Storybrooke Has Fallen (1/?)
Summary: Based entirely too closely on the movie Olympus Has Fallen. Secret Service agent Killian Jones has always taken his job seriously - perhaps a little too seriously if his supervisor were to have her say. But when terrorists attack the White House with Emma and her son inside, Jones will stop at nothing to find them and get them to safety.
Rated: T, for violence, kidnapping, some dark themes
This is for the elusive @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable on the occasion of her birth. Which occasion, I won’t tell you, but suffice to say, she’s a few days younger than me. Also, tagging @killian-whump because I’ve been taunting her with it forever and it’s RIGHT up her alley. @xhookswenchx because I made her read part of it and she pretended to like it :-P, and @cocohook38 because I know you’re a whump fan.
Word count: ~ 4,600
From the beginning: AO3 / FFN
The punches continued to rain down as Killian Jones bobbed and weaved around his opponent. Sweat glistened under the lights and the smell of blood filled his nose from a lucky shot. He waited patiently for an opening, baiting the combatant into a momentary lapse in judgment that would let him score a few body shots. Finally, an elbow dropped carelessly away from its guard and Killian pounced. A flurry of body shots dropped the other hand to protect vulnerable organs and he moved on instinct to jab towards his opponent’s head.
Emma Swan growled in frustration and swung wildly, clipping Killian’s jaw with her boxing gloves but leaving the other side of her helmet open to his attack. He grinned around his mouth guard as he tapped her ear tauntingly, then laughed outright when she swatted his hand angrily away.
“For the love of God, Swan, keep your guard up!” he forced out around the plastic and gel in his mouth.
Emma tucked her elbows in and let him swing at her now-protected midsection, grunting with the exertion, but with a gleam in her eyes.
“Oh no you don’t,” he smirked. “You’re not gonna rope-a-dope me. That’s a move for geriatrics.”
Swan glared, but changed up her plan, going on the attack and backing Killian up with a flurry of punches.
He grinned, ducking and jabbing to keep her off-balance, purposely leaving his left side open to gauge whether or not she’d catch it.
She did.
Killian gasped a little at the force of the blow, leaving a little more of his ribs vulnerable than he’d planned. Emma’s answering grin let him know that she’d heard the sharp intake of air, but neither let up.
The sound of a throat clearing stopped the sparring session immediately. Killian and Emma both looked up from the tiny boxing ring. “Madame President, it’s almost time,” the new agent - unfortunately dubbed ‘Happy’ by Emma’s son - announced.
“Thank you, Michael,” Swan mumbled, spitting out her own mouth guard and nodding. “We’ll be up in a moment.”
Happy left swiftly, leaving Emma and Killian alone in Camp David’s basement. “You know, Jones, you’re not supposed to hit the President of the United States.” She smiled slyly.
“Yeah,” he allowed. “I know.”
He wasn’t agreeing with her.
Emma disappeared into the first family’s private quarters to get ready for the evening’s Christmas party, so Killian stalked through the house checking on the readiness of the agents under his command. The weather reports were coming in from the different agencies and networks, but Killian glanced out a window and frowned - it was really coming down out there and something niggled at the back of his mind. He had half an idea to call off the excursion, keep the entire family safely ensconced in the camp’s borders where they were warm and out of danger.
But the next election was coming up soon and he knew that President Swan would scoff at his overprotectiveness if there were any chance that it was safe to drive to the dinner party. Instead, he listened to the comm in his ear and nodded grimly - the weather was predicted to remain steady for the next several hours.
At the end of his loop through the residence, Killian hit the shower then changed quickly into a suit for the evening. Finished wrestling with his tie, he marched out of his quarters and found himself in the family room, the warmth of the fire peaceful.
Until the sound of machine gun fire on the television assaulted his ears.
Killian cut his gaze over to where Emma’s ten-year old son Henry was glued to the television, the Playstation controller in his hand bopping about wildly as he ducked around the bullets flying on the screen.
“Now the real bloodbath begins when your father finds you playing this game,” he snarked before shutting off the television.
Henry glared at him, but threw the controller on the couch and flopped back on the cushions dramatically. “You suck.”
Killian snorted. “Just protecting your life, young sir,” he commented - earning a very Swan-like eyeroll in response.
Henry climbed over Killian’s lap, reaching for his latest book and curling up in a corner of the couch to fall into the latest story. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Killian replied before getting up with a check of his watch. “Your parents should be out in a few minutes. Be ready to go, yeah?”
Henry nodded, already lost to the outside world.
Killian moved past the Christmas decorations and the mountains of presents for the First Family’s own celebration the next morning - when their extended family and friends would arrive for Christmas breakfast. His brain was already cataloguing the logistics he’d need to accommodate Neal’s batch of relatives.
