she was everything. "I can't," she had cried. He could almost reach her, so close, so close to everything. "Please," he had begged, "just let go and grab my hand, quickly." She had met his eyes again. And in one moment, just one moment, he lost everything. She had let go with one hand and reached, reached out to him. He had lunged for her desperately. Her other hand slipped from the ledge and she was falling, falling and he couldn't reach her. He had watched in horror, screaming "no", as his bright blue everything faded into nothing. Mulder had woken up then, bathed in sweat and tears, panic gripping him tightly still. His body still shaking, he moved to sit up in the bed as a sob broke free from his chest. He had climbed out of bed then, his only thoughts of her. He moved quickly to the connecting door, hesitating for only a moment before reaching out and grasping the handle, ready to open the door to his everything. He froze, only turning the knob a fraction of an inch. He pressed his forehead against the door, resting his weight there, taking deep even breaths in hopes of regaining control, of resisting his pull toward her. In the end his grief won out, tears falling silently to the carpet. He stood there like that for a long time, watching as the tears fell from his face, losing himself in his own pain and dying inside because of the pain that he had caused her. Because of the pain that he was destined to cause her. Because he was going to lose her. He sank to the floor, defeated. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 29 hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 9:10 a.m. The Lone Gunmen's Lair Undisclosed Location "There has to be a way around it," insisted Byers, pacing behind a seated Langly. "Look man, I'm sure there is. But we're not going to find it in the next few hours. I will guarantee you that," responded Langly, never looking up from the computer. "He's right, Byers. We've come at this one from every possible angle. There's just no easy way in," agreed Frohike, his voice full of resignation. He turned in his seat to face the younger man. "We need to concentrate on the other information Mulder gave us, that's our best bet." Byers stopped his pacing and looked at Frohike as he spoke. "But it's the key, I know it, I can feel it." "Calm down, Byers. You're starting to sound like Mulder," Langly interjected flatly. Byers opened his mouth to speak, but Frohike interrupted. "Look Byers, I know what's going on inside your head," he said, rising and walking toward his friend, "and I feel the same way. But this is not your fault. It's not Mulder's fault either. None of us knew this would happen." He took a deep breath before continuing. "We're all hurting over what happened to Agent Scully, but we didn't know. Okay?" Byers nodded his head. Although he was still convinced of his duplicity, he didn't wish to argue the point any longer. He just wanted to find a way to help Scully. "Why don't you two get started on the information supplied by Agent Mulder, and I'll take a stab at cracking those encrypted files?" The other two gunmen nodded their heads in agreement, relieved to no longer be banging their heads against the proverbial wall. They worked together quietly for a few minutes, thirty fingers tapping quickly against three keyboards. Langly and Frohike both looked up when they heard Byers sigh. "It's useless. All of this is useless," he whispered, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I handed them over. I should have known. I shouldn't have let them go," he continued, his voice rising as his conviction increased. Frohike started to speak but quickly reconsidered, realizing his friend needed to speak his mind. "I knew what was going on with him, I should have stopped..." "Whoa man," interrupted Langly, "Go back a step there. What are you talking about? Knew what was going on with who?" Byers looked up as he realized his slip, eyes bouncing between his two friends. "Mulder. He means Mulder," began Frohike, eyes narrowing slightly. "He knows why Mulder was playing Special Agent Asshole with the lovely Agent Scully." Langly inched closer to Byers, moving his chair with his feet. "Spill," he said looking directly into Byers' eyes. Byers didn't know what to say. He just kept looking back and forth at the two men with a stricken expression on his face. "Byers," said Frohike with a menacing tone, "I think that we have a right to know, especially since we were the ones left holding the bag when she wanted an explanation." "Guys, I can't. I promised..." "No, you don't. Don't even go there. This is big. It's time for you to share. Mulder hasn't acted this way since..." started Langly. "Fowley," finished Frohike, jaw clenching as he said her name. "It isn't like that," defended Byers. "Well then, you better start talkin'," warned Frohike. "You've got some 'splainin' to do," quipped Langly, not at all light heartedly. Day Three 9:43 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 They sat there, bodies huddled closely together, as she watched. Scully had noticed the couple's clasped hands first, how when she stared for just a moment too long that she was no longer able to determine where one hand ended and the other began. In the end she had been captured by the looks the pair had exchanged. They were saying goodbye, she thought, telling each other with their eyes all that they could not leave unsaid. Scully watched them shamelessly with fear, longing, and envy. She had known that once, almost. Then she had lost it, certainly, not almost. Scully couldn't even begin to recall all the silent conversations she had shared with Mulder. His eyes had told her so much over the past six years and she knew in her heart that they had been so close, almost. Her dread was increasing in strength with each passing moment, the unforeseeable unknown growing closer with each passing second. She wanted to stop the clock, rewind, undo the damage that had been done. She wanted never to have boarded the airplane, never to have walked away from Mulder, even if that had been what he had wanted. She wanted the life that she had almost had with Mulder back again. She closed her eyes and lost herself again in the events of the past few days. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 22 hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 11:48 a.m. Office of Dr. William Gellett Scully pulled off her gloves with an exasperated sigh, leaning forward and resting her weight on the makeshift autopsy table. She blew a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes and resisted a sneeze. She was really beginning to loathe basements, especially the kind filled with mold and mildew. And Mulder, her mind supplied. She shook her head no, heart negating mind. No, truth be told, she loved basements, usually. Just not today, and definitely not this one, which was almost creepy. She felt herself grin slightly at the irony of her words. To anyone else but her and Mulder, their basement was the definition of creepy, well not creepy exactly, more like spooky. She managed to avoid the corpse, barely, in front of her as a sneeze erupted from her body, reminding her of the task at hand. She looked up then, at the sound of heavy feet descending the creaky old stairs. The form of Dr. Gellett materialized on the stairs before her, and she visibly relaxed, but was obviously disappointed. She had expected it to be Mulder, had expected him to show up there, sooner or later. Pretty soon, later would be too late, and she'd end up having to track him down. "Well, Dr. Scully, I hope you were able to find everything you needed," said the kindly old doctor. "I know that our accommodations are not exactly high tech, but they get the job done around here," he finished, spreading his arms in reference to the town's morgue. "I was able to do a partial autopsy on each victim and as you and I suspected, both victims were in the end stages of terminal cancer," she began, pushing herself up to her full height. "But I was not able to do all of the tests that I would have liked to." "My nurse sent off the blood samples to Santa Fe, they'll get back to us in a few days," he offered. "Thanks," she replied, "But I'd still like to be able to do a more thorough autopsy. What are my options?" "Well," he considered, rubbing his whisker covered chin, "I suppose we could ship the bodies off to Santa Fe, too. That's been done a few times, when I have been out of town and such. I don't see any reason why we couldn't do that in this case. Don't know how the families will feel about that though." Scully nodded her head, considering his words before responding. "I just want to make sure that I explore every possible avenue." "All right then," he said, satisfied, "I'll have my nurse look into it and I guess I'll give you call when we know more." Scully watched as he ascended the stairs, going back up to his clinic. Although she was eager to leave the moldy basement, she lingered, some part of her hoping Mulder would come bounding down the stairs, a grin on his face, wanting to hear the results of her autopsies. She knew that he wouldn't, knew that he was elsewhere, neck deep in the case, "his case" as he had so aptly put it only yesterday. Scully was starting to agree with him. She felt as if she were only along for the ride to shove her arms, elbow deep, in guts. She had half-expected him to share more detailed contents of the case files with her that morning, but when she had awoken at six a.m., cold and stiff on the floor, he had already left for the day. Either that, she reasoned, or he had simply ignored her knocks. It didn't matter which were true. It was just semantics after all. Either way Mulder had ditched her, whether it was emotionally or physically or both was irrelevant at the moment. When she had emerged from her motel room at 7:30, bleary eyed and sleep deprived, she discovered that he had at least ditched her physically. Their rental car was gone. She pushed her anger to the side. She would deal with that, along with Mulder, later. She started to walk to the motel office, planning on inquiring about a cab, knowing full well that the small town would not have one. Instead she asked for directions to Dr. Gellett's office, where the local morgue was located. She had set off then, mourning her lost breakfast plans. With a resigned sigh, she moved to small curtained area in the corner and stripped away her scrubs quickly and automatically, not looking forward to the long walk back to the motel but not wanting to spend another moment in a basement. Day Two 1:23 p.m. Motel Office Fenton, New Mexico During her long trek back to the motel, Dana Scully had made some decisions. The first of which was, regardless of his state of mind, the next time she saw Fox Mulder she was going to strangle him. Scully had been given plenty of time to plot his impending death. Her walk had been slowed considerably when she had slipped along the roadside and broken off the heel of one of her favorite pairs of shoes. She was certain that she must have been an interesting sight to those who passed her by, and didn't stop and offer a ride, as she trudged along, heels in her hands, shredding her hose, covered from head to toe in muck courtesy of a large mud puddle and a Chevy truck. Her second decision paled in comparison to the delight she would take from the first. She didn't care who she had to bribe, or shoot, she thought with a smile, she was going to get into Mulder's room, and she'd be damned if she let anyone stop her from reading his case files. He was going to keep her in the dark no longer, at least not where the case was concerned. She went to the motel office first, not wishing to reconsider decision number two. The middle-aged woman at the desk looked her up and down, barely suppressing her laughter at the agent's appearance. Scully didn't care anymore, all she wanted to do was get a look at those files, regardless of how Mulder would feel about it. She was his partner after all, she told herself, entitled to know what was going on with a case that she, in terms of her job description, was supposed to be investigating. "Hi," she said, trying to look as pleasant and nonchalant as possible. "I just wanted to pick up the key to room 18." She, Darlene, according to her nametag, eyed Scully warily for a second. "Aren't you in number 19?" she asked. "Yes," Scully answered. "My partner is in 18. I need the key to his room." "I don't know about that, I could get fired..." "Darlene," Scully said, the friendliest face she could muster, when covered in mud, plastered to her face, "He asked me to look over some papers that are in his room, and of course being the scatter brain that he is, he forgot to unlock the connecting door." "Well, I suppose...okay," she said as she handed Scully the key. Scully tried to maintain an indifferent and pleasant look as she thanked the clerk and stepped back outside. She smiled to herself as she reached his door, key glistening in the afternoon sunlight. "Okay Mulder," she whispered to herself, "you wanted to play dirty, then let's play dirty." She shoved her trophy of deception in the keyhole, guilt only hitting her for a split second, quickly replaced by her anger toward his campaign of no information. "Bring it on." Day Two 1:12 p.m. Fox Mulder's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Scully stood in the middle of Mulder's room, surveying the situation. The case files were not in plain sight, as she had hoped they would be. "Okay, if I were Mulder," she said to herself, "where would I hide my files?" As carefully as she could, she began to slowly search his room, taking care to avoid his personal possessions, even though she knew his paranoia soaked brain would realize that someone had been in his room. After fifteen minutes she gave up, finding only a worn legal pad that had been shoved under the bed. "He probably taped them to his body," she mused. Scully bent to return the pad to its original spot when something caught her eye. She smiled. "Gotcha." He had written something on the pad, the first blank page that was exposed bore deep impressions. Scully hastily ripped out the page and hurried back to her own room to track down a pencil. ~ Chapter Four - I've Got Somewhere Else To Be ~ Day Two 2:55 p.m. The Tendertrap Tavern Fenton, New Mexico A refreshed and mud-free Dana Scully pushed open the heavy door slowly, peering into the dark bar. She stepped inside quickly, not wanting to make a noticeable impression. She stood by the door for a few moments, her eyes taking a minute to adjust to the dark interior. She looked around, repressing a sneeze as the smoky air tickled the inside of her nose. A quick survey told her that Mulder was not present, yet. She moved slowly toward the bar, talking time to gauge her surroundings as she walked. The tavern could very aptly be called a hole in the wall, and a dirty one at that. She spotted at least a dozen health and fire code violations in less than thirty seconds. The dark paint on the walls was peeling terribly and the floor didn't look like it had either been mopped or swept since the Nixon administration. However, she could very safely say that the patrons matched their surroundings. A dozen men and a couple of women were scattered throughout the small tavern. A lone man sat at the bar. She could feel the curious looks being thrown her way as she stepped up to the bar, trying and failing miserably at looking inconspicuous. She looked down at herself, grimacing slightly. Apparently this wasn't the kind of establishment where most people wore business suits and trench coats. Dismissing the other customers' perusal of her, Scully took a seat two down from the leather clad, middle-aged man at the bar. "What can I get for you, Miss?" asked the burly bartender, who certainly looked as though he could, and probably did, double as the bouncer. "A diet soda," she answered, "whatever you have is fine." Scully accepted the cold soda with a smile of thanks a few moments later. She looked around casually as she took a sip of her drink. The patrons had all apparently resumed their activities prior to her arrival. In fact, a couple of men were arguing over a pool game in the corner. The bartender moved around quickly to investigate the dispute. Scully glanced down at her watch. Four after three, it read. Mulder was late. Scully sipped at her soda slowly, determined to wait him out. The paper she had pilfered out of his room and ever so carefully rubbed with a pencil had held only one piece of information. He was going to meet someone, Phil Jenkins, here at 3:00 today. Surely he would be along at any moment, she thought. Mulder would never miss a secret meeting with an informant. She could count on him for that. He was probably just being fashionably late, she mused. Maybe wanting to make the guy sweat a little. So Scully took to people watching to pass the time, idly trying to determine which man was Mulder's mysterious informant, certain her partner would walk through the squeaky old door at any moment. Apparently he's waiting for someone too, she thought, as she watched her bar mate look over to the door for the tenth time in as many minutes. He looked eager, she noted, eyebrow arching as she wondered if the man sitting at the bar was also waiting for her tardy partner. Her suspicions were confirmed when the bartender returned from breaking up the squabble in the corner. "Phil, ready for another?" "Yeah. Sure," he replied as he looked to the door again. Scully watched as the barkeep filled a glass three-quarters with beer and then dropped a shot of Jack Daniels in the glass. She glanced down at her watch, again, still wondering what was keeping Mulder. She certainly didn't want to spend the rest of her afternoon in this rat trap getting cancer from all of the second hand smoke. After another soda and an hour had passed, Scully began to seriously debate whether or not to approach Mulder's informant on her own. She had decided fifteen minutes ago that her partner was going to be a no-show. She eyed the man sitting next to her at the bar, weighing her options carefully. "Could I buy you a real drink?" "Hm," she replied, startled away from her internal debate, uncertain of who was speaking to her. He waved his hand, signaling to her. "Hi," said the man sitting two stools down from her, Phil Jenkins. She smiled slightly, politely, "No. Thanks anyway. I'm fine." The man looked back down at his beer, "You're waiting for him too, aren't you," he said softly, his nervous edge disappearing. "What?" "I said, your waiting for him, too. Mulder," he replied quietly, evenly, before taking a slow sip of his drink. Scully's mind whirled, searching for the best answer. "Why would you say that?" she asked, her voice cool and professional. "Because you're his partner," he said coolly. "You know, I've been thinking about just leaving ever since you got here, this was not part of the deal you know," he said gesturing between himself and petite redhead who obviously did not belong there. "Part of what deal?" Scully asked, her mouth moving faster than her brain. The man chuckled softly, holding up his hands in surrender. "Okay, you want to play it that way. Fine." Scully fully expected him to get up and leave then. When he didn't, she hazarded a glance in his direction. He was looking right at her, a smile on his chapped lips. "Scoot over here and let me buy you a drink." At her hesitation he continued, "We'll talk. About the information I have for your partner." Scully looked at him, carefully considering his offer. She couldn't help but think of Mulder's past relations with his informants, and even of hers. The memory of Michael Kritschgau did not give her confidence in establishing a relationship with this informant--that encounter had certainly soured her. "Look. I'm not going to wait around here all day for your partner to show," he whispered, leaning in close to span the space between them, "So you can either come talk to me or we can sit and wait for the man who we both know isn't going to show." Against her better judgment, Scully rose from her seat and moved to sit next to the mystery man. "Just a sec," he said as she lowered herself to the stool. "Hey Johnny," he said, motioning to the bartender, "can you give us a few minutes?" "Sure thing, Phil," he answered before moving down to the other end of the bar and flipping on the ancient television set. Satisfied that they had been given ample privacy, the informant leaned his elbows against the bar and began to speak. "You know, the fishing has been pretty poor around here lately," he finally said. Scully arched an eyebrow in question, not understanding if he was making idle conversation or if the local fishing had some significance in the case at hand. Mulder hadn't mentioned anything about fish, she recalled from the sketchy case synopsis he had given her on their way to see the Gunmen. He looked at her then, a bemused grin on his face. "Know much about fishing, Miss?" he asked through a smirk. Further confused, Scully decided to play along with his little game, at least for the present time. "A little," she replied guardedly, "I went a few times with my father when I was young." "Well, I suppose it's safe to assume that you would probably know that it's pretty hard to catch many fish when they're all dead," he said evenly, taking another sip of his beer. Scully waited for him to continue, not wishing to reveal how little she actually knew about the case. The informant lifted a hand from his rapidly emptying glass and ran tan fingers through his graying dark hair. He exhaled loudly before continuing, "There's a twenty acre lake, 'bout twenty miles or so out of town, real popular fishing spot, especially during the winter. Lake Alamos." He reached for his drink again, draining it. "Don't imagine we'll be getting many tourists this year though," he finished, motioning to the bartender for another. They both waited for the bartender to deliver the drink and walk back to the other end of the bar before continuing their conversation. He chuckled softly. "Not like it's a big secret or anything around here. Everyone's scared to go out to the lake now, after what's happened," he said, his expression turning serious. "The deaths," Scully said softly, beginning to make the connection. "Yeah," he replied, taking another sip of his drink, before looking down at the bar. "That's the connection then," she reasoned, "all of the victims had been at the lake recently." "Yeah," he answered, "but it's more specific than that. All of them had been *in* the lake recently." He turned his face fully toward her then, meeting her eyes with a serious expression. "A lot of weird things go on around here, Miss. I could fill a book with all of the strange things that I've personally seen, although I'm sure that I would end up dead then." Scully met his eyes with her own, waiting for him to elaborate. His serious expression turned to a half-smirk as he shook his head. "What kinds of 'strange' events have you witnessed, Mr. Jenkins?" she prompted when it became clear that he wasn't going to continue on his own. He looked away then, shrugging his shoulders. "Strange lights," he replied after a long pause. "U.F.O.'s," he continued. She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with his eyes. "I'm not crazy you know and sure as shit, I'm not the only one who's seen those things. The whole damn town knows about it," he said, motioning toward the rest of the bar with his hands, his voice growing louder with anger. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. "It's not exactly a secret. This area is kind of known as a U.F.O. hot spot," he finished, matter-of-factly. Scully considered what he said for a few minutes before responding. "So, would I be correct in the assumption that you feel there is a connection between the recent deaths and the town's history regarding...paranormal activity?" she finished warily. "Well, yes," he responded after pondering her question. Scully closed her eyes for a second, relieved to finally understand Mulder's insatiable interest in the case. She opened her eyes and cleared her throat. "And you have proof of these allegations, Mr. Jenkins? I assume that's why my partner had arranged to meet with you." He looked at her again, barely suppressing a laugh. "You mean physical proof?" She nodded her head evenly in the affirmative. "Don't you think the bodies are enough...*proof*?" he asked, seemingly amused by her question. "Mr. Jenkins, I have no doubt that something *caused* the deaths of those five people. I was asking if you had any proof as to how the victims had come to contract such a virulent form of cancer, one that I have never seen before," she said, her expression stern. "Ah. I see. You're asking whether or not I have proof of the existence of extraterrestrials," he laughed at her statement. "Miss, the only people that have the *proof* that you're looking for are about twenty miles out of town and one mile down," he said flatly as he returned his attention to his drink. "And don't give me that standard government answer that you don't know what I'm talking about. We may live in a small town, but we're not hicks, we know exactly what is going on out in that desert...just like you do, whether you're allowed to admit it or not. You know." "Mr. Jenkins, let me assure you--" she started. "How about we just cut the crap," he interrupted, looking her square in the face, patience gone. "I was contacted by a friend. This friend asked me to meet with your partner, who happens to be a friend of theirs. I was asked to meet with him and take him over to the lake, maybe share a little of my personal experiences with him, get him up to date on the history of the area. I was led to believe that he was interested in helping us, in getting to the bottom of what is going on around here." "That's exactly why we are here," she assured him. "Well, if you can't believe what I have to say...I just don't see what you're going to be able to accomplish here," he said, rising from his bar stool and throwing some money on the counter. He turned to her before leaving and opened his mouth to speak, but quickly decided against it. He shook his head and walked across the tavern toward the door. "Tell your partner that if he still wants to go to the lake to contact me. He knows how," the informant said over his shoulder as he walked out into the fading sunlight. Scully turned on her stool, to face the bar, and leaned her elbows on the ledge, resting her head against her closed fists. In her mind she began to turn around the new pieces of the puzzle she had just acquired, trying to make them fit with the few pieces Mulder had thrown her way in the car the day before. She mentally replayed every word Mulder had said during their car ride. He had told her of the five deaths, including detailed information concerning the three autopsies that had already been performed. He had explained that the deaths warranted investigation because no certain source could be found explaining the sudden onset and rapid destruction of the cancer. Mulder had said that he had learned of the case from the Gunmen, who had begun to research the subject from the confines of their lair in hopes of publishing the information in their next issue. However, they had felt that more was going on then they had originally suspected and offered the case to Mulder. Scully realized that she was not going to be able to solve all of the mysteries of this case, or for that matter, those of her partner, sitting around avoiding the inevitable. Regardless of what was going on between the two of them, she resigned herself anew to tracking down Mulder and getting some information out of him, even if she had to pull it out with a pair of pliers. Scully pushed herself up straight and began digging in her pocket for money to pay her tab. When her new 'friend' had left, the sun had begun to set and she wanted to make it back to the motel before it got dark. The idea of walking around an unfamiliar town at night did not seem appealing. Day Two 6:06 p.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Dana Scully sat on the edge of her neatly made bed and checked her watch for what must have been the hundredth time since she had returned to the motel. Mulder hadn't been there when she'd came back. She had knocked on his door, just in case, but their rental car had not been in the parking lot. The reluctant desk clerk, Darlene, had told her that Agent Mulder had stopped in the office around five, inquiring about his messages while he'd been out. To Scully's chagrin, the clerk had refused to reveal the content of the messages that she begrudgingly admitted giving to Mulder. Scully let out a long sigh and turned, her eyes drawn once again to the seascape hanging above the head of her bed. If she stared at it long enough, she was able to make out the lost ship amongst the thick fog. She could sense its movement on the turbulent waves, feel its distress. Her lips parted in confusion as she continued to stare at the painting, at the faint image of the ship. It was moving away from the light, away from its port, its home. It was lost and wouldn't be found, ever. When she blinked back against the sudden and unexpected tears that were beginning to form, the ship disappeared back into the fog. Scully shook herself mentally, pulling herself out of her confused state, back to reality, back to the lonely silence of her room. She suddenly felt uncomfortable and uneasy as she sat stiffly on the edge of her bed. She shuddered a bit and quickly closed off her heart, pushing away its foolish notions. She rose and walked over to her lone window, parting the curtains and looking out into the night. Scully couldn't help but wonder if Mulder had caught up with his informant. She briefly considered driving out to the lake in question but opted against it. Instead she decided to walk across the street to the diner she had seen earlier. Her stomach was growling at her in rebellion, unhappy with the fact that she had not eaten anything since breakfast the day before. Eager to leave her room, Scully grabbed her coat from the chair she had draped it over and stepped out into the rapidly cooling evening air. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sixteen hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 9:52 a.m. Lair of the Lone Gunmen Undisclosed Location "Mulder is insane!" exclaimed Frohike. Langly stood next to him, arms crossed over his chest, nodding his head in staunch agreement. Byers scrubbed his face with both hands, disgusted with himself for reveling Mulder's secret, even to his two closest friends. "I don't understand," said a calmer Frohike, eyes dark with concern. "I mean," he paused, as if searching for the right words, "he has lost his mind, that's what I mean," he finished, mumbling. Byers took a deep breath, not wishing to rehash the entire situation again. "He's doing what he thinks is best for Scully," he said, knowing that his friends would understand, that they were aware of the lengths Mulder would go to when he thought he was protecting his partner. There was no changing his mind; Byers had found that out the hard way. They didn't have to agree. They just had to be there for him. His conversation with Mulder was still so fresh in his mind. He dreamed it, seemed to be reliving it constantly since it had first taken place. "Don't you understand, Byers?" Mulder had asked, his words slow and slurred through the alcohol he had consumed. "I can't look at her for the rest of my life, knowing what I know, feeling what I feel. She's not safe, I have to face that. It's over." Byers had tried to argue, to explain to Mulder that he was being hasty, that he had been spooked by his own heart, that it was just nonsense, all of it. "No," he had insisted. "It's not. I can feel it. I know that it's true. I see it every night in my dreams. I'm destined to cost her her life, I can't live with that, I won't live with that, even if it means living without her." "Well, he's wrong," argued Frohike, pulling Byers out of his silent reverie, the older Gunman obviously agitated with his friend's behavior. "Is he aware of how this will affect Agent Scully?" he asked quietly a few seconds later. Byers looked at his friend, a grimace forming on his lips. "He said that she will get over it," he replied, shaking his head, "and that someday she will thank him for it." "He's lost his mind," Frohike repeated, shaking his head. ~ Chapter Five - I've Got To Be Cruel To Be Kind ~ Day Three 9:59 a.m. Delta Airlines Flight 176 "I've lost my mind," Fox Mulder whispered to himself as he watched the world pass hundreds of miles below him. Doubt surrounded him, permeating every part of his being. Had he made the wrong decision? He wondered for the thousandth time that day. His mind, the same one that had supplied the nightmares, the warnings, said no. Firmly. His heart, the same one that belonged to her, begged for him to reconsider. He felt set adrift, disconnected, alone and isolated while his heart and his mind silently waged a battle within him. Each fought for control over his conscious behavior, pulling him in two separate directions. One led away from Scully. The other deposited him safely in her arms. Physically he was moving toward her at hundreds of miles per hour, rushing across the country, through the bright skies in hopes of delivering her from imminent danger. But then? After he pulled her into his arms, needing to feel her against his skin, needing to be certain that she was alive and whole. What then? Mulder rose from his seat and moved toward the phone, needing to reconnect himself with her situation, wanting for the moment to only worry about helping her, saving her. The rest would come later, after. Skinner answered his cell phone after only one ring. "Do you have anything new?" Mulder asked, skipping over the preliminaries. Skinner paused for a moment before answering. "They're still in the air. From the radar, we're projecting them to land at Dulles at 10:37. I'm in my car, heading over there now to make sure we have everyone in place." "No word from your friends or mine?" he asked quietly as he rested his head against the wall in front of him. "No," Skinner said reluctantly, "not yet. There's still time, Mulder." "I hope so," he whispered in response, ending the call. He glanced down at his watch as he made his way back to his seat. Only twenty-nine minutes until her plane touched down, if it indeed landed at Dulles he reminded himself. At this point it seemed unlikely for the plane to deviate, but it was still a possibility. He wished that he could fast forward the next few hours and get his plane on the ground, now. At the same time, he wished desperately that he could rewind and take back the last twelve hours, stop her from ever getting on that plane. Mulder could feel his heart beating in his chest, heavily and evenly. Pounding out the same rhythm, the same mantra, "You are a fool," it said with every beat, over and over, aching. His heart knew what his mind wouldn't believe was true. He had tried to walk away from her and had stumbled, tripped over his own heart. The one lying at his feet, bare and exposed, sacrificed for her. When she had walked away, it had returned to his chest, bruised and throbbing, aching for his loss, for what he had so callously thrown away. But not without just cause, his mind interjected, fighting to regain control of the situation, of him. Ultimately his fears won out--fear that he would never see her again, fear that she would be lost, believing that he had betrayed her, betrayed her heart. He let the fear take hold, let it lead him back... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Fourteen hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 8:30 p.m. Rental Car of Fox Mulder County Road X34 Outside Fenton, New Mexico Mulder's rendezvous with Phil Jenkins had been very telling. The excitement he felt was running away with him, almost. It very easily would have, save the nagging feeling that kept pecking at his heart. Something wasn't right. Something was missing. In a moment of weakness, as he turned a sharp corner on his way back into town, his heart had broken through, screaming in his chest, ferociously beating in rhythm to her name. Scul-ly. Scul- ly. Over and over, pounding in his ears so loudly that he couldn't ignore it, couldn't push it down. He stepped down on the accelerator, his mind whirling, searching frantically for a way to override his emotions, all the while his heart declaring him a liar, a traitor. Mulder knew that he had to get control and steady himself. Before he reached town. Before he had to face her. He briefly considered not returning to the motel at all, all the while knowing that not to be an option. Things were getting out of control. He hadn't expected the course of action she had taken earlier today, at least not so soon. He almost smiled picturing Scully coercing the kindly desk clerk to let her in his room and then her searching in vain for the case files. She never ceased to surprise him, just when he thought he had her number she went and did something like this. He slowed, closing his eyes for a split second, sadness washing over him at the realization of how far he had pushed her, the pain and anger that she most certainly would have had to felt to take such extreme action. He ached for her, ached for the pain he was causing her. Mulder pulled into the parking lot then, switching off the headlights as he turned off the engine. He closed his eyes and blew out a long breath in a final attempt to calm himself. He had to be strong. He had to do this, for her sake, always for her. Someday she would understand this, he assured himself, someday. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Fourteen hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 10:10 a.m. Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "What's the word?" Skinner barked in the direction of Agent Vincent as he trotted toward the makeshift headquarters that had been constructed outside of the main terminal. "The control tower just received a radio message from the plane, Sir," she said raising her thick voice over the din surrounding her. "I take it that all of this activity is a good sign?" he asked, lowering his voice as he reached the tent. "Well, as good as it can be at this stage," she replied through a grim smile. "The pilot contacted air traffic control just a few moments ago and asked for clearance to land at Dulles," she continued. "They have been cleared to land on runway seven, as we discussed earlier," she finished. "No mention of demands?" he asked, concerned about the lack of information supplied by the hijackers. Skinner had been involved in numerous terrorist situations during his long career with the Bureau. He had never witnessed one as strange or as monumental as this one. "No, Sir. The pilot terminated radio contact immediately after he was given permission to land," she supplied. "Okay then, we continue as planed," he said. "A.D. Waters has everyone in position, I assume?" he asked over his shoulder as he walked into the hastily constructed command center. "Yes, Sir. We're as ready as we can be." Day Three 10:15 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Scully held the smooth gold metal of her cross loosely between two fingers, wishing it could bring her the comfort it had only months before. She knew that it couldn't, that she would not be able pray to a God that she was no longer sure existed. The incapacitation of her faith hurt her, seared her to her very core. She felt like an outcast, a lost vessel, slowly drifting away from the shore, from everything that she had once held sacred and dear. She tried to steady herself, ready herself for the impending landing, for what would happen after that. She knew that she had to stay strong and focused, had to be ready to assist in her own survival and that of the men, women, and children who shared this voyage with her. She was certain that regardless of where they landed it would be soon. She tried to imagine what the authorities would be doing to prepare for their landing. Certainly they were aware of the hijacking, the plane had missed its layover in Dallas after all. Scully was certain that the F.B.I. would be involved. The hijacking would immediately fall under the jurisdiction of the Domestic Terrorism Division. She knew a few agents in that division, knew they would do everything in their power to have this ordeal end well. She wondered if they were aware of her presence on the plane. Surely they would be, she thought, her name was included on the passenger list, someone would surely make the connection. She cringed inwardly at the thought. She didn't want to think about him right now, didn't want to remember anymore, didn't want to remember that night, last night. And then she was there again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thirteen hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 8:47 p.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Dana Scully stepped out of the shower, steam escaping around her as she reached for a thin towel and began to dry herself, mechanically. She slipped on her thick white robe, its soft warmth giving her no comfort. She cinched its belt tightly before roughly toweling her hair dry. She moved out of the bathroom, hastily pulling a brush through her hair as she glanced at the bedside clock. She was so very tired, yet at the same time wired into a state of almost mania. Her minded reeled, turning and twisting around the events of the past two days, sorting, categorizing, defining, debating...but always rationally, with a degree of separation. Her heart sat sluggish and heavy in her chest, wanting only to shut out, shut down. Scully couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness that had settled around her. She couldn't seem to pull herself out of it, away from it. It was a never-ending path, a tightly knit circle that revolved slowly and steadily around Mulder. She paced around it, her image of him laboriously and deliberately looking for detail and diagnosis. She examined his posture, his stance, his distanced actions, the dull glint in his soft eyes. Her mind was not able to make the connections that she sought, nor was it capable of piecing the evidence together in any quantifiable manner. She reached deeper within herself. Her heavy heart stretching, reaching for the conclusions that had eluded her mind, the connections that it had been either unwilling or unable to make. She could feel him, feel his torment and his pain as he struggled against indecision. She had read those feelings through his eyes at the Lone Gunmen's and had sought and found them again on the plane. Her mind pushed against her heart, belittling her intuitions, claiming them to be unprovable, deniable. Scully closed her eyes as the turmoil raged within her. She wasn't sure what to believe, what to think or do. All she wanted was for the moment to pass, the pain to ease...the truth to be known. She let out a long and mournful sigh as she lowered herself to the bed, her eyes falling closed. She took long even breaths. In and out. In and out. She could feel the tension ebbing, her pain softening as she focused on the gentle rhythm of her own heart. She had been forced to make a decision during the long hours she had spent waiting for her partner. They were going to have to talk, really talk, if nothing else to discuss the case and his need to distance her from it. They hadn't ever really done that, talked about their true feelings, the motivations behind their actions. She and Mulder had always had a knack for dancing around the issues and their emotions, too. They had danced slowly, holding each other tightly. They had danced at arm's length, angry, but unwilling to let go. But they had danced, nonetheless. Scully rose from the bed, intending to return her hairbrush to the bathroom. Her chore was interrupted by a steady rapping on the door to her room. She stopped, mid-stride, glancing again at her bedside clock and then curiously at the door. It certainly couldn't be Mulder, she reasoned. Assuming that he was meeting with his informant, Phil Jenkins, Scully didn't expect him to be back for hours. She cinched the robe tighter around her naked form and padded across the soft carpet to the door. "No peephole," she whispered to herself. She reached for the knob tentatively. "Who is it?" she called out. "Open the door, Scully." Her hand stopped on the cool metal of the doorknob, her fingers trembling almost imperceptibly with anticipation. It was him. Mulder was on the other side of the thick wood. She took a deep breath and turned the knob, trying to push aside the nagging doubts and concerns that plagued her. "We need to talk," he said gruffly as he stepped through the door and moved across the room, never looking in her direction. He stopped when he reached the foot of the bed and tossed a thick stack of files onto the bedspread. "Exactly what was it, Scully, that compelled you to search my room for these?" he asked a second later, his gaze focused intently on the files, his hands placed sternly on his hips. She took a step away from the door. "Exactly what was it that compelled you, Mulder, to withhold information from me concerning this case?" she asked, matching the even monotone of his voice. He shot his gaze in her direction, halting her movements. His eyes narrowed into what Scully could only interpret to be anger. She stood there, waiting expectantly for him to answer her question. Apparently he was doing the same because he remained silent. "I didn't want this, Scully," he said quietly after a few long moments of tense silence. "What do you mean?" she asked when he didn't elaborate. "I didn't want to do this now, not here, not like this." "Do what, Mulder?" she asked, her heart racing in her chest as she tried to maintain a neutral expression. "This, Scully," he said, his voice rising as he gestured wildly between them. "I didn't want to have this conversation now, but you haven't given me much of a choice." "You're talking in riddles, Mulder." He released a long breath, blowing it out slowly. He seemed to be on the verge of speaking, like the words were tickling his lips, but he remained silent. "Mulder?" she prompted. "I can't do this anymore, Scully," he said, the stark honesty of his words resonating throughout the room. "What can't you do, Mulder?" she asked, unable to mask the concern permeating her voice. Mulder lifted his head slowly, turning to meet her eyes. The pain that she saw there cut her to her core. "This Scully," he said a second later, gesturing between the two of them with his hands, "This isn't working. *We* don't work any more." "You don't mean that, Mulder," she said with conviction, knowing in her heart that his words were not the truth. "Yes," he said, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I do, Scully. I do," he whispered. With a strength that defied the turmoil she felt within, Scully addressed him, her gaze fixed steadily on the crown of his head. "Mulder," she began calmly, "you owe me the truth. After all we've been through, after everything we've been to one another...you owe me that." "What don't you understand, Scully?" he asked, his head snapping up and his voice growing cold as it increased in volume. "I said that I can't do this, what more do you want?" "I want the truth, Mulder. I'm not going to stand here and let you deny me that." He flinched then, almost imperceptibly. Scully could read the uncertainty in his eyes, the indecision that lay within. She took a tentative step in his direction, never taking her eyes away from his. "That's all I've ever asked of you, Mulder. Just the truth," she said, her voice thick with emotion. He swallowed visibly and moved to take a step toward her then, stopping himself at the last moment, his eyes dropping once again to the pale green carpet at his feet. Her eyes fell closed, but only for a moment. She pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she tried to slow the pace of her racing heart and focus her mind on the matter that lay before her. "Why, Mulder?" she asked quietly. "That's the way that it has to be." "No, Mulder, it doesn't," she said before taking another step in his direction. He continued to stare at his feet. His posture spoke clearly of defeat. "Yes," he said. "Don't do this, Mulder. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to us," she finished, her voice cracking slightly on the last few words. When he didn't respond, she moved slowly across the room, stopping with only scant inches left between their bodies. "Mulder," she whispered. He lifted his head then, hazel eyes meeting blue, head on, nothing held back. "Mulder," she whispered again as she reached out to him, her eyes still locked with his. She rested her palms gently on his cheeks as she had done only a week ago. She felt his body relax against her touch, saw his eyes soften. She was lost and found all at once. Scully leaned up on tiptoe, stretching as she slowly inched her face toward his, the intent in her bright blue eyes surely unmistakable. She was giving him an out, just in case. He didn't move, didn't resist, didn't assist. She took this as a sign of acceptance, a sign of willingness and she continued her slow trek. She tugged lightly at his face when she could raise her own body no more, pulling him down to her, to meet her lips. Ever so softly she brushed her lips against his. A moan escaped from his throat as she pulled him down to her again, urgently this time. All that she could feel was the moment, reveling in the feel of his lips against hers, savoring his salty sweetness. She drank him in. She breathed him in. She had never felt more alive, had never wanted anything more. His hands moved to her back, pulling her closer, pressing her soft form against his hard frame. She moaned his name against his lips. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. His hands grasped her upper arms, tightly, pushing her back, away from his warmth. She cried out reflexively in protest when he held her firmly at arms length. Scully frantically searched his eyes, searching for an answer. For a moment, only for a moment, she thought she saw pain there. It was gone too fast, though, replaced only by anger. "No," he said, "no," shaking his head as he released her arms and moved to step around her. She turned quickly, finding only his back as he reached out for the doorknob. "Mulder!" she yelled out after him. He paused, hand poised on the metal knob. Without turning to face her, he delivered his final blow. In a soft voice he ripped out what was left of her heart. "It's over Scully. Get over it, get past it. Whatever you thought was between us isn't there. It never was." And then he left. He didn't look back. ~Chapter Six - It's Killing You, It's Killing Me ~ Day Two 12:52 a.