What Fates Impose

by Frea_O

Summary:

Five years alone in a bunker is no picnic for anybody, especially not Chuck Bartowski, forgotten CIA agent that never got kicked out of Stanford. When Bryce Larkin sends him the Intersect and plunges his world into doubt, Chuck must learn to survive in a world of lies and espionage. Luckily, he has the CIA's top spy, Sarah Walker, at his side. REPOST after accidental deletion. Cold Meds and exhaustion and ficcing don't mix, kids.

Notes:

This is a story that starts off slowly, and is still in progress. I stick to a canon timeline, with a few exceptions (which will be noted). This was started during the Nuclear Winter that was Season Three of Chuck. I thought, "What if Chuck had joined the CIA? And what if it had sucked?" And the story that came out surprised me completely.

Chapter 1: From Siberia, With Love

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, that can hinder or control the firm resolve of a determined soul. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox

26 SEPTEMBER 2007
BUNKER 77142135
06:00 OMST

Chuck Bartowski’s alarm rang. He didn’t need it—he’d been awake for an hour, staring at the underside of the bunk above his, his eyes empty, his brain far away. When the blare cut into the silence, he reached without looking and shut the beastly thing off. He gave himself two more minutes personal time before slowly and creakily rolling out of the bed.

As always, it was a big mistake. The cold air rushed in the instant he unzipped the sleeping bag, surrounding him and making him shiver. For the next eighteen hours, he would receive only a few minutes of true warmth.

He left his parka on the hook. To call the space “contained” was stretching it—the bunker was tiny, barely room for a regular-sized person to walk around with anything approaching comfort. Chuck, who’d outgrown most of the population as a teenager, always had to duck. He winced as he sat down in the narrow space between the bunks—the floor was always frigid. With the ease of long habit and routine, he began to stretch. With October just around the corner, things were already beginning to cool, which meant that it took his muscles that much longer to limber out so that he could go through his morning routine.

Suitably stretched, he rose and began moving with the fluidity of the Tai Chi he’d altered for himself. He was hampered somewhat by the lack of space, but he’d long grown used to that. He closed his eyes and just tuned everything out—random chatter from his current projects, the regular undercurrent of minor claustrophobia and misery and angst, the constant wonder. Inside his head, it grew blissfully silent.

Until the alarm rang again, signaling that it was time to shower, eat, and face the day.

He stepped through a steel door and into the only properly-heated room in the bunker, hurrying so that he wouldn’t let too much heat out. He stripped out of his gear. Even though he’d left the parka outside, he still wore thermal underwear, an ancient Army T-shirt, sweatpants, and the makeshift padding he’d crafted from his old partners’ rejected parkas. It made him look like the kid who’d enjoyed far too many cupcakes, but it beat freezing to death. He stowed each article with care on the shelves he’d constructed just inside the heat tube, where they wouldn’t get wet while he showered. And turning the heat on full, he stepped into the narrow shower to scald himself for exactly fourteen minutes.

Any longer than that and he would be late for his shift.

The worst thing about everything was the monotony. Day-in, day-out, the same routine. Wake up, perform exercises to keep from going crazy. Shower. Report into work, receive the day’s assignments. Work until 17:30. Log off, spend two hours surfing the internet through a firewall. Eat dinner. Read a book. Go to bed. He was allowed to leave the bunker twice a month to go into the small town seven kilometers away, but in the winter, it was hardly worth fighting the cold. And he didn’t speak Russian. He used the two trips just to stretch out his legs, though he hadn’t gone the last couple of months. Things just kept coming up.

Fully dressed, hair as dry as it could get—it was almost time to shave his head so that his hair wouldn’t be wet for too long in the mornings—Chuck hurried out of the heat tube and crossed to the opposite end of the bunk room. He pushed through another steel door into the kitchen. A table ate up most of the room; they’d wedged a cooling unit in the corner to store perishables. Not that there was much perishable about military MREs.

Chuck opted for the minestrone for breakfast. He was due for a new shipment soon, and his options were limited to the foods he’d put off eating. Why did he do this to himself? He’d at least saved the muffins that had come with this last shipment for a record six days.

Clutching the MRE, he continued on through the kitchen to the office. It might have been the roomiest section of the bunker, had the government not seen fit to wedge every type of computer monitor along one wall, with a fearsome old soviet desk taking up whatever space was leftover. Overhead, the lights washed everything with the sickening gray sort of tinge Chuck found popular in horror movies where a zombie or two might show up to snack on his brain.

He plopped into the chair, grateful that the padding he’d sacrificed for it at least made the thing comfortable. The single monitor on the desk was black, save for one small line of green text.

LOG ON.

Chuck tapped his login information, hit enter, and didn’t bother to sigh. Just another day in the wonderful wilds of Siberia.

26 SEPTEMBER 2007
BUNKER 77142135
10:02 OMST

Chuck had just finished decrypting the latest in a series of inter-agency emails for his boss—the mysteriously named Mr. Carver—when the email arrived. He took no notice of it at first. Personal emails from the few contacts he was allowed to reach out to were restricted to a small computer monitor off to the side. He did his primary work on a huge flat-screen monitor just above his head on the wall, controlling everything through the monitor on the desk. He heard the chirp of an incoming email, but ignored it to finish watching the YouTube video that Mr. Carver had emailed to him. A couple more viewings, slowed to frame-by-frame at points, confirmed that there were no hidden coding within the video. Chuck felt confident in reporting to Mr. Carver that no, the YouTube video about the cute kittens falling into a birdbath was not secretly a training video for a liberal Jihadist terrorist cell.

It was days like these, he thought as he finished the report and sent it whizzing away into the ether, that made all the difference. Because he was rotting away in a bunker in Siberia, the world was safe from kitten-faced propaganda.

His wristwatch—a gift from Uncle Sam—beeped, letting him know that his fifteen-minute break for the morning had arrived. Chuck stretched his shoulders, his back. The office was the only room in the place where he could stand without having to duck, which meant that for several hours a day, he worked on his feet, controlling the computers with a joystick he’d modified out of sheer boredom. He stood now and began to shake out his legs.

The blinking email icon caught his attention. Excitement—finally something to break the monotony!—had him scrambling to check.

Bryce Larkin. Now that was odd. His old roommate and co-CIA agent usually didn’t get in touch via email. It fit with the super secret agent lifestyle that Bryce wouldn’t want much hard copy that could connect him to anything. And he understood Chuck’s situation, so more often than not he called via satellite phone. Sometimes even to catch up.

Chuck clicked the email open. There wasn’t a subject or even any text in the body. Just quite a large attachment.

Standford.zrk? What kind of file was that? Chuck checked his watch—11 minutes left of his break. Plenty of time to check the email and see what was going on. He double-clicked the attachment, surprised when the file opened without needing to be sent through a cipher. Immediately, the screen went black, and words scrolled across.

The Terrible Troll Raises His Sword.

Zork? Bryce wanted to get back into Zork? Really? Chuck blinked at the computer screen a couple of times. Where on earth were Bryce Larkin and Sarah Walker that Bryce had time to reignite old computer games from their Stanford days? Apparently Chuck’s old roommate and his classic beauty of a partner had some downtime.

Well, if Bryce wanted to bring up Zork again, Chuck was game. He shrugged to himself a little as he searched his memory and typed, “Attack…troll…with…nasty…knife.”

The screen went black again.

And now, Chuck thought, here comes the battle, and maybe Bryce has programmed a little something extra—

Only the battle never came. Instead, there was a flicker—a picture of binoculars? Another picture—a guy getting his eye inspected, athletes on a track, dogs running, the pope. Apple pie. Chuck took a step back, trying to figure out exactly what was going on. Something strange seemed to be happening inside his head. Everything in his brain bogged down, became logy. He tried to look away from the screen, but couldn’t pull his gaze away. So he watched, standing, while image after image, video after video, blurred and seared and burned into his mind. Before long, it all became a blur. He didn’t hear his watch beep, didn’t see the multitude of emails and text messages from Mr. Carver. He just stood for hours with his eyes glued to the screen—

Until the computer clicked off on its own.

Chuck did the only thing he could. He passed out.

26 SEPTEMBER 2007
BUNKER 77142135
17:22 OMST

Repeated chirping drove Chuck out of the fog and into the cold. Everything in his body ached—his muscles in particular, as he’d apparently slid down the wall and now lay in a cockamamie position, legs spread, one arm trapped behind him, head lolling on one shoulder. Chuck lifted his head on his sore neck and shook it as he looked around for the source of the chirping.

Oh. Right. He’d set the satellite phone on the wall to chirp rather than ring—it startled him less that way.

Chuck slowly climbed to his feet, feeling every part of his body in excruciating detail as he did so. What on earth had happened? Had he passed out? Had he slipped and hit his head? When he closed his eyes, there were strange images, black and white and grainy like old pictures, burned into the backs of his eyelids. Chuck shook his head to make them go away as he picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Tell them you fell and hit your head.”

Chuck blinked. “Bryce? What the—”

“Tell them not to send medical.”

And Chuck was left with a dial tone.

Now that was cryptic. Confused, Chuck stared first at the phone in his hand and then at the computer monitors, all of which were blinking with alerts. The monitor with his private email had gone blank.

Mr. Carver, it appeared, seemed to be beside himself. AGENT GEORGES flashed over four of the five monitors, blinking urgently. REPORT IN RE: STATUS.

Chuck shook his head to clear it as he typed a response. I’m fine, he typed, ignoring formality. Just slipped and hit my head.

NEED MEDICAL?

Negative. Just a bump. I’ll put some ice on it.

ARE YOU CERTAIN?

What on earth was Bryce getting at? First the weird email, now the mysterious phone call. But the guy had never steered Chuck wrong. When they’d both been recruited for CIA out of Stanford, Bryce had been his wingman. He’d looked out for Chuck the whole time. Chuck had no reason to start distrusting him now.

I’m fine, he typed again. Agent has sufficient medical supplies to handle problem on sight. Do not need medical.

There was a pause on Mr. Carver’s end. Finally, UNDERSTOOD blinked across all screens. DOES AGENT REQUIRE MEDICAL LEAVE?

Did he? Chuck pondered it for a minute. Yes, his head felt heavy, as though somebody had taken his brain away and replaced it with a newer model made out of lead. And yes, he ached all over from the fall. But nothing that would affect his work.

No, he typed in. I’ll take some pain meds and make up lost time. Please send missed assignments.

It would help keep things off his mind while he waited for Bryce to get over being Agent Ambiguous and get on with the damn explanation. He pulled up the first task—parse another YouTube video—and settled in to work. The video was the latest hit single of some European pop group, supposed to be popular in Israel and hot spots in the Middle East. It seemed like a bunch of too-young hipsters attempting to be cool and failing. As Chuck watched, the video cut to a close-up of the bass guitarist—

It crushed him like a sledge-hammer between the eyes. Everything in his brain ground to a halt—he stared blankly at the wall while a series of images, video, and audio files ran across his brain like it was some sort of demented database.

A picture of a seal balancing a ball on its nose. Video of two women in Victorian dresses strolling along a jumpy London street. NAME: Badrun Farroway. ALIAS: Nick Jones. Dual Citizen of Iran and the United States, born to American father and Iranian mother. Practicing Shiite. Suspected of using record sales to funnel money to alleged terrorists in Kuwait—

The surge of information made his head throb. Chuck gasped in air and stabbed the space bar, stopping the playback. Ten seconds had elapsed since the shot in question.

Where on earth had that come from?! He was good at his job, good at recognizing repeat offenders and catching odd bits of code within videos and other media sources. But never had anything hit with such a deluge of information before. He was positive he’d never even heard of this so-called terrorist funder, Badrun Farroway. So why did Farroway’s dossier exist in his head now?

And how on earth could he explain this to Mr. Carver? In the end, Chuck red-flagged the video, made up a reason, and put in a request for background checks to be done on the band members, particularly the guitar players. He even included a lame joke about always suspecting guitar players, just so that Mr. Carver wouldn’t find anything suspicious.

It happened three more times. Each experience left him feeling vaguely ill, confused, and miserable. Why on earth wasn’t Bryce calling to explain things? What was going on out there?

26 SEPTEMBER 2007
BUNKER 77142135
06:00 OMST

The alarm rang. Chuck swatted it off. He continued to lie in bed, though he wasn’t staring at the underside of the bunk above his. No, his mind was racing too much for his eyes to really see anything. He’d spent the entire night just staring into the darkness, wondering, and fretting, and frankly, freaking out.

Bryce had yet to call.

Overhead, the lights flickered on with the usual thrum. Chuck sighed as the horror movie lighting returned, thinking of sunny, warm Burbank, where his sister and his best friend were likely just settling down for the night while he rose to face his day. An equally warm and sunny place where a woman he swore never to think about was probably doing the same.

Chuck rolled out of bed and began to stretch, shivering. Why hadn’t the government fixed up the bunker if they were going to stash agents there long-term? And where the hell was Bryce with his explanation?

He waved his arms, controlling the movements and his breathing. Because it was an even day, he stuck to the short routine because he would have to do push-ups and sit-ups today as well. He kept the padding and the insulated pants on because he’d added hooks for extra weights, things around the bunker he’d modified to add resistance when it was obvious he’d surpassed the actual weights Brent had left behind.

Brent was one of the four people he’d seen in the past three years, another CIA analyst that had been bunked in Bunker 77142135 out in the cold darkness of Siberia. He’d done his obligatory three month tour, wedged into the tiny space with Chuck. They hadn’t fought. It was hard to fight when you didn’t talk at all—as he and Brent hadn’t after the first couple of weeks. It had been exactly the same way with Paul, Brent’s predecessor.

When Brent had been transferred to another bunker closer to Moscow, nobody had come to replace him. Budget cuts, Chuck had figured at the time. He wondered when they considered his own time to be up, but Mr. Carver hadn’t mentioned anything about reassignments, and Chuck knew better than to ask.

He pushed everything from his mind and instead relaxed into the movement. He’d never really come close to being one with his Chi or even balancing it or whatever, but the meditation helped. It kept him from climbing up the walls and gnawing on the doorknobs. It made him stanch the impulses that made him want to ignore the work that helped the CIA protect America, and just sit in the corner and rock.

His watch beeped. Chuck took one last calming breath and began hooking his modified weights onto his torso, which would add a fair bit of resistance to his push ups by the time he finished. He turned to reach for the last weight—

And just like that, she was standing in the doorway.

With a gun pointed right at his chest.

17 NOVEMBER 2005
BUNKER 77142135
12:30 OMST

Chuck input the last line of data into his report, scanned it absently for typos or anything that would have him brought up in front of a committee. Seeing nothing, he sent it off to the elusive Mr. Carver, the new boss that had arrived a few days before via the hotlink to the bunker. He was used to receiving an immediate reply—just an acknowledgement or the next assignment if he hadn’t been given a list of orders for the day. Today, Mr. Carver remained oddly silent for a full fifteen minutes.

Chuck frowned. Had the hotlink gone down? He half-rose to check on the connections to his servers, but a line of green text blinked across the monitor.

AGENT GRANTED 72 HOURS LEAVE. ENJOY YOUR VACATION, JACKSON GEORGES.

Vacation? Chuck rubbed his eyes, wondering if they were starting to go bad from staring at screens and soldering projects all day. But the line didn’t change.

“What the…”

Another line blinked and joined the first.

NOT AUTHORIZED TO LEAVE LOCATION.

Well, that was more like the US Government Chuck knew and hated. He sighed. So, great. He had 72 hours of leave where he couldn’t actually leave. He’d been putting in for time off, hoping to maybe travel into Moscow so that he could see the famous Red Square and all of the things he’d been dreaming about for years.

Worst. Vacation. Ever.

Shrugging to himself, Chuck switched the monitor feeds so that his personal computer took over the giant monitor above his head. Nothing called like Call of Duty. He played under an alias he’d always liked—Carmichael…Charles Carmichael—but he didn’t dare try to find Morgan anywhere on the game, even though he knew his best friend’s username. The government would shut him down faster than Ellie ever did to Morgan. He’d just donned his headset to frag some noobs—

Somebody pounded on the door. Three times.

Chuck’s heart immediately started hammering. Nobody had come to that door in six months.

The pounding sounded again. He thought he heard a faint, “Chuck!” which made no sense. Even his boss thought his identity was Jackson Georges.

Chuck pulled off the headset and inched forward, wishing the government had at least provided him with a gun for this assignment. Even a tranquilizer gun. Not that he would ever shoot anything more lethal than tranquilizers, but Chuck had always found that it was easier to be menacing when you were armed.

As he drew closer, the person outside thumped the door again. “C’mon, Chuck! Open up!”

Chuck suddenly couldn’t get the door open fast enough. He’d recognized the voice. He scrambled to input the code into the panel by the single door that led to the outside world. He blinked at the flood of daylight that seared his eyeballs, and instinctively threw up an arm to protect his eyes. Even then, there was no mistaking his visitor. “Bryce!”

Bryce just about cracked his spine with the welcoming hug. “Hey! Heard you got some time off.”

“Yeah, like two minutes ago. How did you—you pulled some strings, didn’t you? Come in, come in, it’s cold out there!” And the bunker would be all that much colder for it.

It was then that Chuck noticed that Bryce was definitely not alone. Standing behind his best friend in the tunnel, hands tucked politely into her pockets—though that may have been the cold, come to think of it—was the milk-fed version of Lindsay Fünke.

“Oh,” Chuck managed.

Bryce and Lindsay Fünke squeezed past him into the narrow entrance. He hastened to shut the door behind them, closing all three into a very tiny space. To cover up some of the awkwardness, he asked, “How’d you two get by the perimeter? The alarm never went off.”

“That was all Sarah,” Bryce said, jerking his head at Lindsay Fünke. “Sarah, this is Chuck Bartowski, the best wingman a guy could have. Chuck, my partner, Sarah Walker.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Chuck said, reaching around Bryce.

She shifted her bag and shook the hand he offered. “Likewise. Um, is there somewhere we can put our bags? It’s been a long day.”

Why she would send a death glare Bryce’s way as she said that, Chuck didn’t know. He decided to ignore that particular elephant making the limited space even smaller and cleared his throat. “Right. Good point. Let me give you the tour, show you where you can drop your stuff. Though I warn you, it’ll be a short tour.”

He wedged himself between the pair so that he could get past and lead the way. Why on earth did it feel like the oxygen inside the bunker had been cut in half?

“How long, uh, are you two planning to stay?”

He missed the look that Bryce and Sarah exchanged behind his back. “A couple of days, if that’s cool with you,” Bryce said, following close on his heels.

The smile Chuck shot over his shoulder was dazzling. “Are you kidding? It’s fantastic! I’ve been going stir-crazy. What, were you guys in the neighborhood or something?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Chuck showed off first the office, leading them into the kitchen—and recommending that they drop their gear on the table since the bunk had limited space—before he finished off the grand tour in the bunk room. “And this is it,” he announced. “Neither of you gets claustrophobic, right?”

Bryce assured him that both were fine. “This is really it?” Sarah, who hadn’t said much, wondered. Both she and Bryce were just tall enough to avoid stooping forward, but Chuck had to duck. “You live here all the time?”

“Home sweet home,” Chuck confirmed. “There’s a lot more room in the kitchen—I can make some coffee if you two want to warm up. And there’s, um, MREs if you’re hungry—”

“Don’t worry. I got the food situation taken care of.” Bryce patted a satchel he hadn’t deposited in the kitchen. He removed something and handed it to Chuck. “Got your favorite, buddy.”

“You are my hero,” Chuck decided, wanting to weep at the sight of the can in his hand.

Sarah leaned around her partner to get a better look. “You brought him Spaghetti-Os?”

“Food of the gods,” Chuck corrected. He set the can reverently on the top bunk, which he had started to use for storage after Brent’s departure. The room contained only two narrow bunks, which meant he’d need to clean the place out. He supposed he’d just have to sleep in his office chair tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Probably best we hang out in here,” Chuck decided, squeezing into the kitchen. He indicated that the others should take the two chairs already present and wheeled his desk chair in to join them. “Tell me news of the outside!”

17 NOVEMBER 2005
BUNKER 77142135
18:08 OMST

“So to make a long story short, neither of us is allowed back in Paraguay, and no, we still don’t know what happened to the donkey. Though rumors of his being sighted as far as Albuquerque abound.”

Chuck choked on his cocoa. Though he would normally have gone with coffee, making cocoa had seemed homier somehow. And he didn’t want to subject either of his visitors to the bunker coffee until he absolutely had to. “They kicked you out of the country?!”

“It was recommended,” Sarah said, speaking up for the first time in over an hour, “that we leave. Recommended strongly.”

“With guns,” Bryce added.

Chuck shook his head. “You two live the coolest life,” he decided. “You really took out six guys by yourself, Sarah?”

She crossed her arms. “It was more like eight.”

“Eight?”

“Just another day’s work.” Sarah rose abruptly. “I’m kind of tired. Do you gentlemen mind if I take a nap?”

Chuck stood as well. “Sure—uh, do you need anything? You should take the bottom bunk, it’s the more comfortable of the two. I can go into storage and get you a different sleeping bag, though I promise I shower every day, so the one in the bunk should at least be marginally clean.”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” Sarah slipped by him without another word.

Chuck waited until she had closed the door behind her before he turned to Bryce, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “I don’t think your partner likes me much, buddy.”

But Bryce sighed, most of the jollity disappearing now that Sarah had gone. He looked tired, Chuck observed, bone-weary. The only time Chuck had ever seen him like that had been back at Stanford during midterms their last semester together. “It’s not you,” Bryce said, rubbing both hands up the back of his head. “She’s pissed at me and she has every right to be. I promised her we’d be going to Cabo.”

“And you dragged her here instead?” Chuck outright gaped. “Are you an idiot?”

“I wanted her to meet you.” Bryce rose to clean out their used mugs. “I should probably tell you now—I got permission from Headquarters to get you satellite access.”

“What? Why?”

“Because Sarah and I’ve run into trouble before without dedicated tech support. And you’ve got all the know-how and skills to assist.”

“Really? Does that mean I get to go into the field with you?” A sunbeam of hope felt glorious after months and months of darkness. Chuck sat up.

But Bryce squashed all of that with just a small shake of his head. He at least had the decency to look apologetic. “It’s too dangerous since you never finished your training.”

And whose choice was that? It had always rankled that Chuck had been dragged out of his training camp in the middle of the night and shipped off. Sure, he’d been a little slower on some of the physical aspects, and shooting a gun freaked him out, but he’d been catching up. There was absolutely no reason to yank him out so suddenly or completely. Just like there was no reason they should have ever stuck him in a bunker. He wouldn’t have talked about his work if they’d just let him work out of a normal office.

He had some discretion, after all.

Still, since Bryce was a friend and doing him a solid, he tried to hide his dejection. “So I’ll be remote tech support,” he said. “Doing what exactly?”

“Recon, intel. Getting us satellite feeds, maybe do a little hacking if things get hairy. I won’t always be the one able to make the call, so I wanted you and Sarah to meet up. I promise you she’s usually a lot warmer.”

“Literally,” Chuck muttered under his breath. “Please tell me you at least gave the woman some warning that she was going to be dragged out to visit a madman in the middle of Siberia?”

“Uh, sorta?”

“Oh, Bryce, you’re such a dead man walking.” Chuck shook his head. “Wanna see the setup of one Charles Bartowski, cover name Jackson Georges, since you might be placing your life in the hands of my very trusty computer skills?”

“Wasn’t Jackson Georges NSA?”

“Let’s not quibble over details.”

“Didn’t he also go mad?”

“Bryce, that’s the epitome of quibbling.”

All right, all right. Lead on.”

26 SEPTEMBER 2007
BUNKER 77142135
06:22 OMST

“Sarah?” Chuck blinked, unable to believe he was actually seeing what was right in front of him. When had the hallucinations begun to set in? And why was he hallucinating a woman with a gun and not something much more desirable, like lingerie instead of a thick gray parka? Was this what paranoia felt like? “Sarah Walker? What are you doing—”

“Where is he?” Sarah’s tone brooked no room for argument or disobedience.

“What? Who?”

He knew he should be afraid—guns were bad, after all—but he was stunned too stupid at the sight of Sarah Walker, of all people, in the middle of the bunk room.

“Where is Bryce, Chuck? I know you were helping him with this.”

“Helping him with what?” Chuck felt like he’d been dumped in the middle of a campaign without any way to gain his bearings and, worse, unarmed. He moved his hands away from the weight he’d been hooking to his padding. “What are you talking about? Why on earth would I know where Bryce is? That’s your job! You’re his partner, not me.”

Sarah edged forward a step. Chuck remembered Bryce’s stories about her fearsome marksmanship, but that didn’t matter so much. Even a blind man wouldn’t miss in such a small space. One twitch of one little finger and he was a dead man. “Two weeks ago, you sent him heat-scans from a satellite of a classified area in Washington D.C. Why did you do that?”

Chuck gave her a strange look. “For your mission, duh. You mean, he didn’t show them to you? He said they were for a mission he was working on, so I just assumed you were involved.”

“Did he say I was involved?”

“What? No, I don’t think so, not outright. But then, I didn’t ask. Jeez, why are you pointing a gun at me?” His brain was rapidly shaking off the feeling that he had started going all A Beautiful Mind and that the woman threatening him was indeed not a figment of his imagination. “Sarah, what’s going on? Why are you here? And where’s Bryce?”

“Has he contacted you?”

“What? No, of course he hasn’t—” The mysterious phone call from the day before leaked back in. “He sent me an email. Yesterday.”

“Did you open it?”

“Of course I did!” Chuck stared at her as though she had a few screws loose. “It’s an email from my best friend. I opened it on my break, if you’re worried about me wasting Uncle Sam’s dime—”

“I’m not.” Sarah looked troubled. “I need to see that email, Chuck.”

“Sure, no problem. You can, uh, you can put the gun away. I won’t try anything, I swear.”

“Just show me the email.”

She moved him from the bunk room to the office at gunpoint. Chuck kept his hands up, wincing every time one of his makeshift weights hit against a doorjamb or the table. He had no idea how she had breached the perimeter this time, but both she and Bryce had the code to the door, so he probably really shouldn’t be surprised. His mind whirling, he logged onto his personal computer and—

Nothing happened. The screen remained blank.

Frantic, Chuck tapped a couple more keys, and began swearing.

“What is it?” Sarah demanded.

“My hard drive! What the f—” Chuck continued typing, to no avail. Absolutely nothing happened. Chuck surged to his feet (startling Sarah into tightening her grip on the gun) to check the monitor on the wall. “There wasn’t a heat surge in here, and I just serviced that unit, which means something must have gotten onto my hard drive. But that makes no sense, I modified that virus protection software myself and—Bryce.” It hit him all at once. The last thing he’d done on that computer had been check his email and open the Zork file. Had it been some kind of virus? What if it had been a worm?!

Sarah didn’t seem to notice that he was beginning to hyperventilate. “What about Bryce?”

“I opened the email—it was just a line of text from a video game we used to play back in Stanford. I thought it was just a game, honestly, but then there were all these…pictures…”

“You saw them?” Sarah’s voice rose an octave.

Chuck just swallowed and nodded.

“And then what?”

“I passed out. I don’t know how long I was out.” There was still a knot on the back of his head that screamed whenever he put his hand anywhere near it. “When I came to, my boss, Mr. Carver, he wanted me to report and asked if I needed medical attention, but I got a call from Bryce and—”

The gun actually dug into his shoulder as Sarah jumped in surprise. “You got a what?”

“Bryce, he called me on the satellite phone—”

Switching to a single-handed grip on the gun, Sarah grabbed the phone from the wall with her free hand. She immediately began poking buttons, and cursed when the screen read “Number Blocked.”

“Sarah, what’s going on?” Chuck asked for what felt like the fifteenth time. “Ever since I opened that email, I’ve been having these, these spurts of, I don’t know, insight or something. And I know things I shouldn’t know about some very, very bad people. Why do I know that?”

Sarah stared at him for a long time. At last, at long last, she lowered the gun and shoved it back into her waistband, out of his reach. “Chuck, what I’m about to tell you is top secret. I had to call in a lot of favors to keep this suppressed, so I need your word that you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“Done,” Chuck said. “Now tell me what the hell is going on!”

“Bryce Larkin is a rogue agent wanted by the CIA.”

“Since when?!”

“Since he broke into a secure holding facility twenty-four hours ago. He bombed a supercomputer that the NSA and the CIA are calling the Intersect—it’s a computer powerful enough to encode subliminal data into messages that can be cross-referenced by both agencies. Bryce destroyed not only the computer, but all of the files as well, but not before he downloaded them and sent them to you. He’s since gone off the grid, though he may be injured.”

“I watched the pictures,” Chuck whispered, his head spinning. It grew harder to breathe, like trying to suck in mud instead of air. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. I was sent out to find him and to secure the copy he sent you.” Sarah glanced at the dead computer unit. “Was that the only copy?”

“Yes, I have a program that automatically downloads my emails to my hard drive and deletes them off the server.” Chuck pushed both hands through his hair, still trying to pull in breath. “It doesn’t make any sense, Sarah. Bryce loves his country. He’d give up his life before he would turn rogue or traitor or whatever. There’s gotta be something else going on here.”

“There’s not.” Sarah looked troubled. “But Bryce has successfully managed to make it so that you’ve now become a super-computer—and property of the United States government.”

The knowledge tore through him and, faced with a beautiful woman or not, he wanted to break down in tears. His ego simply didn’t care. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “They’re going to stick me in an underground bunker. Again. My term was up in two months! I was almost done! What the hell? Why would Bryce do this to me?”

“Right now, it looks like you and Bryce were in on this together,” Sarah told him, her calmness a direct contrast to the miring despair making everything inside of Chuck want to sink into a deep, dark oblivion.

“We weren’t,” Chuck whispered, staring at the blank monitor screens. Suddenly, it seemed absolutely vital that somebody, anybody believe him. “Sarah, I wouldn’t. Ever. Okay, so yeah, maybe the CIA wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be when they recruited me at Stanford, but I still love my country. I did this to protect my friends, my family. I’m not a traitor.”

“I believe you.”

“You—you do?” Something built up underneath Chuck’s sternum. It had been so long that it took him a minute to recognize the feeling for what it was: hope. “Really?”

“Really.” Sarah sighed and rubbed both hands over her face, obviously tired. “But now we have problems.”

“Like?”

“Proving to the government you’re innocent. Normally, my word would be all that they need, but with Bryce’s betrayal…” Sarah let that trail off. “Right now, you’re unprotected in the middle of nowhere.”

“And when they figure everything out…” Chuck swallowed hard. “I’m going back into a bunker for the rest of my life, aren’t I?”

“One thing at a time, Chuck.”

“The only way I’ve been able to stay here was because there was an end. I can’t do this again, Sarah. I can’t let everybody else live life and stay locked up for forever.” Chuck ran his hands through his hair. “I’ll—I’ll kill myself before that happens.”

“Chuck.” Sarah grabbed his chin with a hand to get his attention. Chuck immediately froze. It was the first human contact he’d had in nearly two years—since she’d hugged him good-bye upon leaving with Bryce, actually. He felt his heart, already speeding, race even faster. “One. Thing. At. A. Time. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, take me through everything, from the beginning, start with the plans.”

Chuck obeyed, trying to use just as much detail as he would for any of his reports for Mr. Carver. Sarah listened to everything, her arms crossed and a contemplative frown on her face.

When he’d finished, the frown deepened. “None of that helps me much, except it confirms that Bryce intended you to open the email. Otherwise he would have made the code harder.”

“I agree. And thank you, for not making fun of me for playing Zork.”

A hint of a smile—the first since she’d barged into the bunker—curled one side of Sarah’s mouth. “It doesn’t help that Bryce made you an unwitting accomplice. I’m not sure how secure this station is, or who to trust. This is big, Chuck.”

“Huge,” Chuck agreed “So how can we know who to trust?”

“All of my usual contacts are out,” Sarah muttered, mostly to herself. “I don’t know if Bryce was working with any of them, and I don’t have time to check and keep an eye on you. We’re going to have to run.”

“W-what?”

“Pack up anything essential that you need, but be warned, we’ll need to travel quickly, so nothing heavy. Don’t worry about clothes—we can buy those along the way.”

Chuck didn’t move. “Are you crazy? We can’t just run away.”

“Chuck, if you stay here, people are coming here to arrest you. People who will have no idea what you have in your head. So they’re not going to employ the proper fail-safes to protect you or worse, they’ll be taking you for their own gain should they find out you’re a walking government database who hasn’t been through torture resistance training.”

Chuck turned a shade of green that had nothing to do with the horror movie fluorescents.

“Exactly,” Sarah said. “So we run, and we set up a meet once I’ve vetted the people to make sure they’re safe.”

“Just like that?”

“There’ll be more to it, but right now, all you have to know is, yes. Just like that. Now go, pack your things.” When he didn’t move fast enough to suit her, she hauled on his arm, yanking him to his feet in a show of strength that warned him not to cross her. He hurried through the kitchen and into the bunker, hurriedly shedding weights. He hadn’t showered yet, but that hardly seemed to matter in the grand scheme of things. Sarah had probably dealt with worse.

He’d daydreamed about leaving the bunker time and again. Had planned exactly how to do it, down to what he would wear, what he would say to the agent replacing him. Which things to flip off on the way out.

Now he ignored all of that, scrambling to grab the basics of what he’d need. His gadgets, for sure. The lightweight ones that could be slipped into pockets and not traced. He pulled on the inconspicuous black shoes as opposed to the furry knee boots he usually wore, drew his parka on over the padding. Though he hated the gear, he couldn’t seem to shed it right now. It was…familiar.

He had a feeling he’d need the familiar soon.

He’d just loaded the last of his pockets, his fingers checking a hidden seam in his parka to be sure, when Sarah ducked into the room. Chuck yanked his hand out as though he’d burned himself.

“Is there a way you can set it up so that nobody will notice you’re gone for a few hours?” she asked. “You report in daily, don’t you?”

“More like hourly. But yeah, I actually figured this one out ahead of time.” He hurried back into the office and began typing furiously at the keyboards. “Bryce gave me the idea when you came to visit, just in case I wanted to take a day off. I coded a program that will reply to my boss using a series of pre-generated responses and reports. It’s a data entry program, actually, that I modified using—actually, you probably don’t need to know that.” Chuck switched computers, his fingers never slowing.

“Have you tested it out?”

“Um, a couple of times. My, um, team on Call of Duty was having a raid and…” At Sarah’s incredulous stare, Chuck shuffled his feet defensively. “Look, I get two days off every month. I figured a couple of hours playing Call of Duty wasn’t going to hurt anything. And yes, the intel’s completely bogus when I use this program, but I always double-checked whatever video Mr. Carver sent me to look over, okay? I wasn’t slacking.”

“Okay. Sorry. I wasn’t judging.”

Chuck completed the code and hit enter. He was logging on a little early for the day, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Maybe Mr. Carver would just think he was making up for lost time from the day before. “Okay, it’s set. I’m ready to go.”

“Where’s your bag?”

“You said not to worry about clothes. I grabbed MREs for us to eat on the way, but this is all I have that’s important to me.” Chuck’s grin almost contained actual humor when he looked down at his outfit. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Smart,” Sarah corrected. “You never know when you’re going to need to travel light. One last thing—I need you to grab the hard drive out of the computer.”

Chuck shrugged. “Okay.” He wriggled under the desk. A couple of minutes later, he emerged holding a flat piece of computer equipment. “Your hard drive, as ordered. What are you planning to do with it?”

“Pop it in the first mailbox we see and ship it to an undisclosed location. C’mon.” Sarah grabbed the cuff of his parka and led the way to the exit. She gestured at him to input the code; when he had, she went through the door first, her gun out and her body tense. Expecting trouble, Chuck realized. She jerked her head at him in a “move it!” fashion.

He didn’t move.

The sun was just beginning to roam over the world, lighting the edges of the sky and casting everything in early gloom. Chuck stared out the door and the narrow tunnel beyond. The tunnel that would lead out into a world where the sky stretched forever, and there was nothing around him, no walls to keep him safe. No computers. No heat tube, no bunk room, no office. He hadn’t set foot outdoors in months.

It didn’t seem to help to remind himself that waiting inside would only get him stuck permanently, handed over to foreign enemies, or killed. Chuck’s feet could literally not move from the tiles just inside the door.

Impatient, Sarah doubled back. “What is it?”

“I, uh—” Sweat popped all over Chuck’s skin as he stared through the tunnel. “I, I’m not sure, I’m not sure if I can, uh, if I can do this.”

“What? Of course you can.” Sarah tugged on his cuff once more.

Chuck didn’t move. “I haven’t left the bunker in nearly a year, Sarah. I can’t do this. I’ll just slow you up and you said so yourself, you need to find Bryce—”

“Chuck.” Sarah shifted so that she blocked his entire view of the tunnel, so that he would have to focus on her and nobody else. She was only a few inches shorter than him, which meant that she could block his view easily. He had no choice but to meet her gaze. “I want you to do me a favor.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can.” Sarah’s grip tightened over his cuff—he could feel the pressure through the layers of cloth around his wrist. “I want you to trust me, Chuck. I’m going to protect you, and keep you safe.”

Chuck forced himself to swallow through a throat that ached. “Where are we going?”

“To the end of the tunnel, to my car. And then we’re driving to the nearest train station. It’s going to be okay.”

His heart, which really hadn’t received a break since Sarah had pointed a gun at his chest and declared his best friend a traitor, clocked new land speed records. He felt sweat begin to slide its greasy way down places like the back of his neck and inside his wrists. Black and white sparks began to erupt around the edges of his vision, making him blink. He wanted to run inside, to sprint for the bunk room, and to fling himself back into his sleeping bag. Wanted to pull the bag over his head and ignore everything, hoping it would all go away.

But he wasn’t a kid anymore. Pulling the sleeping bag over his head wouldn’t slay the monsters anymore. This time, the monsters were real—and they would kill him if he stayed in the bunker.

So he did it. He took the first step—and he put his life in Sarah Walker’s hands.

Chapter 2: Go Fish

Notes:

I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them. — Mark Twain

18 NOVEMBER 2005
BUNKER 77142135
01:18 OMST

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Sarah glanced up in surprise to see Chuck sitting at the kitchen table, his head bent low over a soldering project. Nonetheless, she finished closing the door to the bunk room behind her without making noise. “I thought you were asleep,” she told him.

Chuck set the soldering iron in its holster, wincing when he realized that the kitchen smelled of molten metal. He was still adjusting to having others nearby to consider. “I can’t seem to sleep—figured I’d use up the extra energy.”

Remembering that he was the host in this situation, he rose and began to put his current project away. “Can I, um, get you anything? I can heat you up some Spaghetti-Os—I don’t recommend the MREs I usually eat, though come to think of it, you might not mind them so much. They’re actually pretty tasty. They’re just, you know, the only thing I have to eat, so I’m kind of tired of them—”

Sarah smiled. “It’s okay. I’ll just have an MRE.”

“All right.” Chuck didn’t have to move to open the cupboard. “Pick your poison. We’ve got—oh.” He trailed off when Sarah merely grabbed the closest one at hand. “Want me to show you how to heat that—never mind. You apparently know your way around the MRE.”

Sarah just completed her ministrations that would eventually heat the MRE completely. “I’ve been out in the field a few times.”

“I can see that. Have a good nap?”

“Actually, yes. The cot’s actually pretty comfortable. Bryce is out for the count.” Sarah began to disassemble the Meal, Ready to Eat and glanced about for a cup to mix the powder drink with water.

“I wouldn’t trust that if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s by far the dodgiest of the entire variety. Here, I’ll mix up my specialty.”

While Chuck dug out all of the supplies he would need, Sarah began to work her way through the instant meal, steadily and without seeming to taste much. It was probably the best way to demolish an MRE, in Chuck’s opinion. He noticed that she ate everything with the mindset of a woman who was never sure when the next meal would be, but he didn’t comment. He was too busy concentrating on moving around in such a small space. Normally it wasn’t a problem, but now he had a complete stranger to contend with, and—well, beautiful women made him nervous to start off. And Sarah Walker was like the female counterpart to Bryce Larkin’s devastating good looks. The CIA couldn’t have put two prettier people together if they’d tried.

“So what is it you do, Chuck?” Sarah asked once she’d finished the main course and Chuck had located his empty milk gallon.

“I’m an analyst. I analyze various data sources to make sure they’re not being used by terrorist groups to pass encrypted messages.”

“Sounds important.”

“I guess.” Chuck measured out the powder.

Sarah launched into something long and in another language—he figured Russian, though he had no idea why. “Say what now?” he asked without turning.

She was silent for a second. “You don’t speak Russian?”

“Nyet.”

“So why do they have you stashed in the middle of Siberia?”

Now Chuck did turn. “One of life’s greatest mysteries,” he said. “There were two guys here before me, and two with me at separate points. They all listened to Russian chatter and the like, but me, I’m an English-only kind of guy with the occasional foray into bad Spanish. I’ve no idea why they stashed me here.”

“Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?”

He’d spent several months burning up with curiosity, but that had led ultimately nowhere. And curiosity, pushed for too long, became an exhausting mantle to bear. “Not really. My theory is that they spent too much money on me to just let me go when I apparently failed spy school, so…to the wilds of Siberia it is.” Chuck finished mixing the gallon and produced two glasses from a cupboard under the table. He flourished them and made a show of pouring the orange liquid, handing the first over to Sarah.

“Tang?” she asked after taking a sip. “Really?”

“Really. I live off of this stuff. It’s what they give astronauts, you know.” Chuck capped the gallon and set it on the remaining inch of table left. “It’s the one thing they never forget to send, which is good because the water tastes like crap.”

“Do you actually like Tang?”

Chuck took a long swallow. “Brent used to add vodka to make it better, but me…I’m a whiskey man, myself.”

“Oh, are you now?” Sarah laughed and reached into her jacket, pulling out a flask. She took her time unscrewing the cap and pouring a generous amount into her own cup before she handed the flask over.

Chuck toasted her with it. “You’re my hero.”

“I aim to please.”

When Chuck had doctored his cup, he raised it. “To spies?”

“To spies.”

The whiskey burned, a smooth, reassuring flame straight from throat to gut. Chuck took time to really enjoy it. “It’s been years since I had whiskey. Real whiskey, not the crap Paul used to drink. I miss it.”

“So what do you drink if not water or whiskey?”

“Tang.” Chuck sighed. “Lots and lots of Tang.”

“You’re a stronger person than me, then.”

Chuck gave a humorless chuckle. “Am I? You’re out in the line of fire, kicking butt and taking names. Doing something active while I just sit here on my butt and…drink Tang.”

“Sit here,” Sarah corrected, “apart from all of your friends and family and life, and continue to work for the people who put you here because you believe in justice enough to keep going. Don’t put yourself down.”

“I notice you didn’t mention the Tang,” Chuck pointed out when he regained his voice.

“Like I said, you’re a stronger person than me. And my life is not like the Bond movie you make it sound like.”

Chuck shrugged. “Probably for the best.”

“Why’s that?” Sarah returned the flask to her jacket and pulled out a deck of cards, wiggling them at him in invitation.

“Oh, just saying. A woman who, um, well, a woman who looks like you has a very low life expectancy in a Bond film. Especially if she’s so obviously on the side of good. It’s like an unwritten law. Bond’s good colleagues tend to die.” Chuck paused to think about it. “Unless you’re Miss Moneypenny. Or M.”

Sarah laughed and began to deal the cards. He could see her shoulders relaxing, something they hadn’t done all afternoon during Bryce’s stories. “Why can’t I be Bond? I mean, we’ve progressed in gender equality, haven’t we? Bond could be a woman.”

Chuck made a pfft noise. “Hello, Bond would clearly have to be Bryce, duh. Those chiseled looks, the blue eyes. Total Bond.”

“Something you want to tell me, Chuck?”

“What?”

Sarah leaned close. For one blinding and heart-stopping second, Chuck couldn’t move.

“Is there something,” Sarah repeated, “you want to tell me about you and Bryce?”

She’d apparently taken a shower earlier, for she smelled like his soap—or rather, the government issued soap he used. Only it smelled a thousand times better on her. Not one bit astringent or clinical, just the good, solid, tantalizing scent of a woman. In that moment, Chuck understood how it felt to be Al Pacino.

“Chuck?” Sarah asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“What?” Chuck jolted and shook his head, desperately grabbing at any possible thread to the conversation. “What? About me—and—and Bryce? What? Oh. No, nothing like that.” He forced a chuckle. “We’ve just been friends for years, and I know what a great guy he is. Very James Bond like. And you have to admit, the guy does have a pretty face.”

“Very true.” Sarah eyed Chuck suspiciously, but let it go. “I still say I should be Bond.”

“How about Bristow?” Chuck offered. “Work for the CIA, travel the world, kick ass, take names?”

“Sounds acceptable.”

“Though between you and me,” Chuck said, leaning in as though sharing a secret, “you look like you can take Sydney Bristow in a fight. Don’t tell Bryce I said that, though. He was always a fan.”

“All right, will do. So…if I’m, as you say, Bristow, and Bryce is Bond, what does that make you?”

Chuck moved his shoulders and stared into his drink. “Tech support? I’m not sure I’m cool enough to be Q.”

“No? Don’t sell yourself short, Chuck.” Seeming to remember the cards for the first time, Sarah picked up the deck and shuffled expertly. “You’re a lot more than tech support.”

“There’s not a lot of characters that sit in bunkers and decode all day.” Chuck picked up the cards she’d dealt and frowned. “What are we playing?”

“What respectable spies always play when bored.” Sarah rearranged her own cards. “Got any sevens?”

“You know what? I don’t. Go fish.”

27 SEPTEMBER, 2007
TRANS-SIBERIAN EXPRESS
03:17 YEKT

The train rattled and screeched by turns, clattering on the track and jolting everything inside. Sarah and Chuck had scored a car of their own, thanks to the fact that not many people chose to travel at this hour. Chuck had already attempted to stretch his length along one bench, leaving the other for Sarah, who was having a marginal bit more luck because there wasn’t quite as much of her to stretch. If he moved just a hair, he would be able to see her out of the corner of his eye and study how she lay with her arms crossed, her legs tucked under her. It looked uncomfortable, which was putting how he himself felt mildly.

He kept his face turned to the ceiling. It was easier to ask the hard questions that way.

“Why would he do it?”

She didn’t have to ask who he meant. “I don’t know.”

“I mean, the guy’s like a boy scout—hell, he was a boy scout.”

“Eagle scout,” Sarah murmured.

“So why do this? Why betray his country like this?” Chuck squirmed to get a better position, but somehow only made it worse.

“I don’t know,” Sarah said again.

“You were his partner, surely you noticed someth—”

Sarah moved like a snake. In a blink, she went from lying down to looming over him, a martial set to her features and a handful of his parka in her fist. “I didn’t suspect a thing,” she said in a too-quiet voice. “I saw nothing, okay? I thought things were fine. I even went out and had drinks with him the night he stole the Intersect and, still, I noticed nothing!”

Chuck didn’t dare do more than breathe. Even with a lack of human interaction he’d had lately, he knew better than to make any sudden movements when a woman was standing over him with that look in her eye. Still, he couldn’t stop his mouth from asking, “Is it really me you’re mad at?”

Sarah’s grip slackened on the parka. She sat without saying a word.

Chuck deemed it safe to sit up. “Whatever happened with Bryce, it’s not your fault,” he pointed out. “He’s his own person. He’ll face the consequences of his actions someday. I fully believe that. But he’s good at pretty much everything he’s ever done, so there’s no use beating yourself up because he kept this a secret.” Chuck straightened the parka. “He’s got skills. That’s why he’s Bond.”

“Except,” Sarah said, her voice thick, “Bond wasn’t a traitor.”

Chuck couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he just cleared his throat. “Why don’t, uh, why don’t you lie down, get some sleep? I’ll keep watch for awhile, make sure nobody disturbs you or anything.”

“I’m supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around.”

“And I promise that if we get attacked by bad guys, my girlish screams of terror will wake you up in plenty of time.” Chuck gave his most bolstering smile and kept it up until Sarah had curled up on the bench. Eventually, her shoulders loosened and her breathing slowed. Chuck watched until he was sure she was asleep before he turned his gaze out into the black beyond the train.

His mind churned with the questions he couldn’t voice. Why would Bryce do this? Was it for money? Ethics? For him? Would Bryce have done this, have stolen government secrets and stored them inside Chuck, just to ensure that Chuck made it out of the bunker? No, that wasn’t possible. It made even less sense than Bryce working for money. Chuck had had maybe two months left in that bunker until his contract was paid up in full and he could return to real life. There was no reason Bryce would ever commit treason for a measly two months.

Of course, there was no reason Bryce should ever commit treason anyway.

The train screamed again as they made a major turn. Sarah stirred, but didn’t wake.

And what about her? How on earth had Bryce managed to keep such a secret from Sarah? It would take both a large amount of knowledge and willpower. And resources. Lots and lots of resources. Among them, Chuck knew, was himself because he’d given Bryce those heat-scans of DC areas. The government would definitely look into that when he returned to Langley. Before they threw him in another underground bunker. Thanks, Bryce.

Maybe Bryce had done the noble thing by keeping Sarah in the dark, giving her plausible deniability. Or maybe he just didn’t want to leave a loose end that would have had to been tied up later. After all, three people could keep a secret—if two were dead.

It made Chuck sick to think these things about his best friend. What had Bryce been thinking? What on earth had been going through that perfectly coiffed head when he’d stormed government property and blown up the Intersect database? Had he given a single thought to the consequences for his partner and his unwitting partner-in-crime?

Again, the train track curved and the train responded by letting out a screech. Again, Sarah shifted. She looked perilously close to falling off the bench, but nudging her back to safety would only wake her. Chuck just decided to keep an eye out for her.

Of course, that was an avenue he still needed to explore. What did he really know about Sarah Walker? Would she keep her word? Was she really looking out for him? Or was she pulling him along by the nose that people could arrest him the second he set foot on American soil? Was he just (and this made him sweat just thinking about it) a vessel for the Intersect, to be delivered by Bryce and Sarah straight to the enemy? It occurred to him for the millionth time since the train ride had started that he was putting his life in the hands of a woman he barely knew. They’d shared one (very disgusting) drink, had spoken via satellite phone (usually in high-octane situations when Bryce and Sarah needed a back-up plan to get them out of the frying pan), and had only one real thing in common.

Bryce Larkin, rogue agent.

Chuck stared into the blackness and tried not to freak out.

27 SEPTEMBER 2007
YAROSLAVSKY TERMINAL, MOSCOW
05:52 YEKT

At Moscow, they moved to the corridor outside their train cabin and squeezed by other passengers, ducking high train partitions when necessary. With every new person they passed, Chuck felt the walls close in a little bit. His throat dried up after a minute, became the Gobi desert the next. He kept his gaze forward, focusing on just getting off of the train…where it would no longer be enclosed, where there would be even more people, all waiting, all cramming into spaces where there were far too many people, far too much color, far too much noise—

“Chuck?” A hand on his arm made his vision stop tunneling. Chuck blinked and twisted to look at Sarah, who was right behind him. “You okay?”

“What? Oh—yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I’m good.” Chuck gulped.

But Sarah narrowed her eyes. “You’re covered in sweat.”

“It’s okay, I’m fine. Parka’s a little warm.”

“Are you sure?”

Chuck assured her that he was and turned around. He took a deep breath.

Outside, it grew worse. There was no longer a cover protecting him from the great open sky. He stepped out into the cold September morning and immediately felt his hands begin to shake. Though he wanted nothing more than to scramble back onto the train, to return to that horribly uncomfortable bench, he forced himself to step down onto the platform. No way was he going to chicken out in front of Sarah just because of a little government-induced agoraphobia.

She didn’t say anything, but she did take his arm and wrap her own through it. “Don’t want to lose you. We’ve got awhile before the next train leaves.”

“Next train?” Chuck managed to ask in a normal voice.

“Yes, we’ll take the Sapsan up to St. Petersburg. C’mon. I could really use a coffee.” She maneuvered him forward, which was probably a good thing. At the sight of the crowds—admittedly thin, as it was early morning—milling about, everything inside Chuck had frozen solid. He walked a bit creakily beside her, the noise and the fury making him sweat underneath the parka.

By the time they reached the end of the platform, he was literally praying under his breath, wishing that it would all go away.

“Still with me?” Sarah asked.

Chuck just nodded, unsure that normal speech was possible. The edges of his vision were beginning to compact like the trash room on the Death Star.

“Well, good. We’ll check the boards to find our train, and then we’ll get that coffee and find our berth on the train. It’ll be a piece of cake, right?”

Chuck could feel the sweat sliding, greasy and unwelcome, between his shoulder blades. By the time they’d found the train, with hot, bitter coffee in hand, he was soaked. He collapsed on his seat and began to take deep, gulping breaths. Thankfully, they were alone in the cabin so far, though he figured that wouldn’t last long.

“Going to make it?” She was smiling a little as she asked.

Instead of manning up, as his old instructors would have ordered, Chuck put his head in his hands. “Too many people,” he said. His hands came away wet; he was drenched. “Is there, ah, a bathroom anywhere, do you think?”

“Just down the corridor,” Sarah said. “Do you need me to go with you?”

Chuck shook his head and hurried away. In the bathroom, he locked the door and pulled off all of his gear, using water to slap most of the sweat away. He made a point of rewrapping his padding and pulling on his parka, though the train atmosphere was far too warm for such cold weather clothing. But removing the gear was like unstrapping a shield, and with everything happening around him…he needed the little bit of sanity he had left.

He avoided meeting the eyes of the tired and rumpled man in the mirror the whole time. There was always too much disappointment in that face.

Sarah was reading a Russian newspaper when he returned. “Feeling better?”

“Much. I’m sorry I freaked out on you—”

“You held it together better than I ever would have if I’d been stuck with limited interaction for three years.”

“Five.”

Sarah lowered the paper to stare at him. “They had you there for five years? You told me you’d only been there a year when Bryce and I came to see you.”

Chuck shook his head slowly. “They had me somewhere else before that.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure. They knocked me out to transport me there and away.” The fact that he’d been kept in a mysterious location for two years still sat in the back of his mind like a lump of lead that would never dislodge itself. At least in the Siberian Hellhole, he’d had internet connection and access to satellites.

Across from him, Sarah suddenly leaned forward and put a hand on his knee. She met his eyes. “I’m going to look out for you, Chuck. Nobody’s going to put you in a bunker again.”

“Why?” Chuck asked before he could think about stopping himself. “Why are you doing this? This is the next thing to treason.”

It took a long time for Sarah to answer. “Because I don’t think Bryce is a traitor,” she finally admitted. “And even if he is, I owe him my life. I owe him to look out for his best friend. And I owe you, too. You’ve saved my life a couple of times.”

Chuck waved a hand, though he had a hard time shrugging off such sincerity. “All I did was call for a little backup or hide a satellite feed a couple of times—”

“Chuck. Just accept my gratitude.” Sarah kept her gaze focused on his until he relented and nodded. “I’m not going to let the government put you away like that again. You have rights.”

“How on earth could you ever hope to stop them?” Chuck demanded, trying to keep the despair out of his voice and failing. “Sarah, they’re the government of the United Freaking States of America. This is bigger than either of us. I appreciate the thought, but maybe I should just give up now.”

“Trust me, Chuck. I’ll get us through this.”

Chuck opened his mouth to reply to that, but the door to their cabin opened and two men in suits, newspapers tucked under their arms, joined them. Sarah hurriedly switched over so that she was sitting next to Chuck. She bumped him with her shoulder and smiled, but he didn’t smile back. Instead, he just leaned his head back against the seat and stared at the ceiling.

27 SEPTEMBER 2007
PULKOVO AIRPORT
11:47 YEKT

In St. Petersburg, they took a taxi. It wasn’t as much of an adventure as it could have been—Chuck managed to shore himself up for the trip into the crowds so that he held up somewhat better this time. His hands twitched, but he found that if he stared forward and didn’t look around, it could become a game of one foot in front of the next and so on. By the time Sarah helped him into the taxi, he’d begun to count his footsteps. Since Sarah had quite the mastery on the Russian language; she directed the taxi driver to their desired entrance at the airport with ease.

“What are you going to do about passports?” Chuck asked under his breath. He didn’t have to speak loudly, crammed as they were into the taxi cab.

“I’ve got it covered.”

“Were you by any chance a boy scout yourself?”

“No.” Sarah leaned closer to give the driver directions, guiding the taxi not to the terminal but to the private section. She pulled Chuck out into the September cold, heading for the on-tarmac transport.

“Um, Sarah, hate to point this out, but the terminals are that way—”

“We’re not flying commercial.” Sarah climbed into the driver’s seat and popped out a panel just below the steering wheel. She began to fiddle with wires, completely businesslike.

“Are we hijacking this?” Chuck gaped. “Wait, we’re not hijacking a plane, are we?”

“No.” Sarah twitched one last wire and the engine purred to life. “I just don’t want to walk all the way to the hangar. C’mon, get in and hold on.”

Chuck obeyed, grabbing onto the door and praying for what felt like the fifteenth time of the day. Sarah had obviously been Dale Earnhart in another life. They careened into a large hangar bay less than five minutes later. On shaky legs, Chuck climbed from the cart.

Sarah tossed him a cloth. “Fingerprints” was all she said, and belatedly, Chuck realized that she wanted him to wipe down the door. He hurried to catch up when she strode away.

The hanger, a huge, yawning building that caught every draft from outside and intensified it, spread out all around them. Planes rose like gods and titans from the smooth concrete, all shapes and sizes. They passed luxury liner jets and crop dusters alike. Chuck stared at a few as they passed, wondering just how on earth they’d managed to walk into such a building so easily. Shouldn’t these planes be better guarded?

“So you, um, hired a pilot?”

Sarah didn’t answer—probably because she’d spotted the only other person in the hangar. Chuck blinked when a real smile blossomed over her face and she ran over to hug a tall, swarthy man. What she said, Chuck had no idea, but he was pretty sure it was French. He picked up her knapsack from where she’d dropped it and shouldered the burden himself. As he did so, he got his first good look at Sarah’s friend.

The flash, of course, all but bitch-slapped him.

Jean-Claude Gestreaux, Belgian national, DOB 10 January, 1972.

Four known priors, suspected member of Templars, on retainer for CIA and Interpol, specialty IDENTITY FRAUD.

Chuck blinked off the micro-migraine.

“Bonjour,” he attempted, using up the only French he knew that wasn’t from Lady Marmalade.

“Oh, right. Chuck, this is Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude, this is—”

“Peter Rogers.” Jean-Claude’s white teeth flashed against his dark skin as he shook Chuck’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Pete.”

Chuck wondered why the Intersect had neglected to mention that Jean-Claude Gestreaux was a few Belgian chocolates short of a full sampler box.

But Jean-Claude hadn’t finished. He held out an envelope to Chuck. “Your documents.”

“What?” Confused, Chuck slit open the envelope and watched a driver’s license and passport tumble onto his palm. A social security card fluttered to the floor. As he knelt to retrieve it, he opened the passport. That was his picture, certainly, but the name was indeed Peter Rogers. “What?” he asked again.

“Jean-Claude’s what we call a grease-man,” Sarah explained. “He’s the one that arranged airport security to let us in. The best in the business, right here.”

Jean-Claude chuckled and waved off the compliment. “Always glad to help my favorite face. Don’t forget about your own papers.” He handed Sarah an identical envelope.

She raised her eyebrow at the passport. “Diana Rogers?”

“Clever, isn’t it?” Jean-Claude lapsed back into French. From the way the Belgian glanced Chuck’s way often and the way Sarah avoided looking at him completely, Chuck knew they were talking about him. He didn’t care. He was too busy studying his new documents. DOB for Peter Rogers—October fifteenth, which meant that he was still a Libra. And, hey, he could possibly celebrate his birthday with other people present this time.

“Chuck?” Sarah touched his arm. “We’d better move out.”

“What? Oh, oh, sure. Right.” Chuck collected himself and shook Jean-Claude’s hand. “Thanks for the new identity. I appreciate the name.”

“No problem. Sarah—oh, my apologies. Diana. I shall be in touch.”

“I’m sure.”

“Look for my bill.” And Jean-Claude wandered away, whistling.

Sarah took her bag back and shouldered it. “Our ride’s this way. If I know Jean-Claude at all, it’ll be cleared and ready to go.” She led Chuck to a bright-yellow Cessna parked just off the main strip through the hangar bay. “Ta-da.”

“This is really our ride?” Chuck held up a hand to block some of the brightness.

“Yep. I call her the Sting.”

“Like the thing a bee does, or the movie?”

It turned out there was quite a bit of work to be done on a plane before it could take off. Sarah ran down a checklist while Chuck climbed up into the cockpit and stowed their bags. It almost comforted him to be in such an enclosed space after all the openness of Moscow and St. Petersburg. He relaxed into his seat while Sarah communicated with the tower.

“All right,” she said, adjusting her headset. “We’re clear to go.”

“Just like that?”

“I’m in black ops. I know how to travel expediently when I need to. Hold these.” She handed over her documents. “Whatever you do, don’t touch anything.”

Since the sheer amount of toggles and switches and gauges was throwing him for a loop, Chuck just nodded. He didn’t particularly feel like dying in a horrendous plane crash after everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours. He chose to focus on the passports to distract himself. “So, same last name, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sarah toggled a switch. “Same last name.”

“What’s our, uh, cover? Rocking a little brother-sister identity action?”

“More like husband-wife, since we look nothing alike. You’re in software, your product is selling well. I’m your extreme sports-loving wife that you met six years ago when mutual friends introduced us.”

“Wow, that’s detailed. How come you’re the extreme sports lover in this situation?”

“Because I’m flying the plane. We left the little ones with Uncle Bryce while you had to be in St. Petersburg to meet with clients. And now we’re taking a second honeymoon by exploring eastern Europe.” While she spoke, Sarah geared up the plane so that the engine purred to life. She began to drive out of the hangar, but she spared Chuck a brief smile. “I’ve always wanted to, and Pete can’t say no to Diana.”

“Can’t he now? Good to know.”

Chuck fell silent as Sarah taxied the plane to the runway, contacting the tower occasionally. Though she seemed confident as she guided the plane along, doubt proved stronger than his resolve. “So, um, uh, how good a pilot are you? What are we talking about here? Every once in a while, recreational type flyer or more hardcore stuff? Like, look out, MIG, while I flip over, flip you the bird, and maybe get a Polaroid just to treasure the memories?”

Sarah smiled at the control panel. “Relax. I’m a great pilot.” She held up a hand to let him know she was getting a message from the tower, and replied back in something that sounded like code, more numbers than words. “Ready for take-off, Chuck?”

“Sure,” he managed, and tried not to show that he was holding for dear life.

And just like that, they were cleared to leave Russia.

Chapter 3: Wild Blue Yonder

Notes:

Conflict is the gadfly of thought. It stirs us to observation and memory. It instigates to invention. It shocks us out of sheeplike passivity, and sets us at noting and contriving. — John Dewey

27 SEPTEMBER 2007
MIDAIR BEARING EAST FROM ST. PETERSBURG
14:31 GET

It wasn’t so bad, flying. The initial lift-off was even thrilling, certainly different from being stuck inside of a 747 and watching through a tiny window. In the Cessna, they were more like a fly batted upwards than the huge, ugly birds of prey that Jumbo Jets resembled to him. He might, Chuck acknowledged with the open-eyed pragmatism his one-therapist would have celebrated, have had trouble with the tiny plane pre-Serbia. But claustrophobia was apparently a thing of the past, even if he was hyper-aware of the woman to his left for the whole trip, the way she looked and smelled, and now, because the cockpit was small enough that their thighs brushed, how she felt. He tried to focus past that, and not only the sky, but the way she handled the controls. Confidently. Easily. Okay, so the woman was more than just a great pilot. She could fight, throw a knife better than anybody he’d seen, fly, shoot, be a secret agent, and rescue geeks in distress.

“I’m rapidly changing my mind about this whole Bond thing,” Chuck admitted when it looked like they’d reached some sort of cruising altitude and the heavy lifting was done. “I’m starting to think you’re way cooler than Bond.”

Sarah grinned. “I had Jean-Claude pick some clothes up for you—they’re in the back. I told him you were tall, but I don’t know exactly how well they’ll fit.”

“Fantastic.” Chuck studied the cabin, just a tiny room with four seats, to figure out how best to go about this. In such a cramped space, it was an adventure, but he managed to squeeze past Sarah without causing her to crash the plane. Jean-Claude had apparently packed a duffel bag with several options—jeans, sweaters, a few T-shirts in the mix. Yuppie brands, mostly, Chuck saw. After assuring himself that Sarah wasn’t peeking, Chuck began the arduous process of stripping out of his Siberian gear.

He took a deep breath, reminded himself that he was in a plane several thousand feet above the ground, and that Sarah had sworn she would protect him. If she was going to, he would need to trust her. First went the heavy parka, peeled off because it stuck to the homemade padding beneath, padding that had become a bit ripe due to all of the flop sweat. Chuck took his time unwinding this, unraveling it slowly, layer by layer, so that it revealed an old gray T-shirt. After checking again to make sure Sarah still had her eyes forward, he peeled out of this and gagged. It had been awhile since the improvised sponge bath on the train in Moscow. He quickly yanked off the thermal undershirt and pawed through his parka pockets for deodorant. It didn’t entirely kill the smell, but it helped.

“I think we may need to toss my old gear out the window,” he called to Sarah as he pulled a dark red sweater, the only thing that looked like it might fit, from the duffel.

“We’ll burn it when we get to Athens,” she promised without looking back.

Most of the clothing in the bag was simply huge. Apparently, Jean-Claude had been preparing for somebody much larger. The jeans bagged on Chuck, but at least there was a belt. He rooted out a pair of socks.

“There’s shoes, too,” Sarah called over the engine noise.

Chuck unearthed them and stared for a full minute before he burst out laughing.

“What? What is it?” Sarah craned to get a good look, panic evident.

“Your friend has a sense of humor.” Chuck waggled a shoe at her. “He gave me chucks. Black ones. What is it?”

Sarah, perhaps realizing that she’d been staring, jolted. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring.” Chuck began donning the shoes.

“No I wasn’t.”

“Oh, come on. You totally were.”

Even sitting diagonally behind her, he could see the smile start to curl up at the corner of her mouth. “I wasn’t staring. Precisely. I’ve just—I’ve never seen you sans Eskimo couture.”

Chuck automatically glanced down. “Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I guess it’s been a few years since I’ve worn anything else.” He ran a hand down the front of the sweater. “It’s soft. Heh.”

“You’re thinner than I expected.” Sarah kept her eyes on the open sky out the window.

Chuck, mid-clamber into the passenger seat, grinned. “Admiring my manly physique, were we?”

“You’re thinner than I expected. That’s all.”

“Oh-ho-ho,” Chuck said, laughing. “Well, get a good look. The gun show will probably have to don the parka again soon.” He made a show of flexing his biceps at her.

“No time.” Sarah pulled off her headset. “I’ve got to get changed.”

