Carter's Recourse - 43. Chapter 43

They all heard the shot ring out. Andrew flinched in his chair, a look of desperate shock on his face as he fought against his bonds, trying to get free, trying to get to Carter. His mind was flying through all the possibilities and he didn't like any of them. Johnson was moving like a shark towards the bank of elevators, his own gun out and in hand.

"Watch him," Johnson commanded, pointing at Yani and gesturing to Andrew.

The frightened young communication tech scrambled for his own weapon, nearly dropping it as he stood up, his eyes darting towards the stairwell and his hands shaking as he held the pistol.

Andrew turned his head. "This is it... decision time," he said firmly, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice as he said it. He needed to reach Yani, to break through his fear and his conditioning, to reach the intelligent human being that knew what Johnson was doing wasn't rational. That he was going to get the kid killed.

"Come on!" Andrew snapped, pulling at his bonds.

Yani brought the gun up, swallowing as he trained it on Andrew. "D-don't move..." he commanded, trying to sound like he was in control.

"Or what?" Andrew asked his eyes locked on Yani's. "You're going to shoot me? Have you ever shot someone?"

Yani swallowed, pulling his other hand up to cup the pistol grip, to steady the weapon that was wavering in his hands.

Andrew began to sweat.

"That bastard is about to kill someone I love... he got what he wanted, he stopped the vote... why does anyone have to die?" Andrew stretched forward as far as he could in the chair. "How many more people have to die for oil?"

"S-stop..." Yani said, looking pleadingly towards the elevator well, his gun dipping as he looked uncertain. His training and conditioning warred with his common sense. He knew what Andrew was saying; he could see it, if he would just act on it...

"Come on!" Andrew insisted.

The second shot caused both men to turn in shock.

* * *

"The Honourable Minister without Portfolio," the Speaker called out.

William Carter turned to face the Speaker and inclined his head, indicating his intent to vote no on the war vote. Swaying unsteadily, he caught the edge of his desk.

"Mister Carter?" the Speaker asked, uncertain as to if that was an assent.

"That's a no-way-in-hell, Mister Speaker," Will said, standing up straight and looking the Speaker directly in the eyes.

"Perhaps the Minister would do best to refrain from using such language in the house," the Speaker said with a halfhearted attempt to chastise Will.

"My apologies," Will said, sinking into his seat thankful to get off his feet, looking across the floor at Hesston who was boring holes into him as the Speaker continued to read off the names of the members voting against the war. It was still the first round, and Bob Hesston had no intention of folding his hand yet; if he couldn't win the war, he was certainly going to mortally wound the Liberal Party.

"Thank you," Thorpe whispered from the table beside him.

Will looked over at his old friend and nodded, "We're not done yet..."

* * *

Marc stared at the man laying at his feet, blood seeping out in a deep dark pool soaking into the carpet. The Browning in his hands lowered unsteadily, what had he done? It had just gone off, he hadn't meant to shoot him... he'd turned and it had fired.

Had he just killed someone?

He didn't have time to think... They were going to kill Andrew and then they were going to kill him. He had to move, and he willed his feet to step one in front of the other as he staggered into the darkened floor.

He could hear voices, through the sheet plastic and the building pallets, coming from the far side of the floor, over by the huge windows that commanded such an impressive view of Parliament.

He tried to make himself as small as he could; Will's jacket was a little too large for him and he took it off in frustration, stuffing it into an empty crate as he recovered the pistol, shivering as the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise.

The shadows were alive; someone was moving through them with the agile grace of a hunter, moving in towards him with deadly intent, searching for him. And Marc's throat went dry as he knew the man was going to kill him if he found him.

Marc kept his head down, taking a couple of side steps to the right, watching the shadows with nervous anticipation of the shot, looking over at some of the old office partitions that had been carelessly stacked to one side. Marc thanked god again for making him so short as he wriggled his way between them, trying not to make any noise as he did so.

He stopped as his foot caught the edge of one of the partitions, tugging to try to free it. The cuff of the suit trousers hooked on an old nail and as he pulled on it, the partition teetered threateningly. The shadow was getting closer...

Marc bit his lip, hard enough to make it bleed as he pulled on the leg, wincing as he saw the partition begin to topple as his leg came free.

* * *

Johnson spun at the sudden noise; his Berretta barking once as it sliced through the partition before it had even hit the ground. He knew where Carter was now, and he wasn't about to let him get away, not after all that the man had put him through.

"You're trapped," Johnson observed, picking his way through the stacks of plasterboard and the paint buckets, his gun up and trained at the pallet section. Carter was in there, but he was also armed, and that made him dangerous.