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico She awoke slowly, coming back to the world bits and pieces at a time. Scully could feel the rough texture of the carpet rubbing against her face, chaffing her skin. She was cold, felt a chilly breeze moving across the floor, tickling the top of her head. Her right arm was still asleep, pinned beneath her, sharp needles of pain shooting up through her shoulder. Her eyes were closed, lids heavy and irritated. Her throat was sore and her lips dry. She opened her mouth slowly, licking her bottom lip to moisten it. Mulder was there, the sweet taste of his kiss still lingering on her lips. In a rush it all came back to her, images flashing, assaulting her senses. It was almost more than she could take. Almost. Dana Scully was an inherently strong person. It was part of her make-up, completely entwined within her being. So even though her illusions had been shattered and her heart ached, she pushed herself up strongly from the floor, her shameful moment of weakness had passed. She had spent several long minutes kneeling on the floor aching over what Mulder had said to her, not understanding what had taken place. Until, finally, she had lain down and succumbed to sleep, hoping it would ease her pain. Scully moved purposely toward the bathroom, picking up her suitcase as she went, determined to grieve no more for a lie. A lie she had allowed herself to believe. A lie she had allowed herself to perpetuate, to nurture. She felt herself a fool. Mulder had never loved her, never felt anything more for her beyond their partnership, and now even that seemed to be in ruins. Scully struggled to quantify and qualify her relationship with Mulder, endeavoring to pinpoint the exact moment that everything had ended, that he had decided to leave her behind. Her mind traced over every memory, every conversation, every shared look from the past six years. She looked at each piece of evidence objectively, as a scientist. All the while, the woman inside of her slowly dying. Scully dressed quickly and mechanically before calling the airline and booking a seat for herself on a five a.m. flight that was almost full. She contacted the Santa Fe Memorial Hospital next, and made arrangements for the two bodies they were holding to be placed on the same flight. She was not abandoning him, she reassured herself, as she began to repack her bag. She was simply expediting the process he had already begun. He seemed to have brought her along only to be his own personal medical examiner, a job she could perform from the confines of Quantico. Scully didn't pretend to know what would become of their partnership, although the outlook appeared grim. She and Mulder had weathered many storms over the past six years, but after everything they had endured, their time together seemed to be coming to an end. She could almost feel it, slipping away like sand between her fingers no matter how tightly she clung. Once she finished packing, Scully perched herself on the side of the bed. For a moment she just stared blindly at the files Mulder had left behind. She reached for them tenuously at first, her fingers sweeping over their tops before she pulled them onto her lap. Taking a deep breath, she opened the first slowly, reverently. The first file was the red X-File Mulder had opened. It contained copies of autopsy results, the same ones Scully had read during their plane trip. It also contained photocopied statements that the victims' family members had given, all taken by the local sheriff, Ron Phillips, a copy of the first victim's physical that had been taken only two weeks prior to his death, and a copy of third victim's hospital records. Scully had seen or heard most of what the first file contained. The second file was a thick, ordinary manila folder with a series of numbers scrawled in black ink across the tab. The file had obviously been given to Mulder by the Gunmen, although their names appeared nowhere within. The file contained a rough description of an Air Force Base known as The Fifth Column, although that designation did not appear to be the name given to it by the Air Force. The file gave a detailed description of the base's location in the desert, including its longitude and latitude. The location of the base was also indicated in red ink on a small USG New Mexico map. There was also what appeared to Scully to be satellite photos of the desert and surrounding mountainous terrain, red ink marking several of the images. As Scully read further, the three conspiracy theorists described the base as being located below ground in the desert at the longitude and latitude that they had given, similar to the famed NORAD. Scully mused, and not for the first time, that the Gunmen had watched the movie "Independence Day" far too many times. The tab of the third file also bore an identification number. From the handwriting, Scully determined that it was also from the Gunmen's private collection. This file contained several newspaper clippings, all focusing on the integration of alien technology into U.S. military aircraft. The Fifth Column was mentioned several times throughout the articles. The fourth and final folder contained Mulder's handwritten case notes. These notes had not been included in the official X-File. From his notes Scully was able to determine that it had been the Lone Gunmen who had supplied Mulder with the initial information on the case. They had also given Mulder the name and e-mail address of their source. As she read further, Scully was surprised to learn that Phil Jenkins was not the person whom the Gunmen had put Mulder in contact with. In his notes, Mulder referred to his source only as "AE." The folder also contained several copies of various e-mails from said source, whose electronic address was given as aevans@hotmail.com. The e-mails suggested not only a link between Los Alamos National Laboratories and The Fifth Column, but promised proof. According to the letters, Mulder was to have met with this person in Los Alamos at noon the previous day. From her quick perusal of the files it was apparent that Mulder felt the base known as The Fifth Column was somehow connected to the deaths. Phil Jenkins had talked about a lake, Lake Alamos, had linked that same lake to the recent deaths. She reopened the second folder, pulling out the small map, checking for the proximity of the two. "About thirty miles apart," she said aloud. Could they be polluting the lake, dumping hazardous wastes into it? No, she didn't think so. Why would a military institution, that may or may not exist in the desert, have a need to dispose of their waste in such a manner? They wouldn't, and even if the lake had been used as a dumping sight, which she doubted, Scully could think of no likely chemical or biological agent that could cause such a rapid and thoroughly invasive form of cancer. There had to be another explanation. Scully began to reexamine the files, looking for anything she might have missed, looking for the plausible explanation that she sought. She hadn't made it through the first file when she was interrupted by a knock on her door. Scully turned and looked at the door. She considered not answering it, almost certain that it was Mulder. She stood up, wavering with indecision for a moment. "Miss Scully?" called the unfamiliar voice from the other side of the door. Scully took a couple of tentative steps toward the door. "Who is it?" she called out, as she reached behind her back and firmly grasped the butt of her SIG Sauer. "Sheriff Phillips, Ma'am," came the reply through the thick wood. Scully eased the grip on her gun and relaxed slightly as she moved across the room and pulled the door open a few inches. "Sorry to wake you," he said with a polite smile as Scully peeked through the small opening she had left. "Deputy Johnson," he began, nodding his head in the direction of the younger man to his right, " and I were trying to reach your partner." Scully smiled politely, pulling the door open further as she stepped to the side allowing the two men to enter. The sheriff and his deputy both smiled and nodded amiably as they moved past her. The sheriff removed his hat before speaking. "We're sorry for the intrusion. Darlene gave us your room number when we didn't get an answer next door," he said nodding his head in the direction of her partner's room. "Agent Mulder's not in his room?" she asked slowly. "No, Ma'am," replied the skinny deputy. "We also tried to reach him on his cell phone," added the sheriff, "and his rental car isn't in the parking lot. We were hoping you might know where he is." "No," she said, trying her damndest to keep her voice even. "I assumed he was in his room." Scully moved her hand to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt to ward off the headache that was building there. "We're very sorry for disturbing you, Ma'am, we wouldn't have if it wasn't so important," Sheriff Phillips said. "Really," she said as she pulled her hand away from her face, "you didn't disturb me. Is there anything that I can do for you, Officers?" The sheriff cleared his throat before beginning, "We were called out to the Vernez residence around 12:30 this morning, along with the ambulance...Sarah Vernez was pronounced dead at the scene." "Do you think her death is related to the other five?" Scully asked. "Miss Scully, after speaking to your partner yesterday morning, I would have to say yes, there is...a high likelihood that it is...yes," he finished warily. Scully arched an eyebrow in question and waited for the sheriff to continue. "Her husband, Rick, told us she had been out at Lake Alamos a couple of weeks ago." "I see," she said, wondering exactly what her partner had said to the young sheriff. "We thought that your partner would want to know right away," he added, "thought he might want to talk to Mr. Vernez." Scully nodded her head in agreement, all the while wondering where her wayward partner might be. The tall sheriff scrunched the bill of his hat in his large hands and glanced over at his deputy. "We talked to Dr. Gellett this afternoon. He told us that you had Karen Martins and Caleb Sweeny sent off to Santa Fe." Scully nodded her head, "Actually, I'm taking them back to Washington. Today." Sheriff Phillips glanced at his deputy again. "Is that what you'd like to do with Sarah?" he asked, fidgeting. "If it can be arranged in time, yes," she said solemnly. "I'm booked on a flight out at 5:10 this morning. I'd like to have all three of the victims on the plane with me." "I'll see what I can do about Sarah. Her husband won't be crazy about the idea...to say the least," he said. "I can do a faster and more thorough autopsy at Quantico," Scully explained. "You can give him my assurance that Sarah's autopsy will be given top priority. Barring any unforeseen events, I can have her sent home tomorrow, along with Karen and Caleb." The sheriff nodded his head thoughtfully. "May I ask why you and your partner are leaving town so suddenly?" he inquired. "We aren't. I am," she corrected. "I thought it best to return to Washington immediately, to conduct the autopsies there," she lied. "I see," he said nodding his head yet again. "Sarah Vernez's body was on the way to the morgue when I left to come see Agent Mulder. I'll head back out to the Vernez's now and talk to Rick...explain what's going on." He took a breath before continuing. "Deputy Johnson'll have to drive the body over to Santa Fe. If you'd like a ride to the airport you're more than welcome to ride along." Scully hesitated only for a moment before answering. "Yes. Thanks, I would." "I'll have Johnson stop and pick you up after we get the okay from Rick." Scully smiled politely as she began to walk the two officers to the door. The sheriff paused as he stepped outside, turning and nodding in Scully's direction. "Isn't that Agent Mulder's car?" asked Deputy Johnson when he followed the sheriff outside. "Where?" Scully and the sheriff asked at the same time. The deputy pointed across the highway, in the direction of the small diner. Scully and Sheriff Phillips both looked at once, searching the small parking lot for Mulder's rental car. The dark blue Chrysler was parked no more than a hundred feet away in front of the "Highway Pantry." The sheriff glanced back at Scully before he and his deputy walked across the highway separating the motel parking lot from the small diner across the way. Scully moved quickly to catch up with the taller men. As they neared the diner she was able to discern Mulder's lean form through one of the large picture windows at the front of the establishment. He wasn't alone. The hair on the back of Scully's neck rose when she noticed the pretty blonde woman sitting across the booth from her partner. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A few minutes later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 1:47 a.m. Highway Pantry Diner Fenton, New Mexico Scully took a deep breath before she stepped through the door Sheriff Phillips held open for her. On the outside, Scully knew she appeared to be calm and in control. On the inside, however, she was neither. She followed the two men across the diner, keeping in step with them, taking long purposeful strides. Scully never took her eyes away from Mulder as she walked across the room. He was leaning forward, his forearms resting on the tabletop, speaking quietly to the woman who sat across from him. When they stopped in front of Mulder's booth, it was the sheriff who spoke. "Sorry to disturb you, Agent Mulder," he said after taking off his hat. Mulder looked up from his conversation, his gaze falling on the sheriff, but only for a moment. His eyes found Scully's and held them. "Miss Evans," acknowledged the Sheriff a moment later, nodding politely in the woman's direction. Scully recognized the significance of the Sheriff's greeting immediately. The woman was Mulder's informant, the source given to him by the Lone Gunmen. Scully searched his eyes, looking for confirmation, an explanation. He quickly broke eye contact with her, turning instead to address the sheriff. "What can I do for you, Sheriff Phillips?" "Um...Agent Mulder, I don't think this is really the place to discuss it." "Ron, come on now. We've known each other for a long time. You should know by now that I won't repeat anything you say unless you give it to me on the record," said the woman, Miss Evans, as she smiled fondly at the sheriff. "I don't know, Amber. I just don't think it's...appropriate," the sheriff replied warily, looking to Mulder. "Pish," Amber said, crinkling her pert little nose. "Fox and I don't have any secrets." "Go ahead, Sheriff," Mulder said weakly, staring at his cup of coffee. The sheriff moved in closer, scrunching his hat in his hands. He looked down. When he spoke his voice was hushed, "There's been another death. Sarah Vernez." Mulder shifted in his seat and turned to look at the sheriff, eyes wide, "She was at the lake recently, wasn't she?" "Eleven days ago," the sheriff answered quietly. No one spoke for a few long moments. Mulder looked to Scully briefly, an unreadable expression in his eyes, before he turned back to Sheriff Phillips. "Have her sent to Santa Fe with the others." Scully grimaced inwardly as she wondered when Mulder had learned that she had transferred the bodies to Santa Fe. He hadn't mentioned anything... No. She stopped herself, quickly, denying herself access to those memories. Never again, she thought to herself, never again. "Actually, when we couldn't find you we discussed the matter with your partner. We were leaving to go see Rick Vernez when we saw your car over here," explained the sheriff as he motioned toward the parking lot across the street. Scully's gaze flew to Sheriff Phillips, suddenly realizing what he was about to disclose to Mulder. A guilty twinge hit her hard as she waited for the sheriff to finish his explanation. She readied herself for Mulder's reaction. "We're going to need his permission," continued the sheriff, "if we want to get his wife's body on the plane with such little notice." "Plane?" Mulder asked. "Yeah," the sheriff said slowly. "The plane back to D.C. with your partner. It's leaving in about three hours," he said, glancing down at his watch. Scully's world screeched to a halt as Mulder's eyes found hers. "You're leaving," he said, voice deep, cracking almost imperceptibly. It hadn't been a question. Scully nodded her head slowly, her guilt causing her to break eye contact with him. She chose instead to focus on his shoulder. "Going back to do the autopsies," he said, his voice gaining strength and control. "Yes." "I see," Mulder responded almost indifferently, turning back to face his companion. "I have something you can take back with you then, since you're already making the trip," he finished with a sarcastic edge. "We need to be heading out to see Rick if we want to get you on that plane in time, Miss Scully," the sheriff said, breaking the trance Scully had found herself in. Scully nodded in agreement and turned to follow the officers out of the restaurant. "I'll get a hold of you later this morning, Agent Mulder," the sheriff added before stepping out into the chilly night air. Day Three 3:31 a.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico The sheriff had just called Scully. He had managed to convince Mr. Vernez to forgo the usual formalities and allow the F.B.I. to fly his wife's body back to D.C., post haste. Deputy Johnson would be at the motel to pick her up in approximately twenty minutes. Her neatly packed suitcases sat near the door. Mulder's files were stacked on the small table along with her room key. Scully paced slowly and steadily, back and forth across her room, glancing down at her watch every few seconds. She was trying her damndest to keep herself focused on the case, on anything but Mulder and his impending visit. She didn't have to wait very long. She moved to the door a moment after she heard Mulder's telltale knock, hoping all the while that the Deputy would hurry. Mulder stepped inside, without hesitation, the moment she pulled the door open. He wasn't alone. He had brought Amber Evans with him. Scully seethed inwardly as she watched Mulder walk toward the table and carefully lay down a large manila envelope. His small blonde companion followed and moved to stand next to him. Scully flinched at the picture the three of them must have presented. She was still standing near the door, arms crossed protectively over her chest, wishing for the uncomfortable moment to pass quickly, for Mulder and his friend to just leave. Mulder and Amber Evans stood close together, staring at her in unison, in sync. She and Mulder had stood that same way countless times before, showing a united front against anyone that threatened them. Now Scully found herself on the outside, feeling like the perceived threat. She couldn't seem to fight the feeling that Mulder had moved on, chosen a new partner, a new companion in his fight, his quest. And it hurt like hell. "This evidence is very important," he said. "It needs to be hand delivered to the boys." Scully set her jaw and nodded mechanically, carefully keeping her emotions in-check. "I don't suppose that you're going to tell me what that envelope contains," she said, motioning in the direction of the table. "Or where the evidence came from?" Mulder glanced at his blonde companion, holding her gaze for a moment. Scully took a deep breath, holding tight against the tidal wave of emotions that battered against her. She watched their exchange closely, with disbelieving horror. In her heart, she could feel that she had been replaced, that their partnership truly was over. "It doesn't matter," Mulder replied a few moments later. He picked up his files and Scully's room key and then handed both to his friend. "You don't need to know. Just take it to the Lone Gunmen." She forgot everything she ever knew in the space of a heartbeat after his last words. They only thing that she knew, that she could feel was pure white-hot rage. She looked to the door, quietly inviting them to leave, the extent of her rage frightening even her. He took her silent invitation and moved to the door. When he reached out to pull it open, Mulder brought his eyes to hers. Scully watched the confusion and shock pass over his face, his expression slowly sobering into one of acceptance as he moved to leave, Amber Evans at his side. ~ Chapter Seven - Both of Us Trying to Be Strong ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Seven hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 10:20 a.m. Office of Lieutenant Colonel Norman Brady United States Air Force Undisclosed location. When he heard a knock at his door, Lieutenant Colonel Brady looked up from his desk. "Come," he said loudly, pushing his voice past the thick oak door. Airman Davis opened the massive door and stepped inside, instantly snapping to attention and offering his superior a salute. "At ease, Airman," Brady said. "Sir, word just came in from the plane. We expect it to be on the ground in approximately seventeen minutes. Runway Seven, Sir." "Just as I suspected," he said, smiling. It had almost been too easy. "I assume the jet is in place, re-fueled and ready to go?" "Yes, Sir." "And Dana Scully?" he asked, "They have identified her? They are certain?" "Affirmative, Sir. We are ready." "Good," he said, smiling again, "Very good." Day Three 10:25 a.m. Delta Flight 176 "Twelve more minutes," Mulder muttered to himself as he glanced down at his watch. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, uncertain of how he was going to survive the next few hours, if Scully would survive them as well. Mulder was more than aware that once the plane landed the real and true danger would ensue. He knew that in all likelihood people would die this morning, if they hadn't already, and for the moment he could only hope beyond hope that Scully would not be among the casualties. He would never be able to live with himself if she was. He tried to push his mind past Scully's situation, tried to separate her from it. He needed to focus completely on the men and the motive behind the hijacking. He had to come up with something. He had to help her. The Gunmen had still been unable to uncover any information concerning the twelve men. Skinner and his task force were also drawing blanks, their primary efforts now shifted toward the impending landing. He was more certain than ever that the military was involved, more succinctly, that The Fifth Column was involved. The hijacking reeked of a cover up. He wondered if it might also be, in part, a payback. He and Amber Evans had invaded their inner sanctum, had pilfered some proof of their existence and their involvement with the disaster at the lake. That evidence was aboard Flight 247. He had put it there, had placed it in Scully's hands and in doing so had quite possibly signed her death warrant. He scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to wash away his memories and regrets, wanting only to focus on helping her, saving her. It didn't work--he was drawn back. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Six hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 4:02 a.m. Fox Mulder's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Fox Mulder sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, fresh out of the shower and dressed for sleep. He flipped off the bedside lamp and ran trembling fingers through his damp hair. He didn't even try to stop the tears from falling this time. He allowed himself to drown in them, feeling a small measure of relief after holding them in all day, all night. It didn't take long for the sobs to begin, shaking his body even more, accentuating his pain. It had all been too much. It had gone too far. He would never be able to go back now, not after knowing the feel of her lips, the taste of her kiss. He knew he would never be the same again. He rose and walked to the window, swiping away the stray tears as he went. He pulled open the curtains, letting the light from the starry night enter his room, standing as he did when he had watched her leave for the airport. He stared out into the darkness, searching the sky as he had done so many times before. He felt so comfortable in this role, the dark knight forever searching the heavens for the truth. As he stood there, he tried to renew his resolve, to recommit himself to his decision. He had done the right thing, accomplished his goal. She would be safe now. She had to be. His dream the night before had caused him to be reckless. He had panicked, become crazed, could think of nothing more than pushing her away, getting her out of his life, as quickly as possible. In doing so, he had pushed things too far. He knew that now. He wished he hadn't gone to her room, that he had just slipped the files under the connecting door. She wouldn't have kissed him then. He wouldn't be in as much pain right now. The feel of her lips against his would haunt him for the rest of his life. Mulder loved her, he could no more deny that than he could deny himself breath. It was the reason he had pushed her away, out of his life in every sense of the word. He could no longer stand around and wait to watch her die, wait to see when his nightmares would become reality. Byers had found him that first night, drunk and drowning in his own pain. He had made up his mind only hours before, attempting to drink away his doubts with a bottle of tequila. Byers sat with him, patiently and wordlessly listening to his drunken ramblings, his reasons for needing to leave her. When he finally sobered up, as the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, his friend fed him cup after cup of strong black coffee and then took him out of his apartment, away from the memories of his nightmares, if just for a little while. The drive to the Gunmen's home had passed wordlessly. When Byers stopped the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition, Mulder asked him not to tell Frohike and Langly about his decision to leave Scully, his desire to want her to finally have a life. Byers had reluctantly vowed to keep Mulder's secret from his two best friends. That was also the night he learned of Amber Evans and the suspicious deaths in Fenton, New Mexico. Amber was an old friend of Byers'. They had gone to college together and still kept in touch. She had contacted Byers a few days before and asked him to look into the mysteries surrounding Lake Alamos. When they shared their findings with him, Mulder had been drawn in, eagerly agreeing to accept the case, in part to immerse himself in his work once again. Mulder contacted Amber Evans via e-mail that same day, over lines the Lone Gunmen had guaranteed to be secure. Her reply came within minutes. She wrote of a conspiracy, one so deep and dark that not even those in the highest ranks of the military knew of its existence. She wrote of the men involved in the conspiracy. She had called them "The Fifth Column", in reference to their top-secret home base. Mulder had heard of this Fifth Column, had read obscure articles in various conspiracy publications postulating its existence and its purpose. But Amber knew what it was, where it was, could possibly get him in. They exchanged countless e-mails that day. She detailed what she knew of the purported accident at Lake Alamos, an accident caused by The Fifth Column, an accident they were trying desperately to cover up. She shared with him all that she knew of the deaths, including what had caused the cancer to develop in the people who had visited the lake. Mulder believed her. He had no reason not to. Amber told Mulder about her father and his involvement with the men of The Fifth Column, too. He had been a scientist, a chemical engineer at Los Alamos National Laboratories, a research facility that fell under the jurisdiction of the Department of Energy. His research at the facility had caught the eye of the Column and they had requisitioned his assistance and expertise in hopes of developing a new fuel source for an experimental aircraft that they were developing. He had tried to deny the Column at first, adamantly refusing to work for them. His initial resistance had caused the death of Amber's mother. After three years of research, Amber's father was successful in his endeavor, if not pleased with it. He had pleaded with the powers that be, begging them to destroy the research, to never implement the fuel. His warnings about its dangers had fallen on deaf ears and eventually cost him his life. After his death, Amber had found his personal journals, his own private copies of the research files. Her father's feelings about his creation had been all too clear. After the accident at the lake, the unproven allegations that an unidentified flying object had crashed into the water, Amber had contact Byers and told him what she had recently learned about her father's life, her mother's death and her suspicions concerning the crash at the lake. Mulder didn't regret taking the case his friends had offered, but he did regret the impression he had left Scully with. He had been able to see what Scully had thought. He had been able to read the betrayal and hurt in her eyes. She had thought herself to be replaced. She had read more into his relationship with the newscaster than was there and because he had wanted to push her away, he hadn't denied it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Six hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 10:31 a.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Skinner!" yelled Frohike as he burst through the flaps of the tent, his two friends close at his heels. Walter Skinner looked up and quickly began walking toward the three men, casting them a wary glare. He was suddenly beginning to regret fudging their clearance. "We've got something," Frohike blurted out, before Skinner was even halfway across the tent. "We may have found a concrete connection between the case Agent Mulder was investigating and the hijacking," continued Byers. "Byers, come on man...may?" Frohike interjected, tossing his friend an annoyed look. "There is a very distinct possibility that we've found a link," Byers continued, "that Agent Mulder is right, that it may in fact be a cover up." "A cover up of what?" Skinner questioned doubtfully. He knew how these men operated, to them everything was a conspiracy. That Mulder felt the same way did not shock him--he was almost as bad as they were. Byers continued, seemingly unfettered by the Assistant Director's obvious doubt, "Agent Scully was transporting three bodies back to D.C., along with some evidence that Mulder had uncovered, evidence of a conspiracy." "So what are you saying then? That the hijacking was just an elaborate rouse to get rid of a couple of bodies?" questioned Skinner. "And a business sized manila envelope," Frohike added quickly. "Huh?" Skinner replied, beginning to seriously doubt the small man's sanity. "The evidence Agent Scully was bringing to us, it was in that envelope, on the plane," Byers offered in way of an explanation. Skinner shifted his weight, considering Byers' words carefully before responding. "Do I want to know what this envelope contains?" he asked cautiously. "Computer discs, but they were just copies. We contacted Mulder's source early this morning and convinced them to send us copies attached to an e-mail. We've broken through some of the encryption, the rest is going to take a while," explained Langly. "But we do know that the discs contain information about a project being conducted within a top-secret military base in New Mexico, by men known only as The Fifth Column. This project, code named Whitewing, involves the development of experimental aircraft," finished Byers, glancing nervously at his compatriots. "Wait. Hold on just a minute," Skinner said before Byers had a chance to continue. "Just exactly how did Agent Mulder come to be in possession of this top secret information? Was he on that base?" The three Gunmen exchanged nervous glances before Byers finally answered. "I'm not aware of how Mulder obtained the discs. That's something that you'll have to ask him yourself." Frohike and Langly nodded in agreement, closing ranks with their friend. Skinner closed his eyes and shook his head. His patience was wearing thin. "Don't worry, I will. Come on," he said, knowing he would probably regret it later, "you can fill me in on the rest as soon as we get this plane on the ground." Day Three 10:36 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Scully watched closely as the hijackers sat down and strapped themselves into the two seats facing the passengers, their guns held tightly across their laps. Their expressions gave nothing away, but Scully knew what was about to happen. This plane was going to land and very soon. Before Scully could fully acclimate herself to the idea, she felt the pressure in the cabin change as the plane began its descent. She closed her eyes and tried to separate herself from the terror welling up inside her chest. She took deep breaths, forcing herself to remain calm and focused. Her ears began to pop with the increasing pressure. It was just a matter of moments now. Scully bit her lip, drawing blood, as the pain in her ears increased sharply before the final loud pop. Only a heartbeat later the plane's front tire hit the landing surface, jostling the passengers. The wheel hit again, followed by the rest and the familiar screeching sound the rubber made as it ground against the pavement. The time that it took the plane to careen to a stop seemed to encompass a lifetime. No one in the cabin breathed. Without the comforting sounds of respiration the silence was almost deafening and definitely frightening. The worry was evident, too. Where were they? Where had they landed? What was going to happen next? Were they all going to die? Those questions, almost palpable in their intensity, hung heavily in the surrounding air. ~ Chapter Eight - Promises to Keep ~ *This chapter is marked NC-17 for violent situations.* Day Three 10:37 a.m. Outside the Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia All activity inside the command center ceased as the myriad of agents and technicians moved outside to witness the arrival of the plane first hand. Assistant Director Walter Skinner, headset firmly in place, moved off to the side, away from the cluster of personnel. The three Lone Gunmen moved to stand behind him in a show of strength and solidarity. "It's down! It's down!" Assistant Director Waters shouted into his radio headset as the first wheel of Flight 247 touched against the runway. He quickly signaled for the snipers to move into position. Skinner and the Gunmen stood watch solemnly, never taking their eyes off of the plane as its wheels firmly met the pavement and it began to lose speed as it rolled down the runway some 300-yards away. It was a moment of reverence, the moment of truth. The fate of everyone aboard that plane was now in their hands. Men, women, children, crewmembers and Scully, especially Scully. Mulder had entrusted them with her safety when he boarded his own plane home. They were not going to let him down, let her down. As the plane careened to a stop, a flurry of activity broke out around them. Agents ran back into the tent and the terminal, barking orders into their own headsets as they went, checking on the positions of the teams that they were in charge of. Four ambulances, two fire trucks, and a hazardous materials truck pulled up along side the tent, providing an ominous presence, a reminder of what could be. Skinner and the Gunmen remained outside. The assistant director lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes, searching the craft for any indication of what might be taking place inside. A few minutes later he handed the eyewear to Langly. "The shades are down," Langly commented quietly as he peered through the lenses, watching as the snipers moved into position around the plane. "We expected that," Skinner replied in the same flat tone as Langly. "Let's go back inside and see if anything new has come in. Then the three of you can explain to me what you think is going on," he said as he began to move toward the command center. The Gunmen followed. Day Three 10:50 a.m. Delta Flight 176 Having exhausted his supply of sunflower seeds, Fox Mulder chewed angrily on a plastic straw he had retrieved from the drink cart. He stared out the window, impatiently drumming his fingers against his thigh. He was tired of waiting, tired of wondering, tired of feeling so damn helpless. Scully's plane should have landed thirteen long and arduous minutes ago. He, on the other hand, still had to endure two more hours in the air. He twisted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position for his long legs. Mulder tried not to envision the events that were transpiring aboard the plane. He tried to keep his overactive imagination from running away with him. He needed to focus on the facts, on the truths that could help set Scully free. There was no other way, nothing else he could do for the time being. He was certain that Scully would be a target. The Fifth Column wanted what she had, the evidence he had given her. Mulder knew that they would go to any lengths necessary to recover it. They had demonstrated as much with the hijacking. Beyond that, he could predict nothing. He would not allow himself to consider the possible scenarios. If he did, if he let himself openly ponder Scully's fate, he would certainly not survive the next few hours, at least not with his sanity intact. Scully was still alive. He couldn't explain how he knew. He just did. He could feel it deep within himself in a place that he didn't care to examine--his heart. He rose slowly from his seat and made his way back to the phone. He fought against the urgency he felt and dialed Skinner's cell phone number. His boss answered on the third ring. "It's Mulder." "The plane's on the ground, landed on time," Skinner said without preamble. Relief flooded over Mulder, but only for a moment. "Has there been any communication from the hijackers?" he asked. "The pilot radioed the tower just a few minutes ago," Skinner said slowly. "He requested fuel." "What?" yelled Mulder, ignoring the icy stare of a nearby flight attendant. His mind raced, searching for a connection, the reasoning behind the hijackers' request. "Agent Mulder," Skinner replied harshly, pulling Mulder back from the edge. "I've went along with a lot of your crazy theories in the past and I was prepared to do so again. Mind you, I had my doubts, but I was willing to back you on this. This request for fuel, though...it just doesn't fit. I'd say that it blows a rather large hole in your theory." "I don't care what they are asking for, I'm right. I know that I'm right." "I wish you were. At least then we would have had some idea of who we were dealing with, of what they wanted. But the whole fuel thing...it just doesn't fit, Mulder. Why would they ask for fuel if this whole thing was just a cover up? Why not just destroy the evidence? Why not..." Skinner didn't finish--he didn't have to. Mulder could fill in the blanks quite nicely on his own. "I'm right, Sir," he said, swallowing past the gruesome images that flowed unbidden and unbound through his mind. "Mulder, your assurances are not going to get those hostages off the plane. I need more. I need proof, and so far you have given me very little. It's just not enough right now." Mulder could clearly make out the insistent voices of the Lone Gunmen in the background, arguing with Skinner, vowing to uncover more evidence. After a few long minutes Skinner managed to quiet Mulder's friends and abruptly changed the subject. "We've got Mark Peters here," he said in reference to the Bureau's elite hostage negotiator. "We're trying to establish communication with the hijackers through both the phone and the radio, so far it's been a no-go." When Mulder didn't respond, Skinner continued. "Agent Mulder, we're doing everything that we can right now. The terrorists have made no threats against the passengers, veiled or otherwise. Just because I don't subscribe to your theory doesn't mean that I'm giving up. We're going to get her off." "I know, Sir," Mulder said quietly before ending the call. Day Three 11:01 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The landing and aftermath had been almost as quiet as the hijackers' initial invasion. Once the plane had finally lost its forward momentum, the two captors had calmly risen from their seats and resumed their patrol. The men had succeed in quieting the hushed whispers of the passengers by waving their guns and clearing their throats. With firm, no nonsense voices they had asked all the passengers to remain seated, keep their safety belts in place and the shades drawn. The passengers were only waiting now, quietly and anxiously. Scully was, too. Waiting for something, anything, to happen. She hated not knowing what was going to happen next, what the hijackers had planned for them, whether or not they were going to take off or simply die on the runway. Scully tried to imagine what was going on outside, around them. Was the plane being surrounded as she sat helplessly waiting in her seat? While she could do nothing, were dozens of men and women out there trying to save them? Scully didn't have her gun. She hadn't had the time to hassle with the paper work required for her to carry the weapon on board with her. It sat in a locked box within her suitcase in the cargo hold. Even if she had it, though, she wouldn't have been able to use it--she knew that. To do so would have only endangered the lives of the passengers around her. She couldn't help them, herself, not yet. This time she was one of the victims, one of the people who may not survive the ordeal. Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of another hijacker. Scully had seen him before--he had delivered messages to the other two throughout the flight. He leaned in to do so once again. The exchange was short and impossible to hear. When he left the two men resumed their patrol, saying nothing to the passengers. Scully was beyond frustrated with the situation on board the aircraft. She couldn't even begin to imagine what the terrorists wanted or why they had taken the plane. They seemed intent on not sharing that information with the very people whose lives they were toying with, the very people they were presumably using as leverage. It took every bit of self-control that she possessed not to stand and scream her questions in their direction, insist that the passengers be informed, demand that they be released. Day Three 11:18 a.m. Delta Flight 176 He held a rolled up magazine in his hands, drumming it against his knee. Mulder had tried to read it, but he hadn't made it past the table of contents. He hadn't been able to focus on the words, take his mind away from Scully. He was trying to fight it, to not think about her. Those thoughts only led him back into dangerous territory...to the night it had all begun. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Six days earlier ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He felt so warm, like sunlight was dancing across his skin in the most appealing way. He could almost smell the scents of summer--freshly cut grass, morning dew, the heady scent of the ocean on a hot day, the familiar smell of sweat and happiness that had always belonged to the beach. He felt at peace, like he had finally come home after a long and arduous journey. His eyes were closed and he was standing, reveling in the feel of the hot sun against his skin. When he opened them, he found himself standing on the shore, the gentle waves of the ocean lapping against his bare toes. He blinked and she was there, too, Scully, standing twenty- feet in front of him. She was in the water. The waves were swelling around her knees. The sun was reflecting off of her hair, giving her an almost unearthly glow. Her eyes, too, glimmered in the sun, sparkling as she smiled at him. He smiled, too. He felt so happy, so at ease, so at peace with the world. His heart was filled, overflowing with love for her. She stood there in the ocean, looking like she belonged there, not adrift but at home. She looked so happy, so complete, as if the cruelties of the world had never touched her. And he knew. He knew that they had found the moment, that destiny was finally shining down on them. He knew that it was time, that she was ready, that he was ready, that they were ready. He didn't think; he acted. He allowed his heart to lead him and he moved to step toward her. "She is not yours to have." For a moment, he felt panic encircle him. He turned, trying to determine the source of the words, the owner of the voice. But he and Scully were alone, the only two people on the beach, the only two people in the world. He looked to her, silently asking if she had heard the voice, too. She just smiled at him, her bright blue eyes sparkling in the summer sun. She lifted her arms to him, beckoning him to come to her, welcoming him into her heart. He smiled, too. He felt so sure, so certain that it was right. His heart was filled, aching with need for her. He lifted his foot, slowly, stepping in her direction. "It is not meant to be." He doubled over in pain from the words this time, their meaning slicing through his mind and cutting deep. He breathed slowly, trying to lessen the pain and forget the words. When the pain stopped and the words fell away he looked to her again. She still smiled, held her arms open to him, asked him with her eyes to come to her. He smiled, too. He felt so alive, so whole, so complete. His heart was filled, beating in time with hers. He took another step in her direction. "You will only bring her pain. You will only cause her death." He stopped, paralyzed by the anonymous words. He closed his eyes, trying to feel them. He couldn't though. They were not in his heart. His mind raced with indecision. He felt like he was standing on a ledge, a crossroads, deciding whether to jump, deciding which way to turn. He looked to her and she was still smiling, still reaching out for him, still asking him with her eyes, still needing him. He smiled, too. He felt the words drift away again, the paralyzing fear fall to the ground. He broke free and ran to her, splashing through the water to find her. When he did, he pulled her into his arms, holding tight. He felt it then, her soul meld into his. He bent to kiss her, to capture her lips with his own and seal their fate. In a flash she was gone. He was gone. He was home, in his apartment. He was sitting on his couch, his hands trembling. He blinked quickly, trying to clear his clouded mind. He saw it then, dancing against the wall. A red light, flitting across the surface to a slow staccato beat. He stared at it mesmerized by its movements. For a moment he caught an odd sense of deja vu that caused his heart to constrict in his chest. He blinked, hoping to ward off the feeling. The light exploded then, shattering into a thousand parts before coming together on the wall again. This time it formed a word. Follow, it said. He felt the foreboding sense of familiarity again, but quickly pushed it aside as he rose from the couch. The light merged into one and raced for the door. It waited there for him. When he pulled on the door handle, the light disappeared. He panicked again, but opened the door. Relief flooded him when he found the light again, dancing across the hallway floor. It was circling slowly, tracing over the spot where he and Scully had almost moved forward, where they had almost kissed so long ago. He stepped cautiously now, still unsure of what was happening, why it all felt so familiar. The light took another slow lap and then danced away, down the hall, and around the corner. Mulder ran after it, the sense of urgency welling up from his gut overtaking him. When he rounded the corner, he was nearly blinded by a flash of white light. He threw his arms up, shielding his eyes. When he pulled them away a few moments later he was outside in a parking lot. He looked around, searching for the light once again in the darkness. He found it then, on the sign, the one that said "Bosher's Run Park, Manassas Parks and Rec." The sense of deja vu threatened to overwhelm him again, but when the light moved he followed. He ran through the woods, never taking his eyes away from the light as it bounded over fallen trees and piles of leaves. When it stopped, so did he. It came to rest on a tree, but only for a moment. It slid slowly down to the forest floor and exploded into the shape of a heart. It was pulsing, beating, and then it stopped. Mulder dropped to his knees, desperately clawing at the earth. The light flashed again, blinding him, but only for a moment. And then she was there, lying on the earth and leaves. Her heart no longer beating; her breath still in her in chest. Mulder screamed out in protest, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. And then the light found her again, coming to rest on her chest and then exploding into words. This time he heard the voice as well, speaking the same words as the light. "You will only bring her pain. You will only cause her death." He awoke then, in a panicked state, sweat pouring off of him as the visions from his dream flooded his mind, threatening to pull him down with their powerful undertow. He blinked quickly, trying to erase the images. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, taking deep breaths to ebb the racing of his heart. He couldn't let go of them though. He couldn't forget. He doubted that he ever would. Day Three 11:39 a.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Skinner turned and noticed Langly frantically motioning for him to come to the communications area. The Gunman had been denied a headset by the same technicians who he had stood over, repeatedly telling them how they should do their job. His two friends had left, only minutes after Skinner had finished his call with Mulder, leaving to search for more connections, more evidence. "We've finally rerouted the tower communications down here," said Langly, glaring at the nearest techie and pointing toward the equipment in front of him. "They just turned on the radio in the cockpit," he added, indicating a red light on one of the panels. "Where's Peters?" barked Skinner as he quickly scanned the interior of the large tent. When he looked to his left he saw the man in question jogging toward them. Skinner nodded in approval at the man's hustle. Peters stopped next to Skinner, a questioning expression on his face. "What have you got?" he asked expectantly as Langly pointed to the indicator light. The negotiator wasted no time, quickly grabbing a headset and flipping it on. One of the technicians got up, making room for Peters, absentmindedly abandoning his headset in the process. Langly snatched it up quickly, a triumphant grin on his face. Before Peters even had the chance to get comfortable in his seat, static broke across the line causing everyone to jump as it reverberated through their headsets. "247 to Tower," said a voice that they presumed was the pilot's. "Come in 247," Peters answered into his headset as he adjusted himself more stiffly in his seat. "Checking on the status of our refuel, Tower." "247. No refuel. I repeat no refuel," Peters said calmly, never taking his eyes off the panel in front of him. "Repeat, Tower," requested the pilot, weakly after a lengthy pause. "Captain Jacobs, this is Special Agent Mark Peters. I'd like to speak with whomever is in charge." "Come back." "Captain Jacobs, Flight 247 is not going to be refueled. The F.B.I. would like to speak to the hijackers." With that the radio went dead. Peter's threw off his headset and scrubbed his face with his hands. "That went well," he said with a frustrated laugh. "It's not over yet," Skinner said firmly. "They aren't going anywhere. Sooner or later they're going to have to tell us what they want." Skinner was interrupted by the trilling of his cell phone. "Mulder," he mumbled, reaching down and hitting a button. "Skinner," he barked, not particularly in the mood to deal with his wayward agent at the moment. "Assistant Director Skinner, this is John Byers. Frohike got in," he finished excitedly. "What?" "The military records. Frohike gained access into one. Mulder was right. He was right about The Fifth Column." "Come again?" questioned Skinner. "Kent Sumtras, one of the twelve men that we told you about. He is on that flight. Frohike was able to access part of his military records. Sir, he's stationed at the air force base known as The Fifth Column. Mulder was right," Byers finished confidently. "Apparently so," Skinner replied a few heartbeats later, his voice full of resignation. "Apparently so." Day Three 11:45 a.m. Maggie Scully's Residence Baltimore, Maryland Maggie Scully paced an endless path of tight circles in front of her television set, glancing every few seconds in the box's direction, not really hearing what the anchorman had to say. She didn't know how much longer she could stand this. How much more could a mother could be expected to take? She began to rub her arms in hopes of warding off her growing chill as she continued to pace around the large living room. She checked her watch, again, out of habit now. "Where are you Bill?" she asked aloud as she glanced toward the front door. He and Tara had taken Matthew to the mall in her car after dropping her home over an hour ago. Maggie had heard the phone ringing even before she unlocked the front door and waved at her departing family. She had hurried to get the phone, thinking it might be Dana, back early from the case she was working on. It hadn't been. It was the phone call from every mother's nightmare, the same kind of phone call that she had received far too many times. Her daughter was in danger, again. The call had been from Assistant Director Skinner, Dana's boss. Maggie had known from the moment that he said hello that her world was about to come crashing down around her feet. His voice had been strained, tense, uncomfortable, but polite. "Mrs. Scully," he had begun. "I've been trying to reach you all morning." She didn't bother to respond, to explain that she had been out with her son and his family all morning. After a long pause he continued with obvious discomfort, "Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this," he said, his strong voice growing soft with regret. "The plane that your daughter was flying home on was hijacked this morning." She dropped the phone. She bent to pick it up a few moments later, ignoring the tears that threatened to fall, the fear that took hold of her heart. "What?" she managed to ask as she brought the phone back to her ear. "We're expecting the plane to land at Dulles any moment," he continued. "We're going to do everything in our power to ensure that Dana makes it off of the plane safely." "Why? Who would...? Oh my God. No," she said as the perilous implications of the situation hit her fully. "Mrs. Scully, I'm going to send an agent over to pick you up. You'll be able to wait in the terminal if you like. I'm so sorry. I--" Pulling herself together by sheer force of will, she interrupted the man. "Yes. I'd like to be there. Thank you for calling, Mr. Skinner. And please, do everything that you can for Dana." "We will," he said sincerely, "I promise." The agent Mr. Skinner was sending was due any moment. Mrs. Scully didn't want to leave her oldest son a note explaining her sudden departure. She didn't want him to find out about Dana from the back of an old grocery store receipt. But more than anything she didn't want this to be happening. She wanted it all to be a terrible mistake. She had almost lost her daughter so many times before and she wasn't sure that she had the strength to survive another ordeal, another daughter's death. Maggie jumped when she heard the front door open, followed by Matthew's two-year-old squeals of glee. She stopped in the middle of the room, her teary gaze going immediately to her son's smiling face. Bill's grin quickly disappeared when he saw his mother's pained expression. "Mom," he said warily, taking large strides in her direction. "What's going on? What's wrong?" "Bill," she replied, tears falling unchecked down her cheeks. "It's Dana." Day Three 11:57 a.