When she stared to rise, Chuck grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

“I said I have to get changed.”

“No, no, no, you have to fly the plane. I can’t fly this thing, I never made it to the flight segment of spy training, and I’m really, really not qualified for this—”

“Chuck. Relax.” Sarah actually grabbed the sides of his face to ensure that he looked at her. “I put it on autopilot while you were changing. Keep an eye out, make sure nothing’s coming, okay? It’ll just take me a minute.”

She brushed a hand over his hair as she climbed past him.

He didn’t blink. For a full five minutes, his eyes remained wide open, always darting, seeking, searching every corner of the sky—a cloudless, pristine, autumnal sky—for any possible danger. Other airplanes. Geese. Meteorites, Superman, dragons, anything that could possibly signal an oncoming apocalypse or death. Even when his eyes burned and began to itch, he didn’t blink.

Nor did he look behind him, even though the rustling sounded…interesting.

An eternity later, Sarah climbed back up. She’d shucked off the unobtrusive sweater and dark pants for a much sportier outfit. “Extreme sports loving wife, remember,” she said at his wordless look.

To cover his gaffe, Chuck forced a laugh. “You’re thinner than I expected,” he mimicked.

She punched his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“So what now?” Chuck asked, rubbing his aching eyes. “We fly all the way back to the States? Cos I gotta tell you, I’m a little nervous at the thought.”

“No. The trick is to keep moving, to keep changing modes of transportation and identities as often as we can. Since I only had time to arrange Jean-Claude and a couple of things, we’ll be flying mostly under the radar—”

“Pun intended?” Chuck wondered.

“And we’ll stay Pete and Diana until we reach Athens.”

“We’re going to Athens?”

“Eventually. I’ve got a contact there that can help us.” Sarah slanted a sideways look at Chuck. “Bryce never knew about him. He’s an…”

“Ex?” Chuck guessed.

“Yeah.”

“So how come Bryce doesn’t know about him?”

Sarah moved a shoulder. “Bryce and I didn’t tell each other everything. Obviously.”

The sting of Bryce’s betrayal hit all over again. Chuck cleared his throat, wanted to hunch his shoulders. Because he’d already shown off his un-manliness enough for a day, though, he just shook his head. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“It’s okay.”

Chuck glanced at the control panel, recognizing a few gauges from video games. “How much gas does this thing hold, anyway? And how far can we go on one tank of gas?”

“Two tanks,” Sarah corrected. “And we’re going about four hundred miles. We’ll be crash-landing in about two hours.”

“Um, what?” Chuck twisted in his seat, positive that he had misheard. “You said what now?”

“You trust me, right?”

He didn’t really have a choice now that he’d stepped from the bunker and into the wilderness with her. But there was, his brain piped in from the rational corner, a long way between trust and crash-landing planes. He began to hyperventilate.

Sarah just smacked him between the shoulder blades with the flat of her hand. “We’re not actually going to crash, Chuck.”

“Then why put it like that?” His breathing slowed, but only a little. It was hard to get past the deluge of planes-blowing-up images flashing through his head. He wondered, briefly, if any were from the Intersect, but they all seemed to be coming from his imagination. Fantastic.

“Because it’s more fun. Now, you might want to catch a nap because once we land, we’ll need to move fast.”

He had no idea why she thought he might be capable of sleeping in the wake of the announcement that they would soon be crash-landing. “Better idea. Why don’t you teach me how to fly instead?”

“So you can grab the controls away from me when you get scared?” Sarah gave him a sardonic “not happening” look.

Chuck held up both hands, innocently. “I won’t. I swear. There’s just no way I’m going to be able to sleep right now.”

“Really? You look exhausted.”

Chuck shrugged. “I’m trying to bring it back into style. I promise I’m a quick learner.”

After a long moment, Sarah shrugged. “I guess it can’t hurt.” She began pointing at the various dials and gauges, explaining the purpose of each. Chuck paid close attention, storing as much away mentally as he could—

He felt his eyelids begin to droop after twenty minutes.

After thirty, he was sound asleep.

27 SEPTEMBER, 2007
10 KM NORTH OF RADOMSKO, POLAND
18:45 CEST

“Crash-landing” the plane meant landing on a dirt road adjoining a field. It was horribly anticlimactic. In fact, the most exciting part was that Sarah made him get out while the engine was still running, and hurry to open a set of barn doors so that she could taxi the plane inside. Dusk was approaching by this point, tinting the sky with melting pinks and purples around the edges. Chuck took a minute to admire it before he turned and scrambled back into the darkness of the barn. In the cockpit, Sarah pulled off her headphones and shut everything down, her movements considerably slower than they’d been earlier. It was when she alit—and stumbled upon landing—that Chuck raised both eyebrows.

“You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.” The words were bit off.

Chuck raised both hands defensively. “Sorry. Just making sure.”

The wounded look on his face made Sarah sigh. “I’ve been traveling for over forty-eight hours on half an hour of sleep,” she admitted. “I’m a little tired.”

Chuck goggled at her. “You mean I let you fly a plane when you haven’t slept at all? Why didn’t you sleep on the train?!”

“Let me?” Sarah crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows right back.

It occurred to him that bossing around an armed and tired woman had its drawbacks. “I didn’t mean it like that. But if you keep going like this, you’re going to collapse or die, and trust me, you’re no use to either of us if you’re dead.”

“Use?” Her voice had gone soft, dangerously so.

“Again, not what I mean.” Chuck held out both hands—a futile peacekeeping gesture. “I appreciate what you’re doing, saving me like this and staying in my corner. Helping out. But I can’t have it on my conscience that you’re pushing yourself this hard.”

“Ever think maybe that’s up to me?”

“Completely, but you’re going on next to no sleep over forty-eight hours, and I’m worried you’re not thinking rationally.” Chuck put a note of conviction in his voice. “Is six hours going to make that much of a difference?”

“I told you, we have to move quickly—”

“And how’s that going to work when you pass out from exhaustion?” Chuck mirrored her stance perfectly. “I don’t see any other form of transportation here, so we’re clearly walking. I can carry you maybe…” Not far at all. He’d only had to carry a woman a couple of times—and it had been Jill, who was considerably shorter than Sarah. And even then, only for a few feet at most. “Seriously. Just six hours. You can see if the plane seats recline—”

“They don’t.”

“Or we can just sleep up in the hayloft, out of sight, giving us plenty of time to get away. We can rappel down the side of the barn or something if we hear somebody coming.”

With every word, Chuck could see the crack in Sarah’s resolve deepening. So he kept talking—it was an old trick, he knew, but it worked. “We’ll move faster if we’re refreshed—and fed. I haven’t eaten since the Sapsan and, you know us growing boys, we need our food. So we rest, eat, and set out. It’ll be full dark by then. I assume you know where we’re going, so….”

“I do,” Sarah admitted slowly. She glanced at the hayloft. Chuck wondered if she knew that she was beginning to sway a little in the breeze. When she looked back at him, the stony mask was back in place. “Four.”

“Four? What?”

“Four hours to sleep, and then we move out. The plane took a little less time than I anticipated—the headwinds weren’t as strong as I thought they might have been. We’ll only be losing about two hours.”

“And we’ll make those up,” Chuck said quickly, relief nearly making him dizzy. “You get the rope and the food or whatever, and I’ll set up a perimeter.”

Sarah stopped. “You’ll do what now?”

“I attended a little bit of spy training before they locked me away. Enough to know how to set up a perimeter.” Chuck opened the passenger door of the plane and snatched his parka. He flipped it inside out, digging through the pockets and unearthing three objects the size of credit cards.

“What’re those?”

“Sensors. Two to set the perimeter, and one to serve as the receiver for the alert.” Holding two of the flat navy blue sensors between his teeth like a debit card, Chuck fiddled with the third, sliding thin compartments away so that it formed a rudimentary speaker. “I spent my free time modifying circuitry in the bunker. I’ll go set these up inside the door—lucky there’s only one entrance to this place, isn’t it?”

“Kind of why I picked it,” Sarah muttered under her breath, though Chuck heard her perfectly.

Once his sensors had been set up on a level surface so that the lasers would rebound back and forth, providing an intangible trip wire, Chuck shut the barn door, plunging the entire place into gloom. “Sarah?”

“Up here!” came the call from the hayloft.

It was an interesting education in creating a fear of heights to climb the rickety ladder, but Chuck managed. The hayloft was apparently where the barn’s owner stored not only ancient, musty bales of hay, but broken down machinery. Given the time, Chuck would have liked to poke around through some of it, but the exhaustion was too prevalent. Because of the machinery, there was only a limited space where he and Sarah could hole up. He dropped onto the floor next to her, taking the sandwich Sarah held out and biting in without tasting it.

“Here,” he said, tossing Sarah the receiver. “You’re probably better off with that.”

“Thanks.” She clipped it to her vest. “Handy.”

Chuck, too busy inhaling a sandwich to talk, gave a modest shrug. With his free hand, he began yanking out handfuls of hay—but Sarah grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“We’re going to have to rough it. No making it look like two people crashed up here. Here.” She tossed his parka into his lap. “You can use that as a pillow.”

Chuck finished off the sandwich. “Gotcha. What’re you going to use?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve slept on a barn floor, Chuck.” Sarah, her own sandwich long gone, proved it by lying down on the spot. “I just set my watch, so—four hours.”

“Good-night, then.” Chuck took a little longer to lie down, stretching out on his stomach. Everything ached—his butt, his bones, his muscles, his face, his whole head. It was nothing but relief he felt at finally getting to lie on a flat, unmoving surface. He could even ignore the hot blonde woman sleeping a little over a foot away.

Almost.

Chapter 4: Don't Mess with Mrs. Rogers

Notes:

Compromise is but the sacrifice of one right or good in the hope of retaining another—too often ending in the loss of both. — Tryon Edwards

28 SEPTEMBER 2007
20 KM FROM ATHENS, GREECE
17:17 BST

By Chuck’s estimation, they’d used every type of travel possible—train, taxi, plane, the good old sneaker express, car, and finally, boat. They’d chartered a ferry from Thessaloniki, and he could count the miles solely by how tense Sarah grew, stuck on a boat with no chance of escape. He traded his time watching the stunning blue waters of the sea churning below the ferry for watching Sarah scan the skies, expecting perhaps a helicopter or a team of Navy SEALs to come bursting onto the ferry. That was, of course, when he himself wasn’t watching the other passengers suspiciously. It was a limited number on the ferry deck, but far, far more than he was used to. So he kept his guard up. And distracted himself by tweaking the tail of his tiger traveling buddy.

“I’m just wondering, but are we ever going to talk about Poland?” he drawled when Sarah had checked the sky for the fifteenth time that hour.

She jolted in her seat, but recovered quickly. “Talk about what?” At his know-it-all smirk, she rolled her eyes. “For the last time, I was using you for body heat. I was not snuggling.”

“Cuddling. Cuddling was the word I used.”

“Whatever.” Sarah adjusted her Jackie O sunglasses and stared forward, at the passing sea. “I never should have caved and agreed to a rest stop. If I’d known it would lead to this, I would have just made you keep marching, Pete.”

Chuck raised his eyebrows at the cover name. “What’s a little cuddling between friends?”

She hit him in the shoulder. She’d done it before, but this was the first time with any power behind it. Though he’d likely have bruises, Chuck had to fight a smile. He didn’t admit that it had been nice to wake up wrapped around somebody else, even though four hours was an insane amount of sleep after everything they’d been through.

“Who’s to say,” Sarah said, “you weren’t the one that started it?”

“I was exactly where I’d fallen asleep. You were the one half on top of me,” Chuck pointed out, and watched the faintest pink tinge spread over his traveling partner’s cheeks.

Interesting.

Because he wasn’t a complete jerk, he decided to change the subject. “Wouldn’t it have just been faster to take the train?”

“They’ll be monitoring all of the trains in the area,” Sarah said. “Maybe not vigilantly since we threw your watch on the eastbound train before we left Siberia. But we can’t risk them getting lucky.”

“Hence the weird travel pattern,” Chuck finished. It had taken him awhile to realize that they’d landed in southern Poland. Upon waking—and untangling themselves—they’d grabbed sleek travel bags from the plane and had covered ten kilometers at a trot. Sarah had set the pace. Chuck had merely done everything he possibly could to keep up, but after so long living in an enclosed space, he wasn’t used to walking great distances, much less almost jogging them.

Nine hours in a small car hadn’t made things any better. Though Sarah had let him split the driving with her.

They’d spent the day playing tourist, of all things. Sarah had ditched the car, they’d stowed the bags at a train station, and had gone all over Thessaloniki. If he hadn’t been battling another serious case of agoraphobia, he might have had a blast. Sarah kept insisting they pose for couple-type photos with the camera she’d brought—Chuck was positive that when they reviewed the pictures later, he would be covered in sweat in every single one.

The ferry had left in the wee hours of dawn, giving them time to find a quiet, out of the way bar to eat and rest. Though Sarah had kept a cheerful façade going all throughout the seafood smorgasbord, Chuck had just felt like melting into his seat and sleeping for about fourteen hours straight.

Of course, sleeping on the ferry got interesting. They hadn’t booked any berths, so they’d slept sitting up—and since Sarah really wanted to sell the married cover, she’d used Chuck’s shoulder as a pillow. He hadn’t gotten much sleep.

The voice over the intercom gabbled at them, making Sarah glance up. “Twenty minutes,” she announced.

“And then we’re in Athens?”

“And then we’re in Athens.”

“Fantastic.” Chuck fiddled with his sunglasses and sighed. “We’ll go meet your ex—”

“My cousin,” Sarah warned and added, under her breath, “Pete.”

Oh right. Their cover was a married couple and Chuck figured Peter Rogers probably wouldn’t want to spend time with any of his wife’s exes.

“We’ll go meet your cousin,” he finished. “Silly me, I’ve forgotten his name.”

“And yours, too,” Sarah apparently couldn’t resist adding.

When they disembarked, the cab took them to a bungalow not too far from the coastline. “Nice place—is he just not at home or something?”

“No, this is where we’re staying tonight.” Finally out of sight of the public, Sarah rolled her shoulders to release the kinks. She tossed her bag onto the bed—the only bed, Chuck noted—and immediately began to root around. Looking for bugs, Chuck realized. “What’s going to happen is that I’ll go see Randy, and you’ll stay here and not set foot outside. Do you understand me? I want you to stay in here. Take a shower, go to bed. And whatever you do, do not go outside.” She turned and drilled a finger into his chest. “I mean that, Chuck. I don’t care if the four horsemen of the apocalypse want you to come out and play strip poker with them and the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, you are to stay. In. Here. Preferably away from the windows.”

The four horsemen of the apocalypse and the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders? Now there was something to have very erotic nightmares about. Chuck frowned. “Why can’t I go with you?”

“Because what’s in your head is a valuable piece of intelligence to the United States government and Randy’s…not exactly kosher.”

Something about her tone, and the way her eyes cut to the right, made Chuck grab her wrist before she could leave. “I really think I should go with you.”

She stared at his hand as if baffled. “Chuck, how many ways do you know to kill a man?”

Well, that was a weird question. “Um…shoot him? Shove him off a bridge?”

Sarah leaned in and whispered exactly how many ways she knew to send a man shuffling from his mortal coil. Chuck decided not to bring up the hayloft cuddling again. Ever.

“Got it,” he said, swallowing audibly and taking a micro-step back. “I’ll just stay in here tonight, learn some Greek from ‘Happy Days’ marathons or something. Tell Randy I say hi.”

But before she left, Sarah handed him a piece of paper. “If I don’t come back, call that number and ask for Clark. Just tell him I’m vouching for you, and he’ll get you to DC.”

Chuck scanned the paper, grateful it didn’t cause a flash (that had been a problem during their tourism jaunts—apparently, there was intelligence buried in ancient Greek ruins), and stuffed it in his pocket. “Will do. Any idea what time you’ll be back?”

“Late. Don’t wait up, honey.”

“Yes, dear,” Chuck replied in exactly the same tone. Because it was polite, he escorted Sarah to the door, but stood where he wouldn’t be seen by anybody outside. Through a slit in the window blinds, he watched her amble away.

His first priority was a shower. The last time he’d had anything approaching the real thing had been an improvised sponge bath on the Russian train. He stripped out of the sweater and jeans he’d been wearing since the plane and, shedding clothes, hurried to the bathroom to wash away the reek. It was heaven, he decided, not to freeze to death right before and after his shower.

So heavenly that, assured Sarah wouldn’t be back for awhile, he felt comfortable lounging around in nothing but a towel, flipping through the channels on the television.

Greek. Greek. Possibly Italian. That sounded like French. Greek. Spanish. English. Gre—Chuck flipped back to the English-speaking station and set the remote aside. BBC news broadcast. It had been so long since he had actually watched a broadcast on the television rather than streaming from the internet. It didn’t matter that his connection in the bunker had been strangely fantastic. There was just something to watching TV on an actual TV set, even if it was the crappy 13-incher that this bungalow provided.

He absorbed details, cursing when a leader’s name activated some spark within the Intersect and caused a mini-migraine. Flashes, he’d decided to call them, as they were great flashes of insight. Since the Intersect had quite a bit of dirt on most of the world leaders, watching the news was like receiving his own dossier of behind-the-scenes politics.

He rubbed his forehead to clear some of the lingering muzziness from the flashes. “Wonderful. Is it going to be like that for the rest of my life? Geez.” Rising, he decided it was probably time to don boxers and maybe find something to eat, as his stomach had begun making its presence known—and loudly.

He downed half of the contents of the refrigerator, eating whole chunks of Feta and olive bread with his fingers, eating everything cold because he was too hungry to bother with cooking. When his frugal side alerted him that he should save something, should the next shipment of food and Tang not come…

He listened, though he knew, he knew, that he had fled the bunker for good. But he wasn’t alone anymore, he had somebody else to think about. Sarah might be hungry later.

Old habit made him tidy up the place before he turned off the TV and crawled into bed. They hadn’t brought any books, not even the one comic book he had read through thousands of times in the bunker, so his normal pre-sleep activities were out of the question. Instead, he pawed through his parka, glancing about to make sure that he was truly alone. He had no idea if Sarah had the bungalow bugged, but he’d have to risk it. His fingers found the seam and ripped with long practice. He’d have to sew it back up later, but that hardly mattered.

Two photographs fell away into his hand. They were crumpled, covered with spidery white lines of use, discolored due to sweat. But they were all he had. Indulging himself, he set them on the nightstand and, with those photographs watching over him, fell asleep.

29 SEPTEMBER 2007
ATHENS, GREECE
06:17 BST

He woke, aware of two things.

The first, more pressingly (literally), was that he once again wasn’t alone. Somehow, Sarah had managed to slip inside without waking him. It showed quite a bit of skill on her part, for years in the bunker had made him paranoid to the point where he’d set up the sensors across the door the night before during one of his waking spells. He’d set the sensors at knee height—apparently she’d not only spotted them, but had jumped over and had landed soundlessly enough not to wake him. Or she’d come in through the window.

She’d also managed to climb into bed and true, she wasn’t cuddled up against him like in the hayloft, but he could definitely feel the way the mattress pulled, adjusting to her body weight behind him. It mortified him somewhat that a beautiful woman had climbed into bed with him and he’d slept through it. Even if she was completely off limits. There were just some things a guy should be awake to appreciate.

The second thing he noticed was that the pictures were no longer alone. They were still on the nightstand, two of them, cracked and bent. But there was a take-out menu lying flat beneath the pictures, a menu he was certain hadn’t been there the night before. Confused, Chuck reached out an arm and picked it up, careful not to move the mattress and wake Sarah.

Gio Pete’s. A family run restaurant, it appeared. The menu was peppered with bad English. Chuck’s eyebrows went up. Was this where Sarah had met up with the mysterious ex-boyfriend Randy? Except if it was, why would she put the menu underneath his pictures—and prop them up just like they’d been the night before? It made no sense.

Wait—what if it had been somebody else? Sarah had easily entered the bungalow without waking him. Why not somebody else? It couldn’t be a coincidence that Gio Pete’s shared the same name with Chuck’s current cover identity.

He flipped the menu over—and his eyes crossed.

A picture—two girls playing on the swing set in a sunlit park.

Photocopied documents, black bars running across all of them. PROJECT OMAHA. Established May 2002, subjects tested. Proficiency in subliminal retention and pattern recognition. Subjects scored within 99.6 percentile of—

OMAHA moved to San Antonio, placed under the care of DR.—

Successful testing in Subjects Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot—

PROJECT REDACTED.

“Oh, God,” Chuck groaned, and pushed his head into the pillow. He dropped the menu.

Sarah jolted awake. In a blink, she was sitting up, knife in hand. “What is it? What? What?”

Chuck’s words were muffled by the pillow.

Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to learn that Sarah wasn’t really a morning person, but he did so anyway. She grabbed his shoulder and brutally yanked. “What is it?”

“Uncle! Uncle!”

His reaction seemed to make her relax. She sighed and put the knife away. “You’re not hurt, are you?” It was almost rhetorical.

“Just a flash.” Chuck massaged his sore shoulder, grateful it wasn’t the same one she’d pummeled on the ferry the day before. Well aware of the fact that he only wore boxers now, and that the sheets only covered him to the waist, he gingerly leaned over to pick up the menu and handed it over without a word. “Something on this incited a flash about Project Omaha. You ever heard of it?”

Sarah frowned as she took the menu. “No, but—” In another flash, she was out of the bed. “Where did you get this?”

“It was—it was on the nightstand.”

Sarah said a very bad word. Chuck’s eyes widened—in all the time they’d spent together, exhausted and on the lam, he’d never heard her curse. He threw aside the covers, ignoring his next-to-naked state. “What is it?”

“Get dressed.” Sarah was already hurrying to do the same.

“What?”

“Get dressed! The room’s been breached. We need to move!”

His movements clumsy, Chuck scrambled into the first outfit from his travel bag—a button-up shirt that fit him like a tent and his jeans from the day before, no matter what they smelled like. He stuffed things into the bag, while Sarah raced around the bungalow, restoring things to exactly how they’d been before arrival. She tossed him a cloth and this time Chuck understood without words that she wanted him to wipe the place down for fingerprints.

Two minutes later, they fled the bungalow, bags in hand. Sarah had apparently arranged for some sort of transportation for the day, for she all but pushed Chuck into the passenger seat of a chunky sedan. They made it out of the parking lot without peeling out, but only just.

29 SEPTEMBER 2007
THE ACROPOLIS
08:12 BST

“So we’re possibly being chased by spies, secret agents, maybe bad guys…and the first place we go is the Acropolis.” Chuck scratched the back of his head and stared at the ruins around them. He was once again covered in sweat, but he was used to that, as well as the feeling that the walls—the ancient, crumbling, open walls—were closing in around him like a tightening fist. It was early enough that a fair amount of tourists were abed, but there were enough people roaming the Acropolis to drive him beyond edgy.

“It’s public, it gives us an advantage,” Sarah murmured. She’d been on alert since they’d raced away from the bungalow. Only Chuck could tell, though. To everybody else, she just looked like half of a couple of tourists seeing the sights, holding the hand of her husband. Nobody else would realize she was holding Chuck’s hand to keep him from freaking out—and that she’d noticed everything about everybody and nothing about the beautiful ancient architecture all around them. “We’ll probably be able to see somebody coming.”

“Probably?” Chuck echoed, not reassured by that in the least. “Who do you think could have left that menu, Sarah?”

“Diana,” Sarah corrected under her breath.

Chuck gave her an impatient look.

“I have theories,” Sarah hedged.

“Any you’re willing to share?”

“Peter,” and Sarah deliberately laced her voice with a playful air, “we’re on vacation! We should be enjoying this—ooh, look, let’s go see the Erectheion!”

Chuck forced his cheer to match hers. “Anything you say, sweetheart.”

He heard her echo the last word under her breath in amusement, but let himself be pulled down the path to the Erectheion. For a little while, neither spoke. Chuck focused on walking or staring at the toes of his shoes. If he looked up, he noticed two things—the people, and the people. His stomach rumbled, but not from hunger. He was perpetually about two swallows from choking up the breakfast Sarah had practically shoved down his throat.

“You remember what we talked about,” Sarah said under her breath as they wandered on. “About if we get split up at any point today.”

Chuck shook his head, bewildered. “I still don’t understand. Why do you want me to go to an Air Force Base rather than wait somewhere for you to find me?”

Sarah checked to make sure nobody was nearby before she leaned in close. To anybody observing from a distance, it would only look like young lovers showing a bit too much PDA. “Because I might not be able to make it to a meet-up, and what you have in your head is a valuable piece of government property. Your protection isn’t worth the risk of waiting for a meet-up.”

A cold flash of insight made him understand. Might not be able to make it? “Sa—”

“Diana.”

“Are you in more danger than me right now?” Chuck swallowed. “Like, they’ll shoot you on sight?”

Sarah looked away. “Just enjoy the architecture.”

“Answer the question.” Suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter that there were far too many people, or that the sky was too broad and expansive and open. That he was sweaty and shaking. Chuck kept his eyes on her face. “They think you’re rogue. They can’t kill me because I’ve got the only copy of the Intersect in my head, but you…they’ll see you as expendable.”

“I’m off the grid,” Sarah said. “My partner stole a valuable piece of government property, and two days later, I went off the grid with the only remaining copy. Right now, by all appearances, I’m guilty of high treason.”

Chuck stared at her for an eternity. “Okay.” He pushed past her.

But Sarah grabbed his arm, whirling him around. “Okay, what?”

“I’m going to the Air Force Base, I’m giving them the phrase you told me, and I’m turning myself in. And I’ll tell them you had nothing to do with it, and that you were innocent.” Perhaps it was the pictures he’d foolishly stuffed in his pocket instead of hiding them like he always did, perhaps it was the fact that everybody in the area had vanished, leaving nobody but him and Sarah left on the entire planet, but he felt a stronger resolve than anything he’d encountered over the past five years. It made him stand up just a bit taller. “I appreciate the help, but there’s no way I’m letting you get killed trying to keep me from getting thrown back in a bunker. I’d rather die alone in a bunker than let you get shot protecting me.”

“Chuck, it’s my job to protect you.” It was the first time she’d broken their cover all morning.

But Chuck just shook his head. “No way, Sarah. No way are you getting killed because of something Bryce or I did.”

“I’ve been a field agent for years,” Sarah pointed out, her grip on his arm tightening. “I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt that. But I’m not willing to risk it.” Chuck waited and jerked his arm suddenly, breaking her grip. He started to stroll away—

—Only to find Sarah blocking his path again. “Get out of my way, Sarah. I have to do this.”

“I know fourteen ways to knock you unconscious without either of us moving right now,” Sarah warned. “And I’ll do it. I swear I will.”

“Here?” Chuck pasted a sarcastic smile on his face as he looked around, deliberately indicating the admiring crowds all around them. Early or not, late September was still tourist season. They were far from alone. “Try it.”

It was Sarah’s turn to stare. She stayed in his path, her gaze absolutely level on his face, her features perfectly mirroring the stubbornness on his. After a moment, she looked both sad and resigned. “I’m sorry.”

“For what—” Chuck managed to say before her hand lashed out.

All he saw was black.

Chapter 5: Don't Mess With Mr. Rogers

Notes:

“Smelling isn’t everything,” said the Elephant.

“Why,” said the Bulldog, “if a fellow can’t trust his nose, what is he to trust?”

“Well, his brains perhaps,” she replied mildly. — C. S. Lewis

29 SEPTEMBER 2007
ATHENS, GREECE
10:22 BST

The vicious, conniving, gin-swilling grandmother of all headaches woke him. It drove a sharp spike of agony between his eyes, pounding viciously against the top of his head and making everything want to explode. Somebody was drumming grunge metal against his skull. Somebody else was bulldozing his brain matter. And yet a third person had taken a jackhammer to the backs of his eyes so hard that even his teeth rattled.

He did the only thing that he felt capable of doing. He groaned.

“Ah, he wakes,” an unfamiliar voice said.

In that instant, a thousand sensations flooded in—movement, pain, traffic noise, hot, stuffy air against his skin.

Chuck opened his eyes and nearly screamed when that made the headache worse. He was only somewhat aware of the green-gray roof over his head, the shelves leading up to it, the fact that he had something shoved up his nose. He dealt with the latter first. An oxygen tube. Great. “Where am I?”

A face filled his vision. Pasty white skin, white-blond hair, pale, pale eyes. An albino? What?

“You’re in an ambulance, mate,” said the man in a British accent.

Chuck’s eyes rolled back in his head.

NAME: KAISER, RANDALL. DOB: 7 July, 1977, Sussex, England, Great Britain. Dual-citizenship, British/Canadian. Arrested three times, suspected ties to Liberal Canadian Freedom Front, known associates Jackson Burton, Terrence Jaymer.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on, buddy,” Randall Kaiser the albino said, misinterpreting the flash as Chuck passing out.

He managed to wave a feeble hand to hold Randall off, even though the flash had intensified the headache to almost beyond tolerance levels. “Sorry, I’m okay. Can I have some morphine?”

“Head hurt?”

“Is the space pope reptilian?”

Randall looked confused. “What?”

Chuck sighed and wanted to close his eyes. “Yes,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ceiling of what was obviously an ambulance instead, “yes, my head hurts. Where’s S—Di—my, uh, wife?”

“Following in her car, buddy. You’re going to be okay. Just looks like a case of dehydration.”

Dehydration, my ass, Chuck thought. If Sarah thought she could just knock him unconscious every time she disagreed with something he did—

Sarah. Randall Kaiser.

Randy.

“You’re Randy!” Chuck breathed, ignoring his throbbing head for once to focus on the man in the paramedic’s uniform leaning over him.

Randy, halfway to reaching for some sort of medicine, froze. “Walker told you about me? That’s not in her usual MO.”

“Uh, yeah,” Chuck lied, for he wasn’t going to just go around blurting out that he had a database in his head more fearsome than Facebook. “She didn’t mention you were a paramedic, though,” he finished lamely.

Randy laughed. He had a thin, unctuous sort of face that Chuck immediately wanted to distrust, but that may have just been the splitting headache talking. “I’m not a paramedic, Pete. We ‘borrowed’ the ambulance to get you away from the Acropolis. You must have really have done something to piss Sarah off if she’s willing to go off-script for this assignment.”

Only one thing in his statement was important. “So there’s really morphine in here somewhere?”

“Of course there is. For you, however…” Randy reached behind him and came back with a small plastic cup. “Sit up and take these.”

Chuck wrinkled his nose to see that there were only two aspirin in the cup. “You can’t give me anything stronger? My head feels like Keith Richards used it for a hotel room.”

“Sorry, orders from Walker.”

Though every movement made his head scream, Chuck managed to fight his way upright so that he could swallow the pills. “I don’t even want to know what she did to me, do I?”

“Still have all of your vital parts?” Randy asked.

Chuck had halfway moved to check before he stopped himself. “I really don’t want to know. Where are we going?”

“Oh, c’mon, mate, you know I can’t tell you that.” Randy clapped him on the shoulder, and Chuck winced as the movement reverberated through his headache. “Just lie back and enjoy the ride. Keep your eyes closed—the headache never lasts long. Trust me.”

“Been on the receiving end of a few yourself?”

Randy laughed. Though the noise set his teeth on edge, Chuck found himself hating the pointy-faced man a little less. “From Walker? The stories I could tell you. Either way…” He turned and Chuck craned his neck to see a large Greek man driving the ambulance. “He’s awake, Teddy—we can stop circling now and give him back to Walker.”

“Aye-aye, boss.”

Randy turned back to look at Chuck and startled the taller man. Gone was the jollity. Instead, Randy looked like a very pale, very serious operative. “A few rules, Mr. Rogers,” he said in a silky voice.

Mr. Rogers? Oh, right, his cover. There was definitely not a man in a cardigan sitting in the back of the ambulance with Chuck and the albino.

“Walker contacted me to help get the two of you out of the country. We’ve got a long history, Walker and me, which means that I don’t want some hotshot analyst friend of hers screwing everything up.”

Hotshot analyst friend? Chuck supposed that Randy probably meant him.

“Which means,” Randy continued when Chuck said nothing, “you’ll do as Walker and I say, from here on out. We let you wake up because you’re easier to move conscious, but if need be, we can return you to the unconscious state.”

It would probably help with the headache, but Chuck just crossed his arms and set his chin. He was glad he’d chosen not to lie back down. “Can you swear to me she won’t get killed?”

“We can all get killed.” Randy shrugged. “It’s just the lifestyle.”

“I’m not willing to risk it happening to her because of me,” Chuck said. “She’s a good person. She deserves better than the hand she’s been dealt.”

“She’ll be the first to tell you she makes her own choices.”

“They think she’s a traitor,” Chuck told him bluntly. “Because of me. That’s my fault. They’ll kill her on sight because of it.”

Randy blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t tell you specifics because, well…” Chuck pushed a hand through his hair and winced when it stood up. “It’s complicated. But what Sarah’s doing right now is because of me. I don’t want her to die because of it.”

Instantly, Randy held a handful of Chuck’s shirt, dragging the taller man closer to him. He leaned in threateningly. “What do you mean, Sarah will get killed on sight because of you?”

“I can’t explain—”

“No, you’ll tell me why, and you’ll tell me now. Teddy!” Randy fired off a long stream of Greek at the ambulance driver.

Immediately, the ambulance shrieked to a halt. Chuck would have crashed against the bulkhead separating the main bay from the driver’s compartment were it not for the iron grip Randy had on his shirt.

“Look, I can’t tell you why,” Chuck said again, stammering now that he realized what exactly he’d gotten himself into. He knew now Sarah wasn’t following the ambulance—Teddy and Randy were supposed to deliver him to some sort of safe-house somewhere.

Assuming Randy and—yep, the driver definitely had a gun peeking out of the waistband of his paramedic’s pants—Teddy didn’t kill him off first.

“I can prevent her from getting hurt,” he went on, avoiding eye contact with the gun. “I can turn myself in, tell everybody she had nothing to do with it.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because she knocked me out! I was attempting to do just that when she knocked me out in the middle of a freaking tourist site, okay? So if you want to help Sarah, drop me off at a train station and forget we ever met.”

He saw the war taking place on Randy’s face and decided to wait it out. Sarah clearly still meant a great deal to her ex-boyfriend—Chuck wasn’t surprised. People like Sarah always meant a great deal to somebody, even creepy albino men in the back of stolen ambulances.

But his new guardian just shook his head. “I can’t let you do that, Chuck. Walker’s always got reasons for what she does.”

Chuck closed his eyes, resigned. “Fine. Take me to Sarah, then. It’s her funeral.”

Randy didn’t appear to like that anymore than he did, but the man ordered Teddy to continue driving all the same. He leaned back against the side of the ambulance while Chuck collapsed back against the other side, counting each individual throb of the headache tearing his head to pieces. He felt sick, and trapped, and most of all, scared for Sarah.

It was then that insight hit. Randy would do anything for Sarah—he’d made that much clear. And Randy had enough powerful contacts to rate an entry in the Intersect…

“Wait a second,” Chuck said. “I think I know how to protect Sarah.”

Randy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not dropping you off at the train station.”

“No, no, I don’t want you to do that.” Chuck leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. “Can you get me an untraceable phone with video capability and five phone numbers?”

“Which phone numbers?”

Chuck told him.

30 SEPTEMBER 2007
SAFE-HOUSE IN ELEFSINA (OUTSIDE ATHENS, GREECE)
16:12 BST

“Man,” Chuck observed as Sarah closed the door behind their visitor, leaving the two of them alone in the massive safe-house. “Pete and Diana Rogers know how to vacation in style.”

Since he’d been making comments like that for hours, Sarah ignored him. “That was Randy.”

“Did he have my package?”

“He does.” Sarah held up a small cardboard box, her expression puzzled. “Mind telling me what’s in here, Chuck?”

“Randy and I came to an agreement.” Chuck gently pried the box away from her, but didn’t open it.

The safe-house had more than one room, which meant he had privacy back. Especially since they were the only house for miles, which meant Chuck could actually sit outside with a little bit of safety. He was using the opportunity to work on his tan, neglected during the five years in bunkers.

Sarah, however, didn’t let him get as far as his room. She did one of her lightning-quick moves, blocking his way. “What’s in the box, Chuck?”

“Nothing dangerous, I promise.”

“Then why not show me?”

“Maybe it’s a surprise.” Chuck’s smile was thin-edged. Things were still strange between them even more than twenty-four hours after the Acropolis spectacle. He felt more trapped than he ever had in the bunker in Siberia. It didn’t seem to matter that he understood her stance on the issue—it should be his choice about the lives he endangered, not hers.

But Sarah Walker was a formidable opponent even without the knives he’d seen strapped to her ankles and the badass secret agent persona.

She crossed her arms now, not moving from his path. “I hate surprises.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I like them, personally.”

“Show me what’s in the box, Chuck.”

“Trust is a two-way street,” Chuck reminded her. “If you really want me to trust you, you’ll have to trust me.”

He could see that little dart working under her skin, but Sarah’s face never changed. “Show me what’s in the box.”

Chuck’s fingers tightened for the briefest of instants before he begrudgingly handed it over.

Sarah wasted no time tearing into it. She blinked at the white-paper-wrapped objects inside. “What’s this?”

“Souvlaki.”

“You…got my conman ex-boyfriend to deliver you Greek food?” A line appeared between Sarah’s eyebrows as she looked from the box to Chuck. “What?”

“He mentioned he knew a place with really good souvlaki, and I didn’t believe him.” Chuck took the box back for her and headed for the kitchen. The house was open, airy, and precisely the opposite of everything in his bunker. It gave him the heeby-jeebies. “He also mentioned you were a fan, so I had him get two.”

“Did you now?” Sarah shook her head and followed him. “I guess I owe you an apology, then. I’m sorry. It’s just, I still don’t know who breached the bungalow—”

“Any other clues buried in the menu?” Chuck wanted to know as he stowed the souvlaki in the fridge.

“None that I can find,” Sarah admitted. “I have no idea who would have left it, or why it would set off something in the Intersect about Project Omaha. And I can’t ask any of my contacts what Project Omaha even is because, well…”

“Off the grid,” Chuck finished for her. “Can I take another look at it?”

“I don’t see why not. It might keep you from going a little less stir-crazy.”

“Ha-ha,” Chuck muttered, but he couldn’t deny it. Three days without computers was the longest he’d ever been, save the few weeks of training camp. Except then, he’d had more than enough to occupy his time, what with trying to survive boot camp. He’d noticed that he had begun to tap his fingers quite a bit due to withdrawal. And if he’d noticed, then Sarah sure as hell had, too. “Where is it?”

“Here.” Sarah rooted through the trash and handed over the menu. “As far as I can tell, everything on the menu seems to be something you would find at a normal family restaurant around here, and I don’t recognize any codes or ciphers within the text.”

Chuck shrugged and turned the menu over. Nothing triggered a flash, but he still couldn’t tell what would have in the first place. “The prices are normal?”

“A little cheap on some things, but reasonable overall.”

“Which ones are cheap?”

“I already tried that,” Sarah said apologetically. “I don’t think the menu has anything to do with anything except making you flash.”

“Except it has my cover name on it,” Chuck said.

“Which is worrying, yes.”

“And the person who delivered it knows I have the Intersect.”

“Another worrying thing.”

“So.” Chuck tossed the menu back in the trash, which seemed to be the permanent hiding place for it. He hoped that he didn’t forget and drop food all over it. “How long do you think Bryce has been in Athens, Sarah?”

Sarah faltered. “Why would you think I think Bryce is in Athens?”

“Somebody who knows our cover and that I have the Intersect?” Chuck strolled out onto the back deck and let the sunlight soak into him, though it did nothing to stem the cold feeling lodged just under his sternum. “No strike team knocking on the door, which means it’s not some random agent the government sent after us. Hence—Bryce.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t figure that out.” Sarah closed the back door behind them and sat on the edge of a deck chair, facing him. “If he was in Athens, he’s long gone now.”

“What’s his end-game, do you think? Why give us the menu? Why Project Omaha?”

“Honestly…” Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You two never discussed anything about Omaha?”

“Not about Project Omaha, no.” Sarah looked away, out into the Aegean. “Can you do me a favor?”

Chuck tipped his sunglasses down, surprised. In the whole time he’d known her, Sarah had yet to outright ask for a favor. But seeing as he pretty much owed her everything, there was no way he could say no—unless it would lead to her getting killed. No favor was worth that.

“Shoot,” he said without making any promises.

“Go for a run with me?”

“What?”

“I’m bored.” Sarah stretched out her legs and actually bounced a little on the edge of the seat. “And yes, admitting that took some doing, so stop looking at me like that. I’m bored, and I get antsy when I go for too long between runs. But I can’t leave you behind.”

“I’ll slow you up—I’m not a runner.”

“It’s okay.”

“All right. If you don’t mind me panting and wheezing like a wuss.”

“Trust me, you can’t be the worst I’ve seen.” A real smile blossomed over Sarah’s face. “I had Randy bring over some running clothes. I’ll just go get them, then we can get changed and go?”

“Sounds great.”

Chuck waited until Sarah had gone inside before he raced off. It took him a minute to find what he sought in the front bushes—Randy had hidden it better than he had suspected—but by the time Sarah returned to the deck, bag in hand, Chuck was sitting exactly where she’d left him.

“Here you go.” Sarah tossed a bag at him—he fumbled to catch it.

“Cool. I’ll just be a second.” Chuck disappeared into the bathroom to change. He had to work quickly. He pulled the second package Randy had left out of his pocket and quickly thumbed through the menu to get the options he needed. The cell phone had already been programmed—Randy was just that good—so it only took a couple of minutes to do what he needed to do. Even so, by the time he came out of the bathroom wearing trainers and running shorts (Randy apparently didn’t believe shirts needed to be worn during a run, but at least the shorts had pockets), Sarah had already had time to change into her own athletic gear.

She raised an eyebrow. “I know. I could really use a tan,” Chuck explained.

“Put some sunscreen on, at least. You’re fish-belly white.”

“Nag, nag, nag.”

They set off at a moderate pace—or what seemed moderate to Chuck. Sarah was probably stifled, but she didn’t comment. She just loped alongside him, letting him run by the water’s edge where the sand was harder and easier on the calves. Before too long, Chuck started to pant—and then to wheeze—and finally to gasp. Sandpaper grated against the inside of his throat and down his chest, and there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen on the entire planet.

Sarah finally noticed. “Let’s slow down for a couple of minutes. We can walk, take a breather.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re bright red. Let’s take a break.”

They slowed to a walk. “Don’t let me hold you back,” Chuck told Sarah through pants and gasps. “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

“I’m not leaving you. We’ll just enjoy the walk. C’mon, let’s turn around.” They’d wandered into a more public area, which meant there were families enjoying a late afternoon on the beach all around. Chuck saw a few children chase each other through the surf, laughing. Another set worked on a sand castle, of all things. It made him nostalgic for the days when he would take a day-trip out to Venice Beach with Ellie and their father in his childhood. Their mother had always had something to do.

Sarah bumped him with a shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“What? Oh, nothing. I was just remembering something.” Chuck scratched the back of his head and was surprised when Sarah grabbed his hand. Immediately, every part of him went on alert. “What is it?”

“Selling the cover. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh. Okay, then.”

“So what were you remembering?” Sarah prompted after they’d wandered a few feet.

It felt strange to hold somebody else’s hand. He’d noticed early on that Sarah was big on touching, while he himself had always had issues with it, stemming from long before his time in Siberia. But he needed to play along. “Oh, just, you know. Going to the beach as a kid. My sister and my dad and me. Back before Dad split.”

“When was that?”

“Right before I turned seventeen. I moved in with Ellie for my senior year of high school—she was an undergrad then, taking care of a teenage brother. I still don’t know what she was thinking.”

“Is she the one in your picture?”

Chuck raised his eyebrows. He was positive that Sarah had seen the pictures—he’d carried with them since ripping them out of the lining of the parka—but she had yet to comment on either one of them. Now, he pulled the picture in question out of his pocket and handed it over. “Yeah, that’s her. Ellie.”

“You definitely look alike.”

“Yeah. We looked a lot more alike when we were kids, but yeah.” Chuck stared, unseeing, out into the vastness of the jewel-toned water. “I don’t know what the government told her when they stashed me away. I haven’t talked to her in five years. I…occasionally used satellites to, you know, check up on her, make sure she’s okay.”

Sarah handed the picture back, but the line appeared between her eyebrows again. “Who’s the guy with the beard?”

“Morgan. He’s my best friend—and a force of nature.” Chuck smiled. “We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

Sarah lapsed into silence as Chuck tucked the photograph back in his pocket. They walked along the beach until they were out of sight of the vacationing families and Chuck had fully regained his breath. When Sarah suggested they returned to jogging, he gamely agreed, though his legs were killing him. It was, he figured, the least he could do.

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Randy’s going to smuggle us out of the country by way of Germany. We’ll need to be on alert—I’m not sure when he wants to leave.”

“Fine by me. And what then? What happens when we get back?”

“We set up a meet.” Sarah shrugged.

“That’s the plan? Really? That’s it?”

“It’s a work in progress. Save your breath.”

They jogged onward. Fire lit into every part of Chuck, infusing him with agony with every step, but pride kept him upright. He figured that a badass agent like Sarah probably ran at four times the pace and for four times as long, but she didn’t complain as they made their way along the beach side-by-side. When they reached the beach in front of the safe-house, Chuck flung himself down and lay panting in the sand.

Sarah, however, was having none of that. “No, you need to keep moving and cool down, or you’ll cramp up.” She tugged on his hand, trying to pull him to his feet.

“It’s been five years since I went jogging,” Chuck wheezed at her. “Can’t you leave me alone, woman?”

It took considerable effort on Sarah’s part to get Chuck upright again. He returned the favor by splashing her liberally when he threw himself into the sea. She shrieked—the water was definitely colder than it looked. And the unspoken rules, Chuck felt, for shrieking were that the shrieker needed to get splashed again. He obliged the rules. Sarah’s retaliation was to jump when his back was turned—and dunk him.

He came up gasping and laughing. “Uncle!”

Sarah shoved him into the water again.

This time when he came up, he was a little less amused. “I said ‘Uncle,’ Sa—”

“Shh.” To his utter surprise, Sarah yanked him close to her. He fumbled as a wave drew back into the sea, throwing him off balance. He stumbled into Sarah and immediately tried to backpedal away, but she latched onto his hips and kept him near. She also maneuvered it so that she could still look at the house, though her body blocked most of his from view.

“What are you doing—”

“I saw movement in the house.” Sarah shifted her feet to counter-balance the oncoming wave that tugged at their waists.

“Oh, fu—”

“How well can you swim?”

He was still winded from the run, and fear was making his heart jack-rabbit against his ribcage and tunneling his vision. Panic made him want to scramble somewhere, anywhere. “I—uh, I don’t know—I wasn’t on the swim team or anything, but Ellie and I used to swim a lot when we were kids—”

“Okay. I want you to swim as fast as you can. Head that way.” Sarah motioned with the tiniest jerk of her head, and Chuck realized just how close they were standing—and how very, very close their faces were. Strangely, it made the panic ebb just a little bit. “Keep going until you can’t anymore, then cross the beach and find the first public place you can. Go to the southeast corner of Syntagma Square and wait for me there, okay?”

“What are you going to do?” Chuck stammered.

“I’m going to deal with whatever’s in the house.”

“By yourself?”

“How many times,” Sarah said, her voice strained, “do I have to remind you that I’m a fully trained operative of the CIA? I can handle myself. Go!”

But Chuck didn’t swim away as ordered. When she shoved at him, impatiently, he instead turned and scurried for the beach.

“What are you doing?!” Sarah chased after him.

Chuck pelted up the beach toward the house, toward the way they’d been running before he’d gone into the sea. He snatched three things out of the sand and grabbed his sneakers—

Only to have Sarah tackle him from behind. “Get down!”

Bullets. Very loud bullets. They tore into the sand less than ten feet to Chuck’s left, sending up individual flumes and kicking stinging grit into his face and torso. Chuck let out a thin scream of terror.

“Those were warning shots!” a voice shouted across the beach. “Next one goes in your skull, Bartowski!”

Chuck edged his chin forward to get a better look, though he wanted nothing more than to run away like a little girl, both hands over his head like some cartoonish oaf. The angle of the sun made it a little difficult to see, but he got vague impressions of a man built like a Kodiak, dressed in black, and carrying a very no-nonsense type of gun. The semi-automatic type of no-nonsense. He was currently pointing it right at Chuck—or Sarah. It was hard to tell, since she was still on top of him, keeping him pressed into the sand.

“Don’t shoot!” he heard himself stammer, and wonder exactly where he’d gotten that amount of bravado. It had certainly never shown its face before. “Don’t shoot! We’ll come quietly, I promise—no need to kill anybody—”

Sarah pushed on his elbow, out of sight of the bear-man with the gun. “Chuck,” she whispered, her lips not moving, “when I count to three, I want you to run—I’ll distract him—”

“The man is armed, Sarah!” Chuck hissed back at her. “I say we do what the grizzly with the gun says!”

“They’ll throw you in a bunker!”

“So? At least we’ll both be alive!” Chuck lunged, using the moment of surprise to knock Sarah loose so that he could climb to his feet. He raised both hands. “No need to shoot!”

More men in the same black fatigues as the leader poured out of the house. Chuck counted three, four, five, and stopped counting before his throat dried up. He could feel every pound of his heart against his throat. His head felt suddenly light and insubstantial, as though he might pass out at any moment. Which was more than a possibility, actually.

Sarah, meanwhile, hadn’t fully risen to her feet. She crouched in the sand, eyeing their captors warily. “What are you doing?” Chuck hissed at her through the side of his mouth.

“Getting us out of this.”

“Don’t! I’ve got a plan.”

This was certainly news to Sarah from the way she almost did a double-take. “You have a what?”

“A plan. Just go along with it.”

The man had by now edged closer to them in that confident run-walk that all special ops types used to cover distance when they wanted to look badass. “You done, girls?” he asked both of them.

Chuck tried to look past the barrel of the gun to the chiseled jaw beyond it. “My name is Chuck Bartowski and I’d like to turn myself in now.”

“You’d like to? Like, what, you’ve got a choice? Walker, down on your knees. We need Bartowski alive, but headquarters didn’t say anything about you. One less rogue spy is a banner day in my book.”

But Chuck moved, subtly, so that he stood between Sarah and their captor. He still held his hands over his head, though his thumb, out of sight of the men in the scary army outfits, worked busily. “Not happening. The only way I go out of here without you putting that bullet in my head is if Sarah Walker accompanies me. Alive. And unharmed.”

He could feel Sarah tense behind him. The leader, however, just sneered. “In case you haven’t noticed, genius, we’re the ones with the guns. You don’t get a choice in what happens next.”

“And I,” Chuck said with a confidence he didn’t feel (hell, what he did feel was the need to wet himself. And soon), “am the one with the cell phone, who just sent a video exposing the Intersect project to contacts at five major media companies.”

The guns, which had relaxed the tiniest amount, snapped right back up. “You did what?!” G.I. Kodiak growled.

“It’s encrypted,” Chuck went on, feeling Sarah tense up even further behind him. “In two weeks, the encryption wears off—unless I send a code that destroys the file. And I’m not sending that code until I know Sarah Walker is safe and sound, and back at her job.”

“Chuck,” Sarah whispered behind him.

Chuck ignored her. “I mean it.”

He almost didn’t see it coming, though Sarah did. The leader grabbed him by the scruff of the neck; he dropped to his knees in the sand. Something cold pressed against the back of his neck. Something cold and heavy. Like a gun. Behind him, he heard Sarah start to throw a kick—only to be stopped by one of the leader’s guards.

“Send the code,” the leader barked.

Chuck’s heart had gone beyond jack-rabbiting. It was now beating against his ribs so hard and so fast that it felt like hummingbird wings. His stomach wanted to expel itself all over the sand; he wanted to soil his shorts.

But he swallowed, which did absolutely nothing for his dry throat. “No. Not until she’s safe.”

“You some kind of idiot or something?”

He heard each individual noise of a safety clicking off. And closed his eyes.

But something that sounded like radio chatter interrupted before he could die with a bullet through the brain. “Van’s here, boss. Driver says the window’s closing. Orders?”

“Take the skirt, for now. We can just torture the code out of the geek later. C’mon, idiot.” The safety clicked back on; the gun lifted from Chuck’s neck. He was hauled to his feet and dragged into the house—where something thick, heavy, and black descended over his vision.

He saw nothing else after that.

Chapter 6: The Spy Who Came in From D.C.

Notes:

I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is over self. — Aristotle

PART II: PROMETHEUS

16 OCTOBER 2007
BURBANK-GLENDALE-PASADENA AIRPORT
18:21 PDT

“Don’t get used to it,” John Casey growled at Chuck Bartowski as the two climbed down onto the tarmac. “This is the last time the government shells out for a private jet for your overfull skull, got it?”

Chuck didn’t answer. The whole day was surreal—had been surreal since he’d woken up that morning in the hotel. All he could do was lift a hand to shield his eyes, though the sun was already sinking for the evening.

“Here.” Casey slapped something into his chest. Sunglasses. “You left them on your seat. Don’t forget ‘em again. I’m not your nanny.”

“You’d be the world’s scariest nanny,” Chuck said as he slipped the sunglasses on. He took Casey’s growl as assent rather than a threat, and craned his neck to look around. It wasn’t the biggest airport in the world, but there certainly seemed to be a lot of space…and a lot of people…

“Get a move on,” Casey snapped, pushing the skinnier man to ensure that Chuck obeyed. “We don’t have all day to stand around and admire the scenery, Bartoswki.”

“You’re cheerful today,” Chuck observed, but he began walking. “You must really hate airline peanuts.”

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.”

They went in through the terminal doors to the private terminal. Inside, there were even more people, which made sweat spring cold and damp under Chuck’s suit. Casey, however, was having none of it. He strong-armed Chuck all the way across the terminal to where a car with tinted windows waited for the pair.

“You’re like my bodyguard,” Chuck said after Casey had shoved him into the backseat and had climbed into the front seat with the driver. “Why is that?”

“Is every sentence out of your mouth going to be a comment on my job?”

Chuck opened his mouth to reply, and thought better of it. Instead, he reclined back into the seat and watched the world pass by outside the car. Even after nearly three weeks of being out of the bunker, he still couldn’t believe how wide open the entire world was. The sky, just tinged at the edges with twilight, stretched onward and outward for years. And the people—the thousands and thousands of people. They were everywhere Chuck looked—in other cars, crowding the street corners, sitting out in front of restaurants, walking down the sidewalks…

Why on earth had he thought he could handle coming back to Burbank?

His grip tightened on the door handle, but not to open it. In the car, he was safe. The car was closed off, quiet. But out there…out there the variables came in. All of those people in all of that space, all those circumstances, none controllable or malleable or predictable.

His heart rate kicked up even higher.

“You better not start crying, Bartowski,” Casey called.

It was small and petty to flip him the bird, but Chuck did so anyway. And when Casey didn’t immediately come back to kick his ass, he figured that had been Casey’s plan the whole time. It was harder to freak out when you were angry.

Just another one of John Casey’s little life lessons.

It had been a roller coaster since Athens—the black hood, being loaded into a van right beside Sarah. Being loaded onto a C-130. Being loaded into another van in DC. Being dumped in an underground cell. And throughout it all, there had been Major John Casey of the NSA, who seemed to see it as a life goal to make as many snippy comments as he could to make Chuck as miserable as possible.

They had a dislike/distrust relationship. It worked well for both.

Chuck fiddled with the buttons of his suit coat. It occurred to him that he should probably be curious about what was going to happen next. “Where’re we going?”

“Base,” Casey grunted.

“What are we talking here? Home base? Third base? All your base are belong to us?”

“I’m under orders not to tranq him unless I absolutely have to,” Casey commiserated to the driver, who merely nodded sedately. To Chuck, he growled, “Our base of operations. And what have I told you about nerd speak?”

Chuck went back to watching the world pass by out the window.

The base of operations turned out to be a building that looked dishearteningly like an old bunker. “The government couldn’t clean the place up a little?” Chuck asked in dismay as he looked around at the cracked, weed-ridden parking lot and the squat cinderblock structure. The windows were completely black, a throwback to 80s architecture at its worst. “Please tell me you guys got a two-for-one deal and that’s why this is our new base.”

“Shut up, Bartowski.”

“You just have that one on repeat, don’t you?”

Casey slanted a sideways look at him that promised pain.

“Whose cars are those?” Chuck asked, jerking his head at the only two cars in the entire parking lot.

“The Crown Vic’s mine. Loser car is yours. C’mon.” Casey shouldered his backpack as their airport escort drove away. He led the way across the evening-cooled pavement to the building’s only entrance. “Welcome to the Castle.”

“Is this the one with the princess in it?” Chuck wondered as Casey input the code into the panel by the door. “Or are we going to have to go to some other totally lame castle-slash-secret-government-facility to rescue her?”

Casey’s reply was to go inside—and shut the door before Chuck could do the same.

“Hey!” Chuck pounded on the door…which only succeeded in setting off the alarm. Which was apparently connected to the sprinkler system. The building, parking lot, and sidewalk may have looked like crap, but the government apparently cared a great deal about their landscaping. Chuck was drenched in under twenty seconds. In his new suit. He scooped his dripping hair out of his eyes and spat out the mouthful that he’d accidentally almost swallowed. No telling if government water was safe to drink. “This is fantastic, this is. Just great.”

Casey apparently deemed his penance over. The sprinklers shut off; the door whispered open.

“You done now?” Casey asked as Chuck came in to drip on the carpet.

Chuck just gave him an aggravated look. He resisted the urge to shake himself like a wet dog only because he’d seen Casey in action, and the result wasn’t pretty. So he focused on his surroundings—they’d entered some sort of waiting room lounge, boring colors, uncomfortable furniture, two year old issues of Time and Us Weekly.

“Nice.”

“It’s your waiting room, not mine, doofus. C’mon, this way.” Casey unbuttoned his suit jacket and pushed through a swinging door with the name “Pacific Securities, LLC” on it and into a spacious-if-boring office. A glossy desk, taupe walls and carpet, generic paintings on the wall, and a wide window that overlooked the parking lot. The only impressive thing about the whole place was the monster of a computer sitting on the desk.

Casey crossed to this and tapped something on the keyboard. Instantly, a groaning noise made Chuck jump. The bookcase swung out from the wall. Chuck stared for a full minute before he said, “Isn’t that a little Scooby-Doo even for the US government?”

“Shut up and get inside.”

Typically, he had to duck a little to get through the door, but once he crossed through, everything changed. Stale, sterile office space became a moodily lit military bunker—but not the horror movie-esque version from his nightmares. This one actually seemed pretty cool, all bright blue lighting and raw stone walls. They headed down a staircase together and into what seemed to be the main bay…

Chuck stopped dead. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s a computer, Bartowski. Shouldn’t a nerd like you know that?”

But Chuck’s face took on a reverence normally reserved for Catholics meeting the Pope. “That’s not just any computer,” he breathed, stepping close. “I can’t believe I’m standing this close to a D-U-97, Freon cooled, reconfigurable thirty teraflop architecture with modules for cryptanalysis and video processing…”

“It’s like watching nerd porn,” Casey observed. “Don’t drip on the mainframe.”

Hastily remembering that he was indeed soaked to the skin, Chuck leaped backward—and nearly ended flat on the floor for his trouble. Casey just raised both eyebrows and snickered.

“Gentlemen.”

A voice behind Casey had both men straightening and turning. Casey recovered first. “General, Director,” he said politely, buttoning his jacket as he faced the bay of computer monitors, all of which contained the frowning faces of their bosses.

“Major Casey, Agent Bartowski…why is Agent Bartowski wet?”

“Just showing him how the alarm works, General,” Casey said.

Chuck straightened his soggy tie. “It’s very effective. The facility has top notch landscaping support equipment.”

The others gave him looks with differing degrees of puzzlement. “Sprinklers,” Chuck explained. “The place has really, really good sprinklers.”

“Bartowski,” Casey growled without moving his lips, which Chuck would find to be a truly impressive feat when he gave it some thought later. Right now, he just edged away from Casey and hoped it didn’t come across the computer screen too obviously.

“I trust the flight went well, Major Casey?”

“Very well, Director. Thank you.”

“And you find the facilities to your liking?”

“Agent Bartowski just finished wiping up the drool, ma’am.”

Chuck gave Casey the stink-eye. Casey ignored him with the ease of practice.

“Very well. We just wanted to welcome both of you to the new Castle facility and inquire about any problems you might have. Seeing none, I’ll wish you both a good night and give you time to settle in. Briefing tomorrow morning at 1000. Major, make certain that Agent Bartowski knows all of the codes and regulations regarding the Castle.”

“Yes, Director.” Casey waited until the screen had gone blank before he plucked a huge manual off of the table and shoved it at Chuck. “Congratulations. Your assignment for tonight.”

Chuck kept the book from clattering to the floor, but only just. “Actually, I need some time off tonight.”

Casey just gave him a look.

“I promise I’ll review the materials, I will, but I absolutely need a few hours tonight. I have to see my sister.”

“Today?”

“Yes. Today. It’s end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it vital, I swear it is.”

“You mean, after five years you can’t wait one more day?”

Chuck bit his tongue. “The five years wasn’t by choice,” he finally said. “I will learn this information, Casey. I will be able to quote you book, chapter, and verse, whatever you need to know. But I’m taking personal time tonight.”

For a long moment, Casey stared at him without blinking or giving in. At length, though, he crossed to a cabinet and keyed in a sequence to open one of the doors. “This watch is to remain on you at all times,” he told Chuck, handing over a nerdy black watch. “If I find out it leaves your wrist for longer than it takes you to shower, your ass is mine, pal. And here’s your new phone.”

“Oh, shiny,” Chuck decided. “I thought I’d have to wait years before I could afford one of these.”

“Those are tax payers’ dollars at work,” Casey warned. “You wreck that, I wreck you.”

“Got it. You’ve got a real flair for words, I must say.”

Casey grunted.

16 OCTOBER 2007
MADISON MERCY HOSPITAL
21:08 PDT

He knew that sitting in a parking garage was stalker-like and creepy, but Chuck couldn’t move. Twice, he reached for the door handle, only to draw his hand back. Four times, he gave himself a pep talk. Five times, he berated himself. Absolutely none of it worked. In the end, he just sat in the driver’s seat of the car the US government had seen fit to issue him, and called himself pathetic.

The problem stemmed from the fact that there wasn’t much he could tell Ellie. And Ellie would have questions, lots and lots of questions. Five years before, he’d hugged her at the airport on his way to work a “nondescript government job” and then he’d dropped off the face of the earth. The only thing that would excuse that would be a full explanation with apologies, flowers, chocolates, jewelry, and the last five years back. None of which he had.

He should have stopped for Godiva on the way over, should have made better plans. But a combination of things had worked against him—it had been five years since he’d been behind the wheel of a vehicle without Sarah in the passenger seat. He hadn’t realized how reassuring a presence she had been until she wasn’t there anymore. Burbank traffic had never scared him before, but by the time he inched the car into the parking spot, he’d been covered in flop sweat and shaking worse than an Everquest addict during a power outage. Even now, he cowered up against the wheel and tried not to worry about the fact that he would have to brave the roads again soon.

One thing at a time, Chuck.

Over to his left, the door underneath the wash of orange streetlight opened. Chuck flinched and ducked down in his seat as he had every time before.

The lone woman that slipped through looked about the right height, but something seemed…off. Ellie, Chuck remembered, had always moved with the confidence and grace of a power-walker. This woman seemed tired from the tip of her bent head to the toes of her sensible sneakers. Chuck narrowed his eyes, squinting to see better, but the woman moved through the shadows and headed to an SUV without looking up.

He dithered. Should he get out and startle some total stranger? The woman had Ellie’s height, weight, and coloring, but he was too far away to get a clear look at her face…

Nothing creepier than being accosted in a car park.

Chuck stayed in the car and called himself a coward. He watched in the rearview mirror as the woman climbed into the SUV and rearranged a few things that Chuck couldn’t see before she started backing up. As she did so, the SUV backed directly under a street light and Chuck got a clear view of her profile.

“Ellie!”

Everything vanished—the fear, the nerves. Chuck threw open the door and flew out of the car, waving his arms frantically and already starting to chase the car. He saw Ellie’s silhouette tense. The brake lights tapped—probably instinct. The engine roared; he smelled the acrid stench of burning rubber on the air—

Ellie slammed on the brakes. A nanosecond later, her own door flew open and she all but tumbled from the car, her face white and her mouth agape. “Chuck?”

Chuck skidded to a halt. “Hey, sis.”

“What—what…” Ellie trailed off, completely at a loss. The streetlights were too far away to clearly illuminate her features, but Chuck could see just enough. Relief, of all things, made him feel like his knees had been replaced by Jell-O. Ellie seemed frozen in place. “Are you—you’re alive?”

Relief fled; guilt stepped in to take its place. “Uh, yes.”

“And you’re—you’re fine? You’re okay? You’re still you?”

Since Ellie was still rooted to the spot, Chuck swallowed and moved forward. With every step, he could see her face in the darkness clearer—until they were right in front of each other. “I’m okay,” he confirmed awkwardly. “Uh, I think I’m me, I haven’t checked lately, but I don’t think I’m Larry Bird or anybody like that, so—oof!”

Ellie barreled into his midsection almost hard enough to knock him over. As it was, he had to take a few steps backward to remain upright, and to wrap his arms around her in return. She smelled like the hospital, the undercurrent of musk and sickness mingling with the astringent tang of hospital cleaners. And that alone made heat build up at the backs of his eyes, so he squeezed them shut and held on.

Eventually, Ellie broke off the hug. Tears were falling unhindered. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

Chuck cleared his throat. “I just moved back.”

“And where—where have you been? It’s been—”

“Five years, three months, and sixteen days,” Chuck finished. He smiled sadly. “I can’t tell you where I’ve been.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I couldn’t. Honestly, El. If I could have, I would have in a heartbeat, but…” Chuck shrugged. “I’m not allowed to talk about it, really. I just got in a couple of hours ago, but I had to see you. You have no idea how much I have missed you and—”

Both of them jolted when Ellie’s pager beeped. She hastily wiped her eyes as she plucked it from the waistline of her scrubs.

“Something the matter?” Chuck asked when Ellie, instead of replying right away, closed her eyes.

She nodded without looking at him. “One of my patients is having complications and the doctor supposed to replace me hasn’t shown up yet…I have to take this.”

“All right. Can we, uh, meet up for coffee later or something?”

Ellie tilted her head back to look at him, her expression absolutely blank, almost glassy. Shock, Chuck realized, though he certainly wasn’t a doctor. He took a half-step forward, though to do what he had no idea. He just wanted to help—he just wanted the pain over.

But Ellie scurried backward. “I—I have to go,” she said quickly, and she fled.

Chuck listened to her footsteps echo in the empty parking garage as she ran away, and closed his eyes. “Good job,” he muttered at himself, and pushed both hands through his hair in frustration. “That went about as well as a Klingon trying to find a date at a Star Wars convention.”