"You really should have stayed in England." Johnson ducked under a piece of sheet plastic, his eyes watching every nook and crevice for any sign of Carter. "You're injured, and you're alone..."

"I'm not alone,' the voice called from the darkness, "I have your winning smile."

Johnson blinked--that wasn't Carter's voice. If it wasn't Carter then who was it... He went cold, as realization set in and he pulled his phone free.

"Carter's on the hill!" he snarled into it.

* * *

"What?" the newcomer blinked, still watching the lobby, looking down at his phone incredulously. "I saw him come in... I saw him..."

"He's on the hill now," Johnson repeated.

The newcomer clicked off his phone, closing his eyes knowing that it was impossible to stop the vote now, they'd lost. Which meant that they were all dead men. He licked his lips and straightened his tie, stepping out of the stairwell and walking towards the doors of the building.

He steadied his nerves as he rested a hand on the door; it was going to be quick and simple, and he wasn't going to hesitate, there was no other choice, it was either now when he expected it, or a bullet in the back. And he'd always sworn that if he was going to go, he'd do it face to face...

He walked out onto the street, looking up at the sun-drenched sky; it was going to be a hot summer...

* * *

Andrew held up his hands. "Now!" he commanded, snapping Yani's head around.

"What?" Yani blinked slowly, closing his eyes as he brought the gun up again. "Fuck you," he insisted, pressing the barrel of the weapon against Andrew's temple. "Fuck you..." he repeated again.

Andrew took a long deep breath, realizing that if he pushed any more... but if he didn't...

"You know I'm right!" Andrew said calmly. "Let me go and help him..."

Yani's shoulders sagged as he lowered the gun, leaning down to undo the cuffs.

"Thank you!" Andrew said getting up and holding out his hand for the gun.

Yani again looked uncertain, glancing back towards the far side of the floor where Johnson would be, before he handed the gun to Andrew with a reluctant sigh.

Andrew nodded. "I'll protect you," he promised, rubbing his stiff and sore wrists before setting off to find Will.

* * *

There was an air of disbelief as two members of the Conservative Party rose in opposition to the war. Thorpe's delicate negotiations, his tenuous alliances made in back room deals to prevent the catastrophe of war from staining Canadian hands red with blood had held.

Bob Hesston was livid; for a man that had walked into the chamber with the confidence of a comfortable majority, he was staring directly at defeat. And the man that had made that defeat possible sat across the chamber from him, bloodied and battered, his arms folded, daring him to call the confidence vote.

Will watched Hesston's reaction; despite the haze from blood loss and pain, he could still read the uncertainty on Hesston's face. Could he win a confidence vote now that he had lost the call for war? Would he, in bitterness and rage, lash out and bring the government to its knees?

A look at Thorpe's face, the resignation in those eyes despite the relief at winning the crucial vote to stop the war, told Will that they couldn't count on a second miracle that day. For all his work, and for all the distracting Will had pulled off to draw attention away from Thorpe, it still wouldn't be enough to save the Liberal Party.

"So now we fall upon our swords..." Will murmured.

Thorpe turned to look at the valiant man who hadn't stopped fighting since the bitter struggle had began. The victory was pyrrhic at best, but ultimately they had succeeded in the most important way--they had served Canadian interests and respected their constituent's wishes.

"I don't think you have much to worry about," Thorpe said with a meaningful nod to the blood stained shirt Will was wearing. "Everyone saw you get shot, and appearing here on a live feed, shedding your own blood... no one's going to doubt you did the right thing."

"That we did the right thing," Will reassured with a tense nod, confident that he was right.

* * *

His muscles were screaming at him; he was weak, days without proper sleep and food made him lightheaded, and his arms were sore from the awkward position they had been kept in. But any Canadian boy that had played years of hockey as a child knew that the only way to deal with it was to play through the pain.

He swept around the corner, closing on his prey, the gun up as he maintained a perfect stance, his eyes probing the gloom for Johnson, the son of a bitch behind everything that had happened. The same son of a bitch that was hunting his Will the way Andrew now hunted him.

"You can't have him," Andrew murmured in a low tone as he closed on the deep corner of the floor. He wished the lights were on, that he had time to adjust to the dark, but Will needed him, and Andrew had to call on every instinct he had.

He needed back up. The phone he had grabbed from Yani's desk had a panic button, even now CSIS knew he was in trouble and where he was and they were descending on the building with the best possible speed.

That wouldn't be fast enough for Will.