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Walter Skinner drew a shuddery breath as he paced in front of the communications board, methodically rubbing the back of his neck. Every muscle in his body was coiled tightly in anticipation, nervous energy pouring off of him in waves. It had been twenty minutes since their last contact with Flight 247, since they had officially refused the pilot's request for fuel. Skinner had worked in hostage situations before, but never one like this. Regardless of Scully's presence on the plane, this was big--an American plane, hijacked on American soil. The press was all over it. The Attorney General was all over him. She wanted answers, a peaceful resolution--yesterday. The Lone Gunmen's discovery, proof that at least one member of The Fifth Column was on board the craft, had helped to assuage Skinner's doubts concerning the hijackers' lack of communication and lack of demands, save the fuel request. If Mulder's friends were indeed right, as Skinner thought them to be, things on the plane could get hairy pretty damn fast. Skinner's thoughts were interrupted when a blast of static shot through his earphones like a bolt of electricity, followed by a frantic and harried voice. "We've got movement! Advise!" The Assistant Director quickly turned to face the bank of television monitors covering the south wall. He scanned the screens frantically and then he saw it. One of the plane's doors was open. He searched for a better view, listening as A.D. Waters calmly ordered the snipers to hold their fire. Skinner finally found the view that he was looking for, a head-on, close-up of the open door. He squinted, trying to make out details on the small black and white screen. He could clearly see two men, though. They were standing in the opening, dressed in what he thought to be fatigues and bulletproof vests. They were wearing combat helmets, too. Skinner concentrated on their images, trying to focus on anything that would lead him closer to the truth. He couldn't see any sort of insignia on their uniforms, although one might be found later once the video was analyzed and the pictures were enlarged. He couldn't see their faces, but it looked like they might be covered by something, possibly netting of some sort. They were carrying guns, had them slung across their chests. "We have a lock on the targets," announced the Unit One commander. "Hold your fire," ordered Waters as he moved to stand next to Skinner. The terrorists stood in the opening only for a few moments and then turned, bending and crouching down. They reached further into the craft and finally lifted something. Skinner barely contained a gasp as the hijackers pulled their trophy through the doorway and into plain sight. It was a person. In one deft move the body was thrown from the plane, falling quickly to the ground some twenty-feet below. Skinner's headset exploded in a flurry of static as several frantic team leaders all tried to speak at once. "Man down! Man down!" The door was closed quickly, without a shot being fired. "Team One, move in!" shouted Waters. "Somebody give me status!" shouted Skinner as he watched a wave of agents move across the tarmac toward the body. A feeling of dread enveloped him as he stared at the small, unmoving form on the pavement. He could hear the ambulance long before he saw it on the television in front of him. When it did come into view he watched as it stopped fifty-yards from the plane. "Team Two, move in for cover!" Waters barked when the first team reached the body. Skinner watched on the monitor as the team leader bent over slowly and reached out to check for a pulse. "It's a woman," he said a second later. Skinner's breath caught in his throat, his thoughts immediately falling to Scully. "Can you get a better shot?" he asked the techie manning the video equipment. The camera zoomed in and the shot got tighter, but now the view of the woman was obstructed by the agents surrounding her. "She's dead," supplied the Unit One commander. "Half of her head is gone." That was all Skinner needed to hear. He was across the tent and out the door in half a moment, Langly close behind. The two men ran, stopping only a hundred yards from the plane. Skinner waited anxiously, desperately trying to mask his escalating panic as the snipers loaded the small broken body aboard the ambulance. "There's a note," relayed the commander, his baritone voice catching slightly as he spoke across the radio. Langly caught Skinner's gaze, silently asking the question both men were afraid to put voice to. Skinner closed his eyes in way of a response, silently pleading with the powers that be, begging for Scully to still be alive and well on board the aircraft. Several tense and panic-filled moments passed in a silence only broken by the wailing of sirens. The ambulance began to move slowly in the direction of the command center, several agents jogging along side. Skinner waved his arms, signaling for the driver to stop. The ambulance slowed to a halt a few yards from where he and Langly stood. They moved toward it, approaching the vehicle with silent but palpable trepidation. Skinner motioned for one of the agents to open the rear doors as another agent handed him a plastic covered piece of paper. Skinner took it blindly, his eyes never wavering from the ambulance. He took a deep breath and stepped inside. Skinner swallowed past the lump in his throat and moved deeper into the rig. He blinked quickly, saying another silent prayer before pulling the sheet back from the woman's face. His breath hitched in his chest as his eyes fell upon the woman lying before him, her dark brown hair cover in blood, most of her face blown away. He held himself steady against the flood of relief and remorse that flowed over him, thankful that it wasn't Scully, deeply disturbed and angered that a hostage had lost her life. Skinner re-covered her, gently laying the sheet back over her still frame. He turned and stepped out of the ambulance, shaking his head no as he went. He heard Langly let out a heavy breath as he stepped away from the back of the vehicle. Waters was standing beside the Lone Gunman, sporting the same look of relief as Langly. It passed quickly as both men took in the reality of the situation. A hostage had died. The situation had escalated. Both assistant directors were aware of the significance of the hijackers' actions. Once they had taken a life, there was no going back. They had very little else to lose. In his panic to identify the woman, Skinner had forgotten the note he held tightly in his hand. He raised it up and read it aloud, barely maintaining his composure as he did. "Who will be next? Will it be your Agent, the one with the bloody face?" ~ Chapter Nine - She Deserves Better Than That ~ *This chapter is marked NC-17 for violent situations.* Day Three 12:34 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Scully was dazed. She sat motionless in her seat, unaware of the chaos that surrounded her. She didn't hear the screams of grief and horror that showed no signs of ebbing. She struggled against the fog that she was drowning in, trying to extricate her mind from the mire. She moved her hands slowly to her face, pulling them back a few moments later, staring at them with wonder and confusion. They were wet, covered in a sticky red fluid. It's blood, she thought calmly. She reached up again, this time touching her hair. It was wet, too, stained by the same red fluid. Scully looked up then, toward the front of the plane, at the wall in front of her. Her lips parted as she focused on the large crimson stain, red droplets streaming slowly toward the floor, pulled down by the force of gravity. It was the woman's blood on the wall, on Scully's face, on her hands. The fear and terror surged through her then, the reality of the situation slamming against her full force. The noises assaulted her first, screams, haunting wails, deep shuddering sobs. The cabin had descended into a state of complete and utter chaos--passengers were desperately clinging to each other, crying, begging to be released. Through it all the hijackers stood at the front of the plane, flanking the stark crimson stain, staring straight ahead, their expressions blank and devoid of emotion, seemingly oblivious to the desperate terror that surrounded them, making no move to quell the outbursts, the panic. A woman was dead. She had been killed in cold-blood, right in front of the passengers, right in front of her husband. Her crimson blood had splattered against the white wall as half of her head had been blown away. Her blood now covered the passengers. The men hadn't hesitated, didn't seem to give her death a second thought. Scully had no doubt that they would do so again, with the same malice. Scully closed her eyes tightly, warding off the images she knew would haunt her for the rest of her life, however long or short it may be. It had all happened so quickly, yet every dreadful detail was trapped within her mind's eye, destined to replay again and again. They had come in without warning or preamble, bursting through the curtain, their guns held at the ready. The five hijackers stood at the front of the section, but only for a moment. The screams and cries had begun then. The passengers had been able to read the hijackers' intent, knew that someone was about to die. One of the men stepped forward, the dark and menacing look in his obsidian eyes telling his story, clearly describing the act he was about to commit. His evil gaze passed quickly over every passenger in the section as he searched out his target. When his eyes fell upon Scully she did not waver, staring death directly in the eye for a long and tense moment. He surged forward and Scully's stomach dropped to her feet. Her fingers twitched, anxiously wanting to move for the gun that wasn't at her side. He moved past her though, by two rows. Scully turned her head, following his movements. He pointed to a pretty young woman with soft dark eyes and beautiful chestnut hair. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five-years- old. Her husband clung to her, desperately, pulling the woman securely against his chest, tears flowing steadily down his cheeks as he pleaded for his wife's life. His words fell on deaf ears. Two of the other men pulled her out of his arms, ignoring her screams, his screams, as two of the other hijackers held him down. She was dragged to the front of the section, pulled roughly by an arm and her long beautiful hair, the death march lasting several long moments that felt much more like years. Scully watched in disbelieving horror as the woman was shoved into the wall and a gun was placed to her head. The single gunshot rang out loudly through the small cabin- -that single action changing everything. A thousand voices broke loose inside of Scully's head. Her own joining them as she screamed silently within herself as the woman's blood hit her, marking her forever. Scully had done nothing to help her. She would live with that guilt, the sin of her silence, for the rest of her life. Day Three 12:54 a.m. Delta Airlines Flight 176 Mulder jumped when the flight attendant tapped him on the shoulder. "Agent Mulder, you have a telephone call," she said, pointing behind him in the direction of the phone. He nodded his head in thanks as he rose from his seat. He raked his fingers through his already spiked hair, his stomach churning with anticipation as he made his way down the aisle. The fear and panic gripped him firmly, knowing that the call was from Skinner, knowing that his boss would not be calling unless the situation had been resolved or something had gone terribly wrong. He swallowed past the rising lump in his throat as he reached out for the phone with a trembling hand. "Mulder," he said, voice deep and thick with urgent fear. "Hey man, it's Langly," said the Gunman, giving nothing away with his neutral tone. "What's going on?" he asked, his panic ebbing slightly at the identity of the caller. He glanced down at his watch, impatiently, while he waited for Langly to respond. "Skinner asked me to call, he's a little busy right now," his friend explained, his voice still neutral. Mulder took a deep breath and tried to surmise the purpose of the call. He closed his eyes a moment later, hoping beyond hope that everything had been reconciled. "There was an incident on the plane," Langly said slowly, quickly moving on when he heard Mulder's panicked gasp from the other end of the line. "She's alive, Mulder." "What happened?" he asked, pushing his voice past his ever rising panic, fighting against the helpless feeling that surrounded and invaded him. "We aren't certain why, but we assume that it was in retaliation for the denial of fuel," he began to explain, taking a deep breath and pushing it out before continuing. "They killed a passenger. A woman." Mulder swallowed loudly, convulsively, attempting to ward off a sudden wave of nausea. "Scully," he said. There was more, he could sense it, feel it. "There was a note on the body, Mulder. A note about Scully." "A note," he said, his voice barely audible. "Yeah. Look I'm just going to tell you exactly what it said. But Mulder, before I do, I want you to remember," started Langly, his voice filling with compassion, "Mulder, she's a strong person. She's going to be okay. We're--" "What. Did. It. Say?" Mulder asked in a low and threatening voice. "It said, 'Who will be next? Will it be your Agent, the one with the bloody face?'" responded Langley. "And Mulder, we don't know anything for sure, we don't know that they've done--" "No," Mulder whispered, cutting Langly off once again. His nostrils flared as the tears came to his eyes unbidden. He felt himself being pulled down by the undertow of pain and guilt. He sagged against the wall, his strength drained completely. He choked back the sob that rose in his throat as he felt himself slipping over the edge. He struggled to breathe against the tightness in his chest. For a moment he thought that he was going to die from the heartbreak, and he welcomed it even though he knew that it would not absolve him. Somewhere in his conscious mind Mulder realized that Langly was still speaking to him, but he couldn't seem to connect with those thoughts. He was lost within himself, wrestling against his own doubts and fears as Langly continued to ramble on. Mulder wanted to help her, wanted to save her, needed to do that. But somewhere within himself he doubted that he could, that he would ever be enough or have enough to do that. For now though, he needed to believe, needed to be strong. His everything depended on it. Day Three 12:59 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Skinner moved deftly across the command center, approaching the communications set-up at a fast pace. "Did you call Agent Mulder?" he asked Langly when he reached the area. "Yeah. He took it worse than we thought he would," Langly said, shaking his head and grimacing. "I think he's got it together now. It's probably a good thing that I waited though. I would have hated to hear his reaction if he'd had much more time left in the air," the Gunman said as he glanced down at his watch. Skinner nodded his head in agreement. Knowing Mulder, he probably would have gone crazy, or worse, if he received the news about the note any sooner. Skinner had to try very hard to suppress a grin as a mental picture of his determined agent jumping out of the plane and flapping his arms wildly came to his mind. He pushed it away, saving it for another time and place, when Scully was safe. Skinner looked past Langly, in the direction of Mark Peters, watching as he leaned forward in his swivel chair, phone pressed to his ear. "Any luck?" Skinner asked Peters, fully aware of what the negotiator's response would be. Peters gave Skinner a wry grin and placed the phone back in its cradle. He scrubbed his face with his hands before answering. "Nope. They're still not answering the phone. And they haven't turned the radio on since we denied them fuel." Skinner placed his left hand on his hip, his right coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "This isn't making any sense," he said, the frustration in his voice evident. "What's your take, Peters?" he asked a few moments later, interested in hearing the seasoned negotiator's point of view. "Sir," he began, "considering what Agent Langly told me..." Skinner's eyes flew to Langly, who gave him a smart-ass grin in response. "...I think they will give us a list of demands," he continued, seemingly oblivious of the exchange between the assistant director and the "agent". Skinner returned his gaze to the negotiator, his face scrunching in confusion, asking for an explanation with his eyes. "This is how I see it, Sir. They hijacked the plane in order to either reclaim or destroy the three bodies being shipped back to Quantico. The same can be said for the evidence Agent Scully was carrying. If that was all they wanted to do, why hijack the plane? Why not just steal the bodies and evidence from the airport, or when they were en route to Quantico. Hell, why not when they were on their way to the airport in the first place? Why go to all this trouble?" he said, taking a deep breath before moving on. "But they did hijack the plane. And they told us that they did, almost immediately. Why give us all of this time to prepare for them?" Skinner nodded his head, encouraging the agent to continue. "They wanted this, Sir. They wanted us to think that the hijacking was nothing more than a random act of terror, that it is all as simple as that. It's exactly what Agent Langly says it is--a cover-up of epic proportions." Skinner glared at Langly again before responding. "If that's the case, then why would they show us their hand by threatening Agent Scully?" "They have a copy of the passenger manifest aboard the plane. Agent Scully is listed on it as a F.B.I. agent. As you know, hijacking an airplane automatically falls under the jurisdiction of the F.B.I. They are aware of that, Sir. I think that any terrorist would play the same card given the opportunity. They know we are out here, of course they would use Agent Scully as leverage, any good terrorist would." Skinner nodded his head, again. "That's why they're asking for fuel. They know that we won't comply. It gives them an excuse to go crazy. Pretty soon they're going to give us a list of inane demands. But that's not what they're after. They're trying to shift the blame, divert us from the truth by making us think that this is some ordinary hijacking. And when we are looking left, they're going to move right. Mission accomplished." Langly pursed his lips as he nodded emphatically. "He's right. These guys are the elite of the elite. They are stationed at an above top-secret base that the government denies the existence of. They never considered that we would discover who they are, what they really want. And to ensure that, they are going to try and come off as some whacko right wing terrorist group, bent on destroying the world. They're going to try and make this look as by the book as possible." Skinner couldn't help but agree with the two men. What they were saying made sense. The hijackers were attempting a cover-up so grand and extreme that no one would take it for that. They could have eliminated the need for any of this, but their other options would have raised questions. If they made the cover-up appear to be an ill-fated hijacking, though, a terrible act of terrorism, no one would be the wiser. The law enforcement agencies would have thought the loss of the bodies and evidence to be a coincidence, a strange one, but a coincidence none-the- less. For now all they had to go on were assumptions, assumptions based on logic, but assumptions nonetheless. They needed facts, or at least more of them. He looked to Langly, who was smugly leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his lap. "Why don't you check in with Byers and Frohike, see if they have anything new," he suggested. Day Three 1:12 p.m. Delta Flight 176 "Ladies and Gentlemen. Please return your tray-tables and seats to their full upright positions. The fasten seat belt sign has now been turned on. We will be landing momentarily at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. We're sorry for any inconvenience this may cause. On behalf of your Cincinnati based flight crew, thank you for choosing Delta and we hope to see you again in the future." Mulder let out a long deep breath and tried to force himself to relax. Finally, he thought. The last five hours had easily been the longest of his life, but he had managed to survive them and so had Scully, although not unscathed. He bit down on his thumbnail, having exhausted both his supply of sunflower seeds and straws. "I'm almost there, Scully. Hang on for a little while longer," he said to himself as he stared out the window. He tried to focus on the rapidly enlarging skyline of the greater Baltimore area, pushing the implications of his conversation with Langly down into the nether regions of his brain, attempting to shield his fragile heart, or what was left of it. His heart lurched anxiously in his chest when his ears began to pop with the change in pressure. He closed his eyes and jumped in his seat when a brilliant flash of white light assaulted his mind. He blinked his eyes, not washing away its brightness, but bringing on its pain. He saw her then. The images flashed rapidly through his mind and seared his soul. A beach. An ocean. Salty waves. Scully. Her smile. The words. Her touch. Her kiss. A red light. A bright heart. Running. Chasing. A tree. Leaves. Her. Scully. Gone. Dead. And then she was in his arms again. They were spinning in the forest, turning and twirling. Happy. Her bright blue eyes. His everything. Her lips. Her kiss. Falling. Her life. Gone. Dead. The first wheel of the plane touched the ground, screeching against the pavement, pulling him back. He shook his head, trying to shake the visions from his mind, cleanse them from his soul. It hit him anew when the plane touched the runway again. A powerful flash of images, relentlessly assaulting him, taking his breath away, taking her life away. Scully. A bullet hitting her abdomen and taking her down. A respirator tethering her to his world. A madman pining her to the floor while he tried to rip out her heart. A terrible disease trying to steal her away, her life's blood dripping onto his white linen shirt. A single tear streaking down her check as she stood watch over a dying child. A mosquito bite on her back, scaring her forever with his curse. A frozen tundra that was nearly her grave. An alien ship taking... The plane slowed to halt, stopping with one last and sudden jerk. And then they were gone, fading from his mind, breaking his heart. Reminding him of all he had taken, all she had lost. ~Chapter Ten - She's Been Good to Me ~ Day Three 1:17 p.m. Main Terminal Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Maggie Scully moved through the main terminal of Dulles International Airport with a quiet yet dogged determination. Her posture was stiff as she took long confident strides in the direction of Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Her family was at her side, their presence bolstering her strength. Maggie's eyes never left those of Mr. Skinner as she approached him. His expression was guarded at best. His stance was deceptively relaxed, and even though she had only met him once she could easily read the lines of tension etched in his face, the unmistakable look of regret in his eyes. He held out his hand as she neared him, clasping and squeezing hers when she reached out in turn. A grim and weary smile crossed his lips as he murmured his apologies for the situation her daughter was in. His discomfort shown clearly through his dark eyes as he exchanged greetings with the rest of her family. A long moment passed between the group, a thick and uncomfortable silence falling around them. It was Bill who finally broke it. "What's happening?" he asked, his voice strained with anger and deep, dark fear. Skinner looked to Maggie and placed a hand on the small of her back, leading her and her family over to a bank of seats in the nearly deserted terminal. He spoke once they were all seated. "The hijackers asked for fuel about an hour and a half ago. We denied them, of course," he added quickly, hoping to allay the look of panic that crossed over the Scully matriarch's face. "They've killed one hostage," he continued slowly, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He didn't tell them about the note that had been pinned to the woman. He didn't feel that it was wise or necessary. The hijackers' threats and claims were wholly unverifiable. Skinner couldn't see the need in causing her family additional pain and worry. "How did this happen?" Bill demanded, clearly not bothering to hide the anger and disgust in his voice. Skinner took a deep breath, considering exactly how much information he should share with the Scully family. "We're not sure," he answered honestly. "We do, however, have some leads, some ideas. We're doing everything that we can," he added strongly. "Please, Mr. Skinner. Tell us what you can," Maggie said quietly, imploring him with her eyes. Skinner nodded, thankful that she understood his position. "Dana boarded the plane this morning around 5:10, in Santa Fe. She was flying back to perform several autopsies. A few minutes after the plane took off, the pilot informed the tower that it had been hijacked." "Fox?" she asked warily, concern and worry seeping into her blue depths. "He wasn't on the plane," Skinner explained. "Your daughter was returning early." Mrs. Scully turned to stare out the window, not sure whether to feel relieved or scared that Dana was on the plane without her partner. Fox Mulder had always been capable of evoking mixed feelings within her. Mrs. Scully was aware of how much he cared for, and quite possibly loved, her daughter. But he had also brought danger into Dana's life, danger that Mrs. Scully couldn't help but feel would not be present if her daughter had not been partnered with him. "Is that bastard connected to this?" Bill asked, his face reddening and voice deepening with anger. Skinner turned to the younger man, his brow furrowing as he bit his tongue. He was well aware of the animosity between Scully's brother and Fox Mulder. He had witnessed it himself shortly after Scully had been told that her cancer was gone. Skinner held himself in check and lied his ass off. Scully's family did not need to know about the growing probability that Mulder's investigation into a several bizarre deaths in New Mexico had in all likelihood spawned the nightmare they were all engulfed in now, at least not yet. He consoled himself with the fact that the motive behind the hijacking was currently classified, that even if he had wanted to, he was not allowed to reveal that information. So he simply and confidently said, "No." Bill took in the man's hesitation before answering. He knew Skinner was lying. Apparently his mother did, too. She placed a strong hand on Bill's knee, grounding him, silencing him--for now. "Is he coming back?" Maggie asked cautiously, torn between wanting to keep herself away from the man that had caused her family so much pain and the knowledge that he was probably the only one that could save her daughter, seemed to be the only person who ever could. Skinner nodded in response, glancing down at his watch. "He'll be here within the hour. He left New Mexico about five hours ago. We've shut down all air traffic to D.C., his plane landed in Baltimore a few minutes ago." Maggie nodded her head. Bill seethed. Only Tara's firm and loving grip on his shoulder kept him tethered to his seat and his sanity. Skinner rose slowly from the uncomfortable chair, needing to return to the fray, needing to present when Mulder arrived. "We'll keep you informed as much as we can," he promised before walking away. Day Three 1:27 p.m. Lair of the Lone Gunmen Undisclosed Location "Any more luck?" Byers asked as he moved to stand behind his short friend. "Nope. All of these files are protected separately," Frohike replied with a tight voice, his eyes never leaving the screen of the computer he'd been sitting in front of for the last few hours. He had gotten lucky, he thought. He had just been playing around when he got into the first file, taking a break from his investigation into The Fifth Column, but now Frohike was working diligently to open the other eleven military records. "Who was on the phone?" he asked as he pecked away at the keyboard. "Langly," Byers said slowly, a slight hitch in his normally smooth voice. Frohike stopped typing. He turned to his friend, giving him his full attention and a serious look. Byers closed his eyes. "They've killed a hostage." Frohike felt his eyes widen in shock, but it passed quickly. The Fifth Column was a ruthless bunch. They had no scruples. That they had waited this long before executing a passenger should have been the shocker. Taking a deep breath, Byers continued. "There was a note on the body. A note that threatened Agent Scully." Frohike swallowed hard. His voice shook slightly when he replied, "No." "They implied that she had been hurt. They threatened that she would be the next to die," Byers elaborated, recanting what Langly had told him. Frohike could tell that his friend was trying to keep his voice optimistic and strong. They both knew Agent Scully was tough as nails. She was undoubtedly one of the strongest people they had ever known. She would make it through this. She had to. Frohike nodded blindly, not allowing the true and full reality of Byers' words to sink in. "Have you come up with anything on your end?" he asked, turning the conversation away from what he could not comprehend, could not allow to his mind to process. "I've put out a couple of open-ended inquires," Byers replied. "Nothing yet." The Gunman cleared his throat before continuing. "I thought I might head out to Dulles. Mulder should be there soon. He's going to be a handful, Skinner might need our help." Frohike shook his head, "Skinner'll keep his ass in line. We need to keep looking. We need to find something, before," he paused, struggling to control the ripple of dread that was washing over him, "before it's too late." He turned back to the keyboard, his efforts and resolve doubled by the dire news that Byers had relayed. Day Three 1:48 p.m. Runway 2 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Skinner and Langly moved quickly across the tarmac, walking steadily toward the helicopter that had just landed. They stopped short of the craft, watching through the small window as Mulder removed his headphones. The agent bounded out of the machine a second later, not giving it a backwards glance as he jogged toward Skinner and Langly. His eyes captured theirs, pinning them to the spot with his steely, half-crazed glare. He stepped in front of them, turning to watch as the helicopter lifted off and flew away, leaving the three men in an uncomfortable silence--but only for a moment. "Start talking," Mulder said tersely as he began to move in the direction that Skinner pointed. Skinner ignored the agent's clipped and demanding tone. He would allow Mulder a little bit of latitude, if only for the time being. "Nothing new. No word from the hijackers. They aren't answering the phone. They don't have the radio on," he said mimicking Mulder's clipped tone. Mulder didn't comment. He just continued to take long strides toward the terminal and the command center that was beginning to come into his view. During the helicopter ride from Baltimore he had managed to strengthen his resolve, turning his single-minded attention to one thing and one thing only--getting his partner off that plane in one, alive, piece. Nothing else mattered to him at the moment. Not the bodies. Not the evidence. Not the conspiracy created and maintained by The Fifth Column. Not even the disturbing memories of the last few days with Scully or the haunting nightmares that he hadn't been able to escape for the last week. Mulder flashed his eyes at Langly, catching the man's attention. "What have you got?" he asked, his voice tight and thick. "Frohike got into one of the files. You were right," he said evenly and without emotion. "He and Byers are still working on the others." Mulder nodded his approval, not shocked with either his friend's revelation or the Gunmen's success. He had known that he was right, that the Gunmen would come through. He had wagered Scully's life on it, literally. When the three men neared the tent, Mulder stopped, turning his hazel eyes toward the plane sitting on the tarmac some 300-yards away, surrounded by men in black, guns at the ready. He swallowed convulsively in an effort to thwart the wave of nausea that passed over him. It was suddenly all too real. He drew a shuddery breath, filling his lungs with the crisp November air, blowing it back out, trying to expel his all-consuming fear along with the cold, bitter air. Mulder jumped when he felt Skinner's hand grip his shoulder, closing his eyes for a heartbeat before turning to his superior. "Let's go inside, see if they know anything new," Skinner suggested rationally. Mulder nodded slowly and followed the assistant director inside the tent. The command center was a flurry of activity, Mulder noticed as he took in his surroundings. It was filled with at least fifty agents and support personnel. Everyone was wearing headsets as they were either sitting, rooted to a chair in front of a screen or terminal, or moving around the room in a flurry, barking orders at whomever passed by. A very large portable table sat in the middle of the room. Ten agents surrounded it, but Mulder was still able to see the detailed plans of both the airport and Scully's plane strewn out before them. Mulder's eyes drifted to the south wall, the one covered in television screens, each showing a different view or angle of the plane. He turned his gaze away quickly, as his heart began to rebel against his grand intentions. He needed to focus solely on getting her out. Nothing else mattered, he reminded himself. Langly moved past both Mulder and Skinner, walking across the tent toward the communications area. Another two-dozen agents and technicians were gathered near the equipment, A.D. Waters among them. Skinner glanced in Mulder's direction before moving quickly in the same direction as Langly. Mulder followed. "They've radioed us a list of demands," Waters replied without emotion as he saw Skinner approach, handing him a handwritten copy of the list. "It just came in a few minutes ago." Skinner nodded and Mulder moved to stand next to him, listening with great interest as his boss read the list aloud. "Fuel. Clearance to take off. No military or government interference as we leave U.S. airspace." Skinner glanced at Mulder before speaking to Waters, "Did they say anything else?" "Yes," Waters replied evenly, "We have it on tape." He motioned towards the audio equipment in front of him. "They called themselves the Castellan. Agent Lask is looking into that. It didn't ring any bells with anyone here. They gave us two hours to comply," he said, "Or we will face the consequences of our actions." "I've heard of them," Langly offered quickly. All eyes focused on the Gunman. Langly cleared his throat. "Weren't they suspected of hijacking some plane in Turkey a couple of years ago?" he posed as he searched his own mind for details. "They killed most of the hostages, and all but a few of the hijackers were killed by the Turkish army when they stormed the plane. A couple of them got away, though. No one claimed responsibility, but if I remember correctly the Turkish government had strong reason to believe that this Castellan was behind it." Mulder nodded his head in agreement. He remembered reading about the crisis in the newspaper. It had made the front page. Three- quarters of the hostages had been killed, including one American. "It means keeper of the castle," he said. "Castellan." "So," Skinner said, "I guess the question of the hour is..." He glanced down at the list of demands that he held in his hand, taking in their significance one more time. "Is this for real or is just part of a cover-up?" Mulder's eyes widened as his mind made the final connection. He swallowed loudly before answering Skinner's question. "No, Sir. The bigger question would be, was The Fifth Column involved with the hijacking in Turkey?" Skinner held back a flabbergasted huff, "Go back a step, Agent Mulder, you've lost the rest of us." Mulder grimaced as he tried to hold onto the little bit of patience that he had left. "I remember reading about the incident in the paper. One American was killed. Debra Evans." Langly coughed loudly, choking on the coffee he had been sipping as Mulder talked. His eyes met Mulder's--almost not believing what he saw there. This was big, he thought, as the full significance of Mulder's words sunk in. "And the significance of that is?" asked A.D. Waters, taking a step toward the rogue agent. Mulder looked again to Langly, who shrugged his shoulders. "The source that I met with in New Mexico," he began warily, not sure how much information he should divulge in mixed company, "told me that a scientist working for The Fifth Column had been killed several months ago because he no longer wished to work on their project. Debra Evans was that scientist's wife. My source told me that she had been killed several years ago, when her husband initially refused to work for the Column, as a warning." He took a deep breath, hanging his head when he spoke again, "I didn't make the connection until now." Skinner closed his eyes, both relieved and astonished that he could still be so caught off guard by such deep-rooted conspiracies, by such unrelenting madmen. "I've got to call Byers," Langly said before he moved to a more private location and pulled out his cell phone. Skinner stepped closer to his agent, placing a steady hand on the man's arm as A.D. Waters moved away from the group and across the room, barking orders into his headset all the while. "Mulder," began Skinner, "don't you think this is all just a little too convenient? I mean, why would they use the name Castellan again, wouldn't they worry that someone would make the connection?" "Why would they, Sir?" Mulder replied, keeping his voice smooth and even as he prepared to argue his point with Skinner. "The name Castellan was only brought up by the Turkish Government, it was like one line in the article I read. It was all conjecture. But Debra Evans being on that plane was not. She was killed, right around the time her husband first refused to get into bed with the Column. It was a warning. And it worked, he synthesized their fuel, and when he was done and wanted out they killed him, too." Skinner grimaced, still not fully convinced that the agent was right, not sure if he was willing to gamble the life of one of his best agents along with 145 other passengers and crew members on Mulder's conviction alone. Well, Mulder's conviction and a small amount of evidence supplied by his questionable friends. "Sir, right now this is all we have to go on," Mulder said, imploring the older man with his eyes, begging for Skinner to believe him, to believe in him. "The clock's ticking-- we're running out of time." Skinner nodded his head and released a long, slow breath before turning to Agent Peters, the hostage negotiator. "Keep trying to get them on the phone and radio. And send Langly my way when he comes back from his phone call." "We've got to get eyes and ears on that plane, Mulder," Skinner explained. "We may have to go in. Full breech. We need to know what we're up against." Mulder nodded, fully understanding what his boss was saying and fully realizing the risks that went along with such an attempt. Scully would not survive a full breech, the hijackers would make certain of that. She was the key. She held the evidence, had seen the evidence. No, if they went in guns blazing, Scully would be the first to die...and certainly not the last. Day Three 2:14 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The unpleasant odor of fear and death hung heavily in the stale air, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to imagine a peaceful resolution to the act of terror that had been committed. Scully wrapped her arms more firmly around her mid-section, attempting to insulate herself from a chill born of fear and desperation. She was finding it harder to imagine a happy ending to this tale, more difficult to envision her life after the terror ended. She closed her eyes, searching within herself for a safe haven, a secure harbor that could quell her sense of impending doom. Mulder had once been that refuge--her touchstone. He had taken residence in that magical place within her soul where she found comfort and peace, security and warmth. She reached for him there once again, blindly searching within her heart, longing for relief, longing to feel his steady presence. Hot stinging tears came to her eyes when she came back with nothing, her heart barren and cold, weak and angry, empty. Scully struggled against her own doubts and fears, finally pulling herself up and out, away from the edge, away from the all-consuming void within her heart. She bit back the tears that threatened to fall and pushed her thoughts away from Mulder, away from her grief. She couldn't take the torment, the gut-wrenching pain that echoed silently throughout her. Not now, not when she needed to concentrate wholly on survival, not only for herself but for the passengers who shared in her journey of terror. She took deep cleansing breaths, closing her eyes as she tried to focus her energy, her thoughts on a method and mantra for survival. She opened them a few moments later when she felt her strength returning, her determination resurfacing from the desperate depths that had swallowed it whole. She took in the situation around her with an eye and an ear for detail, analyzing the demeanor of the hijackers, studiously looking for any detail that she may have overlooked earlier, for any change that had taken place. She examined their gait and posture, surveying them for any sign of nervousness. She explored their eyes for any spark of hesitation or unrest, any hint of what would come. She watched curiously as they paced steadily by the intermittently ringing phone. She quickly considered the significance of that action, relieved to know that someone was out there trying to help them. Yet she was disturbed by the hijackers' determination to cut themselves off from the outside world. She bit back her frustration when she found nothing, no hint at what would happen next, what would become of them all. She sunk back against her seat, not giving up but giving in. She allowed herself to be lulled by the near silence the hijackers had designed by quietly resuming their patrol not that long ago. She closed her eyes, waiting, biding her time, realizing she could do nothing at the moment, except breathe...survive. She heard him then, the woman's husband, keening and whimpering so softly that it was almost imperceptible. He was calling her name, gently, with such grief and longing that it tore at Scully's heart. "Kelly...Kelly...no," he murmured through a soft sob. "Not Kelly...please...no." Scully felt her own tears threaten to resurface, but she held them back even though she was unwilling to shut out his faint cries. She dared not look back at him, although she wished she could, that she could offer him some measure of comfort, knowing all the while that none could be given. No words could ease his pain. Scully empathized with his loss. She understood the agony he felt. Scully had known the same pain too many times in her own life. Vital pieces of her soul had died when her father, her sister and her daughter had passed and now Mulder was gone, too. It wasn't the same though, this pain was sharper, more visceral yet without the feeling of finality that death brought. Mulder still breathed, but not the same air as Scully. His heart still beat, but not in time with hers...not anymore, and apparently it never did, not as she had imagined, wished, dreamed. She tried once again to push him out of her mind as he began to flow through her thoughts, unbidden and unbound. But her heart was helpless against his pull. She had thought they were so close, so close to something, so close to everything. She had been ready to act on those instincts, those feelings. In a way she had, less than twenty-four hours ago, in a small town motel room that seemed a lifetime away. All of her hopes and aspirations were gone now. His words had cut her to the bone, destroyed the last vestige that she had to call home. His friendship and their partnership were all she had left, the one true thing she had been able to believe in. She felt is if she were spiraling now, plummeting in a free fall, with no soft place to land, no strong arms to firmly tether her to safety. Scully still couldn't fathom his behavior the past three days. She had no basis to compare it to, no point of reference from which to divine the source of his disquiet. Everything had been fine, incredible in fact, before he had returned to work. They seemed to have found one another again, come full circle. Scully had been able to feel it that day in his hallway, the energy surrounding them as he held her in his arms. She remembered feeling as if she had finally come home after a long and arduous journey, that she was whole and complete, that the underlying current of uneasiness between them had finally been quelled. The man that returned to work the next week hadn't been her partner. He was someone strange and foreign, a shell of a man who Scully wholly did not recognize. The Mulder she loved could never be so opaque, so cruel. The Mulder she knew could never call their journey together a lie, turn his eyes blindly from their bond. Her Mulder would never have forsaken their partnership. Scully doubted she would ever come to know or understand the impetus behind his actions the last few days. She was certain, however, that her relationship with Mulder would never be the same, could never be the same. If it still existed at all. His words to her, whether they be truth or lie, had severed the tie that bound them together, joined them as one. Once she let her heart open to him, she could not turn away from her tormented thoughts. She couldn't help but wonder where he was, what he was doing, what he was thinking. Did he know of the situation she was in, the terror that had ensued? Did he care? Was he tilting at windmills back in New Mexico with his new friend? Or was he railing against the wind, trying to emancipate her? Was he dying inside as she was? Day Three 2:28 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Mulder, you're starting to make me dizzy. Sit down already," complained Langly, never taking his eyes off of the laptop's screen. The agent checked his watch for the tenth time in the last minute, never slowing the tempo of his pacing. "Where in the hell are they?" he asked, blatantly ignoring his friend's request. Langly didn't answer, he just shook his head, silently pleading for the cavalry to arrive already. He knew that if they didn't arrive soon with the news they had promised him that one of them was going to go crazy, and Langly had a sneaking suspicion that it was going to be him. Langly turned in time to see his two friends enter the command center. He watched as Mulder dodged agents and technicians as he hastily navigated toward the two Gunmen. Byers and Frohike took in the agent's harried appearance with grim silence. He looked like shit. Langly had told them as much on the phone earlier. The two men shared a quick glance, both recalling his demeanor when Agent Scully had been taken from him almost five years ago, praying silently that it would not come to that again, that Scully would be all right, for her sake and for Mulder's. "What have you got?" he asked before he reached them, the strain in his voice causing the two Gunmen to cringe inwardly. "Frohike got into a couple more files," Byers replied evenly, trying to keep his own voice calm in hopes of soothing his friend's frazzled nerves. Mulder didn't speak a word in response--his expression said it all--talk, now. "They were pretty much the same as the first," Frohike said, picking up where Byers left off. "We checked into the Castellan, too." "And?" Mulder questioned, his posture becoming all the more tense, if that was possible. "Not a lot of information out there," Frohike responded. "They were linked to the hijacking in Turkey a couple of years ago. It was actually a passenger who claimed the hijackers were the Castellan, although it was never proven." "We were also able to verify that Debra Evans was the mother of Amber Evans," Byers said grimly, silently aching for his old friend's loss. "She never mentioned it to me though," he said weakly. "The Castellan is actually a French resistance group. They were fairly active in the Eighties, a few car bombings, things like that," Frohike added. "Since then they've only been linked to that one hijacking, until now anyway." "It's a cover-up," Mulder said, his eyes dark with resignation. "The Column is just using their name." Frohike and Byers nodded in staunch agreement. Their friend was right. The Fifth Column was using the name of the extremist group to cover their own activities, to perpetuate a lie. They wanted everyone to believe that this was just another random act of terror. They had done so before, had killed Debra Evans as a warning to her husband, to bring him close, to persuade him to do their bidding. But they hadn't counted on Mulder, that he would see their game for what it really was, that he would be able to make the leap and tie together the connections. "What do you make of their demands?" Frohike asked Mulder, his eyes clouded with concern. Mulder rubbed his temple as he relaxed into a mode he felt more comfortable in, trying desperately to separate Scully from the situation. "They don't want to leave the country. They have no intentions of going anywhere. Their demands are just an excuse to kill people, to destroy the evidence. They know we won't comply." Byers nodded his head, he had thought as much himself. "They could have landed that plane anywhere they wanted to. But they came here for a reason." "For the show," explained Mulder stoically. "They wanted us to see. They wanted us to watch. They wanted us to be scared." Day Three 2:41 p.m. Main Terminal Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Bill Scully had taken to pacing in front of the large bank of windows that lined the main terminal's south wall even though he was unable to see his sister's plane. The clouds were moving in, completely blocking out the sun, adding to the dark and ominous feeling of the day. The temperature outside was dropping rapidly. An early winter storm was set to hit at any moment. The television in the corner was tuned to CNN, but the bastards at the network seemed to know even less than he did. He felt like hitting, smashing, breaking something. Funny how, at least where his sister was concerned, that something always seemed to be Fox Mulder. No matter what Dana's boss said, Mulder was behind this. His dirty little fingerprints were all over it. And Skinner's lies hadn't endeared him in Bill's heart either. That man was nothing more than a Mulder sympathizer, and they all deserved to burn in Hell. Well, except for his sister. She was merely in need of an exorcism. Once again, Fox Mulder had placed Dana in the eye of the hurricane, the epicenter of danger. Bill didn't give a damn anymore whether the man did it on purpose or not. The fact that he'd even done it once was enough to make Bill fume every time he heard the man's name. It wasn't enough that Mulder had taken away one sister. He seemed intent on taking away another. Was nothing sacred to this man? He felt Tara's gentle touch on his shoulder, smelled the sweet scent of her perfume. He felt better, but only for a moment, as he stopped his pacing and met her eyes. She knew what he was going through. She understood how he felt about Fox Mulder, even though she didn't agree with him. It was not like he hadn't tried countless times to make his wife understand the evil that was Fox Mulder. To her credit, she tried. She let him have his say. She even sympathized with him--she just didn't empathize with him. She wanted to be fair, damn her. What Mulder had done to his family wasn't fair, so naturally he didn't feel the need to reciprocate. His wife tried to pull him back to the bank of seats they had claimed in the virtually deserted airport, but he was too full of nervous energy to sit. He was too scared, too angry. He didn't like the feelings of fear and dread that had permeated his heart. He wanted to resist them, to walk them off. He wanted to kill Fox Mulder. Maybe while he was at it, he'd throw in Walter Skinner. He'd brought them here, told them very little, lied to them, and then left them to stew in their own juices for the past hour. He tried to understand that he was probably pretty busy, but he could have sent someone up to talk to them, to tell them something, anything. He looked to his mother, trying to gauge her state of mind as she cradled Matthew in her arms. She looked tired, scared. She