Which was when he realized that Ellie had left her car running in the middle of the lane, the door ajar and beeping insistently.

Chances were, she would realize it pretty quickly and come back. But a million things could happen before that—the car could be stolen, Ellie might remember during the middle of surgery and be unable to deal with herself, and so on. Chuck counted to ten before he climbed into the driver’s side and adjusted the seat (he’d have to remember to adjust it back or Ellie would kill him, just like she’d threatened to all those times he’d borrowed her car in high school). He drove the car back to its original parking spot, locked it, and pocketed the keys. It took a deep breath to actually propel him through the doors and into the hospital, which would be crammed full of people…

But Ellie deserved better than the hand Chuck and the government had dealt her. So his penance would begin with bad hospital coffee, a waiting room, and his own phobias to keep him company.

Chapter 7: Good-Bye, Sarah Walker

Notes:

All the performances of human art, at which we look with praise or wonder, are instances of the resistless force of perseverance; it is by this that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that distant countries are united with canals. — Samuel Johnson

5 OCTOBER 2007
SECURE HOLDING FACILITY, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
09:45 EDT

Before he’d been thrown in a bunker and left in literally the middle of nowhere, Chuck had never understood that noise could be its own power. That it held tenor, tension, tempo. By listening to even the air around his head, he discovered that he could pick up…things. Currents. Sometimes even emotion. Of course, seeing as his emotions had been the only ones present in the bunker, that hadn’t actually helped him much. But now that the CIA had seen fit to throw him underground once again, it aided him in leaps and bounds.

Because in this underground hell, there were at least other people. Other prisoners in equally tiny cells down a long, godforsaken corridor in this awful place. Guards that walked by every fifteen minutes or so, rapping nightsticks against the cell bars like they were in some old prison movie. Lawyers, representatives, agents that all came to “talk” to those inmates being held. The woman in the cell next to him. Chuck couldn’t see her, but at night he could hear her breathing mingling with his own and the other sleeping prisoners.

He kicked the wall in front of him now with the nondescript prison shoe they’d given him. “Hear that?” he called.

It was a moment before she answered, but that wasn’t unusual. “What?”

“Something’s happening.”

Another pause, this time longer. “Something’s always happening.”

But Chuck heard footsteps nearing, and the way the mutters from the other cells rose. “I think it’s time to face the firing squad.”

“I highly doubt there’s going to be a firing squad.”

“Do you think they’ll let me smoke a cigar instead of a cigarette?” Chuck went on as if Sarah hadn’t spoken at all. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, James Dean could make a cigarette look cool, but I don’t know if I’d be able to pull that off. Especially since it would be a sin to shoot me wearing a leather jacket.”

“Again,” Sarah said, and Chuck heard the note in her voice he’d been aiming for, “I highly doubt there’s going to be a firing squad.”

“Probably for the best,” Chuck decided. He didn’t smile. It would have hurt too much, though the guards claimed his black eye and puffy post-interrogation face were healing nicely. “I’d hate to crap my pants in front of a group of men like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I imagine given time you could talk them out of anything.”

This was said with just a tint of bitterness. Because she couldn’t see him, Chuck closed his eyes briefly and leaned his head back so that it rested against the wall. He could the rumblings of each individual footfall heading down the corridor of cells through the concrete beneath him. It echoed through the throbbing veins in his face, through the loosened tooth. Though it would have been more comfortable to sit on the cot, especially given the bruising along his torso, he’d taken the floor between the cot and the back wall. It at least gave him the illusion of privacy.

Sure enough, the footsteps kept going, which meant they were heading for the cell blocks at the end of the hall. Those occupied by none other than Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker.

He didn’t look over when the footsteps stopped outside his cell. “You Charles Bartowski?”

“Depends if it’s Ed McMahon at the door or not,” Chuck deadpanned.

He heard the slap of something metal against the thick bars that made up one wall of his cell. “I’m Gwen Davenport with the FBI.”

“FBI,” Chuck echoed. “CIA. NSA. You know what? I’m really tired of initials.”

“Well, here’s a few more for you,” grunted another voice, a familiar one. “MYA.”

“Midgets Yacht Association?”

“Move your ass, Bartowski. Get up.”

At length Chuck did so, but he made certain to stretch each limb, finger, and joint before he turned to face his own version of the firing squad. The FBI agent stood closest the bars, holding her badge up against them. He got a brief impression of boxy, professional clothes and a severe bun holding back gray-streaked hair, eyes that could only be described as piercing—abefore the flash smacked through him.

Ducks on a pond, one landing and about to splash the others—

DAVENPORT, GWENDOLYN A. Agent Status: Active, FBI. DOB: 10 March 1956, Married to Davenport, Gerald, two children, 16 and 13. BA from Harvard, JD from Columbia, stationed in Washington DC.

Formerly in Narcotics—

Approved inter-agency liaison—

Chuck blinked and shook his head to clear the last of the fog. “Inter-agency liaison?” he asked without thinking.

Davenport raised her eyebrows. “My reputation precedes me, apparently. How are you doing, Agent Bartowski? How’s the face?”

“Healing, no thanks to Agent Casey’s buddy,” he said, moving closer but remaining out of reach. Just in case.

“Major,” Casey corrected, quiet threat lacing the word.

“Major Bartowski?” Chuck pretended to think about it. “Has a nice ring to it.”

He thought he heard a snicker from the adjacent cell, but it was the growl that emerged from between Casey’s teeth that took precedence. For the first time since they’d tossed him in this place, he was grateful for the safety of the bars.

“Agent Bartowski,” Davenport said, clearing her throat and drawing Chuck’s attention to her fully. “If you’ll come with me? I’ve been assigned to your case and to protect you from any continuing abuse.”

Chuck was about to open his mouth and reply that he was kind of held back by the bars when the door slid open on its own accord. He stared first at it and then at the FBI agent. “Whoa—how did you—”

“You learn a few tricks over the years. Major Casey is here to keep an eye on you.”

Casey flashed handcuffs and a smirk. Chuck didn’t bother to sigh as he held both wrists out. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“I should’ve shot you on the beach,” Casey muttered as he twisted Chuck’s arms back to slap the cuffs on—none too gently. But then, Chuck had been expecting that. He gritted his teeth against the way the movement sang through every single one of his bruises. “Would’ve saved me loads of paperwork.”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that, Casey.” Sarah moseyed up to the bars of her own cell and leaned both elbows through, looking entirely casual. She also looked, in Chuck’s opinion, far better in the CIA version of prison stripes. Where he looked like a little kid trying on Dad’s clothes, Sarah managed to bring baggy back into style. “Murder generates its own amount of paperwork. Any District Attorney could tell you that.”

“Would’ve been worth it.” Casey turned Chuck so that he was facing Sarah, deliberately making the handcuffed man stumble. “Say good-bye to your girlfriend, Bartowski. This is the last time you’ll be seeing the likes of this traitor.”

“Wh-what?”

“They’re sending her to the pen,” Casey went on, unable to contain the glee in his voice. “The big house. The slammer, the—”

“I get the picture!” Chuck snapped, but he’d gone dead-pale and was beginning to sway. To Sarah, he babbled, “They can’t send you away! You’re innocent—I know you are, I was right there with you—look, I’ll tell them it was my idea, that I coerced you or something—”

Behind him, Casey snorted at the possibility of that.

“Relax, Chuck,” Sarah said, touching his arm just above the elbow through the bar. Casey jerked Chuck back. “I’m not going to prison.”

“You’re—you’re not?” Chuck twisted to give Casey an accusing look.

He shrugged his shoulders, just a bare movement. “News to me, twerp.”

“I got my orders a few hours ago,” she went on.

Chuck’s eyes widened—he hadn’t heard anybody come into the holding facility.

“While you were asleep. I was just hanging around until your representative got here.” Sarah nodded at Agent Davenport, who nodded back. “Trust Agent Davenport, Chuck. She’s one of the best Bureau representatives—she’ll do right by you.”

“Thank you, Agent Walker.” Davenport took a step forward and put a hand on Chuck’s shoulder, intending to guide him away.

He ignored her. “O-orders?” he demanded of Sarah instead. It occurred to him that in the past week, he hadn’t been away from Sarah Walker for longer than a few hours at a time—and now he had a sinking feeling that he might never see her again. Suddenly, it was much, much harder to deal with all of the noise, and the movement, and the people—

“Chuck!” Sarah poked him in the arm. “Relax.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Chuck found it hard to swallow.

Sarah’s smile seemed forced. “Who knows? I can’t make any promises, you know that.”

“Hey, maybe they’ll have regular visiting hours at my bunker this time. It’s no Cabo or anything, but maybe you could stop by.” Chuck attempted to smile, though he felt the very foundation of his sanity beginning to fissure and crackle around the edges. Everything inside him wanted to flee in a thousand different directions, but several things held him back—most of them being Casey, who still had a firm grip on his handcuffs. And Sarah’s light touch above his elbow, of course.

“There will be no bunkers involved here, Agent Bartowski,” Davenport said sternly. “Now, if we could move this along?”

“Yeah, the government’s not gonna wait all day for you lovebirds to keep twittering,” Casey grunted.

“Go on, Chuck.”

With all three of them urging him away, Chuck had no choice but to turn and start walking. He chanced a look over his shoulder as he was led away, though. “Good-bye, Sarah.”

She gave a sad little wave, just one hand. “Good-bye, Chuck.”

His footsteps as he walked away boomed like the final toll of a clock.

16 OCTOBER 2007
MADISON MERCY HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM
21:42 PDT

As far as anybody else waiting in the tiny room on the second floor of Madison Mercy could tell, the man in the rumpled suit in the corner looked completely average and unhindered by the giant room.

Inside, Chuck freaked out.

He’d started out okay. Well, guilty, but okay other than that. He’d even been able to tolerate the hospital noises. The beeping, the nurses’ at the station, the sound of footsteps and gurneys wheeling. Magazine pages turning, quiet conversations in the waiting room. The keys sitting like lead in his pocket buffered all of that somewhat. But slowly, reality had leaked in. Here he was, waiting on a sister who hadn’t seen him in five years, and he had no idea what to say to her. Hell, she’d run away from in the parking garage so fast she’d left her car sitting in the middle of the freaking road.

He saw the walls warp slightly, felt them move in an inch. His breathing began to hitch.

A gaggle of nurses walked by. Their chatter seemed even louder than usual.

Chuck loosened his tie.

Whisp. Whisp. A balding man three chairs down couldn’t seem to find anything satisfactory to read in his magazine. He kept flicking pages back and forth. Whisp. Whisp.

Why was it so hot? Chuck had always found hospitals cold whenever he’d had the misfortune of landing in one, but now he felt as though fire were spreading through his body, starting below his sternum and scorching its way to his fingers and toes. In what he hoped was an unobtrusive manner, he stripped out of the suit jacket. It changed absolutely nothing.

The walls inched closer. Chuck put his head down and prayed for Ellie to finish up with her patient and come back.

To his left, he heard movement and sound—the unmistakable long-legged strides of what could only be a doctor. Chuck didn’t look up, even when he heard, “Hey, Darla—sorry I didn’t get here sooner—playing squash with the guys—”

The nurse spoke in a softer voice, so Chuck only caught a couple of words of the reply. He lifted his head when those words were “Dr. Bartowski.”

Dr. Long Legs had his back to Chuck. “And she didn’t say why?”

Mutter, mutter. Chuck wished the nurse would enunciate. Around him, he practically heard the walls creak as they inched closer and closer.

“Well, that’s somewhat less than awesome,” the doctor commented. “She was supposed to go off shift nearly an hour ago. Where’s Dr. Markowicz?”

“Accident—the five—”

The walls shuddered like something out of a bad horror movie and jumped. When Chuck blinked, the entire waiting room changed and warped and twisted. His hands began to shake.

“Well, can’t say I blame him, I guess, but do you have any idea what might have upset her? Any idea at all?”

It was too hot, it was too loud, it was too much. Chuck wanted desperately to pay attention to the conversation at the desk, but he couldn’t seem to do much more than shake. For the first time in three weeks, he wished that he was back in Siberia, where he hadn’t made his sister cry, hadn’t made his sister run away, wasn’t constantly being escorted around by NSA agents that made porcupines appear like the cuddliest beasts on the planet, where his best friend wasn’t a traitor but a decent guy who sometimes got into gunfights in the desert and needed Chuck to bail him out with satellite support.

The walls groaned. Another inch closer.

If he ran right now, if he just dropped everything and sprinted away as fast as his legs could take him, would he make it before the walls swallowed him whole? Would he make it before the oxygen ran out, leaving him gasping and dying in the middle of the hallway? He honestly didn’t know. He didn’t think he’d get very far with his feet beginning to tingle the way they were.

“Whoa.” The doctor with the long strides was suddenly a lot closer. As in, right next to Chuck. “Hey, buddy, whoa, what’s going on? You okay?”

Chuck’s chest began to heave.

“Wait a second—Chuck?”

His name pushed off the fog for just a second. Chuck stared at the doctor kneeling in front of him, eyes wide. Though his vision was rapidly going blurry, he still managed to recognize the patrician features in front of him. “D-Devon?”

“Wow, buddy, I thought you were dead.”

Chuck went back to freaking out.

“But that’s a story for another time, clearly. C’mon, dude, let’s get you out of here.”

Something grabbed his arm, bodily lifting him from the seat. Chuck had no choice but to go along with it, even when he felt his arm go around somebody else’s shoulders. Throughout the whole thing, Dr. Devon Woodcomb kept up a steady stream of encouragement, but Chuck’s mind had gone fuzzy. He watched the world through a dark, faraway tunnel, barely noticing that his feet were moving.

Devon deposited him on a soft surface and disappeared from view for a moment.

Chuck put his face in his shaking hands.

A few seconds later, he felt a hand pry them away, and something was pushed into them. “Breathe into this.”

Though the words sounded foreign and strange, Chuck obeyed without question.

The first breath did absolutely nothing, but after a minute or two, he felt his world begin to expand and fill with glorious air. Slowly, his vision cleared and he became aware of the fact that he’d been dragged out of the waiting room and into an examining room. His sister’s old boyfriend from medical school stood in front of him, studying him with his arms crossed.

When Chuck finally felt he could breathe without the paper bag, he lowered it. “Hey, Devon.”

“Doing okay, buddy?”

Chuck managed to nod, though he was still shaky and drenched with sweat. “Y-yeah, I’m okay now. Thanks for…” He gestured with the spent paper bag.

“No sweat. Humor me while I check a few things?” Devon asked as he pulled on a stethoscope.

“What? Oh, uh. Sure.” Chuck gulped and attempted to collect himself while Devon listened to his heart. Inside, he was reeling a little bit. Dr. Devon Woodcomb was still part of Ellie’s life? When Chuck had left, the two hadn’t even been seeing each other seriously. Chuck had been leery of the relationship—yes, he was aware that as a healthy young woman, his sister had a sex life, but there had just been something…Ken-doll like…about Devon “That’s Awesome!” Woodcomb.

Maybe he’d misjudged the guy.

When Devon had finished checking his heart, Chuck cleared his throat. “Do you, uh, mind if I…” He pointed at his tie.

“Not at all. Go ahead, get comfortable.”

Chuck pulled off the hated tie and felt a rush of oxygen flood into the room. It was foolish, he knew—the tie hadn’t actually been strangling him—but he didn’t particularly care. He sucked in a huge breath.

“I sometimes feel exactly the same way, bro.” Devon hunkered down so that he could shine a penlight into Chuck’s eyes. Obviously satisfied, he pocketed the light and held up a finger. “Follow the finger with your eyes.”

Chuck obeyed.

“So where’ve you been, anyway?”

“It’s a long story, and one I’m really not authorized to tell.” Chuck sighed. “As in, they’ll throw me in prison for the rest of my life if I tell you.”

“Whoa. Serious, dude.”

“Unfortunately…” Chuck shrugged, since he couldn’t move his eyes unless it was to follow Devon’s finger. “It’s really not, but orders are orders.”

“So you’re still under Uncle Sam’s thumb?”

Probably for the rest of his miserable existence, thanks to Bryce Larkin. “Yeah. New assignment, actually.”

“Just visiting before it kicks off?”

“Staying, I hope. I came by to see Ellie first thing.”

“Oh?” Devon leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. “And how’d that go?”

Horribly. “Not well. I startled her in the parking garage and she ran off with her car still running. I was waiting to return her keys when…”

“Yeah, let’s talk about the panic attack. Do you have many of those?”

“Not usually that bad. That was by far the worst.” Sensing that it was safe to do so, Chuck hopped off of the examining table and crossed to a roll of paper towels. He began mopping up his face and neck. He knew the walls around them were thin, and little more than an illusion—people could start pouring into the room at any moment, crowding his space, taking up all of the air. But it was amazing just how powerfully the brain could be used to trick oneself. “How often? I’d say, one, two every…day.”

“You’re having daily panic attacks?” For the first time, Devon’s expression shifted from wariness to concern. “How long has this been going on?”

For eleven days, but Chuck didn’t want to admit that. So he just shrugged.

Before Devon could press the subject further, the door opened, admitting Ellie into the fold. She looked a great deal steadier than she had in the parking garage—now it was Chuck’s turn to look like a wreck, apparently. He jolted and dropped the paper towels.

Ellie ignored that. Instead, she strode straight up to Chuck. He braced, expecting the slap that he’d been waiting for since moment one. Ellie looked far too calm, a face he remembered from the time he’d accidentally flushed her miniature tea set down the toilet. Granted, he’d been five at the time, but the look hadn’t changed much.

Without a word, she turned and looked over at Devon instead. “Desk Darling Darla said that there was a commotion in the waiting room?”

“Yeah, nothing to worry about, babe.” Devon flashed her a grin, but Chuck noticed it wasn’t quite endowed with the same confidence of the young doctor from medical school. Apparently, Chuck wasn’t the only one that recognized Ellie’s look. “Just a minor panic attack. We took care of it.”

“A panic attack?” Now Ellie turned her attention back to Chuck. She was close, close enough to reach out and grip his arms if she wished, but she didn’t touch him. “Are you okay?”

Chuck nodded miserably. “It’s no big deal, Ellie. That happens to me a lot now.”

“Speaking of which, buddy—I really think you need to see a doctor about this. Not saying you need to go on anxiety meds or anything…” Devon trailed off when Ellie shot a look over her shoulder at him. “Just giving my opinion as a medical professional, babe.”

The last thing Chuck wanted to know was how the Intersect would mingle with anxiety medication. He shook his head. “I’m okay, Devon. Thanks.”

But Devon frowned. “I really think—”

“He said he’s okay,” Ellie cut in sharply.

Chuck didn’t remember his sister being quite this…brittle. “El—”

“You said you’re staying here,” Ellie said.

“Yes, I just moved—”

“Where?”

Where? Chuck blinked at her. “I, uh, I’m not sure yet. Here, I have it written down…” He fumbled in his pocket for the slip of paper Casey had given him on the plane with his new address. He hadn’t even seen the place. “This—that’s my new place.”

“You haven’t even been there?”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I came straight to see you.” Chuck shrugged. “It’s just a place to live.”

“Alone?”

As alone as somebody could be with constant government surveillance. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant…” Ellie nibbled her lower lip, concern evident on her face. She laid a tentative hand on Chuck’s arm, the touch feather-light. “Look, I don’t know what the protocol for having your brother come back from the dead is.”

“Coffee?” Chuck offered weakly. “I could buy you a cup, we could catch up.”

Ellie gave him a “don’t kid yourself” look. All three of them in the room knew that Chuck’s system could in no way handle coffee after such a massive panic attack. “Why don’t you come stay with me tonight? We could catch up and Devon can keep an eye on you like I know he wants to.”

“You want me to stay over, babe?” Devon stood up straight—he’d been leaning against the counter, watching the siblings interact with a wariness most people reserved for being stuck in cages with particularly toothsome rattlesnakes.

“You’re just going to call every two hours otherwise.” Ellie squeezed Chuck’s arm before she let go and turned. “I’ll call my roommate on the way home and make sure she’s okay with this—do you need a ride, Chuck?”

“I’ve, uh, I’ve got a car.”

“Why don’t I ride with you?” Devon said. “Ellie can give me a ride in to work tomorrow, right, babe?”

“Good idea.”

“Here, c’mon, Chuck, we’ll head on out, let Ellie finish up here—”

“Two things first,” Chuck interrupted. He had remembered why he’d come into the hospital at all. He dug Ellie’s car keys out of his pocket and handed them over. “There. And I need to get my jacket.”

“I can get that for you, bro—”

“Thank you, Devon, but…” Chuck shrugged. “I’m not going to get better if I don’t face up to it.” It was probably pathetic that his obstacle to hurtle was a waiting room when his obstacle to overcome a month before had been Siberia, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He ducked out of the exam room and took a moment to gather his bearings—he couldn’t remember the way to the waiting room, as he’d been a bit out of sorts when Devon had dragged him away. Thankfully, he spotted Desk Darling Darla down the hall.

He focused on counting his steps, as he had in the train station in St. Petersburg. Even though he knew a few of the people in the waiting room watched him curiously, he kept his stare on the linoleum below his feet as he crossed to the jacket. It would have been easier to grab it and run. Because of that, he forced himself to don the jacket there, straightening rumpled material and maintaining as much dignity as he possibly could.

He put his hands in his pockets. Something crinkled.

Confused—he kept things in his pants pockets, not his jacket pockets—Chuck drew out a small slip of paper. It bore a single line of text. A name, actually.

Two things happened at once.

Chuck flashed on the name Phillip Dartmoor.

And Sarah Walker strode into the waiting room.

Chapter 8: The Demise of Frank

Notes:

Heroism is not only in the man, but in the occasion — Calvin Coolidge

2 OCTOBER 2007
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
06:28 EDT

Every part of Chuck felt the C-130 land, not that that was hard. An autumnal storm had rolled in over the east coast, which had made for an eventful last hour of the flight, and the ensuing questionable landing. But even if the landing had been the smoothest glide over the softest feather down, Chuck would have felt it. Every part of him seemed enlarged in some way to the point of exploding. His head would likely split in two at any moment, his teeth and jaw throbbed, and his torso had swelled so much that it belonged to the body of a giant.

Sarah, handcuffed to the seat next to him, had spent most of the flight tensed up so that she wouldn’t accidentally jostle him and exacerbate his injuries. She looked over when the plane finally thudded to the tarmac and Chuck groaned. “You okay?”

The plane bounced a few times for good measure. Chuck shut his eyes and whimpered. “When my grandchildren ask if I was cool, please don’t tell them about this moment.”

Sarah tried to give him a bolstering smile. The problem with her smiles was that she rarely hid what she was truly thinking around him anymore. Her eyes gave her away every time. They were annoyed now, mostly at others. Though Chuck knew he shared some of the blame for that.

“Trust me, Chuck,” she said. “If your grandkids ever have the opportunity to ask me if you were cool, I’ll have plenty of other examples.”

“Thanks, Sarah.”

“Hey, lovebirds!” Major Casey, their personal major pain in the ass, didn’t look up from his card game near the cockpit, though the landing had surely splashed the pot “Can it!”

Chuck rolled his eyes—and instantly regretted it when the movement sang through his black eye. He winced.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Oi.” The current bane of Chuck Bartowski’s existence half-rose from his seat across from the pair, his hand on the butt of his gun. “The man said shut your—”

“Smith!” Major Casey rose from the table and used the guide-ropes hanging from the top of the plane to navigate his way back to the shorter man. He slammed the man back into his seat by a shoulder. “What did we talk about?”

Smith said nothing. He just chose to glare at Chuck.

“Answer me when I ask you a question, soldier!”

“If I speak to the prisoners again, your foot will find its way so far up my ass that it will take all of NORAD and a personalized, hand-drawn map to find it, sir!”

It wasn’t the most mature move, but Chuck and Sarah muffled their snickers. Or at least Chuck did until the snickering reminded him that he was currently suffering worse than a milksop stuck in the middle of a bar fight in an Irish pub. He began coughing.

Casey half-turned. “You got something you want to add to this, Bartowski? Or you just want to get more blood on a multi-million dollar government piece of property?”

“Leave him alone, Casey.”

Casey sneered. It was somewhat undercut by the fact that the plane bounced a little on the tarmac—even the taxi toward the end couldn’t be smooth, apparently. Casey had to tighten his grip on the overhead straps, but he maintained his sneer. “You always get your girlfriend to fight your battles, Bartowski?”

“Why not?” Chuck coughed a little more. Thankfully, he’d stopped coughing blood a couple of hours into the flight. “She’s good at it, judging by that lovely shiner you’re sporting.”

Casey growled and probably would have attacked him had his second-in-command (who had been his third-in-command back in Greece, Chuck noted, before the fiasco with Smith) not approached and muttered something to the Major at that moment. Casey grunted his acknowledgment before he stalked away to the front of the plane.

Chuck remembered something. “And she’s not my girlfriend!” he called after Casey, lamely.

“Way to stick to your guns there, Chuck,” Sarah muttered.

“What? What if you wanted to date one of these guys and they got the wrong idea?”

Sarah gave him a deadpan stare before she pointedly swept her gaze over the guards. Two were sleeping at the poker table, one was cleaning his fingernails, and Smith sat there like a great hulk, glowering at them.

“Point taken,” Chuck said. A coughing fit overtook him.

Sarah leaned close, but not close enough to bump him. “Seriously, Chuck, are you okay?”

He took a minute to cough out most of the phlegm that had gathered in his chest. Smith’s interrogation/beating before they’d left the air base in Italy had done more than a number on him—it had stopped the show with a full tap-dance, aria, and encore. “I’m fine,” he managed. “Nothing either a full body transplant or a short spin in a Bacta Tank can’t handle.”

“Bacta Tank?”

“We’ve really got to work on your education in the classics,” Chuck said, mustering up a smile since she looked so worried. The plane finally slowed to a halt, so he looked around even though it killed his neck by inches. “Guess we’re here. What happens next?”

“Hopefully we get you some medical attention.”

“A Two-One-Bee of my very own. Sounds nice.”

“I don’t get that either. But you’ll have to send that code that destroys the file about the Intersect that you sent out to the media.”

Chuck’s face, a swollen mass of purple and waxy skin, firmed up. “Not until I get reassurance that they’re not going to assassinate either of us in our cells.”

Sarah shifted against her handcuffs. “We’re back on US soil. We’re safe.”

“This is the same government that can throw somebody in a bunker against their will for five years. I’m not taking any chances.” Chuck’s face hadn’t changed during the interrogation session with Smith that had ended with the other man’s fist through his face a few times before Major Casey had broken things up. It didn’t change now. “When we’re both safe, I’ll send that code. And not a moment before.”

“Well, either way. We’ll convince the CIA, NSA, and the national security council that we’re not traitors, and that we shouldn’t be thrown in prison or an underground bunker, you’ll send the code, we’ll get our new assignments. And when that happens, I go off the radar, kill Lieutenant Smith, and make it look like he had an accident involving rusty garden shears. Several times.”

“Is that all?” Chuck coughed again, his strength dwindled to nothing. He kept his head off of the back of the seat by sheer force of will. “Piece of cake.”

17 OCTOBER 2007
CHEZ ELLIE
00:02 PDT

“And, of course, a blanket for the night.” Ellie frowned as she laid the last item on the couch beside Chuck. “I’m just glad I keep a few spare toothbrushes around for Devon’s frat brothers if the gang crashes here. Of course, I can’t do much about clothes for you…”

“The bike shorts are fine,” Chuck insisted for the fifteenth time, even though they were giving him a wedgie. “I’m just grateful Awes—I mean, Devon—keeps stuff here at all. My clothes were getting a bit ripe.”

“Well, they should be dry by morning—I’ve got them hanging up in the bathroom.” Ellie glanced around the living room of her apartment, nibbling her lip as she pondered what else she could do. “Do you think you’ll need anything else?”

“Honestly, Ellie, this is more than enough.” Chuck smiled. “I would’ve been comfortable with a patch of floor and a sleeping bag.”

“Like I’m going to make my baby brother sleep on the floor.” Again, Ellie bit her lip. “I’m sorry I don’t have your old room available—”

“Don’t worry about it. I like the new roommate. She seems to have a lot of…character.”

“Yeah, she’s great.” Ellie, obviously not in a hurry to go to bed—or maybe just afraid to let Chuck out of her sight now that the shock had passed—sat down on the couch next to him.

“I gotta ask—”

“Why aren’t I living with Devon by now?” Ellie laughed, just a little hollowly. “It’s complicated. We only just got back together.” When Chuck gave her an alarmed look, she shrugged. “We broke up after you…left. And I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Again, Ellie, I’m sorry. I can’t say it enough. If I could change it, I would in a heartbeat, but—”

“Nothing we can do about that now,” Ellie interrupted. She sighed and glanced at the clock. “I’ve got the early shift tomorrow, unfortunately. As much as I’d love to stay up and catch up some more.”

“Go on, get some sleep.” Chuck patted the pile of supplies she’d deposited on the couch next to him. “I’m more than taken care of out here.”

But before Ellie disappeared into her bedroom, she gave him a long hug. “I know I didn’t seem like it at first,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re here. And alive.”

“I’m glad, too. I missed you.” Chuck waited until his sister was almost out of sight. “Hey, El?”

She half-turned. “Yeah?”

“I know it’s only about ten minutes after midnight, but…Happy Mother’s Day.”

He heard a sniffle before the door closed, but the guilt it caused was just another drop in the ocean threatening to drown him. Once he was finally alone, Chuck put his head in his hands and sighed. Inwardly, he counted backward from ten—on three, he felt the couch shift beside him as somebody else sat down, but he didn’t look up. “Explain.”

His companion was silent for a moment. “Your face looks better.”

“Thanks. A week with the best doctors the government can get works wonders. I’m fine—better now that the panic attack’s over.”

“You getting those often?”

Every day since they gave you your orders, Chuck thought, but didn’t say anything. “You told me in the hospital, ‘We don’t know each other. Blow my cover and I’ll kick your ass.’ I kept the deal, Sarah. Now tell me why you’re suddenly in southern California and rooming with my sister instead of undercover in some place like Jakarta in a knife-fight with an evildoer.”

“I requested Jakarta, actually.”

Chuck finally looked up—like himself, Sarah had changed into sleep gear, only she was lucky enough to avoid wearing Devon’s bike shorts. He squinted at her T-shirt. “Hey, is that mine?”

She glanced down at the Stanford lettering on her chest. “I guess. Ellie said she was going to throw a whole bunch of stuff out, but I took a few things. You know, just to sleep in. My cover’s out of work and I can’t really justify spending a lot on clothing.”

“Oh.” Chuck shook his head—it was probably best not to tell her that shirt had been Jill’s preference for sleeping shirts. He focused on the matter at hand. “Why would you request Jakarta?”

“I didn’t literally say, ‘I want to go to Jakarta.’”

“I figured.”

“But I did put in for field work again. Actually, I put in a request to go after Bryce.” Sarah looked briefly troubled, but she seemed to shrug it off. “The home office felt my unique abilities might be of more use here, protecting you and your sister.”

“So they listened to my demands,” Chuck said dully.

“Chuck, you single-handedly out-bluffed the government of the United States. Of course they listened to your demands. That’s why Casey and I are in Burbank.”

“Why you two, though?” Chuck frowned. “It doesn’t make any sense. You’re a field agent, and he’s…” He trailed off. He could think of about a hundred words to describe Major John Casey, and only four of them were anything approaching pleasant. “Him.”

“Security detail for the Intersect compound was his job. And since you are the Intersect compound now…” Sarah shrugged. “It makes sense. Plus, he and I are the only ones that know you’re the Intersect. And since Bryce going rogue is fairly well-known, putting his partner on a domestic field desk as punishment is a logical move. Assigning John Casey out here also makes sense because on paper, it looks like he screwed up, too. Casey and I took the black marks on our records to make it look real.”

“You shouldn’t have had to do that.” But it did explain why Casey hadn’t been the most enthusiastic person on the planet about hopping a plane cross-country. Chuck and Bryce had managed to wreck what was probably an exemplary record. No wonder Casey had been so pissed. “Is this even what you want to do, Sarah? I mean, you’re the jet-setter. Secret missions, karate-chopping bad guys in the neck, hell, I bet you even have, like, a closet full of ninja outfits.”

“Not a closet,” Sarah said evasively.

Chuck narrowed his eyes at her, trying to imagine it. Deciding that this one was probably best left alone, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For the bluff.” He’d thought about the apology a thousand times over the past two weeks, but this was the first chance he’d truly had to voice it. “I know you’re mad at me for going behind your back and getting Randy to deliver that phone, and then for not telling you the bit with the code and the media agencies was just a bluff. And you should be mad at me that my demands got you stuck in southern California instead of a bar fight with a bunch of corrupt oil sheiks, so I’m sorry about that, too.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Okay. Sorry if it’s too much—”

The last thing he expected Sarah to do was laugh, but a chuckle bubbled out nonetheless. “Chuck, you of all people should know that we rarely get a choice in what we get asked to do. So what if I’m, as you say, stuck in southern California? You’re not in a bunker, and I’ll be able to get a tan without worrying about dehydration for once.”

Chuck gave her a confused look.

“You know, because most of the time I get tans is while I’m in the desert and never sure when water was going to—oh, never mind. Quit smiling.”

“It’s a hard knock life, Sarah Walker.”

Sarah shook her head and clapped him on the knee before she rose from the couch. “Get some sleep. Team Bartowski kicks off tomorrow.”

“I like the name. Give you a dollar if you use it in front of Casey.”

“Deal.” With one final dazzling smile, she left him on the couch.

17 OCTOBER 2007
CASTLE
09:58 PDT

“Walker.”

“Casey.”

Chuck, following Sarah down the stairs to the main bay, paused on the landing. “Is it just me,” he said, “or did it just get really chilly in here?”

“Shut up, Chuck.”

“Shut up, Bartowski.”

Sarah’s order had been said with a smile, Casey’s less so. “Glad you two agree on something, at least. Ready for our first official meeting? Go team and all that?”

From the tightening of Casey’s jaw, it was obvious that there might be another “Shut up, Bartowski” in the near future, but the computer screens along the wall all flicked on at once. All three agents hurried to what would become their permanent briefing posts. Casey standing in the middle, with Chuck to his left and Sarah to his right.

General Beckman’s eyes swept over her unlikely team. “Good morning.”

They all muttered morning greetings with varying levels of enthusiasm. Chuck wondered why Director Graham wasn’t hovering over Beckman’s chair. Wasn’t this supposed to be a joint operation?

“Welcome to the first official team meeting of Operation Prometheus. You’ve all been selected because, well—you know what’s in Agent Bartowski’s head. All of you know how you got here, so no need to rehash that, I suppose?”

She managed to form an actual question in such a way that it became completely rhetorical. Chuck had to admire h-er for it.

“In reality, the briefing this morning will just to be to go over a few security details. Director Graham sends his regards and his regrets that he was unable to make it this morning.” Beckman’s lips firmed, a line of disapproval, but she plowed on before anybody could comment.

The next twenty minutes were a revisit of the things the Director of the CIA had told Chuck before he’d departed DC. Regular hours in the Castle with what Chuck was privately calling surveillance dumps of passenger lists, cargo manifestos, and other things taking place up and down the pacific coast—check. His cover identity as a security software designer—check. His team working as part of his operation, Casey on security and now, Sarah Walker on paper as the office manager for Pacific Securities, LLC—check. Beyond top secret clearance—check. They were to report solely to Director Graham or General Beckman, and then only orally via secure connection. Preferably within Castle or the apartment Chuck and Casey were now sharing.

Chuck listened to all of the protocol involved and nodded along at appropriate moments, though he’d already memorized the necessary data. The only thing that had really changed was Sarah being in on the operation—he’d been positive that the CIA would send another agent and that Sarah would be on spec to track Bryce, which was an unofficial mission of Operation Prometheus. Not an active one, General Beckman specified, but if Chuck were to, say, overturn any intelligence on the whereabouts of one Bryce Larkin, the Prometheus team would be cleared to follow any leads.

It made the scrap of paper burn a hole in his pocket, but he kept silent.

“Agent Walker, Director Graham has requested a private briefing with you in the com room.” General Beckman’s eyes cut to her agent and the Intersect. “I’m certain Agents Casey and Bartowski can find something to occupy themselves in the meantime?”

“C’mon, Bartowski. Let’s get your nerd brain in gear. General.”

“Major Casey.”

Casey grabbed Chuck just between the shoulder and neck, hauling the skinnier man out and up the stairs.

“Ow! Geez! I would’ve gone along on my own—” No amount of wriggling could loosen the NSA agent’s grip. Chuck was dragged up the stairs and through the Scooby door into his own office. Casey released Chuck and shoved him into the chair in the same motion. Immediately, Chuck massaged his abused shoulder. “Was that really necessary?”

“Team meeting in an hour. Start setting up those brilliant schematics you promised in DC.”

Chuck frowned at the desk. “I seem to recall requesting more monitors than this—”

Casey moved the stapler. Two panels in the desk slid open with silent efficiency—two flatscreen HD monitors popped up.

“Wow. Never let it be said that the NIA shirks their show business quota—”

“NIA?”

“You have to admit, CIA/NSA is a mouthful.”

“NSA/CIA,” Casey said.

“Two CIA agents, one NSA agent. Ergo—”

Casey growled, just a small, almost silent noise. It still contained more than enough threat for Chuck. “And which branch screwed up and blew up the Intersect?”

“And which branch let—”

That was as far as Chuck got before Casey had him by the throat.

“NSA/CIA it is,” Chuck managed to rasp.

Casey took his time letting go. “How long before your setup is operational?”

“What? Honestly, Casey, I haven’t even had the chance to review the system, I don’t know what state it’s in and what needs to be calibrated—”

“So? How long?”

“Could be days, could be minutes, could be hours.” Chuck pushed his fingertips against his closed eyelids briefly, trying to search for an appropriate answer to the man whose face never changed its stony countenance. “Geez—look, let me assess the situation, get back to you, okay? I’m working blind at the moment, but I’ll have a better picture soon.”

“You’ve got until the team meeting.”

I guess I’d better get to work then.” Chuck nudged the pencil cup, picked up the post-it note station.

On his way out the door, Casey paused and sighed to himself. “I’m not sure I even want to know, but what are you doing?”

“If moving a stapler nets me two extra monitors, I figure the post-its merit a Red Bull, at the very least.”

Casey just grunted—maybe it was an aural hallucination, but Chuck swore he heard a tinge of humor in this one. “Get to work, Bartowski. And don’t spend the hour spying on Walker.”

“I can do that?”

“Forget I said anything.” Casey stalked away to find something to do in the front room.

Once the other man had disappeared completely, Chuck let out a long breath of relief. Alone at last. It was a flimsy illusion, he knew. Casey was only a room away, and Sarah could emerge from downstairs at any moment. But right now, he was alone. Blessed solitude—now he could sit down to work.

Forty-five minutes later, Casey poked his head back in. “Fifteen minute warning, Bartowski.”

Chuck grunted.

He’d programmed his watch—an all-new electronic leash/tracker gifted by the good old boys at the home office, as his old one was probably leading the government on a merry chase through Beijing by now—to give him an eight minute heads’ up, so seven minutes after Casey’s warning, his head shot up. He jolted out of work mode as his eyes fell on the manual Casey had shoved at him the night before. He had just enough time…

It was the simplest thing in the world to skim the section on surveillance and input the codes he needed to access all the feeds. A screen not unlike something from the Brady Bunch opening credits overtook each monitor. Only instead of the youngest one in curls, Chuck could see the main bay of Castle. He began to click through—

His upstairs office (he waved at the camera), the detention cells, guest bedroom, outside where his Subaru sat squished between Sarah’s jeep and Casey’s Crown Vic, his sister’s bedroom—“Empty but awkward.”—a couple of other rooms at his sister’s place, and—

“Wow.” Chuck blinked at the arsenal/locker room. “That is a lot of guns.”

He took a moment to fully appreciate how this might make Casey’s assignment in Los Angeles better before he clicked again, this time bringing up the training room. This one featured something much scarier—a blonde CIA agent. Judging by the way she was whaling on the training dummy, she was more than just a little pissed off.

“Do you have any idea what the director wanted to talk to Sarah about?” he asked Casey when the scowling NSA agent came back in.

Casey took one look at the monitors and cuffed Chuck on the back of the head. “What did I say about spying on Walker, Bartowski?”

“I—I wasn’t—I was just looking through the manual, the one you told me to review, and I was navigating through the vid feeds and saw this, that’s all.” Chuck tapped the monitor, disturbing little ripples of plasma across the image just as Sarah, on screen, landed a kick that would have certainly ended the family line of the poor, innocent training dummy. Masculinity demanded both Chuck and Casey wince. “It’s a little cause for concern, wouldn’t you say? I mean, I know we’re all supposed to train and keep in fighting shape, but this just seems…”

“Vicious,” Casey finished with a nod.

“Terrifying was the word I was going for, actually.” Chuck watched the one-sided battle dance on, remembering all of the times Sarah had claimed she could take care of herself during their fugitive days. The woman might have been many things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. “Should we, uh, should we wait until she’s done for the team meeting? I don’t exactly want to interrupt her little love-session with Frank.”

“Frank?”

“The dummy. I embrace the thought of having my limbs—specifically, all of them.”

Casey waffled. On screen, Sarah’s kick should have taken off Frank’s head. “A few minutes wouldn’t hurt anybody,” Casey decided quickly.

But they heard Sarah’s watch beep on the audio feed. She delivered one final crushing kick to the ill-fated Frank and scooped up a bottle of water. “Chuck? Casey?” She glanced over her shoulder as she called this, expecting both men to be downstairs already.

Upstairs, Casey shoved on Chuck’s shoulder. “Guess that’s our cue, Bartowski. March.”

“You first.”

“Coward.”

“She can’t kill you without causing an inter-agency scandal,” Chuck pointed out. “She kills me, the only one upset is the CIA. Despite the government intel in my noggin, I’m just a little more expendable, wouldn’t you say?” He deliberately left out the part about how John Casey’s brawn made him an admirable human shield.

But by the time the men had descended into the Castle, Sarah was seated at the briefing table, her manner calm. All except her eyes, Chuck noted as he cautiously sat down opposite her. They looked both furious and troubled.

“Have a good chat with the director?” Chuck felt bold enough to ask.

Sarah moved a shoulder.

“All right. Moving on, then. Casey, what’s on the agenda?”

“First assignment. There was a shoot-out in a club in Chinatown last night.” Casey clicked something on the remote and instantly every screen in the room filled with surveillance photos and video of said club. Chuck could only feel relief that nothing about it caused any flashes—his head felt logy and disconnected enough already. Ellie’s couch hadn’t been the most comfortable sleeping arrangement. Hell, he’d slept on barn floors more comfortable—though that may have had to do with the company. “Normally, it wouldn’t be a task for Prometheus but…well, watch this.”

He clicked the remote again. Video rolled.

Chuck’s jaw dropped when a sedate night club turned into an old wild west shoot-out. It unfolded quickly—a woman strode in, guns already out. Tables were overturned, people jumped for cover. And twenty-four seconds later, the same woman ran out through a different door, noticeably limping.

“When did she get winged?” Sarah asked.

Casey studied the remote to locate the button he needed. He rewound the feed.

“There!”

It took a couple of tries for Casey to stop the rewind on the proper spot. After a moment, Sarah snatched the remote away from him and tossed it to Chuck. It took him three seconds to study the remote and one attempt to find the right spot on the video.

“She’s aiming for the man in the wheel chair,” Sarah observed, studying the trajectory. “He’s well-guarded and those are—”

“Those are Chinese-army issued pistols,” Chuck interrupted, his voice almost mechanical.

Casey and Sarah turned to look at him as one. “And how would you know that?” Casey asked.

Chuck merely tapped his temple.

“Get a flash on who she is?”

“No, just the guns.”

“I’m going to go through channels, figure out if the Chi-Coms sanctioned a hit last night.” Casey, with one last glower at the remote in Chuck’s hand, stalked out to one of the underground offices.

Sarah, meanwhile, moved to the computer bay across the room. “Watch that footage again,” she ordered Chuck. “See if you flash on anything else. I’m going to contact local hospitals, see if anybody came in with a gunshot last night. It’s slim—the woman looks well trained, military bearing, so she’ll know rudimentary field medicine, but…”

“It’s worth a shot,” Chuck said, his eyes already roving all over the view-screen in hopes that something would cause a flash of intel. He still didn’t have quite the handle on how the Intersect flashes worked, but he’d picked up that they recognized patterns in the intended targets—tattoos, odd facial characteristics, birthmarks. And the woman currently shooting up the Chinatown club was a beautiful woman, but nothing really stood out about her.

Still, he zoomed in close and used the remote to track her progress through the fight. Sarah was right—military bearing, sure-handed despite using two pistols at once. He saw the look of more surprise than pain when she got, as Sarah put it, winged, but he also saw the steely resolve take over her face. A woman on a mission.

It was a look he recognized from just outside the Erectheion, when Sarah had knocked him unconscious. It made him shudder.

“Did you get something?” Sarah called from the other side of the room.

“Unpleasant memories.”

“Um, okay.”

“Say, when you knocked me out in Athens, how’d you do—never mind, I think I…” On screen, the woman shooting up the club turned—and her jacket rucked up her arm. The flash hit him mid-sentence. Tiger, tanks, Chinese files, CONFIDENTIAL.

Sarah, sensing something from his silence, wandered over. “What’s up, Chuck?”

“Her name’s Mei-Ling Cho, she’s Chinese intelligence, and she’s never been on US soil before.” It came out in a rush. Chuck realized the video was still going and paused it before he rewound to the close-up of the tattoo on Mei-Ling’s arm. “The Intersect noticed the ink.”

Sarah took her time surveying the picture. “All right,” she merely said, and went to pound on the door to Casey’s office. “We’ve got a break out here, killer,” she called through the door.

“Killer?” Chuck echoed.

Sarah shrugged. “Nicknames aren’t my thing.”

Casey came out before Chuck could comment. “What is it?” Once Chuck and Sarah had filled him in, he nodded, just once. “And nothing at any of the area hospitals?”

“Seven gunshot wounds, but nobody matching Mei-Ling’s description.”

“Seven.” Chuck made a humorless ‘heh’ noise. “Seems like a low number for LA.”

“Officially, no sanctioned hits from the Chinese last night.”

“Unofficially?”

“Seems to be the same.” Casey crossed his arm as he studied the freeze-frame of Mei-Ling still up on the screen. “While they put me on hold, I did some digging—the club is owned by a guy named Ben Lo Pan. Guy seems to own about a third of Chinatown, so it’s not surprising.”

“She was aiming for him,” Sarah observed, frowning. “His bodyguards seem like they were waiting an attack. Coincidence? What on earth would propel her to act against him—and why does he know she’s coming?”

Chuck kicked the floor, sending his wheeled chair to the nearest computer console. He began typing, fingers flying.

“Care to share with the rest of the class, Bartowski?”

“Shh,” Chuck said without looking away from the browser. A minute later: “Aha!”

“What is it?”

“Take a look at this.” Chuck reached behind him without looking and snatched the remote. The picture on his browser immediately overtook every other computer screen in the joint. He pressed the space bar and security footage from the Chinese consulate began to play. All three watched as an upwardly mobile young man chatting on his cell phone was snatched from the street and shoved into the back of a white van.

“Professional job,” Casey remarked.

“That’s Lee Cho,” Chuck said. “When I flashed on Mei-Ling in the Intersect, it mentioned family. One younger brother. He’s in LA right now—or he was two days ago, when this footage was taken.”

“Seems like my contacts may have neglected to mention a few things,” Casey growled and stalked off to make amends for that—Chuck didn’t envy whoever would be on the other end of that phone line. He didn’t get long to send pitying thoughts that person’s way, however, for Casey turned just before he went into the office. “Walker, you and Bartowski should probably get dressed.”

“I am dressed,” Chuck pointed out, though Sarah was still stripped down to work-out clothing. Which didn’t seem to be more than pants and a training bra. And yes, he’d had a hard time concentrating. At first. A little. He was only human, after all. “Okay, so maybe my suit’s a little rumpled, but it’s clean—”

“He means for our assignment.” Sarah grabbed Chuck by the elbow to pull him along. “Congratulations, Chuck, we’re going undercover.”

“W-what? Um, I should probably warn you that I’m not exactly qualified on any weapons right now, so if it comes down to me and some bad guys and fisticuffs, is there like a twenty-minute tutorial you could take me through?”

“Relax.” Sarah continued dragging until they were in a locker room in the back of Castle. “We’re going undercover as detectives to view the crime scene at the club, I highly doubt there’s going to be gunplay. Your clothes for the assignment are in there—I’m going to go shower real quick.”

And she headed toward the showers, already stripping clothes. Chuck didn’t precisely see anything the sensors would have disapproved of, but the suggestion was there and—he turned abruptly toward the locker she had indicated, positive that he was flushed bright red. In fact, he was still a lovely shade of crimson when Casey stomped in and immediately began to strip. Chuck kept his eyes forward like he’d once done during boot camp and changed into his detectives clothing—a boring brown suit. Apparently, he was not going to be attempting to use any ladykiller skills on this mission.

Casey’s suit at least made his shoulders look broad and threatening—not that it took much. Chuck watched him holster his sidearm and fought the dual feelings of wishing he had a gun and loathing the sight of the weapon in general. Not for the first time, he wondered if those feelings had showed up on some secret psych evaluation and if those feelings had been the ones to land him in the bunkers.

Probably.

Casey caught the scowl on his face. “What’s your problem?”

Chuck slammed his locker closed. “The freaking government. Let’s go pretend to be somebody else.”

Chapter 9: It’s Chinatown

Notes:

When I speak of home, I speak of the place where—in default of a better—those I love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy’s tent, or a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding. — Charles Dickens

17 OCTOBER 2007
THE BAMBOO DRAGON
14:04 PDT

“All I’m saying, and the point I’ve been trying to make this whole time is that I don’t understand why I’m the rookie in this situation. I still think we should take turns or draw straws for the position next time.” Chuck knew it was petulant to cross his arms and sulk in the back of Casey’s Crown Vic, but there didn’t seem to be much stopping him. “That cop back at the night club was about two seconds from patting me on the head and giving me a grape lollypop. I mean, did you really have to tell him it was my first day on the job?”

“How else were we going to explain the sweat, the flinching, and the fact that you spent the entire time hunching forward like a little girl?” Casey said as he muscled his way over to a mercifully open spot in front of the curb.

“I could be deathly ill. Or recovering from something.”

“And contaminate their crime scene?” Casey rolled his eyes. “Try again. We’re here.”

But when Chuck reached for the door handle to follow the others into the Chinese food restaurant, Sarah slapped a hand on the door. “I think you should stay in the car, Chuck,” she said, looking apologetic.

“First I’m the rookie, now it’s stay in the car? Great.”

She leaned close so as not to be heard by passersby—grumbling, Chuck rolled down the window so that he could hear. “We think that they’re holding Lee Cho here, seeing as the van they used came from the Bamboo Dragon—”

“The Bamboo Dragon?” Chuck said. “Wait, I know this place. This is a favorite of Morgan’s—”

“His friend,” Sarah explained to Casey.

“And I’m pretty familiar with the layout myself, having enjoyed quite a few evenings with Morgan and the famed Sizzling Shrimp. C’mon, I could really help you out!”

“Chuck,” and Sarah leaned close again, this time speaking under her breath, “we’re going in there to lure a dangerous Chinese spy out before another shoot-out like last night can happen, and maybe it’s not the best idea to be taking an unarmed agent with a supercomputer in his head into that situation, hmm?”

Chuck scowled. “I’m going back to Castle and getting a gun now,” he muttered. “At least try and bring me some Sizzling Shrimp?”

“You stay in the car and I’ll think about it.”

“Wait a second!” Chuck nearly scrambled out to keep them from going inside. Only the thought of Sizzling Shrimp kept him in the Crown Vic. “What about Lee? You’re going to rescue him, right? I mean, this whole thing with Mei-Ling, she’s obviously just looking out for her brother and—”

“She’s a foreign intelligence officer unwelcome on US soil,” Casey growled.

“But, but her brother—”

He saw Casey and Sarah exchange a look, and the way Sarah shifted between him and Casey, taking point. “We’ll do our best,” she promised without meeting his eye fully. “Just stay in the car.”

Chuck folded his arms and sighed. “Next time I’m not the rookie,” he muttered, and sat back to enjoy his exciting mission—keeping the car from floating away, apparently. It would probably be an exciting mission…if he lived in some place like Eureka, maybe.

17 OCTOBER 2007
THE BAMBOO DRAGON
14:28 PDT

He came to regret that thought. Rather quickly.

“Look, look, look,” he said, well aware of the fact that he was stammering, “there’s really no need for that—ow—do you mind? I only have two of those and I need that one to hear with!—no need to shoot anybody here.”

“Drop the kid, or I’ll shoot you!”

“Drop your guns, or I’ll shoot him!”

“Please,” and Chuck stressed the word as best he could, bent backwards as he was, “can we just come up with a plan that involves less shooting?!” He couldn’t do anything about the fact that Mei-Ling was at least a foot and a half shorter than him, and the fact that she had him by the ear. Or the icily cold gun barrel she had pressed to the side of his neck, even though it was broad daylight in the middle of Chinatown.

Well, at least she’d dragged him into an alley. Less chance of a bullet ricocheting and killing an innocent, assuming the Chinese intelligence officer could miss from two inches.

Chuck figured that wasn’t a safe assumption.

“Put the kid down,” Casey growled, inching forward into the alley. Chuck figured he was wearing his warrior face but he couldn’t actually see anything beyond the extremely large barrel of Casey’s gun.

Still, he had to bristle. “Kid, Casey? I’m twenty-seven!”

“Chuck!” Sarah was a little easier to see beyond her gun—it may have been the blonde hair. “Not helping!”

Indeed, Mei-Ling’s grip on Chuck’s ear/collar/hair area tightened, making the tall man yelp. “Why,” she demanded without moving the gun from the side of Chuck’s neck, “is the FBI investigating a shooting in Chinatown?”

“Why is Chinese intelligence shooting up Chinatown?” Casey countered.

The gun jammed into Chuck’s neck. Hard. He all but whimpered. “How did you—” Mei-Ling began.

“Still think you’re dealing with the FBI?” Casey smirked and shifted his grip on his gun. He and Sarah stood, two points on a very scary triangle, with Mei-Ling and the captive Chuck bringing up the third point. Both agents had the isosceles stance down perfectly. No way was Mei-Ling going to barge past these two immovable points. “Face it, lady. Your case went up the chain. Now drop the kid, and we’ll escort you off of US soil and let your government deal with you.”

“No!” Mei-Ling’s grip tightened once again. “I’m not leaving without my brother!”

“Well, it appears we have a problem, don’t we?” Casey said.

“Guys, guys, Mei-Ling, if we agree to help your brother, will you please let me go?” Chuck scrambled for something, anything to grasp onto so that he could have a foothold in this conversation. He should have been used to his heart pounding and his head spinning by now, but it still stole his breath and made him almost gasp. He had no idea how Mei-Ling kept her grip when he was sweating as copiously as he was.

Because he was so close, he heard it—just the slightest hesitation, a tiny hitch in Mei-Ling’s breath.

“No can do,” Casey said. “Not working with the Chinese.”

“Even to stop a Triad scumbag?” Mei-Ling snarled at him.

“Who says we need your help stopping a Triad scumbag?”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Chuck put both hands out, fingers stretched, in a desperate plea. He’d heard the hesitation, so maybe if he could just keep talking, he’d sway at least Sarah. And having two people with guns on his side was better than just the one with the gun to his neck. “Mei-Ling, we can help you. We have the resources, we can rescue your brother. But my coworkers, they’re a little less trusting than me. They can’t help it—Casey wasn’t hugged enough as a child, or maybe he was dropped on his head as a baby and that part of his brain is broken. And Sarah—well, actually, let’s not talk about that. But they don’t trust much, so maybe, I don’t know, you would maybe, um, offer up state secrets or something like that as a sign of faith?” The last bit was said in a rush.

He felt the instinctual anger send a shockwave through Mei-Ling, and had to bite hard on his lip to keep from shouting when she yanked on his ear.

“You mean defect,” she said, though it sounded more like a snarl.

“Maybe not that far,” Chuck began to say, but Sarah stepped forward.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly what he’s saying.”

“If I defect, I can never go back to China. I’ll never see my brother again.”

Chuck felt his throat closing, but now was not the time to give into acute panic. He’d do that later when it was more convenient (as if it worked that way). “But if you don’t,” he said, his voice thick, “you’ll lose him forever. And you don’t want that.”

He felt the tension in Mei-Ling’s arm ricochet up into her hand. “I want your word,” she told Casey and Sarah. “You’ll help rescue my brother.”

“If you defect,” Sarah stressed. Casey couldn’t seem to speak beyond his disgust at willingly working with a Chinese spy. “And you let my agent go—without shooting him. I’d hate to have to break in a new one at this point.”

Chuck bit his tongue over a hurt comment. In the distant, objective part of his brain, he had to admire what Sarah had just done. In one statement, she had single-handedly established herself as team leader, Casey as team muscle, and Chuck as the team screw-up.

Thanks, Sarah. He’d frown about that later when he didn’t have a gun making the acquaintance of his jugular.

Behind him, he heard Mei-Ling suck in a breath. For one perfect moment, the world stood stock still. Traffic noise ceased. Birds stopped chirping. Even the radio playing Top 40 hits from a window above the alley went silent. Chuck could only hear his breath rasp loudly against the inside of his ears, and Mei-Ling’s rapid breathing behind him, quick, almost fluttery.

“They’re holding my brother at Ben Lo Pan’s estate,” she finally said. “I’ve tried, but I can’t take it down myself. A few more bodies would help.”

“As long as they’re live ones,” Chuck pointed out quickly as images from the video surveillance of Mei-Ling’s gun battle the night before flashed across his vision. They made an entirely new layer of sweat pop out against his skin at the thought that that same gun was now pointed at his neck. “Let’s go rescue Lee! Go team, right? Right, guys?”

“Let the geek go, and we have a deal,” Casey finally said.

Of course it couldn’t be as simple as that. Mei-Ling waited one long, humming eternity before she reluctantly loosened her grip on Chuck—and wiped her hand on her pants.

He popped up immediately and scrambled away, moving behind Sarah by instinct. Sarah put out a hand on his arm, a silent command. Stay. Chuck was only too happy to oblige.

“You break your word, and I’ll kill you all,” Mei-Ling said.

“Same goes, sister. C’mon.” Casey patted Mei-Ling down, revealing an arsenal of weapons that rivaled the ones Chuck had seen Sarah don in the locker room. Casey led the Chinese spy away to the backseat of the Crown Victoria while Sarah dragged Chuck out of the alley by the wrist.

“Why didn’t you stay in the car?” she demanded, pushing on his shoulder so that Chuck had no choice but to crash back onto the Crown Vic’s hood. She immediately stepped in and invaded his personal space—but only to examine his neck for any damage.

“She had a gun, Sarah! She told me to get out of the car!”

“Moron!” Casey reached out to cuff Chuck on the back of the head, but Sarah shot an arm out, blocking him. It didn’t stop the scowl. “It’s bulletproof glass.”

“Something that would have been helpful to know before the crazy woman with the gun came out of nowhere and abducted me, don’t you think?”

“Suck it up.” Casey focused on Sarah. “Is he hurt?”

“Standing right here, you know.”

“He’ll have a bruise.” Sarah, satisfied that that was the extent of Chuck’s injuries, took a prudent step back. “You can just tell everybody it’s a hickey, Chuck.”

“From who? The ghost of girlfriends past?”

“It’s LA,” Casey pointed out. “I’m sure that somewhere here, there’s somebody willing to give a nerd like you a love bite. Get in the car.”

But Chuck didn’t move from the hood. “He’s a happy person,” he remarked to Sarah, almost sarcastically. “I really appreciate that about him.”

She fought off a smile. “Mm.”

“And he works hard, so—”

Casey beeped the horn; Chuck fell off the hood and barely caught himself before he clattered to the pavement. Laughing a little, Sarah snatched his elbow and steadied him. “You take shotgun. I’ll ride in the back with the Chinese spy,” she observed. “Just another day in the wonderful life of Team Bartowski.”

“Good use of the name, but you didn’t use it in front of Casey, so no dollar for you.”

“Hah,” Sarah said, and slipped into the car.

17 OCTOBER 2007
THE BACHELOR PAD
18:42 PDT

Uncle Sam had set Casey and Chuck up as roommates. Even though Chuck understood the reasoning behind it, and could appreciate it from a clinical, objective standpoint, he much rather would have found a hole of his own in some obscure neighborhood rather than sharing a fancy apartment not far from Ellie’s place with the man who made grunts not only vernacular, but necessary vernacular at that. But at least the government had sprung for fancy digs and hey, he had his own room rather than sharing with another analyst in a frozen bunker in the middle of nowhere. It was a spacious, airy space on the top floor of the apartment, done in warm and tasteful colors.

He almost preferred the bunker.

While Casey dug up floor plans for the estate belonging to Ben Lo Pan, and their favorite Chinese national paced the apartment’s roomy kitchen, he climbed the spiral staircase up to his loft/room. He flicked on the overhead light panels—evening had already cast southern California into a hesitant gloom.

“How do you like it?” a voice asked behind him.

He wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t heard Sarah climb the stairs. “Is it really safe to store me on the fifth floor?”

“Store you?” Sarah pushed gently on his lower back to propel him into the room—his room—for the first time. It was fitting, he figured. She’d been the force behind his leaving the bunker, she could be the force guiding him into his new room and his new life. “Relax, Chuck. There’s a fire escape with easy access from your balcony, and we’ve installed a zip line for a speedy getaway. I just thought after all those years of being underground, you’d want some place with a view.”

“So the snipers can get me?” Chuck tried to infuse his voice with humor, but it fell flat. He forced himself to cross the room and open the sliding glass door, a peace gesture. The evening air felt cool against his skin. It should have relaxed him; it made him want to run back downstairs, to the windowless living room where Casey had set up all of the monitors. But he forced himself to step outside and to move over in case Sarah wanted to join him.

The balcony overlooked the neighborhood park, a green expanse covered by criss-crossing running and walking paths. It was fairly active in the evening light, people either jogging or strolling along in pairs. A pick-up game had just started on the softball field across from the balcony.

“Ellie and I used to come here all the time,” he said, not sure why he was telling her this but still needing to say it. He leaned his elbows against the railing and stared at nothing. “Back when I was in high school. Dad had left, and Ellie and I combined could barely make rent. Plus, I was studying for a full ride scholarship and she was pre-med, so we both just had so much homework. All we could really afford to do was study in the park. Right over there.” He pointed. “I never thought I’d see this place again—and now I live right above it. I’ll be able to see it first thing in the morning, if I want. Life is surreal sometimes.”

Sarah mirrored his stance, but instead of studying the park, she kept her gaze on his face. “I should have seen that you would visit her right away, and I should have had Casey prepare you about my cover. I’m sorry for that.”

Chuck didn’t look at Sarah. “Ellie and I were all each other had. And then she didn’t even have me anymore.”

“You didn’t have her, either,” Sarah pointed out.

Chuck moved a shoulder, one of Sarah’s habitual moves. It had become instinct. “At least I knew something.”

Sarah didn’t seem to have a reply for that. She turned her face toward the park and toward the last remnants of sunlight pearling the sky to the west, saying nothing. It was a comforting thing about her, Chuck had discovered before they’d even left Russia together. Not many people could make silence comfortable.

Of course, not many people could make him this uncomfortable with silence, too. But that was his problem, not hers. He’d deal with it.

A thought occurred to him. “Wait…how were we going to explain to Ellie about your being—”

“Your secretary?”

“Office manager.”

Sarah’s grin flashed. “Good question. The original plan was that my blonder tendencies would mix up your name—Mr. Kowalski. I was supposed to tell Ellie about this interview I had with Kowalski and then we’d stage a meet-cute in front of Ellie where we realize that it’s a crazy small world out there, and the nice guy that gave me the job as secretary—”

“Office manager.”

“—Is actually my roommate’s long-lost brother.” Sarah deliberately twirled her hair.

“Do you actually enjoy playing a dumb blonde?”

Sarah punched him in the shoulder.

“So, now what, now that Ellie knows we’ve met?”

“I already took care of that.” Sarah smiled. “I called and left her a voicemail earlier. Raved about my shock that my big interview was with you, of all people.”

“And how’d you do? On the interview?”

“Oh, I was good, but you were incredibly nervous.” Sarah nudged him with a shoulder, her smile turning impish. “You’ll let me know by the end of the week, won’t you, Mr. Kowalski?”

“If you’re the best candidate for the job, sure.” Chuck couldn’t help but smile back. “We’re proud to have you with Pacific Securities, LLC, Miss Walker. I’d say let’s go have drinks to celebrate, but honestly, at this point a bar would just shut down my central nervous system on the spot.”

“And we’re busy tonight, remember? Rescuing a low-level Chinese diplomat from the evil, evil Triad.”

“It’s a glamorous life.” Chuck took one final look out at the park. “Guess we should go down—Casey’s probably got those plans figured out.”

“Okay.” Sarah waited until Chuck had come back inside with her before she closed the sliding glass door behind them. “What do you think of the place, otherwise?”

“I like it.” Chuck’s eyes roved over the walls, painted a soothing royal blue, the blue plaid duvet, the wide desk with the newest desktop model already awaiting him A flatscreen TV ate up most of the wall opposite the bed. “Excellent interior decorating by the Agency.”

“Thank you.”

Chuck, at the top of the stairs, paused and squinted at Sarah, as though seeing her for the first time that night. “Wait a second—did you do all of this? The apartment, the decorating…Castle?!”

“I only oversaw Castle, but they let me have more of a hand with the apartment.”

“Even Casey’s room?”

“Yes, even that.”

“So, he’s sleeping on what—a bed of nails?”

“Are you kidding? That’s way too comfortable for him.”

Casey’s distinct growl—annoyance, slight menace, Bartowski’s making my life hell—drifted up the stairs. “You two realize that that being a loft bedroom means I can hear every word you two say, don’t you?”

Chuck popped his head over the waist-height wall to scowl down at the bottom floor.

“What?” Casey demanded, almost looking innocent. “Get over it, Bartowski. It saves on surveillance equipment.”

“If I ever do find a girlfriend,” Chuck grumbled as he followed Sarah down the spiraling staircase, “at least that solves the debate of ‘your place or mine?’”

Sarah didn’t seem to find that as amusing as he did.

17 OCTOBER 2007
THE BACHELOR PAD
19:08 PDT

“So the cameras are TKX-50s…” Sarah frowned at her computer monitor and kept clicking until it brought up a list of physical properties for the security cameras on Ben Lo Pan’s estate. “Little outdated, but they are equipped for remote access.”

“Let me see that.” Chuck slid his chair over and paged through the specifics. After a moment, he nodded. “I can hack these.”

