Zac was, understandably, a little upset. He had only held two jobs in his entire life, and he'd just been fired from one of them. When they got back to the car, Taylor had tried consoling him. Generally this was a poor strategy. Zac was young and impetuous, but his will was strong.

He decided to walk home.

He had ignored Taylor's weak argument of 'We need you to help us pack some stuff' and Isaac's excellent argument of, 'It's 18 miles' and started hoofing it. If there was one thing he didn't need to prove it's that he was in good shape.

After about five miles he found a bench, and sat down.

Sat down and saw the mail truck.

The road he had to take home was a wash of endless suburbia. The myth that Washington D.C. is a palatial gated city is fiction. Washington D.C. is a few buildings, full of less than you might think, surrounded by suburbs that stretch pretty much from Miami to Boston. So seeing a mail truck here was not all that unusual.

Seeing one at 8:00 at night on Saturday, now that was something else.

The street was pretty quiet and it was almost dark. If he started jogging he might make it home in a couple hours. That would also make figuring out if this mail truck had ulterior motives a little easier. He could probably get pretty far ahead of it if it were somehow a legitimate truck and stopped at every mailbox.

So it was a plan.

Zac cleared his throat, adjusted his ponytail, and started to jog.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

"I think I'm going to wear those boots to the studio."

"Ike man, no way!"

The President had presented them with cowboy boots bearing sterling silver "American Flags" on the side. And people said he was out of touch.

"We don't want our fans seeing you in cowboy boots." While Hanson was hardly on top of the world (saving it all the time makes it hard to conquer it) they had a dedicated fan base. These fans were appeased on a semi-regular basis by notes from the guys in the band and photographs assuring them everything was going great.

"Whatever you say Bob Marley."

Taylor laughed and pulled the car over. They were about six miles from the cave.

"I'm starving." There was a McDonald's across the street.

"I don't know man... what if we get bum-rushed?"

"You know you love the attention." Taylor hit the left blinker and, with a quick glance, shot across the road into the McDonalds' parking lot. "It'll give Zac a chance to catch up with us. No way does he want to walk ALL the way home."

At the White House there had, in fact, been no sandwiches. There hadn't even been any steak. When they left, some secret service agent was apologizing profusely for the misunderstanding. When President Bush offered to order in, Zac had politely declined on behalf of the group.

"We've got a song to write," Zac had said.

"I don't want to stay here an hour waiting for him either. He knew how far it is." The truth was Isaac didn't mind signing a few autographs. What's more if the stopped for food - Taylor wouldn't cook anything. Waffles were good for breakfast, and lunch was occasionally acceptable. But at dinnertime... Taylor would do things to them. Put things on them. Terrible things.

"We won't have to wait long. It's a nice night and he's probably jogging."

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

Taylor had been partially correct. It was a nice night.

Zac, however was not jogging but running, and he was running very fast indeed.

Fortunately for him, his cowboy boots were in a box in the backseat of Taylor's car with everyone else's and his Hanson insignia Reeboks were on his feet. If the mail-truck Zac had spotted earlier was legitimate, the youngest Hanson must have a stamp on the back of his head, because it was clearly after him.

As he ran he thought about his situation.

Since he stopped dealing with teenies and started dealing with terrorists, he had learned an awful lot about vehicles. For example, if someone is trying to assassinate someone else, they don't drive a truck. Escape in such vehicles is cumbersome and they are very conspicuous. Assassination calls for a BMW or a Mercedes. Not too flashy, but flashy enough to get away.

He glanced back over his shoulder. This particular mail-truck was a jeep. This was a relief. At least he wasn't about to be killed.

He ran a little faster and thought some more.

If you wanted to abduct someone, a truck or a van is the way to go. Something with either shaded or no windows in the back. The back might also be used to hold a small army of thugs - useful if the person you're chasing knows how to fight, has a gun, or you just really don't like them.

He glanced over his shoulder again. There were no windows in the back. Probably they were trying to catch him and take him somewhere. Probably not the post office.