was trying to be strong, but Bill knew her too well. He could see the pain that she was trying to hide behind her damp eyes. She caught his gaze on her then and smiled weakly in his direction, trying to reassure him. They broke eye contact quickly at the sound of footsteps in the quiet terminal, turning to see who was walking toward them. Walter Skinner. Bill's eyes narrowed, his fists clenching and unclenching rapidly as the man neared. Maggie rose slowly, handing her grandson to his mother as she stepped toward the tall man. "Do you have any news, Mr. Skinner?" she asked, her voice soft and unsteady with concern. Skinner looked uncomfortable, and rightly so, thought Bill as he took several long and angry strides toward the man. "The hijackers have made some additional demands," he informed them, his voice drippingly smooth and controlled, although his eyes betrayed the fear and regret that he felt. "Wh...What do they want?" Maggie asked. Bill moved to stand next to her, placing his hand protectively on her back. "They're demanding to leave the country." Maggie gasped sharply. Bill felt her posture slump imperceptibly against his hand and he cursed Fox Mulder once again for doing this to his family. Skinner looked into Mrs. Scully's eyes, his own full of compassion and resolve. "We're not going to let that happen," he reassured her. Bill tensed as he attempted to measure up the man, gauge the validity of his words. He closed his eyes against the resignation he had seen in Skinner's eyes. He swallowed once, hard and quick, pushing down against the fear that had begun to rise up. He knew with certainty now, had seen it mirrored in the assistant director's gaze. This ordeal was going to end badly, very badly. Day Three 2:53 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Fox Mulder sat in an uncomfortable folding chair, silently holding watch over the communications board with the three Gunmen. He absentmindedly glanced down at his watch. They only had an hour until the hijackers' deadline expired. Skinner and Waters had meet privately after speaking to the Attorney General. They had yet to share any decisions that they had made, and it certainly wasn't due to a lack of effort on Mulder's part. Mulder felt certain that Skinner believed, especially in light of recent discoveries, that Scully would not survive the ordeal. Mulder could see it in his superior's eyes. Skinner didn't want to believe it, but he did. He had learned enough about The Fifth Column to feel wary himself. They were ruthless, unrelenting, power hungry men. Mulder had met their kind before, the consortium and their cigarette-smoking counterpart came to mind. Mulder had no doubt that The Fifth Column would kill Scully without a second thought if they thought it would cover their asses. Mulder didn't know how much longer he could sit around and do nothing, watch idly as nothing was done to save her. It was all he could do to remain rooted to his seat, to not charge the plane and sacrifice everything he was and had to pull her out safely. He bit back hard against the pain that gripped his heart like steel. He couldn't lose her, not like this, not ever. Before Mulder had a chance to delve deeper into the inner workings of his heart and the torment that lie waiting within, he was sharply brought back to reality by Frohike pushing against his arm. Mulder started to complain to the older man when he heard Peters. He had the hijackers on the line. Mulder flipped on his headset in time to hear the hijackers' next words. "Your deadline is ebbing. We are growing impatient, negotiator," growled the voice of the one of the hostage takers, the same one that Peters had talked to only an hour ago. Peters didn't miss a beat, "Which is exactly why I've been trying to reach you. We can work together much more effectively if you keep the lines of communication open." "Ah, Mr. Peters," chuckled the hijacker, "we're a little busy here." "We need to know how the hostages are," Peters calmly informed the enemy, looking up as Skinner approached cautiously. "If you are asking if we have killed anyone else, then the answer would be, no, not yet," he said. From the tone of the hijacker's voice it was apparent that the man's patience was growing thin. Peters caught Skinner's eyes, looking for approval before going on. "We're going to need a sign of good faith before we can help you out," said the negotiator evenly. "You'll need to release some of the hostages." "Mr. Peters, I don't think we can help you out with that." "If you want your fuel, you will. We want all of the children released. Nothing less," Peters relayed firmly, leaving no room for doubt. "I'll have to get back to you about that, Mr. Peters. We'll be in touch," he said before the line went dead. Peters removed his headset warily, carefully placing it on the table before him. "If nothing else it bought us a little time," he said, not sounding too hopeful as he pulled his fingers roughly through his dark hair. "We just need to hold them off until the storm hits," Skinner added, trying to make his own voice sound hopeful, and failing miserably. He cast a glance at Mulder before he turned to the three Gunmen. "Any ideas yet on getting eyes and ears on the plane?" he asked. "A couple," Byers answered a few seconds later, "Waters is still trying to work out a few of the details." Skinner nodded his head before turning to look at Mulder. "Any thoughts, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked in reference to the exchange between the hijacker and the negotiator. "I stand behind what I said earlier, Sir. The Column knows exactly what they're doing. They have their resolution already planned. Nothing we can do or say is going to sway them," he said before standing. "But we may be able to use the storm to our advantage. It's unexpected. They couldn't have planned around it," he explained, knowing full well that the hijackers were unaware of the impending storm, at least they hadn't been when they put their plan into action. The storm had been forecast to hit 300 miles to the north and had only shifted south over the last two hours. "Well then, we wait, for the time being anyway," Skinner said as he checked his watch. "I need to go fill in Waters." Mulder watched Skinner walk away, not feeling anymore hopeful than he had before the conversation with the hijacker. Byers broke the uncomfortable silence that had descended. "This may work," he said, furrowing his brow in thought. "If they do release the children, maybe we can get someone in through the hatch underneath the plane. They'll be distracted. Maybe we can come up with something that will keep them from knowing the hatch had been opened," he said. His eyes grew wide as his mind worked frantically to make connections, a plan forming rapidly. "Where's the engineer?" he asked hurriedly, already moving across the room. A cautious look of hope flittered across Mulder's face. This could work, he thought. And he knew exactly who should be placed on board the aircraft. ~ Chapter Eleven - I Shouldn't Be Here ~ Day Three 3:10 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia She couldn't stop shivering from the cold. Scully pulled her arms tightly around her mid-section, attempting to insulate herself from the frigid air that had invaded the cabin. The temperature aboard the aircraft had dropped dramatically over the past few hours. The hijackers had cut the heat, presumably in an effort to conserve fuel. She was tired of being on the plane, tired of thinking, tired of trying to remain strong--but most of all, she was tired of hurting. She didn't want to think about Mulder or the pain the last three days had brought. She didn't want to feel helpless or disjointed about their relationship, what was left of it anyway. Scully didn't want to think or feel. She just wanted to be free. She wanted to be free of the torment, of the pain, of the empty space within her heart that was swallowing her whole. She no longer cared to weigh the truth against his lies. The line between the two had become blurred. It danced around just outside her peripheral vision, wavering in the stark sunlight of reality. Had he been lying to her for the past six years or the past three days? What was his truth? Where would his truths and lies leave them, lead them? She honestly didn't know, or maybe she was just too scared to look within herself to find out. Day Three 3:32 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "This isn't right," Byers insisted as he, Skinner, and the other two Gunmen moved farther away from the entourage crowded around the communications board. "It's out of my hands," contended Skinner, "Waters is the scene commander and he wants Mulder on the plane." "The three of us are always the first to step forward and support Mulder. We believe in him...but not this time, not in this situation," Frohike added emphatically. "His head's not in the right place," agreed Langly. "I've discussed the matter with Assistant Director Waters and he feels otherwise," Skinner explained. "Special Ops is going in with him, they'll be able to keep him in line." "With all due respect, Scully couldn't always keep him in check. Now it's her life on the line. Just how careful do you think he's going to be?" questioned Byers. "Mulder is aware of what's at stake," Skinner said after a long pause. "Yeah, he is. That's our point," Frohike replied gravely. Byers scrubbed his forehead with his hand, frustration and guilt eating away at him. For the rest of his days he would take responsibility for the events that had led to this moment. He wished he had never called Mulder and offered him the case. He wished he had tried harder to convince Mulder that what he was doing to Scully was wrong. It wasn't what she wanted or needed. He had done neither, and for that he would never be able to forgive himself. "It's out of our hands now," Langly said grimly, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the four men. "We're running out of time and options. We know what lengths the Column will go to. This is all we have left-- aside from a full out breech." Frohike pushed aside his doubts. Langly was right. They needed to stop worrying about Mulder's state of mind. He needed their support now. They were his friends and that's what it came down to. Byers opened his mouth to speak but Skinner held his hand up, signaling for silence as he pulled his headset up and pressed it against his ear. After listening for a moment he motioned toward the communications board. "Do we need to send an ambulance out?" Peters asked carefully. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Peters. I can assure you that none of the children have been harmed. As I said, when the fuel truck arrives we will send out the children." "Give us a couple of minutes to get the truck out there. It isn't quite ready yet," Peters said as he looked in the direction of Agent Mulder and the five men who were going to accompany him onto the plane. "Don't make us wait too long, Mr. Peters. We are not patient men. I would hate for something to happen to one of the children in the meantime." "We understand. It'll only be about ten more minutes." "Good. Very good," the hijacker said before ending the call. Day Three 3:41 p.m. Main Terminal Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Maggie Scully shivered as she stood in front of the large bank of windows, hugging herself against the chill that rose up within her. She watched as the winds churned, blowing leaves and debris across the deserted parking lot. The skies were gray and heavy. Ominous. Foreboding. Foretelling. She closed her eyes firmly, pushing away her doubts and apprehensions, wanting only to feel hopeful. It was so hard when all that lay before her was the unknown. The situation had grown graver since their arrival. She had seen it in Walter Skinner's eyes, had heard it in his voice. He was worried. The hijackers wanted to leave the country, take the plane and her daughter and fly away to Lord knows where. Assistant Director Skinner had promised her he wouldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let them take Dana away, and Maggie wanted desperately to believe him. But what was he willing sacrifice, how far would he go to save her? Fox Mulder was down there somewhere, trying to save her daughter. For all the pain he had brought her family, Maggie knew he would save Dana. He always had in the past. She had to believe he would do so again. Bill didn't feel the same way. He didn't need to tell her, although he had repeatedly since he had arrived home and learned of the situation his younger sister was in. Maggie could understand his feelings toward Dana's partner. She herself gravitated in that same direction from time to time. Fox Mulder was a complicated man, a complicated man capable of causing complicated problems. Unfortunately, her daughter was often caught in the middle. Maggie understood that Dana loved him, completely and unconditionally. They shared a bond that was unbreakable, a connection so secure and certain that it defied reason. Dana had never said as much, but Maggie knew. She had been able to read between the lines. She had seen the deep respect and admiration they had for one another. Love was hiding beneath their barriers and walls. Someday it would appear. Someday it would be all that mattered. Someday they would surrender to it. In part that knowledge frightened Maggie. She was scared for Dana. She was worried that someday the price extracted for his love would be too high, that in the end it would cost Dana her life. Fox Mulder was just a man, not evil incarnate. He had made some wrong choices, taken some wrong paths. He was not infallible. He was human, and he loved Dana. Maggie had known from the moment she had met him so long ago. He had been Maggie's rock then. He had given her hope when no one else could. He had never given up on Dana, even when everyone else had, including Maggie. Now she couldn't help but feel he was her daughter's only hope. Maybe she should have felt uneasy about that, scared after all the pain he had brought her family over the past six years. But as she stared out at the tumultuous sky and watched the snow as it began to fall, she felt a moment of peace and took comfort in the fact that Fox Mulder was below, trying to save her daughter. Day Three 3:47 p.m. Equipment Garage Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "The hatch is sealed magnetically. When it's opened, either externally or internally, the seal is broken and a signal is sent to the cockpit, causing a warning light to flash," Byers explained to Agent Clark, the special operations team leader, as he handed the agent a small black device. "It may look small," Byers said in response to the doubtful look on the agent's face, "but it contains a very powerful magnet. All you need to do is place it within three inches of the latch and it will fool the circuits into thinking that the door is closed." "And you need to make sure you wait a few seconds after you engage the magnet before opening the hatch," Langly added flatly as he took in the Agent's dark, no-nonsense appearance with a grimace. Clark nodded his head, closing his palm around the small but heavy instrument before turning abruptly and moving across the garage. Langly shook his head wearily as he watched the agent join the rest of his team. "I hope this works," Byers mused quietly. He let out a loud sigh as he and Langly began to move purposefully across the large, dank garage. Byers stopped about five feet away from the small group of six men. They were all dressed in black, waiting patiently to take their positions aboard the fuel tanker. The team looked like a group of hired assassins. Byers caught Mulder's gaze and held it for a moment. It was all he could do not to wince with all of the pain and anguish he saw housed within his friend's haunted gaze. Byers gave Mulder a hopeful half-smile, wordlessly conveying his understanding of the position he had placed himself in. He, too, had once risked everything to save the woman he loved. Mulder could only close his eyes and shake his head in response to his friend's supportive gesture. He was trying to stay focused, to keep his head in the game and squarely on his shoulders. But his mind kept falling back, pulling him into his hallway, into her arms. He could feel her lips against his forehead that day, her hands resting gently against his flushed skin, so soft, so sweet--so full of promise. Her kiss, her touch that day had been a vow. That she would always be there. That he could always count on her. That she would always tell him the truth. That she would always be his friend, his touchstone. At that moment, she had wrapped herself firmly around his heart and entwined herself within his soul. A week and a life altering decision later, she had kissed him. Amidst his deceptions and betrayals she had laid herself open to him, offering to let down the last of her walls. In doing so, she had really broken down the rest of his and even though he had pushed her away, he knew that she would always be a part of him. He would never be able to move on, not after he had learned what it felt like to have her lips against his, to be cherished by the only woman he would ever love. Suffering had always been a part of his life. He didn't know how to function without it. He didn't know how to let go of the guilt. A part of him wanted to, longed to just let go and allow himself to be with her, to be happy. He didn't think he could, it would be too selfish, too dangerous. She was in this situation because of him. Mulder feared that despite his intentions, he may indeed, as the nightmares had prophesied, end up being the caused of her death. He tried to pull himself together, but it was a struggle. Every part of his being was screaming for him to save her at whatever cost. It was taking a great deal of effort just to stay focused. His heart simply wanted to shut down, close off, secure itself against the impending torment and certain pain. Despite his desire to save and protect her, a small part of him feared seeing her again. He knew that when he did he would be forced to confront his guilt head-on. Mulder wasn't given much of a chance to continue his internal reverie. Skinner's strong and harsh voice echoed through his headset, "Agent Clark, prepare to move out." Clark waved the rest of his team toward the medium sized tanker filled with fuel. The men pulled down their masks, shielding their faces from the biting cold and flying snow that had descended upon them. They quickly took their pre- assigned positions along the back of the tanker to avoid being discovered by the hijackers during their long trip across the tarmac. The team was crowded close together, each man stood sideways, gripping the bar across the back of the truck with one hand. Mulder closed his eyes in silent prayer as the tanker's engine roared to life and he heard the garage door grinding open. He steeled himself against the cold and the apprehensions that surrounded him as they began to move out of the garage. When he opened his eyes he could see his two friends standing near the doorway, Byers and Langly silently wishing him luck and lending him their strength as he prepared to reclaim his life, his Scully. Day Three 3:52 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The air in the cabin was charged with insuppressible fear. The children were being taken away, pulled from their mothers' grasps and marched down the aisles like little lambs to the slaughter. Scully cringed, unable to separate herself from the terror that had descended. The hijackers had announced, only a few moments ago, that the children were being released. They were being traded, used as tools in a bargain with the authorities. For what, no one knew. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and concerned strangers cried out. They begged the hijackers not to hurt the children. They pleaded for their safe release. They cried for their own fear--that the hijackers were lying. They couldn't be certain. The passengers had no reasons to trust them, to believe they would not harm them. Scully tried to separate herself, focus on the impetus behind the release of the children. They were being bargained, but for what? For fuel? For permission to take off? For money? For some nameless cause? For now, Scully could only hope that the children were indeed being released, that they would not be harmed in the process. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could say to change the situation. The hijackers were going to do as they pleased, regardless of the authorities, regardless of the passengers. They had an agenda, one they seemed determined to follow. It held their fate, and that frightened Scully most of all. Day Three 3:54 p.m. Outside of the plane Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Hold," Carter whispered into the microphone on his headset. The truck the recovery team was riding on stopped close to the rear of the plane. The driver stepped out, immediately followed by another man. The doors slammed shut. Two agents, disguised as airport employees, moved to the back of the truck, ignoring the six men dressed in black who were clinging to the tanker. The snow was biting and blinding in its intensity. If it didn't qualify as a blizzard, it soon would. It showed no sign of letting up and that meant the hijackers had no chance to escape. Mulder was grateful. It gave them a little bit of leverage and time. No one spoke. No one moved as they remained in their positions, watching the two agents in disguise move around the back of the truck, preparing to fill the plane's fuel tanks. The men waited, watching for the sign that they could move into position. Mulder held himself tightly against the rear of the vehicle, pushing his headset firmly against his ear with his free hand as he listened for Skinner's order to move. He took in the scene around him from his limited vantage point. Snipers were positioned close to the plane, crouched next to the aircraft's large wheels. They held their guns at the ready, prepared to offer cover, if need be, to the recovery team that was about to enter the plane. "Recovery Team, go!" boomed Skinner's voice through the team's headsets. The team was off of the truck and under the plane in less than ten seconds. "Recovery Team, you're go for entry," Waters ordered through the headset as the team moved to stand under the hatch that led up into the belly of the plane. "Copy," said Carter. "Scrambler engaged. Preparing to open the hatch. Give me a time count, Command." "Copy, Recovery Leader." The hatch opened with a loud groan that caused everyone to wince. Carter motioned for the team to enter before he put his hands together to give each man a boost up. Mulder entered first. Day Three 4:02 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Sir, we've got movement," announced one of the techies seated in front of the video board. He attempted to optimize reception in spite of the blinding blizzard that raged around the plane. Skinner hadn't needed to be informed. He had seen the movement himself, felt a knot form in his stomach as the door of the plane was thrust open. Stairs had been put into place only moments before the fuel tanker was sent out. The snipers were in place as well. All four of the ambulances had been deployed. They were manned with additional personnel and ready to retrieve the children the moment they stepped off the stairs. Walter Skinner glanced over at Waters as the assistant director maintained contact with the recovery team. "That was thirty-four seconds," Waters relayed as he watched the team leader being pulled into the belly of the plane, the hatch closing behind him. "Copy that, Command," was Carter's even but hushed reply. "We look secure. Any negative indication on your end?" "Negative, Recovery Leader. Proceed," Waters said before pushing away his mouthpiece and blowing out a loud, relief- filled sigh. Skinner offered Waters a tight smile as the two men made eye contact. Waters had been right to place a team aboard the plane. The more time that passed, the more certain Skinner had become that the team was their best and only hope for any kind of peaceful resolution. However, Skinner had not changed his mind as far as Mulder's presence on the plane was concerned. He was well aware of how great an asset Mulder could be, but equally aware of Mulder's innate ability to be just as great a liability. Skinner didn't hold out much hope considering the agent's grounding rod was the one in danger. "It looks like we've got more movement," Skinner said into his microphone as he pulled himself out of his reverie. "We've got a poor picture here. I need confirmation. Team One?" A loud blast of static hit before the team leader replied, his voice faint. "I've got a visual on three so far, Command. More coming down the stairs." "Copy that, One," Skinner said before turning to catch the eyes of the Gunmen who were hovering somewhere behind him. He motioned the men over and flipped off his microphone. "Can we do anything about the reception?" "Not unless we put some cameras under the plane," Langly replied as he gestured toward the monitors. "The cameras are too far away and they can't be zoomed in any closer." "Snow's not helping either," added Frohike in reference to the near zero visibility conditions. "Really, I didn't notice the storm," Skinner replied tersely, his patience and nerves stretched to their breaking point. The situation had been perilous enough before, and now that Mulder had been added to the fray the stakes and risks had more than doubled. Frohike backed off at the menacing look in the assistant director's eyes. Skinner was glad to see Frohike recognized when to walk away. "Let's see what we can do about getting some cameras placed under the wings," Skinner barked in the direction of the four techies manning the video board. "Has Peters heard anymore?" Skinner asked, pointedly directing his question towards Byers, the only Lone Gunman he had any patience for at the moment. "No," said Byers as he reflexively adjusted his already straight tie. "How do you think Mulder is holding up?" Placing his hands on hips, the assistant director blew out a loud puff of air before he reached up and adjusted his glasses. "He's better, I think, now that he feels like he is doing something to help her," replied Skinner. He paused for a moment, pursing his lips in thought before he spoke again, his voice softer, barely above a whisper. "He'll keep it together. For her." Byers nodded and walked closer to the monitors. Swallowing hard, Skinner looked down at his shoes, wishing once again that Mulder hadn't insisted on putting himself on the plane. Skinner knew Mulder was a good man and a good agent. Mulder's intense determination and unwavering belief that the truth was indeed out there had shaped him. It had changed him, for the better. And so had Scully. Skinner knew that Mulder was strong, too. Mulder's strength had sustained him through some harrowing times, saved his life, Skinner's, Scully's, and countless others' more times than Skinner cared to recall. But he had not done it alone. He'd had Scully. Over the past six years Mulder had come to depend on her as she depended on him, although Skinner doubted either agent would admit to it readily or even under duress, except to each other. Skinner knew Mulder would save her. He would stop at nothing less. He wouldn't be Mulder if he did. And that was exactly what worried Skinner. "We've got seventeen off," Waters said, breaking Skinner away from his musings. "That's all of them." Skinner turned and stepped closer to the monitors, adjusting his glasses and squinting his eyes in hopes of getting a clearer view. He could barely make out the shapes of the children as they were loaded quickly into the ambulances. "I'm sending six agents over from headquarters to question them once they get to the hospital," added Waters as he pulled out his cell phone to call the Director. Skinner nodded in agreement as he continued to stare at the screen in front of him. It was a start. It was something. "Command, this is Recovery. Come in." Skinner pulled the microphone back up to his mouth. "This is Command." "Command, we're in. Everything still looks secure on this end. We've already started to do a preliminary sweep of avionics and baggage." "Copy, Recovery. Keep us informed." Skinner flipped off his microphone and listened to the shrill wails of the ambulances as they passed the command center. "At least we've bought ourselves a little time," Waters said to Skinner as he closed his cell phone, his expression stoic but hopeful. "Yeah, but is it enough?" Skinner mused aloud. After a brief pause he continued, "Recovery is searching the lower deck of the plane. Everything is looking good on that end." Several long minutes passed as the two assistant directors quietly stared at the monitors in front of them, each man trying to divine the course of events that had led them to this point and the course of events that would hopefully lead them out. Day Three 4:20 p.m. Main Terminal Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Maggie took a deep breath and tried to assuage the sudden panic that had begun to overwhelm her. Children had been released. CNN had announced it only minutes ago. They were being taken to a local hospital, but they appeared to be unharmed. Maggie couldn't help but wonder why. Was the plane going to leave now? Had they been given fuel? What did all of this mean? She stared down the hall, hoping Assistant Director Skinner would come to speak with them. She tried to understand that he was busy, but she needed to know. She had to know. Her daughter was down there, but for how much longer? Day Three 4:25 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Byers paced in front of the monitors, glancing every few seconds in their direction. Not a word had been heard from the hijackers since the children had been released. He glanced over at Skinner and watched as the man paced in front of the communications board. He was waiting for a call from the hijackers, expecting them to announce their departure. Byers wondered if there was anything they could do to stop them. He looked over at the monitors one last time before moving across the room to stand next to Skinner. "Anything yet?" Waters asked as he moved to join the group gathered in front of the communications board. "Nothing," Skinner replied, never taking his eyes off the red phone on the table. "This isn't right. Why haven't they asked to take off?" Waters asked. "I don't know," Skinner replied blandly. No one spoke for a few tense moments. The silence was charged, crackling with unspoken fear. "Command." Skinner jumped as the voice of Team Leader Clark echoed through his headset. Water's flipped on his mike first. "Recovery. Go." "Command, advise. We've found a bomb." ~ Chapter Twelve - This Is Wrong ~ *This chapter is marked R for violent situations.* Day Three 4:14 p.m. Main Terminal Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Bill Scully had long since given up pacing and had planted himself firmly in an uncomfortable vinyl chair. He watched the seconds slowly tick by on the large clock in the center of the terminal. He was unable to decide if he wanted the sweeping second hand to move faster or slower. He was ready for resolution, for the ordeal to end. Every passing second brought them closer, but to what? Would she survive? Would he bury another sister? He didn't want to believe it would end badly, but the longer the debacle continued the less hopeful he was. He wanted to hold on to his memories, to live in denial a little while longer. In his heart he still had hope. It was faint, soft but unrelenting. He couldn't let go of it. He didn't want to let go of it. He was scared that it was all he had left. Bill not only considered himself to be a patriot, but a good American. He was a navy man. He believed in his country, in what it stood for. However, from the moment he had met Fox Mulder, his vision of the F.B.I., and in turn his government had become jaded. Maybe he had just taken off his rose-colored glasses, but he didn't think so. Any organization that would give a badge and gun to an alien- chasing, pathological psychopath was not worth Bill's faith or trust. Mulder's involvement in the rescue attempt certainly did not promote Bill's faith in a peaceful resolution. In fact, it had quite the opposite effect. As superstitious as it sounded, he couldn't help but feel Mulder's presence would jinx the rescue. Fox Mulder would cost him another sister and quite possibly sooner than he had ever expected. Bill looked away from the clock, tearing his mind away from his doubtful thoughts. Dana needed someone to believe in her right now. He needed to be able to do that. Regardless of their previous disagreements, Bill loved his sister. He didn't always admit it, or show it--but he knew she was strong. She was stronger than the situation she was in, stronger than Fox Mulder. Dana would come to her senses where he was concerned. Bill was certain it was only a matter of time before she saw the light, and not the kind associated with unidentified flying objects. He popped his neck in hopes of relieving some of the tension that had twisted him into an angry ball of knots. The hijackers' deadline had come and gone and there was still no word from the powers that be, the F.B.I., or Assistant Director Skinner. Bill seethed. They had been lured to the airport with the promise that they would be kept updated. Clearly that was not the case. He wanted to push his way down onto the tarmac, into the command center Skinner had mentioned and demand answers. He wanted to know what was going on, what was going down, whether or not his sister was going to survive. Day Three 4:22 p.m. Cargo Hold - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "What do you mean, you don't know?" Mulder hissed in a fierce whisper. "That's enough, Agent Mulder," Clark responded quietly but with venom. He rose from his crouched position next to the team's weapons expert, Agent Wade Vanauken. "Agent Mulder, it's going to take me a little longer than five seconds to assess the configuration and capabilities of this device," Vanauken replied evenly. His eyes never left the complicated array of tubes, wires, liquid filled canisters, and electronics that sat before him. Mulder set his jaw as all the anger and frustration he had felt throughout the day finally came to a head and threatened to erupt violently. He held in the biting remarks that came to mind, focusing instead on the device in front of Vanauken. He tried not to remember the debacle in Dallas, the device that looked so similar to the one in front of him now. Agent Proust had found it almost immediately. He and Agent Genndy had been sent into the cargo hold to secure the area and look for anything that appeared suspicious or out of place. No one had expected them to find a bomb. "It doesn't appear to be on a timer," Vanauken said after a few strained and uncomfortable minutes. "But you aren't certain?" Clark asked a moment later, reaching down and preparing to turn on the microphone connected to his headset. "No, I can't be, not without tearing the whole thing apart. The timer could be buried or even on a remote. I'm fairly certain that isn't the case though." Clark nodded. "Command," he said quietly, "this is Recovery." "Go, Recovery," replied Assistant Director Waters. "Command, negative on the timer." "What?!?" questioned Mulder, a little too loudly, as he spun around and cast a disbelieving glare in the team leader's direction. Agent Proust grabbed his arm quickly, silently reminding Mulder to keep his voice down, lest the terrorists above them hear. "Copy that, Recovery." Clark flipped off his microphone and met Mulder's steely stare head-on, wordlessly conveying that his authority would not be questioned. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked Clark, struggling to keep his voice at an appropriate level. "I, Agent Mulder, am doing my job and yours is not to question it." Mulder made a move in the direction of Clark, but Proust grabbed his arm again, tightly holding him back. "I don't know what kind of games you are playing here, Clark, but you can count on me not to go along with them." Agent Russel stepped forward, moving in between the two men as they waged a silent war of wills with their eyes. Russel held up his hand and turned to look at Mulder. "Chances are we won't find a timer. Command can't do anything about it if we do. Just drop it, Agent Mulder. We have a lot to do and we don't have time for a pissing contest," he cautioned, meeting each man squarely in the eye before stepping away and moving back into the avionics room. Mulder ripped his arm roughly out of Proust's firm hold, shaking away the agent and moving out of the cargo hold. Day Three 4:38 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Move! I said move!" shouted one of the hijackers as he herded several passengers from coach, at gunpoint, into the business class section. Apparently they wanted to reduce the number of people in the largest section of the plane. Scully silently watched as the men forced the passengers into the seats vacated by the children. They left as soon as their task was completed, not uttering another word. Scully was not surprised by their lack of commentary. These men, over the past eleven hours, had not once felt the need to share their intentions with the passengers. They still didn't know where they were, why they were being held hostage, if they would survive. The knowledge that someone was out there was Scully's only assurance, her only hope. She understood the protocol that must be adhered to, the patience that would be required by the law enforcement personnel. She also understood the statistics associated with such terrorist situations. She knew that the longer the situation remained unresolved the less chance there was for a peaceful resolution. More innocent people were sure to die. Scully thrust her hands into her coat pockets, attempting to warm her cold fingers. She stared at the seat in front of her and wished she could do something, anything, to aid in the resolution, save the lives that would surely be lost. When her fingers brushed against her forgotten cell phone a plan began to form. Scully wrapped her fingers around the cold plastic and hazarded a glance around. Very slowly, never taking her eyes off the two terrorists, she pulled out the phone. She carefully laid it next to her on the seat, between her leg and the wall. She rose up slightly and slid the top portion of the phone under her thigh, effectively blocking any noise that might be overheard by the hijackers. With only a moment's hesitation she pressed the first speed dial button and hit send. Day Three 4:44 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Skinner reached down and pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He brought it to his ear before he realized it wasn't ringing. "It's Mulder's," Langly said as he picked up the phone and handed it to the assistant director. Skinner quietly accepted the phone and hit a button. "Hello," he said. He was met with silence and ended the call a few moments later. "Must have been a wrong number," he said to Langly and placed the phone back on the counter in front of him. Langly nodded and continued to peck away at the keyboard of his laptop, searching for more information on the Castellan and The Fifth Column. The Gunmen had received more information via anonymous sources throughout the day. Unfortunately, the intelligence had been neither new or useful. Mulder's phone rang again a few moments later. "Hello," Skinner said into the mouthpiece when he answered the phone. When no reply came he pulled the phone away from his ear and moved to end the call. With cat-like reflexes that belied his appearance, Langly grabbed the phone before Skinner was able to disconnect the call. "Hold on a second," he said in response to Skinner's questioning stare. The gunman put the phone to his ear and listened for a moment before responding in full to the assistant director's silent question. "We need to get a trace on this," Langly said. "It could be Agent Scully." "Agent Vincent," Skinner said in a loud and urgent whisper, "let's get a trace on Agent Mulder's cell phone. Now." The young woman nodded and went about the task. Frohike stepped forward and watched over her shoulder. Langly held the phone close to his ear, hearing nothing. He watched as Agent Vincent worked to complete the trace, knowing all the while that the call was from Scully. He could feel it in his gut. If anything Scully had always been resourceful. Even in the midst of imminent danger she seemed to have found a way to keep them informed. "I've got it," Agent Vincent said a minute later. "It's a cellular phone, 202-555-3564." "Can you do a reverse trace on--" Skinner started to ask. "It's Scully, that's her cell phone number," Langly said confidently. Skinner nodded staunchly, never questioning the veracity of the Lone Gunman's claim. Langly depressed the mute button on the phone, effectively eliminating the possibility that the hijackers would be able to hear noises from the command center. He quickly wired the phone to a recording device and he and another agent donned new headsets, preparing to listen for any clues that may come from the innovative Agent Scully. Skinner paced slowly behind Langly, stoically considering the ramifications that may arise from Scully's well-placed, yet dangerous phone call. He could only hope that her actions would remain undiscovered by the hijackers. He didn't care to contemplate the alternative. His thoughts were interrupted a few moments later by a blast of static through his earphones. "Command, this is Recovery. Come in." Skinner waited a moment, giving Waters a chance to field the call if he was available. "Recovery, go," he said a few seconds later. "Skinner, just checking status." "Agent Mulder," Skinner began slowly, not exactly sure how he should inform the agent of his partner's call. "Scully contacted us," he said a moment later, failing to come up with a less blunt approach. "Come again, Sir." "Actually, Agent Scully was trying to contact you. She called your cell phone." "When? How? What did she say?" Mulder asked quickly. "She used her cell phone, we ran a trace. We've haven't heard anything, but she's still on the line," he explained as he turned to look at Langly. "She wanted you...me," he said, audibly swallowing, "to hear what was going on." "That certainly appears to be the case." Mulder was quiet for a few long and tense moments. Skinner maintained the silence, not knowing what else to say to the agent. "Okay." "Otherwise, status unchanged," Skinner said a second later. "Do you have any more information on the device?" "No, Sir. Nothing yet." He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly reconsidered. Something in Mulder's voice didn't sound right and it hit a nerve with the A.D. Over the past six years he had gotten to know Fox Mulder fairly well, and he was certainly more than capable of determining when his agent was holding something back. This was, without a doubt, one of those times. "Agent Mulder, I'm sure that you, in particular, understand the seriousness of this situation. Would you care to rethink your last response?" "No, Sir," he said quietly several long seconds later. Skinner quickly decided not to press the issue. There was no doubt in his mind that Mulder was keeping something from him, but Skinner was not willing to attempt to drag it out of him over an unrestricted line. He would talk to Mulder about it later, when they had a private connection, when things weren't as frantic. "Is that all, Recovery? For now?" "Recovery out." Skinner flipped down his microphone and let out a long and exasperated breath. He turned to Langly, whose vision was focused straight ahead as he held the headphones firmly against his ears. He must have sensed that Skinner was watching and waved the assistant director off, wordlessly conveying that nothing had been overheard. Byers had moved to stand next to Frohike, who had apparently filled in the younger man. "What do you make of all of this, Assistant Director Skinner?" he asked. Skinner closed his eyes, grimaced, and shook his head. He honestly didn't know. Nothing seemed to make sense--up was down, right was left. He believed Mulder, trusted the agent's instincts. The Lone Gunmen had even found evidence to support his claims, but the hijackers' actions seemed to belie Mulder's truths. A bomb had been discovered aboard the craft. What purpose did it serve? Why hadn't the terrorists informed them of its existence and used it as leverage? Were they planning on detonating it if they weren't allowed to escape? Would it be their insurance that all of the evidence was destroyed? In the back of his mind Skinner couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't simply the ultimate act of terrorism. That the hijackers had planned to kill the passengers all along and commit suicide in the process. That they were willing to die for a cause they had yet to name. Day Three 4:52 p.m. Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia He paced restlessly back and forth. Mulder couldn't bear to watch Vanauken. He couldn't stand to wait and wonder. He needed to do something, anything. He needed to help her, save her from the situation he had placed her in. He shook his head, trying to shrug away the nightmares and the fates they had foretold. He couldn't though--he was living them. They had come true, his worst fears and intimate horrors. They were living, breathing, and threatening to swallow Scully whole. They had already taken him, leaving an empty space, a shell where his soul used to reside. He was okay with that--as long as she was whole. He could endure anything if she would remain safe, secure, unbound from the hell that shrouded his life. It was better this way, better that she could be free and happy. He just needed to keep reminding himself of that. Day Three 5:01 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The situation was becoming stagnant, even from the most optimistic point of view. They had come to a precipice, stood at the edge of a cliff and were looking down, not knowing whether to take a blind leap of faith or remain rooted. Logically, Skinner knew they must maintain the status quo, that they must play it safe. All the while his gut told him otherwise, that waiting to take the plunge would only cost more lives, and that Scully would be among the dead when they were counted. He tried to console himself that it wasn't his decision, that it was out of his hands. He wanted to shrug off the guilt and culpability that weighed heavily on his shoulders. He couldn't--not this time. If Scully were to die he would be responsible...at least, in part, for not standing his ground and arguing his position with Waters and the Director. They wanted to wait, hold off on the breech. They wanted to give the Recovery Team a chance to disarm the bomb, acquire intelligence, and assess the situation. Skinner agreed that those were all reasonable desires, however, he doubted Scully and the other passengers would survive the wait. The situation was beyond complex. Bombs, terrorists, ulterior motives, lies, conspiracies, threats...all of these were interwoven, only discernable to Skinner as an intricately layered melodrama. It was a tale that seemed to be without a happy ending, a nightmare that could not be fathomed or understood. At the center of it all were Mulder and Scully, the dynamic duo who seemed unable to thwart the constant vigil of danger and deception. In true Mulder and Scully fashion they stood on the brink of damnation, pushing the envelope, fighting to return to one another. Skinner expected nothing less. The strength and determination the A.D. knew they had was the only spark of hope that remained for him. They had survived graver situations, but Skinner wondered how many times they could truly cheat fate. He glanced to his left, an unconscious response in an unconscionable situation. He squinted and concentrated on bringing the image of the plane on the video screens into focus. The escalating storm coupled with the stark sheet of darkness that had come with nightfall made the task unaccomplishable. Even the addition of cameras to the wings and underside of the craft gave little visual insight. The National Weather Service had recently upgraded the storm to a blizzard. The falling temperatures, strong winds, and blinding snow showed no sign of relenting in the near future. Skinner rose from his seat between the Gunmen, shaking his head, but not the sense of trepidation that shrouded him. "Come in, Command," said Team Leader Carter through the radio system. Out of the corner of his eye Skinner saw Waters moving across the room toward him. "Go, Recovery," Waters said. "Command, Coach and Business Class are wired for sound." "Copy that, Recovery. We'll get patched into those right away." "Recovery out." Skinner watched as Frohike and the other technicians began to hard wire the newly acquired sound devices into the communication board. Two new agents approached and took seats at the table, readying themselves to monitor the microphones. Waters flipped off his headset and turned to Skinner. "Anything from Agent Scully?" he asked. "Nothing," Skinner supplied, his voice thick and heavy with resignation. "We'll pick something up with the microphones," Waters replied confidently. Skinner only wished that he could feel so hopeful. Day Three 5:06 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Scully heard them before they appeared. "Go!" he said. His voice was loud and harsh even through the thick curtain separating the first and business class sections. A scant moment later a man tumbled headlong through the curtain, landing heavily on his hand and knees. Scully craned her neck, trying to get a better view. "Get up!" yelled the hijacker as he burst through the curtain and roughly kicked the man in the side. He doubled over in pain, but the terrorist remained undaunted, fiercely grabbing the man by the collar and jerking him upright in one swift movement. Scully stubbornly held back the gasp she felt rising up within her throat. Deep, dark blood ran down the man's face from a gash above his right eye. Scully resisted the ingrained urge she felt to step forward and aid the man. She watched carefully, trying to take in as much detail as possible. He was wearing a dark blue airline uniform and Scully squinted in hopes of reading his name and position from the badge pinned to his chest. The gasp she had held in so well only moments ago, loosened and escaped. He was the captain, Matt Jacobs. The terrorist shoved the captain into an empty seat in the first row. Without uttering another word, he turned and left. Day Three 5:07 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "The weather isn't going to permit it. It's not safe or even possible," insisted the negotiator. Skinner and Waters stood to his left, trying to keep up with both the commotion aboard the plane and Peters' conversation with the hijacker. "Mr. Peters, that wasn't a request," the hijacker said with complete confidence. "It's out of my hands Mr.--" "Your psychological games aren't going to work with me, Mr. Peters. Allow me to clarify my position. We are going to take off *now*. If we are not permitted to do so a passenger will die, and I think we have made it very clear which one it will be." "It's impossible for a plane to take off in this weather. Have you looked out the windows? Have you noticed the blizzard?" Peters asked, his voice calm and steady. "We are not negotiating with you, Mr. Peters. You can consider this to be a courtesy call. We take off or she dies. You have twenty minutes to comply." The line went dead before Peters had a chance to respond. The negotiator threw down his headset, his patience completely evaporated. He turned to the two assistant directors, "Well?" he asked. "They will not be allowed to leave," Waters answered, "regardless of the consequences." Skinner leaned in toward Waters. "Are you willing to take the responsibility for Agent Scully's death then?" he hissed, "Because I'm not." Waters didn't respond, but Skinner took some satisfaction in the look of fear that momentarily fluttered across the man's face. "We've got nineteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds," Skinner said a moment later, glancing down at his watch. "I suggest we come up with an alternative and fast. The death of Agent Scully is simply unacceptable." "Sir," Byers interrupted, "I think we may have gotten something." "What?" Skinner and Waters asked simultaneously. Byers flipped on a recording device. "You've already heard most of this," the Gunman said. "This is what we picked up from the first class cabin." "Move!" shouted a man, his voice clear and crisp even over the tape. "Damn it Jacobs, I said move!" Byers stopped the tape and turned to the entourage surrounding him. "Jacobs is the captain, the pilot," he explained. The Gunman reached down and turned on another tape. "Frohike picked this up a few seconds later from the business class section." "Go!" said the same voice from the first recording. A couple of moments later the terrorist yelled again, "Get up!" Byers turned off the tape. "You can hear a bit of a scuffle after that and then there is silence again." Frohike stepped forward. "They seemed to be moving him from the front of the plane into the same section as Agent Scully," he explained. "Why would they take the pilot out of the cockpit? Who is going to fly the plane?" Waters asked. "I'm sure they have their own pilot," said Frohike. "Several actually," Langly said, pointing in the direction of the files accumulating near the communications board. "They are with the Air Force," he said flatly. Skinner gave the Gunman a warning glance before speaking. "What about the hijacker, the one who called?" "We didn't pick him up on any of the transmissions," Byers said. "I hate to interrupt," Peters said, stepping forward into the fold, "but I need to know what's been decided. We're running out of time here." Day Three 5:11 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Just as the panic ebbed from the arrival of the captain, four more terrorists burst through the curtain, without warning. They joined the tall one and the one with the raspy voice who stood at the front of the section. The quickness and flourish they had entered with seemed for naught. They stood idly, dark menacing looks of patience marring their features. Scully adjusted the phone cautiously to allow for maximum reception should the terrorists choose to speak. The young woman sitting next to her began to fidget, drawing unwanted attention from the hijackers. They watched intently as the woman squirmed and looked as if she were about to burst into tears. The six terrorists turned when the curtain rustled once again. A tall, muscular man with a mustache entered, dressed as the others in combat gear. The hijackers parted, making way for him. He had an air of power, an aura of danger and calm control about him. The look of complete and utter menace that danced within his emerald green eyes caused a shiver to race up Scully's spine. Her heart lurched as he moved in her direction. He took long, slow strides down the aisle and stopped a few feet away from Scully. She brought her eyes to his and saw pure evil. When he spoke, she stopped breathing. "Agent Scully, it is time." ~ Chapter Thirteen - There Can Be No Happy Ending ~ *This chapter is marked NC-17 for violent content.