“Are you sure?”

Chuck’s grin flashed. “Are you really doubting me about computer stuff? You stick to being super-spy, I’ll be the computer whiz-kid.”

“Are you two done?” Casey wanted to know from the other side of the room, where he and Mei-Ling had stuck the blueprints for Ben Lo Pan’s estate up on a whiteboard. They’d formed something of an uneasy alliance between the unlikely allies, but Chuck and Sarah had had to be on their guard all afternoon to keep Casey from saying anything that might cause an international incident. “Chuck, you work on setting up the hack, we’ll need a seamless loop so that we can take out the guards.”

“Aw, you called me Chuck.”

“Shut up, Bartowski.”

“And there it is.” Chuck turned his attention back to studying the specifics, freeing Sarah to wander across the room and plot how to take out all of the guards, which weapons would be most effective in this situation.

All three turned down Chuck’s suggestion of “nunchucks, they work every time!” He decided that it might be best to put his head down and get to work.

Twenty minutes later, he carried a small device from his own arsenal over to Casey. “Here you go. This will get me access to the cameras—I’ve already input the override codes for you, so it should be idiot-pro—good to go.”

Nice catch,” Sarah said under her breath. Casey just glared.

“Here, I put together a diagram of how you’ll need to hook it up.” Chuck, keeping a wary distance, used the remote to drag his work from his own screen to the living room’s overlarge TV. “You should be able to just clip into the wires here and…here.” He used the laser pointer to indicate which nodes and then nodded at the device. “I’ve labeled them A and B for you. Should be pretty easy.”

Casey gave a half-shrug. “Okay. Good work.”

Chuck blinked. “Did you just say—”

“Don’t spoil the moment, Bartowski. Go outside and wait for the van to show, and if I hear you’ve had another one of your panic attacks from just standing out on the sidewalk, my foot will go so far up your—”

“Got it, got it. Foot, ass, NORAD, hand-drawn map.” Chuck rolled his eyes, grabbed his keys and hurried away before Casey could decide to make good on his word, panic attack or no. The rebellious side of him muttered that it wasn’t like he could help it. It wasn’t his fault, after all, that the government had stashed him underground for five years.

Or was it?

He stepped outside and took a deep breath, prepared to wait for that van until kingdom come, if only to prove to Casey that he could handle it.

17 OCTOBER 2007
OUTSIDE BEN LO PAN’S ESTATE
19:56 PDT

He was feeling a lot less together when the van did show, and it turned out that he would be driving it—while three agents bailed out the side door. “I don’t understand why you can’t just jump out of the van while it’s standing still,” he’d pointed out to Sarah, who’d pulled him aside so that Mei-Ling and Casey could assemble weapons. “Does the van really have to be moving? What if I’m going too fast? You could sprain your ankle or something—”

“Chuck, Casey has a better jump record than most Army Rangers. You can bet Mei-Ling’s done worse than jump out of a slow-moving vehicle.”

“And you?”

“I promise you, if I sprain my ankle, I will let you say, ‘I told you so.’ Now, I’ve already explained why we need to bail while the vehicle’s moving, so we’re not going to go over that. Instead, walk me through your part of the mission.” And she had drilled him on the subject so many times that now, two hours later, he could recite the directions in his head.

Drive under the speed limit. No use getting a speeding ticket and having police be even more suspicious of an unmarked black van.

Count the lamp-posts on Ben Lo Pan’s street. When you get to twenty, alert the team and start slowing down. The team that was currently stashed in the back of the huge Dodge Charger, crouching in various poses of situational awareness. They looked like an actual strike team, dressed in black, geared to the teeth, and toting very dangerous, very scary guns.

As we approach the gates, count down from ten. Keep your speed low, drive straight. Casey will jump first, then Mei-Ling, and I’ll bring up the rear.

“Twenty,” he called, having passed the appropriate lamp post. He kept his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, taking into account every wobble as he slowed. There was a huge difference between driving the compact he and Sarah had shared from Poland to Greece, and his Subaru, and a gigantic Charger. Up ahead, he saw gates, impressive brick and ironwork creations that all three of his teammates would soon scale like squirrels. He gauged the distance and began counting down from ten.

On three, the door opened.

On one, they jumped. Soundlessly. Chuck strained his ears for the splat of a body hitting pavement, but once again, Sarah had been right. Not a sprained ankle to be heard. The door slammed shut behind them and he sped up a little, as he’d been instructed.

Park in front of the neighbor’s house, but stay in range. Turn off the lights. Get started on the surveillance equipment right away.

Well, at least that part was easy. Chuck sidled the van so that it was within a foot of the curb and scrambled into the back. Unlike his teammates, he wore jeans—the first he’d worn in five years—and a ubiquitous black hoodie. He pulled up to wall of monitors they’d installed on a cart strapped to the wall in the back. Thankfully, nothing had shifted en route, which meant that everything he needed was ready to go. He pulled on the headset.

“Chuck here, guys. How’s it going?”

There was a pause before anybody answered. On the corner monitor, he could see the feed from Casey’s over-ear camera bobble as the agent ran. Chuck watched for a few seconds, but had to turn his gaze back to the control boards or risk serious seasickness.

“We hear you, Chuck.” Sarah’s voice, barely audible. “Hang tight a second—”

On the lipstick camera, Chuck saw Casey reach the fuse box and pry it open. Apparently, he’d been listening to Chuck’s instructions, for he set up the device and every monitor in the place sprang to life with the feeds Chuck had allotted for each monitor. “We have lift-off,” he announced. “Now you get to hang tight while I set up the loop.”

17 OCTOBER 2007
OUTSIDE BEN LO PAN’S ESTATE
20:09 PDT

“Initiating loop…now.” Chuck moved the fader bar, dissolving between the live feed and his preprogrammed loop so that the transition would be seamless. On the corner monitor, Casey’s lipstick camera swung around so that Sarah’s face appeared in view. He waved, though she couldn’t see him.

“Chuck, you’re our eyes now,” she told him.

“All right.” Chuck scanned the monitors. “All right, you’ve got one guard up at the station—”

“Thank you!” Casey’s voice was terse as he went and dispatched the guard with an efficiency that would frighten Chuck when he thought about it later. Right now, however, he just kept his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the monitor cart, even though the back of his mind made kung-fu noises to go with the actions of his teammates.

“Three guards in the kitchen,” he announced. “Be careful, though, they’re bigger than the first guy—oh, wow. Ooh. Nice!”

It happened quickly—a kick to the face, a karate chop here, a taser to the neck there. And an occasional yelp from Chuck in the van to keep things interesting. Through the lipstick camera, he watched the team prowl through the tastefully decorated estate—heavy eastern overtones to the color scheme and décor and some great wall art he would love to check out later. Maybe he’d review the tapes after the mission to get a few tips for his new room at the Bachelor Pad—

He nearly shouted when the monitors all died at once—save Casey’s lipstick camera.

“Guys! Guys, if you’re seeing this, you might want to get out of there!”

No answer. Dead comm. A litany of very creative swear-words ran through Chuck’s head as he stared, frozen in shock, at the wall of dead monitors. And just as he turned toward his last beacon of hope, the lipstick camera fell to the floor, briefly transmitting a sideways view of the room.

Before it was crushed by a boot.

The monitor cut abruptly to black.

Had somebody found the van? Or was it just inside the house where they’d been caught? Chuck knew that Casey was carrying a small monitor in his pocket with the feeds from the security cameras, a decoy to draw any suspicion away from the huge black van parked within transmitting distance. But if the guards had noticed…

Chuck tripped as he scrambled back into the driver’s seat, where he would be able to hopefully see if his car was attacked by ninjas or something.

Which was a ridiculous thought. Ninjas were Japanese. Ben Lo Pan was Triad, Chinese, and therefore not likely to have a team of ninja assassins on string for situations such as this. Chances were, there wasn’t going to be throwing stars taking his head off at the neck anytime soon. But Chuck still scooted down as low as he could go while still keeping an eye on the house.

Across the lawn and the courtyard, he saw the front doors open. Ben Lo Pan’s thugs had made short work of neutralizing the team, binding wrists and taking weapons. They led Sarah, Casey, Mei-Ling and…that must be Lee Cho. Oh, good. He was still alive. Chuck felt a surprisingly strong surge of relief flood through him at the thought. At least something about this mission was going right.

Of course, a rather sobering thought followed on that one’s tail. All of his teammates were now captives of Triad. And who knew how long Triad would keep a couple of low-level “FBI Agents” alive?

“Dear God, please let their covers hold up.”

Chuck watched the thugs march the captives across the lawn, dread eating his stomach worse than a bucket of hydrochloric acid to the gut. He had absolutely no idea of what to do now—his instructions from Sarah had only covered what to do in a perfect setting—with three stellar agents working together, they hadn’t even considered the possibility of feces hitting oscillating blades.

“Next time,” he muttered, ducking lower so that only the top half of his head was visible from outside the van, “we’re going over every damn thing that can go wrong, up to and including the Hellmouth swallowing us whole.”

One of the captives stumbled—Sarah! Chuck immediately shot upright, one hand automatically reaching for the door handle. To do what, he had no idea. But she righted herself before he could move, and none of the guards pistol-whipped her…

In the back of the van, static grumbled. Chuck glanced back, certain he heard something. “Casey?” he asked, though he knew it was impossible for Casey to be in the back of the van when he was still surrounded by Triad guards half a block away.

The static cut off. Chuck watched the thugs toss first Mei-Ling and her brother into the back of a delivery van, and then Casey, and finally Sarah. When the van pulled out of the driveway, Chuck didn’t think—he just stabbed the key into the ignition, twisted, and set off to follow. A constant stream of cursing in his head kept him company as he followed the van out of Ben Lo Pan’s upscale neighborhood and onto the freeway toward Chinatown. Every mile or so, he unglued one hand from the death-grip on the steering wheel to rub his soaked palm on his jeans. When the Bamboo Dragon van pulled off the freeway, he did, too.

“That’s weird,” he said, blinking. In some corner of his mind, he made the observation that now that he’d escaped the bunker, he’d finally snapped and begun talking to himself. It was probably a sign of insanity. But he didn’t stop. “Why would they turn off here, it’s still a couple of miles to the—”

Ahead of him, the van began to accelerate.

“What the—”

Chuck forcibly stopped his foot before he could stomp on the gas. Had they made him? Should he speed up, keep following? Or maybe he should peel off and hope against all hope that they were indeed heading for the Bamboo Dragon like the van said, and he could find a way to help out there….

He didn’t see the flare of red taillight splashing across his windshield until it was too late.

“Oh, crap,” he yelped just before impact.

CRRRRRRRUNCH.

Chapter 10: Rule Number Nine

Notes:

While no one is expected to leap tall buildings in a single bound, our aspiring heroes will be tested on their courage, integrity, self-sacrifice, compassion and resourcefulness — the stuff of all true superheroes. — Stan Lee

17 OCTOBER 2007
ABANDONED LA STREET
20:32 PDT

It was like an explosion. In space. Without fire or flame, but the noise was immense. Something like the sound of bubble wrap being popped, magnified by a thousand, accompanied by a jolt that shook the entire world. Chuck’s entire body whiplashed—his forehead smacked into the steering wheel as both hands flew back and his body rippled like a demented Gumby doll left in the sun. He bit his tongue. Hard.

He was out for maybe two seconds. It was more like blinking than passing out.

Copper flooded his mouth with its disgusting tang. He shook his head out of reflex—and groaned when this turned out to be a Very Bad Idea.

His vision was still swimming when he saw the men swarm out of the van.

“Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap—”

Some random impulse made him stumble toward the back of the van rather than the driver’s side door, tripping over cables as he hurried. He all but exploded out of the back door, his body already in motion to run as far and as fast as he could.

But his left foot caught one of the free cables.

He stumbled his way out of the van, clattering to the concrete in an awkward pile of uncoordinated limbs. He glanced around him, some old instinct making him assess the situation. An alley, twenty feet away. 95% chance of making it without getting shot, but it could be a dead end.

A mailbox. He could hide behind it like a kid in a game. 100% chance of getting found and killed.

Store fronts. All closed. 10% chance of finding an open one. 8% chance of survival.

Chuck did the only thing that came to mind. He dove under the van.

And not a second too soon.

He’d just whipped his right chuck under the car when footsteps rang out, pounding around the side of the van. Rapid fire Chinese accompanied them. Chuck watched the world at foot-level, the trouser-clad calves and dress shoes that prowled around the van, obviously looking for him. Two sets sprinted away, the third waited, pacing with frustrated energy.

Chuck stopped breathing. Every breath in his body seemed to collect just below his frozen sternum. The sensation grew until he felt as though he were going to blow apart at the seams. His hands twitched against the concrete, tremors racing up his arms and legs.

Chinese again. This time, it was farther away, maybe coming from the alley. Not a dead end, apparently.

The third pair of feet ran off toward the alley. Chuck counted to three—which took a small eternity—before he began to army-crawl under the van. It had been five years since he’d done this at the obstacle course during OCS, and a dirt course was a lot kinder to the elbows and belly than concrete. Gravel scraped against his stomach even through the material of his hoodie and T-shirt.

Another three-count, this time longer, and he burst, stumbling, from under the front of the van. Luck was finally on his side—not a thug or henchman in sight. Just the slightly crushed delivery van with the hostages inside.

Chuck opened the side door of the van as silently as he could under the circumstances and closed the door most of the way behind him.

“Moron!” Casey, behind Sarah, who nearest the door, reached for his neck. “I told you to go home!”

“Well, I didn’t hear you, did I?” Chuck, actively shaking now, hurried to fumble with his left pants leg. “Everybody okay?”

“Chuck, get out of here!” Sarah struggled to her feet. “Go home! We’ve got this!”

“You’re tied up in the back of a van, Sarah.”

“And what, you just wanted to join us?” Casey growled.

“Yeah, kinda.” Chuck’s shaking hands finally unearthed their quarry. “Also, rule number nine—never go anywhere without a knife.” He yanked one out of the holster around his ankle.

“Is that mine?” Sarah asked.

“You weren’t using it.”

Sarah gave him the look.

“I’ll buy you a new one.” Chuck grabbed her wrists to steady his own shaking hands before he began to saw at the cable ties.

“Be caref—” Sarah couldn’t quite hide the flinch.

Chuck stared in horror at the bright line of blood. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, I’m sorry. Sarah, I’m so sorry—”

“Chuck!” Sarah kicked him to get his attention. “Just finish it. It’s okay.”

“But I cut you—you’re bleeding!” Chuck’s head threatened to float away from the rest of his body. He could feel his vision going black around the edges…

“Chuck. Finish it.” Sarah’s tone threatened dire things if he dared disobey.

His throat bobbled, but he reached out with his shaking hands and cut the ties. Sarah immediately snatched the knife and cut Casey’s cable tie. He grabbed Chuck by the shoulder, maybe to steady the other man. “Can you walk?”

“I—I—yeah.” Even though it was gross, Chuck spat a mouthful of copper on the floor. “Sorry,” he apologized, mostly to Mei-Ling and Lee. “I’m normally more poli—”

Casey hauled him around. “How many guards?”

“What? Um, three. That I saw.”

“Hm. Maybe you’re not just a useless spook.”

Chuck opened his mouth to protest that counting guards wasn’t that hard, but thought better of it. Instead, he fumbled for his holster again and handed Casey one of the remaining two knives. The last went to Mei-Ling, who had by now been freed. “Sorry they’re not guns—”

Casey eased the door open slightly. “Bartowski’s right—three guards. They’re all looking for him. Heh. One of them’s looking in the trash can.”

Chuck was suddenly very glad he’d decided against hiding there.

Sarah nudged by Chuck to peer out the door. “I can take one down,” she said. “But…”

“I’ll take those odds. Chuck, take Lee, head east.”

“Which way’s that?”

“That way, numb-nuts.”

Chuck glanced over at his unexpected running mate, who looked as worn as he himself felt at the moment. “Can you run?” he asked.

The other man swayed a bit, but nodded.

“We’ll be fine,” Chuck assured Casey, though he could actively feel the heart-pounding buffer of adrenaline fade into overt exhaustion.

“All right. Count of three—one, two…go!”

Chuck and Lee dropped out of the side door as silently as they could, Casey covering them while Mei-Ling and Sarah stormed out of the back of the van.

Chuck didn’t see what happened next. He was too busy running.

But when he heard the gunshots, he prayed.

17 OCTOBER 2007
RANDOM ALLEY
20:38 PDT

“Chuck? Lee?”

The soft whispered, almost hesitant, cut through the sounds of distant traffic, the hum of streetlamps, the all-pressing power and thrum of a city that could be nothing but an agoraphobic’s worst nightmare.

Chuck’s head popped up. He dropped his hands. “Sarah?”

He heard footsteps—and Sarah rounded the corner of the dumpster behind which he and Lee had hidden themselves.

Lee, who’d been sitting quietly beside Chuck, letting the other man freak out in his own way, struggled to his feet. Since Chuck’s Chinese was non-existent and Lee’s English limited, their attempts to talk had been stymied from the get-go. Also, it didn’t help that there might be armed men after them at any second. But the diplomat stood firm now. “Mei-Ling?” he asked.

“She’s fine. She and Casey are back at the accident, waiting for our team to get here. I’m sure she’d like to see you.” Sarah pointed back toward the accident.

Lee nodded, gave Chuck one last uncertain look, and hurried away.

Once he was gone, Sarah crouched down in front of Chuck. “You okay, slugger?”

“You’re right,” Chuck decided. “Nicknames really aren’t your thing.”

“Shut it. Answer the question.”

“Well, which one do you want me to do?” Chuck tried to wiggle his eyebrows, but that turned out to be another Very Bad Idea. He groaned as agony spiked through his head, bloating it even bigger than it had been a minute before. The intense knot of pain on his forehead worsened.

Of course, that sent Sarah into mother hen mode. She pushed his hair back to get a look at his injury.

“S’Fine.” Chuck tried to push her hand away. “Just hit my head on the steering wheel.”

“And bit your tongue, and it looks like you scraped yourself up good.” Sarah smoothed his hair back over the bump. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital and make sure you don’t have a concussion. Can you walk?”

“I’m fine,” Chuck insisted, but when he tried to climb to his feet, he let out a groan. “Okay, maybe not so much fine as conscious. But it’s okay—”

“Let me give you a hand.” Sarah reached down to lever an arm under him.

Chuck grabbed her forearm. She’d apparently taken time to apply field medicine—a black strip of cloth was tied around her wrist—but it hadn’t been wholly effective. Chuck watched a thick stream of red dribble from her wrist and down her hand. A couple of drops plopped heavily on his jeans.

“Is that—is that…blood?” Chuck demanded, his voice going up an octave. His head began to spin. The world stuttered.

“Whoa.” Sarah lunged forward to catch his head before it could thud against the brick wall and add another goose-egg to his collection. “Chuck, stay with me—”

“Sorry,” Chuck managed before he passed out.

17 OCTOBER 2007
MADISON MERCY HOSPITAL
21:45 PDT

“Wow, bro, you really weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t going anywhere.” Devon put down Chuck’s medical chart on the counter and folded his arms, his eyebrows high. “Like, literally. Two nights in the hospital in a row, dude. Not awesome.”

“You’re not kidding.” Chuck closed his eyes, mostly to block out the fluorescent lights overhead. He lay on his back on the examining table, but not out of any sense of exhaustion. Ellie had threatened him with many forms of death if he moved even an inch before she got back. He might have spent the evening fighting off Triad, but even they paled in comparison to the great wrath of Ellie F. Bartowski. Especially an Ellie whose brother had been in a car accident—at least that part of the story he and Sarah had concocted in the emergency room was real.

Ellie had vanished into the belly of the hospital to check on other patients, but Devon had clearly been sent inside to babysit in her absence. He was the third doctor Chuck had seen, aside from his own doctor and Ellie.

“You might as well sit down,” Chuck told Devon. “Either of us leaves, we’re dead meat. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to? We didn’t get much of a chance to catch up last night. What’s new in the life of the awesome heart surgeon?”

Before Devon could fill him in, the door opened. Both men straightened, expecting Ellie. But it was a blonde head that poked into the room. Her eyes cut from Chuck to Devon in surprise.

“Sarah! Hey!” Devon looked genuinely happy to see his girlfriend’s roommate. “Heard you landed a job with the Chuckster here! Awesome.”

He held up a hand. It took Sarah a moment to catch on, but she gave him the desired high five.

Which let Devon see the makeshift bandage on her wrist. “Whoa, Sarah. What happened?”

“Oh, nothing.” Sarah tried to pull her wrist behind her back, but Devon was having none of that. He kept a gentle hold on her arm. “Really, I promise, it’s nothing. I bandaged it up already—”

Chuck scooted over on the exam table to make room for Sarah when Devon led her across the room. She gave Chuck a distressed look as she sat.

“It’s really nothing,” she said again, but Devon made quick work of unwrapping the bandage.

“Ouch,” Devon declared. “This looks…”

“I slipped while chopping something,” Sarah lied as guilt wracked through Chuck’s body. He couldn’t look away from the wound, which looked like a gaping chasm on her otherwise perfect wrist. He’d done that. Not some Triad hench-thug. Sarah would have made it through the night without injury if he’d just manned up.

“Really,” Sarah went on. “I’ve done worse shaving my legs. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Needs stitches.”

“What?” both Chuck and Sarah asked.

“Needs to be cleaned out, too. Don’t want to risk infection—it’ll keep the scarring minimal. Though a few scars can’t hurt. Right, bro?”

Chuck returned the high-five by instinct, even though the thought of something he’d done causing a scar on Sarah made him want to throw up.

Devon set in to work on Sarah’s wrist as he told them about a fantastic scar he’d received on a white water rafting trip the year before. “Class five rapids, dude, staring death in the eyeball. Hey, you should come next time. Get the blood pumping, exorcise some of those demons.”

“Sounds fun,” Chuck said, ignoring the slight case of nausea just the thought of white water rapids had always given him.

Ellie came in just as Devon finished sewing up Sarah’s wrist. “Oh, my God, Sarah! What happened?”

“Chopping accident. I told Devon it was fine, but he insisted.”

Devon patted Sarah on the knee as he pushed the rolling chair away, a brotherly action. “Hippocratic oath. Hey, babe, I double-checked the Chuckster here, and he’s good to go. Regular painkillers, you hear?” The last was directed at Chuck.

“You’d think knowing two doctors would get me access to the good stuff,” Chuck griped.

“So are we free to go?” Devon finished.

“Just one thing first.” Ellie wrapped Chuck in a very careful hug. “You haven’t even been back two days and you’ve already been in a car accident. I’m worried, little brother.”

“Just a fender bender,” Chuck tried to assure her. “And I’m going straight home and icing my tongue with ice cream, I promise. I’ll take it easy.”

“Healthy,” Ellie said, but she smiled. “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride since you already wrecked your new car, apparently.”

Chuck had seen Sarah’s “we need to talk face” as she’d come into the exam room, though. “Actually, why don’t you give me a ride, Sarah? We can talk about your interview and Devon and Ellie can head straight home. You guys worked doubles today, you’ve got to be exhausted.”

He could see the battle taking place behind Ellie’s eyes, but the weariness won out over the protectiveness. “All right,” she agreed. “But dinner—Friday.”

“Deal.”

“Sarah, you’re of course welcome, too,” Ellie said. “We can celebrate your new job…working for my brother.”

“Just stay away from knives,” Devon told Sarah.

Chuck couldn’t hold back the nervous laugh at that.

Later, in Sarah’s Jeep, he let his aching head rest back against the seat. “Sorry I passed out on you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time something I did knocked you out.” Sarah’s smile was humorless as she focused on the road. “How’s your head?”

“Feels like the football that made the field goal, thanks.”

“While you were getting tended to, Casey and I reported in to Beckman and Graham. We neutralized Ben Lo Pan, Mei-Ling will go with the Marshals, and Lee is heading back to China tomorrow.”

“A success, then,” Chuck said. It made the scrapes on his palms, elbows, stomach, and knees throb somewhat less.

“And when you get back, I will personally be training you on how to tail somebody.” Sarah’s voice was lined with steel. Annoyed steel. “I was going to kill you myself if you survived the accident. They made you before we even left the neighborhood. God, Chuck.”

Chuck ignored the annoyance. “Get back?” he said. “I can’t leave! That was part of the deal!”

“Relax, you’re not going anywhere. You’re just on medical leave for forty-eight hours. Nobody’s sure what the concussion you had will do to the Intersect, and they’re afraid to try.” Sarah made the turn into the parking lot of Chuck’s building. “Obey Ellie’s orders, get plenty of rest, and stay out of the office for a couple of days, okay?”

Chuck blinked. Just like that, forty-eight hours of sick leave. It was like a miracle. “Okay. Thanks for the ride. I’m glad we all survived tonight.”

“Me too. Oh, and one more thing.” Sarah reached past him into the glove box and drew out a small object. She smacked it into his palm, making the scrapes sing with agony. “Your new pocketknife so that you don’t break ‘rule number nine.’ Touch any of my knives again, and I’ll use them to cut off your fingers one by one. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chuck took the brave route—he high-tailed it from the Jeep.

18 OCTOBER 2007
BURBANK BUY MORE
10:08 PDT

He told himself that he was standing outside the store only because he needed a moment—to enjoy the southern California warmth. That was all. It wasn’t the fear of people that would be appliance shopping one of the biggest, airiest places in Burbank. It wasn’t the fear of seeing his best friend again and not having a good explanation for dropping off the face of the earth for five years. It wasn’t fear of seeing just one more thing that had changed in the world when he…hadn’t.

Oh, who the hell was he kidding?

Chuck took a deep breath. It did nothing but remind him that his entire body had been used as a punching bag by Chinese henchmen with crazy driving tactics the night before.

“Hey, buddy, you coming inside or what?” The green-shirt working security at the door finally ventured outside. “I promise nothing in there’s gonna bite.”

“Th-thanks.” Chuck mustered up a smile, but it felt like more of a grimace. “Sorry, got distracted.”

“No problem. Happens to the best of us.”

Chuck sucked in another deep breath—a mistake, again—and took his first step back into the Buy More. “You’re a good man,” he said, and spotted the green-shirt’s name-tag, “Fernando.”

Fernando gave him a smile most people kept on hand for the crazy hobbit-like individuals on street corners. Chuck didn’t blame him. If a sweat-covered stranger in a do-rag had come into the store when he’d worked there between semesters all those years ago, his reaction would have mirrored Fernando’s. He turned, prepared to write it off as another common problem in his new life, but to his surprise, the green-shirt grabbed his arm.

Chuck recoiled, arms flailing.

“Whoa, sorry, dude,” Fernando said, holding his hands up as a gesture of peace. “Didn’t mean to startle you—but you’re him, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re Chuck Bartowski. You’re THE Bartowski!” Fernando’s excitement grew with every word. As Chuck stared at him in something akin to horror, the green-shirt waved frantically at a desk in the center of the store. A desk Chuck remembered well—the Nerd Herd desk. “I can’t believe you’re real!”

“Um…” Chuck eyed the exit. “Maybe I should come back some other time?”

“Are you Chuck Bartowski or not?” Fernando demanded, sidling his mass sideways so that he stood between Chuck and escape.

“I am, but I’m also a little freaked out. Do I know you? Have we met?”

“I can’t believe it. Dude, you’re a god! C’mon, check this out.” Fernando jerked his head, indicating that Chuck should follow him. “I just can’t believe I’m standing in the presence of The One. Forget god, man, you’re a legend.”

A god and a legend? What the…? Sure, Chuck had spent summers at the Buy More, but he didn’t think a stockboy usually left such a mark on a place like this. Certainly, it wasn’t reason enough for Fernando to treat him like a celebrity.

He eyed the door again. He could go, escape out into the warm sunshine, find some other place to meet up with Morgan. He could get his new computer at the Large Mart, even. They sold computers there.

But curiosity warred with paranoia. The chances that Fernando was a spy that had somehow managed to break through fifty levels of clearance and find out that he was the Intersect—extremely minimal. By all likelihood, it wasn’t a trap. And hell, this was a Buy More. What on earth could possibly happen to him in a Buy More?

So he followed Fernando into the open bay of the store, with its cloying overabundance of space, its cheerful colors, and shelf upon shelf of nerd heaven. He might have been able to handle it with some semblance of dignity or class, but as they walked through the store, strange things began to happen. Green-shirts left customers behind to the line the main aisle. Some peered furtively at him, some outright stared, others whispered to their neighbors behind cupped hands. Chuck felt spiders of the “truly freaked out” variety begin to crawl all over his flesh. He hunched his shoulders, cast his eyes to the far-far-far away ceiling, and began to mutter Klingon prayers under his breath.

The silent nerd parade continued. Beaming, Fernando led him into a hallway that read “Employees Only.” They passed yellow and green inspirational posters with nerd insults scrawled along the bottom.

Though Chuck was at the height of the freaking out scale, some part of him couldn’t help but appreciate the witty irony in the one about “yo mamma” and an Ewok.

The Tour of Creepy ended at the Buy More break room, a place Chuck remembered well. It had been the site of Morgan’s breaking One-Toed Ted’s Fluffy Bunny record in July of 2001.

Fernando held up a hand to signal a pause before they entered. Chuck sneaked a look over his shoulder; every green-shirt in the store stood fifty or so feet away, silently and somberly watching him.

He figured out what “beyond freaked out” meant in that moment.

Fernando, hand still held up, pushed open the break room door. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced in a voice full of pomp and circumstance, “may I present one Chuck Bartowski, returning to our fold?”

And with his free hand, he yanked Chuck into the room.

Chuck stumbled over Fernando’s foot, so his first view of the Buy More break room was a blur of white, brown, yellow, and green. He took in details quickly—tables with green-shirts and white-shirted Nerd Herd members alike, a wall of lockers, and…

“What the hell?!”

It was him. A cardboard cutout of him, Charles Bartowski, arms crossed over a green Buy More polo. He was smiling, an actual innocent smile, and his hair was as long and as unruly as it had been during his Stanford days. That in itself was creepy enough, but what made everything worse was the wall behind the cutout. Framed pictures of him from toddler-hood on, sometimes smiling at the camera, sometimes completely unaware that there was a camera at all. A framed copy of an old receipt—his Sega Genesis from elementary school. That horrible picture from his junior high school yearbook. A handwritten IOU he’d given to Morgan after he’d accidentally broken his Super Mario Brothers game meant for the NES.

He still owed Morgan that game, come to think of it.

Before he could truly wrap his aching head around the concept of a stalker wall, every other person in the room had surged to his or her feet. “Chuck Bartowski!”

Chuck turned, dread turning to outright horror. One of the tables held all of the Nerd Herd, almost glowing with geekiness in their bright shirts and silvery ties. They’d risen to their feet with the rest of the room, but unlike the confused look present on every face, they looked awed, almost reverent. Chuck’s stomach tilted a bit as he recognized Creepy Jeff from his stock-boy days, looking boozier and more disheveled than ever.

Even he’d changed in the five years away. Sure, it was only to change from a green shirt to a white shirt, but the fact that even Creepy Jeff could change hit Chuck like a sock to the gut.

A short woman who’d taken a few liberties with the Buy More dress code stepped forward. “Morgan is never going to believe this,” she told him. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Um,” was all Chuck could think to say to that.

Behind the woman, money exchanged hands—Creepy Jeff’s creepy companion was paying off Creepy Jeff. “Damn it,” the little dude muttered as he forked over a dollar. “I should never bet against you.” He glared sourly at Chuck. “Thanks for not being dead, dude. You cost me a dollar!”

Sorry to ruin your day by not ending my life,” Chuck told him.

“Just don’t let it happen again.”

“Noted.” Chuck rolled his eyes and nearly jumped a foot out of his own skin when he realized that his paranoia was no longer for naught—the Buy Morians had surrounded him completely, a pack of moths being drawn to the flame that was Chuck Bartowski. “Um, guys, I gotta tell you, this is a little weird for me. I really just came here to buy a computer and to see my buddy. Maybe you know him? Morgan Grimes?”

Please, he thought desperately, searching for an escape route through the crowds of nerds and salespeople. Please let me survive. Please don’t let me die in a Buy More—

“Chuck?”

And just like that, the herd of nerds parted, forming an immaculate aisle from Chuck to the break room door. Chuck saw a flash of green, a flash of beard, and suddenly the world stopped closing in on him. “Hi, buddy,” he said, straightening.

Morgan Grimes simply stood, frozen, a Large Mart deli bag in one hand. Time stretched to an eternity and back again, so long that Chuck nearly began to fidget and hyperventilate—

With a wordless cry of joy and ecstasy, Morgan launched himself at Chuck, latching onto his best friend’s middle and clinging for dear life. Chuck told himself that the man was just glad to see him. The fact that Morgan’s shoulders had begun to shake was probably just happiness, not the tears he suspected. He hoped.

“Finally,” Chuck heard Morgan murmur against his shirt. “Finally, all is right in the world.”

Chapter 11: Morgan and the Ninja

Notes:

The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it’s the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when he discovers that someone else believes in him and is willing to trust him with his friend. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

18 OCTOBER 2007
BURBANK BUY MORE
10:40 PDT

“And just like that, they let you come back?”

“Well, yeah, sort of.” Chuck tucked his hands into his pockets as he strolled past the beastmasters in the home appliance section. They’d already made a few laps around the Buy More since the break room had frankly been too full of people staring at the famous Chuck Bartowski and Morgan’s shrine to him for Chuck to be comfortable. He was only marginally more comfortable in the airy store, but it sure beat staring at his second grade class picture. He focused on Morgan now. “I’m contracted to write some code for some local virus protection companies, and the threat’s over with now, so they didn’t have a problem with me moving back to Burbank. The Marshals even helped me set up my new office. They didn’t even care when I crashed one of their trucks.” He waved at the bandanna-covered goose-egg on his forehead.

“Man, that’s so cool.” Morgan waved his hands in the air happily. Very little had changed about his friend in five years, Chuck had been relieved to see. He’d cropped his hair short, to almost a military cut, but the beard lived on, as did the crazy shoes. “The only way you could get any cooler is if you turned out to be a secret agent or something. But witness protection works. Raw deal, though, witnessing a mob hit on your first night on the job out east.”

Chuck felt a greasy film coat his stomach at the lie. “Yeah. The Marshals wouldn’t let me contact anybody, so I’m sorry, buddy.”

He hated lying to Morgan. He hated lying to the guy who had had his back at every disaster from the age of six to the age of twenty-two. But Ellie (and by extension Devon) had known that he had left California to work for the government. He hadn’t even been allowed to tell Morgan that much.

So witness protection it was.

“Lucky break,” Morgan went on as they made a lap through the DVD aisles, “that the guy who wanted you dead got offed.”

“Concrete shoes,” Chuck said solemnly.

“So cliché.” Morgan shook his head. “You’d think they’d find newer and more creative ways to go about these things. Although the classics…they’re classics for a reason.”

“You’re thinking of the piranha tank, aren’t you?” Chuck accused.

“Nothing more demoralizing than being eaten to death by tiny fishes,” Morgan said, nodding sagely. “What was your new identity, anyway? Something cool like Chase Headroom or Charles Rambo?”

“Pete,” Chuck said. “Pete Rogers.”

“Well, that’s inconspicuous.” Morgan wrinkled his nose as they made a left into the video gaming section, an old standby. “You should’ve requested something like…Derek Calrissian. Or Drake Mallard.”

“Wasn’t my choice, buddy.”

“Oh, well. Either way—now that you’re back, Halo tournament, my place, dude. Tonight. You, me, all the grape soda we can drink, it’s going to be epic.”

Chuck flinched. “No can do, I’m afraid. I’ve got plans tonight.”

“No big deal. Tomorrow night, then. It’s on.”

“Ooh, buddy, I really can’t. Dinner at Ellie’s.”

Morgan looked so depressed that Chuck scrambled to make up for it. “But Saturday night,” he said, holding up a hand. “Saturday night, I am all yours.” Barring a major national emergency, of course.

“Fantastic! I’ll get your old controller out of storage, get it polished, cleaned up for you.”

Chuck had to laugh. “That would be great,” he said, meaning every word. “But enough about me. I’ve been living the world’s most boring life for the last five years. I want to hear all about you, little buddy. You seem to be secretly running the Buy More.”

“More than secretly running.” Morgan leaned in close, lowering his voice as he did so. “One of the other guys just got promoted to Assistant Manager, and he’s a real tool. You probably remember him. Harry Tang.”

Immediately, Chuck groaned. “He’s still here, too?!”

“Don’t worry, man. Buy Moria stands up for its own.” Morgan put his fist over his heart, looking as somber and severe as a Marine in full dress uniform. “We’re staging a revolt, man. Next week, Harry Tang…is…going…down.”

“Call me when that happens. I’ll bring popcorn.”

“Popcorn? Hell, bring your paintball gun.”

Chuck chose to take Sarah’s usual approach of reply to that one. “Um, okay. But what else have you been up to? Buy More days, nights with your lady friend?”

“As if.” Morgan snorted. “I’ve got my dream job, man.”

Chuck squinted. “Taste-testing for Baskin Robbins?”

“No, no, no, nothing like that.” Morgan grabbed a microphone from a shelf as they passed, and tossed it from hand to hand. “I’m a DJ, man. DJ Starr Killer, with two Rs instead of one. Also, it’s two words.”

Chuck tilted his head. “Your DJ name is…”

“Uber-geeky, I know, but what can I say? The babes love it.” Morgan drew a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and smiled winningly. “I’m DJing next weekend, you should totally come. I’ll throw some Coulton on for you, it’ll be fantastic.”

Though he could think of nothing better than seeing DJ Starr Killer in action, Chuck knew better than to think he could handle being in such a large, dark space with so many people around. “I don’t know, man. Maybe sometime soon, though?” After he beat this debilitating curse the government had laid on his doorstep by shoving him away from society for five years.

“All right. Soon. But I am so glad to have you back!” Morgan went in for another impromptu hug, bouncing around like a sugar-hyped toddler before he reverted back to the DJ Starr Killer mode. “And Saturday, let the ownage begin.”

“Right. But in the meantime, I kind of need a computer.”

“Well, you came to the right place, buddy.” Morgan grabbed Chuck’s arm to steer him into the computer aisles, discreetly waving off another approaching green-shirt as he did so. Chuck had noticed him doing that a few times during their stroll. He didn’t know if it was Morgan just wanting Chuck all for himself, or if Morgan had picked up on the fact that public places made him a little twitchy.

Knowing Morgan, it was probably a little of both.

“So what are you looking for, exactly?” Morgan asked.

Chuck told him. And Morgan’s eyes lit up with glee. “Oh. Oh, we can do that. We can definitely do that. Right this way, my friend.”

18 OCTOBER 2007
THE BACHELOR PAD
13:22 PDT

It took him three trips to haul his new loot inside. The trips themselves took only about five minutes—walk to the car, retrieve the bags, walk back to the elevator and to the fourth-story apartment. Simple. Easy.

Still, the task took well over an hour. Chuck spent most of that hour standing in his own apartment doorway, staring out into the world and wondering if it had always been that huge and daunting. Had he just never noticed? So much possibility seemed to exist in every cubic foot of space. But possibility was also a double-edged sword—positive and negative by turns. Possibility went hand in hand with disaster.

And a lot of disaster could occur in all that forsaken open air.

The first trip was okay. He forced himself not to flee upstairs and hide beneath the covers as he would have liked. And so what if he took a minute in the doorway to steady himself before setting out? A guy had to breathe, didn’t he?

Fifteen minutes to talk himself into the second trip, thirty-five for the third. By the time he returned from his car on the final excursion, he was dripping sweat and openly trembling.

“God, Bartowski, you’re pathetic,” he told himself in Casey’s voice as he hauled the last of his supplies up the stairs. “Too damned scared to even go to your car in the middle of a parking lot in freaking broad daylight. Moron. Coward. Idiot.”

“You know, that’s my friend you’re insulting.”

Sarah’s voice from the doorway made Chuck whirl—and nearly fall down the stairs and break his neck for his trouble. He fumbled and caught himself, wincing when he jarred his scraped palms. “Ow—ouch! What are you doing here?”

Apparently she’d opened the front door silently—or he’d left it open. Now, she held up a sack. “Lunch. And what are you doing? You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Ah, Mother Hen Sarah. I’ve missed you.” Chuck turned and trudged up the final two steps. “Why don’t you come up? It’s not restful for me to keep climbing these gorram stairs all day.”

She made no reply. Chuck shrugged to himself and dumped the rest of the bags on the bed, trying to ignore his pounding heart. Between the trips outside and Sarah’s startling him, that poor over-abused organ was clocking way too much overtime.

When he turned, Sarah mounted the last step.

“Gah!” Chuck jumped a foot and a half and thumped on his chest to get his heart started again. She hadn’t made a noise on the staircase. “I’m getting you a collar with bells on it!”

“Wouldn’t do anything. I can move just as silently with bells on.” Sarah studied him and then the heaping piles of bags all around the room. Her eyes lingered on the huge box on the desk, and the fact that his government-issued computer now sat in the corner. “You’re supposed to be resting,” she said, looking at him again. “Not buying out…the Buy More?”

Chuck shrugged. “I needed stuff.”

“And that meant purchasing everything but the kitchen sink?”

“Oh, no, I got that, too. It’s still out in the car.”

Sarah blinked at his newest acquisition leaning up against the wall. “You got a white board? What for?”

“Tic-tac-toe tournaments.”

Sarah sighed at him.

“It’s the Bryce Board,” Chuck admitted. “Sorry. I’m grouchy—there’s just too much…space.”

“Ah. Rough day?”

“No. Just…saturation point, you know?” And his room was too open, too wide, too vast, too…much. He’d rather go down into the windowless bathroom downstairs, but he knew Sarah wouldn’t stand for that.

“Here.” Sarah flicked a switch by the sliding door that he hadn’t had time to notice. Blinds lowered over all of the windows and across the sliding glass door, pitching the room into dimness. “Better?”

Oxygen rushed back into the room. The knot tying Chuck’s shoulders to each other vanished. He nearly collapsed to the floor, but settled on nodding. “Much. Thank you.”

“Probably should have mentioned the switch yesterday, so I’m sorry about that.” He could barely make out Sarah’s frown in the dark. “Chuck, promise me something. Promise me you won’t leave the blinds on all the time. I know you’ll need them sometimes, but…”

“I won’t wallow in the darkness all day,” Chuck said. Though the idea was tempting beyond words. “I want to get better, too.”

“Just remember: one thing at a time, all right?”

“One thing at a time,” Chuck echoed.

“Now tell me why you have a Bryce Board.”

Chuck sat on the edge of his bed and watched her take a seat in the desk chair, a safe distance away. “You know how detectives on the TV shows have murder boards? This is my ‘Where’s Bryce?’ board. I need to set up a timeline that I can look at, and assemble all of my clues. I plan to store the board in the closet, and I’ll use code-phrases.”

“You can do all of this at Castle, you know.”

“And rub Casey’s face in the fact that his men let Bryce get away? The guy hates me enough already.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“And I have to ask—what on earth is that?” Sarah nudged the box taking up most of his desk, her eyebrows high.

“My new computer.”

“Chuck, you already have a computer.”

“With thirteen different ways for the government to track my activities already pre-installed. Pass.”

“You found them already? You were supposed to be resting.”

Chuck moved a shoulder. “I was resting. Computer work is relaxing to me.”

“Nerd.” She smiled.

“Undeniably. I purchased this one with my own money, for my own personal use. I’ll view any attempt to hack it, put a tracking program in it, or alter it in any way an invasion of my privacy.”

Sarah sighed. “You do know they’ll just order me to do it anyway.”

“Yeah. It’ll be like a game of Spy Versus Spy. You put as many tracking programs as you like on it, I’ll take them off, and if you can best me, I’ll stop playing this character on the online game, Sunlight Chronicles.” Chuck pulled out his new phone and thumbed through the pictures until he found the one he sought. He handed the phone over.

Sarah wrinkled her nose at the ugly avatar on the screen. “What on earth is that?”

“The evil daughter of a vampire and a gnome, with a few elvish relatives somewhere on the family tree.” Chuck smiled. “I named her Schnookie McSarahkins.”

“This is supposed to be me?”

“In theory.”

“It looks nothing like me.”

“I know. But in the back of your head, there will always be that teeny-tiny reminder that somewhere on an online video game, there is a horribly-named cross-breed running around making stupid decisions with your name on her.” Chuck smiled. “I do believe I’ve just insulted you in nerd.”

“Even though it’s completely ridiculous that there would be a video game character anywhere based on me,” Sarah said, rising to her feet so that she could return the phone, “I’ll tell you what you can do with your nerd insults.”

She set the phone on the bed next to him and leaned in close, provocatively. Chuck’s mind stuttered and simply went blank.

“A Bacta Tank?” Sarah said. “That’s the tank they dumped Luke Skywalker in to heal after he nearly froze to death on Hoth.”

He was so distracted by how clean she smelled, and how wonderful, that it took him a minute to process the words. And when he did, something fluttered very low in his belly. He swallowed, hard. “Did you actually watch the movie, or did you just look that up on Wikipedia?”

For one thrumming moment, she stayed exactly where she was, leaning over him, her face close to his, her eyes on his, unreadable and yet somehow still playful. And then, finally, an impish smile broke through. “Not telling.”

Chuck opened his mouth to answer (though what he would have said, he had no earthly idea, as his mind was still blissfully blank), but a buzzing noise cut through the apartment. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Sensor alarm.” Sarah took off toward the stairs.

Chuck liked to think hat for a tall guy, he could move pretty quickly, but Sarah was halfway down the stairs before he even reached the top. He hurried after her, his aching body and their time-stopping moment in the bedroom forgotten.

Sarah crossed the room in two strides and yanked the bottom drawer out from the desk. Then the top drawer, in quick succession. She tapped the space bar on the keyboard—

A panel slid away, revealing a wall of monitors.

“Now that is just cool,” Chuck breathed, staring in wonder at the screens.

“Shh.” Sarah scanned the rows of monitors and swore under her breath. She stabbed at the keyboard, cutting the feeds entirely. She keyed in a sequence on the keypad and a panel on the floor slid away, revealing her preferred silver gun. “Stay here, Chuck.”

But Chuck had seen what she had been trying to hide from him. “Sarah,” he said in a too-calm voice, “why would there be a ninja in my sister’s apartment?”

“I don’t know. Stay here.”

“Nope.” Chuck was already following her out the door. “My sister—”

“Is at work. And I’m not bringing you anywhere near danger if I can help it.”

Another alarm, this time a beep, rang out from the monitor wall. Sarah doubled-back, expertly side-stepping around Chuck. She brought the feeds back up online—and swore again.

“Now I’m coming,” Chuck said, already running for the door. “And later, we can talk about the fact that there’s a ninja, and my sister, in her apartment!”

“Can’t wait,” Sarah said drily as they pounded across the courtyard, running by mutual and silent agreement for her Jeep.

18 OCTOBER 2007
CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
13:41 PDT

Chuck was already stumbling out of the Jeep before it had fully stopped moving. He sprinted through the familiar front gates, down the path, hurtling bushes and ducking through the side corridor. It was faster that way. He rounded the trash cans, racing out into the open courtyard—

Only to have Sarah beat him to the door by a full two paces. “Go inside, find Ellie, and get her out of here,” she hissed at him. “Take her back to your place if you have to.”

She sneaked away toward what had once been called the Morgan Door.

Chuck took a deep breath and knocked. Time was, he wouldn’t have had to knock on that door—this place had been part-his—but now…

It was probably less than a minute, but it felt like eons before Ellie opened the door. “Oh, you’re safe,” Chuck said without thinking, and immediately yanked her into a relieved hug.

“Chuck?” Ellie’s voice sounded muffled against his chest. “What’s going on?”

Chuck, realizing his faux pas, almost leaped backward. “Wh-what? Nothing. Nothing’s going on. I, ah, I just missed you, that’s all.”

Ellie squinted at him. “Did you hit your head again? Why are you all sweaty and out of breath? Did you have another episode?”

“N-no. I’m just really, really, ah, relieved to be back in Burbank. I ran all the way here. Get the blood flowing, the heart pumping, you know?”

“Geez, Chuck. The doctor said you need to rest! You were in a car accident just last night!”

Chuck attempted to apply a winning smile, but it came out a bit manic, and forced. “What are you doing right now?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. “You maybe up for a little brother sister time? We could, you know, catch a movie, I could maybe show you my place?”

“Right now?” Ellie blinked at him. “I just got off a hellish day at work. We’re the closest hospital to that hotel that was bombed a couple of weeks ago, and we’re only just now starting to catch up to the workload. All I really want to do right now is sleep for two weeks solid.”

“Oh. Um, coffee! Coffee’s good when you’re tired, right? Why don’t we go get some? Together? Outside the house?”

Again, Ellie squinted. Her arms crossed, her face took on that mutinous set that Chuck remembered well from their childhood together. It gave him a pang to see it now. “Why are you so dead-set on getting me out of the house?”

“No reason, really.” Chuck felt sweat slide down the track between his shoulder-blades. “I just—I missed you so much, Ellie, and I feel really bad…”

“Come inside.” Ellie grabbed his wrist, giving him no choice but to be led to the couch. With a ninja—and Sarah—somewhere in the apartment. “Chuck, there’s no magical pill we can take here. It’s not going to be miraculously okay overnight, all right? You understand that, don’t you?”

“I know that, I do. It’s just…”

“Just what, Chuck?”

Despite the ever present danger, issues floated to the top of his mind. Everybody else had gotten to live for five years, while he’d been stuck underground. Everything was changed or different, and nothing was the way it was supposed to be. He couldn’t go outside without sweating through his shirt. He had something in his head that he didn’t understand, much less trust, something that made him both an asset and a liability to a trigger-happy government that could throw him underground at whim to rot away the rest of his life.

Oh, and there was a ninja in Sarah’s bedroom.

“I just didn’t think it would be this difficult,” he lied.

“Life is rough, Chuck.” Ellie’s voice was surprisingly harsh, making Chuck slant an alarmed look at her.

“Oh, believe me, I know that,” he said. Where was the ninja? Why weren’t they all dead? Had Sarah beaten it?

Could Sarah Walker really take out a ninja?

“You’re probably just feeling overwhelmed because your head hurts,” Ellie said. “Let me take a look.”

Just as Ellie reached for the bandanna, a loud thud from the direction of the bedrooms made both siblings look over.

“That’s weird. I thought Sarah said she’d be gone all day.” Ellie rose to her feet to check.

Chuck grabbed her arm before she could. “Why don’t I? You stay here.”

“Chuck—”

“Please, stay there. Please.”

Sarah was going to murder him, Chuck thought as he walked through his own old hallway like a man traipsing through a minefield. If she bested the ninja, Chuck would definitely be her next victim. Still, it beat Ellie catching on or getting killed in case Sarah hadn’t neutralized the ninja problem.

Chuck’s stomach plummeted at the thought.

He knocked on his old bedroom door. “Hello?”

No answer. Wait—another thud.

Oh crap.

Since Ellie stood at the hallway entrance, arms crossed, he didn’t have much of a choice. “I’m coming in there,” he called through the door, and prayed to any random deity listening in that he might survive the next few minutes.

Before he could grab the doorknob, however, it twisted on its own. The door opened, revealing a panting and sweaty Sarah. “Chuck?” she asked, feigning surprise for Ellie’s sake even as her eyes promised a severe and prolonged death scene in Chuck’s near future. “What are you doing here? You told me not to come in until Monday!”

“Everything okay in here?” Chuck said in a too-loud voice. He flared his eyes at Sarah, trying to communicate that he hadn’t exactly had a choice short of outright kidnapping his own sister and hauling her bodily away across the courtyard. Even then, he knew she wouldn’t have come peacefully, so he would have had to knock her out to do it, and he still had yet to convince Sarah to teach him the Acropolis Cold-Clock, as he’d begun calling it. “We heard thudding.”

“What? Oh, yeah. Just moving some furniture.” Sarah peered around the corner, hastily swiping blood away from her nose before Ellie could see it. “Hey, El. You got off early?”

“Another doctor owed me, so he covered the last couple of hours of my shift. Chuck, why don’t you help your new employee with that furniture? I’m going to go take a shower and put on some real clothes.”

Ellie disappeared into her own room. The instant she stepped out of sight, Sarah grabbed a handful of Chuck’s shirt and yanked. He yelped.

The “furniture” turned out to be the ninja, unsurprisingly. Only the ninja had lost some attire in the fight. She was also a striking redhead, model-pretty—save for the bloody nose that matched Sarah’s perfectly. She held the ninja mask in one hand and sat on the windowsill, glaring at Sarah and Chuck in turn.

Chuck almost heard music crescendo as the flash smacked him.

A geyser exploding.

A blue, white, and yellow flag, cross-fading into a passport that read MERCORSUR REPUBLICA ARGENTINA. A map of Argentina.

A passport photo of the ninja herself, but the name read Maria Elena Alberdi.

DEA AGENT: REDACTED.

A shot of cocaine being boiled on a spoon, a syringe.

Another photo of the ninja, looking almost fetching in pink.

A geyser again.

The usual micro-migraine kicked in, threatening a full-blown headache since he still hadn’t completely recovered from the previous evening’s festivities. “Ow,” Chuck managed, and wished that his head would kindly quit splitting down the middle.

“Chuck, this is Carina. Carina, a member of my new team—Chuck.” Sarah looked less than thrilled to be making introductions at all, judging by the way that her arms were crossed, and the stony set of her features.

Chuck knew that on first introductions, a handshake or a pithy comment to break the ice was only polite. But he didn’t move away from the door. All he could do was stare at first the outfit and then the bloody nose. At least he didn’t seem to be in any danger of passing out at the sight of blood. “Why are you dressed like a ninja?” he asked, his voice distant.

“Because somebody won’t give me a damn diamond!” Carina glared at Sarah as she said this.

Chuck stared between the two women—annoyed, live-wire Carina, Sarah’s icy fury countering perfectly. “Um, how is it you two know each other?”

“We’re supposed to be partners,” Carina said, more for Sarah’s benefit.

Chuck, meanwhile, heard “partner” and “diamond,” and his brain made an unwitting connection. “Wait a second,” he said, and turned to Sarah. “You’re gay?”

“What?” both Carina and Sarah said. Sarah realized his implications first—and smacked him hard, just below the shoulder. “Not partners like that! Carina and I teamed up last week to deprive a drug lord of a diamond. Jerk.”

“Oh.” What had his life come to, Chuck wondered, when multimillion dollar capers caused less of a surprise than sexual orientation in southern California? “Sorry. I hit my head last night and it’s making me say crazy things. And—hey, Casey. Welcome to the party. How’s it going?”

Casey, his gun cradled close to his body, stared at the three of them in the room from outside. “What the hell is going on here?” He drew up short when he saw Carina, a scowl settling stonelike over his face. “Oh. You.”

“Agent Casey,” Carina said, her voice becoming a purr. “Been awhile. Prague was the last time we saw each other, wasn’t it?”

Casey gave her a look most people reserved for the dentist.

“Casey, get Chuck out of here.” Sarah gave Chuck a brief look of her own. He couldn’t tell if her annoyance was at him, or with Carina, but he figured it was probably the latter. After all, he hadn’t been the one to bloody up her nose. “I’ll fill you both in later.”

“But Ellie—”

“Will be fine. Carina’s no threat to her, right?” Sarah glared at Carina.

“What, like I’m going to start going around torturing civilians for the fun of it?” Carina looked bored. “I’m here for my diamond. That’s all.”

Still, Casey had to bodily haul Chuck from room. He went silently only because Sarah’s parting glare promised retribution otherwise, but the moment he and Casey were out of earshot, he wrenched free. “Casey, I flashed on her, on Carina. She’s DEA, but not anymore—”

“I know.” Casey muttered something under his breath.

Chuck still caught a few choice words. “Prague?” he echoed. “What happened in Prague?”

Casey’s glare was even scarier than Sarah’s.

“Guess I don’t need to know.”

They climbed into the Crown Vic, parked back behind the apartment complex rather than out on the street. Chuck kept glancing worriedly back toward Ellie’s place. “Where are we going? Castle?”

“No, I’m taking you home, and then it looks like I’m babysitting your ass until Walker’s done playing patty-cake with the DEA.”

“Ex-DEA. And I’m a grown man, Casey. I don’t need babysitting.”

“I leave you alone for a few hours and suddenly you’re in an apartment with Walker and an armed, masked intruder. I’m keeping an eye on you from here on out.” Casey scowled at the traffic up ahead, but didn’t attempt to muscle his way through.

Chuck sighed and sank back into his seat, scowling. He thought he heard Casey mutter, “Ninjas. Amateurs,” but it was more likely an auditory illusion.

Chapter 12: Lessons in Stalking

Notes:

We’re opening up a Pandora’s box. Be careful what you wish for. — James Waters

18 OCTOBER 2007
BACHELOR PAD
16:17 PDT

He used his time wisely. Though Casey had recommended—in the form of an order, naturally—that Chuck take a nap, Chuck used the time waiting for Sarah to make progress on his personal setup. He unloaded his new computer, set up the monitor, the mouse, the speakers. It took time for him to enable the security algorithm that would fool anybody but the geekiest geeks in the CIA tech department about his computer usage. Since their mission in Burbank was classified, he doubted Sarah would get access to those types, so he felt confident as he set up the mirror account that would hide his usage. He selected the passwords that Sarah and her team would have to hack with care.

For fun, he made passwords things she would recognize—souvlak1, Rad0msk0, The_St1ng, Wh1skey-Tang—

He felt his eyes roll back into his head.

An abandoned B-52 in a field, covered by weeds and graffiti.

WHISKEY. TANGO. FOXTROT.

PROJECT OMAHA.

WHISKEY—92 percentile scores in cognitive data assimilation, approved for field work, subject recommended to MARDUK.

TANGO—93.7 percentile, complications arising due to auditory and visual stimuli incurring psychotic episodes and instability far exceeding “safe” levels of Dendraphyl, subject declared major risk, TERMINATED.

FOXTROT—98 percentile. Subject shows amazing capability for cognitive data assimilation, exceeds all expectations of participating scientists and Dr. NAME BLOCKED. Initial resistance to hypnosis therapy—

PROJECT REDACTED.

An abandoned B-52 again.

Chuck’s eyes returned to their sockets.

Without a word, without a reaction, he climbed to his feet and rooted around through the bags on his bed until he found the packet of dry-erase markers. He crossed to his new white-board and began to write, quickly and furiously.

Where’s Bryce? went across the top of the board. Chuck drew a line, dissecting the board down the middle, and began to scribe dates, making a new tick in the line for each date.

26 SEP – Sends PKG to C.B., contacts C.B. via satellite phone

28/29 SEP – ATHENS? Delivers menu to S.W. and C.B.?

16 OCT – Delivers name “P.D.” to C.B. @ Madison Mercy Hospital, LA

Chuck flipped the whiteboard over and began writing down everything he could remember from the flashes about Project Omaha and the mysterious Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot. Because the Gio Pete’s menu and the flash he’d just had seemed connected, he figured the name Phillip Dartmoor figured in, so he wrote “P.D.” on this side of the board as well, circling in with a red marker and drawing a large blue question mark next to it. As soon as his computer was safely shielded from any prying eyes that the government might send, he’d check.

Something told him that it wasn’t wise to reveal just how much he knew yet. Chuck Bartowski had finally learned his lesson with the US Government, and he was playing this one close to the vest.

Because he heard footsteps on the stairwell, Chuck shoved the white board into his closet and turned, innocently, to face Casey. “What’s up?”

“Get downstairs. Walker’s on her way over.”

“Is she bringing her new friend?”

Since Chuck couldn’t quite interpret Casey’s growl for either assent or “I hope not,” he decided it was probably the latter. He followed the NSA agent downstairs—he took one of the couches, Casey sat in the worn, brown recliner that Chuck was positive hadn’t been there the day before. Their interior decorator would never approve.

Casey stripped his gun and began laying parts, methodically, on a cleaning cloth. After a moment, Chuck watched in fascination. “How on earth do you know which part to clean first?” he asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the military precision.

Casey merely pushed on his forehead, shoving him back into the couch. Chuck whimpered as that movement sent flashes of white and agony through his goose-egg.

He minded his own business until Sarah arrived.

She did so presently, raising her eyebrows to see both of her teammates waiting for her.

“Walker,” Casey greeted, his tone neutral. “I assume you didn’t lead Carina straight to us.”

“I know how to shake a tail.” Sarah didn’t sound offended, just resigned. “And Carina’s got other things to worry about than the two of you.”

“I just bet she does.” Casey, satisfied that his gun was finally clean, began to reassemble it.

“I’m sorry I thought you were gay,” Chuck blurted out before he could stop himself. When both Sarah and Casey turned on him, one annoyed, the other outright gaping, he hunched his shoulders forward. “What? I am!”

“Playing for the other team, Walker?” Casey voice took on a happy note that it usually contained only when he was picking on Chuck. A smirk was already beginning to creep in. “That explains most everything except your fascination with wonder-boy’s—”

Chuck wasn’t sure where the knife came from—he certainly hadn’t seen Sarah move. But a knife hilt blossomed from the wall three inches from Casey’s head nonetheless.

It would have made Chuck wet himself in terror. Casey just laughed. “You’re fixing that, Walker. Don’t want to lose our security deposit—tax-payers’ dollars at work, you know.”

Sarah made a Casey-like noise.

“So!” Chuck said, too loudly, hoping to move away from this topic, and quickly. “So, uh, what’s up? DEA, drug lord, diamond heists, what? Yeah, let’s talk about that! That sounds like a good idea to me. What about you guys?”

Sarah retrieved her knife and sheathed it before she sat next to Chuck on the couch (Chuck hoped his sidling away from the knife wasn’t too obvious). “Carina came into town a couple of days before you both got here from DC. I was authorized by Graham to help her retrieve a diamond from a man named Peyman Alahi.”

Chuck tensed, waiting for the flash.

“Nothing?” Sarah asked, raising her eyebrows. “Well, either way, he’s a drug lord—an ‘international financier of an opium cartel.’” She raised her fingers to make air-quotes as she said this—Chuck guessed she was quoting a briefing of some sort. “Carina was after a diamond he was holding—”

“What would an ex-DEA agent need with a diamond that size? Besides out-blinging Flava Flav?”

Casey grunted. “Probably hoping to trade it—move up the covert DEA ranks.”

That theory certainly made more sense to Chuck, so he nodded and shrugged, settling in to listen to the rest of Sarah’s recitation.

“Graham authorized me to aid Carina, but I was to make sure I returned the diamond to him rather than letting Carina take it. She’s a bit of a…wild card.” Sarah bit her lip for a moment, as if debating just how much she should say. “We brought in a contractor for the job, an expert on the safe that Peyman was using to store the diamond. We would’ve waited for Chuck and the intel to get here, but Peyman was moving the diamond within 72 hours, so we had to act quickly.”

Casey shrugged, a little “that makes sense” movement. “Who’d you get?”

“Fidget.”

Casey actually groaned. “You didn’t,” he said.

“We didn’t have much choice—we were on a deadline.” Outwardly, Sarah didn’t move but because Chuck was sitting right next to her on the couch, he felt her bristle.

“Who’s Fidget?” Chuck asked.

“One of the best safe experts in the country.”

“And one that can be bought for a price,” Casey added, rolling his eyes at Sarah. “Any price. Which I’m guessing is what happened.”

“Look, he turned out to be useful. Without him, we wouldn’t have known about the twenty-thousand volts of electricity surrounding the diamond!”

“And when did he turn on you?” Casey wanted to know.

Sarah glowered for so long that Chuck feared another handily thrown knife might make its appearance by Casey’s head. If she ever decided she didn’t want to miss anymore, two members of Operation Prometheus could be dead in seconds.

“Yesterday,” Sarah said. “He gave up Carina’s name—he didn’t know mine. Peyman tracked Carina down this morning. She got away, but she’s pretty intent on getting the diamond and skipping town.”

“So what now?” Chuck asked.

“I’m not giving up the diamond. Carina will realize that eventually. Carina disappears, Peyman’s men will spend the next few years tracking a ghost.” Sarah shrugged. “Chances are, ‘Carina Miller’ will die publicly in some place like Burundi, and the woman we know as Carina will pop up with a new alias to cause trouble somewhere else.”

“Ah.”

“Assuming,” Sarah said through gritted teeth, “she actually sticks to the plan and listens to me.” Her tone conveyed her skepticism about the possibility of that ever happening.

Casey inserted the final piece into his gun. “Guess we’ll just wait for the inevitable bad stuff to go down, and we’ll deal with it when it does,” he said, and chambered a round.

“Another for the ‘Casey’s little life lessons’ book,” Chuck remarked. When Casey and Sarah gave him confused looks, he raised his hands in a “what can you do?” motion. “I’m going to start writing them down, I swear I will.”

“All right.” It was another one of Sarah’s automatic responses to Chuck’s nerd moments. She frowned at him. “You’re supposed to be on medical leave. Go upstairs and take a nap.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Go anyway.” Sarah’s look finished the sentence: or I will make you.

“Okay, okay.” It was easier to agree than to fight, so Chuck heaved a melodramatic sigh and headed for the staircase.

“And don’t just spend the whole time on the computer.”

“Nag, nag, nag.” Chuck glared before he stomped up the spiral stairs.

“Guess with Carina out there, we’ll be working from ‘home’ for the rest of the day,” Casey said. “I’ve wired the computers in here to Castle’s work flow, but there’s only one work station. Guess you’re on paperwork detail, Walker.”

“Or she can just use my computer,” Chuck offered from the top of the stairs. “Since I’m apparently four—and grounded.”

“You’re supposed to be napping.”

“Bed’s all the way on the other side of the room from the computer,” Chuck said. “And since I’m not really tired anyway, it’s not going to matter. I’ll just stare at the ceiling while you work.”

Casey snickered as he holstered his gun. “Usually the other way around, isn’t it, Bartowski?”

Chuck and Sarah rolled their eyes at him, but Sarah was already heading up the stairs, which meant the discussion was over. Chuck moved to the bed, dumped the bags on the floor, and flopped down face-first. He winced—bad idea with his body as sore as it was.

A few seconds later, he heard Sarah tap on the keyboard. “Password, Chuck?” she called.

“Oh, right.” Chuck levered himself off of the bed and crossed over to the computer. Since Sarah didn’t take the hint and move aside, he had to reach around her—and get a good whiff of her shampoo in the process.

“Four passwords, Chuck?”

“Let the games begin.” Chuck indulged himself in one last deep breath before he straightened. “Everything should work for you now.”

“Thanks.”

Chuck kicked off his shoes and crawled beneath the covers, grumbling under his breath at his overprotective teammates the whole time. He yanked the covers up to his chin in an act of defiance. Though he hadn’t been tired even a few seconds before, the flat surface, the adrenaline crash, and the constant abuse he’d put his poor body through all teamed up against him. His eyelids drooped.

“Chuck?”

