Fine Tune, Focus and Zoom

307.

I must assume that Drysdale and Mustang escaped undetected. If this is the case I must make another assumption, a tactic I abhor yet utilize under extreme conditions. Based on my experience and the facts at hand, an ordinary mindless assumption can tilt the odds, however slightly, in our favor. I need that slight advantage as Goldson's goon points his fat fingers at his phone. Is he calling 911 as I ordered, is he calling his boss for instructions on how to proceed, or is he ratting out Bartowski?

I take advantage of his distraction and pat-down Bartowski. I consider that my time might be better spent doing CPR, but decide against it. I grab his cell phone, wallet and weapon as I hear a commotion in the hallway. I stand from behind the bed to see a fireman, a paramedic and an unidentified person in a pastel blazer that I take to be hotel security all looking for at me for answers. I do my best to provide them with "the official" version of the story, having their attention due to my FBI windbreaker.

"This very well could be the perp who initiated the bomb scare and detonated the EMP. I  caught him in the act of a B&E. He has a 9 mil slug in his side and is about to bleed out, he fired three shots in protecting his actions. Fire is out, let's try to keep him alive."

Instantly the fireman moves down the hall to continue his site evaluation, the paramedic brings his kit to Bartowski and the manager in the pastel blazer inspects the damage that the three shots have done to the room. Goldson's body guard has finished his call and comes towards me motioning to step away from the bloody scene and have a chat.

"Mr. Goldson AND Senator Hartaugh," he whispers in a weak attempt at name dropping, "BOTH want to know if we can keep this, ah, under wraps."

"What part? The pulse bomb, the arson, attempted homicide, the bugler about to die, or is there something else I am missing?"

He is stumped by the choices and defaults to, "All of the above." I take a look around the room and decide that we probably have sufficient evidence, the laptop and cell phone alone are worth a thousand pages of damming testimony, and ask him politely to meet me in the parking lot in ten minutes, showing him the blood on my hands compliments of Bartowski's plasma viscosity, and saying that I need a minute to 'clean up.'

I retrace my steps back to the war room and log Bartowski's phone, wallet and gun in the most informal of ways, tossing them on the bed. Drysdale is on surveillance watch as The Queen is moving through the confiscated laptop at just slightly below the speed of light.

"We're looking for a copy of the contract," I tell her, adding, "Clean getaway?" to Drysdale and Mustang. She gives my the 'made it by this much' sign, thumb and index finger held less than an inch apart, along with a slow nod of head and a 'whew.'

"Are the big three still huddled?" I ask.

"Still together. In conversation. I hope Sharkey's wire holds out, this has got to be good stuff." He says.

"It's going to get better real fast," I predict, stripping my FBI jacket and drying my hands from the quick hose-down.

"Fine tune, focus and zoom in on that group because the good stuff is about to turn to gold."