* Day Three 5:13 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "We've got noise," Agent Jenkins yelled in Skinner's direction. Skinner nodded his head and moved closer to the communications board. Jenkins flipped a switch and the microphone's transmission was piped through a speaker in time for everyone to hear the hijacker's words. "Agent Scully, it is time." "No!" Waters yelled. "We've still got seventeen minutes!" Skinner flipped up his headset, letting the panic of the moment slip off and centering himself for the task at hand. "Team One," he said over the radio to the snipers beneath the plane. "Stand in, be prepared to move." "Copy that, Command." "You're not sending them in now," insisted Waters, "it'll be a blood bath!" "It may come to that whether they go in or not," Skinner said calmly as he scanned the video screens across the room. "They don't move without my order." He turned to Waters. Skinner pursed his lips and pulled himself up to his full height, his posture and demeanor leaving no room for misinterpretation. "You may be the scene commander, but I'll be damned if I sit here and do nothing while they murder Agent Scully!" "Enough," Frohike said, stepping between the two men and casting each a recriminating look. Skinner snorted in response. Waters looked as if he was about to physically remove Frohike, or worse. "Someone might want to inform the rescue team," Byers calmly suggested. Waters continued to glare at Frohike as he flipped on his microphone. "Recovery, come in." "Whoa, man. Do you really think that's a good idea?" Frohike asked. "Mulder is a grown man, Frohike," Langly said. "He can handle it." "Are we talking about the same individual?" Frohike questioned as his hackles began to rise. "Quiet!" seethed Skinner, not sure how much more of the Gunmen he could take. "Go, Command," Clark said through the radio. "Recovery, we've got a situation," Waters replied. "The hijackers have given us an ultimatum. They want to take off in a little more than fifteen minutes." "Or?" "They kill a passenger." Skinner nodded his approval in Waters direction. There was no sense in revealing the identity of the next victim. A half-cocked Mulder running rampant aboard the plane was not a complication Skinner felt up to dealing with at the moment. "Copy that, Command. What is your planned course of action?" "Just hold for now, continue as is. We'll keep you informed." "Ten-four, Recovery out." Day Three 5:15 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The terrorist stood before her, his unblinking gaze focused firmly on the woman. He had made no move nor had he spoken a word since he had first addressed her. The hijacker seemed content doing nothing more than staring at the petite woman. Dale Gerrado sat a few rows behind her, barely able to see her over the top of the seat. He squirmed in his own chair, craning his neck in hopes of discovering a better vantage point. From Dale's point of view the hijacker and the woman seemed to be engaged in a stalemate, a silent battle of will waged only with their eyes. Dale reached out his hand, unconsciously groping for the fingers of his wife. He closed his eyes and berated himself for the slip. He turned away for a moment, unable to allow his raw and ragged emotions to take control, to overwhelm him. He was cold, shivering, trying to ignore the empty seat to his left. He wanted desperately to take back the last several hours, to hold his wife in his arms once again. "Kelly," he whispered to himself, "why did they have to take you?" "Miss Scully," the terrorist said, pulling Dale out of his mournful reverie. The hijacker, who was obviously the leader, held out his large hand. He extended it to the small woman in front of him. "Please stand." Dale watched closely, barely suppressing a shudder. When the woman didn't respond, the hijacker continued. "Miss Scully, that wasn't a request. You will stand now or face the consequences." The pretty, petite woman started to rise, her back held straight and her head high. The cabin erupted into utter chaos. The passengers started to cry out and stand up. The hijackers began to yell, warning the hostages to remain quiet. The captain rose quickly. He moved behind one of the hijackers and wrapped his fingers around the man's throat. Despite his size, the captain was taken out quickly and almost effortlessly, knocked back into his seat by the butt of the terrorist's gun. Dale could barely make out what was taking place in front of him. Four passengers in his row had risen, effectively blocking his view. He started to scoot to his left, intending to take the aisle seat, but stopping himself quickly. He couldn't do that. He couldn't sit in Kelly's seat. Even though Dale couldn't see, the sound of a hand striking the surface of the woman's cheek was unmistakable. He caught a glimpse of her small form as she fell to the aisle with a thud. Another hijacker stepped forward, pulling the woman up abruptly from the floor and dragging her toward the front of the plane. Dale closed his eyes. He wanted to shrink away. He wanted to forget. He wanted to not be reminded of what they had done to Kelly, of what they were going to do to the woman--Agent Scully. Day Three 5:18 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Do you have the cameras in yet?" Waters asked loudly as he tried to make himself heard over the din surrounding him. "Negative, Command. We're still working on that." "Work faster!" Waters yelled in reply before promptly turning off his headset. Skinner turned to look at the assistant director, his brows arching at the tone of Waters' voice. Skinner took a deep breath and steadied himself for the impending storm. Waters had a reputation around the bureau for having a quick temper and Skinner was certain he was about to witness a large dose--first hand. "Damn it," Waters muttered as he approached Skinner, his face red and his back taut. Skinner cleared his throat and pushed himself up from the communications board. "What have you got?" Waters asked, obviously trying to keep himself in check. "They've got Scully," Skinner replied a moment later, desperately battling against his own emotions. "And?" "It's hard to tell," Skinner responded, feeling his own temper begin to flare. "One of the hijackers, asked her to stand and apparently she did. He sounded like the one Peters has been communicating with, but we'll have to wait on voice print matching to be certain. After that, all hell broke loose and we couldn't make out anything." "He's the leader," Waters interjected confidently. "That's the assumption we're going off of, yes." Waters looked down at his watch. "We've still got roughly ten minutes." "To do what?" asked Frohike, rising from his chair and turning in Waters' direction. "Listen, you--" "That's enough," Skinner cautioned. "This is a tenuous situation as it is, we don't need to make it worse." Waters huffed in the Gunman's direction. "I've got to call the Director. Make sure everyone is ready," he said to Skinner as he pulled out his cell phone. "Aye, aye, Captain," Skinner muttered under his breath before flipping on his own mike. "Command! Come in!" shouted Carter through the headset. "A.D. Skinner," yelled Agent Jenkins and Byers simultaneously. "Shots fired! I repeat, shots fired!" barked Carter. "Advise!" "What in the hell?" shouted Waters, covering the mouthpiece of his cell phone with one hand. "We still have eight minutes!" Langly pulled off his headset, the shouts and screams of the passengers audible even from its position on the tabletop. "That's not a lot of use anymore," he said as he rubbed his ears. Waters signaled for Peters to try to contact the hijackers and returned to his phone call with the Director. "Recovery, we need that camera in now," Skinner implored through his headset. "Command, we're still working on that. We seem to be having technical difficulties. Any idea what is going on above?" the team leader quickly asked. "Other than shots being fired, no. The passengers are making too much noise for us to pick anything up," answered Skinner, knowing in his gut what the shots signaled, but unable to resolve the feelings within himself. "Copy that, Command." "Carter, just get that camera in...and be ready. Waters may call for a breech." "Copy that, Command. Recovery out." Day Three 5:24 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The first two shots had been a warning. Their intent had been to quiet the passengers, to scare them into submission. They hadn't accomplished their task. Scully winced inwardly as the burly terrorist grabbed her roughly by the arm and started to pull her the rest of the way down the aisle. She kept her head high, refusing to show her fear even in what seemed to be the hour of her death. Apparently impatient with her steady pace, a second hijacker, the one with the raspy voice, pushed against her back. She lost her balance, falling to the floor in a tangled heap with the first terrorist still attached to her arm. "Get up, bitch!" the second yelled as he loomed above her, his cheek twitching and a slimy smile on his face. When she didn't move fast enough, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to a standing position in one swift movement. She bit down hard on her tongue, tasting blood as she stifled a scream. There was no way in hell she was going to go out with a girly scream qualifying as her last "words". The first hijacker still firmly gripped her lower arm, squeezing as he pulled himself up. Scully only saw a flash of rage before he brought the butt of his gun across her face. She fell backwards again, her head hitting the floor hard with a resounding thud. She blinked and he turned his rifle around, pointing it at her face. Her vision began to swim and then everything went black. Day Three 5:29 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "The Director says no!" argued Waters. "It's too risky right now!" Skinner didn't answer. He seethed in the direction of A.D. Waters--not bothering to hide the rage in his expression. "A.D. Skinner, two more shots fired!" shouted Frohike and Agent Jenkins simultaneously. Skinner turned in their direction, nodding in the affirmative. He closed his eyes saying another silent prayer, knowing all the while that Scully was surely lost. Waters pulled himself up straighter, stretching to reach his full height, which wasn't much. "We don't know for certain how many hijackers there are, or even *where* they are for that matter," he said, ignoring Frohike and Jenkins' announcement, his voice low and dangerous. "She may already be dead," Skinner hissed, pointing in the direction of the communications board. "And that was my next point," Waters said confidently. "The Director and I both feel that a breech now would be hasty and ill advised...especially in light of recent events." "Exactly how many people are you and the Director willing to let die? How many until their deaths balance with the greater good?" "I'm not willing to risk the lives of these agents." "Your inaction may have already cost the life of one. I hope you're prepared to live with that," Skinner said before walking away and rejoining the Lone Gunmen. "Command, come in," said Agent Clark through the radio system. "Go, Recovery," said Waters. "We've got a camera in through the floor of the business class section...we're having some problems with the feed, though," explained Clark. "It's intermittent, we can't really see anything here." "We'll patch into it, Recovery. See what you can do about cleaning it up." All sound and movement stopped as the video technicians worked to hard wire the transmission from the camera. When the picture finally broke across the largest of the screens, it was all Skinner could do not to choke on the breath he had been holding. "Scully," the Assistant Director whispered hoarsely a few moments later. Although the transmission kept popping in and out, the picture it painted was very clear. Scully lay supine across the aisle. Her face was turned toward the front of the section, toward the lens of the camera. Her eyes were closed. Blood ran from both her nose and a gash below her right eye. A hijacker loomed behind her, visible only from the knees up. He turned to Langly, who stood stunned and transfixed to Skinner's left. "We've got to hear what's going on," he said, his voice low. "Is there anyway that you can filter out the background noise?" "Not live, but we can from the tapes," Langly replied, never taking his eyes from the video screen. "See what you can do then." Langly turned and nodded in the assistant director's direction before moving back to the communications board, Frohike and Byers in tow. "Command, come in." "Recovery, go," Waters said into his headset. "We can't get any kind of reception here. What have you got?" Skinner cast Waters a warning glare that went unheeded. "Agent Scully is down. It's difficult to discern anything beyond her injuries." Day Three 5:31 p.m. Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Mulder let out a string of loud unintelligible sounds unconsciously ending with her name, Scully, his voice catching and trailing on the last syllable. Agent Clark moved on instinct, quickly grabbing Mulder from behind and roughly covering the agent's mouth with his hand. "Be quiet," Clark hissed loudly into Mulder's ear. Mulder murmured softly into Clark's palm and fell slack, but only for a moment. He surged forward unexpectedly, catching Clark off guard and easily breaking free of his grasp. Even below the cabin, the cries of the passengers could still be heard. Mulder moved toward the hatch that would lead him above to Scully. Clark and Genndy lunged simultaneously, grabbing Mulder by the legs and waist, pinning him against the wall hard and fast. "No," spat Clark, lifting his head and peering intently into Mulder's eyes. "You're compromising our position, Agent Mulder. I suggest you get it together and quickly, or I'll restrain your ass for the duration of this exercise." Mulder didn't respond. He glared back at Clark, anger pouring off of him in waves. The man didn't understand. Scully. He had to get to Scully. His breaths came in shallow and painful waves. His heart screamed in his chest, pain radiating outward, threatening to suffocate him, drown him its intensity. "Let me go now," he hissed, his voice full of venom and tainted with pain. "You are *not* going to compromise our position, Mulder. Do you understand me?" "Recovery," boomed Waters' voice, sharp and stern, through the headsets. Clark ignored the transmission, his eyes never wavering from Mulder's. "Command, this is Proust, go." "What in the hell is going on? We can hear you down here." "Command, the situation is under control. We just need a few moments." "I don't give a rat's ass what you need. We need some more cameras, now!" Clark nodded his head sideways, silently ordering Proust and the other agents to continue with the installation of the video equipment. "We're on it," Proust replied a moment later. "Recovery out." "Agent Mulder," Clark whispered loudly after flipping off his headset. " I'm not going to let go, not until you assure me that you're not going to jeopardize this mission any further." When Mulder didn't respond, Clark continued. "Do I make myself clear, Agent Mulder?" "Go fuck yourself, Clark," Mulder hissed in response. There was no way in hell that Clark or anyone else was going to stop him from going to Scully, from pulling her off of this godforsaken plane. She needed him and this time he wasn't going to let her down. Clark shoved his elbow into Mulder's back, hard, causing sharp pain to shoot down his spine. Mulder didn't care. Scully. He had to get to Scully. Nothing else mattered, nothing at all. Day Three 5:34 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" shouted Skinner when Waters flipped off his headset. Waters didn't answer. He stared at Skinner, daring the man to push the issue further, to question his command. "We've already got one time bomb on that plane, do you want to add another?" Byers moved to stand behind Skinner, backing him. "Skinner, do we really need to rehash all of this?" Waters asked, his voice eerily calm. "Damn it, I warned you. I told you this was going to happen." "It was my call and I made it." Skinner gave the man a steely-eyed glare, trying to wordlessly convey his intent. He huffed quietly when Waters seemed to catch his meaning. Skinner jumped when he felt Byers' hand on his forearm, gently pulling him away, and probably saving his job. One more second of looking at Waters' self-satisfied face and Skinner probably would have decked the man. Byers gently tugged him in the direction of the video screens, leaning in and whispering to the A.D. when they reached their destination. "We've got to do something about Mulder. Special Ops aren't going to be able to hold him off indefinitely. Well, not unless they tie him up and gag him," Byers said in a lame attempt to relieve the tension of the moment. Skinner grimaced slightly, and nodded in agreement. "Let's wait until we get another camera in. We'll go from there," Skinner replied as he turned his full attention back to the video screens and the prone form of Agent Scully. Byers nodded. "Sir," he started to say. "What the hell!" shouted Skinner as the video screens went blank. Day Three 5:41 p.m. Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Damn it Clark, let go," Mulder hissed sharply as he pushed back against the agent, urgently fighting to free himself. Clark slammed him against the wall in response. Mulder reeled for a second as a bright light flashed behind his closed eyes. If Clark hadn't been pinning him against the wall, he surely would have fallen to the floor from the sheer force of the explosion of light. He cringed against the images that came to mind as the light slowly faded. Scully. On the floor. Blood staining her white shirt. Her eyes closed in death. Bile rose up his throat and he nearly choked on it. A thousand thoughts and fears broke free, threatening to tear him apart as their sharp shards tore through him. It was so clear, his vision. It was sharp, intense, and so brutally honest that he wanted to cry. He wanted to shout out against the horror he had brought upon her, that he couldn't control or stop. He wasn't seeing her now though- -he was lost in he past--trapped in an undefinable hell he had built for himself. She was on his floor when he had walked into the room--her body limp and lifeless. Blood covered her chest, tainting her, marking her, marring her. The pain he had felt that day was still so sharp and visceral. It was a reminder, though, of a lesson he had finally learned. He hadn't thought. He had acted. He had left her alone, unwittingly vulnerable. He should have known that she was a target. He should have been there instead of running off half-cocked after Padgett. He shouldn't have left her alone. He should have known. He didn't though, he hadn't thought. He wanted to fight against the memories, against the reminder, against the message he didn't want to hear. He wanted to fight against Clark, free himself and save her. He fell limp in Clark's arms, defeated. He couldn't. If he broke free, if he managed to get to her, what then? She would die, of that he was certain. He couldn't gamble her life, not again--never again. Day Three 5:43 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Dale watched as they pulled her limp form down the aisle and to the front of the section. They stopped under the crimson stain, the spot marked by Kelly. Two of the hijackers pulled her up by her arms. Her head fell forward limply. Her chin came to rest on her chest. She didn't stir. Blood still ran down her face, but slowly now. It was starting to dry. A bruise marked her eye, contrasting sharply with her pale skin. The leader stepped forward. He turned and Dale caught his gaze. His expression was neutral, almost casual, except for the twinkle in his eyes. He turned and faced her then, reaching out his left hand. The skinny one handed him his pistol and the leader lifted it, testing the gun's weight in his hand. He took a step back, extended his arms, and pointed the gun at her head. Dale closed his eyes, slamming them shut with force. He couldn't look. He wasn't able to witness her death. He wasn't strong enough. The screams of the passengers quieted and Dale heard the click of the safety as the leader released it. Less than a heartbeat later the shot rang out. Day Three 5:45 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "A.D. Skinner!" shouted Jenkins. "More shots fired!" Skinner moved away from the worthless video screens, not looking back to watch as the frantic technicians attempt to re-establish the connection. "Can you make anything else out?" he asked before he made it across the room. "No," replied Jenkins. "It got quiet before the shot went off, but we weren't able to pick anything else up." Skinner shook his head and reached up to rub the back of his neck. Everything was going to hell. He looked around, scanning the room for Waters. He found him in the corner, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Skinner could see the sweat pouring off the man's brow. Good, he thought. The ringing of the red phone mounted on the communications board startled Skinner away from his thoughts of ill will. Peters rushed to grab it, answering it up on the second ring. "What's going on in there?" he asked immediately. "We still had time left when you started shooting. What in the hell are you trying to do? How can I negotiate with you if you don't stick to the deals that *you* set?" "Ah, Mr. Peters, you really need to calm down. You're going to worry yourself into a frenzy. As I said earlier, I am not negotiating with you. I make the rules. I can break the rules. There is nothing you can do about it." Peters inhaled a sharp breath of air, pushing it out quickly as he tried to calm himself. "How many are dead?" the negotiator asked a second later, his voice smooth once again. "Only one, Mr. Peters. Only one. But I warned you of that now didn't I?" "Who?" Peters said, bringing his eyes to Skinner's. The room fell to silence. The agents and technicians stopped and turned, everyone focused on Peters and the phone he held in his hand. "Agent Scully, Mr. Peters. She was marked." Day Three 5:48 p.m. Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Recovery, come in," said the voice of Assistant Director Skinner through the radio system. "Go, Command," replied Genndy as he walked into the avionics room. "Recovery, I need Agent Mulder on the com." "Sir, I don't think that's possible at the moment," replied Genndy after a few seconds of deliberation. "Agent, I don't care what's possible. I want to talk with Agent Mulder, now!" shouted the assistant director, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "Yes, Sir," said Genndy as he moved to stand next to Mulder and Clark. He flipped down his microphone, covering the device with his free hand. "A.D. Skinner is demanding to talk to Mulder." Clark glanced at Mulder and then at Genndy. "Damn it Clark," Mulder said as he pushed against the team leader. Clark looked to Genndy again, as if he was trying to gauge the possible repercussions if he did not comply. After a moment he grimaced and backed away from the agent. Mulder took a deep breath and reached down, flipping on his microphone. "Yeah, Skinner. What have you got?" he asked, pushing past the thick lump in his throat, the heavy feeling that was tethering him to the ground. "Agent Mulder," he said calmly, softly, "we just received a call from the hijackers." Mulder closed his eyes, a deep sob threatening to break through his chest. He knew what Skinner was going to say. "Mulder..." Skinner started, "I'm so sorry." "No," he managed to choke out before his whole world began to crumble at his feet. "She's gone." ~ Chapter Fourteen - As Much As I Want to, I Can't Stay ~ *This chapter is marked NC-17 for violent content.* Day Three 5:53 p.m. Beneath the Cabin of American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Scully was gone. Those three words resonated through his mind, never fully taking form or shape, simply bounding around in an incoherent manner, without direction. He wrestled with them, grappling against their weight, their significance. He held himself stiffly, bracing himself with his hands against the cool metal wall of the plane. His arms were taut, the muscles within them twitching from the force of his weight against the wall. His head hung low. His eyes were tightly closed. He couldn't feel it. It was intangible, unbelievable. His heart still beat in his chest. She had ceased to draw breath. He was unable to draw even a shaky line connecting the two. It didn't seem plausible or possible that he could exist without her. He should have felt it, he thought, should have known the moment her heart fell still. He didn't. He hadn't felt it. The moment was lost to him. It was the truth though, in his mind he knew that. It was the same truth he had feared would come to fruition. The same truth that had taken form as the manner and mantra of his nightmares. Skinner had said the words. She was gone, he had said. Scully was gone. He closed his eyes tighter, resisting the tears that begged to fall. He pushed his hands harder against the side of the craft, trying to strengthen himself, push out the doubt and dread that shrouded his heart, clouded his mind. He wanted to die. He wanted to burst through the hatch in the ceiling, rush to her side, breath life into her limp form. He wanted to give that to her, sacrifice his own self for her, only for her, always for her. He couldn't, the moment had passed. She was gone. Day Three 5:57 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Silence. He could feel it, smell it, taste it, almost touch it. It covered every surface, clung to every wall. It made it hard to breath, hard to think. It seemed to slow every movement, heighten every emotion. Skinner felt as though he was drowning in it. He could feel it washing over him, not bringing him comfort, not bringing him peace, only illuminating his guilt and pain. He wanted to melt into the floor, disappear and lick his wounds. He wanted to go to bed and sleep it off like a drunken binge that would go away with time. He wanted not to hurt. He wanted not to feel remorse. He wanted to take back the last few hours. He wanted Scully to be alive. Telling Mulder had been harder than he could have ever imagined and it had taken its toll on the assistant director. Mulder had tried to remain strong and Skinner even supposed that outwardly the agent had accomplished that, but Skinner knew him. He had caught the almost imperceptible waver in Mulder's voice, the haunted monotone he had slipped into once Skinner had conveyed the news. Skinner blinked quickly, pushing down the tears that were threatening, keeping them at bay. Not now, he sternly reminded himself. There would be time to grieve later. He pulled himself out of his dark reverie, turning and meeting Byers eyes, seeing his own pain and remorse reflected in the Gunman's haunted gaze. "He'll make it," assured Byers. Skinner nodded. "I know," he replied confidently. He was certain Mulder would see it through to the end, he could count on him for that. "I need to go...I need to speak to her family now," Skinner said after a few long moments of uncomfortable silence. Byers nodded in acknowledgment. "Skinner!" yelled Assistant Director Waters as he moved across the tent. Skinner took a deep breath. "The Director is en route," Waters announced when he reached Skinner. He wore a smug look of satisfaction on his face, as if the arrival of the Director was going to vindicate his inaction. Skinner felt his jaw tighten. He bit back the response that came to his lips. He took another deep breath and tried to gain control of his anger. "What's his ETA?" he asked a few moments later, his voice weak and shaking with suppressed anger. Waters looked at him for a minute before responding, "Any moment, he called me from his car." "I have something I need to take care of. I'll be back in about fifteen minutes," Skinner said evenly. Waters shook his head, chuckling slightly. "Yeah, I bet you do," he mumbled. Skinner tried in vain to bite back the words that came to his lips, "Excuse me?" "Nothing," Waters hissed back. "No," Skinner insisted. "If you have something on your mind Waters, why don't you just spit it out?" he demanded trying to keep his voice low. "Don't you think it's a little odd, the Director is going to show up, and you are going...where?" he asked almost mockingly. "I don't expect you to understand this," he seethed, the words coming out in a hiss, low and dangerous, "but I have a responsibility to Agent Scully. Her family has a right to know what has happened." Waters didn't respond. He just stared at Skinner defiantly, daring him to go further. "No," Skinner said, his voice dropping another octave and increasing in venom. "Maybe you should go instead. Maybe you would care to explain to her mother how you pissed around and cost her the life of her only daughter. Maybe you could explain to her how you didn't have the balls to go in and save her, when you *knew* Agent Scully was going to be killed." Waters' eyes widened, but only for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to have second thoughts. Skinner set his jaw, preparing to finish the argument. "Sir," yelled Agent Lask from the communications board. "A.D. Skinner!" Skinner cast Waters a look of warning, damning the consequences, and moved to speak to Lask. "Sir, Recovery on the com." Skinner nodded and flipped on his microphone. "Go, Recovery." "Calling in status," said Clark. "Go then." "Vanauken seems to have isolated the power source, he's on the radio with the engineers from the bomb squad. It's just a matter of time now." "Good." "Second camera is in place. You should be able to get a feed from it now." "Negative," Skinner said as he looked over at the static filled video screens. "We lost all video about fifteen minutes ago. We should have them back up soon. We'll tap in then." "Copy that, Command. Recovery out." "Jenkins," Skinner said after he flipped off the mike, "Get someone over to the video board. Light a fire under the technicians' asses. We've got another camera ready to go." Day Three 6:04 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Dale Gerrado sat silently in his seat. He couldn't hear the cries of the passengers surrounding him, nor the insistent voices of the hijackers warning of retribution. His eyes were closed. His fists were clenched into tight balls. He took deep breaths in and out, trying to assuage the sense of panic and pain that enveloped him. He had done nothing and they had killed her. The same could be said for Kelly. He felt so lost. He felt so alone. He felt so utterly wrong and inhuman. He had succeeded in warding off the haunting images, for the time being, but the sense of dread he feared would never ebb. In his heart he knew no one would walk away, that all of the men and women on board the plane would perish. Somehow that thought brought him comfort, helped to lessen his panic. Soon, he thought. Soon he would be with Kelly again. Soon he would be at peace. Day Three 6:10 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Mr. Peters, I am tiring of these endless games." "I can assure you that the F.B.I. does not consider this situation to be a game, in any sense of the word." "You really are starting to bore me with all of the same dribble- drabble. I thought you to be a reasonably intelligent man, yet you can't seem to grasp this one simple concept. Mr. Peters, either you and the F.B.I. grant us clearance to take off or I will personally execute another passenger." "It's out of--" "And," the hijacker began, interrupting the negotiator, "I refuse to listen to your excuses regarding the weather. Am I making myself clear? You will comply, or I promise you will regret your lack of action." Mark Peters opened his mouth to respond, but the line went dead before he had a chance to speak. He blew out a long breath and slammed the phone back into its cradle. "How long do you think we have?" Assistant Director Waters asked quickly. Peters turned and faced Waters. He looked to Skinner then, who was standing at his colleague's left. "I don't know. I honestly have no idea," he replied, shaking his head slowly. The call from the hijackers had interrupted Skinner's departure to speak with the Scully family. He had needed to stay behind, and now he nodded at the negotiator's words, understanding the hopeless position Peters had been placed in. "How can you not know? Can't you guess?" Skinner noticed the muscles in Peters' right temple start to twitch. He almost jumped in to defend the negotiator, but quickly thought better of it. He was more interested in hearing what Peters had to say. "I can't read minds," Peters said, from all appearances exhibiting a tremendous amount of control. "You're supposed to be the best. You're paid to know these things, to offer insight into the terrorists' minds." "Assistant Director Waters, I'm a negotiator, not a member of the Psychic Friends Network. I can't know what they are thinking and I sure as hell can't negotiate with them," he responded through tightly clenched teeth. "What do you mean you can't negotiate with them?" Waters asked, his face starting to take on a red tint. "In order to negotiate one needs leverage. I have none. We have none," he said, extending his arms to indicate the entire team of personnel. "They want to leave. We won't give them clearance. They threaten to kill passengers. We do nothing. See my point? They know we aren't going to use force. They are *not* scared of us. They are *not* worried. I have *no* leverage. I can *not* negotiate." Skinner nodded his head in approval. Peters had illustrated the position Waters had placed them in very well. Skinner watched the A.D. out of the corner of his eye, watched as the large vein in the side of his neck pulsed strongly, watched as perspiration began to drip down the side of his face. He was mad. Good, thought Skinner. He would be a helluva lot madder once the director arrived. Skinner would make certain of that. "You--" started Waters. Skinner quickly stepped in between the two mean, looking Waters directly in the eye. "This isn't time or the place," he said sternly. "Um, Sir," Agent John Lask said after clearing his throat. "I don't want to...interrupt, but we've got the video screens operational." Skinner shot Waters another look of warning and wordlessly followed the young agent. "We have all of the exterior cameras back," he started to explain as he and Skinner moved across the room, "and the Recovery Team has a new camera in the first class section that is working as well." "What about business class?" "Still nothing. The technicians think it's a problem with the camera." "Call Russel, tell him that I want a new camera in business class now, top priority." "Yes, Sir," the young agent said before trotting off into the corner and flipping on his headset. Skinner stopped when he reached the large bank of monitors, searching each screen for details. The exterior shots were still nearly useless in the blinding snow. The new camera that had been placed through the floor of the first class section, however, proved to be quite telling. The camera had been inserted near the front of the section and afforded him a view of the aisle as well as ten passengers. Skinner was also able to see the legs of a hijacker as he paced back and forth near the front of the section. At first glance, everything appeared to be calm. The passengers looked frazzled, but didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. He stood there for a moment, staring at the screen, searching for details, anything that might help him sway the director toward a breech. He knew in his gut that it was the only way out, the only way for the ordeal to end. If they didn't, more innocent people would die, more people like Scully. "See anything?" Waters asked, his voice even and calm as he stepped up next to Skinner. "Nothing I didn't expect," Skinner replied coolly. "The director should be here any moment," Waters said. "I assumed so," Skinner replied, glancing down at his watch. "What in the hell?" "What?" Skinner asked. His head snapped up and his eyes locked on the video screens. "There," Waters said, pointing in the direction of the largest screen, the one receiving its feed from the first class cabin. Skinner saw it then, a flicker of movement. A man was coming down the center aisle. He was bent over, walking backwards in the direction of the camera. "Is he dragging something?" Waters asked quietly. Skinner swallowed loudly, pushing back against the sudden wave of nausea that began to overwhelm him. "Yes," he said in reply. He watched in horror as the terrorist slowly pulled the body of a woman toward the front of the plane. Scully. Skinner didn't think he could stand to watch, but he was transfixed, unable to avert his eyes from the horror he knew he was about to witness. "Agent Scully," Waters said quietly, but without remorse. Skinner bit back against the angry retort that came easily to his lips. It wouldn't help. It couldn't change the facts. Skinner blinked slowly when the hijacker neared the camera. "What?" Waters yelled before taking several steps closer to the video screen, squinting his eyes as if they had deceived him. And then Skinner saw it, too. His heart surged in his chest. His pulse racing as relief and joy flooded over him. "It's not her," he whispered, barely believing it himself. Day Three 6:25 p.m. Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "It's not her," he said aloud, trying to fully reconcile Skinner's news within himself. Mulder stood in the middle of the room, resting his head in his hands. His breathing was ragged. His entire body was trembling. He couldn't move. He could barely think. But he could feel, oh could he feel. His heart was surging, beating to its own happy rhythm of relief and joy. She was alive, it sang with every beat. The rhythm pulsed through his arteries and veins, enveloping his entire body in a soothing feeling of comfort and warmth. He could feel a smile forming on his lips. He could feel the heavy weight of guilt and grief lifting slightly from his shoulders. He felt lighter, stronger. He felt renewed, refreshed. He was ready. He wasn't going to give them another chance to take her away. Day Three 6:27 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Frohike, what do you think?" The short man turned to Byers, pursing his lips and pondering the question. "I don't know, man," he said, shaking his head in frustration. "I just don't know." Frohike paced slowly, back in forth on a short path, meticulously tracing over his steps. He was barely aware of the commotion around him--the technicians running crazily from one end of the tent to the other, the agents barking orders to their teams of snipers and companions in the tower. The pace had increased, the urgency doubled. The director had arrived. "The hijacker said that only one person was killed," offered Langly, his voice lacking conviction. "Yes," said Frohike, "and he also said he had killed Agent Scully. He's either lying or he's wrong." The Lone Gunman never stopped his pacing though as he tried desperately to make the connections. "Well it doesn't look like we're going to have to wait very long to find out," Byers said quickly, pointing in the direction of the video screens and the images being transmitted from the business class section. "We've got picture," said Langly as the three men trotted across the room. Day Three 6:31 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Scully felt the cold first. It bit at her fingers and nipped at her nose. She tried to ignore the tingling sensation it left in its wake but she couldn't. The pain came next. It was sharp, shooting down her cheekbone, threatening to split her face in half. She held back the groan she felt forming in the back of her throat. She heard the noises after that, soft keening moans, loud choking sobs, quiet heart-felt pleas. Her own voice longed to join them. They brought her back, pushing her past the faint edge of perception. Every memory of every moment of the hours she had spent on the plane, the days that had proceeded, slammed against her full force. She cringed inwardly, trying to shove the memories away, deny the position she was in, all that had happened. She remembered how quickly they had entered, storming into the cabin with looks of vengeance upon their faces. Four men joining the other two at the front of the section. The leader entered a few minutes later, the men parting like the Red Sea to allow him passage. He approached her then, stopping in the aisle and staring down at the woman seated next to Scully. "Agent Scully," he said, "it is time." But his words hadn't been meant for her. He stared at the pretty young woman, never breaking his gaze away. He waited patiently, yet expectantly for several long minutes. The woman didn't respond. Scully didn't respond. She didn't understand, couldn't comprehend the game he was playing. Why had he spoken to her? Why had he called her Agent Scully? Scully broke her gaze away from the hijacker, the leader, and turned to look at the woman. She stared back at him. Her eyes were filled with confusion. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. Her chin quivered. Her skin was pale, cast in gray and Scully had no doubt in her mind that the woman was in shock. The realization hit her then and she understood the mistake he had made. They had traded seats before the flight had began. Scully started to shake her head and opened her mouth to speak, to shed light on his error. "Miss Scully," he said, halting her words. "Please stand." He extended his hand, his eyes still focused on the wrong woman. "No," Scully said, her voice weak, heavy with fear as she tried to right his wrong. He didn't respond. The hijacker continued to stare at the woman, his eyes growing cold with impatience. "Miss Scully, that wasn't a request," he said harshly. "You will stand now or face the consequences." The woman reluctantly obeyed, pushing herself up from the seat. Scully screamed, "No!" trying to stop her, but her voice was lost amongst the pleas and cries of the passengers. They started to stand, screaming and yelling, demanding for the ordeal to end. In the midst of all the confusion the Captain lunged for a nearby hijacker. Scully rose from her seat, watching as the Captain grabbed him from behind, wrapping his fingers around the man's throat. A short struggle ensued before the pilot was thrown back into his seat, struck by the butt of the terrorist's weapon. Scully turned and took a step toward the aisle. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, fear surging all around her. She would not let that woman die in her place. The leader reached out and grabbed the woman by the arm. She was shaking her head furiously, refusing to go with him. She opened her mouth to speak and he brought his hand across her cheek, striking her into silence. Scully jumped at the sound. She stepped forward when the woman fell to the floor. She tore her gaze away from the woman, moving to stand in front of the terrorist leader and staring him directly in the eye. "You have--" She didn't get to finish. His palm met her check as well, causing her head to snap to the side. Another hijacker stepped forward, reaching down and pulling the woman up from the floor. Once she was standing on unsteady legs, he shoved her toward the front of the cabin. The shots were fired then. Two rounds, meant to serve as a warning to the passengers. They did not serve their purpose though, as the volume and anger of the passengers screams increased ten-fold. The leader nodded his head and another hijacker reached out and grabbed Scully's arm, jerking her out into the aisle as well. She lost her balance and landed on her side, almost wincing with the pain that shot through her arm. She was barely given a chance to catch her breath before the hijacker bent over and grabbed her by the arm, roughly yanking her to a standing position. He pulled her forward, to join the woman now standing at the front of the section. She moved with him, her head held high and her back straight. Fear constricted her chest, making it hard to breathe. She had been in some precarious situations before, but this one appeared as though it would be her last. She felt hands against her back and then a quick shove. She tried to turn and look, but fell forward, taking the burly hijacker with her. They hit to floor in a tangle of arms and legs. "Get up bitch!" yelled the one with the raspy voice as he loomed above her. His gun was raised, his finger twitching near the trigger. The hijacker managed to extricate himself from the tangle they were in and pulled himself up to his knees. Scully immediately rolled onto her back, needing to assess the situation, wanting not to be surprised. She began to push herself up with her elbows, almost groaning from the pain in her left arm. Apparently the one with the raspy voice was not happy with the progress she was making, because he reached down and pulled her up by the hair. Scully bit down on her tongue, trying to stifle a cry of pain. She tasted the blood and ignored it. She stared him in the eye, determined not to show her fear. The burly one pulled on her right arm, hoisting himself up from the floor. She turned to look at him, but only saw a flash of anger before the butt of his gun met her face. She fell to the floor again, her head hitting it with a resounding thud that echoed through her ears. She remembered seeing him turn the gun around, pointing it at her face, and then nothing. Until now. She took a deep breath, trying to wash away the painful residue the memories had left behind. She knew she needed to open her eyes, that she needed to face what had happened. She looked within herself, rallying her strength. Slowly she opened her eyes, blinking quickly at first. She had no idea of how long she had been unconscious or where she was. Her vision was blurry at first and she mentally began checking for symptoms of a concussion. She blinked slowly again, attempting to get her surroundings to come into focus. When they did, she was greeted with the sight of a familiar seat back and the hushed voice of a stranger. "Are you all right, Miss?" Scully blew out a long breath and slowly turned her head to the left. The pilot was sitting in the seat next to her. She started to nod her head in response, but was quickly deterred by the pain that shot through her face. "I'm fine," she whispered weakly. "You don't look fine to me," he replied. "Well, neither do you," she said after taking in his bruised and battered face. She imagined hers didn't look much better. "What happened?" she asked, keeping her voice low. He looked around cautiously, checking to see if the hijackers were looking their way before speaking again. "They killed her." Scully felt tears born of both anger and sadness come to her eyes. It was wrong, all of it. She shouldn't have been killed. They hadn't listened. She had tried, but they refused to hear. It was wrong, so wrong. "After you," he began, his voice shaking with suppressed emotions, "well...they fired a couple more warning shots to quiet everyone, and they worked. No one made a sound again, until...until they killed her. They left you on the floor for a while. Everyone thought you would be next...but they, well...they just threw you back into your seat." "I see," she said, shocked to hear the emotion that shone through her own voice. She wrung her hands together trying to push past the guilt and pain. She tried to forget his words, knowing all the while that she never would, never could. She looked down at her hands, sitting there silently for several long moments trying to divine the point where it had all fallen apart. Why had they killed the woman? Why had they wanted to kill *her*? It was wrong, her heart sang. She blinked her eyes, trying to force back the tears that threatened to fall. It wasn't the first time; she had been there before, with Missy. Scully honestly didn't think she had the strength to endure the pain again, the courage to look past the sacrifice of another in her name. Day Three 6:42 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Are we on top of this?" Byers looked up and nodded in the direction of the approaching assistant director, "Yes, Sir. We are." "What do you have?" Skinner asked as he neared the communications board. "It's quiet now, has been for the past couple of minutes," Langly replied as he rose from his seat. "Agent Lask filled you in?" asked Byers. Skinner nodded in response. "She was talking to the captain?" he asked. "We are assuming so, yes. The transmission was weak at best. I'm afraid there isn't much we can do about it," Byers replied. "We're picking it up off of her cell phone, but not the microphone," explained Frohike. "Keep listening, maybe we'll learn something new," Skinner said quietly before he started to walk away. "Sir," Byers called out. Skinner stopped and turned in the direction of the Gunman. "Your meeting, with the Director?" Skinner shook his head and closed his eyes. "I don't know. He's on the phone with the Attorney General. It's out of my hands." Byers nodded, not certain if he wanted to push the issue any further. "It doesn't look good," Skinner said quietly. Byers took a couple of steps in Skinner's direction, trying to push his thoughts away from Scully for the moment. "The bomb," he said when he was standing in front of the assistant director. Skinner nodded again. "As long as it's a threat they aren't willing to risk the breech." Byers swallowed. They were going to lose their best chance, probably their only chance for a successful breech. He couldn't allow himself to consider the ramifications. He couldn't possibly fathom what the Column would do next. "Yeah," Skinner said. "I know." Day Three 6:45 p.m. Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Has anyone ever told you how extremely annoying you are?" "Repeatedly," Mulder answered flatly. "I can't concentrate with you looking over my shoulder," Vanauken said. He let out a loud, annoyed sigh and turned in Mulder's direction. "I'm pacing. There's a difference." "Not in my book," Vanauken mumbled as he turned to resume his work. "Well?" Clark asked quietly as he burst through the doorway leading into the baggage area. "I'm almost there," Vanauken replied. "We need this done. Now," insisted Clark. "I'm working on it," he replied as he cut another wire leading from the device to the power supply. Vanauken set down his wire snipers and flipped on his microphone. "I think I've got it, Dan. I just need to double check and make sure it's not getting any power." Mulder's head snapped in Vanauken's direction. "You've got it?" he asked. "It's disarmed?" "Looks that way," Vanauken replied. Day Three 6:52 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "They've got it!" Skinner yelled in the direction of the three Lone Gunmen. "Yes!" Frohike yelled, chiming in his approval. Langly clapped his friends on the back and turned back to the communications board. Byers just smiled. He watched as Skinner trotted across the room, moving toward the Director. They had what they needed, the only lynch pin had been removed--the breech would certainly be called for now. He felt the panic start to rise up from his stomach again, but he pushed it back down. He knew the breech would be dangerous, that much could go wrong. Scully might not survive. No one had been able to ascertain the motive or meaning behind the hijackers' announcement that she had been killed. Had they lied? Had they been wrong? Did they know now? These were questions he could not answer. No one could, but they would find out soon enough. Day Three 6:55 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Do you know why they did this?" "No," the pilot said after a lengthy pause. He took a deep breath as if collecting himself before he continued. "They never said." "The leader?" "He was in the cockpit throughout the flight, and for quite a while after we landed. He's the one--" "Yeah," she said interrupting him, "I know who he is." He nodded his head in understanding. They sat in silence for several long moments. Scully turned to the window, staring at the drawn shade. "Where are we?" she whispered a moment later, her eyes still focused on the covered window. "Dulles," he replied in the same hushed tone. She closed her eyes in response. She didn't know how to feel, what to think. Was it good or bad? The Bureau was here. Would Skinner be as well? Mulder was two thousand miles away, languishing in New Mexico. But did that matter? She almost jumped in her seat a moment later when she remembered the cell phone. She reached down between the seat and the wall, retrieving the phone from where she had hidden it. Scully pulled it up and sat it next to her on the seat. Miraculously, the phone's battery hadn't died and call was still connected. She took a deep breath and looked around, checking the whereabouts of the two hijackers who still patrolled the cabin. She slid the phone's earpiece back under her leg, hiding it as she had before. "What was that?" the captain asked a moment later. She shot him a menacing look meant to quiet him. The captain didn't speak, but continued to stare at her. "Why don't we start at the beginning?" she said after carefully adjusting the phone under her leg. She didn't know if Mulder was still listening. She could only hope that he was. Day Three 7:03 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia John Byers sat silently in front of the communications board. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, shrouding himself in the last moments of relative peace that would surround the entire ordeal. The breech was imminent. The device had been disabled. Their window of opportunity would soon be at hand. No one knew what would come, where the chips would fall. It might end badly. It might end the way they all hoped and prayed. But the end was in sight, and they would all have to live with the outcome. Skinner, Waters and the Director were embroiled in a heated debate. They stood across the room, ensconced in shadows as they argued the fate of the passengers. Byers could not hear what they were saying. He didn't need to. Waters didn't want the breech. He had been very vocal about his reasons. He felt it would be too costly, that too many lives would be lost. What he didn't understand was that it was their only option. He didn't understand The Fifth Column, or the conspiracy they maintained. He didn't understand the lengths they would go to, the callous manner in which they conducted their covert business. They had an agenda and would not stop until it was carried out. Skinner did, in his own way. Mulder did too. They had been inside the house of mirrors, they had witnessed the inner workings. The illusions meant nothing to them. They saw them for what they were. Day Three 7:07 p.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Scully stared at the drawn shade, wondering once again what was going on around them. The children had been released hours ago. Another woman had died not long after. Yet, the plane remained on the tarmac. They seemed to be at a stalemate. The hijackers continued to pace, but their demeanor had swayed sharply from the cool and calm ones they had toted earlier. They looked tense, coiled and ready to strike, as if they were ready to jump out of their own skin. The passengers had quieted. Once again, they sat silently in their seats--worrying, waiting, wondering. What fate was going to befall them? How much longer would they sit in fear and bend to the will of madmen? Was someone coming to save them? Would they fly off into the unknown? Scully didn't know. The passengers didn't know. They hijackers refused to say. Day Three 7:13 p.m. Rear Cargo Hold - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia His heart beat heavily in his chest. His breaths came in shallow waves. He was ready, more than ready. Every sound caused him to flinch. He paced around the room, trying to center himself, ready himself. The breech was going to be called; they were only waiting for confirmation now. The bomb had been disabled. The Director had given his word. They were going to enter the plane. They were going to end the ordeal. It was so close to being over. She was almost safe. He didn't want to think about after, about what would happen then, between him and Scully. He couldn't. He wasn't able to see beyond the task that lay before him--beyond bringing her back. He nearly jumped when a blast of static broke across the tiny speaker perched along the inside of his ear. "Clark, this is Command. Come in," said the voice of Assistant Director Waters. "Go, Command," Clark said into his microphone. "The Director has approved the breech. Stand by for further instructions." "Copy that, Command." Day Three 7:14 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Walter Skinner stood watch. He didn't blink as he stared at the video screen in front of him. He watched for movement, a flicker of light signaling the hijackers' intention to open the door. Their men were in place. Six had been positioned on the stairs, ready to storm the plane when the door was opened. Several teams of snipers had moved in, too. They were ready to offer back up. Waters had positioned the Recovery team as well. Four were going to ascend into the plane through a hatch. Vanauken and Russel were staying behind, offering back up and a contingency plan should the breech go too far south. Clark, Gennedy, Proust, and Mulder were waiting. They stood beneath the hatch that would lead up into the rear of the plane. When the breech was called and they ascended, it would be into the galley directly behind the coach section. Waters' hoped to trap the hijackers, sandwich them between the team entering at the front of the plane and the Recovery Team entering at the rear. Waters stood to his right, the Gunmen to his left. They were ready. In the blink of an eye, the moment was at hand. Skinner saw the flash of light he had been waiting for, the movement of the hijackers toward the door. Two moved through the first class section, marching slowly, steadily toward the action that would end their reign of terror. He heard Waters' relay the information to the team outside the plane, alert them to watch for the door's movement. Both teams would enter on their mark. "Copy that, Command," said Agent Markhem, the leader of the team that would enter through the main door. "You have the com, Team Four," Waters replied. Skinner took a deep breath and said a last silent prayer for the safety of everyone involved. Day Three 7:20 p.m. Rear Cargo Hold - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The seconds ticked by slowly, creeping by in a maddening manner. Mulder didn't think he could possibly be more tense or ready. Every muscle, every tendon, every nerve was stretched and strained to the point of breaking. It had all come this. Everything that had happened over the last three days, the last week, had led him here. It was the moment of truth, the moment of resolution, the moment where he could redeem himself from the past. He would not let the haunting memories interfere. He would not let them take her. He would not let them be right. He was so focused, so intent on the task that lay before him that he barely heard Markhem's terse and urgent words through his headset. "Go, I repeat, all teams go!" And with that it started. Clark pulled down on the lever he had been holding, opening the hatch that would lead them into the galley at the end of the plane. Proust, the tallest member of the team, reached up first, grasping the ledge and pulling himself up and into the plane. Mulder stood below, watching as Proust climbed into the galley. His own heart pounded loudly in his chest. He jumped when he heard the shots ring out. "We're in!" he heard Agent Markhem yell. "Two hijackers are down!" Mulder looked up at the open hatch nervously, impatiently. Hurry, he kept thinking. Please, just hurry. Genndy went up next, Proust giving him a hand while he kept an eye out for the enemy. He quickly pulled the man through and stepped to the side, taking watch near the doorway that led to the cabin. A deep breath and a heartbeat later, Mulder pulled himself through the opening, quickly stepping aside and allowing Clark to follow, taking up the rear. He could hear shouts and screams. Men were yelling loudly, commanding the passengers to be quiet, ordering their fellow terrorists to get down and into position. There were two doorways leading into the coach section and neither was covered with a curtain. Proust and Genndy stood at one, peering around the corners and taking in the scene. Mulder and Clark did the same at the other. Mulder caught a flash of movement as he peered around the corner and watched two hijackers ran into the business class section. "Move!" yelled Clark. All four men burst through the doorways, their guns raised and pointed forward. The five hijackers that remained in the section turned, seemingly caught off guard. "Don't move! Federal Agents!" shouted Clark. "Put your weapons on the ground!" They didn't. Another ran out of the section, presumably to warn the others of their presence. The remaining four raised their own guns and began to fire as they dove behind the first row of seats. "Get down!" shouted Clark. "We're under fire!" he shouted into his microphone. "Everyone get down!" Proust said a heartbeat later, warning the passengers to take cover on the floor. Mulder and the rest of the team took refuge in the galley again, peering around the doorways. Mulder raised his own gun, contemplating firing. The noise in the cabin was almost deafening. The passengers were screaming. The hijackers were firing their weapons, not worrying about the safety of their hostages. "We've got four in coach!" shouted Clark into his microphone. "They're holding us in the galley. We can't get a shot off." "Command, Team Four, advise!" he shouted a few moments later when he didn't receive a reply. "Hold your position, Recovery," ordered Waters. "We've got one more down!" shouted Markham. "They're holding us outside first class." Clark didn't respond, but peered around the corner one more time. "Shit!" he yelled into the microphone, trying to make his voice heard over the screams and wails of the passengers. "Shit!" Day Three 7:23 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Shit!" shouted Skinner as he stood in front of the video screens pressing his headset against his ear. It was all falling apart. He fought back against the wave of dread that poured over him. He tried to remind himself that it was still early, that the tide could very well change. What had he expected--for the hijackers to politely drop their guns and mutter an apology when the teams boarded the plane? No, but defeat was not an option either. This couldn't fail; they couldn't allow it to. He couldn't see what was going on, but the pictures painted by Clark's tone were very clear. The agent had little faith. Team Four was trapped between the first class cabin and the cockpit. Recovery was penned in the galley. They couldn't return fire, the risk of killing a passenger was too great. "Recovery!" shouted Waters into his headset. "You've got to try and get some of the passengers out. Copy?" "What?" shouted Clark and Skinner in response. "Is it viable?" Waters asked. "No!" yelled Clark. We're trapped! We can't return fire! Command, advise!" Skinner turned to his colleague, preparing to voice his protest. What in the hell was he trying to do? He hadn't wanted the breech. Was he condemning it to failure because it wasn't the vision he chose to believe in? Skinner didn't care. He wasn't going to let Waters serve up his agents like lambs to the slaughter. "Mulder, no!" he heard Clark shout. ~Chapter Fifteen - I Know That We'll Meet Again ~ *This chapter is marked NC-17 for violent situations* Day Three 7:25 p.m. Main Terminal Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Maggie Scully walked slowly down the long corridor at a reverent pace. Her low heels clicked loudly in the deserted terminal, maintaining a hollow echo. She held her head high and her back straight, her posture defying the defeat she felt within. Hundreds of minutes had passed since she had last spoken to Walter Skinner. Those hours had easily been the longest of her life. Her resolve had slipped away. Her courage had fallen to the floor. She was lost, isolated, drowning in the eye of a heady and dangerous storm. Maggie quickened her pace, trying desperately to ignore her fears. When she reached the door to the ladies room, she slowly pushed it open and stepped inside. She moved deliberately toward the bank of mirrors secured to the far wall, studying her haggard reflection. She caught her own haunted gaze and nearly fell to the floor. Maggie didn't know how much longer she could wait, how much more she could endure. Her strength was drained. Her determination was all but gone. In her heart she still kept hope, but her mind was riddled with doubts. They picked at her, bruising her with their uncertainty. They weighed her down and sunk her soul. When she reached the mirrors, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against the cool glass. She said a silent prayer, begging for peace, begging for absolution, begging for Dana to come home. Day Three 7:28 p.m. Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Dana Scully lifted herself slowly from the floor and peered past the captain's shoulder. She let the sound of the gunfire drift over and past her. She let the maddening cries of the passengers bounce away unheeded. She pushed down the sharp resurgence of fear that shrouded her in doubt. She watched the hijackers from her limited vantage point, taking note of their cool demeanor, their apparent patience amidst a situation that defied reason or belief. The cavalry had arrived and with them had come hope, but now, even that was slowly fading. Too much time had passed since the first shot had rang out and the captain had hastily pulled her to the floor. She sat there now, the weight of her helplessness crippling her. She drank in the heavy air that was filled with fear, its sticky tartness burning her throat and leaving a foul taste in her mouth. When she blew it back out, she tried to push away her regrets as well, but they had already marked her. They hung heavily in her heart, binding her to a nightmare that never seemed as though it would end. A flash of movement caught her eye, and she moved closer to the captain, looking out and into the aisle. The leader paced by slowly, in a manner defying all that was taking place. In her mind, she could hear him whistling a happy tune when he meandered by as if on a Sunday stroll in the park. She shook her head and slunk back to the floor, resuming her silent vigil. She watched the others, the men of power and deception as they stood calmly at their posts. They guarded the entrances, stoically ensuring that the passengers would not be liberated. It was maddening. These men, these paragons of evil and malice were beyond her contempt. They stood in denial. They stood in the way of redemption. She wanted to scream for the lunacy of it all. She wanted to jump up from her crouched position and fight. She wanted for it all to be over, for the nightmare to finally end. She wanted to walk away and move forward with her life. She wanted to crawl within herself and pretend the last three days had never happened. Day Three 7:30 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Clark!" Skinner yelled into his headset for the hundredth time in the last five minutes. He still had yet to receive a reply. Waters screamed frantically into his own microphone, barking rapid-fire questions and orders at the team halted outside the first class cabin. A moment later a blast of static broke across the radio and Skinner almost jumped. "Command...can't...is down." "Clark!" Skinner shouted with renewed urgency. "You're breaking up. Copy?" A full thirty seconds later Clark's voice came across the radio again, this time much clearer. "Command, a passenger is down." "We copy, Agent Clark. We need an update," interjected Waters, reasserting his command. "We're trapped! What more do you want me to say?" the team leader said with obvious disgust. Skinner blew out a heavy breath and jumped in before Waters could respond. "Agent Mulder?" he asked. "He moved into the cabin when the passenger was hit," the team leader responded flatly a moment later. Skinner opened his mouth to respond, but Waters cut him off. "Damn it, Clark, I didn't send you in there to fucking stand around with your thumb up your ass! Get the damn passengers off, now!" "That's enough, Waters," Skinner cautioned as he turned and met the eyes of the red-faced assistant director. It was getting out of hand. The breech was all falling apart, and Waters sure as hell wasn't the man who could keep it together. Waters blinked before he returned Skinner's icy stare. His look said it all. He had no intention of backing down. He would not ease off, and in his campaign to prove Skinner wrong, he was gambling the life of every agent and passenger aboard the plane. After a tension filled minute and no response from Clark, Waters turned and yelled across the room. "Peters, get on the damn phone!" The negotiator issued him a mock salute and Waters turned back to the video screens. "Clark, you listen to me. I want those passengers off. I want this over. Is that clear, Agent?" "Crystal, Sir," Clark replied with venom. Waters ended the transmission and Skinner turned to face him. He blew out a long breath in a last ditch effort to curb his temper, "What in the hell do you think you're doing? Are you trying to get them killed?" The Gunmen stepped forward, but Skinner had no intention of listening to the call of peace they would certainly put forth. "I'm not going to get into this with you again, Skinner," warned Waters. "And I'm not going to let you offer up those men just so you can prove me wrong. It ends now, Waters," Skinner hissed back in reply. "This is my show and I'm damn well going to run it as I see fit." "Well, you're wrong, Waters. And that's exactly what I'm going to tell OPR," Skinner promised. Waters took a step forward and Frohike moved between the two men, extending his arm and holding Waters back. "Get the fuck back," Waters seethed. "Grow the fuck up," countered Frohike. Waters pulled back his hand and curled his fist into a ball. When he swung, Frohike ducked with lightening fast reflexes born from years of paranoia. The assistant director nearly fell over from the momentum of his missed punch. He teetered for a moment and then pulled himself up straight. He blinked and met the Gunman's eyes. Skinner stepped forward this time, moving Frohike out of the way. "Back off, Waters," he cautioned, "You're digging your own grave here." Waters opened his mouth to speak and shot Skinner a look of contempt. "No," Skinner said, his voice unmistakably clear. "This isn't over." "You're right, it isn't," Skinner promised, turning and walking away. Day Three 7:36 p.m. Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The constant trilling of the phone only added to the tension that was already ripe in the air. No one made a move to answer it. They paced by it, guarding the entrance, but ignoring its insistent ring. Scully peered farther out into the cabin, looking past the captain and finding the leader. He stood in the far corner near the coach entrance, engaging in an animated conversation with the burly hijacker. Scully strained her ears, trying to push aside all of the extraneous sounds. She closed her eyes in concentration, but jumped a moment later when she heard gunfire coming from the first class cabin. "F.B.I., drop your weapons," she heard their rescuers shout from first class. The captain turned, meeting her eyes and drawing her attention. Scully blew out a long breath and nodded. Hope surged within her once again, relief washing away the last of her doubts. The time was almost at hand. Soon they would be free. She closed her eyes in silent thanks, willing herself to remain calm and focused, determined and strong. When she opened them a moment later, she saw the leader run down the aisle. "What in the hell is going on?" he shouted with disbelief. Suddenly gone was his cool facade and Scully smiled, if only to herself. When he reached the front, he pointed toward the curtains. The one with the raspy voice stepped forward immediately, parting the blue velvet and looking into the first class cabin. He pulled back a moment later and nodded his head, a sharp look of dread passing over his features. The leader didn't blink or mutter a word. His calm demeanor slipped seamlessly back into place as he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and turned away. Scully didn't hesitate. She took advantage of the distraction and moved toward the wall of the plane. She reached beside her seat and pulled out her own phone, glancing back in the hijackers' direction before bringing it to her ear. Day Three 7:39 p.m. Coach Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Mulder crouched behind the last seat on the left-hand side of the cabin. He shook his head warily, closing his eyes and leaning forward to rest his head on the seat in front of him. He hadn't thought. He had acted, and now he was trapped. He hadn't been able to see beyond her. He hadn't been able to pull her out of his mind, extract her from his thoughts. She surrounded him, her vision, dancing in front of him, luring him, begging him, allowing him no course of resistance. He had been so ready to act, so ready to damn the consequences that when the young passenger had stood and then fallen backwards a heartbeat later, Mulder had surged forward, fueled by raw instinct and pure adrenaline. He had taken aim, firing once and then again, fatally wounding one of the hijackers before diving headlong behind the last seat. His effort had been for naught though. The male passenger had died only moments later from a bullet wound to the chest. Mulder shook his head and blew out a long breath, pushing the memories to the side. He couldn't let them interfere, not when he needed to remain focused and strong, not when he needed to get to Scully. He peeked around the corner of the seat, eyeing the men who stood in his way, silently vowing they would not remain so for long. He felt a familiar sense of urgency wash over him. Every moment, every heartbeat brought him closer to her. He tried not to think about the if or the when. He would find her. He would reach her in time. Failure was simply not an option. He turned away, finding Clark as he frantically motioned for Mulder to turn on his headset. Mulder let out a loud sigh of disgust and held up a finger, and not the one he wanted to, signaling for Clark to wait a moment. He turned back toward the front of the plane, feeling nothing beyond his intense determination to end the nightmare, to bring Scully home. He counted to five and rose up suddenly, firing in the direction of the two hijackers positioned on the left side of the cabin. He aimed high to avoid the passengers, firing off five rounds before lowering himself back to the floor. He glanced back at Clark and reluctantly flipped on his headset. He knew what Clark was going to say before he even opened his mouth. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" Ha, thought Mulder, the Psychic Friends Network didn't have anything on him. "Thought I'd check out the scenery up here," Mulder answered flatly. "Damn it, Mulder, I told you before we came up here that you weren't going to pull this shit on me. You disobeyed a direct order!" "Sue me." "So help me God, Mulder, if you--" "Whatever," he said before reaching down and turning off his headset. He turned his attention back to the terrorists across the room, back to the woman beyond the blue velvet curtain. After a deep breath and a count of five, he stood and fired off another five rounds. He slunk back to the floor and let out a long slow breath. Mulder sat there for several long moments, trying to remain patient and strong. He was so damn close. She was so damn close. Day Three 7:45 p.m. Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Scully swallowed hard as she shoved her cell phone into her coat pocket with trembling fingers. She blinked quickly, trying to toss Skinner's words to the side. Mulder was in D.C. She crawled toward the aisle, trying desperately to ignore the pain that burned through her soul. She peered over the captain's shoulder again, trying to erase his image from her mind. Mulder was on the plane. She stared into the cabin, trying not to look at the curtain across the way. Mulder was there, only a heartbeat away. They were almost safe, Skinner had assured her. They were almost home, he had said. She should have felt better, stronger, ready. She wasn't though. She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to burrow within herself and search for the inner peace she had once held so sacred. Somehow Scully doubted she would ever feel it again. Day Three 7:44 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Agent down!" shouted Markhem, Team Four's leader. "Hall," he elaborated. Skinner swallowed, never breaking his gaze away from the video screens. The raid of the first class cabin had been moved to the large center screen, and he watched as it all began to fall apart. There had been an opening, and Waters had jumped on it, sending in the team without a second thought, without consulting a soul. "This is Command, Markhem. What's his condition?" Skinner asked, trying to maintain his composure. "Leg wound, looks like an artery's been hit," the team leader responded in a rush. "Shit," Waters said from his position across the room. "Get him the hell out, but don't give up your position!" "Copy," the agent said after a long pause. "Damn it," muttered Waters before he flipped off his microphone. "Team Five," Skinner said to the men waiting on the stairs, "Move in and help get Hall out of there." "Copy," replied that team's leader. A few short seconds later Skinner heard the wail of the ambulance as it moved past the command center. He swallowed down the bile that rose up from his stomach, burning his throat and tainting his palate with its foul nature. He ignored the nausea and unease that followed. It wasn't over yet, he reminded himself, but his lie didn't ring true as it flitted across his mind. He didn't know what to do or which way to turn. Every path seemed to deceptively lead them farther from truth and resolution. Skinner looked to his left when Frohike moved to stand beside him. "It's not over, you know," the small man said evenly and with confidence. Skinner raised an eyebrow in question. "They're stronger than all of this." The assistant director didn't respond, but took a deep breath, wanting to take the Gunman's words to his heart. "I've seen it before, so many times. You've seen it, too." Skinner nodded slowly in agreement. "Just don't count them out," Frohike said, dropping his head with the weight of his words. "They'll make it. They always do." They stood in silence for what seemed like hours. They didn't watch the screens. They didn't plot their next move. For a moment, they just believed. "Sir," Byers said reluctantly as he approached them from behind. Skinner turned and Byers pointed toward the hostage negotiator standing across the room. "Peters has him on the line," Byers said. Skinner didn't hesitate, trotting across the room, flipping on his headset, and switching the channel as he went. "Now, Mr. Peters," insisted the hijacker, his voice and tone as reserved as ever. "I fail to see what our motivation should be," Peters said, shooting a glance in Skinner's direction. "Motivation, Mr. Peters?" Skinner looked to his left when he saw Waters approaching, a questioning look upon his face. "Let me put this in terms even the F.B.I. can understand. Pull your agents back, or I kill another passenger. I have my eye on a lovely red-headed creature, if you get my drift." Skinner took a step forward. Waters shook his head. Peters took a deep breath and replied, "I'll see what I can do." "Two minutes, Mr. Peters," the leader said before the line went dead. Day Three 7:51 p.m. First Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Nathan Markhem carefully, but quickly, moved to retake his position in the first class cabin. His gun was drawn as he dropped to the ground in front of the first row of seats, trying to ignore the frightened woman lying in front of his knees. When he looked up and across the room, his stomach fell to the floor. A man stood there, just in front of the blue velvet curtain separating the first and business classes. His left arm was wrapped around a woman's throat, her body pressed into his. He held a gun to her head and his eyes sparkled brightly with his intent. "Command," Markhem said cautiously, "This is Four, we've got a situation, advise." Nothing. "Command, did you copy?" he asked, never taking his eyes away from the hijacker across the room. "We copy, Four," Waters finally replied. "We've got you on the monitor. Pull back." "Copy," he said slowly, finding and capturing the gaze of the woman across the room. He let the look of pure terror alight within her blue eyes wash over him. He turned away a moment later, looking to his right and left, garnering the attention of the other members of his team. He nodded silently and stood, his gun still drawn and ready. He took a step back, glancing down at the floor and the woman who lay there. Fear flashed, and he made a decision, acting on it without a second thought. Markhem reached down and pulled the dark-haired woman up and behind him, sheltering her, saving her. He looked back across the room, finding the terrorist as he took a step backwards. The hijacker nodded and smiled a smirk that almost seemed congratulatory. Markhem nodded, never breaking eye contact with the man as he stepped out of the cabin and into the hall. Day Three 7:52 p.m. Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The leader stepped through the curtain and threw the young blonde woman to the floor. He stepped away from her, a look of disgust tempered with triumph glistening within his obsidian eyes. Scully watched him for a moment before closing her eyes and expelling a long slow breath. She knew what had happened, the rouse the leader had orchestrated. The gunfire in the first class cabin had ceased. The cries of the passengers had ebbed. Their rescuers were gone. The steady sound of gunfire from the coach section assured her that all had not been dissuaded, that Mulder was still there. She breathed out a weighty sigh of pain. She was so confused and she hated it. Why had he returned? Had it been for her? Why? Noting made sense, up was down, right was left, truth was lie. He hadn't wanted her. Did he feel that he owed her, that some unspoken debt still lay between them? She ignored the violent palpitations of her heart. She pushed aside their warnings and judgments. She was so tired of feeling, of questioning, of bending to the will of her broken soul. She refused to lose herself in him or in her pain. She refused to let either dictate her survival. Day Three 7:53 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Skinner paced in tight circles, winding left, turning right. He glanced toward the monitors every pass, knowing full well what he would find. The breech was in danger, and not just from the threats of the hijackers. Waters was on the phone with the Director, deciding its fate, designing the future. Skinner tried in vain to shove away the anger that moved through him like a poison, clouding his mind and leaving him with a restless feeling of resentment. Waters had handled the matter poorly from the start. He had wanted it to fail. He had wanted to prove Skinner wrong. He had doomed the men and woman aboard the plane. Skinner seethed as he walked in tight circles, tracing over all that had went wrong, searching for the direction that would make it all right. Day Three 7:56 p.m. Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Scully bit her lip and winced at the pain when the cut in her upper lip reopened. Her head still pounded. Her eye continued to ache as the swelling worsened. Her mind twisted and whirled as the leader paced furiously at the front of the section. Moments before he had ordered the passengers to rise from the floor and return to their seats. Those who had not immediately complied were pulled up in a fit of haste by the burly hijacker. The leader stared at them all now, cataloging their every fear and weakness. When he stepped forward a minute later it was to choose. Day Three 7:59 p.m. Coach Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Mulder waited patiently, watching, calculating, searching for the end. It was there, just beyond his grasp, floating and cowering within uncertainty. He turned when he heard Clark yell his name over the deafening din. Mulder flipped on his headset and pulled himself farther behind the seat. "What, Clark?" "I'm sending Genndy to the right side of the cabin, cover him." "Copy that," Mulder said, a weary smile in his voice. He didn't hesitate, rising up and exchanging fire with the three remaining hijackers. The one on the right turned and paused, looking toward the blue velvet curtain. Mulder didn't miss a beat, readjusting his aim and hitting the hijacker first in the arm and then in the shoulder. "He's in," shouted Clark. Mulder moved to drop back to the floor, taking one last glance toward the hijackers. "Pull out!" he thought he heard one of them shout. Mulder turned to Clark, shooting him a questioning look. The team leader shrugged at first, his eyes widening a moment later. Mulder spun back around, bringing up his gun as he moved to stand, watching as the three hijackers retreated into the business class cabin. "Get the passengers out!" he heard Clark yell frantically across the radio. Mulder turned again, meeting the team leader's eyes, struggling against indecision. Clark shot him a glare, a warning before moving farther into the galley and pulling open the hatch they had entered through. The passengers quickly filled the aisles, moving to the rear of the plane as directed by Proust and Genndy. Mulder paused for another moment, watching as the passengers rushed by, their faces filled with hope and fear. He weighed his options and surged forward, pulling himself over the seats, moving toward Scully. When the aisle cleared, he moved to it, stopping once again to look back, watching for a second as the rest of his team lowered the passengers into the belly of the plane. When he turned back a heartbeat later, his world exploded into a thousand colors and thoughts. A brilliant flash of white light overtook him, blinding him, halting him. He fell to his knees, shielding his eyes and covering his ears. The noise was deafening, assaulting his senses with a quick and certain fury. No, he thought, Scully, no. I was almost there. Day Three 8:04 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Byers pulled himself out of the center of the storm. He stepped to the side, listening, watching, waiting, praying. Assistant Director Skinner moved quickly from one end of the tent to the other. He spoke loudly into his headset, barking orders, demanding answers where none could be found. Three minutes had passed, slowly and quickly all at once. The flash of light that had drawn their attention from the scene unfolding in the business class section seemed only to be a faint memory now. The constant buzzing of the snow-filled center screen reminded him that it had not been a dream, but a nightmare come true. Skinner paced by again, this time finally able to communicate with the Recovery team leader, "Clark, this is Skinner, go." Byers reached down, flipping on his headset and tuning into Skinner's conversation. "Clark, are you still there? Recovery, come in." "Command, they were flash bangs. I repeat, no explosion." "Are the passengers off?" shouted Waters as he moved across the room. "Yes," Clark replied a moment later, "they're in the cargo hold. Russel and Vanauken are taking them out through the cargo doors." "I want everyone off that plane now, Clark. Do you hear me? Do you understand? Everyone. The Director has called off the breech." "The rest of the passengers--" "Now, Clark, everyone off." "Clark," Skinner said before the agent had a chance to end the conversation, "Where's Agent Mulder?" "He's already gone, Sir." Day Three 8:05 p.m. Business Class Section - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia She wasn't there. Scully was gone. Mulder stood at the front of the section, frantically searching the faces of the passengers as they rose and moved toward the rear of the plane and the safety beyond. Clark would be waiting there to take them out. "Scully," he whispered, before turning and running toward the first class cabin. He burst through the curtain a moment later and stopped dead in his tracks. She stood across the room, and he stopped breathing. A man stood next to her, his fingers wrapped tightly around her arms, pushing her forward toward the open hatch in front of them. "Scully!" he shouted, finding his voice and propelling himself forward, gun raised. "Are you all right?" he asked, almost choking on the words. Her head snapped up and she turned to face him. Mulder's heart almost lunged out of his chest. Her bruised and battered face flooded with relief, but only for a moment. The hijacker pulled her roughly against his body and she cried out in protest. When the terrorist pulled up his own gun and placed it against Scully's head, Mulder stopped again. He watched in animated horror, finding her eyes, searching for her strength. She was laid open to him, bare and broken, her eyes filled with fear and pain. He drank it in, taking it as his own. "Scully," he cried out a heartbeat later, training his gun on the hijacker and taking another step forward, his eyes reluctantly leaving hers. The hijacker smiled and glanced down at the hatch to his right. "No," Mulder said in response, taking two slow steps in their direction. The hijacker nodded his head and tightened his hold on Scully. "Mulder," she cried out with obvious torment. He winced in response and took another step. The hijacker smiled again. Mulder caught a flash of moment, pulling his eyes away from the duo and looking toward the open hatch, watching with confusion as another hijacker reached up from the belly of the plane. He looked up a second later, fully reading the hijackers intent. With a sly smile of defiant pleasure, the terrorist shoved her forward and into the waiting arms of the terrorist. Mulder surged forward, screaming her name as he went. The hijacker wasted no time, recovering quickly and firing off two rapid shots in Mulder's direction as he jumped feet first into the belly of the plane. "Scully, no!" he cried out, still running toward the hatch. ~ Chapter Sixteen - You Will Never Know ~ *This chapter is marked NC-17 for violent content.* Day Three 8:07 p.m. Avionics Room - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia He gripped her firmly, snaking his arms around her waist and neck, pinning her against his sweaty body. Scully struggled against his girth--pushing, pulling, kicking, clawing. With each movement the hijacker only tightened his hold. She screamed in vain. She cried Mulder's name without ever realizing it had crossed her lips. It came from her core. It was expelled from her soul. It said everything, and meant nothing. Mulder didn't come. Scully cried out again, this time demanding release. The hijacker jerked her head back, choking the breath out of her with his iron grip. Fear washed over her, pulling her down in a violent undertow. She clawed desperately at his arm, fighting and scratching for every compromised breath. He did not relent. Tears of desperation trailed down her cheeks, a culmination of every pain scarring her soul, every unfulfilled wish, and the hope that now seemed to be a distant stranger. Her world started to go black, and Mulder found her again. "Scully!" she heard him scream, his voice sliding over her. He glimmered in her mind, sparking and lighting and leading her home. She heard the shots go off as he cried out for her again. One and two, quick and fast. She tried to scream out in response and was thrown to the floor for her effort. She hit hard, but was stunned only momentarily. With all of her strength and anger, she pushed herself up to her feet. She moved to run for the hatch, but stopped when smooth and steady arms twined around her midsection. "No." Scully struggled against his sensibilities. "No," the captain gently warned again. She twisted in his arms, her anger flashing up with intensity. She found reason stored within his stoic eyes and lost her edge. "Open it up!" yelled the leader, jarring Scully away from her battle. She turned to face the man, and Mulder found her again, "Scully!" he shouted. Another shot, followed by a second and a third. Scully grimaced, lunging forward and breaking free of the captain's arms. She was halted again though, tackled, brought down by the bulk of an unrelenting terrorist after she'd taken three long strides. "Bring her to me," she heard the leader say, a smile in his voice. Another shot, two and then three. She redoubled her efforts, every thought and emotion focused solely on Mulder. In less than a heartbeat, she was pulled to her feet and in the secure grasp of the leader. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and she met his eyes. He matched her gaze with a steely stare of his own, promising that a compromise would not be brokered. "Are we ready?" he asked, lifting a hand held radio to his lips. "Affirmative," answered a hard voice through the small device. The leader nodded, smiling, his eyes never leaving Scully's as she fought against an icy fear that almost crippled her. "We're going to take a little trip, Miss Scully," he informed her, his cold eyes sparkling in the dimly lit room. He turned away a second later, looking farther into the room. Scully followed his gaze, searching for any truths he might reveal. The burly one stood in front of a hatch. Scully watched as he bent down and jerked it open. Snow flitted up from the outside world, landing and melting on the metal floor. "Go!" shouted the leader. Scully started to turn, opening her mouth to demand answers. The leader looked at her and laughed, pushing her away and toward the open hatch. Day Three 8:11 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "What's the count?" "Six," Langly replied stoically. "Scully?" Skinner asked, his eyes never leaving the monitors in front of him. "Yes," answered Frohike. The assistant director nodded, pushing away his apprehensions and flipping on his microphone. "Mulder," he said, strong and loud, "Damn it, Mulder, come in." Thick and ominous silence was all he received for his effort. "Mulder," he tried again, the urgency fading from his voice with the realization that Mulder would not respond. Skinner knew where his agent was, what he was doing. He was attempting to do what no one else had been able to-- save Scully. The assistant director let out a tight sigh and turned off the device. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" shouted Waters as he approached Skinner and his entourage from behind. Skinner spun, latching on to his anger before it tumbled out of control. "I told you to get him the fuck off that plane!" "Why don't you go out there and deliver that message personally, Waters? I'll even paint the big red 'X' on your chest," Skinner retorted before turning and facing the monitors again. "You're walking a very thin line, Skinner," Waters said a moment later. "No thinner than yours," Skinner responded as he continued to survey the screens, searching for any movement, any trace of Mulder and Scully. The breech had been called off. The agents and snipers had been pulled back, the plane evacuated. Vanauken and Russel were closing up the cargo hatch as Skinner watched, the last viable hostage safely removed from the plane only minutes before. Eight terrorists remained aboard the plane. Six men and woman were still held hostage, Scully among them. For the time being, Mulder appeared to be their only hope. His presence held promise. Skinner knew he would not give up. He knew Mulder would not walk away, not without Scully. Mulder would be their salvation, and Scully's. He had to be. Day Three 8:14 p.m. First Class Cabin - American Airlines Flight 247 Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Mulder leaned over the edge, Scully's name passing over his lips as he scanned the darkened room below. The air was dank and coarse, holding fear and lacking hope. He pulled back a second later and lowered his legs over edge. Cold, biting air blew across his calves and sent a shiver up his spine. He braced his hands against the ledge and pushed away, her name falling out of him as he dropped to the hard floor below. In one stealth movement, he pushed himself up and pulled out his gun. Spinning on his heels, he surveyed the room, searching for Scully. She was gone. The hatch was open. Mulder watched for a moment, starring at the open hatch, watching as the icy snow floated up and into the room. Then he looked to his left, down the corridor leading to the cargo hold. He weighed his options, shook his head, and followed his instincts. "Scully!" he shouted again as he moved toward the open hatch. This time he didn't look. He didn't think. He jumped. Day Three 8:17 p.m. Runway Seven Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The leader held her wrist with a Titan's grip. He moved swiftly, jogging across the runway, dragging Scully as she fought his progress. Scully kicked. She clawed and punched with her free hand. She cried out into the empty night, screaming for Mulder, yelling for help, for anyone to take notice of her plight. She was silenced when the leader jerked her body into his. "Stop it," he hissed into her ear over the rush of the icy wind. Her fear pushed her forward and she shoved him away, almost breaking his grip. "No," he cautioned, coming to a full stop and staring into her eyes. Scully met his gaze, holding nothing back. Her anger, her pain, and her fears burned within her. Hot and raw. Brutal and unforgiving. "No," he repeated, easily reading the defiance she didn't bother to hide. "Yes," she said softly. "Let's go!" she heard the burly hijacker shout from a few yards in front of them. "We're coming," the leader assured him, his eyes never breaking their connection with Scully's, "Keep moving." Scully raised an eyebrow and the leader cleared his throat. "Fire it up," he said, bringing a hand held radio to his lips, "We're almost there." "Copy, we've got a visual on you." Scully blinked and looked past the leader. She squinted and stared into the steadily falling snow. In the distance, only some fifty-yards away, she spied their destination--a small jet sitting on the tarmac, patiently awaiting their arrival. "No," she said strongly. "Oh yes, my dear," he said, "We're going to take a little trip." "No," she asserted again. He jerked on her arm, ending the discussion and pulling her across the tarmac. "When?" demanded the one with the raspy voice when they caught up with the others a moment later. "Patience is a virtue you have yet to acquire, my friend. Soon, very soon," replied the leader, his grip on Scully's arm tightening as they neared the jet. Scully redoubled her efforts--pushing and pulling, striking him with all of the strength she possessed. She tried to dig her heels into the slick, snow-covered pavement. She tried to pull him to the ground. "Stop it," he hissed again. "Scully!" Her heart fluttered and almost stopped. "Mulder!" she cried out in response, terrified that her mind had been playing tricks on her. "Scully!" he yelled again, "I'm coming!" The terrorist jerked her arm, pulling her away from Mulder and out of her stupor. "Move it!" he yelled. Scully felt his icy command brush past her ear. She felt the dark urgency it held and didn't care. She was on the edge of safety, teetering on the brink of salvation. They all were. It was almost over. For the moment, she didn't care what happened between her and Mulder. All she could feel, all she could envision was the warmth of his embrace, the smooth comfort of his voice. The terrorist pulled her forward again and she pushed him back. He reached out with his free hand, cupping her face and squeezing. Scully almost winced at the pain that sliced across her cheekbones. The leader opened his mouth, his breath rancid and cold against her face as he pulled her even closer. "Do you want to die?" he asked in a voice that dripped with icy intent. "Do you?" she spat back when he released her face. "Scully!" Mulder yelled again. She turned, searching for his form amidst the flying snow. "Now!" the leader yelled. Scully spun, catching his gaze and holding it. She read the desolate evil housed within his obsidian eyes and nearly choked on it. She took in a deep, sharp breath and was thrown to the icy pavement a heartbeat later. The ground quaked. A deep roar broke free in a thunderous clap, unleashed like the hounds of hell. She felt the heat then, boring into her back with an intensity she wasn't sure she could withstand. She gathered her courage and screamed out Mulder's name, turning over in the snow as she did. The heat hit her face and branded her with a carnal fear. She battled to open her eyes against it, finally watching as a massive orange fireball consumed what had once been her prison. Debris flew, sparking and lighting and shimmering in the night sky, melting the snow as it fell to the ground. "Mulder!" she cried out again. Panic washed over her. Fear took hold of her heart, stunning her to silence. No, she thought, no. Please, God, no. Day Three 8:20 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Mulder! Agent Mulder!" Skinner frantically screamed into his headset as he ran toward the tent's opening. His hands were shaking. He felt like he was going to be sick. No, he thought, this isn't happening. The bomb had been disarmed. "Mulder!" he cried out again, his voice catching and trailing on his own disbelief as he stepped out into the cold night air. It hit him full force then, a wave of heat, a moment of futile truth. "Mulder!" he tried again, knowing his call would go unanswered. He let out a stiff breath, his last vestige of hope disappearing into the night. "Mulder," he whispered this time, "Scully." Skinner stood there for a moment, staring at the wreckage across the tarmac. He listened as the fire engines moved past him, their lights flashing as they approached the massive inferno. He shook his head, unable to accept the journey's end. "Mulder!" he cried out again. Day Three 8:22 p.m. Runway Seven Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Fox Mulder pulled his hands away from his face and pushed himself up from the icy ground, being careful not to touch the burning debris scattered around him. "Scully!" he yelled, holding his breath and listening for a response over the roaring fire. When he didn't receive one, he surged forward, leaping over the wreckage that stood in his way. He heard the fire trucks and ignored their presence. All he could think of was getting to Scully and bringing her to safety. He wasn't going to quit. He couldn't be stopped. "Scully!" he shouted again. "Mulder," he thought he heard. The sound was faint and at first he thought he'd imagined it. "Mulder," he heard again. It wasn't Scully. He glanced down and found his headset dangling from his vest. "Sir?" he said after pulling the device up and repositioning it, "Skinner?" "Agent Mulder?" "Yes, Sir, alive and kicking." "Where in the hell are you, Mulder?" Skinner asked, a distinct and sharp edge to his voice. "I'm heading south on Runway Seven." "Scully?" "Heading south on Runway Seven, or at least she was five minutes ago." "They're off the plane?" "Yes, Sir." "Hold tight, Mulder. I'm going to send out a couple teams." "They'll have to catch up. I'm not letting her get away again." "Agent--" Skinner started to say before Mulder flipped off his headset. "Scully!" he cried out again, slowing his pace and keeping closer to the ground, "I'm coming for you," he whispered. Day Three 8:24 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Team's Five and Six, move out!" Skinner shouted, still shaking his head as he ran into the tent, "Come on! Let's move!" "What in the hell's going on?" demanded Waters. "We've got six hostages and eight hijackers out on that runway." "What in the fuck are you talking about? Are you blind? The plane's up in smoke, no one could have survived that blast." "They didn't have to. They were already