He almost didn’t catch Sarah’s whisper. Fighting exhaustion, he raised himself up onto his elbows and blinked heavily at her. “What’s up?” Why he felt the need to whisper back, he had no idea.

She was nibbling on her lip, looking not at him but the computer screen. Chuck could see her outline in the dimness, her profile wreathed by the blue-white of the monitor light.

“That thing, with the ninja at Ellie’s apartment…” Sarah kept her gaze on the monitor. “It…it won’t happen again. I’m not going to let anything happen to her.”

“Oh.” Chuck stayed where he was until his abdomen began to burn. “Thanks, Sarah.”

18 OCTOBER 2007
THE BACHELOR PAD
19:21 PDT

When he woke, splayed over half of the bed, Sarah was gone, but the computer had been turned off, the blinds opened to let in the dusky light, and all of the bags had been put away. He imagined that everything had been stowed neatly in its place. His first thought was amusement that a woman knew more about his bedroom than he did. His second was curiosity—what on earth had Sarah done to his computer since he’d allowed her access? One smile and the woman could twist him around her little finger if she chose.

He was glad she had decided to use her powers for good.

He rose, cursing his aching body and ruing the fact that Ellie had denied him Demerol. When he wandered over to the computer, he saw that Sarah had left him a piece of white paper draped over the keyboard.

Schnookie lives on.

Chuck laughed and rooted through his desk drawer until he located scotch tape. He taped the note on the wall right over his monitor, where he would be able to glance up and see it during work.

As he did so, a pair of picture frames on the corner of the desk caught his eye. He was positive they hadn’t been there before he’d gone to sleep.

He sank into the desk chair. So that was where his pictures had gone. There they were, crumpled, weathered, worn, almost pathetic behind the picture frames Sarah had picked. Heedless that he was smudging the glass, Chuck trailed his fingers along them, and felt another small piece of him click into place.

He pulled off the back of the frames, plucking each photo out and smoothing it straight with his fingers, lingering on the three faces in each of them, faces that had traveled with him all over the world now, hidden close to his heart. He then folded the pictures and stuck both in his pockets.

“Casey? You home?” he called as he jogged down the stairs.

Apparently, his babysitters had vanished. Chuck wondered briefly if they were okay—it would always be with him, he knew, the back-of-the-mind doubt about everybody in his life, wondering if they were hurt, if they were safe, if they had secretly been abducted by Cylons hell-bent on his destruction. He’d have to get used to it.

Or he’d go slowly insane. Either way.

Chuck, realizing that his clothes reeked of his panic sweat from earlier, began stripping before he’d even reached the bathroom. Since he didn’t know if Casey or Sarah would return soon, he showered quickly and ran upstairs in just a towel, his clothes bundled under one arm.

Who on earth had picked the clothes in his closet? He pondered as he pawed through his selection. It was a pretty typical closet for a software designer—a row of white, short-sleeved button up shirts. Geek attire. Nerdy T-shirts (his favorite was “Cowbell Hero”), neutral, boring slacks. Had the CIA selected his clothes? Or had…Sarah? She’d had a hand in decorating the Bachelor Pad and Castle, so why not his closet, too?

He wasn’t sure how he felt about a woman picking out all of his clothes. In fact, he was going clothes shopping as soon as his system could handle it. It was time to take control over something in his life.

Still, he had to appreciate some aspects of the whole thing. Like the clothes actually fitting him—and fitting well. Given the nature of his plans, he chose a dark shirt, military style with pockets and epaulets and everything, and dark jeans. He finger-combed his wet hair, donned his tracker watch, his by-now trustworthy chucks.

And, grabbing his keys and wallet, he left before Sarah or Casey could catch him.

18 OCTOBER 2007
CHUCK’S CAR
20:32 PDT

If it was slightly stalkerish to sit in a parking garage and wait for his sister to get of work, what he was doing now knocked the stalker level through the red zone and out of the park. But Chuck didn’t care. He just ate another Sizzling Shrimp and continued to stare out the windshield. Though he’d brought night-vision enhanced binoculars, they sat unused on the dashboard. Even he wasn’t about to admit to that level of stalking.

He’d counted thirteen passersby on the sidewalk. Four had gone into the building he watched now. Three others had come out. Two people sat on a park bench across the street while their dogs sniffed every inch of the curb twice.

Still, no sign of her.

It probably wasn’t unusual. He’d taken the time to count windows, he knew the floor plan of the building. Figuring out which apartment was hers had been easy—the windows were dark, and had been since he’d arrived. She clearly wasn’t home, probably wouldn’t be for hours. A woman in the final year of her doctorate should be studying, and she’d always preferred the library for that. So it made sense.

He could wait. He had all the time in the world—or at least he did until he was required to clock back in at Castle, or Casey and Sarah showed to drag him back to the Bachelor Pad.

Another person strolled by. Chuck ate another Sizzling Shrimp.

Life, he reflected as he munched, was a crazy journey. In a Buy More, only a couple of miles away from where he sat under a broken streetlight, there stood a wall—a shrine, a tribute that, put bluntly, gave him the heebie-jeebies. And now, here he was in a parked car, doing his own stalking. The double-standard was almost enough to put him off his lunch. It certainly would have if his lunch—or dinner, really—weren’t Sizzling Shrimp.

He wished he’d made a stakeout mix for the occasion. Maybe a little “Every Breath You Take” action by the Police. “Private Eyes.” Hell, even Weird Al Yankovic’s “Melanie” perfectly fit the situation.

He started humming the last under his breath—and the passenger door opened.

Chuck’s reaction was part fight, part flight. He scrambled back against the door even as his hands flailed out in a poor imitation of a kung fu stance. Sizzling Shrimp flew everywhere.

Carina Miller looked less than impressed. “Well, hey there, Chuckie.”

Chuck stared at her in absolute horror. Sarah, he thought distantly, was not going to like this at all. “What are you doing here?”

“Curious, mostly.” Carina peered around the car, taking in the sights and even giving a cute little wave to the couple on the bench with the dogs. “Nice place. A little low-class for the likes of a CIA analyst, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“It happens to be a perfectly respectable neighborhood,” Chuck said, a bit stiffly. “If I were a grad student or just starting off in my career, I would jump at the chance to live in such a place.”

Carina twitched a shoulder. She’d traded the ninja couture for a slinky top that revealed more than it covered, and painted-on jeans. Chuck wondered if all female agents insisted on going around in as little as possible. He couldn’t say he minded, but it would make the job…interesting. And rough, at points. He figured the Intersect probably needed a great deal of concentration.

“Give me a beach cottage in Ibiza any day,” Carina said, drawing Chuck’s attention back to the matter at hand—that he was alone. In a parked car. With an ex-DEA agent that had a bone to pick with his new partner.

“Carina, what are you doing here? In my car? Right now?”

“I want to see what’s got Sarah in such a tizzy.” Carina’s smile took on the cat that dined on gourmet canary edge as she eyed Chuck. He shook off the sensation of feeling like a very cheap piece of meat. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised. You’re not what I expected.”

“I get that a lot.”

“So what do you do, Chuck, that leads to single-car stakeouts in perfectly respectable neighborhoods?”

“What I do and what I’m doing are completely unrelated.” Since she wasn’t going anywhere, Chuck returned to what was left of his Sizzling Shrimp. “I’m an analyst, like you said. Risk assessment, mostly.”

Carina chuckled. “They stuck Sarah Walker with a risk assessment analyst? That’s just rich.”

“Who says I’m assessing Sarah’s risk? She could be my bodyguard.”

“You’re new,” Carina said. Chuck didn’t correct her one way or the other. “You’re still shiny from the factory. Here’s how it is—when a field agent like Sarah gets stuck with a ‘risk assessment’ analyst…well, it just means she’s one step away from a burn notice.” Carina laughed, harshly, humorlessly. There was almost sympathy in the noise, Chuck thought, but he didn’t know if it was for Sarah or for his own naïveté. “Agent Casey getting stuck with an analyst, too? I figured with the Bryce thing, Sarah makes sense, but Casey—oh, that’s just funny.”

“You’re a very cold woman,” Chuck said. “And no, Sarah doesn’t make sense. I’m fairly sure, as one of your hated risk assessment analysts, that Bryce acted on his own volition.”

“What? To get dead?”

“W-what?” Had Bryce died and nobody told him? Then who had delivered the Phillip Dartmoor clue into his jacket pocket?

“It’s an occupational hazard,” Carina went on, as if Chuck hadn’t spoken at all. “Getting dead. Wait—own volition? Do you know something I don’t? Did Bryce Larkin commit suicide?” Carina perked up at the thought of new gossip. “I heard he just went rogue and they put a bullet in him.”

“Ah—ah—”

No. Bryce Larkin wasn’t dead. Somewhere deep inside him, Chuck would know if his best friend from college had kicked the bucket. Which meant that the government didn’t want their agents, ex or otherwise, to know. Still, Bryce Larkin being dead? That was the best cover the government could think up? Weak, Chuck decided.

But who was he to blow somebody else’s cover?

“What I meant to say is that he went rogue on his own, and he left Sarah completely out of the loop when he did it. I’m not here to assess Sarah. Sarah is fine. She’s good—fantastic, even.” Chuck stuffed a whole Sizzling Shrimp in his mouth and glowered at Carina, daring her to say otherwise.

“Well, that’s good, considering.”

“Con-considering?” Chuck coughed as a piece of shrimp lodged itself in his windpipe. “Considering what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know.” Carina peered through the windshield, her eyes cutting left and right. “What exactly are we staking out here, anyway? This looks more boring than usual.”

Chuck ignored the question. “What do you mean, you know? Considering that Sarah and Bryce were, what, partners?”

Carina laughed again. “Partners? Yes.”

“What are you saying? That they were…more than partners?” Chuck felt the car shrinking all around him, though he had no earthly idea why. He had no claim to a woman like Sarah, so—so what if she and Bryce had been partners in more than one sense? It should feel like a betrayal. That was illogical. And no way in hell should it feel like somebody was slowly and systematically sucking all of the oxygen out of his new Subaru. Chuck took a deep breath and tried to hold it together.

Carina, peering through the night-vision binoculars now, just smirked. “You sound like you’re surprised, Chuck. A couple of good-looking people like Bryce and Sarah, all those high-octane situations, life and death day in and day out, how do you expect them not to get together?”

“They’re not pandas in a zoo!”

“Either way.”

Because very, very uncomfortable images were flashing through his mind about his best friend and his new partner, Chuck squirmed in his seat. “What are you really doing here, Carina?”

“I want my diamond.”

“Well, whoop-dee-doo for you. I don’t have it. Talk to Sarah.”

“I’d do that. Except, I can’t find Sarah.” Carina draped an arm around the back of Chuck’s seat and began to toy with his hair, making him flinch. But there didn’t seem to be anywhere to go but out of the car. “I can find you, though. So—”

“Are you kidnapping me?” Panic began to crawl through him.

Carina just laughed. “Honestly, Chuck. We’re all on the same side here, remember? I’m not kidnapping you.”

“Whew.”

“But I am going to use you.” Carina’s eyes sparkled with unhealthy fun. “You can be used to pass on a message, and I’m not missing that opportunity.”

When Carina shifted to grab something out of her belt, Chuck tensed, waiting for a gun. She pulled out a cell phone instead, smirking at him as she activated the video feature. “Smile, Chuckles!”

Chuck did—until he felt something cold against the side of his neck. The smile died; sweat popped up to take its place.

“Hey, Sarah,” Carina told the camera, leaning close enough to Chuck that he could smell her shampoo. Strawberries—fitting for red hair. He would now forever associate that scent with terror. “Me and Chuckie here, we’re just hanging out. So how’s about that diamond, huh? You’ve got twenty minutes—no, let’s make that 45 minutes. Traffic’s a bitch this time of night.” She blew a kiss at the camera and ended the video. Keeping the gun to Chuck’s neck, she sent the video whizzing away into the ether.

“I thought you weren’t kidnapping me!”

“I’m not.” Carina gave him a winning smile as she holstered her gun. “We’re not going anywhere. So technically, I’m just holding you hostage.”

“Oh. Good. Technicalities.” Chuck put his hands on the steering wheel and sighed. It occurred to him that he could probably try and run away, but if Carina could give Sarah a bloody nose, he had no idea what she might be able to do to him. So he rested his aching forehead on the wheel, right between his hands. “Now what? We wait for Sarah and Casey to arrive and somebody gets shot?”

“Nobody’s going to get shot. We’ve got thirty minutes before Sarah gets here, so we might as well either finish your stakeout, or get to know each other.”

“This is the weirdest hostage situation ever,” Chuck said.

“Try not to think of it as a hostage situation.” Carina’s voice took on a playful note. “Who are we watching? The Russians?” She purposely dropped her voice and leaned toward Chuck, conspiratorially. “It’s the Russians, isn’t it? It’s always the Russians with you analyst types. You just like to forget the Cold War ended.”

“It’s not the Russians.”

“Then who?”

Chuck didn’t answer. He heard more than saw the predatory smirk overtake Carina’s features, but he didn’t open his eyes. To do so would acknowledge something he wasn’t sure he wanted to face.

“We could always talk more about Bryce and Sarah. That seems to be a favorite topic of yours.”

Honestly, he’d rather be gut-punched by the entire defensive lineup of the Green Bay Packers than think any more about Sarah and Bryce. Together. So he gritted his teeth. “Her name’s Jill.”

“What?”

“The stakeout. Her name’s Jill.”

For a long moment, there was silence from the passenger seat. And Carina began to laugh, genuine chuckles that shook her whole torso. Chuck finally lifted his forehead from the steering wheel to gape at her, his jaw nearly dropping when Carina wiped a bit of moisture from one eye. “Oh, this is just precious,” she said, grinning. “Does Sarah know?”

“What? No, Sarah doesn’t know. She’d have been here a lot sooner otherwise, don’t you think?” Chuck scowled. Here he was, staking out his ex’s place, and now he had the DEA—ex-DEA—laughing at him. There were other ways, healthier ways, to spend an evening. “Don’t forget, you’re technically holding me hostage. For a friggin’ diamond.”

“The diamond’s going to end up in the right hands either way.” Carina chuckled again. “This way, I get my old job back. So what’s she look like, this Jill of yours? Just so I can help you keep watch?”

He dithered for a moment, but eventually gave up with a shrug. Sarah had trusted this woman enough to go on missions with her. And it wasn’t like they had much else to do. “Brown hair, brown eyes, slightly egg-headed,” he said. “She was wearing glasses last time I saw her, though I don’t know if she’s gotten contacts or anything since then.”

He had to face it: there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he knew about Jill Roberts anymore. Not since he’d received her last letter—two days before they’d bunkered him.

“Hm.” Carina shifted, lowering herself a little so as to appear inconspicuous. She raised the binoculars and made a noise in the back of her throat. “Five-seven?”

“Or thereabouts, yeah.”

“Pretty in a nerdy sort of way, likes purple?”

Chuck bolted upright. He’d just spotted the lone figure approaching the apartment building. It wasn’t surprising that Carina had seen her first, given that she had the binoculars. Chuck leaned forward, straining his eyes—

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, take these.” Carina shoved the binoculars into his hand (ignoring his yelp when the movement jarred his scrapes), muttering something under her breath. Chuck was almost positive he caught the words “nerd love,” but he couldn’t be sure. With trembling hands, he raised the binoculars to his eyes…

And there she was, looking exactly as breathtaking as she had five years, three months, and nineteen days before, when she’d kissed him good-bye on his sister’s doorstep in Echo Park so that he could have one final day with Ellie before shipping off to Army OCS.

Little things had changed—her hairstyle was different (he couldn’t have said how), she wore different glasses, and she’d usually worn old T-shirts and jeans at Stanford rather than the stylish lilac sweater and slacks the woman heading up the front steps of the apartment building wore now. This woman carried a grocery bag under one arm. As Chuck watched, she half-turned and smiled at a neighbor walking by.

The smile made his teeth hurt.

“You okay there?” Carina asked, almost bored.

Chuck ignored her. He knew it was creepy to sit there and watch through binoculars as Jill mounted the steps, as she rooted around for her keys, as she unlocked the door, but he didn’t blink until she’d finally vanished into the building and out of his sight.

Then, and only then, did he lower the binoculars.

His chest hurt. It wasn’t the constant ache that had throbbed through him all day, it wasn’t the bruising across torso from the seatbelt. His chest burned, as if somebody had super-heated a poker and was now pushing it, slowly and forcefully, into his sternum, inch by inch. He could all but feel the heat against his skin, sizzling and popping, filling the car with the acrid stench of burned flesh. Seeing Morgan had been a happy experience, finding Ellie again had completed the hole in his life. Seeing Jill Roberts with her grocery bag and her purple sweater just hurt.

Chuck actually moved to put his hand on his chest—to do what, he didn’t know. It wouldn’t ease the ache. The wound wasn’t real. It was all in his head, so why did it feel like his heart might shrivel and die at any second now? He heard his breath speed up in his ears, rasping strangely.

“Whoa.” Carina tensed.

Chuck absently put up a hand to wave at her, tell her he was fine. But she wasn’t looking at him—she was peering out the car window, over her shoulder. Tension ran through all of her limbs, making her seem like a long-limbed predator about to strike—

“Move!” she shouted, shoving him toward the door.

“Ow!” Chuck had no choice but to lunge for the handle, the way that Carina pushed him. He more fell than climbed from the car, stumbling out onto the sidewalk. Though the ache in his chest didn’t vanish, the panicky sensation from the night before returned, taking over everything. “What the hell, Carina?”

“We’ve got company! Move.” Carina moved around the car in two long strides and yanked on his arm to pull him along.

Chuck had no choice—it was either run or be dragged. The woman had a grip to rival Iron Man’s. Holy hell. “What are you talking about?”

“Keep running, but eight o’clock!”

Eight o’clock? What? Oh, she was telling him their enemies’ positions. Even as his chucks pounded pavement, Chuck brought up a picture of a clock face in his mind. He looked over his left shoulder—and wanted very suddenly to wet himself.

Two thugs, big guys. Meaty faces. Angry looks on those meaty faces. They sprinting down the sidewalk after Carina and him.

Still, logic apparently hadn’t been tossed out the window with the flight reaction. “Why would I want to go with you?” Chuck demanded as he tore down the sidewalk beside Carina. “You took me hostage!”

Carina veered off into an alley. Chuck followed. “Yeah—for fun! I’m not going to be the one that kills Sarah Walker’s new boy-toy!”

“I highly resent being referred to as a toy.” Chuck stumbled over an aluminum can and would have crashed into the wall had Carina not yanked on his wrist. In addition to a vise-like grip, she also had the reflexes of a puma.

Was every agent he would meet at this job going to be the specimen of athletic perfection? Geez.

Behind him, he could hear the slap of nice shoes on pavement. They hadn’t lost the rather imposing men chasing them, after all. Damn it. A slew of panicky swear words slipped through Chuck’s mind. He pushed his arms and legs to go faster.

No dice.

The entire time, Carina kept up a string of commands.

“C’mon, this way—”

“We’ll make the left up ahead—”

“Watch out—”

Carina veered left, onto an abandoned back street behind buildings. She hurtled a downed trash can with all of the grace of a track star. Chuck did the same—with the grace of a drunk. He caught himself at the last moment, but visions of face-planting into the concrete still flashed through his mind.

On they ran, their pursuers right behind them the whole time. Carina weaved a zig-zag trail through the alleys that left Chuck completely lost, but he didn’t have much choice but to trust her at this point. The midgets that lived inside him took power sanders to his lungs and esophagus. His legs were on fire. His throat burned, his head spun. He wanted to simply collapsed to the concrete, to put his weak and shaking hands over his head and hope that the men with the guns would just end it all with a bullet—

He ran harder.

They made a sharp left onto a populated street, whizzing past store fronts and dodging in and out of innocent pedestrians. An alarming few paused to watch the spectacle, even when Carina leaped clear over a stroller.

The mother, chatting on her cell phone, didn’t even notice. It really did take all kinds.

Chuck dodged the stroller, tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, and yelped when Carina hauled him into another alley. Together, they ran toward the other end, toward escape, and freedom—

Chuck’s lungs burned.

Almost there—

They hurtled past a wino crumpled up against the dumpster. He gave them a bleary nod.

It didn’t sound like the goons had followed them. Maybe they’d run clear past the alley, and things would be okay again.

Two more feet—

A man stepped into view at the end of the alley. It normally wouldn’t have been a problem—they could move around him since they’d become experts at dodge-bystander—except that he had minions.

Large minions.

Large, armed minions.

Carina skidded to a halt, those too-blue eyes flicking over each guard and back to the ringleader. She stood tall, her shoulders moving just the slightest bit as she fought to catch her breath.

Chuck stumbled to a halt and immediately bent forward at the waist, focusing every cell of his being on not reliving the Sizzling Shrimp in the middle of the alley.

“Hello, Carina,” the man at the end of the alley said.

“Peyman.” Carina nodded her head, just slightly. As if they were merely business acquaintances and she hadn’t just robbed the man blind of a multimillion dollar diamond. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Peyman scoffed (as an opening line, it was pretty weak). He wasn’t a tall man, a large man, or even an imposing man. In fact, he wore a khaki windbreaker and chinos, making him seem rather bland, like an accountant or a high school principal. Until he reached into his waistband and withdrew the biggest handgun Chuck had ever seen. Simply put, the thing was monstrous—and plated in gold.

“Now that,” Chuck gasped, ignoring the fear that made him want to drop to the dirty alley floor in a fetal position, “is just excessive, don’t you think?”

Chapter 13: The Dark and the Damned

Notes:

When liberty comes with hands dabbled in blood it is hard to shake hands with her.” — Oscar Wilde

19 OCTOBER 2007
ABANDONED WATERFRONT WAREHOUSE
00:06 PDT

For the second time in less than thirty hours, Chuck’s knees hit the ground—hard. He bit his lip to hold back the scream. What emerged was a high-pitched sort of whimper, barely audible to anything but dogs.

Carina landed next to him with a grunt, which somehow made him feel better about his own reaction.

He couldn’t see at all—they’d stuffed a cloth bag that smelled oddly of peaches over his head back in the alley. They’d loaded him into a car, driven him away. He’d tried to focus on which way the car turned, but when he had no idea where he was to start out, it had been pretty hopeless. All he knew now was that they were in some sort of big, echo-y space, and he’d been stumbling over gravel.

The bag was whipped from his head, light flooding in where there had been only darkness before. Chuck shut his eyes and cursed. “Argh!”

The guard who’d removed Chuck’s bag did the same for Carina. She merely smirked. “Thanks, toots.”

Chuck bit his tongue over a plea that Carina please stop antagonizing the guards—the fifth, by his count. Thankfully, the guard didn’t backhand her. And maybe, Chuck realized as the guard merely shook his head and stomped out, he watched too many movies. Not everybody hit women, after all. His life wasn’t Prison Break.

Though come to think of it, he’d give his left foot for a full-body tattoo that would lead him out of this situation.

But since he had only his wits and a loose-cannon ex-DEA agent, Chuck sucked in a deep breath and made himself look around. The guard had dumped him and Carina on the ground, hands tied behind their backs, right in front of a bright light of some sort. Construction light, Chuck deduced after a second. It made things difficult to make out. The room became a series of blobs and smears until he wiggled around so that he had his back to the light. Now he could see the grimy floor, untreated and unwashed concrete walls. The industrial, musty smell gave it away.

An abandoned factory of some type? He and Carina had been left in a smallish room, with only the light for company—aside from the guy cowering in the corner, that was.

“Who’re you?” Chuck asked, blinking away the last of the light-spots.

But Carina beat the man to it. “Ah, Fidget. I thought I recognized the stench.”

The man turned the color of wax. “You don’t understand,” he babbled, his words tumbling over each other. “Please, Carina, you don’t understand—they threatened my family!”

Carina laughed hollowly. “You don’t have family. Unless they’re breeding slime these days and nobody told me. How much did they offer you for my name, Fidge?”

“That’s privileged.” Fidget coughed, a deep, wracking noise that indicated he’d been rabbit-punched a few times. He was a small man, on the thin side of emaciated, his eyes huge, blue, and without focus behind fish tank lenses. A shock of black hair waved every which way about his head. Everything about the man screamed perpetual motion—his palms twitched, his fingers drummed limply against the dirt floor, his knees jerked, his shoulders shrugged, his feet tapped Not hard to figure out where he would get the nickname.

But a safe expert would be required to actually crack a safe or two, wouldn’t he? As far as Chuck understood, that required a steady focus and even steadier hands. So how on earth did the chronic twitch manage to spin a dial, much less grip the handle to open an actual safe?

The rational part of his brain chimed in—what did it matter? He was in some mysterious location, his hands tied, with a safe-cracker and a trigger-happy ex-DEA agent, and somewhere in this huge compound, there was a drug lord just waiting to kill not only them, but Chuck’s new teammates as well. If they showed up.

He probably hadn’t used the phrase “uh-oh” this much in his entire life.

Carina and Fidget’s conversation hadn’t ebbed. “For crying out loud, Fidget, you’re not a lawyer. A girl just wants to know how much she’s worth on the open market these days.”

“Carina,” and Fidget coughed again, “a girl like you knows to the penny how much she’s worth. What is the going rate these days for a quick fu—”

“Hey!” Chuck’s head snapped up. “There will be none of that talk here!”

Both Fidget and Carina stared at him as though he had followed in Zaphod Beeblebrox’s footsteps and grown an extra head. “Where on earth did you find this guy?” Fidget asked Carina.

“Believe it or not, stalking his ex-girlfriend.” Carina eyed Chuck, almost uneasily. The fury at Fidget had snapped something inside of him so hard that he had heard an audible click. Suddenly, the room—which had been perfectly ordinary a few minutes before—crunched inwards, the walls physically grinding as they moved. He struggled to pull in air.

Carina tilted forward so that she could bump him with a shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Chuck gritted his teeth and stared at the floor, determined not to give in. In some part of his mind, he knew that the walls hadn’t actually moved, but every time he blinked, they were just a little bit closer…

“I’m trying not to freak out,” he said, measuring his words evenly. He’d found it stereotypical in the movies whenever crazy people rocked back and forth, but now the motion kept him grounded, made him focus on the floor instead of the walls closing in. The dwindling oxygen supply. The thousand voices screaming so loudly in his head that millions of words just became one never-ending scream. The moisture coating his entire body. He bit the inside of his cheek. “See,” he said, his voice distorted by the mouthful of cheek, “if I can hold off the panic attack until Sarah gets here, then I can watch her kick your ass for first attempting to kidnap me, and then actually getting me kidnapped!”

He expected some sort of bored rejoinder, but instead Carina studied him intensely. “You’re agoraphobic, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“In the car, you flinched every time somebody walked by.”

He had? This was news.

“When did the home office starting hiring analysts with agoraphobia?” Carina mused, mostly to herself.

Fidget, however, still heard. “You’re an analyst?” he demanded of Chuck. “For who?”

Chuck ignored him. “Carina! Ex-nay on the over-kay uff-stay!”

“Dude, I can speak pig Latin.”

Like Chuck, Carina ignored their twitchy little friend. “The agency would weed out that sort of thing, which must mean you developed this recently. On the job. And—oh, my God, you’re Bunker Boy!”

“What?” Chuck abruptly forgot all about the compacting walls.

“What?” Fidget echoed a second later.

“You helped Sarah and me out on an op. In Dubai.” Carina regarded Chuck in a whole new light now. Gone was the leer—in its place was an appreciative gleam no less dangerous to Chuck. “You hacked a bank remotely, helped us get in and out without any casualties. As I recall, you put a smiley face icon up every time we passed a screen.”

Chuck remembered the job, from about sixteen months back. It had been one of the few times he’d answered the phone to Sarah Walker instead of Bryce Larkin. He’d assumed at the time that she was working with Bryce on the mission, but apparently not.

Also, that bank had been a heck of a lot of fun to hack.

“Yeah, that was me,” he said.

“Dude, you hacked a bank?” Fidget wanted to know, his eyes even bigger than usual behind the lenses.

Chuck glowered at him. “That’s classified.”

“Sarah finally got you out of that bunker, huh?” Carina smirked.

“No, actually I’m a hologram. Lifelike, isn’t it?”

Carina chuckled, shaking her head so that the strands of red fell away from her face. “Either way, it explains a lot.”

“What does that even mean—”

The door opened. Both Chuck and Fidget winced. Carina yawned. The guard who entered carried a folded-up newspaper under one arm—it was evident he was in for the long haul of guarding the prisoners.

“Did your boss get his diamond back?” Carina asked. “Hope my partner didn’t go out and pawn it off for Lakers tickets. She likes tall, sweaty men.”

Their new guard settled into a chair in the corner, a wide grin on his meaty face. “Just keep talking, sweetheart. I’ve got nothing but time.”

Chuck put his head between his knees and closed his eyes. By now, Peyman had to have reached Sarah, either through his phone or through Carina’s. They hadn’t taken his watch off—who on earth would suspect that his watch was also a tracker?—so Casey and Sarah had to know where he was. Where were they? Assembling a task force? Coming in by themselves? Or would Sarah show up with the diamond and hope for the best?

At the rate he was going, he should have stayed in the bunker, where it was safe.

Ellie’s face flashed through his mind. The way she’d hugged him, nearly suffocating him, because she couldn’t believe he was there, standing in the same parking garage, and not dead. The way Morgan had clung to him in the Buy More. Even the way Jill had waved at her neighbor before going up the stairs and disappearing into her building.

There was no way in hell he should have stayed in the bunker.

If Carina or Fidget noticed that he’d stopped freaking out, neither commented. Carina kept up a stream of cleverly-disguised insults with the guard. Chuck figured both were probably enjoying it. Hey, more power to ‘em, he figured, and focused his attention elsewhere. With the guard present, Fidget cowered against the wall, his head jerking back and forth while his body convulsed, a tyrannous and untamed surge of movement.

Chuck edged closer to him. He might not like the guy—he’d sold out Carina, after all—but they were all just hostages in this situation. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, why not? Not like I got anything else to do.”

“How on earth have you ever cracked a safe in your life?”

“Give me a safe to crack, and I’m in the zone. I feel it. Everything else? Poof—gone.” Fidget actually looked a little bit giddy. Chuck could practically see the dial spinning right before the other man’s eyes.

“But doesn’t the shaking get in the way?” he asked.

“What shaking?” Fidget’s head lolled to one side, twitched back straight.

Chuck stared. Maybe it was appropriate that a safe-cracker would be a few digits short of a full combination. It certainly fit in with the mess that the rest of his life had become. At length, he cleared his throat. “Ah, never mind.”

Fidget tilted his head, his eyes tracking to the ceiling and back. “Hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Someone’s coming.”

Across the room, Carina and the guard fell silent. Whether it was at Fidget’s announcement, of if they’d heard something too, Chuck didn’t know. He strained his ears, positive that Fidget must be half-bat—

The door opened.

It wasn’t rammed in by a rescue task force, kicked open by a hero, slammed open by a vengeful Sarah or Casey. No, the door merely opened, calmly, revealing a silhouette that Chuck knew well. He opened his mouth to speak—

The guard went for his gun. He didn’t even get his hand to the holster before there was an odd spitting noise.

Two patches of red blossomed across the front of his T-shirt.

The reek of cordite seared the air.

Chuck watched it all in some absurd slow-motion. In the movies, gunfire propelled a man through the air, sent him soaring. A swell of dramatic music—bang—a short flight, a literal dead drop. But here, in this dirty room, the guard merely crumpled to the floor, a tower imploding in on itself, body bouncing as he hit the floor. He almost looked like he was sleeping, save that his eyes were wide open and, because of the way he’d fallen, staring right at Chuck. Chuck gazed back, cold seizing his entire body. He felt his gorge rise, but it froze, like the rest of him, suspended in one perfect moment of hell.

I just watched someone die. The thought bounced through the empty recess that had once been his skull. I just watched my best friend kill somebody.

Carina, evidently much more used to death than Chuck, climbed awkwardly to her feet. “Should have known it was too good be true. You look good for a dead man, Bryce.”

Bryce Larkin made no reply. He merely holstered the gun, his movements mechanical, and stepped past the man he had shot, heading for Chuck and ignoring all others in the room. Something in his hand glinted.

A knife—not unlike those preferred by his ex-partner.

Instantly, Chuck forgot about the bizarre it was that his best friend could be there at all. Thoughts of the dead man fled his mind. He scrambled backward across the floor, scuttling like a crab, eyes glued to the knife. “What?” he demanded, panic raising his voice. “A gun is too good for me? Gonna stick a knife between my ribs instead?”

Bryce’s steps faltered. “What? No, I’m not going to kill you, Chuck. I’m here to rescue you.”

“Why?” Perhaps it was an absurd question to ask when he was on a dirt floor with his hands bound by drug lord captors, but he didn’t care. His brain was whirling too fast for anything to process. “You didn’t have to kill that guy, Bryce! Sarah’s coming to rescue me, it’s fine.”

“Sarah’s the one that got you into this mess.” Bryce rolled his eyes and leaned around Chuck, cutting the cable ties with one easy flick.

“Was it absolutely necessary to shoot that man?” Chuck demanded, wincing as circulation flooded back into his hands. “Bryce—he could’ve had kids, a family—”

“C’mon,” Bryce said, hauling Chuck to his feet in one easy motion. He headed toward the door.

“Forgetting something?” Carina drawled.

“Oh, right.”

But instead of helping Carina and Fidget out of their own bindings, Bryce pulled out the gun. The silencer, a lethal, frightening tool, seemed to stretch for miles. Chuck’s stomach roiled—and threatened to upend itself again when Bryce pointed the gun right at Fidget’s head.

Chuck goggled. “What are you doing?!”

On the floor, Fidget let out a laugh, his head bobbing to a tempo only he understood. “Knew it was going to come to this.”

Bryce kept his eyes and his gun trained on Fidget. “I’m eliminating a problem. Wait outside if you don’t want to see this, Chuck.”

“No!” Chuck flung himself forward with more passion than finesse. Even if Bryce had taught him all about grappling while at Stanford, skill wouldn’t have helped. The man was a lifelong gymnast, for crying out loud. Chuck’s mass hitting him, though, was enough to throw him off.

He fell on the gun arm, knocking it sideways. He caught a glimpse of Fidget’s pale, startled face, staring in terror—

The gun went off, the reverb ricocheting through Chuck’s chest—

The shot went wide, missing the safe-cracker by a foot.

Bryce grabbed Chuck’s shoulder and tossed him aside. “The man betrayed government secrets to a drug lord and endangered you and the others. He’s too much of a risk.”

“Then throw him in prison!” Chuck stepped between Bryce and Fidget. He had no idea where all of this bravery had suddenly come from. He had no love for Fidget, but nobody deserved to go like the guard currently pooling lifeblood all over the floor behind Bryce. “He’s a hostage here, just like me, just like Carina. Killing him is no answer.”

Bryce glared at Chuck. It was a cliché to think it, but his friend had developed killer’s eyes, too bright, too blue, too jaded. Chuck’s heart broke a little to see it. He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“Sorry to break up the party, boys,” Carina said, drawing their attention to her. She’d managed to cut away her own bonds and was now holding the dead guard’s gun, her eyebrows high. “Maybe we should escape now, yes?”

To Chuck’s everlasting relief, Bryce holstered the gun. He tossed Chuck his knife as he moved to the door to check out the hallway situation. “Cut him loose. You owe my friend your life, Fidget. He’s a better person than me. Just remember that when the next high bidder comes around.”

Fidget whimpered. Though that may have been Chuck cutting his ties. It gave him a bad moment—Sarah’s bloody wrist and her flinch made Chuck dizzy to the point where he had to shut his eyes and take a deep breath—but he managed without any damage this time. Fidget immediately popped to his feet, rubbing feeling back into his hands.

They left the room and the guard behind. Chuck had been in strange raiding parties during his D&D days, back when Morgan had been fond of playing of oddly-named min-max characters, leaving Chuck’s rogue or mage with the world’s weirdest sidekicks. None of that came close to the general freakishness of prowling through an abandoned warehouse with an ex-DEA agent, a rogue CIA agent, and the twitchiest criminal on the planet. Carina seemed insistent that Chuck stay right behind Bryce, while she kept close behind him, forming an agent sandwich. Fidget the Doomed kept up the rear.

“Quiet,” Bryce hissed when Chuck stumbled over a piece of rebar.

Chuck glared. They were moving quickly through a series of abandoned hallways, hallways that had once been the site of industry, with wide doorways that led to storage rooms. Patches of wall had been eaten away so that moonlight could filter in and light the world in a silver gradient. Beams of it fell over Bryce’s broad shoulders and perfectly coiffed head as he led the way. The guy even dressed like James Bond for a rescue mission.

No wonder Sarah had been with the guy.

Chuck quashed that feeling before it could truly take hold and poison the rest of him. Now was not the time. Bryce was here to rescue him—Chuck shouldn’t resent the guy, even if he had betrayed his country, screwed with his ex-partner’s plans, and sent his best friend into a nauseating spiral of doubt and danger. Okay, maybe he could resent the guy a little. Every time Chuck closed his eyes, the dead guard’s slack face threatened to overpower him, after all. He kept his eyes open.

“Alahi and his guards are in the main bay, between us and the exit,” Bryce whispered, stopping the group right before they could round a corner. All four of them flattened against a wall. “I got past them once, but—”

“Need a distraction?” Carina offered, tilting her head away from the wall so that she could see around Chuck.

Bryce nodded once, tersely.

“How many?”

“Six, plus Alahi.”

“Piece of cake.” Carina’s smirk deepened—Chuck could barely make out the edges of her in the moonlight, but somehow her face remained perfectly lit. It was like magic. “Can I borrow your knife? I’m feeling like a knife fight.”

“What is it with you and Sarah and knives?” Chuck asked. “You’re like the sisterhood of the traveling blades or something.”

“Not now, Chuck.” Bryce glanced around the corner again, checking for any guards. So far they’d gotten lucky. “I’ve got a vehicle about two kilometers southeast. Rendezvous in fifteen minutes, or we’re leaving you behind. You’re clear—go!”

Carina skulked away, dragging a silently-protesting Fidget with her. Bryce waited until they’d vanished out of sight and down a stairwell before he turned to Chuck. “You stay right behind me, got it? I’m going to get us out of here, but you have to do exactly as I say.”

“Okay. Wait a second.” Maybe it was the dead guard or just general shock, but Chuck’s brain finally reminded him just how strange this situation was. “Why are you here, Bryce? You’re supposed to be off the grid.”

“I am—I’m keeping an eye on you.” Bryce peered around the corner, but sighed. He turned back to Chuck, having come to some sort of decision. “I don’t trust—”

“Sarah?” Chuck interrupted. “Why not? Sarah Walker is possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. She got me out of that godforsaken bunker.”

“And got you captured in Greece,” Bryce pointed out.

“We weren’t traitors. We would’ve had to turn ourselves in eventually.”

Still, Bryce glowered. “And then they stuck you with John Casey, of all people. I don’t trust him. He’s a burn-out, an old-school killer.”

Even twenty minutes before, Chuck would have agreed. But now he drew himself to his full height, his face going to stone. “I trust him. They made sacrifices to be here, so that I could have something of a normal life.”

“Don’t ever trust anybody, Chuck. Rule number one of being a spy.”

Chuck couldn’t help it—he rolled his eyes. Maybe it was the two dangerous situations two nights in a row, or maybe it was the certainty he felt that he was about to spend his third night in the hospital, but he was suddenly very, very cranky. He glowered at Bryce. “I trust him,” he repeated, enunciating each word. “Just like I trust Sarah.”

For a long moment, Bryce didn’t say anything. “Just watch your back, Chuck. That’s all I ask. I won’t always be here to bail you out.”

“Fine.” Chuck bit the word off. “Shall we escape now? Casey and Sarah will be here at any moment.”

“Fine.” Bryce’s expression mirrored his. “Remember—do exactly as I say.”

“You and Sarah are eerily alike with your orders.”

“Shut up, Chuck.”

“See? That’s what I mea—”

Bryce slapped a hand over his mouth, holding his free hand up, his index finger higher than the others. Somebody was coming. Both men flattened themselves to the wall again. Chuck’s heart began to hammer against his ribcage when he heard the approaching footsteps. Another guard? Was he coming to check on the prisoners? Had they been busted?

The footsteps grew louder. Chuck began to sweat harder. He could feel Bryce tense up—

The guard rounded the corner.

Bryce struck like a snake. Just a blur of black and white and suddenly the guard had an arm wrapped around his neck, and Bryce’s face visible over his shoulder. The movies made choke-holds look easy—well, easy for the choker, not so much for the chokee. This wasn’t the case in real life. Both Bryce and the guard turned red almost immediately, grunting and struggling. The guard’s arms jerked like a broken puppet’s as he scrabbled for a grip, trying to dislodge Bryce. His eyes bulged; veins popped out along his forehead and neck. Bryce’s face contorted into an awful grimace.

Chuck saw the guard go for his gun. Some instinct yanked him forward. Stone cold killer or not, Bryce was his best friend, and his rescuer. He couldn’t let some thug shoot the guy in the face—so he grabbed the thug’s gun before said thug could.

He discovered two things he’d forgotten from OCS five years before—guns were heavy. Even more than that, they were weighty with implications. You didn’t buy a gun because you wanted to make friends. You bought a gun to put holes in things, gaping, gruesome holes that would bleed all over the floor and—Chuck willed the image of the dead guard away from his mind. What now? Did he point it at the guard? No, he might hit Bryce.

Better to just hold onto the gun and let Bryce do his thing. It looked like the shorter man was winning, anyway.

Indeed, the thug went slack. Bryce staggered back, but didn’t let the man fall. Undoubtedly, it would be like felling a tree in the middle of a busy square—no way others wouldn’t hear.

“Get his feet?” Bryce panted, still holding the unconscious thug.

Chuck stared at the man’s purpled face. “Is he dead?”

“No, but he’ll have one hell of a headache. C’mon, his feet, Chuck!”

Chuck dithered for a moment about where to put the gun, but after checking that the safety was on (he remembered to do that much at least from Officer Candidate School), he shoved it in the back of the waistband of his jeans and hurried to grab the man’s feet. It wasn’t easy, even with Bryce holding the man’s head and shoulders, to get him into one of the abandoned rooms, out of the way. For one thing, the guy was heavy. “What does this guy eat, anyway?” Chuck groaned as he and Bryce steered around a doorway. “Dark matter?”

“Sure feels like it,” Bryce said. They set the man off to the side and returned to the hallway after Bryce had checked to make sure the coast was clear. Before they could head out, though, Bryce turned to Chuck. “From this point on, keep your mouth shut, okay? Are you going to do that, or am I going to have to knock you out and haul you out of here in a fireman’s carry?”

“Eerily like Sarah,” Chuck repeated, but he nodded his acquiescence.

“Well, c’mon, then.” Bryce pulled out first his silenced gun and then a second, chambering a round. “Stay close.”

They crept out into the hallway and hurried through to a staircase. At the bottom, Bryce held up a hand again. Pause. Chuck obeyed, his heart jolting in his ears. He flattened himself to the wall once more.

Bryce started to peer around the corner—

Gunshots. Close, close gunshots. Even without the oversaturation of violence in TV and the media, Chuck would never mistake that noise. Every moment of the beach outside of Athens was burned into his brain, especially the gunshots that had sent sand ricocheting everywhere. It sounded louder, more echo-y in such a big warehouse.

The air came to life with noise—shouting, possibly Peyman and his men, return gunfire. Feet pounding as bodies dove for cover.

Who were they shooting at? Carina? Or had Sarah and Casey and the rest of the cavalry arrived? Chuck squeezed his eyes closed and sent up a short prayer to any listening deity. Please, please let Sarah be all right. Oh, and Casey, too. Chuck might not like the guy much, but he didn’t wish him dead anymore.

More gunshots, puncturing the noise level with their shock.

“Sounds like Carina’s sticking to the plan,” Bryce said, inching closer to the corner. He peered around and nodded once, as the cacophony continued. “They’re all the way on the other side of the room. We’re going to go in low. Stay out of sight.”

“Bryce, you may or may not have realized this in all of our time together, but I happen to be lanky of build. Getting low may be a problem.” Chuck’s voice came out panicked, breathy.

Bryce rolled his eyes. “Chuck. Get low, or get dead. Hear me?”

Put that way…Chuck nodded hurriedly. “Got it.”

“Okay. On the count of three—one, two…go!”

Bryce dove forward, doing an impressive roll that landed him perfectly behind a set of crates ten feet away. Though he knew he was more likely to trip over his own shoelaces, Chuck prepped himself to follow—

The bullet slammed into the door jamb two inches from Chuck’s nose. He shouted and fell backwards, his arms windmilling. Thankfully, he hit the wall before he could crash to the ground.

Bryce peered around the crates, searching for the shooter. He waved urgently at Chuck. Come here.

Chuck shook his head. That bullet had been far too close to his head for comfort.

Bryce gave him a look. It’s safe.

Like hell it is! Chuck mouthed back.

As if to prove his point, a new spate of gunfire rattled the walls, peppering the space between Chuck and Bryce. It was a smart-ass move, but Chuck raised an eyebrow at Bryce and folded his arms.

Bryce held up his index finger. Stay.

Chuck crouched down, not sure if the bullets could penetrate the wall behind him and unwilling to find out. He peered into the main bay of the warehouse, trying to make out details in the murky darkness. Storage crates lay in piles on a dirty concrete floor—he could see patches of the wall torn out, missing, rusted through. Moonlight trickled in along the left-hand, closest to Bryce and him. He could make out shapes in the dark, on the other side of the room by what he presumed to be the exit. Peyman Alahi’s men, obviously—they were crouched behind crates, facing something on the right wall. Carina. He couldn’t see her, but he figured that was where she had to be.

He watched Bryce as the other man leaned around the crate, trying to spot his enemies in the dark. The instant he poked his head around, gunfire rattled once more. Bryce scowled and fired off two shots.

No screams of pain, so he obviously missed.

Footsteps clattered behind him—the stairs! Chuck spun just in time to see a pair of feet round the landing, knees appearing as the mystery person headed down the bottom flight—

He took off running not for the main bay but for the hallway behind the staircase. It didn’t matter that Bryce had insinuated that there was no exit this way. He had to get away, away from the gunfire, away from the guard. There was no possible way he could take on a guard. He wasn’t Bryce Larkin, who could shoot somebody in cold blood one moment and choke somebody the next.

So Chuck sprinted, not even sparing Bryce a look. He stumbled over rebar, bumped his shoulder into the wall. Grunted.

As he did so, he looked back to make sure the guard hadn’t spotted him—

Just in time to see Bryce drop the guard with a single bullet to the head. The dead body dropped to the ground, revealing Chuck’s best friend, still crouched behind the crate, gun at the ready. For a second, it was pointed straight at Chuck.

Bryce lowered the gun and waved at Chuck to come back.

But Chuck’s gorge had risen again, and this time there was no stopping it. Chuck doubled forward at the waist and puked. He dropped to all fours, coughing until only dry heaves remained. When he looked up, he could see Bryce down the hallway, still trapped behind those crates, an unreadable expression on his face. He waved again.

But Chuck climbed to his feet and shook his head. Without knowing precisely why—Bryce was there to rescue him, after all—he began running the other way, away from Bryce, away from the gunfights, away from the pile of sick he’d left in the hallway. He ran blindly, just hoping to get away.

When he rounded a corner and found a dead end, he stayed stock still for an eternity before simply giving in right there and sliding down the wall to the ground. As he did so, he felt the gun he’d taken from the unconscious guard nudge against his lower back.

With shaking hands, he pulled it out.

It wasn’t large. Snub-nosed, he thought it might be called. More like the pistol Casey preferred to the monster Smith & Wesson Sarah carried. Even so, it fit perfectly in his hand, and it made him want to throw up again. As if there was anything left inside him. Bryce Larkin had hollowed him out, physically and mentally.

He couldn’t close his eyes. It only brought back images of two dead guards, of the blood cascading onto the dirt floor. The way both guards had hit the ground with a thud.

He couldn’t block out the noise. The gunshots were simply too loud to be ignored, and he had to strain his ears to make sure that none of the cries of pain were Bryce or Carina, or even Fidget.

He couldn’t move. Was this what being an agent was like? Walking into a room and shooting a man before he could reach for his gun? There was something unfair about that—sure, if the guard had reached his gun, Bryce might be dead, but it felt like robbing the universe of something essential. Everything inside Chuck shuddered once, twice, and didn’t stop. He sat against the wall, the hated gun trained limply on the dead space in front of him, and shook.

Time passed—he didn’t know how much, had lost all concept of reality and subjectivity and objectivity, so that all that existed was his head, full of death, full of images and thoughts and visions of death, the dead and the dying, where there had only been his brain and the Intersect before. It hurt his abused body to sit in such a clenched position, but he didn’t stop.

Footsteps broke through the fugue state. Running footsteps, heading straight down the hallway. Toward him.

Chuck’s hands began to shake harder. Was this it? Was this the moment of truth? Was he going to have to shoot somebody? He doubted he’d even be able to hit the broad side of a blimp with the way his hands were trembling, but he still pointed the gun forward as he climbed creakily to his feet. The world threatened to spin—he didn’t feel so great.

His gun hand wavered. His watch blinked red.

Wait a second—what? Chuck transferred to a one-handed grip on the gun as he stared at his wrist. The watch served as both a communications and a homing device, but what on earth did a blinking red light mean?

The footsteps grew nearer. Chuck forgot all about his watch and willed his hand to stay steady on the gun. He didn’t necessarily want to shoot first and ask questions later, but if that wasn’t Bryce coming back for him—

He inched around the corner, gun at the ready.

It was a closer call as to who was more startled. Chuck, his nose, the foot that came within two millimeters or breaking it, or Sarah Walker.

In the dimness, he saw her eyes go wide at the last instant. She tried to throw the kick—and would have landed flat on her butt if Casey, prowling right behind her, hadn’t grabbed her arm. He tossed her unceremoniously back onto her feet. She landed like a spring and immediately latched onto Chuck, grabbing him by the arms just above the elbow. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He nodded, almost dumbly. They’d arrived, was all he could think. Now that Sarah and Casey were here, things were going to be better again.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Bartowski?” Casey snatched the gun from his limp hand and glowered as he checked the chamber—empty, thankfully. He stuffed the gun into his own waistband.

“I took it from a guard,” Chuck said distantly.

“We had rules. We discussed these rules in depth. And the rules state that you are never to touch guns until I’ve trained you and given you my written and explicit approval—”

“Not now, Casey.” Sarah nudged both of her partners back into the alcove and began to check Chuck over to make sure he hadn’t been winged without knowing it. “Where’s Carina?”

Chuck pushed her away. He was sweaty, and gross, and dirty from sitting on the floor. Until he’d showered for about three weeks, nobody should touch him. “With Fidget. We split up.”

“She left you alone?” Sarah’s eyes promised death for her former partner.

“No. She left me with—with Bryce.”

Interestingly, the mention of Bryce Larkin’s name had similar effects on both agents. All of the worry vanished off of Sarah’s face so that her expression became more like Casey’s constant angry mask. “Bryce is here?” she demanded.

“Y-yeah, he came into the room and killed the guard, got us out of there.”

“What did he want?”

“To rescue me, apparently.” Chuck swallowed, but it did nothing to still the nausea roiling through him. “He didn’t seem like your biggest fan, Casey. Or you, Sarah.”

“Probably because the last time I saw him, I was trying to put a bullet right between his eyes.” Casey said. Down the hallway, the battle raged on. “Well, either way, time to end this.”

“No!” Sarah grabbed the back of Casey’s TDUs before he could stalk away. “You need to get Chuck out of here. He’s our number one priority. I’ll go after Bryce. I know how he thinks, and he’ll be looking for Chuck.”

“Walker, if you think I’m letting a compromised agent go after her scumbag ex-partner on her own—”

Sarah jerked Casey away from Chuck and said something under her breath, so low that Chuck couldn’t hear. For a moment, it looked as though Casey might protest, but he nodded once, curtly. “Fine. But if I find out this is just you and him working together to screw us over—”

“It’s not.” Sarah flicked one glance at Chuck and slipped away into the darkness. He told himself that the look hadn’t been a silent good-bye, but he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Before the poisonous thoughts could take hold again, Casey grunted and moved past him, facing the dead end.

Chuck cleared his throat. “Pretty sure there’s not a door that way—”

Casey put his foot through the wall. Hard. He kicked again for good measure, forming a decent-sized hole. “Follow me,” he ordered.

“Wow, yeah. Sure.” Why hadn’t it occurred to him to kick a hole into the wall? Oh, right. Chuck would have broken his foot.

It wasn’t a perfect solution—Chuck had to squeeze to make it, so he had no idea how Casey had done it, and the squeeze jarred the bruising on his torso, making him see white flickers at the edges of his vision. But he stumbled through the wall and coughed out the drywall he’d accidentally tried to ingest. They’d kicked through to another room, not unlike the one where he and the other hostages had been held.

The door wasn’t locked here, either.

Casey kept a grip on the spot where Chuck’s shoulder met his neck so that he was essentially dragging the geek through the warehouse. He led with his gun, his footsteps making no noise as they headed for an exit, any exit—

Not that it mattered. Chuck stumbled along like a frat boy recovering from a three-day bender. If there was somebody in the building that didn’t hear, he would have frankly been amazed. Not that he cared. He didn’t, really. A numbing sense of apathy had descended over everything, buffering him from even his senses so that he experienced a tasteless, colorless world through a tunnel. Almost like popping a couple of quarters into those binoculars down at the Pier and watching the world go by—

“Keep it together, moron,” Casey said, shaking Chuck’s shoulder. “You can have your panic attack when we get out of here. Until then, keep it together, or so help me, God, I’ll—”

They reached a corner. Casey held Chuck in place so that he could check. When the coast proved clear, he turned. “Pain,” he finished. “Lots of pain. Now, move it.”

Chuck decided maybe he should listen. He might not feel it now, but Casey’s concept of “pain. Lots of pain” would probably leave bruises, which would ache when feeling returned. He bit hard on the inside of his cheek and was absurdly pleased to feel it—until it started to hurt. “Ow.”

“What now? No, wait, I don’t want to know.”

From the sound of it, Casey was hauling him closer to the main bay of the warehouse, where the gunfight was still ongoing, if a bit slower. The rapid bursts of gunfire had become random gunshots ringing out every few seconds, one at a time. Chuck wondered where on earth they kept their endless supply of ammunition because this was honestly getting a bit ridiculous. He kept his head ducked forward, trying to make as small a target as possible, and stuck close to Casey—not that the other man gave him much choice.

They met another hallway, made a turn. Chuck wondered if Sarah was okay. If she had found Bryce. If they were making out—in the middle of a gun battle? The logical half of his brain scoffed at him.

“Wait here,” Casey said suddenly, halting Chuck. Without even a warning look to make sure the CIA agent would obey him, he took off, gun held at the ready. Chuck squinted into the darkness—there was something on the ground up ahead. Something that looked suspiciously like a body.

Morbid curiosity forced him forward as Casey knelt by the body to check for a pulse. Chuck blinked and he himself was standing over the body. “Who is it?” he hissed at Casey.

The other man jumped and whirled, his gun up in the ready position. When he saw that it was just Chuck, he lowered the gun with a grunt. “What part of ‘wait here’ was too complicated for you, moron?”

But Chuck was too busy gazing at the body on the floor. A convenient patch of moonlight from the quarter moon lay right across a pair of unfocused blue eyes, staring from beyond the confines of life.

As luck would have it, the flash hit him then.

He came back to reality only because Casey snapped his fingers in his face. Instead of replying to the gruff, “You okay, Bartowski?” he stared down at the body at his feet. “Stopping Bryce didn’t do a damn bit of good,” he whispered, his voice hollow and lifeless. “Not a damn bit of good.”

And kneeling down, he reached out a shaking hand to close the eyes of one Chaim Isaiah Bernstein, known to the world at large only as Fidget. Were it not for the gory void in the middle of the man’s forehead, he would have looked at peace.

Chuck knew better. “Not one damned bit of good,” he said for good measure, and rose to his feet.

Chapter 14: At the End of the Day

Notes:

We need others. We need others to love and we need to be loved by them. There is no doubt that without it, we too, like the infant left alone, would cease to grow, cease to develop, choose madness and even death. — Leo F. Buscaglia

19 OCTOBER 2007
CROWN VICTORIA
02:14 PDT

Casey shoved Chuck into the front seat, slammed the door, and hustled around the car to the driver’s seat. He hadn’t precisely been walking on eggshells around the other man, but Chuck would have admitted, were he capable, that there had been nary a “moron” or a “numb-nuts” heard since they’d discovered Fidget’s body.

The noise of the engine turning over startled Chuck. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here. Buckle your seat-belt.”

“We can’t!” Chuck bolted upright, his stupor forgotten. “Sarah! She’s still in there with Peyman and Carina…and Bryce.”

Casey rolled his eyes and lifted his watch to his lips. “Guinevere, what’s your twenty?”

It took a moment, but Sarah’s voice crackled to life from the comm unit. “Situation in the warehouse is secure. Waiting for clean-up teams. Take Stargazer and get him out of here.”

Stargazer, Chuck realized. His code-name. So she wasn’t alone—but she hadn’t used a distress phrase. He had a vision of Sarah standing over the inert bodies of Peyman Alahi and his men, gun pointed straight at the ringleader and her hair blowing in the wind.

He tried to savor that vision. It was much better than the others blitzing his mind.

“Roger that, Guinevere.” Casey put the car into drive as Chuck collapsed back against the seat. Guinevere, Stargazer, and…

“Casey, what’s your call-sign? For the radio?”

“Bourne.”

Chuck goggled. “Like Jason Bourne? How come you get a cool super-spy name, but I have to make do with some daydreaming—”

“Not Jason Bourne. Color-Sergeant F. Bourne. Now shut up and let me drive.”

Chuck would have rather have kept talking. When his mouth was moving, he was less likely to flash through the horrific images he’d witnessed in the warehouse. Or, more morbidly, the contents of his last flash, which had spilled every bit of data the government had on Fidget into him. And there was quite a lot of info on Fidget Bernstein. Chuck probably knew him better than his own mother at this point.

He wished brain-bleach had been invented. He wished he could control when the Intersect flashed. He wished he’d never met the doomed Fidget Bernstein. He wished even more that he’d never met Carina Miller, that she’d never climbed into his car and taken him hostage.

Hell, at this point, he even wished he’d never met Bryce Larkin.

“Are you going to sit there all night, Bartowski? We’re here.”

Chuck blinked. Casey had pulled into the parking lot of their building, and had turned off the car. He’d taken his seatbelt off, but he held his keys, twirling them around one thick finger.

“Oh, right,” Chuck said, and climbed out of the car.

He quickly came to regret that. The human body could only take so much abuse before it began to rebel, and all of Chuck’s limbs went on strike before he’d so much as reached the elevator. He gritted his teeth and forced himself forward, trying to walk normally. By the time Casey unlocked the door, Chuck’s body was one giant tremor, and he wanted nothing more than to dump himself onto the first semi-comfortable flat surface and lose a few hours to the oblivion of sleep.

He sat down on the edge of the couch instead, put his elbows on his knees, and settled to wait, facing the front door.

Casey, already peeling tactical gear, paused in his bedroom doorway. “As always I’m not sure I want to know, but what are you doing?”

“Waiting for Sarah.” Chuck kept his gaze on the door.

“Walker’s going to be wrapped up in site clean-up for hours, and if she’s smart, she’ll go straight home and sleep,” Casey said. “Do yourself a favor. Go upstairs and get eight straight. But for the love of all that is holy, shower first. Plenty of time to yell at you in the morning.”

The word shower triggered Chuck’s sense of smell—he reeked to high heaven and back. So he went without protest. It took him four times as long as usual to shower. He couldn’t seem to keep a good grip on the soap. It kept squirting through his shaky hands, leaving little divots of soap in the cracks between the tiles. Chuck had no doubts that Casey, who believed in military precision in everything up to and including living quarters, would have something to say about that when he saw the damage. He didn’t care. He stayed under the blistering stream of water until his skin had shriveled and he felt weaker at the knees than usual. Then, and only then, did he step out and wrap a towel around himself.

He came out, dressed in pajama pants and a T-shirt, to find Casey working at the kitchen island. Wordlessly, the other man put a plate in front of one of the stools and pointed at it. Eat.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a baggie of chips. Hardly the dinner of champions. Still, under other circumstances, Chuck would have found the meal touching. Now, he just numbly began to eat. When he finished the sandwich, Casey placed another in front of him and sat down with his own food.

“Talked to Walker,” he said after Chuck had made inroads into the second sandwich. “Scene’s secure.”

“Did she get Bryce?”

“Wily bastard slipped out the back before she could nab him. Or so she says.” Casey scowled at his own baggie of chips.

“And Carina? Did Carina make it?”

“Pretty sure that whatever Carina is, she’s impossible to kill.” Casey rolled his eyes at Chuck’s impatient look. “Carina survived. Didn’t even get shot.”

“And do they…” Chuck put the uneaten remains of his sandwich back on the plate and stared at the countertop. “Do they know who shot Fidget?”

Was it Carina? He longed to ask, but asking somehow might make it real. Even worse, had it been Bryce?

“Walker says he got caught in the crossfire.”

“Then why was he in the hallway?” Chuck demanded, anger flickering through him. It was the first emotion besides horror to fully penetrate the semi-fugue state. “If he got caught in the crossfire, he’d have been in the main bay with all of the other victims. And a gunshot between the eyes? That’s a pretty damn lucky shot, don’t you think?”

Casey finished his sandwich and wiped his hands on his napkin. “Your first death?” he asked, in a tone usually used to inquire about the weather.

Chuck felt the eaten portion of his sandwich threaten to make a second appearance. He forced it back. “No,” he said, and blinked when he realized that he had meant it. Where had that come from? His first death had been the guard. Hadn’t it? Technically, Casey was asking about Fidget, but the guard could be included in that category—

Thwbt. Th wbt. Two patches of red across a T-shirt, morbid badges. The unmistakable stench of cordite.

“No?” Casey asked. “You ever watch somebody else die, Bartowski?”

Chuck blinked slowly. Why did his head suddenly weigh twice as much as usual?

The guard’s eyes were still open when he toppled to the ground. Sightless, open, staring. Accusing.

“I don’t know,” he said, surprised again when every word came out the honest truth.

Thwbt. Another bullet to the head, for good measure. Small caliber, just an innocent hole between the eyes—it had even missed the glasses—

“Bartowski?”

Chuck blinked a third time and shook away the echoes. “What?”

Casey just gave him a look.

His head still felt far too heavy, and now he had a spate of new images running through his brain. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s a first.” Casey crossed to a cabinet and withdrew a bottle—Johnnie Walker Black. Comfort in a bottle, Chuck figured, raising both eyebrows when Casey got out not one glass but two. He set one of the glasses in front of Chuck, poured a generous three fingers. “Don’t tell Walker.”

“Thanks, Casey,” Chuck said, once again surprised that he meant it. He knocked back half of the glass. The burn was cleansing, cathartic, painful as hell. He didn’t cough.

“I’m going to kip. You get eight straight, Bartowski, or it’s both of our asses on the line for the midday briefing.” Casey polished the last bit of his own scotch and set the glass in the sink. “Walker’s going back to her place. She said to say she’ll see you in the morning. Now go get some damn sleep.”

He closed his door behind him just a hair harder than necessary. Chuck toyed briefly with the idea of staying out on the couch, sitting and watching the door until Sarah arrived, just so that he could prove Casey wrong. But what use would that do? He couldn’t will Sarah to come over with just the power of his mind. And there was no use calling her—for what? He was a full grown man. He shouldn’t have to run crying to Sarah Walker every time there was some little problem, like a mewling kid that couldn’t tie his own shoes.

He’d just have to man up.

Chuck finished the whisky in one final slug and went upstairs, crawling into the bed. He pulled the covers up to his chin and tried desperately, desperately to shut off his brain.

No such luck.

He could almost physically feel the mattress move as his demons climbed into bed with him. Instead of the usual faces, however, these ones had new masks: Jill Roberts. Carina Miller. A dead guard. Bryce Larkin. And finally, last but definitely not least, Fidget Bernstein, wearing a red hole in the middle of his forehead like some twisted, morbid bindi.

It was going to be a long night.

>

19 OCTOBER 2007
BACHELOR PAD
10:37 PDT

Chuck felt something brush his cheek. “Five more minutes, El.”

Again, something soft, something light against his cheek. He moved an irritable hand to bat it away—and something grabbed his wrist.

“Okay, okay, Ellie. I’m up. I’m up. Geez.”

He shifted his grip without opening his eyes, grabbing the hand like he always used to as a kid and twining his fingers through—wait, that was definitely not Ellie’s hand. Ellie’s hand certainly didn’t have this many calluses.

Chuck thanked his lucky stars that the hand was at least feminine.

Still, he took a second before he opened his eyes. “My, Casey, what girly hands you have. And I must say, the blonde hair is really working for you. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were Sarah.”

The solemn look shifted to a smile.

“That’s better,” Chuck said, but he didn’t smile back. “A much better way to wake up, overall.”

“You’re eloquent this morning,” Sarah said as she gently freed her hand from Chuck’s grip. She crossed her arms and pillowed her chin on her wrists, staring down at him.

Chuck shrugged without sitting up. Every part of his body ached, either from exhaustion or from the hell he’d insisted on putting it through lately. But it beat being cold all the time. “I had a lot of time to think between the bouts of insomnia and the nightmares.”

Instantly, Sarah’s smile faded, and Chuck regretted having said anything.

“So let’s talk about this,” Sarah said before Chuck could make any more mood-killing statements.

He attempted innocence. “What about?”

“Chuck, you’re sleeping on the floor.” Sarah pinned him with the no-nonsense stare. “Not only that, but you wedged yourself in a corner when you have this nice big bed up here.” She thumped the stripped-down mattress. She was lying on her stomach across the bed, her arms resting on the edge so that she could look down at him over the side. The pose was strangely reminiscent of a teenage girl, and hard to reconcile with the visions of Sarah looking fierce and deadly in a set of TDU’s, a gun clutched in her hand. So many personas for one woman. How did she juggle it all?

“Too much space,” Chuck said, and pushed his poor body into a sitting position. “Couldn’t sleep—it was easier on the floor. Blocked in.”

“You didn’t have any trouble sleeping in Athens or on the couch at Ellie’s, and there was just as much space there.”

Chuck closed his eyes and rested his aching head back against the cool wall. About four hours before, he’d given up the ghost and had crawled with all of his bedclothes into the narrow space between his queen-sized mattress and the wall. It reminded him of his bunk in the bunker, of how he would burrow each night into his sleeping back and try not to think about tomorrow. Then, and only then, had he gotten a few precious hours of sleep.

“What time is our briefing?” he asked, forcing himself to focus on the subject at hand.

“You’ve got awhile. Here.” Sarah propped herself up on her elbows so that she could rummage behind her for something. She handed Chuck an icepack. Chuck took it and studiously avoided eye contact with the view down the front of her tank top. He winced when he set the icepack against the bump on his forehead.