He knocked on Neal and Emma’s bedroom door, greeted by Swan herself - or at least the top of her head as she read over her speech.
“Five minutes, ma’am,” Killian intoned formally, knowing it would get a rise out of Emma.
She looked up, startled for a moment, and then glared at him. “Why thank you, kind sir,” she intoned sarcastically, moving away from the door.
“What do you think, Killian,” Neal spoke up from the bed where he was fiddling with his cuffs. “Emma’s useless at picking. The gold or the platinum.”
Killian refrained from rolling his eyes at Neal’s need for opulence. “The gold. Classic look for the First Husband.”
Neal considered him for a moment. “That’s what Emma said, but nah, I think I’m going to go with the platinum for tonight. But thanks,” he threw out, already moving towards the ensuite bathroom.
Killian shared a conspiratorial smile with Emma before backing away from the door and letting her close it in his face. “We’ll be out in a minute, Jones,” she assured.
“Very well, ma’am.”
As promised, the couple emerged from the room a few minutes later, dressed to the nines and ready to go. They met Henry in the living room, his book tucked discreetly into his tuxedo for when the party inevitably bored him to tears.
“Do I really have to go with you guys tonight? I’ve been to hundreds of these parties!” Henry whined, moving towards the door as if he knew his request would be denied before he finished asking.
“Re-election is hard work, kid,” Emma snarked, reaching out to run a hand over Henry’s hat. “Are you really going to bring that book?”
“I think it’s fine,” Neal cut in. “It’s age-appropriate. I wish I could bring a book, too!”
Henry grinned at his father.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Fine, but keep it out of sight for at least the first hour, okay?”
The boy smiled brightly. “Only if I can ride with Killian?” he wheedled.
“It’s up to Jones. He’s in charge,” Emma agreed with a smile.
Henry turned puppy dog eyes on Killian. “Please, Killian?”
He’d already planned on letting his young friend ride in their car - giving Emma and her husband some alone time on Christmas Eve. Killian nodded though, rearranging the secret service detachment as if it had only just occurred to him to do so.
The ride was tense, the wind and snow putting Killian on edge as he focused wholly on their surroundings. It took him a moment to notice Henry leaning forward from the backseat, trying to see what Killian was looking at.
“Henry, your seatbelt,” he reminded, his heart rate skyrocketing until the boy was safely secured again. They chatted for awhile about the responsibilities of his job - Henry had it in his head that he was going to grow up to be just like Killian and took every opportunity to question the agents assigned to him.
They were quizzing him on the number of escape routes in the White House when it happened. The car in front of them - the one holding Emma and Neal - began to skid and then spun uncontrollably. Killian was already fumbling with his seatbelt when the car crashed through the guardrail and the front wheels skidded over the edge of the embankment.
“Henry, stay here!” he screamed, one pointed look at the boy and a finger jabbed at Walter - Henry’s assigned agent - before he was out into the storm.
The car was tipping precariously over the edge, several agents already scrabbling to hold onto the car’s trunk and keep it on the road. Killian barely spared them a glance before he was jerking open the door he’d only recently closed behind Emma, grabbing for her shoulder and trying to yank her from the car.
“Neal!” she cried, fumbling with something on the seat. “Killian, his seatbelt’s stuck! I can’t get it-”
Neal was barely conscious, his head dripping blood and his eyes glazed over.
“I need to get you out of here, Swan,” he yelled in her ear, trying to grab hold of her to pull her to safety.
Emma threw his arm away. “I can’t… you have to save Neal!” she yelled, ignoring every attempt to get her away from danger.
“The door’s stuck!” one of his agents yelled from the other side, trying in vain to get to the now unconscious First Husband.
“Emma, come on!” he yelled in her ear, finally getting an arm around her and yanking her back towards him. “I’ll get Neal in-”
They fell backwards into the snow, Emma still scrambling in his hold to get back to her husband. Killian was still struggling to hold her, already mapping out a strategy to keep her safe and get Neal when the shouts of his team reached him.
There was no more time to react, the car careening over the side with a horrendous screech of metal and crashing through the trees.
Everything went silent, Emma’s screams and his own fading into numbness where everything slowed down comically. The brake lights of the car shimmered through the night until those, too, were lost to the darkness.
Neal had still been inside.
Time sped up at Henry’s panicked shouting, Emma limp in Killian’s arms with shock. Tremors raced up and down his own arms, tears tracking down his face unchecked. He barely had a moment’s notice before Henry was in reach, instinct the only thing that fueled Killian to grab the boy and tuck him into his chest. Hot tears soaked his dress shirt and Henry’s cries echoed in his ears.