He circled to the left, keeping a wide berth around where he thought Johnson was; he had to try to take him alive, but that was going to be difficult. He had no idea where Will was; if he was smart he was probably hiding.

Andrew's eyes settled on a cluttered section of the floor that would be the best place to do it. He slipped around, coming in low and keeping as much of the debris around the floor between him and the darkening shadows as he could.

A shot rang out, and a paint can beside his head jumped, forcing him to drop prone behind a small workbench.

"You should just give up now," Andrew called, knowing that he'd been spotted, and Johnson was not about to be caught unprepared.

"I have no intention of just giving up," Johnson called back. Another shot tore through the bench a few inches from Andrew's head, causing the young CSIS agent to make a quick dive for better cover.

"It's over, you won," Andrew called out. "Just give up and..." He crawled his way around the pallets and came face to face with a set of very wide eyes and a pistol aimed at him.

"Marc?" he blinked, his voice strained.

Marc's trembling gun lowered and a look of relief spread over his face, replaced a moment later by shock.

Andrew frowned reading the expression as he turned his head, the boot sending him sprawling through several sheets of plaster his pistol skittering away. Johnson came at him again, Andrew willing himself to his feet as he lunged for Johnson's pistol, the two men grappling as they tripped over a series of paint cans crashing to the floor again.

The bulkier man had an advantage over Andrew's leaner frame, pushing him down to the ground as he struggled to lower his Berretta and rest it against Andrew's temple.

Andrew kicked up, pushing his feet into the pit of Johnson's stomach. He heaved with all his might sending Johnson backwards staggering across the floor.

The CIA agent shook his head as he stopped backpedaling and caught his feet, lifting the automatic and training it on Andrew.

There was a sharp smack, the glass of the huge bay window spider-webbed, and Johnson turned in surprise to look at it, realizing the shot had come from the sniper across the street, turning back just as a shot rang out.

* * *

Marc stood shaking, the Browning discharging again and again in his hands as he took steps forward, the slugs slamming into Johnson causing the man to stagger, his own pistol dropping to the floor with a loud clatter as he collapsed into a bloodied heap.

Andrew stood shakily, reaching out to push Marc's hands down, the empty automatic still clicking in his hands as he tried to fire more shots from an empty magazine...

"It's over..." he said quietly.

Marc blinked, looking up at Andrew standing beside him, shock at what he had done etched across his face. The Browning fell from his nerveless fingers to the floor.

"Marc..." Andrew insisted, "where's Carter?" He searched around desperately hoping he hadn't been too late...

"He's..." Marc gestured to the window and out towards Parliament.

Andrew followed the gesture with his eyes, realizing, after turning back and registering that Marc was wearing one of Will's suits, what had happened.

"W-why did you...?" Andrew asked in shock himself.

Marc closed his eyes and swallowed down the hard knot in his throat as he focused again, reaching out to touch Andrew's arm. "Because he loves you," Marc said simply. "He cares about me... but he loves you."

Andrew looked down at Johnson, as the JTF-2 team burst out onto the floor in their tactical gear, weapons at the ready, securing it and them in a rush of noise. Both rivals for one man's affection, looking at each other with a newfound understanding of each other.

* * *

"Point of order," the speaker announced, "the Honourable Minister without Portfolio is rising on a point of order..."

Will shakily got to his feet. "Mister Speaker, we have just voted not to join the war in Iraq, to spare our soldiers the vicious bloodshed of a war we should have no part of." He swayed a little. "That war has touched us here in Canada... some of us personally." He coughed, knowing he needed to sit down again. "We are not a nation that reacts to threats, but a nation that investigates them all thoroughly. We proved that today," he stared across at the Leader of the Opposition, "by standing behind our nation's convictions that the only time we will ever go to war is if there is unequivocally no other option. You cannot meet violence with violence, nor can we stand by and let terrorists...from any nation... bully us into action. I ask if the Leader of the Opposition will stand behind Canadian values, and honour the decision of this house in this subject no matter the outcome of the next vote?"

Hesston glided to his feet. "The wishes of the Canadian people are clear, Mister Speaker." Hesston nodded. "It is a matter that will be decided by an election. I move then, Mister Speaker, to call for a vote of confidence to be enacted immediately, as I do not believe that the Prime Minister has the support of this house, nor the confidence of the Canadian people to govern effectively..."

Thorpe turned to Will, as the house exploded into jeers and catcalling back and forth. "This is it, then..."

Will smiled tiredly, "It's been building to this one vote..."

"Order; a vote of confidence has been called," the Speaker intoned, standing to quiet the house. "Order!"