Sarah glanced at the floor again, biting her lip. Something was clearly bothering her, but Chuck didn’t have the energy to press the issue. So he sat, holding the ice pack until his fingers hurt from the cold, and waited. “Pretty clever,” Sarah finally said, nodding over at the whiteboard that Chuck had propped up between the closet and the end of the bed. It formed the partition he’d needed for his own psychological comfort. “But now I’m wondering if we should just requisition you a smaller sleeping space, like a box. Or maybe a coffin? You could go goth.”

“I’d rather have a casket.”

“What’s the difference?”

“More foot room.”

“Um, okay.” Sarah levered herself up. “You should get ready for the day, so I’ll leave you alone. Are you feeling okay?”

He’d maybe felt worse five times in his entire life, but Chuck forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so. Can you be downstairs in thirty? We need to debrief from last night before we report into Washington. And Chuck?

“Be very careful what you say about Bryce.”

Chuck stared at her until she’d vanished downstairs, the icepack in his hand forgotten.

19 OCTOBER 2007
BACHELOR PAD
12:47 PDT

“And that is all you have to say, Agent Bartowski?”

“That’s what happened, ma’am.” Chuck swallowed, hating that—on top of everything else—his throat had gone drier than the Gobi Desert the moment General Beckman and Director Graham had popped up onscreen. “Major Casey and Agent Walker found me, Casey got me out of there while Agent Walker went off to secure ex-Agent Larkin. I didn’t make contact with ex-Agent Miller or any of the hostiles after separating from ex-Agent Larkin.”

“Very well.” General Beckman looked displeased, but Chuck had never seen her appear otherwise. “We have all of your statements and we’ve confirmed with the clean-up squad that the situation with Alahi is contained. Mr. Alahi himself has already been transferred to a federal prison for holding until his trial can begin.”

A picture of Peyman’s mug shot filled the monitors. He looked haggard, worn out—exactly how Chuck himself felt.

“Agent Bartowski,” Director Graham said, “in light of recent events, we believe it prudent that you remain in the presence of Major Casey and Agent Walker for the next seventy-two hours.”

Chuck kept his neutral expression up, but inwardly, he groaned. He’d been looking forward to seeing Morgan’s new place. Oh, well. They’d just have to move their game night to the Bachelor Pad instead. “If you think that’s best, Director,” he said, and winced when his phone rang. He heard Casey’s growl, saw Sarah’s eyes widen, but he still pulled the chirping device from his pocket. When he checked the view-screen, he blanched white. “Excuse me, I really have to take this.”

“Bartowski,” Casey said under his breath, his eyes bulging.

Chuck gave him a helpless look. “I’m sorry, General, Director. It’s just, it’s Agent Davenport, and—”

“Ah. Say no more, Agent Bartowski. We can finish this briefing without you.”

Chuck cast a grateful look at the CIA Director, who was marginally more cuddly than the General, and fled the room to outside. He pressed talk. “Uh, hey, Agent Davenport, how’s it going? What? Y-yeah, things here are great—no, I’m fine. Wait a second, how on earth do you know that?”

Twenty minutes later, Sarah slipped out the front door. “Briefing over?” Chuck asked without looking back.

“For a few minutes now. When you didn’t come back, I thought I’d come and—”

“Find me curled up in a fetal position, sucking on my thumb?” Chuck failed to put humor in his tone, though he twisted his face into a smile before he looked back at her. “Nope. Only mildly sweating. A light sheen, if you will. Which is perfectly understandable, California being somewhat warmer than Siberia and all.”

“Progress,” Sarah said.

“Not really. I’ve spent the last few minutes chanting that you and Casey are right inside and if I scream, you’ll come kill the big, bad space monsters for me. Pathetic for a grown man, right?”

Sarah finally stepped up to join him at the railing, overlooking the quadrangle below. “Considering that you were stuck underground and can count the number of people you saw on one hand…I’d say that’s not pathetic at all. Give it time.”

“One thing at a time?” Chuck asked, his smile growing a little more real.

“It’s good advice for a reason. What did Agent Davenport want?”

“For me to call her Gwen.” Chuck turned his attention back to the quad, which was empty—everybody else in the complex was probably at work, he figured. “News of our recent adventures worked their way up the grapevine.”

“Really?” Sarah shifted to mirror his stance. “That shouldn’t have happened. Your name should have been removed completely—”

“It was, sort of. But Gwen put everything together anyway. Did you know that they’re calling me Carmichael in Washington? And nobody’s sure if I’m NSA, CIA, or just a ghost?”

“You said you liked the name.”

Chuck vaguely remembered mentioning his old Bond-style name during their hours-long dinner in Thessaloniki when they’d been waiting until they could board the ferry. “Well, thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Either way, Gwen caught chatter about our stunt with Peyman and our little jaunt to Chinatown, and she’s less than pleased. Technically, I’m supposed to stay in an ‘analyst’ position, which means avoiding guns, knives, and assorted danger. If it’s going to make me scream, the general consensus is that I should stay away from it.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. It really depends on what kind of screaming you’re doing.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Ha,” he said, finally ripping his gaze away from the courtyard and smiling back at Sarah. “Does that mean you’re offer—wow, and please forget I even started to say that. Talk about ignoring professional boundaries.”

Sarah said absolutely nothing, but her smile had lost all of its splendor.

“Anyway,” Chuck said, flushing bright red and staring down again, “Gwen might be coming out to assess our situation for herself. I’m supposed to tell you thank-you from her, for sending your reports in so quickly.”

Sarah shrugged. “Least I could do, seeing as she’s the main force keeping you out of a bunker.”

“Yeah, and one of the reasons I’m going into therapy.” Chuck’s expression turned grim. His fingers gripped the ironwork railing tightly as he straightened up. “Effective next week, I’m meeting with an agency shrink. Congratulate me, I just became an ex-prisoner of war. The ‘enemy’ stuck me in a bunker for five years of solitary confinement. I’m getting my dossier messengered to me today.”

“A therapist would be good for you, Chuck.”

“Sure.” Chuck unclamped a hand to scratch the back of his neck. “I’ll get to spill all about my fake life to a therapist who’ll turn around and report everything to the next head on the totem pole so that I can be psycho-analyzed even more than I already am.”

“Or,” and Sarah put a hand on his arm, “you could look at it as a way to beat back some of those demons.”

It was like she’d been in the bedroom with him the night before, when his demons had been tangible personifications, crowding around him so closely that he’d eventually crawled onto the floor to get away from them. Thinking of those demons brought up a question that shamed him only because it had been the driving factor behind his insomnia. It was inconsequential next to the fact that he’d witnessed one death and stumbled upon another. But it had kept him up nevertheless.

“Sarah,” he said, pushing the words past the lump that had once been his throat, “Carina said something yesterday.”

A shutter fell over Sarah’s features. The expression of concern shifted to a wariness he hated, and her eyes once again became unreadable. He’d probably get more of a response from a cardboard cutout.

“What did Carina say this time? Before you say anything, you should know Carina really can’t be trusted. She’s unpredictable and she’s always working an angle.”

“It was about you and Bryce,” Chuck said. “Earlier, you told me to be very careful about what I said about Bryce. Are you trying to protect him because you two were—”

“Hey, you two!”

Both Chuck and Sarah jolted and looked over the railing. Carina waved gaily back, wearing a short black trenchcoat that thankfully covered more than her top the night before had. Had she sneaked in or had she strolled right on through? Chuck couldn’t claim to know. “Can I come up?” she called.

Sarah regained her composure first. “Uh, sure. Elevator’s over there.”

“What is she doing here?” Chuck hissed when Carina had headed toward the elevator. “Why isn’t she in federal custody?”

“Relax, Chuck. She apologized for the mess last night. And she wanted to apologize to you in person.”

“She had a gun to my neck!”

Sarah’s expression darkened. “She didn’t want to kill you, she just wanted to mess with me. It’s why she couldn’t take out all of Alahi’s men by herself last night. She didn’t think protecting you in a shoot-out would be too good a time.”

“Your friends have an interesting interpretation of a good time,” Chuck said. He shifted his stance so that instead of leaning forward against the railing, he could prop himself against the front wall of the apartment and cross his arms. It felt easier to glare that way.

Sarah rested one hip against the railing and crossed her arms right back at him. “I’m sorry, what was it you were doing when Carina found you?”

Chuck’s jaw firmed. “That wasn’t a good time for anybody.”

Unless you called seeing your ex and getting your heart ripped out through your nose as a “good time.” In which case, the whole night should be declared a huge barrel of laughs.

“Stalking your ex, Chuck? Really?”

“Hey, at least my ex isn’t—” Movement to Chuck’s right made him leap and flail about in a poor imitation of a judo stance. By the time he ceased moving, Carina and Sarah were watching him with oddly identical expressions of suppressed amusement. He tried to cover by running his hands through his hair. He scowled. “Great. You. Welcome to the Bachelor Pad. Would you like the grand tour before or after you kidnap me? I’m sorry—’take me hostage.’ Technicalities, you know.”

“Aw, Chuckie, c’mon. No hard feelings here.” Carina reached up to ruffle his hair, laughing when he flinched away.

Chuck’s eyes held no humor. “Did you shoot Fidget?”

He expected a flat, honest answer. What he didn’t expect was for Carina to roll her eyes and mutter, “I wish.” In a louder voice, she said, “Peyman’s men got him before I could. I was just going to shoot him somewhere non-lethal, teach him a lesson.”

Chuck added Carina to his list of people to not piss off, just after Sarah and before Casey. “Why was he in the hallway?”

“Because I didn’t want his blood going out everywhere and giving away my position.” Carina crossed her arms and leaned her shoulder against the wall next to Chuck so that she could watch both him and Sarah. “It’s bad form to shoot a guy in the head when he’s that smart. He was scum, but he could’ve been useful at a future date.”

It was the closest thing to remorse he would receive. And for some reason, knowing that made him feel better. Something loosened in his chest; he stood up a little straighter. “Thanks for playing straight with me.”

“No problem. Thanks for convincing Sarah to tell ‘em to give me my job back.”

Chuck squinted. “What? I didn’t—”

Sarah sprang forward and, to Chuck’s surprise, wrapped one of her arms through his. He gave her a what-are-you-doing look, but she was too busy beaming at Carina. “Did you want to say good-bye to Casey? He’s inside, and you barely got to see him while you were here.”

“Casey would prefer I didn’t. Tell him we’ll always have Bogota?”

“First Prague, now Bogota?” Chuck wondered. “Is there any place you two haven’t desecrated?”

Carina just laughed at that. When her cell beeped, she pulled it out and smirked. “Looks like my ride’s here. Walk me to my car, you two?”

Though Chuck had no desire to step into all of that open space, Sarah had latched on pretty tightly to his arm, giving him no choice but to go along. They took the stairs down rather than the elevator. “You two seem to be on good terms,” he said as they descended. He’d never have believed it. No way would Sarah have let Carina off the hook after getting him kidnapped the night before.

“That’s because we spent an hour beating each other to a pulp,” Carina said, matter-of-factly. “It’s very therapeutic.”

Chuck looked from one gorgeous, unmarked head to the other. Not a hair was out of place. “Right,” he said. “Because you two clearly came back from a brawl. Uh-huh. Pull the other one, will you?”

“Chuck.” Sarah paused and glanced around to make sure nobody was around. Without another word, she lifted the hem of her tank-top.

“Ouch,” Chuck said, wincing. The purpling splotch just below her ribs looked far worse than anything he’d collected over the past couple of days. He glared at Carina. “You did that?”

“My, my, my.” Carina smirked. “Sounds like Sarah Walker’s found herself a champion.”

Sarah rolled her eyes at her friend.

“How come I can’t tell that you two beat on each other?” Chuck demanded. “Your faces look perfect.”

“First thing you learn in spy school is all about makeup.” They strolled through the entrance gate toward the street as Carina smirked over at Chuck. “It’s really handy for first dates and Halloween alike. Ooh, look, there’s my ride. Just a sec, Colin.” Carina waved at a vintage Mustang Shelby. “Really must fly, but I wanted to say my good-byes before I left.”

She hugged Sarah first, murmuring something into the blonde’s ear that had Chuck’s ears perking up—especially since Sarah replied in fashion. He kept his expression neutral until Carina turned to him. “I’m sorry,” she said, actually sounding like she meant it, “that I got you involved last night.”

He could stand up to anything but sincerity. Even though Chuck called himself a sap and knew he was likely being played, he sighed and extended a solemn hand toward Carina. “We got out of there alive, so no harm, no foul. We’ll just pretend the whole thing never happened and never, ever do it again, deal?”

“Deal.” Carina ignored the hand to give him a hug. She stood on her tip-toes to whisper into his ear, “Take care of my friend, or I’ll kill you. Got me?”

Chuck’s voice rose half an octave. “Understood.”

He squeaked and scrambled backward when Carina let him go. “Look me up next time you’re in Miami,” she told them. Chuck and Sarah watched the redhead saunter away toward the classic muscle car.

“That her boyfriend?” Chuck asked as Carina draped herself over the driver.

Sarah shook her head. “Probably just a mark.”

“Poor schmuck,” Chuck decided. “Carina’s going to make his life hell. Though I wouldn’t mind being used that way for—Ow! What is with you and punching people?” He rubbed the abused spot, glaring, though it hadn’t hurt. “First Carina grabs my ass, now you’re hitting me. I’m just about fed up with women, you know that?”

Sarah’s look clearly stated what she wasn’t going to say: you started it.

Before she could go back inside, Chuck touched her arm, lightly. It was enough to make her tense.

Chuck just stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders forward. He had to say it now, he knew, or it would never be said. “What did you mean, be careful what I say about Bryce? Are you trying to protect him because you two were partners?” He took a deep breath. “Or because you two were more than partners?”

It really was amazing just how quickly the temperature could plummet. Sarah didn’t move, but the entire world with all of its cursed people and all of its bloody space vanished, leaving him all alone with an ice queen. An ice queen that had previously been his partner and protector. The fury on her face alone could cure the world of its melting ice-caps problem.

“Where the hell,” she said, her voice almost guttural, “do you get off asking that?”

Chuck had to fight every fiber of his being not to deploy the Morgan, an old standby when dealing with the irate female. Through sheer force of will, he kept his feet planted. He had to know. “It’s an honest question, Sarah. Are you trying to protect Bryce because you were in love with him? He’s a traitor, Sarah.”

Sarah gave him a disgusted look and half-turned. Chuck held his breath.

Eons stretched before she answered. Chuck’s panicking mind pictured civilizations being born, dying in a blaze of glory. New planets. Supernovas.

Finally, Sarah said, her voice far too measured, “His country wasn’t the only thing he betrayed when he blew that compound.”

Chuck tried to take a deep breath. It didn’t work. The same feeling from the car the night before, when Carina had declared Bryce and Sarah a little more than partners, threatened to crush his chest. So it was true. She hadn’t denied it.

Breathing suddenly became impossible.

Sarah startled him by grabbing his sleeve and yanking. They headed down the sidewalk, two frigid feet of space between them. To a casual observer, Sarah looked calm, relaxed. Chuck knew enough to see the tension stretching her into a whipcord, ready to strike. She still had the ice queen face on, but he could see emotions boiling beneath the surface. Was this the part where she dragged him into an abandoned grove and killed him?

Lord, he hoped not.

When they were a suitable distance away from the apartment complex, heading into the park, Sarah began to mutter without looking at him or really moving her lips. “I’m only going to say this once, Chuck, so listen up. Bryce and me…it was complicated. And quite frankly, none of your damn business.”

“I—”

“Shut up, and let me finish. Bryce betrayed more than his country when he blew that compound. He betrayed me. You’re supposed to trust your partner when you can’t trust anybody else, and he betrayed me.”

Don’t ever trust anybody, Chuck. Rule number one of being a spy.

Maybe Sarah and Bryce weren’t that alike after all.

Sarah, meanwhile, hadn’t finished. “But more importantly, he betrayed you.”

“What?” This had Chuck stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Without looking back, Sarah grabbed his arm and hauled, pulling him into motion. “What are you talking about?”

“When I said be careful of what you say about Bryce, I meant that you’re still under suspicion because he blew up the compound. People were injured badly that night, and you—”

“And I helped Bryce get those heat-scans,” Chuck said, his fists clenching.

“And you’re not in the clear, not remotely. They’re still watching you like a hawk.” Sarah apparently figured they were far enough away from the apartment. She all but shoved Chuck onto a park bench, but instead of sitting down herself, she stood in front of him, her fists clenched. “It’s awfully convenient, isn’t it, that the Intersect would go to you, the guy who helped Bryce out.”

Indignation made Chuck sputter. “I’m innocent! You know that!”

“Exactly.” Sarah folded her arms and glared. “I know that. But they’re going to need convincing. So, like I said, be careful what you say about Bryce.”

“I was worried,” Chuck blurted out before his brain could think to halt his mouth, “at first. That you and Bryce were working together to pass the Inter—to sell me to the highest bidder.” Sarah’s eyes widened, first shock then fury. “But I’m not anymore! I swear, I stopped thinking that before we even got to Radomsko, okay? Except last night…I couldn’t sleep, and it was making me crazy, thinking about the things Carina said, and knowing Bryce got away again. I couldn’t help it. It just made sense that maybe you two were working together because you were in love or something. He’s been there every step of the way, Sarah. He was in Athens, he left that note in my pocket—”

“What note?” Sarah demanded.

“It’s not important right now—”

Sarah leaned down so that she was right in Chuck’s face. “What note?”

She was about two seconds away from grabbing a random body part and squeezing. To spare his abused body any further torture, Chuck shoveled both hands through his hair. “It was a name. The first night I got back, I had a panic attack. I took off my jacket in the waiting room at the hospital, and when I came back to fetch it, there was a note in my pocket. It was weird because I always keep things in my pants pockets, not my jacket pockets—”

“What name?”

“Phillip Dartmoor. Does that ring any bells?”

He could see Sarah carefully, systematically searching her memory, but she shook her head. “Did you flash on it?”

“No. I’m going to run a database search on it, on my computer.” Chuck shook his head and tilted forward to rub his hands over his face, oblivious to the fact that Sarah had to step backwards or be head-butted in the stomach. “And Bryce showed up last night like some avenging angel to get me out of there, and it only made sense if he knew about my tracker, but only you and Casey know about that—”

“Or he could have been following you,” Sarah pointed out quietly, finally giving in and sitting next to him on the park bench. “Let’s face it, Chuck, you wouldn’t exactly notice a tail.”

Chuck peered sideways at her through his hands. “How about you teach me that, first thing Monday?”

“Done.”

“So if Bryce has been following me, and the two of you aren’t secretly in cahoots, that actually makes more sense. Especially given what he said about you and Casey.”

Sarah shook her head. “You know what? I don’t actually want to know what he said.”

“Probably for the best. But I hope you see why I was worried.”

Sarah sighed. “I do.”

Chuck lowered his hands and wiped his palms on his jeans. They’d wandered into the heart of the park. It wasn’t brimming, but there were enough people enjoying the mid-October warmth to make him cautious. Still, overall, it wasn’t terrible. “What’s his endgame, Sarah?”

“I don’t know.”

“Last night he made it seem like he was…looking out for me.”

“He could be protecting you for his own interests,” Sarah said, her voice dull. “He could be, as you said, prepping you to be sold to the highest bidder. There’s no way to read his mind when he’s decided to play something close to the vest. You know that.”

Chuck nodded. “Yeah. I know that.”

“So even though it makes you feel better to think that maybe your friend might just be looking out for you, remember that he probably has ulterior motives. And keep your guard up.”

Chuck scowled. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I just want to know why he did it, what he’s doing now.” He hated, more than anything, that he would never look at his best friend, his college wingman, his old roommate the same way ever again. He’d never be able to look at Bryce and not see that dead guard’s unseeing stare, or the terror on Fidget’s face before Chuck had deflected the gun.

“Frankly, a lot about this life sucks,” Sarah said, resting her elbows on the back of the park bench so that it looked like two friends relaxing in the sunlight. “There’s a lot of hurry up and wait, a lot of not knowing, a lot of guess-work that never pays off. You’ll hurt people, and you’ll tell yourself it’s okay because it’s for the good of the country, but at the end of the day, the country won’t know the first thing about anything and there will still be a hurt person out there. You need to have a thick skin, and you need to learn to be able to cope.”

Chuck stared straight ahead, letting her words run through his mind. Like Casey, there wasn’t going to be a “there, there, it’s all okay” speech. No band-aids applied, no kissing the boo-boo to make it all better. What they did now was real with actual, tangible consequences. No turning back.

It made Chuck vaguely ill, but he couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty of such a straight answer.

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at a time,” he said, finally turning to look at her.

Sarah didn’t meet his gaze. “I can’t take credit. My mentor at Quantico gave me that speech pretty much word for word. It’s something you need to hear.”

“Does that make you my Mr. Miyagi?”

There was a long pause before Sarah answered. “Honestly, I…wouldn’t know.”

Chuck goggled at her. “With kung fu moves like yours, how can you have missed out on ‘The Karate Kid’ all these years? That’s it, we’re watching that tonight. Consider it a spy mission.”

Tension eased out of Sarah’s shoulders as she laughed, a genuine chuckle. “We can’t tonight. You’re coming over for dinner, remember? Ellie’s cooking for all of us.”

“Oh, right.” Twin knots of nerves and excitement clustered in his stomach at the thought. He would get to see his sister later. He could walk over there now, if he chose. Just drop in. She wasn’t half a planet away anymore. He would get to eat Ellie’s cooking again. Chuck had missed his sister worse than he would have missed a severed limb, but after years of MREs, he could privately admit that he missed her cooking just as much. His mouth began to water. “Well, we’ll have to do it soon. Because this is a grievous error and must be fixed as soon as possible.”

“If you say so.” Sarah shifted her attention to the landscape, or maybe to where a group of frat boy types had started up a game of ultimate Frisbee.

Even so, Chuck caught the look before she hid it completely. “What is it?” he asked, unconsciously shifting toward her.

“Nothing.” Sarah twisted a smile onto her face, but it didn’t reach her eyes, so the move was entirely worthless. “Just thinking that by the time we’re done with this assignment, I’ll be a complete geek.”

“Nerd,” Chuck corrected. “We prefer the term nerd. But that’s not really it.” When Sarah turned to him, surprised, he shrugged. “You’re not precisely an open book, and I doubt you’ll ever be, but give me some credit. I have had plenty of opportunities to study the Tao of Le Walker—or Walker-Tao if you prefer—and something’s definitely up.”

“Nothing’s up,” Sarah said. But Chuck watched an internal debate take place anyway. He figured this was one of those times to sit back and wait rather than trying to talk it out of her. Finally, Sarah’s debate came to an end. “I owe you an apology.”

“For?” This was news.

“For almost taking your head off back at the curb back there. You brought up some very valid concerns and I nearly severed three of your major arteries and punched you in the neck.”

“That’s…oddly specific,” Chuck said, hoping that his sudden need to sit back and lean away wasn’t too obvious. “Apology accepted. Can I say I’m glad you didn’t kill me? I’m fond of my arteries. And look, maybe I should apologize, too. Questioning if you had a sexual relationship with Bryce was way over the line. It’s not my business, really. So I’m sorry.”

Though he longed to ask. Even if it wasn’t his business, he was fairly burning up with curiosity.

A couple of good-looking people like Bryce and Sarah, all those high-octane situations, life and death day in and day out, how do you expect them not to get together?

Only the reminder that they were mature adults and that Sarah could kill him with her pinky kept him silent. Realistically, he’d probably never know. Just one of the many facets of Sarah Walker that he wouldn’t ever really get to see.

But one of the facets of Sarah Walker that he was glad he did get to see was her smile. Which she gave him right now. “Apology accepted, though it wasn’t necessary. You more than explained yourself, Chuck.”

“I’m glad.”

“C’mon, let’s head back inside. Casey’s probably wondering if Carina’s killed us and dumped our bodies in the ocean or something.”

But Chuck waited a few seconds before he forced his aching body off of the bench. “Whatever happened to the diamond?” he asked as they strolled along, things considerably less frosty on this go-round.

“Messenger picked it up this morning. I made a few calls to help Carina out.”

“I get that, but why did she thank me?”

“Well, I can’t have her think I’ve gone soft, can I?” Sarah, to his utter surprise, threaded her arm through his again. “That would just be sloppy.”

Chuck gave her a droll look. “If you left any bruises on her anywhere near as massive as that lovely mark you yourself are sporting, the last thing she can accuse you of is going soft. Think she’ll be back?”

Sarah pretended to consider this. “Probably. She’s got an radar for when life is getting too boring or predictable.”

“Fantastic.”

They headed back toward the apartment, two friends enjoying a sunny afternoon in the park together. Chuck kept his hands in his pockets, trying not to let on that he was focusing every part of his being on the arm Sarah had wrapped through his. Hard to believe that the so-called Bunker Boy had come even this far, though he knew he had miles to go before…just before. Thinking about what lay ahead wearied him to no end, but for right now, he could enjoy the sunshine and the companionship.

A thought from their good-byes to Carina occurred to him as they headed in the gates to the apartment. “So,” he said, “where’d you learn to speak Polish?”

Sarah just smirked.

Chapter 15: Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore, Sarah Walker?

Notes:

I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying. — Oscar Wilde

PART III: ATLAS

30 OCTOBER 2007
CASTLE: UPSTAIRS
11:02 PDT

Chuck didn’t glance up when the Scooby door opened, even if it meant that Sarah was now in the room. He held up a finger and continued to scroll through the screens in front of him, eyes narrowing occasionally as if he were trying to instigate a flash. He had maybe thirty seconds before Sarah’s patience dried up and he wanted to get this last screen checked, just to make sure he wasn’t missing anything—

“Got a minute?” Sarah asked.

Thirty seconds had been conservative. Sarah had waited for nearly a full minute. Chuck had to admit, he was impressed.

He pushed his wheelie chair back and popped his neck. “For you, always. What’s up?” As he spoke, he glanced over. He immediately had to muffle a snicker. Normally, Sarah’s workout wardrobe wasn’t amusing—merely a bit rough on the blood pressure, as it didn’t always seem to include shirts—but today he had to manfully fight back chuckles.

Sarah simply tilted an eyebrow at that reaction. The game, it seemed, was afoot. “Seems to me you’ve figured out exactly what’s up.”

Chuck fought to keep a straight face. “N-not sure what you mean,” he lied.

“Uh-huh.” Sarah crossed her arms over her chest.

“Having a good workout?” Chuck interlaced his fingers and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. If push came to shove, he could hide a smile behind his hands. “It’s Tuesday, that means you run the entire San Andreas fault, right?”

“We need to talk about the dummy, Chuck.”

“What?” Chuck asked, doing his best to sound innocent. “You don’t like Frank’s Halloween costume?”

“For the last time, the dummy’s name is not Frank.”

“Then what is it? I’ve yet to hear you offer a better suggestion.”

“It’s a dummy. It doesn’t have a personality, which means it doesn’t get a name, and therefore its name can’t be Frank.”

“Well, right now, probably not,” Chuck said. “It’s more like…Frankie, wouldn’t you say? Unless Frank’s into cross-dressing.”

He could tell that Sarah was fighting the laughter just as hard as he was, but she held her glare admirably well. The game of chicken continued. “You’re proud of yourself,” she accused, pointing a finger at him.

“Well, yeah.” Chuck gave her a ‘duh’ look. “You have to admit, Frankie is a work of art.”

“The dummy should not be a work of art. The dummy is a training tool. Where’d you get the dress, Chuck?”

“Morgan picked it up for me.” Chuck hummed innocently and swiveled his chair back and forth. “Nice touch, though, right?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

As he expected, that broke the dam. Sarah doubled forward at the waist, laughing. By sheer force of will, Chuck ignored the view now open to him and crossed to the miniature fridge he’d insisted on putting in the corner. He pulled out a bottle of water for Sarah and a Red Bull for himself, nudging the bottle into Sarah’s hand as she continued to laugh.

“Wow, you were really holding it in,” Chuck observed, sitting on the edge of his desk and crossing his legs at the ankle.

Sarah straightened, and wiped her streaming eyes. “God, Chuck, before today I would’ve thought it’d be easy to punch a transvestite hippie in the face. But it’s not. It’s really, really not.”

“Don’t tell Casey,” Chuck said. “It’ll break his heart.”

Sarah stifled another giggle. Chuck grinned.

“Where is Casey, anyway?” Sarah glanced over at the unopened door, even though Casey’s office wasn’t visible from her current spot. Her desk out in the front room had views to both offices, but Casey usually left his door closed.

“I gave him a tip on a terrorist landing at LAX on the noon flight. He’s hoping the guy tries to run.”

“Why’d you tell Casey and not me?”

“The big guy doesn’t do offices well. He starts prowling. And growling. And it’s really distracting. It’s a simple op, he’s getting to use his NSA buddies and without you there, he doesn’t have to explain the strange jurisdiction.” Chuck shrugged. “Also, who am I to deprive you of your training session with Frank-slash-Frankie?”

Sarah attempted to scowl, which didn’t work. “Only you would think to put lipstick on a training dummy.” A thought occurred to her, and all laughter vanished. “Wait a second—whose lipstick was that?”

Chuck shifted his feet and eyed all three escape routes from his office. “Ah…nobody’s?”

“You stole my lipstick?” Sarah straightened.

Chuck reminded himself that running away over makeup was much too cowardly for a CIA agent. It helped. Somewhat. “It was a shade you weren’t ever going to use,” he said, backing up slowly. “And, hey, there’s plenty left, Frank didn’t need much. It’s not like the dummy’s been making out with anything else down in Castle. So, in all likelihood, Frank’s lips have touched nothing but your fists…”

Sarah stalked forward like a predator, all but chasing him around the room. “Never steal a woman’s makeup, Chuck.”

“Look, look, look, it’s right here.” Chuck bumped into his desk and fumbled around in a drawer. Sarah continued to advance on him, even when he held up the used tube of lipstick like a shield. “See? If I return it, it’s not stealing, it’s borrowing.”

Sarah snatched the tube and frowned at it. “Oh. Hmm. I wasn’t going to use this shade.”

“Exactly. It’s the color of a corpse.”

“Still. The principle stands.” Sarah rolled her eyes at him, but he could see the smile still fighting through. It made him relax. “You’ve got to stop messing with my training dummy. First the sign last week, and now the dummy’s wearing a wig and a dress and a flower power headband…” She shook her head.

“In my defense,” Chuck said, “Frank really did want to know, hence the sign.”

“Yes, because nothing’s creepier than coming down to your dojo and seeing your dummy with a sign that says, ‘Why don’t you love me anymore, Sarah Walker?’” Sarah rolled her eyes for about the fifteenth time and uncapped her water bottle to take a pull. Both she and Chuck glanced over when the phone rang at her desk. “That’s weird. You go clean Frankie up, I’m gonna take that.”

“Aw, you called it Frankie.”

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.”

Chuck ducked through the Scooby door (they really needed to fix that, as Sarah was the only member of the team that could walk through without head injury) and headed down to Sarah’s so-called dojo. He had to grin as he approached his handiwork—the ugly, floral-print dress Morgan had found in a thrift shop clashed with the dummy’s green-gray “skin.” The brute-like face was still twisted into a permanent attacker’s scowl, but it looked ridiculous now, dead-flesh-colored lipstick gracing that grimacing mouth and—Chuck’s crowning touch—blush pinking those green-gray cheeks. “You’ve got good cheekbone structure, buddy, don’t let anybody tell you differently,” Chuck told the dummy. Since nobody else was around, he slapped Frank on the shoulder in a consolatory manner. “Just wait until you see what I’ve got planned for Valentine’s Day. Poor you.”

He kept up a stream of chatter as he cleaned up. It was still the day before Halloween, but the idea had struck him during Casey’s FOX news marathon the previous evening, and it couldn’t be resisted.

Sarah came in just as he’d finished wiping the last of the make-up off. “Borrowed one of your face-wipes from the bathroom,” he said without looking over his shoulder at her. He’d managed to convince her that killing the Intersect via heart attack was a bad idea, so Sarah made sure to walk noisily around him. “Well, I guess it’s stealing in this case, as you probably don’t want it back and—what’s up?”

She ignored the cleaned-up dummy and stuck her hands in her jeans pockets. Nerves, Chuck decided, and she was no longer in work-out attire. “Want to go get some lunch?”

Chuck glanced instinctively at the ceiling, and hoped his flinch wasn’t too obvious. The problem was, he was dealing with Sarah Walker. The woman routinely put eagles to shame. She caught his reaction.

“I know. It’s not an odd-numbered day. But I think we should get out of Castle, go enjoy some time on the town.”

Something in her tone, that too-bright, too-forced quality, made Chuck want to frown. He wanted to argue against going outside, but then, he always wanted to argue about going outside these days.

And cowering inside just ruined the tough spy image. “Okay. Though it’s Casey’s turn to buy, and I forgot to lift his wallet before he left.”

“It’ll be my treat this time. C’mon.”

30 OCTOBER 2007
THE HARD WOK CAFÉ
12:18 PDT

“So what was it that you didn’t want to tell me back at Castle?” Chuck asked as he set his lunch tray on the table and began to unload both of their meals onto the questionably clean table. Since Sarah was buying, she’d picked the restaurant—and the Hard Wok Café was probably the most interesting thing she could have picked. The lighting was moody and dark even in the middle of the day, which relaxed him far better than an airy, open, bright space. And it was full of people, which would mask chatter.

Sarah busied herself with setting out napkins and chopsticks. “You caught that, huh?”

Chuck shrugged.

Instead of digging into her meal—Sarah was usually an economical eater, eating first what she would need for energy and savoring the rest only if she had time—she pulled out her phone. “You’re going to flash, but try not to be obvious about it,” she told him in an undertone.

“Yes, ma’am.” Chuck gave her a sarcastic smile as he took the phone, and glanced at the screen.

She was right. The flash hit him mid-crescendo.

A jelly-fish at night, lit in orange. Lightning. A brief flicker of binoculars.

A flyer with three different images of a man vaguely reminiscent of Jude Law, doing an Eminem impression, scowling at the camera, and rocking a hobbit-like appearance respectively. LASZLO MAHNOVSKI flashed red above the pictures.

CONSIDERED DANGEROUS.

Binoculars again, this time with creepy faces peering out from the lenses. Lightning.

Information on Laszlo Mahnovski – DOB: 1 January, 1982. PLACE OF BIRTH: Arizona. HEIGHT: 5’10”. HAIR: Dark. EYES: Hazel. SEX: Male.

The jelly-fish again.

Chuck sucked in a gulp of oxygen and blinked back to reality. When he saw Sarah raising an eyebrow at him, he hastily relaxed his grip on the chopsticks. Without a word, she handed him a fresh, unbroken pair. He discarded the pieces off to the side.

“So why’s this guy important?” Chuck asked, glancing once more at the picture on Sarah’s cell phone before he handed the device back. He shook off the last vestiges of flash-head and focused on his teriyaki noodles. “Who is he? Or, rather, since I know his name and his height and hair color and all, why’s he considered dangerous?”

“He escaped last month from an underground holding facility. They think he’s loose somewhere in LA.” Sarah leaned forward slightly and quirked her lips into a cover smile. To others in the restaurant, it would have seemed like she were just sharing an amusing, if private, anecdote with her dining partner. “They also think he may be trying to build a bomb.”

“Hm.” Chuck nodded contemplatively as he chewed. “Must be pretty smart, then. Why was he in the underground holding facility instead of prison?”

“Because he’s pretty smart. Genius smart. Graduated college at fourteen, got his Ph.D. at seventeen.”

“So if he’s genius smart, why’d they keep him underground?” Satisfied that if they were to be called away right now on spy business, he wouldn’t starve, Chuck switched to the miso soup.

The Hard Wok Café didn’t get much right, but they made a mean miso soup.

“The facility was also a lab. He’s a weapons designer, and apparently very unstable.”

“So there’s a loose weapons designer that may be trying to build a bomb?” Chuck shook his head as he slurped up soup. “What, is Team Bartowski supposed to find him or somet—you said underground?”

Sarah had been watching him very carefully. Now she inclined her head, slightly.

Chuck felt his throat dry up. Suddenly, soup no longer seemed appealing. An entire platter of his sister’s famous lasagna wouldn’t have been appetizing. He rested both elbows on the table, crossing his hands at the wrist in the center of the tray. “How long did they hold him down there, Sarah?”

“Ten years.” She said it without flinching.

A swell of emotions hit all at once—pity, disgust, anger, and as ever, the overwhelming sense of helplessness and despair that the government could do such a thing to somebody. He fought hard to control the shudders and blinked away memories of his own bunker. “Ten years? Well, good for him for escaping, then!”

Sarah leaned forward and touched a finger to his wrist. “Chuck, you have to remember that your situation is nothing like his.”

But Chuck had already done the math. If Laszlo had become Dr. Mahnovski at seventeen, he’d become property of the government pretty much the next day for ten years to have passed. “Really? Because they sound similar. They let a guy finish college and then they toss him away for the rest of his life. Sounds like a bestseller, don’t you think?” He laughed hollowly and freed himself from the pressure of Sarah’s finger so that he could rub both hands over his face. “So he got away. Good for him, then.”

Sarah wordlessly pulled out her phone again. She flicked her finger across the screen. Laszlo’s face disappeared. A much more grim tale took its place.

“Whoa,” Chuck said, staring at the dead bodies on the tiny screen. “Who’re they? And why are they—they’re not sleeping, are they?”

“They were Laszlo Mahnovski’s handlers.”

“Oh.” Chuck stared at the picture with something akin to horror. “I would never have done that to anybody.”

“I know.”

“Even if they’d kept me there for ten years.”

“I know,” Sarah repeated.

The rest of Sarah’s words sank in. “Bomb?” Chuck asked, fully comprehending for the first time. “You said bomb?”

“Shh.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. You could have told me this back at Castle, where I could have my freak-out in private and…say something treasonous,” Chuck realized, mid-babble. He tilted his head and studied Sarah, considering. “You’re just a master strategist to all things Bartowski, aren’t you?”

“I’m just looking out for you. I got a call from the FBI—they’re activating all agency teams in the area, keeping a look-out for this guy. Which includes Team Bartowski, so I’ve got a meet set up with Agent Scary for this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry—Agent Scary?” Chuck, deciding that the teriyaki noodles weren’t going anywhere, pulled them back in front of him and began to eat.

“Don’t look at me,” Sarah said. “I didn’t choose his name.”

All right. So now what, we’re supposed to drive around and hope we spot this psychopath?”

“I hope not. That would take forever.” Sarah fished out a piece of chicken and dipped it in soy sauce. She was unsurprisingly adept at using chopsticks. “I’ll get us copies of security footage and hopefully a few psych profiles, and we’ll see if we can figure out what his target is from there. It’s possible they’re wrong about the bomb.”

“He could have just wanted to escape?” Chuck asked. He pondered for a moment. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. The injuries inflicted on those handlers were too…violent. At the very least, this guy snapped. At the most…”

“We have to stop him,” Sarah agreed.

Chuck slurped up the last noodle. “I think I’m ready to get back to work,” he decided, never one to linger in a public place anymore. Even if he’d felt so inclined, there was an urgency now. He had a very odd, trigger happy doppelganger running around Los Angeles to stop, after all.

Sarah finished up her own meal and rose, collecting their empty dishes on the tray. “I’ll drop you back at Castle and head out for my meet. Promise me you’ll stay put until Casey and I get back?”

“Promise.” Chuck took the tray so that he could throw away the trash on the way out the door. He shot her a quicksilver grin over his shoulder as he did so. “Nice use of the name, by the way, but still—no Casey present, no dollar.”

I’ll tell you what you can do with your dollar,” Sarah muttered.

30 OCTOBER 2007
CASTLE: DOWNSTAIRS
17:02 PDT

“You did what to my training dummy?”

For the second time that day, Chuck backed up slowly, his hands held up in appeasement. “Relax, Casey,” he pleaded, nearly swearing when he bumped into the conference room table instead of missing it entirely as he’d hoped. “The makeup came right off, and it wasn’t even that big of a deal. Sarah’s left more makeup on Frank from head-butting him, I think—”

Casey growled and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his left sleeve so that he could roll it up. Because he’d been busy picking up a Nigerian terrorist at LAX, he wore the G-man suit, but he’d discarded the jacket at his desk upstairs. The shirtsleeves and tie alone did absolutely nothing to lessen his menace.

“You put,” Casey said, “an official government-use training dummy in a dress, Bartowski!”

“In my defense, it was a very pretty dress, and bought at a thrift store, which helps with welfare programs and—meep.” Chuck dove under the table and scrunched himself into the smallest ball possible, just out of Casey’s reach. If the NSA agent truly wanted to grab him he’d have to get down on the floor…just like that.

He had approximately two seconds to stare into Casey’s feral smirk before a feminine throat cleared. “You boys done? How many times am I going to come down here and see something like this?”

Since Sarah Walker’s presence evened things out so that the odds no longer swung entirely in his direction, Casey growled—minor annoyance, deal with this later—before he rose back to his feet. Chuck scrambled out from under the table, popping up and immediately backing away from Casey.

Sarah, standing on the stairs, raised an eyebrow at him. “Under the table, Chuck?”

“Hey, I had a ninety-two percent chance of survival under there.” Chuck eyed Casey sideways and scooted around to the other side of the conference table. He’d been in the main bay when Casey had returned from his mission at LAX, and he’d been grievously mistaken in thinking that Casey might enjoy hearing about his prank. He focused on Sarah now instead, giving her a bright smile. “Did you wheedle out that footage and those profiles from Agent Scary?”

“I did.” Sarah held up the file for evidence.

Chuck snatched it like a kid going for the good stash of Halloween candy and started to page through. “Good girl.”

When he turned away, Sarah grabbed his ear. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Ow. Ah. Ow—ow. Ah, woman. Not girl. Woman. Nice woman?”

“Better.” Sarah released Chuck, much to his relief.

Casey folded his arms over his chest and glowered at his two CIA compatriots. “Agent Scary?” he asked.

“Don’t look at her, she didn’t choose the name.”

Both ignored Chuck, which had become unsurprisingly easy after the first few days of Operation Prometheus. “We’ve got a fugitive loose in Los Angeles,” Sarah said, and proceeded to fill Casey and Chuck in on everything the FBI Agent had briefed her over during the meet. Chuck listened with one ear as he paged through Laszlo Mahnovski’s psych files, his frown deepening every time he turned a page. By the time he reached the end, he was actively not paying attention to Sarah anymore.

She nudged his knee—which had been jiggling—with her foot to get his attention. “Why’re you so twitchy?”

“Hmm? Oh. Red Bulls.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a recommended limit for those, you know.”

“I know. I just choose to ignore it.” Chuck chose to grace her briefly with a brilliant smile, but it quickly faded. He just hadn’t been in a smiling mood since their lunch together hours before. It was hard to smile through numbness, though the Red Bull helped. “These files look familiar.”

“You know this psychopath, Bartowski?”

“Yeah,” Chuck said, sarcasm dripping. “All us bunker guys, we hang out. We’ve got our own chatroom and everything. Fascinating place. Got into this discussion once with a guy stranded in Africa about how to properly decorate a cinderblock wall and—erk.”

“Casey,” Sarah admonished once Chuck had started turning red. “We’ve talked about this. No violence toward the Intersect.”

Casey gave her an incredulous look. “Pot or kettle, Walker?”

“I grabbed his ear. That’s a fairly big difference between the ear and the neck.”

“Not really. Just two inches,” Casey muttered, but he released Chuck, who sucked in a deep breath.

Chuck massaged his abused neck and glared. He really needed to get faster at stopping Casey. “You two are a barrel of yuks, you know that?”

“Bartowski, drop the sarcasm and tell us, in ten words or less, exactly why these files are familiar to you.”

Chuck took another deep breath and held up a finger. He stood and crossed to the filing cabinet near the desk Sarah had claimed for her downstairs use. After a minute of rifling, he came back with a manila folder, and dropped that in front of Casey.

He flipped it open and scowled. “Your dossier that Davenport sent over? You couldn’t just say that?”

“Not in ten words or less.”

Casey grunted; it was a fair point.

“There’s bound to be some similarities, Chuck. Don’t sweat it.” Sarah stretched to put the security footage DVD into one of the readers. “So here’s the footage of Laszlo escaping. I’m told it’s pretty brutal.” She flicked a glance at Chuck.

“I can handle it,” he promised, reaching for the Red Bull that he had been drinking before Casey and Sarah had arrived. “Hey!”

Sarah finished off the Red Bull she’d snatched in one gulp. “Heh,” Casey said, and chuckled. “Way to take one for the team, Walker. And thank you.”

“Sorry, Chuck.” Sarah winced at the taste. She tossed the can into a trash can behind her without looking. “It really was for your own good. You’ve had too many of those things.”

Chuck glowered at her even as both of his knees jiggled. “It’s cold and flu season, you know.”

“So?”

“So don’t come to me if you got sick because you’re sharing drinks. Without asking first, I must add.”

“Are you getting sick? You should have told me, I—”

“Children,” Casey interrupted. “As fascinating as it is listening to you squabble, can we get on with it?”

Chuck was a little grateful that Casey had stopped Sarah mid-sentence. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what sort of medicines the CIA approved of for eradicating colds. All he knew was that Ellie wouldn’t approve.

So he watched, the caffeine in his system making his legs bounce, as on the footage, a psychopath named Laszlo Mahnovski dispatched an entire guard detail. He picked up details with the ease of long practice, allowing the back of his brain to muse over the situation. Laszlo had had to work in secrecy and bust through a legion of guards to break free. Chuck had sat in a bunker for five years without a single guard holding him there. It had been patriotic duty and nothing else—well, nothing, he could admit, until the agoraphobia started kicking in—keeping him there. Sure, they’d set up a sensor, but Sarah had proved twice just how easy it was to sneak past that sensor.

What made him and Laszlo Mahnovski so different?

When the security loop finished, he rocked forward in the chair. “Can you play that again?”

Sarah obliged him.

The second time through enabled him to watch Laszlo specifically rather than the action that was happening on screen. He saw plenty of fear on the weapons designer’s face, but more than that, he saw determination, resolve, and most disturbingly, not a single grain of remorse. Even when he had taken out the guard that had greeted him as “Laz” before Laszlo had attacked. No regret whatsoever.

“He’s unstable,” Sarah said, drawing his attention away from the video. “And off his meds. Some of his mental problems were compounded by the underground lab, others made the underground lab necessary. But we’re to treat the fugitive as dangerous and to contact each other immediately if any of us are to run across his path.”

“By any of us,” Chuck said, “you mean me, right? You can just say that.”

“Of course she means you, idiot. Not all of us here make it a game to invite trouble,” Casey told him.

Chuck glowered, mostly for show. “I’m sorry, who was it that got taken by the Triad before the drug lord could kidnap me?”

“Was this before or after some idiot got out of the bulletproofed car to be held at gunpoint by the Chinese spy?”

“You’re really not going to let that go, are you?” Chuck asked. “For the last time, nobody told me the Crown Vic was bulletproofed!”

“Boys,” Sarah said, her voice deceptively mild. “Can we get on with it?” Casey glowered; Chuck mouthed ‘sorry’ at her and ducked his head low. “Chuck, did you find anything about Laszlo in the database?”

“Actually, yeah.” Chuck raised his head and held out a hand for the remote. When Sarah ceded control, he keyed a sequence into the remote and different images began to fill the screens. “So Laszlo, maybe-bomb-building-psychopath aside and all, was probably the coolest guy ever. This guy is like the government version of Q, I’m totally not kidding.” He pressed a button and documents on three of the screens lit up. The Red Bull cushioning his system made him bounce a little as he sat up. “This is the guy that designed Castle, guys. How awesome is that?”

Casey scanned the documents on the screens nearest him and, shocker, grunted. “Grade-A egghead,” he observed, sniffing. “As if we didn’t have enough of those running around.”

Chuck ignored him. “I was able to dig and find some of the specs he designed and this guy…he’s a genius. I know you told me that earlier, Sarah, but he really is a genius. He designed this logarithm that—”

“Don’t care,” Casey said. “What does any of this have to do with helping us find him?”

Chuck reminded himself that Casey hadn’t been hugged enough as a child, and that none of this taunts, grunts, and growls were personal. “Well,” he said, completely missing the supportive smile Sarah gave him, “since he designed Castle, and as far as I can tell, this is the nearest stronghold where he can gather supplies, I took it upon myself to beef up Castle’s security for the foreseeable future, and I took our names out of the system as a precaution. If he does manage to hack past my safeguards,” and Chuck’s tone told his partners just how unlikely he thought this would be, “he’s going to think that three very different agents work here rather than the ones that really do.”

He clicked another button. Immediately, their pictures popped up on screen, with different names under each.

“Jaime?” Sarah asked. “You really think I look like a Jaime?”

“Rainer?” Casey said.

“I had to get creative,” Chuck said, a little disappointed that neither had liked the names he’d picked. He’d thought the names fit. “And Casey, you could go by Rainer or Mike or even Mikey, if you prefer. Or maybe not Mikey. Definitely not Mikey. Anyway.” He clicked again and their IDs disappeared, replaced by rather detailed schematics of Castle. Chuck paged through them with the remote, occasionally pausing to highlight something with his laser pointer. The security he’d spent all afternoon beefing up. “The Castle was Laszlo’s last creation before he fled the bunker, and it’s possible that he may not even know where it is because the date of his escape coincides pretty closely to when they decided to kick Prometheus off in Burbank instead of sticking me in an underground bunker. Again.”

“Will we be required to do anything else to get inside with these new security measures?” Sarah asked.

“No, but the retina scanner won’t be random anymore, so you might as well ignore your code and just go straight for the scanner instead.” Chuck shrugged apologetically. “I know it’s a pain to stand still for the scan, but I figured it would be the hardest thing for him to hack.”

“It’s good work, Chuck,” Sarah said. “Did you get all of the info dumps for the day registered?”

“No, I got caught up with the Laszlo research, I’ve still got a few shipping manifests to page through. You want me to get back to those? I mean, I could stay down here and help.”

“We’re not the forefront team on the Laszlo situation—he was the FBI’s asset, so they’re handling it. Since we’re the reserve team…” Sarah trailed off with a shrug. “No point in having all three of us focused on this.”

He’d much rather spend a few more hours focusing on Laszlo’s impressive list of feats, as it read like a gadget-head’s wet dream, but she had a point. Chuck swallowed his disappointment and reminded himself that he could always do more research tomorrow. “Yeah. I’ll just head up and get started.”

“When you’re done,” Casey said, “go home.”

Chuck, halfway to the stairs, paused. “You sure? I could help, you know.”

“You’ve got your therapy appointment tomorrow, and Beckman wants you to tackle some of the New York info dumps.” Sarah swiveled her chair so that she could smile at him. Though the smile contained a hint of apology, Chuck didn’t pay much attention. The word “therapy” had made him scowl. “You should get some rest tonight. Take it easy.”

Chuck stalked back to the conference table and grabbed his dossier in front of Casey. He wanted to study it one more time, though he’d memorized everything he would need to know. “The info I gathered on Laszlo is in the A folder, subfolder forty-nine. It’s not exhaustive by any means, but it kind of gives you an inner look at the poetry of the guy’s genius. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Okay. Thanks, Chuck. See you tomorrow.”

Chuck just nodded and gave a half-wave as he climbed the stairs. Barring anything in those manifest lists that made him flash, he’d been dismissed for the day.

30 OCTOBER 2007
CHUCK’S CAR
21:37 PDT

Chuck knew that he and Casey didn’t have the most easygoing working relationship on the planet. In fact, to call their working environment easygoing would be something like saying the mogwai didn’t like candy. As roommates, however, it was simpler to cope. They woke in the morning, they prepared for work, sometimes even carpooling. They spent the day bickering. They returned home. Dinner was usually something of the microwavable or previously-frozen variety. Casey would stay downstairs to watch the FOX news network for a couple of hours before bed. Chuck would retreat upstairs to play video games, or head to see Morgan or his sister. Or so he told Casey.

Since Casey didn’t come back at their usual dinner time, Chuck had decided to grab dinner through the first drive-thru he passed. He sat in his customary spot on the corner and chewed on rubbery fries as he waited for her to appear. Since it was Tuesday, she didn’t have night class, which meant she’d likely bring home take-out for herself and spend the evening inside.

He’d made an appropriate stake-out mix this time. Maybe it was strange to mix “Love Potion Number Nine” and “One Way Or Another.” Maybe it was poking a little too much fun at himself, when the situation really, really wasn’t funny. He had only to see the tightness in Sarah’s jaw whenever she found out what he’d been doing to know that. Or see Casey roll his eyes and grumble about God saving him from lovesick geeks with no concept of boundaries.

But it was all he had. Through the speakers, Blondie rolled over into Cheap Trick’s “I Want You To Want Me.”

Chuck’s phone chimed in on the chorus, only it sang Journey instead. His fault, Chuck thought as he pulled the device from his pocket, for ever letting Morgan anywhere near his phone.

“Yeah, buddy,” he said, cranking down the radio with his free hand as he answered. “What’s up?”

“Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, you have to get to the Buy More!” Excitement crackled through Morgan’s voice; Chuck imagined his best friend jumping up and down in place.

“Wh-what? What’s going on?”

“That thing I told you about! It’s happening tonight, we’re mobilizing the troops, everybody’s in place, things are good to go. You have to get here, man, and bring any ammunition you possibly can. Paintball gun, Nerf gun, hell, bring a Koosh ball if you have to.”

Chuck glanced toward the empty apartment building. He’d yet to see Jill come home and she should be back any minute… “Morgan, now’s not really a good—”

“Wait a second.” Morgan drew up short. “Are you with a woman, Chuck? That’s your ‘I’m with a woman’ voice.”

“I’m not—”

“Is it the hot blonde secretary whose picture you have in your phone?” Morgan sounded excited. “Bring her too! The gang would love to meet the woman who’s captured the heart of The One Bartowski!”

“First, she’s an office manager, not a secretary. Secondly, she has a name. It’s Sarah. And I’m not with her or anybody else right now. Nobody has captured the heart of—really? The One Bartowski? That’s what your calling me now?” Chuck rolled his eyes at his absent best friend.

“Don’t knock the name, dude. My religion, my naming conventions.” Morgan paused and shouted something intelligible to somebody in the background. It sounded like the early stages of a riot, but with the Buy More crew, it was more likely a party. “So what, even if you’re not with her, give her a call, tell her to come to the Buy More. She’ll be very disappointed if she misses the chance to witness history in the making, Chuck. Chuck, Chuck, Chuck. I don’t think you realize this. This is big. It’s huge. It’s first-time-finding-out-Samus-is-a-chick enormous. So grab your weapon of choice and get to the Buy More. Harry Tang and his orangutans are going down! Twenty minutes, buddy. Don’t be late.”

Chuck was left with a dial tone.

He stared wistfully at the empty apartment windows, mourning the fact that a night of sitting in the car staring wasn’t going to pay off. He wouldn’t see Jill tonight. Besides, he had received his marching orders. It was time to go home, gear up, and head to the Buy More. With twin barrels of curiosity and melancholy eating at him, Chuck put his key in the ignition and drove away.

30 OCTOBER 2007
BACHELOR PAD
21:52 PDT

At the apartment, Chuck raced upstairs and pawed through his closet for the dual-action, fifty-round, semi-automatic foam-dart gun he’d purchased especially for this. A distant part of him acknowledged that he was rapidly approaching what could be called a psychological saturation point. Between lunch out with Sarah, and sitting on an open street stalking Jill, his system might overload. But curiosity made the rest of him shrug and ignore all of that.

Plus the dart gun just felt good in his hands.

Since Morgan had put him on a deadline, Chuck ignored the Bryce board and the multitudes of manila folders covering every inch of his bed. He walked right past his monitor, which was open to Kingdom of Athenei. Onscreen, Schnookie idled, alternating between eating patches of grass and nibbling on her own toenails.

Damn, but he was proud of her.

The front door opened just as he started toward it. Casey came in, dumped his keys, and stopped short. His eyes tracked immediately to the gun at Chuck’s side, which wasn’t all that surprising. The gun, after all, was a lurid green with purple accents, and loaded with yellow foam darts. It was about as stealthy as a bull running surveillance from the middle of a china shop.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Bartowski?”

“This really isn’t what it looks like,” Chuck said.

“Really? Because it looks like you’re going out of the apartment, the one where Walker and I asked you to stay for the night, armed to your geek teeth with a pathetic toy. Give me that.” Casey jerked the gun out of Chuck’s hands and grunted as he examined the gun. “What is this? What were you planning to do?”

“It’s a gun, Casey, I think even a badass super secret agent like yourself would realize that.”

Casey grunted and pointed the gun at Chuck’s midsection. “Wanna drop the sarcasm?”

Even though knew the foam darts wouldn’t hurt, even at this range, they would just be a pain to clean up. “Fine,” Chuck said, hoping Casey’s temper wouldn’t inspire him to shoot anyway. “I’ll lose the sarcasm, but I would like to officially go on record protesting this double-standard.”

“Noted. Ignored. Explain.”

Chuck waffled. He was, in theory, a full grown man. It wasn’t any of Casey’s business since he wasn’t putting himself in danger. On the one hand, admitting what he was on his way to do to a cold school killer NSA agent just seemed ridiculous.

On the other, Casey would never let him leave until he explained. So it came out in a rush: “Morgan and his pals are staging a revolution at the Buy More. It’s supposed to be something like the war to end all wars, and not to be missed.”

“A revolution?”

Was that interest in Casey’s eyes? Chuck gulped back shock and decided to push his luck. “An insurgency, if you will, to overthrow an evil overlord. Goes by the name of Harry Tang. Major tool if there ever was one. He’s apparently making life hell for the workers at the Buy More, so tonight is the night for their revenge. I’m going over, going to lay down some cover fire for my buddies, help them out. At the very most, I’ll have a Red Bull hangover tomorrow, and trust me, I can work with that.”

“Okay.”

Of all of the answers Chuck had been expecting, this one was so far off the list that it had held no hope of ever making it past the velvet ropes. “O-okay?”

“Here. C’mon.” Casey shoved the gun back at him on the way by.

Chuck barely caught the gun before it clattered to the floor. “C-c’mon?” he echoed, and to his amazement, followed Casey into the other man’s bedroom. He got the barest details—a bed, white walls, a framed picture of Ronald Reagan keeping a framed picture of Charlton Heston company on the dresser—on the way through, for Casey crossed immediately to a closet full of G-man suits. Chuck watched the other man input a code into what he had assumed to be a thermostat.

Immediately, a grinding, whirring noise made him tense, but it was only the racks of ties and suits retreating back into the closet.

“Whoa,” Chuck said.

The closet hadn’t finished. Long, thin trapdoors on the closet floor opened, very much like the monitor bays in Chuck’s desk at Castle. Panels slid out of the floor, thin and wide, nearly as tall as Chuck and Casey. Lights around the edges flared to life, illuminating the panels’ wares admirably.

Chuck’s jaw swung gently in the breeze.

Casey ignored both the geek and three quarters of the panels that would make any card-carrying member of the NRA jealous. Not a single gun company was left out of this particular party, Chuck noted. Though from the number of Sig Sauer articles pegged neatly to those panels, Casey apparently owned controlling stock in that company. He didn’t seem to be a discriminating type—he liked guns. Shotguns, revolvers, pistols, machine guns…blow-guns. Wonderingly, Chuck reached out to pick that one up, only to have Casey slap his hand away without looking.

It was unnerving how both Sarah and Casey could do that.

Casey swiveled the panel on the left around and surveyed his options with pursed lips. As Chuck continued to gape, he went for the gun in the middle. It wasn’t the largest, but it was by far the most impressive.

“Like it?” he asked the bug-eyed Chuck. “I call her the Harbinger.”

“Uh, y-yeah. She’s a beauty.” And she was, too. Easily twice the size of Chuck’s own gun, The Harbinger could hold twice the amount of ammo, dual-action, with an automatic reload and what looked like a long-distance scope and laser guidance system. On top of that, the gun was sleek, painted matte black with bold blue accents. A functional work of art.

As Chuck goggled, wondering exactly when he had entered this alternate dimension and if there was perhaps a super-spy version of himself running around, romancing women that looked like Sarah Walker, Casey slung a couple of dart ammo belts over one shoulder, reset the closet panels, cocked the gun, and said, “Let’s go.”

30 OCTOBER 2007
BURBANK BUY MORE
22:13 PDT

Given the latish hour, it was unsurprising that the Buy More parking lot would be mostly empty, containing only a line of Buy More Nerd Herders and the employee cars. Either way, Casey parked over in front of Underpants, Etc. so that his beloved Crown Vic would be out of the line of fire should the battle spill out into the parking lot. Together, he and Chuck climbed from the car. It had taken Chuck all of his willpower to convince Casey that they didn’t need their tactical dress uniforms for this mission. Jeans, dark shirts, and ski caps would suffice.

Looking like a couple of muggers with absurdly bright guns, they strode across the parking lot. Though the inside of the Buy More was dark, the doors opened with a whisper to admit them.

“Well, this is spooky,” Chuck said as he looked into the belly of the dimly-lit electronics superstore.

Casey’s head jerked and he yanked the Harbinger up, aiming off to the right, toward the Home Entertainment center. “Get down,” he muttered to Chuck, and they slunk behind one of the freestanding carts that contained the new release DVDs. Chuck had no idea what License to Wed was about, but he had absolutely no desire to see it. He would, however, have no problem whatsoever using it as a shield.

“What is it?” he asked Casey.

Casey squinted into the dimness. “Saw movement. Where are we supposed to meet your team?”

Chuck’s pocket chirped. New text message. “Break room,” he said once he’d checked. “They must be tapped into the security feed back there, they saw us come in.”

Since Chuck had briefed Casey on the layout of the Buy More, he was able to lead the way through the DVD section, heading parallel to the back of the store on a slant toward the break room. They gave the home entertainment area a wide berth—“Most likely the enemy base.”—and used the Nerd Herd desk for cover. Though they occasionally heard the squeak of a sneaker against linoleum, no bogeys were sighted.

Chuck gave the secret knock while Casey covered him, the Harbinger pointed toward the store.

A very relieved Morgan opened the door and quickly yanked Chuck into a break room full of people in geek commando gear. Even Creepy Jeff, it seemed, had found a way to geekify the Army Surplus. Or at least Chuck assumed it was Creepy Jeff underneath a full camouflage blanket.

“Where have you been? You took forever!”

“Getting back-up,” Chuck said.

Morgan’s eyes lit up. “You brought your secretary?”

“Office manager,” Chuck started to say, but Casey shouldered his way into the room, knocking Chuck forward. “And no, I brought him. Morgan, meet John Casey. John Casey, my best friend Morgan. Casey here runs security for my company.”

“Nice to meet you, man,” Morgan said, extending a hand toward Casey.

Casey ignored him completely. “What in the sainted name of George S. Patton, Jr. is that abomination?”

Chuck quickly jumped between the NSA agent and the Wall of Chuck before that vein in Casey’s neck could start throbbing. “Morgan missed me, that’s all this is,” he said through his teeth, hoping that Casey could read minds and understand that the wall, while insane, terrifying, and quite frankly a little puzzling, but not a threat to national security.

“It’s our shrine,” Morgan said as he unrolled a set of blueprints onto one of the tables, “to The One. And it’s not important right now. All right, lady and gentlemen, here we go. Let the Battle of Wolf Three-Five-Nine commence.”

Chuck squinted at first the blueprints, which seemed to be of the Buy More, and then at Morgan. “Didn’t the Battle of Wolf Three-Five-Nine go horribly, horribly wrong for the good guys?”

“Details, Chuck, details.” Morgan produced a riding crop from nowhere and smacked it against the wall. More specifically, across a picture of a glowering bald man. The words “ASSISTANT MANAGER” blazed in Buy More yellow and green under the picture. Some clever geek had blacked out “ISTANT” and “AGER” with a Sharpie. “Tell me, Chuck, does that or does that not look like a Borg to you?”

Chuck tilted his head. “Now that you mention it…”

“And this time, the good guys are going to win because, well, that’s how it happens on TV, and that’s how it should happen in the Buy More.” Morgan put both hands on the table, on either side of the blueprints, and met his teammates’ eyes one by one. “Pay attention, boys. And girl.” The woman who’d asked for Chuck’s autograph (he’d since learned her name was Anna) rolled her eyes and shifted her bokken. “The game is Capture the Flag. Per the rules, we’re allowed to put the flag anywhere we want, so we chose…” He gestured at the camouflage blanket in the corner.

Sure enough, Creepy Jeff appeared from its depths. As everybody watched in horror, he reached into his pants and—

“Eugh!” Every nerd herder, green-shirt, and Chuck cried together.

Creepy Jeff chortled and shoved the flag back into his underwear.

Morgan waited for the shuddering to finish before he continued. “It’s not a certainty by any means, but we think that Team Tang will have stuffed their flag in one of the refrigerators in the home appliance section. So this is how it’s going to go down…”

30 OCTOBER 2007
BURBANK BUY MORE
22:37 PDT

They’d been assigned two-man fireteams for the battle, which seemed sensible to Chuck. Apparently, Morgan and Harry Tang had laid out rules beforehand: any choice of weapon was fine, but team members had to acknowledge hits even if the ammunition didn’t leave a mark. Chuck had seen everything from modified paintball guns to a blowtorch.

Though to be fair, Morgan had seen fit to take that away from Lester Patel. The little dude was just too squirrelly to rock a blowtorch, or so Morgan had claimed. Chuck had thanked him on behalf of society everywhere.

His own partner was, and this was truly a shocker, Casey. Morgan had wanted to team up with his best buddy, but Casey had been adamant. He ran security for Chuck Bartowski’s company. He would run security for Chuck Bartowski.

It was actually kind of fun working with Casey, not that Chuck would ever admit that aloud. Casey treated the whole war with the seriousness of a gun battle on the Ho Chi Minh trail. He led the way through the Buy More, hand signaling whenever a team need to branch off, his footsteps quiet and measured, his every sense alert. Chuck walked backward behind him, covering his rear and trying not to stumble over anything that would give away their position. They could hear shouts and click of random nonlethal weapons as other fireteams encountered the enemy, but so far, Chuck and Casey had been amazingly lucky.

Casey held up a hand. Wait. Obediently, Chuck dropped to a knee as he’d been instructed, his gun at the ready. Casey gave him the signal to stay put and wandered forward a couple more feet into the small home appliance section—

The little man struck in a blur of yellow, green, and khaki, shouting a Klingon war cry. He blind-sided Casey so fast that Casey wasn’t able to swing the Harbinger around in time—and the opponent sailed right into him.

Casey reacted with all of the instinct of a hardened soldier and federal agent. He knocked the man in the yellow polo to the ground with one easy stroke, brought the Harbinger around, and shot him in the forehead.

Harry Tang blinked up at John Casey, a dart stuck right between his eyes.

Chuck gaped. “That was so cool! Can you do that again?”