“Why didn’t you save him?! Why did you let my dad die?!”
The alarm clock’s blaring ring shot through Killian’s consciousness, jolting him from the nightmare that had plagued him every night over the last eighteen months. Neal’s death, Emma’s hatred, his own dismissal from her team, it all paled in comparison to the tears in his heart from Henry’s anguished screams. They’d recovered Neal’s body and that of the driver the next day, their seat belts still securing them in the vehicle.
He’d been reassigned to the Treasury twelve hours later, not even a word from Emma about it.
Not that he blamed her.
He’d failed. Failed so utterly that he was lucky to still have a job at all. He’d been tempted to pack it all in, flee across the pond with his tail between his legs and beg his brother for a place to crash as he grieved in private.
But the safety of Liam’s flat in London was a kindness he couldn’t afford himself. He didn’t deserve the comfort of his only family.
Not when he’d torn Emma’s apart.
So Killian rolled himself out of bed and got dressed robotically, half-listening to the news reports about the upcoming summit between Swan’s administration and South Korea’s diplomatic entourage.
He didn’t want to imagine the logistics involved in securing that meeting, but his brain helpfully supplied it anyway.
The problem with sequestering yourself away from human interaction, Killian mused idly, was that there was no one else in your apartment to tell you when the coffee can was empty. With a growl and the slam of the cupboard, Killian clipped his weapon and his badge to his belt and stalked out the door.
He stumbled across Mary Margaret Blanchard in the closest Starbucks to work, slinking in the entryway and collapsing onto a seat next to her. He clutched the precious caffeine to his chest, inhaling the familiar scent.
She ignored him as she perused the newspaper.
“How was your Fourth?” she finally asked, proving that she was aware of his presence and also of his mood.
“My fourth what?” he snarked, not quite saturated enough with caffeine for idle small talk.
Mary Margaret side-eyed him and shook her head. “The Fourth of July, Hook,” she corrected, falling back on his callsign easily. “Don’t be a jerk.”
He shrugged. In all honesty, he’d forgotten there was even a holiday, spending most of it contemplating the bottle of rum and its ability to drown out Henry’s accusations.
To erase the memories of happier times with Emma and her family, feeling as if he actually belonged somewhere.
He’d give anything to be back on her detail, to be able to protect her and her son.
But Emma hated him now, and Henry likely did, too.
So Killian shrugged, made small talk like Mary Margaret wanted, and gauged her mood before he carefully commented, “This desk job is killing me, M’s. I want back in.”
She sighed and nodded. “I know you do, Jones. We all know you made the right call on that bridge. Even Emma knows it; she just…”
“Can’t stand the thought of me failing her again,” he cut in.
Mary Margaret glared at him. “No. You didn’t fail, Jones, you just made an impossible decision based on the situation and your training. Emma just needs to focus and seeing you every day would be a reminder of what she lost. Maybe with the next President.”
Killian nodded sadly. “I know. How’s… how’s Henry?”
“Misses you,” she responded, surprising Killian. “He asks about you all the time. When he’s not giving his agents heart attacks running around the White House and hiding from them.”
Killian smirked.
“Laugh it up, Hook. We all know who taught him that.”
He shrugged unapologetically, remembering teaching Henry all the hiding places the huge building had to offer. Remembering how much fun it had been, and how much he’d lost that night. How much Henry had screamed and cried in his arms. He couldn’t quite reconcile Mary Margaret’s words about Henry with the tortured screams that haunted his nights.
The boy missed him? Henry didn’t hate him?
God, he wanted to find the boy right then and hug the stuffing out of him.
Alas, Killian had a job to get to and Mary Margaret had a team of agents to direct. With a curt nod and a promise to “just get out of the apartment,” Killian left the Starbucks and trudged over to the Treasury building.
He lost several hours reading over briefs and filling out paperwork, the busywork not nearly exciting enough to fulfill his adrenaline needs. He was almost in a trance when he heard it.
Explosions.
More than one and entirely too close for comfort. Killian’s head whipped around, all traces of fatigue erased as the adrenaline began to pump through his veins. The alarm rang through the building, more explosions in the streets, and the first sounds of panic began to reach him. Killian didn’t think, he just moved.
Unclip his weapon.
Thumb off the safety.
Look left, look right.
Get to the danger.
He ducked and dodged around other agents, lay people, interlopers who were between him and the perceived threat. The code that echoed in his ears frightened him, but Killian couldn’t focus on the fear.
999.
Terrorist attack.
He didn’t know exactly where, he didn’t know how, he most assuredly didn’t know who, but it didn’t matter.