The way he saw it he had only two options. He could stand and fight, or he could try to hide. Running all the way back to the cave would be completely impossible if these people were serious about catching him.

Zac was not the thinker. Zac was a little bit brain and a little bit muscle, but was not called upon to do much of the strategic planning. Whenever he was faced with two choices he usually flipped a coin and then did whichever sounded like more fun. In this case though, he was probably outnumbered. And there was something to be said for pragmatism.

He decided to poll his brothers in his head.

"Run like hell. Find some woods to hide in," Isaac said.

"Try to get to someplace like a mall or a grocery store. Look for some fans. They can't get you out in the open," Taylor said.

Zac slowed to a trot and took a deep breath before coming to a complete stop and shaking his body and doing some quick stretches.

"I figured that's what you guys would say." He shook his head. He felt in his pocket for his blackjack, but it wasn't there. Taylor had advised against bringing it to the White House. "Way to go Taylor. Blah blah find a mall. Blah blah can't bring weapons to the white house."

He turned around and started walking towards the mail truck. From what he could tell the driver was wearing dark glasses and something of a startled expression.

"Hey postman! Wasssuuuup!" Zac grinned and walked on into his destiny.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

"Can you make it out to Brittnee? That's B-R-I-T-T-N-E-E. Like Brittney spears only with two 'E's."

Taylor nodded and took another swig of his shake. He and Ike had taken care of the fans as soon as they got to the restaurant. Near as he could tell 'Brittnee' was the manager.

"Brittnee - Keep Rockin' - Taylor" he wrote. The girl shivered with excitement as he passed the promo picture to Isaac to sign.

"Could you..."

"Brittnee with two 'E's - I got it." Isaac scribbled an incomprehensible greeting under his face and handed the picture across the table with a grin.

"Where's Zac?" the girl gushed. "Zac's my favorite." Isaac rolled his eyes.

"He's..." Taylor briefly considered telling the girl that his brother was probably about 10 minutes away on foot. He decided not to based on the phone calls she could make to her friends. "...at the gym. Working out."

Brittnee tittered at the thought of this.

"You're cute," Taylor laughed. "Can I get another shake?"

If Taylor had seen Isaac roll his eyes before, he heard it this time. Brittnee giggled and took his cup up to the counter.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

They say that identical twins are joined by some kind of psychic bond. At least Zac had heard that before. He had no identical twin himself, so he wasn't certain. In any case, it was probably just luck that Taylor had guessed he was "Working Out".

It was working out OK so far anyway.

"I'm sorry sir. I'm Jason Priestly, US Postal service..." Zac flashed his wallet at the driver. "...internal affairs division. You're going to have to truck it back to the PO. This isn't a regulation truck. The mirror on this side needs to come up. And speaking of this side, what the hell is the steering wheel doing over here? Just give me the keys and step away from the vehicle."

"Very funny Mr. Hanson." The driver looked familiar but Zac couldn't place him. The sunglasses and the postal uniform didn't help.

"Haven't we met? Are you the guy from Home Improvement?" Zac took a step closer to the door.

"Your brothers asked me to follow you home. They were concerned."

"Tim Allen? It is you! You've gained weight." One more step.

"Hop in, I'll give you a ride the rest of the way." The man grinned and shifted in his seat. From here, Zac couldn't quite tell if there was anyone else in the back of the truck... perhaps if he moved just a foot or so to the left.

The door swung open quickly. Zac leapt back and it barely missed his shin as the driver hurried out.

"Hey tool-man! You almost hit me with that. I gotta work pedals with these knees, y'know?"

"You're nuts kid. Get in the truck."

"Only if you'll listen to my secret."

The tool-man reached in a jacket pocket. There was something of a resemblance but Zac thought he knew him from somewhere else.

"OK, I'm game. What's your secret?"

Zac charged forward and slammed the man into the ground, gripping his arms against his sides. "I know kung-fu," he whispered. "And six other Chinese words."

The postman rolled out from under Zac and scrambled to his feet.