“Shut up, moron, you’re giving away our position,” Casey hissed. He pointed one threatening finger at the stunned Assistant Manager on the ground. “Not a word out of you. You’re a dead man, hear me? I shot you, fair and square.”

The dart bobbled a little when Harry Tang nodded, too scared to speak.

“I think his warble might have given us away a little more than I did,” Chuck whispered, scowling at Casey.

“Whatever. We need to move. C’mon.” Casey sent one last glare at Harry Tang. He reached out to grab Chuck’s shoulder and haul him along.

But Chuck, sensing movement behind him, whirled, gun up. He saw just a flash and took off without thinking it through first, ignoring Casey’s hissed, “Bartowski! It could be a trap!” He rounded a corner into the stereo equipment aisle.

The Koosh ball hit him right in the forehead. It kind of hurt, actually.

“Hah!” Squirrelly Lester actually did a victory dance on the spot. “Got you!”

Chuck gritted his teeth and only willed himself not to rub the mark where the Koosh ball had hit and give Lester the satisfaction. “I’m on your team,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “You just killed one of your own teammates, moron.”

Wow. Casey was certainly rubbing off on him. This could not be considered a good thing at all.

“Did I? Did I really?” Lester’s oily, conniving grin threatened to split his face. “Tell me, Charles. There’s a Manager, and an Ass Man, and then what? Assistant to the Ass Man. No more wading in the depths of obscurity for me. I intend to ride the coattails of one Harold Tiberius Tang to fame and glory and—urk!” A dart sprouted between his eyes. He scowled at Chuck. “That wasn’t fair! You’re dead! I killed you already, that’s against the rules!”

“But this isn’t,” Casey said from behind Lester right before he shot the Ass Man’s ass man in the ass. For good measure, he added an extra dart to the back of Lester’s head. He blew on his gun barrel for good measure, chuckling under his breath. “Nobody likes a traitor.”

Lester stalked off in a huff, probably to find the stunned-stupid Harry Tang and commiserate. Chuck sent a huge sarcastic grin after him—and froze.

“Well, if you’re dead, Bartowski, might as well go wait out in the car. I’ll go find the flag and—what are you looking at?” Casey shifted position so that he could follow Chuck’s line of sight. His eyes widened. “Oh.”

Immediately, warlike Casey disappeared and his twin brother Major Casey took over. “He hasn’t spotted us, so we don’t want to spook him. I’ll circle around, approach from the other side, and you sneak as quietly as you possibly can behind him. Do not alert him to your presence, do not engage him. Got me?”

“Got it,” Chuck said, his voice cracking. He forced his limbs to move jerkily forward.

But it was too late. Their quarry, currently rooting through the home appliance section while every Buy More employee was otherwise occupied, had looked over—right at them. Chuck had approximately two seconds to stare into Laszlo Mahnovski’s startled face.

Before the fugitive turned tail and ran.

Chapter 16: I Told the Witch Doctor…

Notes:

There are no mistakes, no coincidences. All events are blessings given to us to learn from. — Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

31 OCTOBER 2007
BACHELOR PAD
00:12 PDT

“And that just about sums it up,” Chuck said, tilting his chair back and staring at his ceiling. “Casey’s still out looking, but Laszlo got a good head-start on us both by knocking over a DVD display stand.”

He’d tripped, and badly, slamming his hip hard enough into the linoleum that he’d have an impressive bruise the next day. It had been a bad enough fall that it had slowed Casey up and Laszlo Mahnovski had been able to slip through the unlocked front doors of the Buy More and into the oblivion of Los Angeles. Chuck and Casey had driven around for nearly an hour, combing the area, but there were far too many places Laszlo could have gone.

Now, wearing sweatpants and an T-shirt liberated from Sarah and Ellie’s apartment, he tried to keep the glumness out of his voice. “We should’ve been more on our game.”

“Chuck, you couldn’t have known.” On the other end of the phone, Sarah sounded tired. He’d pulled her from sleep, he knew, though she’d claimed otherwise. “Accidents happen.”

“Mm-hmm.” Chuck wasn’t sure he agreed. After all, if it weren’t for his clumsiness, a psychopath would be underground building weapons for the government instead of against it. It sickened him to think about it, so he pushed it from his mind.

“Wait a second,” Sarah said on the other end, sounding a lot more awake. “What were you and Casey even doing at the Buy More that late?”

Chuck winced. He’d hoped to sneak that fact by Sarah, as he’d begun trying to tone down his geekiness around her. Not that she didn’t know already…he just didn’t want to call as much attention to it. “Starting a revolution,” he admitted. “Capture the flag, winner take all—respect, that is.”

“Capture the flag?”

“With Nerf guns, paintball, and in one case, a wakazaschi.”

“A what?”

“How in the world do I know something about weapons that you don’t?” Chuck dove for a spare sheet of paper and jotted his name down. It came out legible.

She must have heard the rustling. “What are you doing?”

Making sure I’m not left-handed.”

“Um, okay.”

“Because the me in another dimension would be left-handed.”

A long pause on the other end of the line, and then Sarah sighed. “Another dimension or a mirror dimension?”

A smile broke out over Chuck’s face. “Did Sarah Walker just correct me in nerd?”

Another long pause.

When she didn’t answer for a full ten seconds, Chuck laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Casey. Speaking of Casey, you should have seen him tonight. Did you know he’s got a secret stash of every single gun made post World War Two?”

“And you’re surprised by this?”

“Good point. But Sarah, it doesn’t stop there. He has Nerf guns. Not just one. Multiple Nerf guns. That he names. Limited editions, too. I’m pretty sure I saw a Nerf Glock.”

Sarah yawned. “And you’re surprised by this?”

“Well, yeah,” Chuck started to say, but he stopped mid-word. “I guess not.”

“Even secret agents have hidden depths.” Another yawn, this time more pronounced. Chuck wondered if Sarah had climbed out of bed for the call. He figured not, and had to wonder why that would excite him at all. “Chuck, is there anything else to report?”

“Uh, no. You should go back to sleep. Sorry to keep you up so long.”

“No, it’s okay. How else would I know about the Nerf Glock? Good night, Chuck.”

“Good night, Sarah. Happy Halloween.”

A sleepy snicker, and she hung up.

Chuck set his phone down, tilted his chair forward, and focused on his computer monitor. He’d swiped the security disks from the Buy More—at his own peril, as the Buy Morians hadn’t appreciated the loss of their war tapes, even to The One Bartowski—but they hadn’t told him anything salient. Laszlo had used the game as cover to grab a few supplies. Mostly snacks, and something from the small appliance section. The cameras in the store weren’t high quality enough to make out fine detail, so if Chuck wanted to know what Laszlo had taken, he’d have to visit the store himself before his therapy appointment.

His computer chirped. He turned down his music and clicked over to the mirrored account where his activity wouldn’t be on display to a series of government geeks. Immediately, a screen popped up.

No results found. Well, that sucked.

Chuck frowned and picked up his pencil so that he could tap it against his knee while he thought his next step through. He’d tracked down what felt like every Phillip Dartmoor on the planet, and he had the files covering his bed to prove it. However, his efforts had stalled and his attempts were stymied by the fact that he refused to use the government databases.

He had no idea what game Bryce Larkin was playing. Even with Sarah’s warnings, or maybe because of them, Chuck couldn’t give up on the charismatic spy. There simply had to be more to the story. Not a single motive had popped up about why Bryce Larkin had stolen the Intersect and sent it to him, or why he would have attempted to rescue Chuck from the clutches of Peyman Alahi. So until somebody sat down and told him why all of this had happened, Chuck would play it close to the vest and avoid letting the government know exactly what he was doing.

One of his problems was the paperwork. Nobody had told him just how much paperwork being a spy generated. Every day brought new bureaucratic hurdles for the team: different forms, some needing to be notarized (Chuck wondered when Sarah had had time between jaunts to take down dictators with silverware to become a notary, or if she’d stolen the notary stamp off of some poor dead legal secretary), others filed in triplicate. Eyes Only. Top Secret. Beyond Top Secret. So many official words, so many papers.

Chuck had started coding a program that would take care of the paperwork, mostly to help Sarah out. Busywork just naturally seemed to fall to her. Chuck had so much data to analyze that he could only tackle the basics, Casey was the team’s forerunner for small operations. Things were already starting to backup on Sarah’s desk, making the surface vanish entirely under a blanket of bureaucracy. She never complained, though Chuck wondered if she wanted to. First class CIA agent, she of the jet set and judo chop, chained to a desk.

It was a crying shame, really.

Even outside the office, Chuck generated paperwork. He’d started a personal log of every flash all the way from the beginning, which took up quite a bit of desk space. And at home, he had his files on the various Phillip Dartmoors eating up all of his bed space. He’d logged them into his own database so that he could code a search that would recognize patterns within the different Phillip Dartmoors. The problem was, he wasn’t sure what Bryce wanted him to know, so the searches did him absolutely no good until he could get his hands on some context.

All he had was what his gut told him, which was that he was hungry.

Chuck picked up a forgotten slice of the pizza he’d nuked before calling Sarah, and settled in to read through each file for the fifth time.

31 OCTOBER 2007
BURBANK BUY MORE
10:22 PDT

Armed with screen-shots, a satchel, and raw nerves, Chuck stepped into the Buy More. He greeted Fernando at the door with a two-handed handshake and a how’s-your-pet-rabbit, and headed into the main bay, seeking the small appliances section. The store, he saw as he hurried, hadn’t taken too much damage the night before. The rack he’d tripped over had been righted, at least.

Chuck rounded a corner and immediately leaped back with a shriek he would probably never live down.

Harry Tang, wearing a ridiculously small cowboy hat, sneered. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Chuck Bartowski, returning to our fold.”

Chuck squinted. Was that a red mark between Harry’s eyes? “Uh, not exactly. I stopped by to—”

“Heard you got your own software company,” Harry went on, steamrolling right over him. “Yet you’re still pathetic enough to waste all of your free time in a Buy More? That’s pretty sad, even for you, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry, is this your idea of customer service? Might need to retake that course, Harry.” Chuck tried to sidestep.

No dice. Harry Tang simply stepped into his path again. “I’m an assistant manager now. Nothing can touch me. And since we’re not stock-boys anymore, I have some bones to pick with you…”

At any other point in time, Chuck would probably have engaged him in a verbal battle. But right now, he simply had too much to deal with. The store was too open and vast. He was less than two hours from being forced into his first therapy session. There was a bomb-making fugitive on the loose in LA that he was partially responsible for, as he’d let the guy get away. And to add to it all, echoes of long-distance memoires of disdain for the tiny, petty man standing in front of him sprang up. Apparently, absence really didn’t make the heart grow fonder.

So Chuck pulled out his phone and punched in three numbers. “Yeah, thank you, I need the number for Buy More corporate, please. Sure, I’ll hold.”

Harry Tang went the color of raw parchment. “You wouldn’t.”

“What’s it matter?” Chuck asked. “Nothing can touch you, right? Assistant manager, isn’t that what you said? Yes, hi, I’m calling to lodge a complaint.” The last was into his phone.

In front of him, Harry glowered. “Tattle-tale,” he muttered, and stalked off.

“Missed you, too, buddy!” Chuck called after him. Into the phone, he said, “Actually, I changed my mind. Have a nice day.” He hung up, his expression shifting from politely pleasant to annoyed as he hurried toward the small appliance section. “Dickhead.”

Maybe he should go to the Beverly Hills Buy More whenever he had legitimate shopping to do. Things in Burbank too often reminded him of an episode of Scooby-Doo. The scenery might revolve in the background, but the action in the foreground rarely changed. It was amusing but, in the end, ultimately pointless.

Thankfully, the green-shirts all seemed too exhausted by the previous evening’s festivities to notice the presence of “The One” Bartowski, so he was left in relative peace to peruse the section of the small appliance aisle where he and Casey had spotted Laszlo. He studied the screen-shots and his own memories carefully until he was mimicking the fugitive’s actions perfectly. Grimly, he picked up Laszlo’s quarry.

He stuffed the screen-shots back into the satchel and pulled out his phone again. This time, it only took one button.

“Bad news,” he said when he heard Sarah pick up. “I found out what Laszlo was on a supply run for last night. I’m going to send over a picture.”

“Where are you? It sounds loud.”

Chuck glanced at the screens around the room, where Boris Karloff had just startled some poor woman. The music was indeed a bit screechy. “I’m at the Buy More, following intuition. I’m leaving my therapy appointment soon, I promise, but you should let the FBI know to be on high alert. Laszlo is definitely building a bomb.”

He stared grimly at the kitchen timer in his hand as he hung up.

31 OCTOBER 2007
OFFICE OF DR. FARNSWORTH
11:28 PDT

When Chuck walked into Dr. Farnsworth’s waiting room, he was far more tense than he’d ever been, even while running away from Siberia with a beautiful almost-stranger. He felt a little like C-3PO, all stiff limbs and stiffer joints. He introduced himself to the receptionist, was invited to sit and wait. He stared at his hands the whole time.

When the receptionist invited him to go in, he thanked her and did so.

What he found stopped him cold.

Maybe he’d been expecting something like Scott, his old therapist that had treated him to an A’s game (nosebleed seats, naturally) as the culmination of their time together. Or a fussy psychiatrist with a silly accent. Somebody whose face could represent the system he resented.

What he was not expecting was Dr. Amelia Farnsworth.

“You must be Charles,” she said, rising when Chuck froze in the doorway. “Gwen’s told me so much about you. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Chuck automatically shook the hand proffered. “Dr. Farnsworth?” he asked, just to make sure he hadn’t wandered into the wrong office.

“Please, just Amy. Dr. Farnsworth is my mother-in-law.” Amy waited for a beat, but Chuck didn’t move. He just kept staring. “I’m sorry, is something the matter?”

“What? Oh. No, ah, sorry. It’s just, you look so much like—”

“The woman from ‘Arrested Development?’ I know. I love that show—it’s a guilty pleasure.” Amy laughed and gestured for Chuck to come inside. When he did, she reached behind him and closed the door. “I tell everybody that I came out here to be an actress, but that was too much work, so I picked up psychiatry instead.”

Chuck forced a laugh. It helped, he noted in some distant corner of his mind, that Amy wore a no-nonsense black business suit, something that Sarah would don only if forced. Otherwise, the resemblance would just be spooky. Sarah’s hair was a little darker, her eyes a little less ice-blue, but whoa.

“So, have a seat, get comfortable. Sorry to go against the cliché, but I find that if I let patients lay down on a couch, they fall asleep on me.” Amy smiled as she said this, and Chuck was strangely relieved to see that her teeth were even. He sat as ordered, and wondered why his joints didn’t squeak. “I make do with just an armchair. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Um, water?”

“Sure.” Amy crossed to a mini-fridge in the corner. Chuck finally allowed himself to look around the room and see something beyond escape routes. The office was large, tasteful, the desk and chairs classy. The walls held a mix of Dali and Kazinsky, which told Chuck that Amy seemed to like color in her artwork, at least. The desk was reasonably neat, the nearest edge lined with picture frames facing the other way. From the number, Chuck figured that Sarah’s doppelganger probably had kids.

He nodded his thanks when Amy handed him a water glass. “So, ah, you know Agent Davenport? Ah, Gwen?”

“I do. We’ve never met, but I used to do some profiling for her when I had spare time. A long time ago.” She laughed a little. Definitely had kids, Chuck observed. “I don’t normally take on cases for the government, since I don’t like the restrictions, but Gwen Davenport’s one of the best, and she speaks very highly of you. Your service record must be impressive, Mr. Carmichael.”

Chuck shrugged, a robotic movement. “It is what it is.”

“Very well. When Gwen told me about your case, I have to admit, I was fascinated. I hope I’ll be able to help you.”

Her words, unfortunately, held the opposite effect. The shock holding Chuck’s emotions back dissolved, only now instead of frustration and impotence, anger flavored the mix. Anger that Dr. Farnsworth wasn’t the sweater-vest wearing old fart he’d been hoping to shut down in his tracks. Aggravation that she looked just like Sarah. Annoyance at Gwen for putting him in this situation. Had she done this on purpose? Had she known that Sarah Walker and Amy Farnsworth had evidently been separated at birth? She’d met Sarah in the holding facility; Sarah had figured into Chuck’s stories to Gwen, since she’d been one of four humans he’d seen in five years. Only one photo of Amy would be necessary to see the eerie resemblance.

So, was Special Agent Gwen Davenport manipulating him, on top of everybody else in the damned government?

“Honestly,” Chuck said, his words bitten off, “I don’t think you’re going to be able to.”

Amy’s pleasant look remained unchanged. “May I ask why you think that?”

“I don’t want to be here,” Chuck said. “I can think of fifty other places where I’d rather be. Actually, I can think of thousands. There may be one place I want to be less than I want to be here, and that’s that godforsaken hellhole bunker wherever my dossier says I was being held. I have problems, I know that. I want them to go away or at least stop interfering with my ability to function like a normal human being. But that’s not going to happen if I’m telling you lies off of a dossier, so you’re not going to help me, and I’m not going to be helped. This is all a stupid waste of time, when I have other, more important things I could be doing.” Like stopping a renegade bomb-maker loose in Los Angeles.

“The dossier isn’t to protect you, Agent Carmichael.” Amy gave him a sympathetic look, of all things. It made Chuck want to take a page from Casey’s book of life lessons and growl. He stuck with a stubborn glare instead. “It’s to protect me should you be captured, given your status as a field agent. It was at my request that the details be suppressed.”

“Why?”

“I realize details will be different,” Amy went on, “and that may seem like a hindrance, but I promise you, we can talk openly about your interpretation of events, how you feel, how you think you’re coping, or even the persons of interest in your dossier. Details change, but the origins, the feelings and the mentality behind it, you’ll find, remain true.”

Even if her point was a valid one—and he would have to mull that over later—Chuck focused only on one thing. His dossier file hadn’t covered anybody he was allowed to mention by name. “Persons of interest?”

“Agent Walton and Captain Case?”

“Agent Wal—” Chuck started to echo, and burst out laughing. They’d demoted Casey? And what the hell was up with the government’s cover-story department? “Walton like Sam Walton? Creative, government. Good job. But yeah, honestly, talking about her would be a little weird for me. Especially to you.”

“Why is that?” If Amy had been confused by the laughter, she didn’t show it.

To answer, Chuck merely pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed over to the pictures folder. “Here,” he said, handing over the phone.

Amy blinked at the picture. “What on—”

“Dr. Farnsworth, meet your twin by another mother—or I’m assuming it’s another mother. Agent ‘Walton’ has never actually told me about her family background, so you two could be sisters and I wouldn’t have the first idea.”

Amy glanced from the picture to Chuck. “This is your partner?”

“The pretty one, yes. She grunts a lot less than the other one, too.”

For a long moment, Amy studied the picture, probably categorizing the same differences and similarities that Chuck had been doing for their whole conversation. “Well, if you say she’s pretty, I guess I’ll have to thank you for the compliment. But no, Agent Walton and I are not related. As far as I know.” Amy took one final look and handed the phone back. “This is all just a big coincidence, as I’m fairly certain Agent Davenport knows me only through my work.”

Chuck shrugged as he pocketed the phone. “Of all the tastefully-decorated, government contracted psychiatrist’s offices in all the towns in all the world…”

“And you walk into mine,” Amy finished. She shook her head and leaned back, tapping her pencil eraser on the legal pad across her lap. “Agent Walton is the one that found you in the bunker?”

“Yes. She got me out of there.”

“Then this really isn’t going to work.” Amy frowned. “I’ll have to refer you to one of my associates. I’ll talk to Agent Davenport right away to clear up the problem.”

“You could take your time, I don’t mind,” Chuck said. “In fact, you could hold off for six months or so…”

Amy smiled as they both stood. “I’m sorry, Agent Carmichael. If the government feels you’re important enough for field work, they’ll want to move quickly. Therapy’s not all bad, you know. Sometimes there are proper psychiatrists who actually use real couches.”

Pessimism with the government aside, he had to smile back. He shook Amy’s hand, they made a few twin jokes on the way through the waiting room, and she saw him off into the hallway that led to the parking garage. He paused at the door to outside as he always did, taking a deep breath. With that little bit of courage fueling him, he stepped out into the sunlight.

Outside, he evaluated the experience, just to distract himself from the sheer amount of space and people around. Did he like Amy on her own or because she was the spitting image of Sarah? He’d gone in predisposed to like her, but true, she’d been funny, and a little self-deprecating. Obviously a caring individual. Would he have felt an affinity this fast if she looked more like, say, Casey?

Chuck shuddered.

Okay, he amended in his head as he started to climb the stairs to the second level of the parking garage. Maybe Casey was a little far. But if Amy had looked like anybody else, he might have at least tolerated therapy. And he couldn’t be angry about a dossier if it was just a woman looking out for her kids. The point she’d made about the details changing, but the origins and mentality staying the same was actually fairly good. Maybe it was because he had an actual computer lodged inside his, but Chuck had a whole and healthy respect for the power of the human brain.

Wait a second. The details would be different, but the origins and mentality remain the same…

The origins.

“Oh, hell,” Chuck breathed. He fumbled for his phone. It almost squirted out of his sweaty fingers, but he grabbed it before anything that would lead to Casey grumbling about requisitions forms could happen. He stabbed the appropriate button. “Hey, Sarah?”

“Chuck?” Suspicion and wariness leaked from her voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be in therapy for another half hour?”

“We, ah, adjourned early.”

“What? Why?”

Chuck winced as he missed a step and scraped up the toe of his dress shoe. He’d much rather be wearing chucks, but a first meeting with the therapist required proper attire. “I don’t know if you’d believe me even if I told you,” he said.

“Chuck?” The wariness and suspicion grew.

“She can’t take my case. It’s a long story, or actually, a really, really short one, but that’s not important. Laszlo’s file—where he was he discovered?”

After a second, he heard paper rustling. “Agent Scary recruited him,” Sarah said, her voice bemused enough to tell Chuck that she was still scanning the file.

“How?”

“He saw Laszlo playing Tetris in an arcade at…the Santa Monica Pier.”

Halfway across the parking garage level to his car, Chuck stopped. The memory hit him harder than anything the Intersect could ever throw at him. He was yanked over time and space to Stanford, sitting in a chair across from Professor Fleming. Hearing words like “important” and “one of a kind” and “serve a vital role.” Listening to his professor wax poetic about patriotism, about being meant for more.

He’d revisited the memory only a few times over the years—if he thought about it, really sat down and ruminated, anger would inevitably begin to seep through, growing and melting together like the Blob, until it amassed into a debilitating state of impotent rage that could never have an outlet.

“Chuck?” Sarah’s voice prodded him back to the present.

“It’s the Pier,” Chuck blurted out, starting to move again. He raced for his car. “He’s going to bomb the Pier.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah—they have a huge Halloween party there every year.” Or, Chuck corrected as he rounded the hood and fumbled for his key, they had five years before. Had that changed while he’d been stuck in the bunker? “If he’s that set on getting out…”

“He’ll want to make a splash,” Sarah said. Through the phone line, he heard her scrambling, possibly to grab her gear. He climbed into his own car and threw it into reverse. “Chuck, get back to Castle, stay there, and stay downstairs!”

“What? No, I can help!”

“What’s in your head is far too valuable to be going near any bombs. You get yourself back to Castle and you stay put!”

“Sarah—”

“That is an order, Chuck!”

Chuck’s tires squealed as he peeled out of the parking garage, leaving only skid marks. “The guy is going to blow up the pier when it’ll have the most impact, which is the Halloween party. Which doesn’t start until early this evening. I’ve seen the guy in person, I can help!”

“It’s not your job to help. Your job is to use the Intersect and keep it safe!”

“He’s going to blow people up, Sarah. I can’t let that happen.” He could hear shouting even as he yanked the phone away from his ear, but he didn’t care. He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, where it continued to ring at him. How the woman managed to channel her anger through electronics, he had no idea, but somehow “Jazzy Jive Ringtone 4” sounded a great deal more pissed off than usual.

He beat Casey and Sarah to the Pier only through a miracle, and a magically open parking spot nearby. By the time he arrived, he could feel the threat of a panic attack beginning to lurk at the edges of his existence, but the very real threat of a bomb at the Santa Monica Pier mercifully kept the demons at bay.

Even so, by the time Casey and Sarah ran up to him by the entrance, he was covered in sweat. “You can yell at me later,” he said, as one of his partners looked annoyed and the other ready to commit Intersecticide. “I’m not hiding away like a coward while this guy poses a real threat. Not with all of these people in danger.”

Casey glanced at his CIA compatriots and seemed to decide to ignore everybody present with, as he’d put it more than once, idiotic lady feelings. “Any sign of him?”

“No, nothing, but then, I just got here, so—”

“All right. We split up, I’ll head to the end and work my way back. Walker, you and Bartowski start at the entrance and go from there.” Casey sighed to himself and reached into his jacket. He held out a gun, butt first.

Chuck stared at the weapon, wondering why on earth Casey had mistaken him for Sarah and, consequently, what sort of head injury could possibly lead to that sort of gross error. “Um, Casey, I’m Chuck. Remember? No guns without explicit written and spoken approval—”

“It’s a tranq gun, moron. Since you insist on being a hero.” Casey rolled his eyes. “You shoot a civilian with this thing, your ass is mine. You shoot yourself with this thing, your ass is mine. You shoot Walker with this thing—”

“Yeah, I know, I know, my ass is yours.”

“I was going to say you’re Castle’s Employee of the Month. Now go. Your partner’s leaving.”

Chuck glanced over his shoulder, and swore when he saw Sarah’s blond hair disappearing into the crowd. He took off after her.

“For Dan Daly’s sake, Bartowski, put that thing away!” Casey called after him.

Chuck, realizing that running down the Santa Monica Pier in broad daylight with a gun in hand was probably one for the Bad Idea column, quickly stashed the gun into his waistband. He kept running until he caught up to Sarah.

“Sorry,” he said. “Casey had a pep talk for me. Sort of.”

Sarah scanned every inch of the pier as they walked, though her body language remained relaxed, even languid. Her jaw-line, however, screamed tension. “When we get back to Castle, you and I are going to have a long talk about following orders.”

“Will that include the need for body armor on my part or not?” Chuck scanned the interior of the arcade for signs of a psychopath with a hair-trigger.

All he saw, though, was Sarah. She jerked him around so that he faced her. He saw the same determined look he remembered from their fight by the Acropolis. “Chuck, go home.”

“I’m keeping it together,” Chuck said, though he could feel an entirely new coat of sweat starting inside his shirt. He didn’t know if it was because they might be practically on top of a bomb or because of all of the people sucking up all of the damn air. It didn’t seem to matter much. “Sarah, I can help—”

“And you can get blown up.” Sarah’s grip tightened. “Please, Chuck, go back to Castle, and stay there.”

“Sarah, have you met me?” Chuck, feeling the need to somehow put the situation back onto even footing, shifted his arm so that he could grip Sarah’s wrist. He thought he heard her breath catch, but it was probably just the Sno-Cone machine hissing. “With my luck, I’ll get kidnapped on the way to the car.”

Sarah grimaced, but didn’t argue. She gentled her grip, using it to pull him along. When she shifted it to hand-holding, Chuck gave her an alarmed look.

“Did we just become the Rogerses again?”

“People pay less attention to couples holding hands. And Laszlo might already be looking for you.”

“And he magically won’t see me because I’m with you? Let’s face it, Sarah, you’re fairly tall for a woman, but you’re not that tall.”

“Not precisely what I meant.” Sarah kept her gaze trained off to the left; her gait slowed, her hand tensed.

“What precisely did you—oh.” The railing hit him mid-back as Sarah nudged him into it. He’d have complained, but Sarah immediately pressed up against him. All discomfort on the planet ceased. “Um, what are you do—”

Sarah leaned in. Chuck’s heart, already cantering, began to clock overtime. He stayed stock still.

At the last moment, Sarah changed trajectory, angling away from a kiss and toward his ear. “Behind me,” she murmured. “To your right, white male, trench coat. Don’t look directly at him, but tell me, is that our target?”

Chuck forced his brain back on, trying to focus on something beyond every single point of contact between his body and Sarah’s (and there were a lot of points of contact). He blinked a few times, trying not to squint too obviously. Trench Coat wasn’t hard to spot in a crowd—a trench coat outside of rush hour tended to stand out like a Trekker at a Star Wars convention—but he had a hard time focusing beyond the scent of Sarah’s shampoo, so it took a moment.

When he got a good look, however, he burst out laughing.

“Chuck?” He felt Sarah tense.

“About your trench coat suspect—”

“What the hell are you two doing?” Casey arrived, one hand hovering near his gun. Chuck could almost convince himself that he and Sarah weren’t Casey’s intended targets.

Because he felt Sarah tense, Chuck grabbed her by the waist to prevent her from springing away and running their cover. Or so he told himself. “Spying,” he said. “Sarah thought she saw Laszlo, and she provided the necessary cover so that I could get a good look.”

Casey grunted, but refrained from snarking on just the sort of cover Sarah could provide. Chuck smiled and let Sarah go so that she could ease back.

“Of course,” he said, “we may need to get Sarah’s eyes checked.”

“What?”

“What?”

Chuck merely pointed. As he did, Trench Coat turned, and they got a good look. The target was the same height, weight, and coloring of Laszlo Mahnovski, except…

“You thought Laszlo was a woman?” Casey asked.

“Oh, come on. Give Sarah a break. She wanted to be close to me,” Chuck said as Ms. Trench Coat, having paid for her cotton candy, walked away. “It’s a curse. The Power of the Bartowski—hey, none of that now.” He’d have edged away, but Sarah had already backed him into the railing. He eyed her clenched fist. “Every time you hit me, the gaming gods kill Navi. And do you really want poor Link to wander alone?”

“Hey, numbskulls,” Casey said before Sarah could decide that she really didn’t care one way or the other about Link. “Focus. Did either of you see anything?”

We got nada. If he’s here, he’s not wearing a trench coat.”

“Nothing,” Sarah echoed, and gave him an apologetic look. “He might not be here, Chuck.”

But Chuck remembered the determination on Laszlo’s face as he’d dispatched the guards. “No, he’s here. This is definitely the place. I can feel it in my—”

“Bones?” Casey offered, rolling his eyes.

“Gut, I was going to say gut. The problem is, Laszlo’s a genius.” Chuck turned so that he was staring out into the sand all around the Pier rather into the crowds dawdling along behind Casey and Sarah. “He made so many things while they stuck him in this stupid bunker, and he disguised them as really cool things, like laser-beam lipstick tubes or lighters that are, like, a combination taser, USB drive, GPS locator, and cell phone jammer. He could disguise a bomb as anything. We could be practically on top of it and…” He trailed off and whirled. “On top of it!”

“What? What is it?”

“He wants to take out the whole pier, right?” Chuck gulped. “Best way to do that is take out the support structure and let gravity do the rest.”

They didn’t bother to exchange uncertain looks. Without a word, they took off running.

As he ran, dodging in an out of crowds and apologizing the whole time, Chuck called up a mental map of the pier, trying to pinpoint the best location. Where would he put a bomb, if he were going to flip his nut and randomly kill a bunch of innocent strangers?

The flash hit mid-stride. He stumbled forward, crashing to one knee and taking out a display of stuffed animals with his shoulder. Casualties flew everywhere, stuffed animals skittering across the sandy boards and bouncing into innocent passersby.

Sarah all but did a grand-jeté in the middle of the boardwalk and raced back. “What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He’d landed in a pile of pink panda bears that had done absolutely nothing to cushion his fall. Chuck coughed and tossed a sweat-shop-made toy aside. At least he hadn’t hit his head. “I’m fine, I’m fine. The flash just got me at the wrong moment.”

When he realized that his stunt had drawn a crowd, he mustered up a weak smile. Sarah yanked him away before the babbling could begin—or the shopkeeper could notice.

“What’d you flash on?”

Um, I was trying to call up an aerial map of the pier, and I flashed on the info.”

Sarah gave him a startled look.

“Yeah, I didn’t know I could do that either. But I think I know where he’s going to hit.”

They hit the sand. Chuck’s pace slowed; Sarah’s didn’t change. He wondered, not for the first time, how she was able to run in heels, even the sensible heeled boots she wore now. It was a mystery he would never understand about the female species. She outstripped him in only a few seconds. It was official—starting tomorrow morning, he was going to take her up on her standing offer, and go running with her. This was just ridiculous.

Just before she reached the underbelly of the pier, where Casey waited for them both, she glanced over her shoulder and lifted an eyebrow at him.

When he arrived, he was panting. “A month ago, my entire world was only a few meters long,” he said before Casey could start. “And running on sand sucks.”

Casey snorted, but thankfully: again, no comment. “How do we do this?”

“There are two locations he could be,” Chuck admitted. “If he wants to hit the arcade directly, he’ll be…” He knelt and quickly sketched a map in the sand, marking two spots with an X each. “There. And here’s where he’ll be if he wants to take out the whole Pier.”

Casey studied the map for a second and nodded. “I’ll take the Pier location. You take the arcade, Walker.”

“Go with Casey, Chuck. There’s more of him—he’ll make a better shield.” Sarah gave Chuck a tight-lipped smile.

“You know, I keep telling him exactly the same thing.” Chuck returned the smile with a grimace and took off after Casey, while Sarah split to head to the location closer to the water.

Chuck told himself that it was only his imagination, but under the Pier, the temperature plummeted to Siberian levels. Sound from the crowds over their heads was muffled by the boards, and the lack of direct sunlight plunged the world into gloom.

It also reeked to high heaven. That much, he knew, was not his imagination. Nobody who’d ever visited the Pier could forget that smell. He tried to take shallow breaths through his mouth as he followed Casey. The other man kept one hand on his gun hilt, crossing the sand with soundless long strides. Chuck tried to mimic him, but again, he rolled a proverbial one for stealth. He was positive a Tyrannosaurus Rex would be quieter across the sand.

“Stay close,” Casey said sotto voce as they approached the site. “I don’t know if he’s got a weapon, but if he breached Castle, he’ll definitely have something from our armory.”

“Yeah, about that—”

“Shh.”

“No, Casey, the weapons stash at Castle—”

Sarah’s yell cut him off mid-sentence. When it was followed by grunting that could only indicate a fight, the two men didn’t think. They just ran for it.

They sprinted across the sand. Chuck’s heart had literally stopped. He was also pretty sure he had quite breathing, and his mind had emptied completely, leaving nothing but a blank space between his ears. The only thing left was fear.

He ran practically on top of Casey’s heels, weaving in and out of the pillars. At some point, he must have grabbed the tranq gun from his waistband. When he glanced down, it was in his hand, but he didn’t remember how it got there.

Casey beat Chuck out by a hair. He rounded the pillar and skidded, kicking sand in an arc. Chuck, who rounded the same pillar the other way, did exactly the same thing, so that they formed yet another lethal triangle. Only this time, it was Sarah behind held captive by the crazy person with the gun. And instead of looking completely terrified, as Chuck had, she seemed plenty pissed off about it.

And instead of looking grim, as Mei-Ling Cho had, Laszlo Mahnovski looked pretty pleased with himself—especially since he was holding a gun to Sarah’s temple. Chuck wished for one blinding second, before all thought vanished, that he knew more about guns. Why couldn’t the Intersect have included more pertinent data on guns and how to disable them? He couldn’t tell if that was a gun that had been in the Castle’s armory or not.

Sarah wasn’t looking at Chuck, but at Casey. Her entire body was tense, and she had sand stuck to the knees of her jeans. Laszlo had an arm around her neck, but it was mostly the gun immobilizing her. For now. “He got the drop on me,” she said between her teeth.

Chuck glanced up, saw the harness rig at the top of a column. Trust Sarah to be completely literal.

“Agents Rainer and Fitzgerald, nice of you to join us.” Laszlo, despite the cool, fetid air, was sweating just as much as Chuck. Was that a common affliction among the bunkerized? “It’s a very nice stronghold you have here in Burbank—they made a few changes to my original plans, the idiots—but still, nice and easy to breach.”

Chuck felt something in his stomach sink. Had his ploy worked?

Casey edged forward. “I hope you at least enjoyed the visit,” he growled. “Put the gun down and drop the blonde.”

“That’s not how this works,” Laszlo said, mutinously tightening his grip on both the gun and Sarah. She didn’t grunt or struggle. In fact, the pissed off expression didn’t change. It almost seemed like she were waiting for something. “See, the way this works is that you two put your guns down, and I’ll maybe let the blonde—or Agent Winter, if you prefer to be a little more politically correct—go.”

Casey snorted. Chuck figured he ranked “being politically correct” up there with “liking democrats.”

“The home office tells me you’re supposed to be a genius,” Casey said, since Chuck didn’t think he should speak and make things worse. “But from where I stand, you’re pretty much a moron who can’t do math. Two guns to your one, egghead. Drop it.”

“Oh, we’re doing math now, are we?” Laszlo laughed, and maybe Chuck was projecting, but the giggle sounded a bit…unhinged. He began to sweat anew at the thought of Sarah so close to a madman with a gun. “Here’s an equation for you.”

Chuck and Casey waited.

“One gun, one bullet, Agent Winter’s head. That enough math for you?”

A beat. “Seriously?” Chuck asked, speaking for the first time. His voice ratcheted up the scale and back down. “That’s your brilliant equation? I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

“Chuck,” Sarah said.

“What? So Casey gets to piss off the madman with the gun, but I can’t?”

“Madman?” Laszlo snarled, and turned—yanking Sarah around in a way that made Chuck’s breath clog in his throat—toward Chuck. “I’m not a madman!” His laugh proved otherwise. “I used to be sane. Once upon a time. Back before the government decided I was property and stuck me away for the rest of my life.”

“And that’s reason to shoot Agent ‘Winter’ in the head?” Casey growled. “Put the gun down, Mahnovski.”

“No!”

Sarah winced and rolled her eyes when Laszlo jabbed her temple with the gun. “No!” Laszlo said again, continuing to jerk Sarah around as he shifted his perspective from Chuck to Casey. “No, you don’t understand what it’s like when they’re in your head, and you’re nothing but a tool.”

Put the gun down, Laszlo. We have you outnumbered.”

Laszlo’s hand actively shook with either fear or rage. The gun barrel wobbled against Sarah’s head; Chuck saw her grit her teeth. “No! I put the gun down, and they’re going to put me back in the bunker, and you don’t know what that’s like. You don’t know.”

“Actually,” and Chuck felt a surge of courage come out of nowhere and propel him a step forward, “you’d be surprised.”

Three things happened at once. Laszlo, startled, turned toward Chuck, possibly to ask what on earth he was talking about. Sarah hissed Chuck’s name.

And the gun dripped.

All three agents and Laszlo watched two small drops of water slide right out of the end of the barrel and fall for hours before they splattered soundlessly on the sand. For a full nanosecond of an eternity, nobody spoke.

Chuck was the first to break the silence. “Is that…is that a water gun?”

Before Laszlo could answer, Sarah sprang into action. The water gun went flying. So did Laszlo.

He hit the sand with a thud that should have shaken the very pillars holding the pier up. Sand typically made for a somewhat softer landing. Somebody apparently forgot to mention this to Sarah Walker. Laszlo plowed into the ground at full speed. Fear, or maybe just desperation, made the bunkered genius scramble immediately onto all fours and try to take a running start.

Which was when Casey fired.

Loudly. Without warning. The shot cut through the muffled silence under the pier, and thoroughly startled Chuck. As a result, he tensed—and so did his trigger finger. The gun had a surprisingly small recoil for such an imposing firearm.

Absolute horror welled deep inside him as his gaze slowly, slowly followed the gun’s trajectory, down the gun sights, across the sand, up Sarah’s denim-clad legs, up her leather jacket, and finally ending on her chest.

Or rather, specifically, the tranquilizer dart sticking out of said chest.

Sarah glanced down at the dart and sighed. “Really, Chuck?” she asked. She then flopped face-first into the sand, landing with a bigger thud than even Laszlo had.

Casey looked from the moaning psychopath on the sand to his downed partner on the sand. Finally, he leveled an unimpressed stare at Chuck. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, dimwit?”

“Um.” Chuck finally lowered the gun, shock making him dizzy. He tried to smile apologetically, but his face felt frozen. “Missed it by that much?”

Casey grunted.

Chapter 17: Tremors

Notes:

If we take the generally accepted definition of bravery as a quality which knows no fear, I have never seen a brave man. All men are frightened. The more intelligent they are, the more they are frightened. — General George S. Patton

31 OCTOBER 2007
UNDER THE SANTA MONICA PIER
13:12 PDT

“So you’re telling me that after all we went through, all that combing the pier, running around like a bunch of hooligans, your little stunt with the stuffed animals, and getting my partner and your partner shot, you forgot that there’s a bomb somewhere under the Santa Monica Pier just ready to take out innocent civilians?” If it were at all possible, John Casey would have been breathing fire.

“I had other things on my mind!” Though it killed his back by inches, Chuck forced himself to lower Sarah’s body slowly, rather than dropping her. He propped her up against the pillar, where she sat, slack and limp, like some life-sized kewpie doll. It made his stomach roil; he forced himself to focus. “And it’s not like it’s entirely my fault. Who was it that shot the guy who knew where the bomb was?”

Casey dumped Laszlo’s slack form in the sand. “How was I supposed to know that he was going to pass out at the sight of a little blood?”

“He’s been stuck in a bunker for ten years.” Chuck glared right back. “Us ‘bunker pals,’ we tend to develop these pesky little things called phobias!”

“A phobia about gunshot wounds?” Casey snorted. “If I’d shot you, you’d still be awake and just as annoying as ever. Now find the damn bomb, Bartowski!”

“What, suddenly I’m a bomb dog?” Chuck rolled his eyes, but he had to admit that he had a better probability of seeing into Laszlo’s twisted mind than Casey did. And Casey had better field medicine training than he did, which meant that he was the more logical choice to look after the injured Laszlo and the unconscious Sarah.

Still, that didn’t exactly make Chuck enthusiastic to go wandering around in dark, open spaces by himself, especially since it had occurred to him that the bomb Laszlo was building could very well be a landmine. Even though chances of Laszlo actually using a landmine were slim, as it had a pretty contained blast radius and wouldn’t take out much more than the person stopping on it, the idea festered and pretty much wouldn’t let go. He stepped almost delicately across the sand.

Unfortunately, he didn’t think to wait until he was out of Casey’s line of sight.

“What are you doing, Bartowski?”

Chuck tried to hide his wince. “Nothing.”

Casey’s stare didn’t waver.

“Fine. I was thinking, what if it’s a land mine? Which is ridiculous, I know, but—”

“It’s not a land mine! Find the damn bomb before I shoot you. Do I have to do everything myself?”

“Why not? That seems to be the only way you’ll be satisfied with anything.” Chuck rolled his eyes and began to search around. Laszlo would want to be near the blast seat of the bomb until it went off, which meant that the bomb had to be near. The problem was, there was nothing around but sand, clumps of disgusting kelp that looked like they might be single-handedly responsible for starting a zombie apocalypse or two, and pillars. Lots and lots of pillars. Chuck checked behind every one.

When he came back, Casey had finished binding up the gunshot wound in Laszlo’s shoulder. “I’ve still got it,” the NSA agent said, his voice smug. “An inch to the left and he would have had complications, but—what is it?”

I can’t find the bomb,” Chuck said.

“It’s got to be around here somewhere. Fine, stay with the bodies—” Chuck’s stomach tilted to hear them referred to as corpses. “—While I have a look around. If Laszlo wakes up and tries to get away, tranq him.” Casey shoved the tranq gun, which he’d taken away from Chuck earlier, back into the other man’s hand.

Chuck stared at it and tried not to lose his breakfast.

Once Casey had stalked off, muttering about incompetence, Chuck tucked the gun back into his waistband, triple-checking to make sure the safety was on so that he wouldn’t do something stupid like shoot himself and join Sarah in unconsciousness. He knelt and checked Sarah’s pulse again. Casey had assured him that nothing in Sarah’s file indicated any allergies to the tranq darts, so once the drugs in her system wore off, she would be fine.

“Pissed as hell at you,” Casey had added with undisguised glee, “but fine.”

Still unconscious and propped up against the pillar, Sarah simply looked exhausted. It made little sense—after all, Chuck had seen to it that she was now getting rest, whether she liked it or not. She could have at least looked peaceful or relaxed. It was like the universe was trying to make him feel as bad as it possibly could. Chuck could have pointed out that at this stage, it was getting a bit excessive. The universe had, after all, already stuck him in a bunker and given him a gun-happy NSA agent for a partner.

Of course, they’d also given him Sarah Walker. Maybe the universe did have a sense of humor.

To Chuck’s left, Laszlo stirred. Casey had stripped off the other man’s shirt to administer the field dressing over the bullet wound, and the man’s skin was fish-belly white against the tan T-shirt-turned-bandages. Just like Chuck’s own skin had been when Sarah had first pulled him from Siberia.

Not for the first time, Chuck wondered if, after ten years, he too would have snapped in a way that meant damage to everything around him, even people. Before Bryce had sent him the Intersect, his daily routine hadn’t changed, and he hadn’t protested. He’d just continued to follow Mr. Carver’s directions and play video games or work on gadgets in his off-time. If Sarah hadn’t showed up, would he still be there? Would he ever think about things like getting sand lodged in his dress shoes or down the back of his pants?

He’d never be under the Santa Monica Pier with a maybe-live bomb, an unconscious fugitive, and a tranqued CIA agent, that was for sure. Overhead, the boards rumbled as the West Coaster brought a new group of screaming people around Pacific Park. Chuck glanced up absently, and froze.

“Uh, Casey?” he called.

He heard the other man’s footsteps pattering across the sand before Casey answered. “What is it?”

“I, uh, I found the bomb.”

“Where?”

Chuck pointed.

After a moment, Casey growled, a small, almost silent noise. “He got the drop on me,” he said, mimicking Sarah (Chuck wasn’t sure Sarah’s voice was actually that high-pitched, but he’d learned only to correct Casey on the days when he wasn’t feeling particularly fond of keeping all of his fingers). “Fantastic. Way to be literal, Walker.”

“In her defense, it was a clever use of—”

“I’m going to call EOD, get a squad down here. Can you tell if it’s armed?”

Chuck squinted at the bomb, which was wedged high up where the pillar intersected with the boardwalk. “Uh, not from here, no. Want me to climb up there?” He hoped not.

Casey shook his head. “Get Walker and the egghead out of here. I’ll call in back-up, get the area cleared—”

Something beeped. Even Chuck, for whom computers were just a way of life, heard the ominous undertones to that beep. He and Casey turned very slowly.

Laszlo grinned. “If you were wondering, the bomb’s armed,” he said, holding up a small device in his good hand—a device that Chuck was positive hadn’t been there a minute before. “And yes, I did set up a chain of them because, hey, genius here. Good luck, boys!”

Casey snarled. Before Chuck knew what was going on, Casey had reached over, yanked the tranq gun out of Chuck’s jeans, and shot the geek lying on the sand.

As Laszlo’s head rolled back, Chuck rounded on his partner. “Was that really necessary? He could’ve told us how to defuse the bomb!”

“He’s a sociopath, Bartowski. The only thing he’s going to tell us is whatever we want to hear, and then he’ll just blow us up anyway.” Casey kicked Laszlo’s hand out of the way and grabbed the device, scowling. He tossed it to Chuck. “Get anything?”

Chuck squinted, but the Intersect provided no help. The trigger was nothing but a small black panel with a red button. He turned his attention to the pillar that Laszlo had used to rig the nucleus of the bomb. How had the other man gotten up that…oh, that was how. “I’d need to get a better look,” he said, his voice absent.

When he grabbed the first rung, Casey’s eyes widened. He grabbed a handful of Chuck’s shirt and hauled him down. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting a look at the bomb.” Chuck tried to shake off Casey’s grip. “Look, we don’t know how long Laszlo set the timer for, or if he’s bluffing. The only way to find out is if we go up there. Call your FBI buddies or whatever, see if you can get the pier evacuated. I’ll go up, get a look, come back down.”

“You think I’m letting the Intersect anywhere near a live bomb? Get out of here, Bartowski! Take Walker if you feel you must, but I want you out of range right now.”

Chuck tried to struggle out of Casey’s grip once more. Again, no dice. “It’s me versus hundreds of innocent civilians,” he said. “I’m going up there.”

“No, you’re—”

“The longer we stand here arguing, the more likely it is that the bomb’s going to go off and we’ll get blown up! Let me go!” Chuck used the surprise on Casey’s face to wrench himself free. The sound of ripping fabric made him wince, but it wasn’t like he was particularly attached to the shirt. The CIA had picked it out for him.

He scrambled up the bars that Laszlo had drilled into the pillar, muttering under his breath. “Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.” Wouldn’t it just be fantastic if he’d somehow managed to add batophobia to his ongoing list?

“Just so you know, when you get down, I’m going to shoot you myself!” Casey called after him, even as he pulled out his cell phone to request the proper tactical teams.

“Look at the bright side,” Chuck told himself, deliberately not looking down, “I’ll probably die from falling off the pillar before then.”

His brain must really be a dark place to consider falling from a great height and dying “a bright side.”

As he climbed, pausing to wipe his hands on his pants every few rungs, the world darkened. At first, he thought it was only his overactive imagination causing trouble, but a quick glance proved that the recesses under the boards were just darker than everywhere else. Creepy, he decided, and absolutely perfect for housing a bomb. He hauled himself up the last couple of feet and stepped tentatively onto the beam running parallel to the ground and to the boards overhead, putting himself face-to-face with an active and armed bomb.

Admittedly, it wasn’t as frightening as he had anticipated. There was still a pressing desire to soil his trousers, but it wasn’t as overpowering as he might have expected. The bomb itself wasn’t actually much bigger than a boat engine of all things, and most of it was hidden from view by flat, black panels. Wires ran all over the place, even along the underside of the boards above his head, scuttling in at least five different directions like spiders. Other bombs, Chuck figured. Part of the chain reaction.

The whole device appeared to be controlled by a laptop that was sitting open atop the beam, with a countdown reading down. And computers were Chuck Bartowski’s forte, which lessened the terrifying part of it all somewhat.

Besides, the bomb wasn’t actually the scariest thing about all of this. No, that would be the fall. Especially since Chuck ignored the chant going through his head and glanced down to make sure Casey and Sarah were still all right.

Immediately, his head spun. He latched onto the pillar until it stopped, whimpering a little. “High,” he said to nobody. “Very, very high. Why did I want to be a hero, again?”

Maybe it was the universe helping him out, but at that moment, happy laughter drifted down through the boards. A family up on the pier, enjoying a holiday together.

“Oh, right,” Chuck said, and swallowed to wet his throat again. Ignoring the newest coat of sweat and his own shaking limbs, he inched forward toward the laptop.

“Is it armed?” Casey called.

Chuck didn’t dare look down again. “Yeah, and he’s got it on a countdown!”

“How long?”

Chuck blinked at the numbers, hoping he was wrong. “Um…less than five minutes?”

Casey swore. “Get down from there, Bartowski! Now!”

“No, wait—” Chuck inched closer to the laptop, and by default, the bomb. There was something on the bottom of the screen…a line of text. ENTER COMMAND. “I think Laszlo gave himself a back door to stop the bomb in case something went wrong!”

“I don’t care! Get down here! That’s an order!”

Fear should have made him want to curl up in a little ball by this point. Instead, Chuck’s fingers itched for the laptop keyboard. “No, Casey, I think I can hack it.”

He couldn’t be sure because all of his attention was focused on the laptop, but Casey might have begun climbing the rungs to come up and drag him down forcefully. “When we get back to Castle, you and I are going to have a long talk about following orders!”

“You too, eh?” Chuck muttered, mostly to himself. In the back of his mind, he flashed through Laszlo’s file, searching his memory for something, anything that could help. “Are you really going to waste your time trying to change my mind, or are you going to let me defuse this bomb? You could be getting people off of the pier, you know. Just in case I screw up.”

He heard a growl, didn’t bother to decipher it. His fingers began to fly over the keys.

Ten years in a bunker meant two things: very little social interaction, and plenty of time for video games. Chuck would have bet his last dollar that he and Laszlo had probably played the same games at some point, had probably harbored some of the same thoughts. But was it enough?

He got through the first line of defense pretty easily.

4:12.

The second line of defense proved a little trickier. And the typo in the second volley of code didn’t help. Chuck could feel precious seconds slipping away as he typed in the corrected code.

3:24.

The laptop began to whirr—a sign that overheating might be near. Was that Laszlo’s big plan? An overheated laptop to set off the bombs?

Chuck broke through the third line of defense only by luck and the fact that his ex-girlfriend liked Everquest. He himself hadn’t played, but nights of listening to her muttering under her breath while he tried to study came in handy now.

2:02.

On the other side of the laptop, a whining noise started. Again, Chuck felt the distinct need to wet himself. He focused his attention on the laptop, muttering under his breath, and cursing whenever he screwed up with the code. If he hadn’t spent hours poring over Laszlo’s designs the day before, the thing would have already blown up and the Santa Monica Pier would be an official disaster zone…

Thinking of all the families, all the couples and the anglers just enjoying a Halloween day on the pier made him type faster.

1:15.

The whine increased.

“Bartowski!” Casey had returned. “Get down from there!”

“Stay on target, stay on target,” Chuck muttered, ignoring him completely.

The timer up in the corner shifted from green to red as it hit 0:59, and began to count down. 0:58. 0:57. 0:51.

Chuck’s fingers began to fly even faster.

He was eyeball to eyeball with a thirty count when he finished the last line of code. Knowing Laszlo, if he got this line wrong, there wouldn’t be a mocking “Ah, ah, ah, you didn’t say the magic word” banner across the laptop. For some reason, he had a feeling that if he’d gotten anything wrong on this code, the bomb would blow.

0:23.

His finger hovered over the RETURN key. This was not the time to be a coward.

0:18.

0:15.

0:14.

0:11.

“If this doesn’t work, I’m dead either way,” Chuck told himself. They weren’t the most reassuring final words, but they would have to do. He pressed his finger to the RETURN key, squeezed his eyes closed, and prayed.

He hit the key.

The whine increased.

For an eon, Chuck stayed exactly as he was, crouched over the laptop, his hand poised over the keyboard, his eyes scrunched shut, and his body tensed, waiting for the blast.

It never came. The whine increased again, in pitch and tone—and died abruptly.

After a moment, one of Chuck’s eyes opened. His eyeball wheeled around as he took in details. If the bomb had exploded and he somehow hadn’t noticed it, heaven or hell or purgatory or whatever it was looked bizarrely like the seamy underbelly of the Santa Monica Pier. And if he was going to spend just as much time in the afterlife sweating as he had while living, well, what was the point?

“Am I dead?” he wondered aloud, opening his other eye.

“No, but you will be!” Casey sounded both frustrated and relieved. Chuck leaned over slightly to look down at the NSA agent, who looked positively diminutive from this height. Of course, the fact that he looked tiny did nothing to minimize the annoyed look Casey shot Chuck now. “Get down from there!”

“Ah, give me a minute.” Abruptly, Chuck’s limbs melted into a substance somewhere between jelly and water. He collapsed back against the pillar, barely holding on with limp fingers. Had he really just…defused a bomb? Had he, Charles Bartowski, reject spy, just saved countless individuals aboard the pier by outwitting a madman and defusing a bomb?

Chuck pinched himself. It hurt. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or mystified by that.

His cell phone rang. With a shaking hand, he pulled it out and answered. “Hello?”

“Bartowski!” Casey’s voice sounded even more annoyed through the phone. “Is the bomb still active?”

“N-no. I disabled it.”

“Good. Now get the hell down here before you fall and break your idiot neck.”

“I, ah, really don’t think climbing right now is a good idea,” Chuck said, watching the way tremors of disbelief, relief, and adrenaline ran up and down his thighs. He kept his legs wrapped around the beam for support. “Give me a minute?”

“Sure, fine, take all the time you need, up close to a bomb.” Very few people could convey an eye-roll through words. Casey was one of the lucky few. Chuck rolled his own eyes in return. He’d disabled the damned bomb, after all.

“Oh, hey.” Casey’s voice shifted from annoyance to surprise. “Looks like Walker’s waking up.”

“Is she?” Chuck hung up and scrambled for the rungs, hurrying down faster than he would have thought possible with his barely functional limbs. He landed in the sand and immediately jogged over to where they’d stashed the unconscious duo.

Sarah hadn’t moved. But Casey was standing over her with his arms crossed over his chest, and a huge grin on his face. “Sucker,” was all he said. “Now grab Walker and clear the area before the FBI arrives. I don’t want them seeing you.”

He had a valid point. Chuck knew his identity had been all but erased by the government. The fewer agents that saw him, the better for his cover. And if nobody saw Sarah unconscious, maybe the fact that he’d shot her wouldn’t go on report. He knelt next to her once more and, mentally apologizing every step of the way, angled her so that she was facedown. “How are you going to explain the deactivated bomb?”

“Magic,” Casey said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll handle the FBI. You worry about following orders for once in your damned life.”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you survived, too, Casey,” he said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. Casey’s reply was lost as he pulled Sarah to a standing position and maneuvered her over his shoulder. Once she was secure, he turned. “We’ll be down the beach a little ways until she wakes up. Even in southern California, they give you looks if you walk down the street with unconscious women over your shoulders. Trust me, I know.”

“That was a textbook fireman’s carry. Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“I did attend a little basic training before they shipped me off to rot in the cold.” Chuck glanced over at the distinct wail of sirens. “Sounds like your backup’s finally here. Have fun with the Feds, Casey. What is it they say, better late than never?”

Before Casey could out-sarcasm him, he headed off across the sand, the deadweight of his unconscious partner and rescuer settled across his shoulders. It was almost as heavy as the guilt he carried along with Sarah.

31 OCTOBER 2007
CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
19:42 PDT

Ellie’s annual Halloween party always started at seven o’clock, but Chuck figured he was allowed to be a little fashionably late, especially since he had arrived at seven. It had simply taken him twenty-three minutes to peel his fingers off of the steering wheel of his car. Ten more minutes had been necessary to force him from the vehicle, and another seven had been spent lurking in the entryway. Now, after a minute of standing not outside the front door, but his old bedroom window, he tentatively raised his free hand and knocked.

The party spilled, as these events inevitably did, into the courtyard, so that he was surrounded by a litany of doctors pretending to be everything from the generic cat and ghost costumes to a few Victorian lords and ladies wandering around. Music boomed from a DJ table set up on the other side of the courtyard.

Even so, Sarah heard the knock. A moment or so passed before the window blind parted a crack. Sarah’s eye appeared. There was a brief pause before the window opened and was pushed outward an inch or two in invitation.

Shrugging to himself, Chuck pulled the window open and climbed in. He held his right hand behind his back. It was probably a useless measure with a super secret agent like Sarah, but he already felt a little foolish, so why change anything now?

She didn’t speak when he came in. She just crossed her arms over a black T-shirt, her expression absolutely unreadable as she leaned against her dresser.

“Hello to you, too,” Chuck said, reaching behind him to close the window. “How’s your head? I, ah, hope the headache didn’t last too long?”

“I took some Advil.” Sarah’s eyes moved up and down, studying all of him. He’d changed into a white shirt and jeans for the party, nothing special, and nothing meriting that level of scrutiny. “Where’s your costume?”

“What? My cost—oh, yeah. That. It’s out in the courtyard somewhere, I imagine, with Morgan. We’ll debut it later.”

“You and Morgan have matching costumes?”

“Not really matching so much as it’s the same costume.” When she gave him a confused look, Chuck shrugged. “You’ll have to see it to really believe it. But that’s not why I’m here. I came to apologize.”

“Chuck—”

“Because I really, really screwed up today, and—”

“Chuck.”

“No,” Chuck said, holding up a hand. “Let me get this out. All that stuff you said awhile back about how partners should always be able to trust each other was true, and then I go and do something stupid, and I just—”

“Chuck!” Sarah, her patience seemingly gone, crossed over in two strides and grabbed his arms. “You really don’t have to apologize. You’ve apologized six times—seven now, actually.”

“I’m sorry,” Chuck said.

“And that makes eight.” Sarah gentled her grip and rubbed her hands down his arms, just the once. “Chuck, it’s okay. Nobody got hurt, I’m fine, and it was an accident. I already forgave you.”

“But I feel bad that—”

“Accidents happen,” Sarah interrupted, her voice firm. “We’ll all just be more careful in the future, and maybe keep you away from tranq guns until you’ve passed Casey’s Gun Club criteria. Okay? No more freaking out about this.”

He wanted to keep apologizing until he was blue in the face, but Sarah’s set expression told him that nothing of the sort was ever going to happen. So he just nodded. “Okay. No more freaking out about this.”

“Good. Now tell me what you’re hiding behind your back.”

Chuck mustered up a small smile. It fell short of being truly amused, but it at least landed in the ballpark. “Well, I brought you a couple of apology presents.”

“Chuck, I already told you, there’s absolutely no need to—”

“Too late.” Chuck’s smile gained a little more authenticity. “I already bought them, so now you’re stuck with them. Do you at least want to know what they are?”

Sarah was quiet for a long moment. Her expression had once again grown unreadable, but it was less of an angry unreadable. Now he figured she was trying to hide her puzzlement, something she did when he truly went off on geek tangents. He waited her out.

Finally, she sighed and smiled. “I shouldn’t encourage you.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” Sarah echoed. “I want to know. What is an appropriate apology gift?”

“Well, first.” Chuck rummaged behind his back. His left hand emerged holding a DVD case, which he extended toward her. “A little humor. The hostage situation isn’t exactly like what we faced today, but…well…”

Sarah wrinkled her nose at the title and flipped the box over to read the synopsis. “‘Speed?’”

“Got a hostage situation?” Chuck asked solemnly. “Shoot the hostage.”

He saw just the smallest flicker of a smile before Sarah managed a somber look. “I’m glad to see you’re already finding this funny.”

“Let’s face it. At some point down the road, it’s going to be hilarious. We’ll crack a few ribs laughing, probably, knowing us. And yes, it’s probably too soon to start now, but ‘Speed’ will definitely help the process along. We’ll watch it sometime. You’ve been around me long enough that my Keanu impression probably won’t scare you off. Now, for the serious part.”

Wordlessly, he pulled his right hand from behind his back and held it out to her.

“I know I’ve already apologized eight times, so this will just have to make nine. I’m really sorry, Sarah, that I hit you with that dart.”

Sarah hadn’t moved. She stared at the offering. When she lifted her gaze to his face, finally, her expression was confused and wary. “How on earth did you know that gardenias were my favorite?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I hacked your file.”

Sarah’s face immediately closed off.

“And I’m really just kidding about that,” Chuck said, hurrying on. Sarah had been more than closemouthed about her past, but up until that point, he truly hadn’t realized the depth of her need for privacy. “I didn’t hack your file, I promise. It was mostly a guess, really. We passed a lot of flower stands when you were dragging me all around Thessaloniki, pretending to be tourists. And you always stopped to smell the gardenias.”

He realized that he was still standing with the flowers held out to her. “And, ah, are you going to take them? They really are my way of saying sorry—that’s ten—for everything I put you through today, and for making you the butt of Casey’s jokes for the foreseeable future.”

Apparently, he and Sarah put different amounts of stock in Casey’s jokes because this didn’t even faze her. Instead, she wordlessly took the bouquet and promptly did the girliest thing he’d seen her do (besides putting on makeup for their different missions). She buried her face in the flowers. Chuck’s eyebrows went up.

They went up farther still when she hugged him.

Maybe he was spending too much time around trained operatives. When she moved toward him, he tensed for an attack, but Sarah merely burrowed in. After an awkward pause, he hugged her back.

A short knock on the door made both of them jump.

Without waiting for a reply, Ellie poked her head in. Her eyes widened, as Chuck and Sarah weren’t a great deal less than obvious as they jumped apart. The Speed DVD clattered to the floor. Chuck could feel his face going bright red. “Uh, hi, Ellie.”

“Well, hey, Chuck.” Ellie’s suspicious look darted from one to the other. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“I just got here. I came by to see Sarah and give her—”

“The flowers that I left at the office,” Sarah interrupted. She had her “cover” smile on, Chuck noticed. “It really was very sweet of him—I was upset that I’d forgotten them, and he saw my window was open. I was just saying thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” Again, Ellie looked from Chuck to Sarah and back again, as if she wasn’t certain she bought the story or not. When they gave her innocent smiles, she seemed to shrug to herself. “Anyway, sorry to barge in on your, ah, moment there, but have you seen the back-up corkscrew? Devon got the parrot-shaped one stuck in a bottle of red, and I fear it’s a lost cause.”

“I think it’s in the junk drawer, between the old coupon book and the colored pencils,” Sarah said, frowning as she tried to recall.

“Oh, that’s great. Thanks. I have no idea where I’d be without that crazy memory of yours.” Ellie smiled at both of them and turned to go. Mid-turn, she paused, and swiveled back. “Don’t hide in here all night, you two. You really should come out and join the party.”

She closed the door behind her.

Chuck waited approximately two seconds before he attempted to speak. “Did I just see my sister wearing little but strategically placed garlands?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s wearing a bikini under there,” Sarah assured him, bending to pick up the DVD she’d dropped. “And if you think that’s bad, just wait until you see what her boyfriend’s wearing.” She smiled.

“It’s probably not as bad seeing as he’s not my sister,” Chuck said. “I’d better go. You know, join the party, try to fight some of my inner demons by being a social creature.”

Sarah waited until he was almost to the door. “If it gets to be too much, let me know. I’ll make excuses for you, and you’re more than welcome to come in here and hide if you need to. Just, ah, give me fifteen minutes to get my costume on before you come barging in.”

“Okay. Come find me when you do, I’ll introduce you to Morgan and to our costume. You’ll love it.”

“Sure.”

“Oh,” and Chuck paused at the door, “and this makes for apology number eleven, but I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“When you were unconscious and I had to get you away before the FBI got there, I sort of maybe copped a feel.” Sarah’s eyes went wide. Quickly, Chuck held up both hands. “But it was an accident, I swear, so—sorry. And yes, that’s twelve. I think I’ll go now.”

He fled before Sarah could remember that she was armed.

31 OCTOBER 2007
CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
20:23 PDT

Devon found him first, unsurprisingly. Though the man didn’t live at Ellie’s place full time (Sarah had told Chuck that Ellie and Devon spent half of the time in Echo Park and the other half at Devon’s admittedly less awesome apartment a couple of miles away), the mantle of the host had fallen to him. Probably because Sarah, the rightful co-host of the party, was still fighting off the final effects of the tranquilizer dart.

“Chuck, hey!” Devon, wearing only as much as it took not to get arrested in public places, appeared at Chuck’s elbow with a couple of beers in hand. “Glad you could make it! How’ve ya been?”

Chuck took the beer. “What aren’t you wearing?”

“Like it?” Devon wrapped a companionable arm around Chuck’s shoulders and pulled the other man out into the courtyard so they could make the rounds of the party. Chuck wasn’t sure which made him more uncomfortable—the sheer amount of people jockeying for space, or being half-hugged by an almost-nude man. It was a close tie, he decided. “I convinced Ellie that this was the year to go as Adam and Eve. Awesome, right? Hey, check out my snake.”