Nothing did outside of his training.
Identify the threat.
Neutralize the target.
Protect the innocent.
Get to the President.
Save Henry.
Killian didn’t overthink his reactions, didn’t stop to muse on how Emma would react to seeing him, didn’t wonder on Mary Margaret’s words from earlier that day. He didn’t have the luxury of worrying about that.
There were more explosions and now the sound of automatic gunfire on the street.
Killian ducked behind a car as a modified aircraft flew low overhead, opening fire on the civilians running in panic for their lives. Bodies littered the sidewalks and the streets, holes ripped through them from the large bore ammunition that was raining down on them from above. The tang of copper was heavy in the air, the smell of gunpowder and burning, well, everything, assaulting his nostrils. More gunfire, more explosions, more screaming. It was like the Middle East all over again, but they were on the streets at home.
This wasn’t supposed to happen here.
The aircraft made another run, strafing the street he had just turned down and throwing yet another part of the city into panic.
Killian grabbed the nearest woman who was flailing and forced her down behind the SUV he was using for cover, ignoring the screaming in his ears as he kept her pressed tightly against the metal. The other side of the SUV exploded under the assault, and Killian knew they had little time to move. Shoving her in front of him, he led the woman to an alcove and left her huddled and crying against the wall. She’d be relatively safe there for the moment, and Killian needed to keep moving.
Leaving her behind, he took a side street that would lead him to Pennsylvania Avenue, where he could hear the gunfire increasing.
He had just turned the corner when-
BOOM!
The echoes that wavered through Killian made him sick to his stomach, the aftershock of the car exploding to his left shuddering through his system. He was sprawled across the street, everything moving in slow motion and nothing making sense.
He needed to move.
Forcing his body to obey, Killian pushed shakily to his feet and checked his weapon. The sight was wavering, but he wasn’t sure if that was damage to the hardware or to his eyes. His head was pounding and his hand was shaking, but Killian didn’t have the luxury of time.
Keep moving.
Get to Emma.
Find Henry.
The White House came into view and Killian’s focus sighted in on the men on the front lawn trying to defend it. There were gunmen, armored trucks full of terrorists, insurgents he needed to take out.
He had 14 bullets.
Killian opened fire with calculated precision, aim, sight, fire.
Aim, sight, fire.
He had taken out four before they realized the new threat behind him and he was forced to duck for cover again behind a nearby wall. A bullet whizzed by his ear, the chips of granite from where it skipped past him burning the skin under his eye and making him blink away on instinct.
If he’d ducked the other way from the assault, he’d have taken a bullet to the chest.
He needed to move.
Silence. Was it over? Killian wasn’t inclined to believe it, but the minutes dragged on and people came out from hiding to gawk at the disaster strewn across the front lawn of the White House. His adrenaline started to abate, his head coming to rest against the cold iron fence still in place. He still needed to get inside, needed to see for himself that Emma was secure and Henry was safe. He needed to know-
BOOM!
His head whipped to the side, dodging the crowd of people fleeing from the bus that had just exploded.
It wasn’t over yet.
There were two men with backpacks just standing at the fence, still staring at the front lawn.
They weren’t fleeing.
Killian raised his weapon.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Get down on the ground. Now!”
The first man turned towards him, his hand wrapped around a trigger switch.
Killian took him out.
He had just sighted in on the second one when the terrorist depressed his switch and detonated.
Killian hit the ground hard, his ears ringing worse than before.
There was a great, smoking hole where the fence had been.
More men came running, automatic weapons firing as they ran, shooting indiscriminately. Killian ducked inside the fence, his back anchored to another tree as he opened fire.
He was badly outmatched.
A ricochet nicked his shoulder, sending bright hot tendrils of pain racing down his arm and making his hand go numb for the moment.
It didn’t matter.
He had to ignore it.
If he didn’t, he was as good as dead already.
Raising his weapon shakily, Killian drew a bead on a sniper set up just outside the fence. She was taking potshots at the Marines and the agents who were spilling out of the White House to protect it.
A bullet from Killian’s weapon silenced that threat but revealed his position.
Before he could move, another crash, this time sounding more like a car accident, jerked Killian’s attention away from the men advancing on his position.
The terrorists took more notice of it than of him slinking away, and Killian wasn’t about to look a gifthorse in the mouth. He crawled away from the men, needing to find out what had drawn their priorities away from ending him.
One of the armored trucks had barreled through the hole in the wrought-iron fence, spilling terrorists onto the grounds and making the threat to Swan and her son all the more imminent.
Killian needed to get to their sides.