out there." "What?" The Gunmen moved to stand next to Skinner, their faces alight with curiosity and hope. "You fucked up, Waters," Skinner said before taking a deep breath, "You shouldn't have called off the breech." "For crying out loud, what in the hell are you talking about?" Waters demanded. "Mulder's out there on the runway, chasing the hijackers," Skinner said, pointing toward the video monitors, "Damn it, Waters, you played right into their hands!" Day Three 8:25 p.m. Runway Seven Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Scully pulled against him as he tried to jerk her up from the frigid ground. She felt so heavy, so lifeless, so utterly lost. Mulder, she said silently, over and over, until his name became one with her beating heart. "Get up," insisted the leader. She shook her head and continued to stare at the raging inferno that had certainly claimed Mulder's life. "Now," he ordered tersely. "No," she said softly, but with strength. She felt his arms snake around her midsection, and she tried to push him away, fighting him with all she had left. "Let's go!" she heard the burly one yell, "We're running out of time. They've already got the fire trucks out." "Then get the hell over here and help me," the leader shot back in reply. Scully continued her disconnected struggle, her heart still beating in time to Mulder's name, her soul slowly sinking into the depths of a certain and unforgiving hell. Her mind wasn't even her own. Every thought was entwined with him, taking her through paradise and despair with every surge of her heart. She looked up, turning away from the plane and staring up into the dark and ominous sky. A delicate, icy flake landed in her lashes and mingled with the tears she didn't have the courage to shed. "Let's just fucking shoot her already and get it over with," the burly one suggested as he reached out and grabbed one of her arms. "Not yet," the leader insisted, reaching down and wrapping his fingers around her left wrist. "Scully!" She swallowed and blinked, certain she was hearing things, that she had finally lost her mind. "Scully!" "Mulder," she whispered, desperately sheltering her heart from her deceitful mind. "What the fuck?" shouted the burly hijacker as he dropped her arm. Scully followed his gaze, frantically searching the debris- covered runway. When she found him, her heart sang and soared. A relief filled sigh escaped from her lips, followed by his name, over and over again. "Damn it," the leader hissed, "Take him out. It'll save us the effort later." "No," Scully said, pushing herself up from the pavement and frantically struggling to break free of the leader's grip. The burly hijacker didn't miss a beat, pulling out his gun and firing off three quick rounds. The leader turned her around, pulling her against his body and pinning her arms to her sides. She looked away, craning her neck in hopes of catching another glimpse of Mulder. "It's time to go, Miss Scully," he said, stooping down and attempting to throw her over his shoulder. "No, it's not," she said, bringing her foot up and then down, slamming it into his shin. "Fuck!" he and the burly one cried out simultaneously. "Bitch," the leader hissed. "There's more," the burly one yelled. "What?" Scully spun, pushing against the leader and emancipating herself. "Mulder!" she yelled, taking two quick steps in his direction and staring at his kneeled form some fifty-yards away. She watched in wonder and relief as several dozen men dressed in black ran toward them. "Oh no you don't," the leader said, re-seizing her arm. "Scully, get down!" she heard Mulder yell before the night exploded into a symphony of gunfire. "Return fire!" the leader yelled, pulling on Scully's arm and yanking her toward the small jet, which sat only a scant ten-yards away. Scully stared at the small plane and the group of hostages huddled closed to the ground in front of it. The terrorists stood there as well, their weapons drawn and aimed at the advancing agents. She continued to struggle against the leader, watching in helpless horror when the terrorists began to fire upon the agents. "Get them on the plane!" the leader shouted when they were only a few feet away from the jet. The one with the raspy voice took control, pulling up the frightened hostages and shoving them toward the open door. "It's time to meet your destiny, Miss Scully," the leader hissed into her ear, pulling her close one last time. "No," she said with venom, "it's time for you to meet yours." He raised an eyebrow and Scully raised her knee, slamming it into his groin with all of the anger and strength she possessed. His eyes grew wide and he cried out in pain, dropping to his knees. Scully didn't relent. She pulled her wrist free of his grip and brought her knee up again, this time connecting with his jaw. His lip split, blood splattering across the pristine snow. She moved to take a step back and he surged forward, diving for her legs. She tried to dodge him, but wasn't quick enough. He took hold and slammed her to the ground. "It's over," he whispered breathlessly, dragging his body up to cover hers. Scully stared into his eyes with wide-eyed horror, trying desperately to reclaim the breath that was knocked out of her when she hit the ground. She found her voice and screamed when he pulled out his revolver. "It's over," he said again, training the weapon on her face. "Yes, it is," she replied, loosening an arm and bringing it across his face. He moved his leg a few inches and she brought her knee up, striking him in the groin again. The weapon fell to the ground and Scully shoved him away, rolling across the snow and wrapping her fingers around the butt of the gun. She heard him get up. She heard the snow crunch under his feet as he stepped and she rolled again, pulling the gun up and targeting his head. "Don't move," she breathed, her voice shaking with power and fear. His eyes widened in confusion before a tiny smile fluttered across his lips. Scully caught a flash of movement reflected in his eyes. She turned and fired, instantly killing the terrorist who had stood ten feet away with his gun aimed at her head. The leader lunged forward and Scully fired without hesitation, hitting him in the neck. She pushed herself up, keeping the weapon trained on the fallen leader. She walked in slow circles around him, watching as he struggled to take his final breaths. "It's not over," he gurgled so softly that she almost didn't hear. "It is," she said confidently, "It is." He smiled one last time and his hand fell away from his neck. Scully took a deep and steadying breath, closing her eyes for just a second. When she opened them, it was indeed over. The gunfire had ceased. The once white snow was stained red with the blood of the fallen terrorists. "Scully!" She turned and met Mulder's gaze. A strangled sob of relief broke free and she lost herself in his eyes. He pushed himself up, rising and taking a slow step in her direction. The snipers rushed past him, moving in to secure the survivors and liberate the hostages who were still aboard the small jet. A lump began to form in Scully's throat as she watched him move cautiously in her direction. A thousand questions broke free and flew through her mind, lighting a fire and paralyzing her with uncertainty. She could read Mulder's indecision as well. He was laid open to her--his pains, his fears, his confusion, all were reflected within his gentle eyes. "Scully," he whispered breathlessly when he was only a few yards away, "are you all right?" She swallowed and nodded, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She took a small step in his direction, and that was apparently all he needed. He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, pulling her against his chest and crushing her in his embrace. Scully let out a sigh and sunk into him. She let her pain and doubts slip away, if only for the moment, welcoming his warmth and closing her mind. He pulled back a minute later and she felt dizzy. He caught her gaze, bringing his hands up to cradle her face. Scully saw the torment he held in his hazel depths and ached for him, just as she had–- Like a bursting damn, her mind opened and flooded her with memories. They filled her abandoned heart and burned her soul. She cringed inwardly from the pain and Mulder took a step away. "No," she whispered, taking a step back and shaking her head. She lifted her chin, but couldn't meet his eyes. She tried to hide her pain. She needed for him to let her walk away. She needed time. So did he. "Scully, I'm--" "No," she said again, shaking her head and swallowing her pride, "I can't, Mulder, please--not now." She didn't know what he was going to say, what he wanted or needed. She didn't know if there was anything that could be said or done to salvage what was left between them. He opened his mouth to speak again and she shook her head, "I can't," she said softly and walked away. Day Three 8:30 p.m. Main Terminal Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Sources within the F.B.I. have confirmed that a bomb was detonated aboard the ill-fated Flight 247. They have, however, refused to disclose if there were any casualties. The Director is expected to announce, at a news conference that will be held in just a matter of moments, that most of the passengers had been removed from the plane prior to the explosion." Maggie Scully turned away from the newscast, tuning it out and walking toward the cold bank of windows. She had heard the explosion. It had rocked the terminal and nearly been her undoing. Dana had to be all right. Maggie couldn't manage the alternative. "Mrs. Scully?" an unfamiliar voice called out from the far side of the waiting room. "Yes," she said cautiously, turning and stepping forward. The young man in a cheap suit stood across the way, smiling when she replied. "Can I help you?" she asked, walking toward him. "It's over," he relayed breathlessly. "My sister?" Bill asked impatiently, rising from his seat and moving to stand next to Maggie. "Follow me," the agent said, "you can wait for her outside the terminal." "She's--" Maggie started to ask. "Please," the agent said, "come with me." Maggie nodded and let Bill led her toward the long hall that would take her to her daughter. Day Three 8:33 p.m. Runway Seven Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The snow no longer fell. The tumultuous winds had turned to a soft breeze. The storm the terrorists had brought with them had passed. Mulder stood where Scully had left him, staring into the night and searching his heart. What had he been planning to tell her? How could he explain away his actions over the past three days? Was it even possible? Was it what she wanted or needed? He wrapped his arms around himself, not to keep out the cold, but in hopes of keeping himself together. He wished he could melt the barrier that stood staunchly between his heart and mind. He wished knew what to do. Did he want her? Yes. Did he need her? Yes. Did he love her? Yes. Were those feelings enough to conquer the demons within him? God, how he wished he knew. He blinked and refocused his eyes, finding Scully as she stood across the runway, starring into the night as he had done only moments ago. Was she searching for the same answers that eluded him? Was she struggling with the same pain and indecision that he couldn't seem to shrug? "Mulder." He swallowed and pulled himself out of his dark reverie. "Mulder?" He nodded and turned, reluctantly pulling his eyes away from Scully. His three friends stood there, looks of concern and relief cast upon their faces. Mulder tried to smile in response, but didn't have the energy to lie. "It's over," he said, hoping they didn't notice the catch in his voice. They nodded. "She's okay," he said in an attempt to reassure himself as much as them. "Are you?" Frohike asked. "Sure," Mulder said, shrugging his shoulders, "why the hell not." "Seriously," Byers said. "What happens, happens," he sighed in response, "She's safe now. That's all that matters, all that ever did." He shook his head and held up his hand, silently asking his friends not to push the issue. He couldn't talk about it, not now. The pain was too fresh, too raw. He started to turn and walk away. He needed to be alone. He needed to sulk and nurse his wounds in private. He only managed to take a step before Skinner stopped him. "Mulder, don't go anywhere," the assistant director shouted as he trotted across the runway. "Aye, aye," Mulder responded after casting a quick look in Scully's direction. "It's over, right?" Skinner asked when he reached the four men. "This?" Mulder asked, extending his arms and waving them toward the smoldering plane. "Yes," Skinner said impatiently. "Um, well, I don't think these guys are going to cause any more trouble," Mulder answered, pointing at the downed terrorists. "They're a little too dead to participate." "It's refreshing to see that this incident hasn't affected your sense of humor, Agent Mulder. And you know damn well what I'm asking." "Honestly, Sir, I don't know. For the time being, I think so." Skinner nodded, obviously considering Mulder's statement, "I've got a lot to take care of, but Mulder, I want to talk to you again before you leave, as will the Director." Mulder nodded slowly. "Oh, and Agent Mulder, have the paramedics take a look at your head." "Was that supposed to be a wisecrack about my state of mind?" he asked the Gunmen as he reached up and touched the dried blood that had originated from the gash on his forehead, "Or was he talking about this?" "Probably both," Frohike said in his most serious voice. "Yeah," Mulder said before turning and searching out Scully once again. When he found her this time, she was in the middle of a hushed conversation with one of the former hostages. "Who--" Mulder started to ask, watching with animated interest and more than a touch of jealousy as the man placed his hands on his partner's arms. "The pilot," Langly supplied, taking a step forward and placing a knowing hand on Mulder's shoulder. Day Three 8:37 p.m. Main Terminal Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Where the hell is she?" Bill Scully demanded as he pushed open the door and stepped out into the night. He stopped when he saw the carnage and wreckage laid out in front of him. He stared in horror at the smoldering fire in the middle of the runway. He watched as ambulances whizzed by, moving in to take care of the wounded and the dead. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks, still unable to comprehend the truth. He could barely believe Dana had somehow managed to survive the nightmare that had taken place on this very runway. "You'll have to wait here, Sir," the young agent explained when he stepped forward with Maggie. "We've been waiting all day!" Bill shouted in protest. "I'm sorry, Sir. This is a crime scene. I will, however, inform Assistant Director Skinner that you are here." "Please do," Maggie said. "What in the hell are they trying to do?" Bill asked, his anger taking control and banishing all previous thoughts of goodness and light. Tara placed a steady hand on his arm, once again trying to tame his temper. He didn't want to be calm though, damn it. He wanted to see his sister. He wanted to get to her before Fox Mulder did--Lord only knew what trouble would ensue if that was allowed to happen. Shrugging off his wife's hand, Bill took a quick and angry step forward. "Sir, you'll have to stop," said the agent standing near the terminal's exit. Bill responded by taking another step. "Sir, this is a crime scene. You'll have to stay back." Bill scoffed and took three quick steps away from the doorway. "Sir," the agent said, reaching out and grabbing Bill by the arm, "this is the last time I'm going to ask. Step back to the door or I'll have to place you in custody." "Place this," Bill said, whipping around and rearing back his fist. "Bill, no!" his mother screamed. Day Three 8:39 p.m. Runway Seven Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Dana, come on. Let's get you looked at," the captain said softly as he leaned in and attempted to capture her gaze. Scully swallowed, pushing down the bile that rose up in her throat. She cast a glance in Mulder's direction, meeting and holding his gaze for a moment. She felt a tug at her heart and almost took an unconscious step in his direction. "Dana?" the captain said, pulling her out of her stupor. "Yeah," she said, turning away from Mulder, "Okay." After a deep breath, she stepped forward, ignoring the pilot's proffered hand. She walked slowly toward the waiting ambulance, taking in the aftermath around her. The bodies had been taken away. The surviving hijackers had been taken into custody before being ushered away in ambulances. There had been ten in total, counting the two that had been ferreted out of the jet. The hostages were free and in the capable hands of the paramedics. Scully couldn't help but feel as though a miracle had taken place. She had doubted their survival throughout the entire ordeal. Somehow, it still didn't seem possible that so many had lived. "It's over, Dana," the captain said as he walked slowly beside her. "In a manner of speaking, yes," she replied softly, knowing in her heart that the experiences of the hijacking would haunt her for the rest of her days. Day Three 8:42 p.m. Outside the Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "Where are they?" "By the terminal entrance," Lask answered. "Shit," Skinner muttered, casting a weary look in Mulder's direction. The agent barely suppressed an amused smile and Skinner could easily imagine what Mulder was thinking. "Okay, Lask, I'll take care of it," Skinner said a moment later. "Need some help, Sir," Mulder asked, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes belying the serious expression on his face. Skinner snorted in response, "You just want to see Bill Scully in cuffs." Mulder's lips turned up in a half-smile, "Anyone bring their camera? I think this is definitely a Kodak moment." Skinner shook his head and tried not to laugh. He turned, taking long strides in the direction of the terminal, and wished he could have a long heart-to-heart with Waters instead. Mulder and the Gunmen trotted beside him, almost giggling as they made their way across the tarmac. Skinner wasn't sure if they were unwilling to let their friend out of their sight of if they just wanted to watch the show. Skinner stopped when the flashing lights of a bureau-issue car came into view. Sprawled across the hood was none other than Bill Scully, his face contorted as he demanded to be released. Agent Parker stood behind him, first running his hands along Bill's back and then reaching out and placing a pair of cuffs around his wrists. "Does life get any better than this?" Mulder whispered. "Truly priceless," replied Frohike, faking a tender sob. "Enough," Skinner warned, only partially serious. "Mr. Skinner!" Maggie Scully cried out from behind the barricade the agents had erected. The assistant director pointed in the direction of the Scully matriarch and nodded his head. Mulder and the Gunmen continued to follow, their expressions thankfully sobering. "Mr. Skinner, I--" she began, stopping when her eyes fell upon Mulder. "Mrs. Scully, I see that Bill was rather anxious to see Dana," Skinner said diplomatically when she didn't continue. "Yes," she replied weakly and with obvious embarrassment over her son's actions. "We'll get him uncuffed, and then I'll take you out to see Dana, okay?" Maggie nodded in response and started to turn away, "Fox?" she said cautiously, spinning back around slowly. Skinner watched as Mulder stepped forward, "Yes, Mrs. Scully?" "She's okay, isn't she?" "Yes, she's going to be fine." She started to turn away again, but before she did, "Thank you," she said quietly, "both of you." "You're welcome," the men said in unison before walking away to free the prisoner. "Do we have to?" Mulder asked when they got close to the car. "I swear to God, Skinner," Bill hissed, "if you don't let me go you're going to have one helluva lawsuit on your hands." "Aw, look," Langly said, "he's happy to see us." "And get that crazy fuck the hell away from me!" "Me?" Mulder said, feigning surprise and innocence. Skinner cleared his throat, "Calm down, Mr. Scully." "I will not!" "You will, or you can spend the night in jail." Bill blew a long breath out his nose, his face reddening as he considered Skinner's words. "I'm a busy man, Mr. Scully," the assistant director cautioned, looking down at his watch, "What's it going to be?" Bill set his jaw and nodded his head. Skinner knew from the look in Bill's eyes that he was bargaining with the devil. For a moment, he considered walking away. He knew in his gut what Bill would do the moment the cuffs were removed. He looked back at Mrs. Scully and didn't have the heart to send Bill away. "Take them off," Skinner said to Parker. "Sir?" the agent asked, apparently entertaining the same suspicions as Skinner. The A.D. nodded and moved to stand between Mulder and the soon-to-be uncuffed Bill Scully, "Whatever happens Mulder, stay put." "Do I get a doggie treat if I do, Sir?" "No, but I don't feel like scraping your ass up off the ground if you don't." True to Skinner's expectations, Bill lunged for Mulder the second he was released. The A.D. held strong though, putting out his hands and holding the big man back. "You're responsible for this mess, Mulder," Bill spat, frantically trying to reach around Skinner. "You're going to pay, I fucking swear it!" Three agents ran in their direction, but Skinner held them off with a look. "We can easily put those cuffs back on," warned Skinner. Bill didn't seem to hear and continued to try to get around the assistant director, obviously wanting nothing more than to wrap his fingers around Mulder's throat. "Bill!" All three men turned and met the steely gaze of Dana Scully, who stood only five-feet away. "Uh, oh, Mom's here," Frohike smiled. The anger flashed in Bill's eyes one more time before he took a step back and moved around the men, never casting Mulder a backwards glance as he ran to embrace his sister. Skinner took a step forward and placed a steady hand on Mulder's shoulder. Byers did the same, leaning in and whispering something Skinner couldn't hear. Mulder nodded his head, and for a moment, Skinner thought he was going to walk away. He didn't though. He stood there for a long moment, just watching Scully as she spoke with her brother. Skinner craned his neck and caught the eye of the agent standing in front of the barricade. He nodded his head and watched as the agent allowed the rest of Scully's family to pass. "Let's give them a moment," he said, "and then we have a few things we need to talk about." Day Three 8:51 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia The Director had just called. He wanted to meet in an hour. He wanted to know why the bomb had been detonated. He wanted to know why he had been 'mislead' as to the state of the breech. The Director was not happy. In fact, he was out for blood and looking for someone to hang the blame on. If Waters didn't play his cards right it was going to be his ass in a sling and out of a job. He paced quickly around command center, trying to ignore the fast-paced activity surrounding him, plotting his next move, and manufacturing half-truths and innuendos. "Don't even bother, Waters." The assistant director looked up, "Do you have something to say, Peters?" "Only to the Director," the negotiator answered. "Oh, really." "Yes," he said, almost smiling, "I have quite a bit to share actually." "Do you really think that's such a wise move?" Waters asked, barely keeping his temper in check. "For who?" the negotiator asked, "You or me?" "You, of course." "Keep living in fantasy land, Waters. You and I both know what's going to go down." "Yes," Waters said, smiling through his anger, "I do." Day Three 8:53 p.m. Main Terminal – Conference Room A Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Mulder pulled the stirrer out of his coffee cup and slipped it between his lips. He bit down and glanced at his watch. Any moment now, Scully would walk through the door. Any moment now, he'd have to put aside his pain and pretend that he wasn't dying inside. Any moment now, he would sacrifice another piece of his soul. Mulder closed his eyes, counted to ten, and then to twenty. He took a deep breath and tried to slow the racing of his heart. He blew it back out and tried to ignore the doubts that invaded his mind. He opened them again when he heard the click of the door. Scully stepped through and he caught her eyes, drawn to them by some intangible pull he couldn't resist. He saw the pain she tried to veil. He saw the anger she wore so uncomfortably. He saw himself and swallowed hard. "Have a seat," Skinner said as he stepped through the doorway and moved to the table, "I've got a meeting with the Director in less than an hour, so let's get started." Scully looked away and Mulder closed his eyes. "I've asked the five of you here so we can go over this thing step by step." Mulder nodded blindly, still worrying the stirrer between his teeth and tongue. "Agent Mulder, we've already had several discussions today concerning the case you were investigating in New Mexico." Mulder cleared his throat and opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on the center of the oak table, "Yes," he said. "I would, however, like to hear Agent Scully's account," Skinner said. Mulder nodded, "Of course," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "My account of the case, Sir?" "Yes," Skinner said. "Is it relevant to the investigation of the hijacking?" "Yes, it is." "I fail to see how, Sir." "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, I'd assumed that someone had told you by now," he said, pointedly looking in Mulder's direction. Mulder pulled the stirrer out of his mouth and placed it on the table. He parted his lips to speak, but quickly reconsidered. He didn't know what to say, how to even start. "May I?" Byers asked from across the large table. "By all means," Skinner said with little patience. The Gunman cleared his throat, "The men who hijacked the plane were with the Air Force. More--" "The Air Force? As in the United States Air Force?" Scully asked, her disbelief readily apparent from the tone of her voice. "The Fifth Column," Frohike said. "The base that doesn't exist?" "Yes," Frohike said with an amused smile in his voice, "that would be the one." "It's there," Mulder said quietly, looking up and meeting Scully's doubt-filled eyes, "I've seen it." Scully shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she looked away. Skinner cleared his throat, "You saw the base, or you were on the base?" "On." "And?" "It was just your run-of-the-mill, top-secret, non- existent, military installation." Skinner shook his head. "We got a look at some of their experimental aircraft." "We?" Skinner asked. "Amber Evans," Byers said, "our source." "Continue," Skinner said. "That's all," Mulder said, shrugging his shoulders. "These planes," Byers started to explain, "were prototypes of the craft that went down in Lake Alamos." Mulder nodded, "And contaminated the water." Scully raised an eyebrow, "Contaminated the water with what?" "Fuel," Mulder answered. "Fuel," she repeated, "You can't be saying that a fuel caused the kind of cancer I observed in those bodies." "That's exactly what I'm saying." "How can that be possible?" "The fuel was specifically designed for those aircraft, Scully. But they aren't just planes. They're U.F.O. knock-off's--advanced military weaponry built with alien technology." Scully raised both eyebrows and gave Mulder a classic look of disbelief. He almost smiled. "Fine, Mulder. For the moment we'll just pretend that some fuel caused the most invasive and rapidly metastasizing form of cancer I've ever seen--" "It did." "--And one of you can explain to me how this is related to the hijacking." "It was a conspiracy," Frohike said. "A cover-up," supplied Langly. "It all starts with Amber Evans," Byers added. Scully nodded and pursed her lips into a tight grimace. "Do you remember that hijacking in Turkey a few years back, Scully?" Mulder asked, "One American woman was killed," he added for clarification. "Vaguely." "The woman who was killed was Debra Evans," he said, "Amber's mother." "And?" "She was killed as a warning." "A warning to who?" "Her husband," Mulder said. "By the Column," Byers added. "Amber was to be next," Mulder continued. "Why?" she asked. "Because the Column wanted him to synthesize a fuel for their experimental aircraft." "That doesn't explain how any of this is related to the hijacking," Scully said. "It explains everything, Scully," Mulder said. "How's that?" "The hijacking was orchestrated by The Fifth Column. We have proof. They--" "But why? Why would they hijack an airplane, Mulder?" she asked with waning patience. "To destroy the evidence. To kill you," Mulder answered softly. "What?" she asked quietly. "They thought you knew more than you did, Scully. They wanted the envelope I had given you. And," Mulder said, "they wanted to destroy the bodies you were bringing back." She shook her head slowly, "How many died?" Mulder almost reached out to her then. "How many suffered because of what I had, what I knew?" "Scully--" "No, Mulder," she said, still shaking her head back and forth. "This isn't your fault, Scully," Mulder said with quiet desperation. "Then whose is it?" "Agent Scully--" Skinner started. "Mine," Mulder said with complete conviction. She met his honest gaze with one of her own. He saw his pain reflected within her bright blue eyes and he wanted to die. "Agent Mulder, no one is placing blame here." "I know you're not, Sir," he said, never taking his eyes away from Scully's, "I am." For a moment, her expression softened and Mulder prayed it wasn't born of pity. He tried to smile. There was so much that he wanted, needed to say to her. There was so much that he couldn't, that he didn't know how to put into words. He didn't know if he could lay his heart and his fears out for her to see. He loved her--desperately and with everything that was his. In his mind though, it would never be enough. Day Three 9:08 p.m. Temporary Command Center Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia Waters glanced down at his watch and picked up his pace. His mind was whirling, twisting and turning his version of the truth into a tidy little package–-the same one he would present to the Director. To him, it was all so simple. Skinner had interfered. The same could be said for his three bizarre colleagues and Agent Mulder. Had they not, things would have ended differently. The negotiations would have worked. Waters had the track record to prove it. He didn't care what Peters said to the contrary. The breech had been doomed from the start, just as Waters had pointed out countless times during his meeting earlier in the day with Skinner and the Director. In his mind, Waters could see the alternate outcome. He would have been hailed as a hero, the man who single- handedly saved the hostages with his wit and incredible insight. He would make the Director see that. He would convince him of Skinner's duplicity, of his intent to steal the spotlight away from its rightful owner. He would prove that the presence of Mulder and the three bozos had hampered the investigation and impeded negotiations. It would be so easy because he was right. He smiled and cool relief washed over him. Yes, he thought, almost laughing, he would prevail. The evidence meant nothing. The audio and videotapes the technicians were currently reviewing wouldn't matter at all. The Director would see, he would understand. There was no way he couldn't, not after Waters shared his truths. Day Three 9:31 p.m. Main Terminal – Conference Room A Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "I think I have what I need," Skinner said as he gathered up his files and moved to stand, "For now." Scully nodded, glancing down at her watch. Her mind was still twisting and turning around all she had learned in the past forty-five minutes. The truth had been cold and bitter. Mulder's presence had only made it harder to swallow. "I'll have Kimberly call and set up a meeting for tomorrow," he added as he moved to the door, "Get some rest, Agents. We've got a lot ahead of us." Scully nodded again, pushing back her chair in preparation for a quick get-away. "We need to be taking off, too," Frohike said, standing as the door clicked behind Skinner. The other Gunmen took his cue, practically running for the door. "I'll walk out with you," she said, standing and turning toward the door. They were already gone. She took a deep breath and three quick steps toward the doorway. "Scully," Mulder whispered when her hand touched the cool metal of the handle. She paused, her hand resting on the knob, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She heard him push his chair back and she almost jumped. "Do you have a minute?" he asked with hesitation. She leaned forward, resting her head against the cool glass, "No," she whispered. "Scully?" "No," she said a little more strongly, turning and meeting his gaze. "I--" Scully turned away. The honesty in his eyes was too much and too late. She didn't have the strength to take his pain. She didn't have the courage to hear his truths. What could he say? What could he change? He had sealed their fate in his motel room. He had pushed her away and shut her out. He had eradicated all that was between them with his simple words. It was over. He had said so himself. "I'm not going to do this, Mulder. I can't." "Scully, I--" "I can't," she said again, bringing her head up and finding his eyes. He swallowed visibly and took a step in her direction. She shook her head and reached for the doorknob again, finding it easily and twisting. "Scully," he said again, this time with an anguish so heart-wrenching that she almost reconsidered. "No," she said a moment later, turning and pulling the door open. She stepped into the hall, taking long, quick strides. "Scully!" She didn't stop or turn around. "Scully, wait!" he shouted, his shoes clicking against the pavement as he ran after her. She shook her head and picked up her pace. "Damn it, Scully, hold on!" "Why?" she demanded, spinning around and surprising herself. He stopped when she turned, his face falling into an expression of defeat. "Scully--" "Why, Mulder?" He looked at her as if she was a stranger and she almost lost her edge. "I wanted to talk." "Talk? About what, Mulder? What's left to say?" "A lot," he said, taking a slow step toward her. "I think you said it all in New Mexico." "Scully, you don't understand. I--" "I understand, Mulder. Believe me, I understand." "Damn it, Scully, no you don't," he said, his frustration very evident from the expression on his face, "Please, can't we just talk?" "Mulder," she said, shaking her head, "I can't do this. I just want to go home." "Let me take you then," he said quietly, taking another step in her direction. "No," she said quickly. He moved his hands to his hips and started to turn away, "I'm sorry," he said, his eyes focused on the wall to his left. "So am I, Mulder." "I didn't realize," he started to whisper, looking up and finding her eyes again, "Scully, I--" "Dana!" Bill yelled. Scully turned and saw her family standing at the other end of the hall. She swallowed and looked back at Mulder. "Dana!" Bill shouted again. When she turned, he was jogging in their direction. "You should go," she said softly to Mulder, still watching her brother. "We need to talk," Mulder said, taking yet another step toward her, this time invading her personal space. "Walk away," Bill said, coming to a stop next to his sister. Mulder didn't move. "I'm not going to tell you again, Mulder. Get the hell away from her." "Bill," Scully cautioned. "No, Dana," he said, stepping toward Mulder. Scully put her hand up, holding her brother back for the moment. "Fox," Maggie said calmly as she moved to stand next to Bill, "I understand what you've went through, but now is a time for family." "Mom--" Scully started to say. "She is my family." "Fox, please. Go home. Get some rest. You can talk to Dana tomorrow." "Mulder," Frohike called out, "Everything simpatico?" Scully craned her neck, looking past Mulder's shoulder to find the Gunman walking toward them. Great, she thought, all they were missing now was Skinner. "Yeah," Mulder responded as the three men moved to stand behind him. "Mulder, this is your last chance," Bill practically hissed, his face growing red as he covered Scully's wrist with his fingers and moved it away. Scully winced and took a step backwards, pressing her back into Mulder. His hands came up and settled on her ribs, bracing her and holding her where she stood. Despite the warnings racing through her mind, she didn't resist. "Let go of her," Bill seethed, taking a step to the side and closer to Mulder. "Hey, man," Frohike said, a distinctly annoyed tone to his voice. "Dana," Maggie said, obviously trying to diffuse the situation, "Let's get you home. Come on, the agents are waiting." Mulder's hands loosened, but instead of dropping away, they twined around her midsection, enveloping her completely in his warmth. It took every once of strength she had not to relax in his arms and lean into him. Her heart raced and sang. Her mind whirled. "You fucking bastard!" Bill cried out, his eyes growing dark and crazed as he suddenly lunged for Mulder. Frohike stepped forward, blocking Bill's path, "Back off, Bucko." Scully pulled on his arms and Mulder let her go, taking a step forward and placing his hand on the Gunman's shoulder. Bill didn't waste a moment, bringing back his fist and swinging at Mulder. He and Frohike ducked, recovering quickly. Bill, however, teetered like a drunken sailor from the momentum of his missed punch. Mulder gently pushed Frohike to the side and cast Bill a look of warning. Scully tried to step between the men, but Mulder moved in her way. "Bill, Fox, please," Maggie implored. Bill pulled himself up straight and Scully took a step back when she saw the maniacal look in his eyes. "Just get it over with, Bill," Mulder said, "You've been waiting to do this for a long time." "Yes, I have," he replied, pulling his fist back again, this time meeting Mulder's jaw. "Better?" Mulder asked a second later, turning back and facing Bill, blood running from the cut in his lip. "Not until you're out of her life for good," Bill hissed, pulling his arm back again. "You only get one shot, Bill," Mulder said, rearing back his own fist and connecting with Bill's cheekbone, catching him off guard and knocking him to the floor. "Bill!" Maggie cried out. "You fucking bastard," Bill said, trying to push himself up from the floor. "This is over," Scully said, pushing past Mulder and the Gunmen. Maggie moved to sit next to her son, turning to look down the hall and yelling for Tara. "Mulder, please, let the guys take you home." "Scully--" "I can't, Mulder. I just don't have the strength." "Mulder," Byers said quietly, "Come on." Mulder searched her eyes, but Scully held firm, exhausting the last bit of strength she had left. "I'm sorry," he whispered before turning and walking away with his friends. Scully watched him for a moment, her heart aching in her chest, before she turned and faced the mess on the floor. "Mulder," she heard Frohike say as they walked down the hall, "Your kung fu is the best." Day Three 10:32 p.m. Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown Scully pushed the door closed behind her, latching the locks and leaning against it as she slipped off her shoes. She was home. The salty tears started immediately, snaking down her face in a viscous and unrelenting path. They didn't bring the relief she had hoped. A gut-wrenching sob broke free and she sunk to the floor. Wave after wave of crushing pain washed over her. She felt like she was drowning, like she was lost at sea with no hope of ever finding the shore. This time, though, there would be no beacon to guide her home. Mulder was lost to her. She clutched at her chest, desperately trying to fill the void and quench the empty ache that was unmercifully overwhelming her. She lay there, against the door for what seemed like forever and only a moment all at the same time. She didn't have the strength to move. She didn't have the courage to dry up her tears. To wipe them away would have meant she'd moved on. She couldn't do that, no matter how much she hurt, had been hurt. She loved him. She needed him. It didn't change anything though. It couldn't. Love couldn't conquer all. Sometimes it couldn't even lend hope. All it brought her was pain. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she both heard and felt a knock at her door a moment later. She swallowed hard and shook her head. It was Mulder. She knew it had to be, and she didn't move. She didn't make a sound. She just listened, waiting and hoping that he would go away. She jumped again when an unfamiliar voice said her name from beyond the thick oak. Scully pushed herself up slowly and quietly, unconsciously reaching for her absent gun. For a split second she considered going after her spare weapon, but was deterred by the man's voice. "Dana?" he said, knocking softly again, "It's Jacob Matthews. Are you home?" Searching her tired brain for a connection, she leaned forward and carefully peaked through the peephole. "Captain Matthews," she mumbled softly to herself. "Dana? I just wanted to make sure that you were all right. I didn't see you again after you finished with the paramedics and your boss said that you were going home. Are you there?" Scully continued to listen and watch, dazed from the tears and the pain. "I guess not," he said softly a moment later. Uncomfortable guilt welled up in the pit of her stomach and she wiped away her tears, "Captain Matthews, wait," she said, undoing the locks and slowly pulling open the heavy door. "Dana," he smiled, but only for a moment. He took a couple of quick steps in her direction, a look of concern passing over his features. "I'm fine. It was just a long day," she sighed. He seemed to almost laugh at her understatement and nodded, silently asking for permission to enter. Scully shrugged her shoulders and moved aside. He stepped inside and she flipped on a light after pushing the door closed behind her. "How are you doing?" she asked, taking a step toward him. He smiled at first, but it quickly faded as he lunged for her, capturing her and crushing her body against his in less than a heartbeat. "What are you doing?" she screamed. "Ah, Miss Scully, you were the one that got away," the pilot whispered into her ear, "You really didn't think we could let that happen, now did you?" "What? Who in the hell are you?" "I'm with the Column." ~ Chapter Seventeen - Fate Has a Place and Time ~ *This chapter is strongly marked NC-17* Day Three 10:45 p.m. Outside Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown Fox Mulder coasted into an empty parking space across the street from Scully's apartment. He cut the car's engine immediately and reached for the door handle. He stopped himself when his fingers grazed across the cool metal. Slowly shaking his head, he pulled his hand back and rested it against the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and turned, looking past the small droplets of rain collecting on the driver's side window, wondering for the hundredth time if he had the courage to walk up to her door. Swallowing hard, he focused on the soft light illuminating her living room window--the same light that promised she was home. His courage waned and his heart ebbed. He took a deep breath and tried to focus his restless energy. It was now or never. Stay or go? Love or leave? Which was right? Which was wrong? Sighing, he turned away. In his heart, he held the truth-- simple and pure, sweet and honest. His mind, however, was still riddled with doubts--horrifying memories of nightmares he feared would never fade. Was he strong enough to let them go? Did he have the courage to close his mind and just love her? He didn't know. Tears of shame and grief burned in his eyes and he blinked in hopes of keeping them at bay. He heard his cell phone ring, and he turned reluctantly, finding the offensive device where he had tossed it on the passenger seat. He sighed, ignoring the phone, knowing it had to be the Gunmen or, even worse, Skinner. Frowning, he closed his eyes. He had no intentions of answering the phone, of being at Skinner's beck-and-call, or listing to his friend's condolences. He needed to make a decision concerning Scully. He needed to do what was right--for her, for their partnership, for their future. If only he... Scully. His eyes flew open and found the phone. Eagerly, and with trembling fingers, he reached across the seat and snatched it up. Day Three 10:49 p.m. Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown The pilot pulled her tighter against his chest, snaking his arms around her waist. Scully pushed against him, twisting and turning and trying to break free. He leaned in, his mouth just millimeters from her ear, and whispered, "That'll be enough, Miss Scully." She felt his hot breath against her ear and stilled, suppressing a shudder born of fear. "We're going to take a little trip," he said, "and settle this matter once and for all." Her heart stopped and she cried out against him. The pilot hissed something she couldn't hear, loosening his grip and lifting his head. Closing her eyes, she screamed again, hoping beyond hope that someone would hear. "Enough!" he yelled in response, bring his hand up and slicing it across her cheekbone. Scully's head snapped back and to the left, stars exploding and crashing behind her closed lids. Her world teetered and spun, almost bringing her to her knees. The pilot jerked her arm, holding her upright and pulling her back. Scully pushed against him again, fighting his evil intentions with all she had left. "That'll be enough. Do you hear me?" he spat, pulling on her arm again and slamming her into his chest. Slowly, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. "Now that you've awakened all your neighbors, it's time for us to go." "No," she whispered strongly, shaking her head. "Last chances are over, Miss Scully," he replied, a hint of resignation in his voice as he pulled back and stared into her eyes, "I have my orders, and I will carry them out." The eyes Scully had once taken as gentle and kind shone with his deadly intent. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her courage. "Now, let's go," he whispered coolly, his arms dropping from her back. He moved to encircle her wrists, and Scully brought her hands up, pushing against his chest, and jumped out of his reach. She had caught him off-guard, and he teetered for a moment. Scully took a quick step to her left and anger flashed in his eyes. She took another calculated step, training her gaze on her assailant. "Miss Scully," he cautioned, enunciating each syllable. She took a deep breath, preparing herself. The pilot lunged and Scully dodged. He let out a strangled cry when he landed on the floor and slid into the door. Scully didn't look back; she ran. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for any means of escape. She stopped near the window and turned. The pilot rose, spinning around to face her. Swallowing, she reached blindly to her left, her fingers grazing over the cool plastic of the phone. Day Three 10:52 p.m. Outside Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown "Yes, Sir," Mulder replied dejectedly, turning his head and finding Scully's window. He bit down on his bottom lip and a flicker of movement caught his attention. Craning his neck, he watched as a shadow passed across the window, gone so fast he thought he'd imagined it. "Agent Mulder?" "Yeah," he replied distractedly, turning away from the window, "I'm here." "We'll expect you in about thirty minutes," Skinner replied before ending the call. Mulder let the phone drop to his lap and closed his eyes. He let out a long, disgusted sigh and considered ignoring Skinner's request. "Damn it," he muttered, swallowing hard and wishing he hadn't answered the phone. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes. Like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to her window again. He chewed on his lower lip and wondered if fate had intervened. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he was just a coward. He shook his head and reached for the keys that still hung in the ignition. "Shit," he breathed, starting the car and slamming his fist against the steering wheel. Day Three 10:54 p.m. Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown They had reached an impasse. The pilot stood near the door, his posture stiff and his patience wearing dangerously thin. "Miss Scully," he cautioned, "You are not going to do that." Scully didn't respond. Instead, she wrapped her fingers around the cordless phone and stared defiantly into his dark eyes. "I'm warning you," he breathed, his face flushing red as he stepped to his right and flipped off the lights, bathing the room in near-darkness. She lifted the phone from the cradle. Even in the dim light cast in by the street lamp outside, she could see his eyes narrow and watched as he took a tentative step forward. She moved back and glanced to her left. "Drop the phone," he hissed, reaching one hand behind his back. Scully didn't hesitate, sprinting for the kitchen and dialing Mulder's cell phone number without looking. "Fuck!" she heard the terrorist yell as she broke through the doorway and ran toward the cabinets. When she reached them, Scully flung open a drawer, blindly wrapping her fingers around the smooth wooden handle of a large knife. She spun, her eyes dancing across the dimly lit room. In the deep shadows near the doorway she saw a flicker of movement. "Miss Scully," he whispered, "Drop the phone," stepping further into the kitchen, "And the knife." Swallowing, she shook her head and pulled up the weapon. "Now," he said, taking three quick steps toward her. Scully slid to her left, but the pilot anticipated her move and dove, capturing her legs and pulling them both to the floor. She hit hard, the phone and knife falling from her grasp and skittering across the slick linoleum. "It's over," the pilot hissed, pulling himself up to cover her prone form. "Mulder!" she cried out. Day Three 10:56 p.m. Georgetown Mulder accelerated through the intersection, ignoring the phone that was ringing in his lap. He stared straight ahead, trying not to think about what he had left behind. "Great," he whispered, flipping on his windshield wipers as the gentle drizzle turned into a downpour. He touched the brakes and coasted to a stop at the next intersection, drumming his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel while he waited for a minivan to go through. Glancing down at the clock on the dashboard, he muttered an expletive and pressed down hard on the accelerator. He reached down, picking up the phone with the intention of tossing it into the passenger seat. At the last moment, he reconsidered, slowly bringing the phone to his ear and answering the call. Slamming on the brakes in the middle of the street, Mulder nearly dropped the phone. "Mulder!" he heard Scully cry, followed by a deafening crash, and then static. Day Three 11:01 p.m. Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown Scully stared at the broken phone lying just inches in front of her and felt her last vestige of hope slip away. "Let's go," the pilot said contemptuously, reaching down and roughly pulling Scully up by her arm. She staggered for a moment, blinking quickly and trying to steady her wobbly legs. "Move," he hissed, tightening his grip on her wrist and shoving her forward, toward the living room. Wincing, Scully pushed against him. Their eyes locked. A violent spark ignited and the pilot brought his hand up and across her cheek, this time splitting open the cut in her lip. Scully's eyes fell closed and an involuntary cry of pain broke past her lips. "Go," he spat, pushing against her again. Scully gritted her teeth and fought his progress. Twisting and turning, pushing and pulling, she tried desperately to hold her ground. The pilot let out an annoyed huff and continued to move forward, his pace only slowing marginally. Panic enveloped her when they made it to the living room, and she redoubled her efforts, adrenaline fueling and fanning her fire. She swung wildly with her free arm, connecting with his jaw, his arm, his chest. She hit the floor with a painful thud a moment later, her legs swept out from under her. Pain shot outward from the back of her head and Scully fought against the accompanying wave of dizziness. She blinked and the pilot's form came into focus. He squatted, looming above her and meeting her eyes. "This is over, Miss Scully," he promised, his voice low and deep. Searching his eyes, she saw his truth and nearly choked on it. She was going to die. He must have read her thoughts, because he nodded. Scully felt herself sinking, fading into the depths of her own despair. Her breathing became shallow, her thoughts loose and incoherent. She tried to pull herself back from the edge but couldn't. The pilot leaned in even closer, reaching out and taking hold of her arms, "It's time to--" "Scully!" Mulder cried from the wrong side of the thick oak door. "Fuck," the captain breathed, looking up and moving a hand to cover Scully's mouth. Scully turned, twisting against his grip, urged on by the sound of Mulder's fists connecting with the door. "Scully!" he yelled again, followed closely by the sound of splintering wood. The terrorist jerked on her arm and pulled Scully to her feet. Keeping his hand over her mouth, he spun her around, pressing her back into his chest. Scully didn't relent, frantically struggling against his grasp, watching and listening as Mulder connected with the door again. The pilot took two steps back, pulling them into the shadows. The wood gave a moment later and the door fell in, crashing to the floor. Scully jumped and his hand dropped from her mouth. "Mulder!" she cried out, her heart catching and surging, flooding her with hope when he burst through the doorway, weapon drawn and raised. "Scully," he responded urgently, finding and meeting her eyes, "Are you all right?" She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped abruptly when she felt the cold metal of a gun dig into the side of her neck like a blade. "Drop it," the pilot warned. Mulder started to take a step forward, stopping, his eyes narrowing. Tensing, Scully drew in a sharp, shallow breath and stilled. "F.B.I.," Mulder said slowly, "Put down your weapon." A loud click echoed in Scully's left ear as the pilot released the safety. "Agent Mulder," he started in an even and deliberate tone, "You're too late this time. Drop your weapon." Mulder turned a fearful gaze to Scully, searching her eyes. She read his hesitation and shook her head. "Do as you're told, Agent," the pilot whispered. Mulder took a slow step forward, his eyes leaving Scully's and focusing on the man holding her captive. The gun fell away from her neck, only to be turned on Mulder. "No!" Scully cried, twisting abruptly in the pilot's grasp. His hold lapsed unexpectedly and Scully surged, pulling herself free and lunging to her right, giving Mulder the opportunity to end the nightmare. Three shots rang out, quick and loud. The pilot let out a mournful wail and Scully lifted her head, turning. She watched as he slumped against the wall, copious amounts of blood already staining the front his dark blue airline uniform. He swallowed roughly and turned his head, finding her eyes and stretching his fingers toward his fallen weapon. He opened his mouth to speak and Scully pushed herself up. A low gurgle of sound escaped from his throat as his fingers grazed against the butt of the gun. Scully took a quick step and the terrorist lifted the weapon, training it on her. Time seemed to slow, the events of the next few moments playing out with excruciating slowness. Scully turned, glancing at Mulder, her breath catching in her chest. Another shot rang out then. Scully jumped out the sound, confused for a moment, finally turning toward the pilot. His weapon fell to the floor with a resounding thud, his life's blood draining from the fresh wound in the side of his neck. Swallowing hard and releasing a shaky breath, Scully turned to Mulder. A rough sob threatened to break loose when she found him, his chest heaving up and down quickly as he stood in the middle of the room, staring at the fallen pilot. His weapon was still raised, aimed at the dying threat. Scully took a cautious step toward him, stopping when she noticed the bright, crimson blood staining the white material of shirt sleeve. He turned, his eyes meeting hers, "Are you all right?" he whispered, slowly lowering his weapon and holding her gaze. Nodding, she took another step, glancing again at his arm. He followed her gaze and holstered his weapon, quickly covering his injured bicep with his right hand, "It's just a flesh wound, Dr. Scully," he said uneasily. A heady mixture of relief and pain washed over her soul. "I'm okay, really," he whispered when she took another step. Salty tears came too easily to her eyes and she fought to blink them away. Visibly swallowing, he shook his head, finding her eyes. She took another tentative step, wanting nothing more than to fall into his warm embrace. He opened his mouth, a profound sadness filling his hazel eyes, and he turned away. "Now might be a good time to call for back-up," he whispered, reaching into his pant's pocket and pulling out his cell phone. Scully nodded to herself. Her eyes traced over the destruction, and she tried not to think of what might have been. It was over. She was free--in every sense of the word. A hot tear snaked down her cheek, burning as it passed over her cuts and scrapes. She wasn't strong enough for this. She didn't have the courage to face what was ahead, to stare into the unknown and find a future that wouldn't include Mulder. Walking to the window, she crossed her arms protectively over her chest and listened as he spoke to the Bureau's switchboard. His smooth voice washed over her, reminding her of all she had lost. A hollow and visceral ache filled her, and she reached out, bracing herself against the desk. "The troops are on their way," he said quietly, and she nodded. Lifting her head, Scully stared out into the night, searching for the words that would set her heart at ease. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked. "Yeah," she whispered, "Just peachy keen." She bit down on her lower lip, wincing inwardly. "I should look at your arm," she offered. "It's fine, really," he whispered. She nodded, swallowing against the ache. "Look, Scully," he said a moment later, "I don't know--" She shook her head, cutting him off. "Yeah," he whispered. In the distance, she could hear the plaintive wail of an ambulance--its mournful tone mirroring the torment that was consuming her soul. Blowing out a long breath, she turned, glancing toward Mulder, quickly looking away when he attempted to meet her eyes. Instead, she focused on his arm, on the crimson blood he had shed for her. She opened her mouth and his name burned on her lips. "Scully," he breathed, taking a cautious step toward her. Shaking her head and fighting off the threatening tears, she turned, walking slowly toward her bedroom. "Scully, wait," he called out when she was halfway down the hall. Suppressing a sob, she kept moving, stopping only when an oak door stood between her and Mulder. She stepped away from it and let the tears burn down her cheeks. She lost herself in the pain, surrendering to the grief. "Scully?" he whispered a moment later. A soft sob echoed in her throat and she stepped forward, reaching up cautiously, her fingers grazing across the door's surface. "Scully?" he said again. She leaned forward, resting her head against the cool wood, and closed her eyes. Day Three 11:29 p.m. Georgetown Walter Skinner parked his car haphazardly in the middle of the street, flipping off the windshield wipers and cutting the engine. He glanced around as he reached across the passenger seat and scooped up his umbrella, watching with dark curiosity as officers, agents, and medical personnel milled around outside the building in the pouring rain. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the car door, flipping up his umbrella as he stepped away from the vehicle. He blinked against the almost blinding lights of the police cruisers and ambulances scattered around the once quiet street. "Assistant Director," Agent Steele called out as she jogged toward him. Nodding, Skinner took a step toward her, following when she motioned toward the building's main entrance. "Agents Mulder and Scully are inside," she said breathlessly when she caught up with him. The A.D. nodded again and opened his mouth to speak. "Hey, Skinner! Over here!" He turned toward the familiar voices. Sighing loudly and shaking his head, he moved toward the hastily constructed police barricades. "What are you three doing here?" he asked when he neared his destination, his tone reflecting a level of annoyance he hadn't quite reached yet. "What's going on?" was Langly's reply. "Scanner," Byers explained. "They wouldn't let us through," Frohike complained, glaring at the uniformed officer guarding the barricade. Skinner blew out a huff of air and flashed his badge at the cop, certain that he would regret the action later. "Told you we were authorized personnel," Langly said, casting the officer a recriminating look as he drug Byers, and consequently their umbrella through the barricade. Shaking his head again, Skinner turned and began the short trek back to the building. "You know, Walter," Langly started, quieting when Skinner turned his head and shot him a look of warning. "Guess that's a 'no' on the badges," Frohike mumbled, jogging to keep up with the group. "Do you know what's happened?" Byers asked quietly. "Yeah," Skinner said, stopping when they reached the front door and rejoined Agent Steele. "Who's your friend? She's h--" Frohike started to purr. Flashing his badge and another cautionary glance in the direction of the Gunmen, Skinner led the group through the doorway. Day Three 11:34 p.m. Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown Mulder watched her from across the room. She stood strongly, her chin held high and strength in her eyes as she recounted the grizzly tale to three of D.C.'s finest. They nodded, asking a question every now and again, but Scully remained calm. Agents milled around her as well, waiting their turn and taking notes. Mulder recognized S.A.C. Bishop among them and wondered what was keeping Skinner. "Ouch," he winced, turning his head and shooting the paramedic a cautionary glance. "Agent Mulder," sighed the paramedic, whose uniform was neatly embroidered with the name 'Cook', "I'm almost finished. Hold still." Mulder raised an eyebrow, wondering how Ms. Cook thought he could hold still while a needle was passing through his skin with excruciating slowness. "I'm not a doctor, but I think it might hurt a little less if you use more novocain," he suggested, wincing again. She smiled, clearly amused by his lack of bravado, and reached for an antiseptic swab. Mulder caught a good glimpse of the wound and quickly turned away, looking up as Skinner and a female agent walked through the door. Had he not been cringing from the application of the antiseptic, he would have smiled at the sight of the Gunmen pecking at their heels. "Mulder," Skinner said loudly, navigating through the sea of paramedics, officers, and agents. Nodding, Mulder glanced over at Scully again, finding her ensconced in a blanket and the same conversation with the officers. "Whoa, man," Frohike said, squeezing past Skinner, "What happened to you?" "Ten to one, Scully shot him," Langley ventured flatly. Mulder sneered, and then, "Yeah, well, I would have deserved it," he said with a respectable amount of self- pity. Byers sighed and shook his head, stepping into the fold. "Well," Skinner said impatiently, ignoring the Gunmen and surveying the scene, "What happened?" "It's a long story," Mulder sighed, glancing to his right and watching as the paramedic continued to work on his arm. "You'd better start talking then," Skinner said, his gaze finally settling on Scully. Mulder nodded to his left, "Recognize him?" he asked in reference to the corpse that was being zipped into a body bag. "Yeah," Skinner said, "That much I was aware of." "Shit," muttered Langly. "Is that who I think it is?" Byers asked. "Share with the vertically challenged!" Frohike demanded, trying to push past his friends. "The pilot," Byers whispered, placing a restraining hand on Frohike's shoulder. The smallest Gunmen let out a long whistle, "And the plot thickens." "So he was--" Langly started. "With the Column," Mulder finished, "Yes, that's what he told Scully." "She's okay?" Byers asked, craning his neck and searching her out. "Aside from a few more cuts and bruises, yes," Mulder said, dropping his head and staring at the floor. "Mulder, man," Frohike started to say, stepping forward. Shaking his head, Mulder looked up, meeting the older man's eyes. Frohike nodded and grimaced. "What did he have to say?" Skinner asked. "Not much," Mulder replied. Nodding, Skinner opened his mouth to ask another question. "So, how'd your meeting with the Director go?" Mulder interrupted. Skinner sighed and pursed his lips, but apparently decided to go along with the change of subject, "It was very telling," he said a moment later. "How so?" Mulder asked. "Waters is going before OPR tomorrow afternoon." "I can't imagine why," Frohike quipped. Mulder raised an eyebrow, silently urging Skinner to continue. After clearing his throat, "Waters lost it in the meeting, ranting and raving, accusing you and I of participating in a conspiracy against him." Langly chuckled and Byers shook his head sagely. "He maintained we were attempting to, and I quote, 'steal his glory,'" Skinner said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Mulder let out a huff, "As if I don't get enough notoriety in my present position." Almost smiling, "The Director felt it was clear that Waters was trying to use the hijacking to advance his career." "Well, he went about it all wrong," Mulder said, "He should have come to me. I could've given him some pointers." Frohike laughed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "The Deputy Director is planning to retire in a year," Byers noted. Nodding, Skinner replied, "Yes, he is. Apparently Waters was under consideration, although the Director doesn't believe he was aware of that fact." "What happens now?" Langly asked. "It's up to OPR, but I would be surprised if he weren't dismissed. Mulder nodded, swallowing and trying not to think about what Waters had almost cost him. As if they had a will of their own, his eyes moved to Scully. "What's your take?" Skinner asked a moment later. Sighing, Mulder returned his attention to his boss, "On this?" Skinner nodded. "I think the pilot was an insurance policy, put into place in the event that the evidence or Scully survived," Mulder said confidently and with little emotion. "I'd have to agree," Byers said, nodding. Frowning, "Is this over?" Skinner whispered. "I don't know," Mulder responded just as softly, dipping his head. Lightly clearing her throat, "I'm all finished here," the paramedic said, "You'll want to have the stitches removed in a week. If you experience any--" "Thanks," Mulder said, "I know that one by heart." Ms. Cook gave him a sarcastically sweet smile, shaking her head as she gathered her equipment. "What's our next move then?" Langly asked. "We keep digging," Frohike replied. "And get Amber into protective custody," Byers added. All five men nodded uncomfortably. "Assistant Director Skinner?" S.A.C. Bishop said, moving to stand beside the A.D. "Yes," Skinner responded, turning to his left. "We're almost finished here," she said. Nodding, Skinner looked around the room. "Agents Mulder and Scully can give full statements tomorrow sometime, no rush," the S.A.C. offered. "The detectives seem to be satisfied?" Skinner asked. Bishop nodded, "Yes, after we explained the connection with the hijacking. There are a few jurisdictional issues that need to be addressed though." Grimacing, "Aren't there always," the assistant director sighed, stepping away from the group and moving toward the lead detective. Mulder stood, slipping on his shirt, but not bothering to button it. Sighing, he looked around the room, watching as the legions of civil servants began to gather their equipment and colleagues and file toward the door. Scully still stood in the center of the room, a baby blue blanket draped lightly across her shoulders. Mulder met her gaze, and she didn't look away. He tried to smile but didn't have the strength to lie. A glint of something sparkled in Scully's eyes--possibly a hint, speculation, a glimpse into her thoughts. His heart lunged and then dropped as he tasted the silent deprivation of a man without a home. He could read the distance in her eyes as she sailed away on a gray and hazy ocean. She would find a new port, a new life, a new love. He would die alone. Blinking hard he looked away, too ashamed and pained to face the truth. He slowed his breathing, reached deep within himself, past the hollowness, past the ache, and drew upon his final reserve of strength. "Mulder--" Byers started. Frowning, Mulder shook his head, cutting the Gunman off, "Everything's going to be fine," he said. Byers regarded his friend hesitantly, "I just--" "It's okay, Byers," Mulder said, trying to smile and reassure his friend as much as himself. "I just don't want you to have any regrets." "Regardless of the outcome, I always will," Mulder whispered, turning to watch Scully once again. Langly reached up, placing a reassuring hand on his friend's left arm, "Mulder," he said quietly, "Just tell her how you feel." "It's not that easy," he responded, shaking his head. "Sometimes it is," Frohike said with conviction. Frowning, Mulder reached down, working the bottom-most button of his shirt into its respective hole, biting his bottom lip and trying not to think. "Agent Mulder, if I could have a moment?" He looked up at the female officer standing in front of him, "Yeah," he sighed with annoyance. "Detective Pillay," the woman said, offering her hand. Mulder shook it, regarding her warily. "I just have a few follow-up questions after talking with Agent Scully." He nodded and leaned back against the overstuffed chair behind him, wincing as he crossed his arms over his chest. "That won't be necessary," Skinner said, stepping up behind the officer. The woman turned, looking up at the assistant director. "I believe our agency has the matter covered, Officer." "Sir--" Detective Pillay started. Skinner shot her a look of warning, almost daring her to push the issue further. "Please," S.A.C. Bishop said, "Come with me, Detective." Pillay looked from Mulder to Skinner to Bishop, her eyes darkening in defeat before following the S.A.C. "Thanks," Mulder muttered, "I had a feeling I wasn't going to enjoy that." Skinner nodded, pursing his lips and glancing around at the rapidly thinning crowd, "I need to get back to the Hoover Building. The Director is waiting to be briefed on this," he finished, waving his hand in mid-air. Mulder raised an eyebrow and shook his head, not envying the night his superior had ahead of him. "Someone from the Director's office will be in touch with both of you in the morning," Skinner said breaking away from Mulder's gaze and staring somewhere beyond the agent's shoulder. Mulder turned, following Skinner's gaze, watching as Scully approached the group of men. "Agent Scully," Skinner said, almost smiling. "Sir," she replied, grimacing in response. "I was just about to tell Agent Mulder that I'm going to station a pair of agents here and outside his apartment." "Is that really necessary?" she asked. "I hope not," the A.D. replied, "But I'd sleep a lot better knowing someone was watching your backs." Mulder nodded, his gaze drawn to Scully, as hers was to him. "Are you ready?" S.A.C. Bishop asked, returning to the growing group. "Yeah, as soon as we clear the room." The S.A.C. nodded, turned, and began barking orders in the direction of the remaining agents and officers. "We should go too," Byers said, eyeing his colleagues and winking when Frohike wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Yeah," the little Gunman said quickly before faking a yawn, "We've got a lot of work to do." Skinner sighed, watching as the last of the personnel walked past the newly hinged door. "All clear," S.A.C. Bishop announced. Nodding, Skinner turned back to the agents, "I'll speak to both of you tomorrow. Try and get some rest." Byers and the other Gunmen waved a hasty goodnight, and began to usher Skinner and the S.A.C. toward the door. Mulder followed, slowly, watching as Skinner stopped in the doorway and turned, regarding the agents one last time before pulling the door shut behind him. Stopping in the middle of the room and resting his hands against his hips, Mulder blew out a long breath. He bit down on his lip, weighing his options and searching his soul. Gathering his courage, he turned, watching Scully for a long moment as she wandered aimlessly around the room. She stopped in front of the crimson blood staining the wall and he faltered, "I--" he started, "I should probably go." "Sure," she whispered distractedly. Swallowing, "I could stay if you'd like." Scully didn't respond. Instead, she moved to stand in front of the window, watching as the rain beat against the shimmering glass panes. Mulder shook his head, swearing under his breath, and took three slow steps toward the door. Reaching out, he took the cool metal knob into his hand. "Goodnight, Mulder." He stopped, one clear thought resonating through his mind. He didn't want to leave. He closed his eyes against the brutal wave of honesty that washed over him, lighting a flame and consuming his soul. A sweet epiphany settled over his heart and he knew the way home. "Scully," he said, turning quickly, his voice shaking, "I don't want to lose you." She spun around, facing him. The light in her eyes swam across the spectrum: hope, confusion, pain, caution, anger- -finally settling on resignation. "You already have," she responded strongly a long moment later, stepping away from the window and holding his gaze. He shook his head, refusing her words, "I don't believe you." "Mulder," she sighed, "I'm not--" "I made a mistake, Scully," he whispered, dipping his head slightly and breaking their connection, "I was wrong." "Which mistake was that, Mulder?" she asked coolly. He lifted his eyes to hers, finding her anger and pain-- both deep and dark and achingly real. He didn't know how to respond, what to say, what she needed to hear. All he had was his truth. All he wanted was her. "Never mind," she said a moment later, turning away, "I don't want to know." "Scully," he whispered, taking another step toward her. She shook her head, holding out her hand as a warning, "We've been down this path before, Mulder. I don't have the strength to do this again." He stopped in the middle of the room, dumbfounded. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, still avoiding his eyes. "I'm not--" he started and then stopped, still not understanding what she was trying to say. "You don't need me, Mulder. You never have. I can't save you or the X-Files." "This isn't about the X-Files, Scully. This is about you and me." She glanced up, meeting his gaze for less than a heartbeat. "And I do need you," he added, taking a hesitant step. She shook her head, slowly at first, wrapping her arms tightly around her midsection. "I was scared," he whispered, "I thought..." She looked up, her eyes sparkling with an emotion he couldn't comprehend. "I thought I was going to lose you." She bit down on her lip and he watched as she considered his words, his truth. He held his breath--scared to move, scared to blink, scared he would frighten her away. "It doesn't matter," she whispered strongly a long moment later His lungs burned and his heart stilled in his chest. He felt his face flush and allowed the warm air to escape from his lungs. "Why?" he asked hoarsely, his mind twisting and turning, searching for the words capable of mending their bond. "I can't believe you," she said with reproach in her tone. "Can't or won't?" he asked, swallowing hard. "Both," she answered, her head snapping up and her back straightening. He read her ire and felt her heat. "Were you playing games then?" she spat, "Or are you playing them now?" "What?" he whispered. "Games, Mulder. That's how I'd define what took place the past three days, hell, the past week!" "I wasn't--" "Yes, you were," she insisted. "I wanted you to be safe. I was doing what I thought was best for--" "For who?" she snapped, "You? Trying to ease your misplaced guilt? Trying to find an easy way out?" "No," he answered frantically shaking his head and taking another fearful step. "Don't, Mulder. Save it for someone who gives a damn." "You don't mean that," he responded evenly. "Yeah, Mulder, actually, I do." "No." She let out a sigh and turned away, obviously not willing to continue on the same course. In the back of his mind, he knew she was lying, but he couldn't get past her words. They cut him to the core, slicing across him like a knife. "I'm not going to leave like this, Scully. I'm not going to walk away." "And why is now different?" she asked, the anger returning to her voice. "Because, I--" "Get out, Mulder. Just go. Leave with a clear conscience. I'll give you your absolution if you just go." "I don't want absolution!" he shouted, "I want you!" "I--" she started, turning to stare into the night again. Taking five quick steps, he moved to stand in front of her, reaching out, cupping her face, and turning her to meet his eyes. "I'm not going to walk away," he whispered, "I need you, Scully." He saw the conflicting emotions glistening within her eyes. He felt her pulse racing beneath his fingers. She opened her mouth and closed her eyes, finally speaking, "But I don't want you." His hands fell away, and his eyes dropped shut. An earth- shattering wave of pain peaked and surged across his chest, burning through him without remorse. The ache twisted, turning within his gut, reflecting and transforming into self-reproaching anger. Swallowing, he stepped back, shaking his head as he turned toward the door. He took five quick strides, stopping as he reached out for the knob, "I'm sorry," he said in a grim monotone before squaring his shoulders and pulling open the door. Day Four 12:04 a.m. Lone Gunmen's Lair Undisclosed Location "I wish we could have done more," Frohike said, perching himself on an empty chair next to Byers. Sighing, Byers nodded. "They deserve a happy ending," Langly said as he walked by and stole a potato chip from Frohike's plate. Frohike shot his friend a look of warning, pulling his plate closer. "There has to be something," Byers mumbled, rising from his chair and beginning to pace around the room. "Byers, you can't take the blame for this," Frohike insisted, "It's not your fault, it never was." "He's right," Langly said, moving in to take Byers' vacant seat. Blowing out a long breath, Byers stopped mid-stride, "I just--" "Byers," Frohike said, walking across the room and placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Let it go. Have some faith." "Fate has a way of working these things out," Langly offered, flipping on the terminal in front of him. Day Four 12:07 a.m. Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown Scully stood across the room, her gaze set upon the door. Tears streaked down her face, defining her hunger and defying the illusions she'd once harbored. Emotions clashed with thoughts, searing her heart and leaving her with a cold sense of regret. Fear eclipsed her pain, casting doubt over her like a pall over the moon. Mulder's words hung heavily in the air. His name burned on her lips. She took a slow step and faltered. Guilt and grief burned in her belly and she sacrificed her courage to put out the flames. She searched her heart and soul for the bittersweet taste of disdain. None was to be found. Swallowing hard, Scully swiped at her tears and lifted her chin. She couldn't give in. She wouldn't allow his atonement to take away her pain or fear. Not even if he needed her. Pain, fear, and her battered pride were all she had left. She had sacrificed so much of herself to him--her life, her love, her hopes and dreams. There was nothing more she could give. Except for the truth. A sob broke from her chest and she swallowed her lies-- cold. Her vision swam, but his words echoed clearly through her mind. They betrayed her strength and nearly brought her to her knees. He needed her. He wanted her. Scully sagged under the weight of his truth. Her heart filled and surged and she was helpless against its pull. It sparkled and shone like the sea on a starry summer night. It spoke of fate and faith, and she had to believe. Despite her pain, regardless of her pride--she loved him, deeply and with a hunger that defied reason or explanation. He was her light, her life, and, in her heart, she knew that she was his. She took a deep breath and made a choice. Ignoring her doubts, she followed her heart and ran for the door. She pulled it open without a moment's hesitation and raced down the hall, taking the steps two at a time. Her heart pounded in her chest, Mulder's name tore through her mind, and Scully said a silent prayer that she wasn't too late. When she reached the outermost door, she thrust it open-- Mulder's name already flying past her lips. Her gaze darted over the darkened street, frantically searching him out. The rain pelted against her, bitter and icy cold, soaking through her clothes and sock-clad feet. A warm rush washed over and through her when she found him standing across the street. "Mulder!" she cried out again, running to the edge of the sidewalk. He didn't turn and she pushed her rain-soaked hair out of her face, shouting again. She swallowed and he paused, his hand outstretched as he reached to pull open the door of his car. "Don't go," she said, his voice hoarse and thick and full of tears. He just stood there across the street, his arm suspended in mid-air--not turning, not speaking, but listening. "Please," she said, pushing her voice past the sound of the rain as it beat against the pavement, "Don't leave me, Mulder." His head turned, but maybe half an inch, and Scully took a precarious step off the curb. The freezing water ran between her toes, and a shiver of cold anticipation ran up her spine. "I do want you," she said strongly. He turned. His expression was cautious, guarded, almost fearful--as though he expected to awake and discover he was dreaming. Her heart caught on his unease, a deep and visceral ache filling her chest. "Mulder," she whispered, barely louder than a breath as she took another slow step. Hope glimmered in his eyes, sparking and lighting, but fading as fast as it had appeared. "No," she pleaded, rushing forward, stopping in the center of the street. "Scully, you don't want--" he started to say, looking away. She was close enough now to see the tears in his eyes, the shadow hanging over his soul. "I do," she promised, "I need you." A breath hitched in his chest, and Scully watched as he fought to suppress a sob. A long moment later, he lifted his hand to his chest and gently rested it over his heart. "I do, too," he said, his voice thick with emotion. His name passed her lips in a rush of sound. Her world twisted and spun as his truth took hold of her heart. "Scully," he breathed in response. She smiled, half a sob escaping from her throat. "Scully," he said again, taking long strides and closing the distance between them. "Mulder, I'm so--" she started to say, her words disappearing in a rush of raw emotion when he pulled her against his chest. She was lost and found and finally home. She forgot the rain, the cold, the horrible nightmare they had endured--her world was reduced to the simple sound of his beating heart. Scully held on tight, drawing on his strength, giving of her own. She clutched a fistful of his cold, wet shirt with one hand, his waist with the other, and all she wanted was to sink in further. Mulder shuddered against her and she felt a sob break loose from his chest. She whispered his name again and again, stretching out her fingers, making soft circles against his back. They stood there like that for what seemed to be a moment and a lifetime all at once. The rain still fell. The wind still howled. But the pain--the hurt and damage they had done--was gone. The freedom was sweet. "Scully," he breathed, lifting his head and loosening his hold. The faintest of whimpers escaped from her throat, dying when he reached out and touched her hair, caressing the rain-soaked strands with an almost unbearable tenderness. His left hand slid up her back, a shiver racing up her spine when the tips of his fingers grazed the back of her neck. They tangled in her hair and she lifted her head, her eyes closing against the significance of the moment. "Open your eyes, Scully," he whispered as his hands moved forward, capturing her face between his palms. She felt the rain wash over her face once again, taking away her tears, her apprehension. She felt his fingers tremble against her skin and a rush of calm warmth enveloped her. His name passed over her lips, a whisper of promise, and she raised her lids, finding his eyes. His expression was somber, serious, and cautious but also tender. His eyes were dark and glassy, haunted by a mysterious emotion she had never seen. Her lips parted, reassurances perched on her tongue, faltering when his thumb grazed across her lower lip. He swallowed and smiled, "Scully," he whispered over and again, dipping his head, drawing her toward him, his lips grazing against hers with a lightning spark of tenderness. His touch lasted only a moment, less than a heartbeat, yet it pulsed through her with a visceral resilience. A shuddery breath passed her lips and Mulder took it away, recapturing her mouth and heart and claiming them as his own. Scully didn't resist, meeting his kiss and matching his fire. His lips were firm, hot and hard, moving against her mouth with an urgency she had only known in her dreams. His fingers re-tangled in her hair and a rough tremor raced through her body. He answered with a moan and Scully forgot how to breathe. Mulder dipped down, matching her height and capturing her face between his hands. His tongue traced over her lower lip and a whimper erupted from her throat. He let out a low growl and deepened the kiss. His urgency, his hunger, burned within her and she pressed into him. She lost herself in the salty sweetness of his mouth. She found herself in the hard heat of his body. Scully arched her back, wanting more. Mulder responded with her name, his hand falling to the small of her back, pulling her in. He pressed into her hip and her body reeled from the sensation. She surrendered to the moment, bringing her hands to his face, silently urging him closer. Mulder took an awkward step forward, pulling her with him, meaning to lead them out of the rain and closer to her apartment. They stumbled slightly, but their connection never lapsed. His lips remained insistent. Her hold was still as strong. When he moved again, Scully was ready, stepping backwards, her body reeling with anticipation. They reached the curb and he lifted her off her feet, his arms snaking around her waist, holding her firmly against his chest as he stepped up. He took three more quick strides, still ravaging her with the heat of his mouth, finally stopping in front of the stairs. His hold loosened and Scully slid down the length of him, a ragged breath breaking past her lips as their connection waned. Her feet hit the wet pavement and she swallowed hard, looking up and finding his eyes. They were dark, yet vibrantly alive with need. They searched her, looking into her soul and seeking out her doubts. He would find none. Mulder was what she wanted and needed. He was her beacon, her light on a dark and fearful night--and together they would find their way. Understanding registered in his eyes and he reached out, taking her face between his hands once again. "Mulder," she whispered in a voice so husky with passion that she didn't recognize it as her own. His thumb grazed across her swollen lower lip and her eyes fell shut. She read the hesitancy in his touch and slowly slid her hands from the center of his chest. She traced his ribs, moving outward and down, finally stopping when she reached his hips. "Scully," he moaned when she gave a little tug, urging him against her once again. "Let's go inside, Mulder," she breathed, opening her eyes. The faintest of whimpers escaped from his throat and Scully took a step back, pulling him forward. His eyes never left hers as she led him up the stairs. When they arrived at the door, he reached around her, pushing it open. She offered him a smile of reassurance, of silent promises, and turned in his arms, taking his hand and pulling him through the doorway. She took slow, deliberate steps and he squeezed her hand before clasping it tightly. The air was thick with heat and unspoken truths and their ascent up the stairs seemed to last a lifetime. When they reached her door, Scully turned, catching his gaze. Her heart surged in her chest at the certainty she found in his eyes. A violent shiver raced up her spine, catalyzed by the chill of her wet clothes and the look of heat in Mulder's gentle eyes. "Scully," he whispered. It was a question, a promise, a truth like no other. She tugged on his hand, reaching behind her and pushing open the door. She didn't turn as she pulled him across the threshold and into her arms. His lips found hers immediately, crushing her mouth beneath his. Her hands trailed up his back, urging him closer as she leaned in, pressing her body tightly against his. She arched her back, crying out against his lips. One of his hands moved to her hair, the other to the small of her back as he spun them around. He took two quick steps, lifting her up and pressing her against the door, closing it in the process. A cry erupted from her chest and she trembled from the feel of his hard body as he pinned her against the unyielding wood. His heart pounded against her chest; his erection pressed into her stomach. His lips broke away, her name falling out of him as a strangled moan. She answered with one of her own when his dipped down, his kisses leaving a trail of fire across the sensitive skin of her throat. Desperately, she pulled at the back of his shirt, lifting the wet material, sighing with satisfaction when her fingers finally settled against the warmth of his skin. Mulder followed her lead, his hand moving downward from the small of her back, cupping her ass. She bit her lip as he kneaded the flesh between his fingers, sending a wave of heat cascading across her body. Her hands glided across his back, tracing circles, dipping lower, sliding beneath the waistband of his pants and then rising again. He let out a whimper of protest, squeezing her ass and lifting her up in one quick movement. She encircled him-- his neck with her arms, his waist with her legs. They both cried out when she settled against him. She felt his shoulders quiver beneath her fingers. He pressed into her and this time the shudder was deep within her soul. "Scully," he cried out as she arched her back against his thrust. She swallowed, almost whimpering from the torturous pleasure. His hand moved from her hair to her back and he pulled her away from the door, molding her securely against his chest. His lips moved to hers, passionately reclaiming her mouth as he took a step back. Scully held tight, drinking in his kisses as he took a few more steps back and then turned toward the bedroom. She shut her eyes against the rush of pleasure created by the feel of him rubbing against her with every step. She broke their kiss as they entered the hall, moving her lips to his neck, reveling in the salty taste of the rain against his hot skin, tasting him with a desperation six years in the making. "Scully--" he started to plead, almost sagging against the wall when she drew the tip of his earlobe into her mouth. Smiling against his ear, she continued, slowly swirling her tongue over the sensitive skin, suckling gently as he stepped into her bedroom. She moved her lips to his neck and her hands to his hair, running her fingers through the silky, wet strands as Mulder covered the distance between the door and the bed in four quick strides. Lifting her head, she found his eyes, reading the raw desire reflected within. Mulder inched toward her, taking her lips, gently this time as he lowered her to the floor. Scully groaned softly in protest when Mulder took a step away. He smiled sweetly, a boyish grin that held promises for the moments to come. He reached for her slowly then, the back of his hand tracing over the lines of her face before moving down the length of her neck. She swallowed and his fingers moved lower, stopping when they reached the first button of her blouse. He freed it easily, his eyes never leaving hers. The others followed just as slowly and Scully's knees began to quiver with sweet anticipation. She reached up, pulling the garment away from her shoulders and free of her arms. Slowly, she stepped forward, using both hands to work his buttons free, leaning in and tasting his skin as his chest was exposed. His arms enveloped her, his fingers trailing up her back with a feather light touch. He traced circles, back and forth, up and down, finally settling over the clasp of her bra, releasing it on the first attempt. Pushing his shirt away, she leaned down, feathering the lightest of kisses above his navel. He whimpered in response, reaching down and taking hold of her arms. Mulder started to pull her up, gently, slowly, and she trailed her tongue and lips along his chest, turning and catching the tip of a hard nipple between her lips. Eyes drooping shut, she started to suckle, but he pulled her away. She fought to open her heavy lids, finally succeeding and finding a look of wild desire housed in his gaze. He bit down on his full lower lip and swallowed hard, reaching out and taking the damp bra away from her skin and then down her arms. A groan slipped past his lips and his fingers moved up her arms, grazing across her shoulders before trailing down her chest. He took a firm breast into each hand, his thumbs feathering across each pink nipple. Scully bit down on her lip, arching into his touch and reaching for the buckle of his belt. She removed it slowly with trembling fingers, reeling from the feel of his hands as they worked her nipples into firm, stiff peaks. The button came free easily and Mulder moaned when she pulled down the zipper, her fingers grazing against him. She gave a little push and they fell past his narrow hips. Mulder kicked them away, toeing off his wet socks and shoes in the process. He dropped to his knees then, pulling Scully close, depositing the slowest of kisses across her belly as he worked the button of her slacks loose. The zipper followed quickly and he suckled on the soft skin surrounding her navel as he pushed her pants down. His hands moved to her hips, steadying her as she stepped out of the wet garment. He rose then, slowly, his mouth gliding across her skin with excruciating thoroughness. He stopped when he reached her breasts, pulling first one, and then the other nipple into his mouth, worrying each between his tongue and teeth. Scully released a sigh in response, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tarried for a moment longer and then continued on his way. His kisses were maddening and Scully lifted his face, capturing his mouth with the fierceness they had abandoned at her door. His response was immediate and complete. She reached down then, tugging at his brightly colored boxer shorts. When they didn't give right away, he moved in to help, pushing them down and kicking them away impatiently. She felt his hands come to rest on her hips, his fingers snaking under the thin material of her panties and she whimpered desperately against his mouth. He pulled her lower lip into his teeth, sucking gently before breaking the kiss. His lips trailed down her neck and he pulled on her panties, moving them down as his mouth went lower. They were free by the time his lips brushed against the soft skin of her stomach. Scully took his face in her hands, urging him up, hoping to entice him into her bed. Mulder would have no part of her plan. Instead, he continued to pepper kisses across her belly as his fingers slowly moved up the inside of her leg. A tremor raced up her spine and she cried out when his fingers brushed across her--softly, teasingly--before he slid his long middle finger into her, all the while the pad of his thumb tracing over her clit. She shuddered against him, biting her lip and nearly drawing blood. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she rocked against him. "Scully," he whispered against her belly, over and over. Her name became his mantra and he slid into her with every recitation. "Mulder," she whimpered pleadingly when she could take no more of the sweet pleasure he was bringing her. She wanted more. She wanted him. She wanted to feel him inside her, to see the desire in his eyes as they finished their journey together. He murmured against her belly, words her hazy brain could not comprehend, and he pulled his hand away. He bent lower and she cried out again, her protests stifled immediately when he swept her into his arms. His lips found hers and she drank him in. He took two quick steps, depositing her gently onto the bed. He moved to stand, but Scully held firm, pulling him down with her. She let out a stifled cry at the feel of his skin against hers, captivated by the sensation of his weight as he covered her with his body. He smiled with his eyes, looking into hers with a tenderness she had always known. "I want you so much, Mulder," she whispered. He touched her throat and whispered her name, his eyes sparkling with hope and need. Wordlessly, wondrously, she trailed her fingers across his cheeks, marveling at the man she loved like no other. "Scully, I--" he started to say. Her fingers moved across his lips, silencing him, "Make love to me, Mulder," she whispered. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, inching his face toward hers and raining kisses across her mouth, her checks, her nose, her eyes. His fingers grazed across her sides, her hip, her thighs, searing her skin wherever he touched. She arched against him, gliding her hands across his back and whimpering softly into his ear. She parted her legs and he immediately settled between them. "Scully," he breathed, "I...oh, God...Scully, I...need you...I--" "You have me, Mulder," she whispered against his cheek. He lifted his head, biting down on his lip as she reached between them and took him into her hands. She stroked him lightly for a moment, savoring the weight of him within her hand. When she led him to her, he slid in slowly, filling her with the sweetest sensation she had ever known. "Oh, Scully," he moaned, his eyes falling shut. He remained still within her and Scully struggled just to breathe. The feel of him was almost too much, almost too surreal, too impossibly out there. She began to move slowly and instinctively beneath him, her own desire surging in her with an urgency she had never imagined. It was the moment; it was the man. She whispered his name and he moved within her, slowly, and she arched into him, wanting more, needing more. He picked up the pace and she let herself go, giving into the feel of him--pulsing and alive within her. "Scully," he whispered again and again, strings of unintelligible words falling in between. When he began to thrust, Scully rose up to meet him, eagerly. Hands that had been stroking his back moved to his buttocks, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh, urging him on. A long forgotten ache seared inside her, promising her climax was imminent. She bit down, wanting to wait, needing to let go. He thrust again, burning within her. She rose up, this time bringing her legs up to surround his waist. The sensation was almost too much for her, and from the look of concentration on his face, Scully guessed that it was for Mulder too. "Open your eyes, Mulder," she whispered, stifling a cry as he thrust into her again. He did and the raw desire she found housed there, coupled with a deep thrust, pushed her over the edge. She cried out, burying her face into his neck, whimpering his name as spasm after spasm of pleasure rocked through her body. His pace increased and she trailed kisses along his shoulder, waves of sweet ecstasy still washing over her. "Oh, Jesus, Scully" he moaned, his neck arching backwards as his body stiffened. He thrust again, hard and deep, and she felt him throb within her. His body shuddered and Scully sought out his eyes. They were dark and glassy as he cried out her name--again and again. She touched his face, whispering his name as he collapsed against her. She held him tightly, rocking him gently until the last of his shudders had ebbed. "Scully," he whispered in a voice filled with amazement. She smiled, the same wonder filling her heart. They were together--heart and mind, body and soul--finally. He slid to her left, murmuring something about his weight and wanting to explain, but she held him close, coaxing his head against her shoulder, "Sleep, Mulder," she said softly, "The rest will come later." She felt him nod against her chest as he snaked his arms around her waist. She smiled sleepily, moving her fingers through his hair. They lay together like that for a long time, listening to the silence, secure in the warmth of each other's arms. Outside, the storm had finally stopped and Scully watched as the light of the moon danced across the smooth skin of Mulder's back. She felt him sigh against her breast and she smiled, relieved that he had finally given into sleep. She grazed her fingers against his cheek, "I love you, Mulder," she breathed softly, closing her eyes. "I love you, too, Scully," he whispered sleepily a moment later. Day Four 4:02 a.m. Office of Lieutenant Colonel Norman Brady United States Air Force Undisclosed Location "Come," Brady shouted, pacing slowly around the room. He heard the door creak open but didn't look up. "Sir?" the airman asked cautiously after a long moment. "What is it?" the lieutenant colonel asked, wearily rubbing his brow with one hand, two files clutched in the other. "We're awaiting your orders, Sir." "I'm aware of that, Airman," he responded, still pacing. "Sir, I--" Brady stopped, the look of displeasure he wore so well cutting off the airman mid-sentence. Clearing his throat, "We'll wait," he said, bringing the precious files up to rest against his chest, "Until the moment is right." The airman did not speak, but waited patiently for his superior's response. Brady smiled, yes, he thought, the young airman was a good solider. He would serve them well in the future. Pulling the files away from his chest, he patted them against his palm, staring down at the two names listed on the tabs, recalling the materials contained within. Clearing his throat, he met the airman's patient gaze, "And then they die." FIN. Author's notes: Well, after seven long months, it's finally finished and I suppose that I should be happy--maybe even ecstatic--but, strangely, I'm not. I'm sad. In a way, this feels like a good-bye. This has come to mean so much more to me than words, or a story and honestly, it's been hard for me to let go. But the wonderful people that I've met, the friends that I've made, the moments that we've shared will always be with me. They have given this story meaning and life. I feel so blessed for both the friendships and the warm welcome I've received into the community. Thank you to everyone for making my first foray into fanfiction so very special. I'd like to take a moment to thank all of the readers. Your patience, encouragement, and kind words have meant so much to me. Thank you for taking part in this journey with me and leaving me with so many wonderful memories. Dedication: To my friends and beta readers. In one word, these ladies are amazing. Not only were they generous with their time, assistance, patience, and support, but they truly are the heart of this story. My heartfelt thanks and love go out to each of you. To Jewel: You have been my cheerleader since the beginning and my friend through the end. There simply aren't words to describe what you have come to mean to me. You are truly an amazing person; your strength, courage, kindness, and optimism never cease to amaze and inspire me. Your faith made me believe. To Sybil: You, my dear, are my sweetness and light. You have been a much needed breath of fresh air into my life. Thank you for your friendship, your support, and your love, I will always cherish all three. And, Sybil, it must be said--you rock. To Jen: You have got to be sick of me! Thank you for looking through countless rewrites, always with an eye for detail. Your friendship and expertise have been invaluable and so appreciated. To Andrea: Your support and assistance with the last few chapters has meant a lot to me, but both pale in comparison the wonderful friend that you have become. Not to mention that it's wonderful to hang out with a fellow chemistry nerd To Lari: Sweetie, you quack me up I'm so amazed that we've all come together the way we have, and equally blessed to know you. Thank you for all of the laughs, help, and support. And many more thanks for allowing me to be a part of your writing endeavors as well. To Kim: You have been so patient with me, and I have to say that you deserve a plaque for it! Thanks so much for putting up with me and my slowness. But I'm so happy that I've been able to help you some as well. To Beduini: Your support, suggestions, and well wishes for the last chapter (especially the smut!) are so very appreciated, as is your friendship. Thank you for sharing part of this with me. To Iz: A wise person once told me (a certain Miss Sweetnes and Light) that you can never have too many friends that graduated from MIT. I'm so happy that she yanked you into the fold. Thank you for your help, support, and for putting up with all of us. Special thank you's and virtual hugs go out to Shari and Kris for their link on Chronicle X's In Press page, to Dan, IP, Jarrod, Max, BJ, and JB for sharing four very special ladies with me, to Melissa for her early help, and to my family for their understanding and support. Thanks again for reading! And as always, feedback will be cherished (and sobbed over!) at kemystre@aol.com Melissa--going to sleep at last.