He snuck around the truck, ducking for cover as the combatants spread out and engaged the secret service agents returning fire. He wanted to help them, wanted to fall into line, but that wasn’t his target at the moment. These men had contingencies and plans and protocols in place - Killian had helped to tweak most of them when he was still Emma’s lead agent. Inserting himself into their ranks would only throw things into disarray.
And as much as Killian felt for them, for the men who were falling before his eyes as he took evasive actions to get inside the building, they weren’t his priority.
They weren’t his mission.
More explosions, more bullets whizzing overhead, more chaos.
Killian took the steps three at a time, his eyes only for the protection of the front doors, guarded by men he’d assigned to their defense years ago. A nod of acceptance was all the permission he was granted, and Killian dove behind a column, taking a single moment to catch his breath.
Control the adrenaline.
Focus on the target.
Eliminate extraneous information.
Breathe.
Focus.
Go to work.
Killian watched with clinical detachment as a man to his left slid two full clips of ammunition along the smooth ground. He pocketed them without a thought, picking out his targets and taking them out. His breath was coming in short pants, the trickle of blood down his cheek a warm, wet trail, the cold sweat at his back sparking tremors that increased the pounding between his ears.
He fired again.
Again.
Again.
“RPG!” a shout from his left was the only warning Killian received before the marble above him began to crumble, the cacophony reaching him moments later. He barely made it out from under the rubble before the terrorists were on them again, weapons fire strafing the ground as he scrambled for cover.
There was a fire along his left side, the tearing of muscle from bone and the heat of lacerations distracting him momentarily from his plight.
“Help me,” a weak cry to his right.
Killian looked down, Walter was splayed out across the marble, two bullet holes neatly scoring the white of his shirt. He grabbed at the agent’s arm, pulling him up and slinging him over his back.
“Where’s Henry?” he shouted at the agent, but got no answer.
Walter likely wouldn’t make it, not without help. But Killian wouldn’t leave him behind if he could help it. He stumbled under the extra weight, shouldering the burden as he staggered through cover fire to relative safety.
“I’ve got him, L-T,” a voice echoed. Tom, one of the men from Killian’s original detachment, helped ease Walter down, applying pressure and a field dressing from his vest.
Killian squeezed Walter’s shoulder once before moving on, shaking the pessimistic thoughts from his head and ignoring the wounds to his own back on his trek towards the open doors. He needed to get inside. Needed to get the doors locked down and take stock.
Another grenade whistled over his head and struck the doors, crumbling the framework and crippling his plans.
Get inside.
Take stock.
Find Emma and Henry.
Save them.
Someone barreled into his side, taking them both down just inside the doorway and knocking the breath from Killian’s lungs. He grappled with the man, trading punches and trying to gain the upper hand. He saw stars as the man locked his throat in a vice grip, blackness starting to encroach as he struggled, strained, fought for enough room to-
His knife in hand, Killian plunged the blade up into the man’s throat and ended the fight instantly.
Two minutes later and he had the luxury of a tactical vest that he had stripped from the dead man, supplying him with another gun, more ammunition, two more blades, and a handful of field dressings.
Never mind the protection from the kevlar that he secured painfully around his torso.
The sting from open wounds faded with the adrenaline that continued to pump through his veins. It was quiet in the building, the men, women, and children who worked and visited here on a daily basis long since fled. His footsteps echoed through the halls as Killian stalked their lengths, alert and focused on moving forward. He needed to get to a secure location, take better stock of the situation, and formulate a plan.
Emma would be in the bunker. The agents assigned to her protection would have moved her at the earliest threat.
But Henry.
Killian had no idea where the boy had been when this all began. His agents would have gotten to him as quickly as possible, but there was no guarantee that they were at his side if he was in the residence.
And Walter had been outside.
He needed to find out more intel. He needed to get a bead on one of the men and figure out who was attacking them. He needed to get to the Oval Office where there was a secure line and another weapon.
He needed to move.
A radio echoed down the hallway, drawing his attention. One of the agents, calling out an SOS, a last ditch cry for aid.
“Storybrooke has fallen. Storybrooke has. Fallen. Storybr-”
The bullet that took him down came out of nowhere. The impact in the middle of his back sent him sprawling, his head connecting with something solid as he fell. He couldn’t breathe, the wind knocked completely from his lungs and the radiating pain spreading out along his ribs and down his legs.
He blacked out momentarily, long enough for his assailant to stalk down the hall and toe at his side. Killian only had half a second to hear the intake of breath that signaled another shot was coming, and he whipped around to put a bullet in the man’s head.
Two hundred pounds of dead weight settled on his chest and Killian couldn’t fight the darkness any longer.