“I’m okay, Devon, I really don’t need to—oh, you mean that snake.”

Devon patted the head of the giant rubber snake making its way across his broad and cut shoulders. “I named him Crawly.”

Chuck squinted. “Really? I think Steve might be a better name.”

“Steve?” Devon considered it. “I like that. Awesome. Hey, anyway, like I said, I’m glad you made it. I can’t wait to see this space penis costume Ellie’s been talking about.”

“Sandworm. It’s a sandworm.”

“Uh-huh. Also, some of the buddies and I are carpooling up to the big Stanford-UCLA game next week, and we’ve got spots open in the cars. Want in, Stanford man? We promise to go easy on you when you lose horribly.” Devon gave him a rakish grin and nodded over at an acquaintance as they walked.

Chuck felt the need to guzzle half of his beer. If the Halloween party in his sister’s Echo Park apartment was threatening to shut down his system, he imagined that the big game would probably just knock him into a coma before he got within forty miles of the place. Even if he wanted to see Stanford, there was just no way he could handle it.

“I’m sorry, Devon, I think I’m going to have to pass on that.” He gave Devon a regretful smile. “I never know what my schedule’s going to be, and you know how it is with us…”

“Government types?” Devon clapped him on the shoulder. “No big deal, bro. The offer’s open if you do find your schedule clear, but if not, no sweat, right? Hey, what do you say, next week—you and me, guy’s night? We’ll catch up, grab a couple of beers, watch a sporting event of some type.”

Chuck opened his mouth to turn Devon down, but the idea actually sounded nice. Being in the bunker had restricted his social circle to pretty much nil. It could be good to start making friends again, to expand his horizons…and possibly lose everything when the government decided the Intersect was too valuable to just leave wandering around Los Angeles.

Chuck shoved that poisonous thought away before it could take hold and completely ruin his night. “You really are as awesome as your old nickname,” he told Devon.

“Old nickname?”

“Yeah, back when you and Ellie first started dating, Morgan and I used to call you Captain Awesome.”

“Hey, I like that.” Devon grinned and struck a superhero pose in the middle of the courtyard. “Captain Awesome. Heh.”

“And now, I can fully say there is nothing ironic about the name.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been a captain of Awesome before. Maybe a lieutenant, but…”

Chuck couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Well, Captain Awesome, so forth shall you be called. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” Awesome echoed. “Oh, hey, new crowd incoming. If you’ll excuse me? I have to go take up my host duties.”

“One would expect nothing less from a Captain Awesome. Thanks for the invite to the game—I’ll catch up with you later.”

Once Awesome left him to go be a good host, the party seemed to increase in size, population, and volume. Chuck clutched his beer like a lifeline and hoped he wasn’t sweating too obviously. He probably shone like a wet human beacon, given that he could feel his heart beginning to beat erratically. Thankfully, his vision hadn’t started sparkling around the edges, so he had awhile to go before he had to take Sarah up on the offer of hiding in her room. Between the failed therapy session, the crowds at the pier, facing down a crazed gunman (water gun or no), shooting Sarah, and defusing a bomb, he was frankly a little amazed that he wasn’t gibbering in some corner somewhere.

Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe he was getting better.

Hoping to distract himself from a panic attack, he glanced about for Morgan. It usually wasn’t hard to find his best friend. All he had to do was check the food table—especially if Ellie had done the cooking. Chuck wandered over that way now. Realistically, if he were going to survive, liquid lubrication would be necessary. And he should probably cushion that alcohol with food to avoid embarrassing scenes. He grabbed another beer from the drinks table.

Though it warred with his instincts—find some place dark, cool, empty, and quiet—he headed toward the DJ booth. He’d have a better vantage point there to seek out his friend, and people might be dissuaded from talking to him by the volume of the music.

As he walked by the DJ table, studying the group around the fountain, something grabbed his arm. Chuck yelped and barely avoided spilling beer everywhere.

“Whoa, whoa—just me, buddy!” Morgan lowered a massive pair of earphones and gave Chuck a concerned look. “Man, hiding from the Mafia really did a number on you, didn’t it? You okay?”

Chuck thumped his chest to stabilize his heartbeat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just startled.”

“Worried the ghouls’re gonna get you?” Morgan elbowed him, grinning. “Don’t blame you. Though I did see some very sexy ghosts wandering around, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t mind one of them getting me.”

Chuck managed to infuse real humor into his chuckle. Belatedly, Chuck took in the full ensemble—the table, the speaker, laptop, a set of turntables, a banner bearing a cartoon of lightsaber-wielding Luke Skywalker pimping earphones and aviators.

“Wow, Morgan,” Chuck said, taking in the pinstriped black shirt and vest. “DJ Starr Killer, huh?”

“In the flesh.” Morgan did an impromptu twirl—and promptly had to twirl back around to avoid strangling himself with his headphones cord. He grinned. “Ellie pays me to do all of her parties. She has to approve the playlist first, of course.”

“Of course. How much is she paying you for this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Morgan waved that away. “Secrets between friends? Never.”

Chuck felt guilt slide a nice little dagger between his ribs.

“Ellie pays me by not filling out the restraining order. And two cases of grape soda.” Morgan held up a finger and turned back to his DJ equipment. He began spinning the turntables until the Gorillaz had blended smoothly into Motley Crue. Finished, he turned back to Chuck. “Ready to bring the sandworm back?”

“After five years of hibernation, I’d say the Worm who is God is once again ready to rule.” Chuck felt the first surge of excitement he’d experienced all day. As one, he and Morgan turned to face the costume, which lay behind the table on a pristine tarp. Chuck set the food and beer aside. “Can you believe it’s been fifteen years?”

“Eighth grade. We were so cool.”

Still are, I think.”

“Oh yeah.”

After a moment of proper reverence, Morgan started to move for the tail of the sandworm. Chuck grabbed his shoulder. “I think you should take the head this year.”

“What? No, Chuck, that’s your—”

“You more than deserve it, buddy. Look at how perfect you’ve kept her. I mean, wow. You can’t even see any evidence of the time you dared me to eat those fifty Warhead candies, and I puked so hard that Ellie decided on the spot that she was going to be a doctor.”

“A dark chapter in our history. And it was gastroenterologist, not doctor. Ellie’s always wanted to be a doctor.” Adoration gleamed as Morgan picked up the head of the sandworm. “Are you sure, Chuck?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then let the Shai-Hulud rise again!”

Together, they lifted the sandworm. At that moment, Chuck saw Ellie emerge from her apartment, glance around the courtyard, and spot him. She met his eye, took in the joint costume, and sighed good-naturedly. Chuck gave her a “what can you do?” shrug before he lowered the costume over his upper body.

Morgan counted to three and they charged out into the courtyard, right into the middle of the crowd. Operating a sandworm costume turned out to be just like riding a bicycle. They may have run over a few people at first, but before long, the entire crowd was chanting, “Sandworm! Sandworm! Sandworm!” and cheering them on.

The best part, Chuck felt, was that the voice leading the chant was Ellie’s.

31 OCTOBER 2007
CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
21:09 PDT

Morgan and Chuck had discovered in the tenth grade that more than thirty minutes inside the sandworm led to bad things. Things like the cream cheese incident, wandering into walls, doors, other people, and, on one notable occasion, into the fountain. Morgan had been all for installing a timer and periscope system. Chuck had made the argument that they could just use their watches and use the money they saved from a lack of periscopes on video games. His argument had won, but only just. Periscopes were almost hard to resist for Morgan Grimes.

It was during a break that Chuck spotted Casey entering the courtyard. As was his habit, he moved to the right of the entryway, staying still while he scanned the area. When he saw Chuck, sitting with Ellie and Awesome and their friends, he shouldered his way through the crowd.

Chuck excused himself. “Casey, hey! I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

“I’m not staying.” Casey glanced around and tugged at the lapel of his suit.

“Why not? Hot date?”

“No. I just dropped by to deliver this.” Casey produced an envelope from inside his suit and held it out.

As Chuck took the envelope, Awesome freed himself from the conversation by the fountain and wandered over to play host. “Hey,” he said to Casey. “How goes it? I’m Devon.”

“Oh, my bad. Devon, this is John Casey. He runs security for my company. Casey, Devon Woodcomb. He’s, uh, dating my sister.”

The two men shook hands. Devon grinned; Casey looked as solemn as ever. “So what are you supposed to be?” Devon asked, eyeing Casey’s suit. “Um, secret agent?”

Chuck, whose ears were now finely tuned to the silent (and deadliest) Casey growls, stepped forward so that he was shielding Awesome from Casey’s wrath. “Ha, ha,” he said, hoping his voice sounded squeaky only in his ears. “Good one, Devon. No, I don’t think Casey believes in Halloween. Got a hot date, don’t you, big guy?”

Casey’s growl could be heard only by small animals and Chuck.

“Awesome,” Awesome told Casey sincerely. “She must be one lucky lady.”

Chuck cleared his throat. “Wow, so, anyway—Casey, can I, ah, get you anything? There’s some excellent punch. I don’t think Morgan’s actually spiked it with peppermint schnaps this year, so it might still taste good. Why don’t I get you a cup?”

“Don’t worry about it, Bar—Chuck.” Casey’s eyes darted through all of the civilians. “I just wanted to drop that off for you on my way…to my date.”

Chuck thumbed open the envelope and reached inside, frowning a bit when his fingers found something flat, cool, about half an inch thick. It felt like a piece of wood. Curious, he pulled out a wooden plaque. The light from a nearby tikki torch made it easy to read. He leveled a stare at Casey. “Really? You came out of your way to bring me this?”

Casey snickered. “Good night, Bartowski. See you at home.”

As he sauntered away, Awesome gave Chuck a confused look. “He’s also my roommate,” Chuck explained, and sighed at the plaque. “And this is his idea of a joke.”

In his hand, he held a plaque proclaiming him the Employee of the Month for Pacific Securities, LLC for October of 2007. He glared at Casey’s retreating back.

“Oh, cool!” Morgan appeared at Chuck’s elbow to read the plaque. “Congratulations, Chuck!”

“It’s not real,” Chuck said. “It’s Casey’s idea of a joke.”

“Weird joke.”

“No kidding.” Awesome clapped Chuck on the shoulder as he sidled off.

“I think I’ll burn this,” Chuck said, studying the plaque.

Morgan had apparently stopped paying attention. “Wait a second,” he said to himself, though Chuck heard him perfectly. “Who is that goddess? I don’t think I’ve seen her at any of Ellie’s parties before!”

“I know,” Chuck said without looking up from the plaque. “It’s ridiculous how many good looking doctors Ellie and Awesome know, isn’t it?”

“Uh, Chuck. I don’t think she’s a friend of Ellie and Awesome. She’s waving at you.” Morgan tugged on Chuck’s arm.

“What are you talking about? I don’t know any—oh, that’s Sarah.” Spotting her across the courtyard, Chuck waved back.

“Wait, Sarah? Your secretary Sarah?”

“Office manager,” Chuck said. “She’s not a secretary. She’s an office manager.”

“Whatever, she’s coming this way.” Morgan hurriedly finger-combed his hair, checked to make sure his shirt was tucked in, and smoothed his eyebrows in one practiced move.

Chuck stared at him. “How often do you practice that in the mirror?”

“Shh.”

Sarah finished easing through the crowd, a glass of wine in hand. She had a smile in place; Chuck was surprised to see that it was one of the real variety rather than a cover smile. She went straight for Morgan. “You must be Morgan. Chuck’s told me so much about you. I’m Sarah.”

Looking vaguely like a small animal caught in the headlights, Morgan shook the hand Sarah held out. “Grimes,” he said in a fairly decent British accent. “Morgan Grimes.”

Chuck rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Then, and only then, did he get a full look. A tan pencil skirt, a pale blue turtleneck, and a vest the same color as the skirt, trimmed with fur. Instead of the detached and professional look she preferred, she’d opted for dramatic makeup that accented her bone structure and made her seem more striking that usual. Her hair frame her face in a ‘60s bob. Chuck squinted—the ensemble looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Who’re you supposed to be?”

Sarah actually pouted. “You don’t recognize it?”

“Dude, Chuck. Duh. Okay, man? Duh.” Morgan elbowed his friend and turned toward Sarah, his manner suddenly debonair. “Miss Romanova, I presume?”

She inclined her head, smiling. “You presume correctly.”

Chuck frowned as a memory flitted right at the edge of his mind, just out of reach. When it hit him, he all but groaned at himself.

“Tatiana Romanova?” he asked. “You’re Tania?”

Sarah gave him a very different smile than the one she’d bestowed upon Morgan. “I thought it was appropriate.”

“Well, yeah,” Morgan said, completely misinterpreting Sarah’s meaning. “You’re a dead ringer for Daniela Bianchi. Sarah, you may very well be the coolest woman on the planet, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I don’t mind.”

Chuck felt a grin blossom and grow until it threatened to split his face apart. “What happened to Miss ‘I still say I should be Bond,’ hmm?”

“The dry cleaners lost my tux, so I had to go with this old thing instead.” Sarah smoothed a hand over the faux fur on the vest. “Did I get it right? I, um, picked the movie because it was one I’d actually heard of. Did you know there are something like five different James Bonds?”

“Seven, actually,” Morgan said. “Eight if you count Peter Sellers—”

“Which we don’t.”

“But by far, the best Bond will always be Connery.”

“Bond, James Bond,” Chuck croaked in a fair imitation. Before Morgan could reply and send them both into a spiel of Bond quotes that could (and had) last for hours, he cleared his throat. “Uh, DJ Starr Killer? Your music stopped.”

“What? Oh, crap.” Morgan bolted to his feet and hurried away.

With him gone, Chuck chose to sit on one of the lawn chairs Ellie had dragged out for the occasion. Sarah perched on the arm of the chair. They were silent for a moment, watching the party all around them as Morgan set up Nelly on the speakers.

Chuck broke the silence. “So, ‘From Russia With Love,’ huh? Is that some kind of message?”

Sarah took a sip of wine and shrugged. “Not really. Do you remember how many hours we were on the Siberian Express?”

“Uh, vaguely. Why?”

“Because you let maybe two of them go by without quoting that movie. I got curious, so I rented it.”

“And what did you think?”

For a long moment, he wasn’t sure if Sarah was going to answer or not. “It really, really sucked.”

Shock made Chuck give her a scandalized look. “Bite your tongue! That’s James Bond you’re blaspheming!”

Sarah just took another drink of wine and shook her head, as if mystified. “Well, maybe you saw something I didn’t.” She sounded doubtful.

“So if you thought the movie sucked, why are you Tatiana?” Chuck said, folding his arms over his chest and giving her his best sarcastic look.

“What, and miss the way your eyes all but popped out of your head? C’mon, Chuck. Even I’m not a big enough person to rise above that.” Sarah fluffed her hair—admittedly, longer than Tatiana Romanova’s, but Chuck couldn’t blame her for not wanting to get her hair cut for a Halloween costume. “Besides, it’s nice to have a creative costume. I wear disguises for work all the time, but on my own, I usually just go as a cat or something. The opportunity was just too perfect.”

Chuck just shook his head, slowly, but he was smiling again. “Just think, Sarah Walker. You came so close to being the perfect woman. But I don’t know if we’re going to get past this Bond hatred of yours.”

“We’ll work on it.” Sarah smiled. “What on earth are you holding?”

“Casey’s idea of a joke.” Chuck handed over the plaque that he’d all but forgotten about. “Congratulate me, I’m Castle’s Employee of the Month.”

“Hm. Guess he still hasn’t figured out you hid all of the weapons in the armory last night.”

“If I’m lucky, he never will.” Chuck rolled his eyes again. “Even if it saved our lives. May he never figure out why Laszlo only had a water gun.”

“So…why are you Employee of the Month? I missed something.”

“Don’t worry—if you shoot me with a tranq dart at any point in time, I’m sure Casey will be glad to bequeath that questionable honor to you, too. I bet he’d even be okay with you using regular bullets.”

He expected fury, or at the very least, mild annoyance. But the corners of Sarah’s mouth tilted upward as she studied the plaque. “Nice to know he has a sense of humor, even if it’s at my expense. You should put this over your desk at work.”

“I’d rather not have the reminder of my actions from today sitting over my head all day. Sarah, I’m—”

“If you apologize again, it’s going to be thirteen times,” Sarah said, her voice deceptively pleasant. “And I’m told that’s unlucky. We’ve been over this.”

“All right, all right.” Chuck took the plaque back as Morgan came hurrying back up.

“Got the music situation all taken care of, so DJ Starr Killer is free to focus all of his attention on you two.” He plopped down on the lip of the fountain opposite of them and gave Sarah his biggest grin. “So. What’d I miss?”

Chuck and Sarah exchanged a glance, one silently amused, the other not so much. “Ah,” Chuck said, ignoring Sarah’s quiet smile, “honestly, you probably don’t want to know.”

Chapter 18: You Can Only Run So Far

Notes:

People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s [expletive deleted]. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain. — Jim Morrison

9 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: SHOOTING RANGE
13:42 PST

“Rule number one,” Casey said, his voice terse, “when we are in this room, your weapon, be it a tranq gun, a handgun, or an assault rifle, is pointed in that direction.” He pointed at the wall to his left, where two targets—silhouettes, Chuck corrected. They were called silhouettes—were already set up. Neither silhouette had any holes in it. Chuck imagined that would quickly change with at least one of the silhouettes…Casey’s.

“Rule number two—”

“Don’t let my finger rest on the trigger unless I am actually squeezing said trigger,” Chuck said.

The NSA agent glared. “And what was rule number three?”

“Don’t interrupt you when you’re talking.”

Casey folded his arms over his chest.

“Which is what I was doing,” Chuck said. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

“When you are in this room, you are always to assume that a weapon is loaded unless you have personally just checked the chamber. There will be absolutely no goofing off. And all orders are to be obeyed without question. Is that understood?”

“Crystal clear,” Chuck said, adding a half-salute.

“Don’t do that again. Ever.”

“Yes, uh, sir.”

Casey picked up a handgun from the small shelf that sat about waist height. The range had two booths, each with the shelf and a shooting window above it, with switches on either wall that would bring the silhouette nearer or farer, set a timer, or even adjust the lighting to fit different scenarios. Chuck ignored all of this to focus on what Casey held.

It was a Sig Sauer P229, Casey’s gun of choice, as it was issued to quite a few government agents. Sarah preferred a sleeker Smith & Wesson that Chuck called the Silver Monster (never within her hearing, though), but why she liked it over the Sig, he didn’t know. Maybe he’d ask after he went to the emergency room later for accidentally shooting himself in the foot.

“We’ve worked with this gun. You know how to clean it. You know how to field strip it. How to load it, unload it, and work the safety. You’ve satisfactorily passed the exam naming all of the different parts.” Casey’s dubious tone told Chuck the other man clearly thought he could have done better, though Chuck had aced that test, save for one typo. “Which is why, today, you’ll finally get a chance to fire it.”

He extended the gun, hilt first. Chuck furtively wiped his palm on his slacks before he took the gun. As always, it felt surprisingly heavy. He didn’t know if it was his imagination or not.

“Face the silhouette,” Casey ordered. The next few minutes were spent adjusting Chuck’s stance and grip. When Casey was satisfied, Chuck pulled on ear protectors. “I’m going to let you shoot, just to get a feel for it. Remember what I taught you.”

Casey could put drill sergeants to shame. Chuck figured he probably wouldn’t ever forget the gun maintenance and shooting lessons, even if he wanted to.

When Casey gave him the okay, Chuck took a deep breath, set his stance, and squinted at the silhouette. It was just a circle; Casey had probably avoided using a person-shaped target on purpose. His finger shook as he slid it onto the trigger.

The first shot startled him. He flinched as the gun kicked back, the recoil shaking his arms all the way to the shoulders. The shot itself went wide, hitting just inside of the circle’s edge. Dazed that he’d hit anything at all, Chuck lowered the gun and removed his finger from the trigger.

“Adjust your grip,” Casey said. “See if you can’t get closer to the middle. Try a couple of shots in a row.”

Chuck did as ordered. This time, the kickback didn’t surprise him as badly as he was prepared for it. He fired off three shots in semi-quick succession, trying not to wince.

“Not bad,” Casey said, motioning for Chuck to flip the safety and set the gun down. He flipped the switch to bring the silhouette closer. “You’re flinching, but that’s to be expected. It may go away with practice, it may not. But don’t worry—a lot of experienced gunmen flinch. They just learn to compensate for it. The fact that you grouped these three shots together actually shows a lot of promise.”

Chuck stared at him. “C-Casey? Did you just compliment me?”

“Shut up, moron.”

“Yeah, I must’ve been hallucinating, you’re right.”

“You’re not completely incompetent,” Casey said, studying the silhouette. “Now that you’re familiar with the gun and how it shoots, I want you to try aiming, looking down the barrel sight like I showed you and—what is it, Walker?”

Both men looked over to where Sarah stood outside the room, by the intercom. “Teleconference, five minutes,” she said, and hurried away to strip out of her exercise gear. Chuck exchanged a glance with Casey before they pulled off their goggles, stowing everything neatly in assigned slots by the door. Casey took the spare Sig Sauer with him, ordering Chuck to wait in front of the briefing screens.

Chuck tucked his hands in his pockets, scowling. He hated briefings, as they always spelled trouble for somebody on the team. Unfortunately, it was usually him, as Sarah and Casey had exemplary service records, whereas he only had a bunker, a few hostage situations, and a defused bomb to his name.

Casey joined him first, Sarah sprinting up at the last second, pulling her wet hair back into a ponytail as she ran. Chuck put a hand out to prevent her from sliding into the table; she grinned up at him before turning a somber expression to the screens.

All three screens clicked on. Chuck wondered why Director Graham always leaned over General Beckman—didn’t that get uncomfortable? Why couldn’t he just use a chair like the rest of civilization?

Graham nodded at each of them in turn. “I trust we aren’t interrupting anything important?”

“No sir.” Sarah had her company smile on. “In fact, Casey was helping Agent Bartowski pass his firearms certification.”

“Excellent. I suppose we’ll dive right in?” General Beckman phrased the question in a way that it became an order. Chuck had to admire her for it. “We received a distress signal from a George Fleming, code name Glass—”

“Professor Fleming?” Chuck asked, praying that he had misheard. “George Fleming?”

“Yes, Agent Bartowski.”

Chuck’s hands tightened into fists.

Sarah glanced between him and the screen, just a flicker of her eyes. “If I may, what exactly is the nature of Fleming’s relationship with Agent Bartowski?”

“He recruited me.” Chuck kept his voice even, his expression blank. He felt something sick, oily, and black begin to grow through his middle, poison eating him slowly from the inside out. He focused his eyes on a fixed point—over General Beckman’s shoulder. “I took his Psychology and Symbolism class, back at Stanford. What happened to him?”

“We received a distress signal, but we are uncertain as to the actual situation. Here.” General Beckman pushed a button and audio began to roll. Chuck slammed a lid down on his emotions so that he could listen to the message calmly, objectively. Without wanting to take the gun Casey had been teaching him how to use and to start shooting random things.

“This is Glass Castle reporting hostile contact. I made a mistake, Black Coat. I copied intel for myself onto a disk. They’re after it. I knew I shouldn’t have—”

Something on the audio slammed.

“General, when was this received?”

“Two days ago, but it was not brought to our attention until some…” Director Graham rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. “Idiot down in the Comm Office realized that the Black Coat he referred to was Bryce Larkin’s old code name, which gives Prometheus jurisdiction.”

Now it was Sarah’s turn to tense. “Director? I partnered with Larkin, and I don’t recall—”

“It was his Stanford name,” Chuck said. “Professor Fleming had names for all of us. Code names.”

His fists tightened all over again.

“A local office pulled the video from around Professor Fleming’s classroom and were able to ascertain that this man was the hostile contact Fleming reported.” A mug-shot of a bald, angry man ate up half of the screen, a small line of text naming him Magnus Ragnhildur. “Professor Fleming is a company scientist, not a field agent, and we believe he may have contacts in the LA area. Your job is to find him, extract him, and retrieve the location of the intel before Ragn—Ragunhi—Magnus can. You will use Agent Bartowski’s connection in order to extract the asset—Dr. Fleming—safely.”

It took a herculean effort for Chuck to keep his face blank. Inside, the blackness oozed another inch. He could feel it squeezing his lungs.

Sarah stepped forward, placing herself between Chuck and the screens. “General, Director, perhaps Major Casey and I can handle this on our own?”

Chuck glanced over, surprised. On screen, the two officials did the same. “Why do you ask, Agent Walker?” Graham asked.

Sarah paused. She’d always taken the demure approach to briefings, giving her reports concisely and asking questions only when necessary. Chuck could see lines of tension screaming through her shoulders now, but she didn’t back down. “Permission to speak freely?”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Granted,” Beckman said, cutting Graham off. “Go on, Walker.”

“Agent Bartowski has willingly given up a lot to serve his country, but while he continues to have an excellent record, contact with the man who recruited him and therefore led to Agent Bartowski’s time in the bunker might be…unwise. I feel like it’s better we don’t delve into, ah, Agent Bartowski’s past relationships.”

“And why do you feel that way?”

Casey and Sarah exchanged a glance. Chuck waited, as curious as the people onscreen. Had Casey and Sarah been discussing him? It was likely—after all, what did they have to talk about whenever they left him in the car? He doubted Sarah bothered with the FOX News Network. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being a topic of conversation, though.

“The Intersect functions best when Chu—Agent Bartowski’s emotions are in balance. As lead CIA operative on the Prometheus team, it is my opinion that exposing Agent Bartowski to Fleming at this stage in the game would be deleterious to his mental state, especially as it’s unnecessary. Major Casey and I can handle any problems.” Sarah kept her hands behind her back and her eyes forward. “Given the results the team has produced in less than a month, our record speaks for itself.”

General Beckman was frowning, but Chuck had hardly ever seen her do otherwise. “Your record reads like a comic book, so I’d hardly brag about that, Agent Walker.”

“General, if I may, I believe Walker may be right.” Casey kept his thumb tucked in his waistband, hand gripping his other wrist. “If this Fleming relies as much upon code names, giving him Bartowski’s code name will be sufficient.”

“And if not?”

Casey’s shrug said what his personality never missed the opportunity to say: I’ll shoot him.

Beckman and Graham exchanged a look. Graham gave in first. “Fine. Agent Walker, Major Casey, bring Fleming in. Alive. Preferably unharmed. Agent Bartowski, remain inside Castle until your teammates have returned.”

Chuck, not sure if he could speak, just nodded.

“Report in once you have secured the asset,” Beckman ordered, and the screen cut off.

The instant they were alone, Chuck felt his shoulders sag. He dropped his gaze to the floor, not wanting to meet Sarah or Casey’s eye. He could feel cracks splintering throughout the lid he’d slammed over all of the ugliness, building up pressure behind his sternum and threatening to explode. Without saying a word, he simply turned and left the room.

“I’ll get the gear,” he heard Casey say. Sarah murmured something to acknowledge it; a few seconds later, Chuck the slap of her bare feet on the tiles. He wandered blindly, not even caring when he ended up in the dojo, with Sarah trailing him. When he finally stopped and just stared at the wall, trying to contain everything, she touched him hesitantly, just above the elbow. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Chuck shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sarah said nothing.

Women, Chuck had always figured, took some secret class somewhere between birth and the age of three, a class that taught them the most effective use of silence. Ellie had always been able to frost him out without a single word or comfort him with nothing more than a hug. Sarah’s expressions could write novels. He knew had a marginally better chance of keeping the sickness and poison inside, instead of letting them spew out all over her and everything he knew, if he didn’t meet her eye.

So he turned and stared hard at Frank, and deliberately tried not to think. If he thought about anything, anything at all, the anger and helplessness making his hands spasm would rise up and swallow him whole.

“Chuck?” Sarah ventured when Chuck sucked in a deep breath.

He pushed the blackness back by sheer force of will. “Yeah?” Amazingly, his voice sounded completely normal.

“I wish you’d talk to me.”

“Worried about me?” He attempted self-deprecating. See how normal Chuck can be, he wanted to say. See what a screw-up he isn’t?

Sarah moved into his line of sight and met his gaze. “Yes.”

“Why? Poor, broken Chuck, can’t even handle the thought of his recruiter?” He gave a hollow laugh. It came out slightly hysterical.

“You’re not broken.”

“Oh, give me a break, Sarah. I’m a spy failure. I’m so bad that instead of sending me home like the other spy failures, they dumped me in a bunker and forgot about me. The only value I provide right now is a damned computer in my skull, and even that wasn’t up to me. No, Bryce Larkin did that.”

“You’re not broken,” Sarah repeated, her voice absolutely calm. Her eyes dared him to look away, but he knew she’d just step into his line of sight again. “I don’t know where you’re getting this idea that you are—”

“Oh yeah? Why else would they throw me in a bunker, then?”

Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but Casey rapped hard on the dojo door frame, drawing their attention over to him. He had a backpack over one shoulder and held a second, which he tossed to Sarah. Shoes followed. “Ours is not to question why, Bartowski. Ready to go, Walker?”

“Just one moment.”

“Guess I’ll warm up the car.” Casey rolled his eyes, but left them without comment. In some distant corner of his mind that wasn’t drowning in despair, Chuck couldn’t help but be grateful. He wasn’t sure he could handle a sardonic Casey, much less a sarcastic one.

Sarah changed the touch on his arm to a grip. “Chuck, listen to me,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re not a failure, and you’re not a screw-up. You may think you’re worthless, but you’re not. You’re one of the strongest people I know. They stuck you in a godforsaken bunker for three years and they left you there, and despite all of that, despite everything they’ve heaped on you, you still get out of bed every morning, you still come into work, and you still do things like defuse bombs and stop Triad gangs, even if Casey and I wish you would just stay in the damn car. That is not the sign of any failure, screw-up, whatever pissant label you want to throw on it, so just shut up. Got it?”

“Five years,” Chuck said when he found his voice.

Sarah blinked and took a step back. “What?”

“Five years, they had me in the bunker five years.” Chuck turned, slightly. Sarah didn’t talk much as a rule, but when she did, the woman could pack a verbal punch. “I guess it doesn’t matter, as what’s done is done, but what really gets me is that I wasn’t supposed to take Fleming’s class. I was a last minute addition because the other psychology course I wanted to take was full. And like the good little student I was, I aced the thing. Now look at me.”

He sagged back against the wall, his energy sapped. “Either way, I guess I should thank you,” he said in a tired voice.

“For what?” Sarah stooped to pull on her shoes.

“For standing up for me, to the general and the director. You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve manned up eventually.”

Sarah pulled her gun out of the bag’s front pocket and checked the chamber before she holstered it in her waistband. “Stop being so hard on yourself. You’re a member of my team, and you’re a member of Casey’s team. If that means going to the wall for you, so be it. To the wall, then.”

“Well, still. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Feet shod, gun holstered, and bearing the backpack, Sarah straightened. She touched Chuck’s shoulder, gently, so that he met her gaze. “Now, I have to go, but will you be okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” It was a lie, but Sarah Walker had a world to save, and she didn’t need Chuck Bartowski holding her back. So he gave her a smile he didn’t feel. “Go on, save Fleming. Feel free to rough him up. I only got an A minus on my final exam.”

“Will do.” Sarah gave him a real smile, brushed her hand over his shoulder, and turned to leave. She paused by the door. “Oh, right. What was your code name, so that we can prove to Fleming we know you?”

Chuck shrugged. “White hat.”

The last thing he expected was for Sarah’s grin to flash, but it did. “Appropriate,” she said, and vanished around the corner.

The instant Chuck saw the door close behind her, he rose to his full height. The sickening anger swelled up so fast and hard that his hands began to shake all over again. Why had he taken that damned class? Why had fate maneuvered him away from the class he’d wanted to take, and into the CIA, where they’d thrown him away to rot?

He couldn’t think about this. Refused to think about this. Down this path, there was only fury, an unstoppable tidal wave of it, all that rage and raw despair with nowhere to go. It could knock him flat, it would hollow him and leave nothing but an empty carapace. A shell that Sarah would have to clean up, just one more thing she would have to do for Chuck the Pathetic Failure of a Spy.

You’re not a failure.

Yeah, right, Chuck thought. Sarah could coddle and reassure until blue in the face, but it wouldn’t change a thing. He was a failure, and he wasn’t supposed to be here. Casey should be in DC, Sarah in Beirut or some place equally sinister—two more lives ruined by Chuck’s time in Fleming’s class. Just like, had Chuck not disappeared, Ellie would still be the trusting and open woman he loved, probably married to Awesome and having awesome babies, and Morgan wouldn’t have a shrine to a missing best friend in an electronics superstore.

And what would he be doing? Chuck rarely let himself think about it, but now it seeped through the Swiss cheese that had been his defenses. Would he be where he’d hoped? Semi-retired, successful software firm owner? Maybe he’d be married. To Jill? Or maybe she would have dumped him either way and he’d still be a bachelor, waiting for Ms. Right to come along. Maybe he had already found Ms. Right.

One thing was for certain: he sure as hell wouldn’t need a shower every time he went into a large room, he wouldn’t have to tuck himself into a corner at night to get any sleep, and he wouldn’t spend his evenings eating Chinese food in his car, too petrified to approach the woman who broke his heart.

His movements eerily calm, Chuck turned and studied Frank. His hands didn’t shake as he undid his shirt cuffs and buttons, peeling the garment off and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. He ignored the two sets of gloves set off to the side—he didn’t want to use Sarah’s, and Casey would murder him, Intersect or no—and drove his fist into Frank’s brutish face.

It hurt. It hurt a whole hell of a lot, actually.

He did the same thing with the other fist. It hurt even more.

Good. Pain forced his consciousness into a single point. It widened the gap between him and that darkness making him want to scream. With every fist he drove into Frank’s torso, he felt something release just a little bit inside him. He hit harder, grunting, puffing when that wasn’t enough, gasping when even that couldn’t do it. He wanted to destroy, he wanted the cathartic, cleansing burn that would make everything just go away.

He continued to pummel onward and outward to a tempo only something deep inside him understood. Harder. Faster. Each strike breaking through the cloud until there was nothing left.

Nothing left but Chuck Bartowski, spy failure.

His hands throbbing, Chuck sank to the floor, resting his spine against Frank’s mount. He stared at the mirror opposite, at the reflection of a skinny, sweating man with disheveled hair and bloody hands.

In the silent dojo, away from the thrum and hum of everyday life, his breath rasped even louder than usual.

9 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: UPSTAIRS
18:12 PST

He knew Casey and Sarah would take Fleming to a safe-house, which meant they’d be coming back alone—or rather, one would come back while the other waited to transfer Fleming into custody of the CIA. When the front door opened, Chuck glanced up, surprised to hear two sets of footsteps. Sarah came in first. Casey followed.

Immediately, Chuck swiveled a monitor aside to get a better look. “Uh, Casey?”

“What?” Casey said between his teeth.

“Are you limping?”

Casey glared. Why on earth that would make Sarah suppress one of her lightning quick smiles, Chuck didn’t know. “No,” the NSA agent grunted. Swinging the Scooby door open, he disappeared downstairs.

Chuck glanced over at Sarah. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Any problems while we were gone?”

“Nothing I couldn’t call in a local task force for.” Chuck nodded at the reports he’d shipped off to local ATF and FBI units. He kept his hands in his lap and watched her strip out of her jacket and toss it on the guest chair. As he didn’t really have guests, the chair had become Sarah’s when she wanted to avoid her desk and all the paperwork. She collapsed into it and immediately yanked the leg of her jeans up, pulling off her knife holster.

Chuck cleared his throat. “Professor Fleming get to the safe-house all right?”

“No.” Sarah pulled her gun out, shoving it and the knives in her backpack. She seemed annoyed. “He’s in the emergency room.”

“Wh-what?”

“Magnus startled us before we could get the location of the intel, and Fleming’s not exactly in any condition to talk. He won’t be for hours, if he makes it at all.” Sarah looked troubled. “Chuck, would he have written it down anywhere? The location?”

Though it made him nervous to give Fleming any thought, given the severity of his earlier attack, Chuck forced himself to remember all of the interactions he’d had with the psychology professor. He’d made the spy life seem glamorous and fulfilling, and his group of Stanford spies had probably had a much different recruitment process than other schools.

“He probably did,” Chuck said. “After all, he copied the intel onto a disk for himself, and didn’t destroy it before word could get out.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Sarah rubbed her hands over her face. “Magnus searched the place. We think Fleming’s briefcase is gone. We’ve got a team looking over everything, but we had to get Fleming and Casey to the hospital—”

“What!” Chuck jolted to his feet.

“Casey’s fine. No need to worry.”

“Why did he need to go to the hospital? Was that why—was that why he was limping?”

Sarah didn’t answer. Her instead gaze cut straight to the slipshod bandages covering his knuckles. This time, her silence was a question.

Chuck stuffed his aching hands into his pockets, but the damage was done. “I got mad at Frank.”

“What?”

“After you and Casey left, I wanted to hit things, so…I hit Frank.” Chuck sat down and leaned back, away from danger, as Sarah rounded the desk. “It’s no big deal, I already bandaged it all up and I used Neosporin, so I doubt anything will scar—”

“Let me see.” Sarah sat on the edge of his desk, intentionally invading his space so that he had nowhere to look but at her. Grudgingly, he took his hands out of his pockets and offered them. She kept her voice cool as she began to peel the bandages away, but he could see the way her eyes cut toward him often. “You were angry?”

“It’s a pretty common human emotion. I’m not a robot.”

“Nobody ever said you were. That’s all that happened, though? You were mad, and you hit Frank?”

“A bunch of times,” Chuck admitted. “It was a pity party. I feel better now.”

Sarah let out a breath as the final bit of cloth fell away, revealing the full damage. Chuck knew it wasn’t the prettiest sight. The knuckles had swelled to twice their size, and cuts and cracks ran throughout, some edged with dried blood. Sarah didn’t even flinch. “And you’re sure that’s all that happened?” she asked as she prodded each knuckle.

“Ow—ooh—yeah, that’s all that happened. Frank and I, we’re going through a rough patch now, but we’ll—ow! Quit that!”

“Nothing broken,” Sarah confirmed. “You’ll just be sore, and I guarantee you, you’ll regret it tomorrow. I’m going to get you some ice.”

Chuck blinked at her as she rose. “You’re not mad that I hurt myself? Usually when I do something stupid, you get pissed.”

She paused with her back to him; he had no idea what her expression might be, but her voice sounded completely calm as she said, “No, Chuck, I’m not mad. Not at you. Why don’t you log off? You probably shouldn’t be typing with your hands like that.”

“Guess that means no video games, too,” Chuck muttered as Sarah headed downstairs for the icepacks. He followed, since he was done for the day anyway. “So you think this Magnus guy has the location? Well, if he does, you’ve probably got time to wait for Fleming to wake up. The guy was nuts about codes. He used to send us all of our messages in code, which could be a real pain, let me tell—wait a second.”

He stopped halfway down the stairs.

“Chuck?” Sarah, sensing something, turned. “What is it?”

“Why would Fleming contact Bryce? Why Bryce specifically? Wasn’t he just an ex-student?”

Casey stood at the conference table, going through manila folders. “Chances are, Bryce became Fleming’s main CIA contact,” he said, shrugging as the other two joined him. “He was probably never told Larkin was rogue.”

“And there’s no way Bryce could have intercepted the message?”

Sarah and Casey exchanged a glance. “It’s unlikely,” Sarah said. “Why?”

“Fleming insisted every single one of us ‘Stanford spies’ have was a stash, somewhere we could leave essential items if we ever needed, or a message for him. He knew where everybody kept theirs, even if all Bryce and I ever used ours for were to stash things like extra darts.” He remembered their dart gun wars in the library, and how it used to drive him nuts that Bryce would mysteriously come up with extra ammunition.

Casey rolled his eyes. “A dumpsite should be used for emergency items like cash—”

“We were scholarship students, Casey.” Chuck rolled his own eyes. “Bryce kept a dumpsite in the library on campus—I did, too, but mine was in the Auxiliary Library. If Fleming was going to leave something for Bryce, it’d be in Green Library.”

“Where?” Sarah asked.

“Uh, I don’t remember exactly. It’s in the South Stacks, you go to the third floor and you make the first left and…” Chuck trailed off. The visual map he carried of the “Scary Stacks” had evidently eroded, just one more screw-up on his part. He gave Sarah and Casey a helpless look. “I honestly think I’d have to be there. I’d have to…go back.”

Sarah looked wary. “Can you handle it?”

“Honestly? I don’t—” Chuck frowned as a thought took hold. “The big Stanford-UCLA game is tomorrow. It’ll be good cover, plenty of people wandering around campus.”

All those people, all that open air. Football.

But if Professor Fleming had intel important enough that a cold-faced killer like Magnus Ragnhildur was after it, Chuck’s phobias would just have to deal. With a shaking hand, he drew his phone out of his pocket. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Chuck, what are you—”

Chuck had already dialed. “Ellie?” he asked once his sister had picked up. “You don’t happen to know if Awes—ah, Devon still has those game tickets for Sarah and me, do you? We got the day off, and I kind of want to show my office manager my alma mater. Oh, he does? That’s fantastic!”

He hung up a minute later. “Well, gang, we’re going to Stanford. I never thought I’d say this, but wear a red shirt.”

Chapter 19: Many Faces of Chuck and Sarah

Notes:

Any fool can criticize, condemn, and complain but it takes character and self control to be understanding and forgiving. — Dale Carnegie

10 NOVEMBER 2007
CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
10:47 PST

An hour before they were supposed to have arrived at Stanford, Chuck knocked at the door of his sister’s apartment. He always felt just that little spurt of nervousness right under the ribcage. Maybe it was nerves that Ellie would have mysteriously vanished, or he was going to screw up something in front of her, or worse, Sarah. Either way, he felt it flood right now and let it pass.

Just in time, too. Ellie yanked open the door and pulled him for a quick hug. “You made it! How are your hands? Sarah told me what happened.”

Chuck squinted at her, uncertain. “Um, they’re fine.” He had no idea what cover story Sarah had made up about his hands being covered in bandages, so he fell back on a tired smile.

“Do you want me to look them over?”

“No, I cleaned ‘em pretty good. They’re okay.”

“Okay, then. I’m so, so sorry, if I’d known that consult would take this long, I would have had Dr. Markowicz take it, but it’s one of my bomb patients, and he’s not doing so well—”

Awesome appeared behind her, grinning in welcome at Chuck. “It’s no problem, babe. Don’t worry about it—so we missed a little tailgating.”

“And I really don’t mind,” Chuck said. The government did, he knew. Casey had been making growling noises under his breath for the past two hours as the others were forced to wait for Ellie to finish up an emergency page. He didn’t know how Sarah was reacting, as he hadn’t seen her. “Where’s, ah, Sarah?”

Something flickered through Ellie’s eyes. “She had to take a call. I’m sure she’ll be out any minute. Mind helping Devon grab the stuff? I’ve got to change.”

“What? Oh, sure. Not at all.”

“Right this way, bro.” Between the two of them, they hefted a cooler, juggling bags of food and a plate of nachos. Chuck was pretty sure he made feeble, half-hearted responses to Awesome’s good-natured jibes about how much Stanford sucked, but by the time they returned to the apartment for the second trip, he couldn’t remember a single thing said by either of them.

Awesome picked up on it. “You okay?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.” He wasn’t, he knew. He probably looked like a mess, as he’d gotten an hour of sleep the night before. Maybe. If he rounded up. He’d taken time with his appearance, for what it was worth. Not much he could do with his hair, and the uniform for the big game was just an old Stanford tee and jeans. Casey wouldn’t even let him have the tranq gun until they got to the library. “I think I’m gonna use the little boys’ room before we hit the road.”

“Go ahead, I’ve got the rest.” Awesome waved him off.

In the bathroom, finally closed off from the rest of the world, he turned on the faucet and just stood, watching the water gush for a moment. Now that he didn’t have people around to fool, it was possible to simply stop and stare and just let the numbness overwhelm. He couldn’t even work up a baseline excitement about returning to his alma mater. He should, he knew. He should be excited beyond words to return to the place where he’d spent four of the happiest years of his life. His last few moments of true happiness.

Except what was waiting for him? Memories about Bryce? Pass. He had no idea what Bryce was up to—the “Where’s Bryce?” board had sat silent for weeks—or why he did anything these days. Memories about Jill? Yeah, he’d rather perform open heart surgery on himself without anesthesia, thank you very much. His frat brothers? They probably thought he was dead, and he all but was, for all the good it did him.

And now, on top of all of that, he was going to have to sit in a crowded stadium. For hours. All that open air, all those people using up all of the damned oxygen and—

“Um, Chuck?”

Chuck whirled. His eyes traveled up, down, and finally froze just above center—before he remembered himself, yelped again, and slapped his hands over them. “Holy—”

“Shh! Or do you want your sister and Devon to know you’re in here with me?”

“I—ah—naked!” Chuck kept his hands clamped firmly over his face. It was a useless gesture. He knew that. There was no way in hell he would ever lose the image that had etched itself on his brain. And no reason he should, really, except that it was probably disrespectful. “Very, very naked!”

He heard the baffled amusement in Sarah’s laugh, and rustling. She was probably reaching for a towel. Disappointment stabbed through him. “Well, what did you expect? I don’t usually shower with clothes on.”

“While that is an excellent point—”

“And you should probably have knocked. I mean, what if it had been Ellie in here?”

“Oh, God,” was all Chuck could say to that.

Something touched his arm—Chuck scrambled backward, hands still firmly glued to his face. He probably would have landed in the toilet if Sarah hadn’t grabbed both of his arms. “It’s okay, I’ve got a towel on. You can look.”

Cautiously, Chuck opened one eye, just a slit, and peeked through his fingers. She had indeed wrapped a towel around her torso. Chuck’s gaze cut immediately to the knot between her breasts. He flushed bright red and shut his eyes again. Now he had another image to add to a growing collection.

Sarah Walker might just very well be trying to kill him. Knowing him, he’d be in the middle of defusing a bomb or trying to stop a madman, and he’d accidentally think about Sarah’s, um—well, Sarah’s anything at all—and then, bam, the world would blow up. At least he’d die with a goofy smile on his face, Chuck thought sourly. Were you doomed to carry your final expression through the afterlife? Something to ponder later.

“Chuck?” Sarah asked.

Chuck, realizing that was just standing there with his hands over his eyes while his partner gripped his arms, forced himself to take a deep breath. He lowered his hands, keeping his gaze on her face. She looked good wet—stop that, Bartowski—save the worried frown. “Are you okay?” she asked him. “What were you doing?”

“What?”

Sarah reached over and turned off the tap without breaking her gaze. “You okay? You were staring at the sink.”

“Oh.” It all rushed back. Chuck straightened a little bit, sheepishly. “Sorry. I was, um, psyching myself up. About going back to Stanford.”

“Ah.” Sarah ran a hand over his shoulder and padded across the bathroom. Chuck watched her, confused, as she picked up the folded clothes from the edge of the tub. She turned and lifted an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to enjoy the show, but be warned, I’m about to dry off, which does involve nudity, yes.”

Chuck flushed bright red again, and all but spun on the spot before he could talk himself out of it.

“Talk to me,” Sarah ordered.

Chuck stared at the wall. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You think you’ll be able to handle the football game? It might be a little bit before we can sneak away to go check the library.”

Her voice was slightly muffled—it sounded like she might be toweling her hair. Chuck blinked and cleaned out his ear with his pinky finger. “Did you just say neck in the library?”

A snicker. “Well, why not? You’ve already seen me naked.”

Chuck made a noise that was somewhere between a yelp and a “meep.”

“Glad to see I’m still incredibly terrifying.” Sarah didn’t sounded offended, merely amused. “You never answered my question.”

The need to answer had been buried under a surprisingly hot flash of imagination. Chuck took a moment to clear his head before thinking back. Because it was Sarah, he decided to be honest. “I’m a little nervous about it. It’s a lot of people.”

“I know.”

“What if I can’t hack it?” And if, he thought as desperation and despair began to creep in and latch beneath his sternum, not only could he not hack it, but he had a major freak-out in front of thousands of other fans in the stands? In front of Sarah, in front of Ellie and Awesome and all of Awesome’s frat brothers?

“Then you let me know.” Sarah’s voice made it sound just that simple. “I’ll spill something on my shirt, take you with me, and we can go find someplace quiet for awhile until you feel better. Not a big deal, right?”

“One thing at a time,” Chuck said, his lips twisting up in a humorless smile. He nearly turned to share it with her, but remembered his blood pressure just in time. A thought sobered him. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Tired of what?”

“Being the level-headed, reassuring one all the damn time?” Chuck pushed both hands through his hair, scowling when they nearly got stuck. It was definitely time to shave his head again. “Doesn’t it get old?”

“Not really.” There was more rustling—this time it sounded like Sarah donning clothes rather than just toweling herself dry. More disappointment rose. Chuck fought it down to listen to Sarah. “Chuck, you haven’t even been out of that bunker for two months. Don’t you think you’re being just a bit unrealistic when it comes to your expectations?”

Chuck opened his mouth to reply, but knocking made him glance over sharply at the door. “Chuck?” Ellie’s voice. She sounded confused. “Are you in there? I thought I heard voices.”

“Wh-what?” Panic made Chuck’s voice soar up an octave. “No, no, I’m alone in here, Ellie, I promise. Just finishing up. Be out in a second!”

But that would never suffice to dislodge Ellie once she sank her metaphorical teeth into a bone. “I can’t find Sarah anywhere,” she said, her voice losing not one iota of suspicion. “She’s not…in there with you, is she?”

All of the blood drained from Chuck’s face. Had Ellie somehow developed X-ray vision in the time he’d been away? He opened his mouth to demand just that, but Sarah stepped right in front of him, a finger on her lips. She’d thrown on a T-shirt and underwear, but that was all. Chuck’s eyes bulged. “Would you please put some pants on!” he hissed at her. In a normal (if a bit strangled) voice, he called, “Maybe she, uh, went outside or something?”

“Why would she do that?”

“Um, to, I don’t know, to grab a smoke?”

On the other side of the door, there was a long pause. “I didn’t know Sarah smokes.”

“Uh, yeah. Like a chimney, actually—ow!” Chuck glared at Sarah, rubbing his hand over his injured arm. She glared right back. He hissed, “You, pants, now!”

“What was that?” Ellie asked.

“Ah, nothing. Rapped my knuckle on the faucet. Be out in just a sec, sis!”

“Okay. I’ll go try and find Sarah.”

When the sound of Ellie’s footsteps had finally faded away, Chuck rounded on Sarah. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? You’re sick of this assignment, and so you’re going to kill me with the power of your legs so that you can go back to assassinating drug lords with a knitting needle. Or are you suddenly just allergic to pants now?”

“You’re the one that didn’t knock,” Sarah said, smirking and folding her arms over her chest.

The action drew Chuck’s attention right to the logo on the T-shirt. “Wait a second, that’s a Harvard T-shirt. Great job, CIA costume department. Completely wrong coast.”

“Or maybe it’s not from the CIA ‘costume department,’ and it’s just a day for Alma Maters.” Sarah stepped into her jeans and, rising, fluffed her fingers through her hair.

“Wait, Alma Maters? As in plural?” Chuck blinked. “You went to Harvard? As in, the school?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t go to Harvard the strip club. I need to sneak back to my room and finish getting ready. Be my look-out?”

“Sure, why not? It’s not like I haven’t already seen everything already anyway.” Chuck moved to obey, cracking the door open an inch and peering out. “It totally makes sense, by the way.”

“What?”

“That you went to Harvard.”

Sarah faltered as she bent to pick up her towel. There was a bit of a pause before she asked, “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, isn’t that the school in ‘Legally Blonde?’”

That surprised a laugh out of her before she gave him a look torn between laughter and violence—admittedly, a default setting with her. “How the hell do you even know that?”

“My ex-girlfriend loved that movie. You’re clear. Go.”

Sarah squeezed past him. Though there was plenty of space to pass, she deliberately rubbed against him, leaving behind a cloud of scent from her shampoo. He gulped. She laughed, and hurried from sight.

After a moment, he ambled out much slower, his hands in his pockets. “Whoa,” Awesome said as Chuck came back into the living room.

Chuck gave him a quizzical look.

“I was going to prescribe you something herbal because you looked wrecked, but you already look better. Must have been some trip to the bathroom.”

Ellie came in before Chuck could search his blank mind for anything to say to that. “Honey, have you seen Sarah? I checked outside, but she’s not out smoking or anything. She’s vanished off the face of the earth. Again.”

“Sarah smokes?” Awesome asked.

“No, I don’t. I hate cigarettes.” Sarah appeared in the hallway, tucking her cell phone into her pocket.

“Which is why,” Chuck deadpanned, “she only smokes cigars. Well, stogies, really.”

Sarah glared at him. She’d thrown shoes on and had twisted her hair back into one of those twisty chignon things that seemed complicated, but were probably the easiest thing in the world to pull off.

“Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere—have you seen—”

“Bottom drawer, under the spare magazines.”

“Oh, thanks.” Ellie dashed off.

Awesome, meanwhile, chuckled. “I love how you can do that. It’s like you have a database in your head.”

Chuck and Sarah stared at him.

“What is it?” Awesome glanced behind him, possibly searching for the ghost that had evidently made Chuck pale.

Sarah, of course, recovered first. “Ha, ha, no. No database. Just, you know, almost photographic memory.” She tapped her temple.

“Well, that makes sense. You did go to Harvard. By the way, up top. Awesome.” Awesome held up a hand for the inevitable high-five. It spoke of how often Sarah must see her roommate’s boyfriend that she returned the gesture automatically. “Best school on the east coast.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I personally was always more fond of Yale.”

Sarah gave Chuck her patented “Really, Chuck?” look.

“Of course,” Chuck said, fighting a grin, “I could be persuaded otherwise.”

“Persuade this,” Sarah muttered under her breath, and had Chuck grinning all over again.

It was, however, Ellie that came in and gave Chuck the finger before Sarah could. Or rather, she shoved a giant blue foam finger at him on her way to get her purse. “Hold onto that, will you?”

Chuck wrinkled his nose. “Wrong guy, El. Remember? I’m cheering on the red team today, and blue is no longer my color—ooh! It’ll be like ‘Red Versus Blue.’ Dibs on Grif!”

Ellie shook her head in the confused silence that followed. “Okay, then. You can be Grif. Everybody ready to go?”

“Road trip! Awesome!”

11 NOVEMBER 2007
STANFORD STADIUM
14:59 PST

“I still can’t believe I slept the whole way.” Chuck knew he was one very dangerously small step away from pouting, he couldn’t help it. If he focused on anything else, anything at all, he’d very likely break down in the middle of the walkway and turn into a gibbering mess.

“Drooled the whole way, too,” he heard Sarah mutter as she brushed at her sleeve once more.

“I mean, I didn’t get to point out my favorite landmarks or anything. The giant duck that used to be a wine shop, the ‘Ladles, Ladles, Ladles’ adult movie store. That spot where my car broke down my sophomore year, and Bryce and I spent two hours writing Zork code on the back of a ‘Merging Lanes’ sign…”

He immediately wanted to stuff his entire foot in his mouth when Sarah tensed.

Ellie frowned as she dodged a couple of fans that had painted themselves blue for the occasion. “Whatever happened to Bryce? You two used to be such good friends, and I don’t think I’ve heard you mention him once since you got back. Have you tried to get in touch with him?”

Chuck didn’t dare look at Sarah, who was climbing the bleachers right beside him. “Uh, yeah, actually. I gave him a call awhile back. He travels a lot, you know. For business.”

Or treason.

“He’s, ah, good,” he finished.

“Kind of surprised he’s not running the world by now.”

They jostled in and out of the crowd as they tried to find their group in the stands. Chuck turned his attention to his breathing before he could realize just how many wild, loud, cheering fans had jammed themselves into Stanford Stadium. It spoke volumes about his life that he was looking forward to the part of the day where he’d probably end up coming face to face with a spy out to kill him and his partners.

But at least there’d be less people around then.

His cell phone beeped. He glanced at the screen: twenty minutes until the rendezvous with Casey. What was twenty minutes?

A freaking eternity.

They found their paths just as the pre-game entertainment wrapped up. Chuck and Sarah were introduced around as Ellie’s traitorous younger brother and woefully misguided roommate, so they sat amidst good-natured riffing (more for the Stanford man, Chuck noticed, than the Harvard woman), two red shirts in a sea of blue. Sarah converted to her cover shyness, which meant she crowded close to him and Ellie. It almost made him smile. Sarah Walker could mow down the entire row of frat guys with nothing but her fists and her wits if she chose, but instead, she tilted her head forward and kept close to his side. As if he could possibly do a single thing that would protect her in any situation, theoretical or otherwise.

They’d timed their arrival close to the kick-off, so Chuck didn’t have to wait long before the stands erupted in a roar. He clenched his fists on the thighs of his jeans and gritted his teeth, counting down to when he could slip away and join Casey—

“Chuck?” Sarah touched his wrist to get his attention. He glanced over—and up, as she’d apparently risen to her feet with the crowd. “Doing okay?”

Chuck looked over at the score board. Two minutes of game play had elapsed. He couldn’t recall a second of it.

“I—” Chuck shook his head as if in a fog. “I’m fine.”

“C’mon, boss.” Sarah hauled him to his feet. “You promised me a pretzel.”

“I did?”

Sarah leaned around him to grab Ellie’s attention. “Chuck just offered to buy me a pretzel. Want anything? He’s buying.”

“Hmm.” Ellie considered. “A hot dog and a Coke.”

“And you call yourself a doctor,” Chuck scoffed.

“Make it a Diet Coke, then.” Ellie stuck her tongue out at him. Chuck, however, didn’t miss the furtive look she sent after Sarah and him as they left. She’d been giving him the same look all day.

“Something’s up with Ellie,” he said as he and Sarah headed for the concession stand. “She’s suspicious about something.”

“Probably just worried her upstanding little brother is boffing his secretary.”

Chuck choked on nothing but air.

When Sarah glanced back, her eyes danced with mischief. “You okay, Chuck?”

“Office manager,” Chuck said in a strangled voice. “And no, I don’t think that’s it. Precisely.”

“Hm.” Around them, the Stanford fans let out a cheer—an interception or first down. Chuck wasn’t paying enough attention to care.

“I’ll talk to her. Later. Maybe get things cleared up.” Chuck shrugged. “Maybe we should just get you a cover boyfriend. Hey, you could fake date Casey!”

Sarah blanched. Somewhere near Green Library, Chuck was positive that Casey just let out one of his “what the hell has Bartowski done now?” grunts.

He barreled on, using Sarah’s horrified silence as encouragement. “Just think about it. You and Casey could use your cover dates to keep Castle’s armory inventory squeaky clean, and after an appropriate amount of time has passed, he’ll get down on one knee and fake-propose in the middle of a combat zone, and you’ll have a shotgun wedding at the courthouse—”

Sarah made a small, terrified noise.

“Shotgun only because,” Chuck said quickly, “of course one of you will literally be carrying a shotgun. Give it a couple of years and if you’re both still here and together, you can start having cover children. Just think, they’ll have their father’s grunts and their mother’s eyes and—what are you staring at?”

“I’m not staring. I’m timing you in my head.”

“What? Why?”

“To see how long you can go on building my life with Casey before you realize what you’re saying and need to start beating your head against a brick wall.”

“Oh, I can go on for ages. I could probably describe all the way to your golden anniversary, when he gives you a diamond knife hilt and you surprise him with solid gold bullet-shaped cufflinks.”

Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I take it back. Maybe you don’t need to beat your head against a brick wall. Maybe I should do it for you.”

“Probably best not to. Don’t want to damage the Intersect.”

They reached the concessions line and Sarah finally glanced over at Chuck, concern mixing with her smile. “Easier to think about me doing the deed with Casey than it is about Magnus and what’s coming, huh?”

Chuck’s eyes went briefly blurry before he screwed them shut. “Thanks for the mental image.”

“Just returning the favor.”

“Maybe you should just owe me one next time. And you know how it is with me and guns.”

“Honestly, you should be fine. Magnus’s weapon of choice is the crossbow.”

Chuck squinted at Sarah—her face was unreadable, but he knew she wasn’t above messing with him, given the chance. “Crap, and I left my plus five Cloak of Resistance in my other Bag of Holding, which is back at my place. How much damage with a guy with a crossbow do, anyway?”

Sarah muttered something. If it sounded at all like, “One d-six,” Chuck figured it was mostly coincidence. So he barreled on, “Seems a little…”

Sarah’s smile flashed. “I shouldn’t be joking about this, as a crossbow can kill you just as dead as anything else, but, well, ask Casey sometime. Just be prepared to run.”

“Was that why he was limping last night? Did he get shot with a crossbow bolt?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy—”

“Chuck?”

Because he was grinning at Sarah, he saw her snap into “agent” mode. Her eyes hardened, her body tensed, her right hand dropped toward where she kept a weapon of some kind hidden.

Chuck, on the other hand, went completely flimsy. He felt like flopping backward, his body driven by the sheer impact of an emotional punch to the gut. The voice completely shut off every higher function in his brain, leaving his mind a blank mass sitting in his skull.

He turned very slowly.

And there she was, much, much closer than he’d seen her in years. He didn’t even had to look through binoculars. Because Jill Roberts was right there, giving him a puzzled, happy smile. “Chuck Bartowski?” she asked, just to be sure.

He blinked stupidly at her. “Yeah, that’s me,” came out of his mouth.

Jill’s smile brightened considerably. “Well, look at you, stranger! I thought you’d vanished off of the face of the earth, but no, here you are. It’s Jill. Jill Roberts? From Stanford?”

Chuck was pretty sure there was a socially acceptable response to that. He knew at point, he had likely known said socially acceptable response. Probably. But all that came to mind now was a sort of “Uh” noise that looped endlessly through his empty mind.

Now, Jill’s smile dimmed somewhat. “Um, Chuck, are you okay?”

He was saved from answering by a nudge at his side. “Ohmigod,” said a voice, a voice that sounded absurdly like the illegal crossbreed between Sarah Walker and a Valley Girl. Chuck blinked foggily at his companion, who had shifted from the somewhat-reserved secret agent he knew and adored to something from the planet Malibu. “Are you Jill freakin’ Roberts? I can’t believe it. Hi, I’m Sarah, I’m Chuck’s—”

Hastily, Chuck cleared his throat.

“Office manager,” Sarah finished without making it seem like she might have said “girlfriend” at all. “He talks about you all the time. I can’t believe I get to meet you.”

Now she calls herself an office manager, Chuck thought. Figures.

Confusion flavored Jill’s smile now. “He has? Wow. Um, only good things I hope?”

Sarah smiled and laid her hand against Chuck’s elbow to get his attention. “Why don’t I get the stuff, you stay here and catch up?”

Chuck raised his eyebrows at that. Abandoning the field? He couldn’t say he blamed her—he was torn between wanting to run away somewhere far, and brimming with curiosity. So many questions swirled to the surface. He forced them back as he pulled his wallet out and handed Sarah a twenty. “You said I owed you a pretzel, remember?”

Sarah took the money. “R-right.”

After she’d turned away and rejoined the line, Chuck stuck his hands in his pockets. Would he feel awkward, he wondered, if he hadn’t spent five years in a hole in the ground? Probably. “Sorry about that,” he said, trying to put a “heh, heh, look at how funny Chuck can be” note into his voice. “I’m kind of a slave-driver, I guess.”

“Really? What is it that you’re doing, these days? How…have you been?”

She looked much better in person. Maybe it was the sunlight that filtered so perfectly over her brown ponytail, bringing out the hidden red highlights like it always had during their study dates on the quad. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t looking at her through shaky binocular lenses. He felt his stomach plunge, and barely remembered to answer her question.

“I recently came back from working abroad—I’ve got a small software firm, nothing major. Pacific Securities, LLC.” Chuck could feel sweat dribbling back down between his shoulder blades, and wished that he’d worn some kind of jacket, any jacket at all, that would hide that fact. Of course, he was doomed to sweat, with all of these people around, but now that his ex-girlfriend was standing right in front of him, why did he have to sweat so damn much? “It’s small, a three-man operation really, but it gets me through the—how are you? What have you been up to? The great Jill Roberts—it is still Roberts, right? I’m not pissing off some husband by standing here talking to you?—conquering the world, right? World domination was your goal?”

Jill laughed. If she sounded nervous, Chuck figured it was purely his imagination.

“Ha, no, it’s still Roberts. I’m finishing up the last year of my doctorate in the program at SC.”

“Oh.” Chuck blinked. “Well, congratulations. When do you become Dr. Roberts, then? Who, coincidentally, was my pediatrician. Not that you needed to know that, even if he was a really nice guy…” He trailed off and wondered if he was flexible enough to actually shove one of his chucks into his mouth. If he kept going like this, he would find out one way or another.

Jill’s smile blossomed. “Was he? I’m glad to hear that. And I finish in December, actually. I’m so close to done, just making a few final tweaks to my thesis. I can practically smell the freedom.”

“That’s—that’s wonderful.”

“So, working abroad? Exciting, isn’t it? I’ve been tentatively offered a job working in France.”

He couldn’t stop the smile. “Really? That’s great. I know how much you’ve always loved the French Riviera.”

“I still do. And what about you? You didn’t just drop off of the face of the earth for five years, did you?” Jill smiled and nudged him in the arm. He froze. Perhaps Jill noticed; concern flitted into those brown eyes he remembered better than his own sometimes. “Are you—are you okay? You look a little ill.”

He felt a little ill. Chuck pushed it all down by sheer force of will and managed to plaster a smile on his face, though it felt more like a grimace. “I’m fine,” he said when he was sure his voice wouldn’t croak like a robot’s. “And no, ha, ha, didn’t drop off of the face of the earth for five years. I was in—Poland!” He blurted out the first name that came to mind.

“Really? Poland?” Jill rocked backward on her sneakers, an old move. “I didn’t know you knew Polish, Chuck.”

“I’m really, really terrible at it.” Chuck forced a laugh. He’d convinced Sarah to teach him a few words, but they’d fled with the rest of his capacity for higher thought. “I was, um, working for an agency based out of Warsaw. Turns out tech speak is universal. Who knew, right? But I wanted to be closer to Ellie and everybody, so I came back, started my own company. Hired Sarah back there.” He jerked his head toward the concessions line. “She’s scarily efficient.”

Or just scary, whenever somebody crossed her.

Jill’s smile may have flickered, though Chuck had no idea why it would. “Yeah, I was going to ask about that. You brought your office manager to the game with you?”

“Actually, Ellie did. That’s how I met Sarah, really. She and Ellie are friends.”

“Oh.” Jill tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sorry, I thought she might be, like a date or something.”

Why did everybody think that? First Ellie and her “boffing” suspicions, and now Jill? Hell, even Morgan had made hints.

“Trust me,” Chuck said, “when I say she’s way too good for me. Um, what about you? Are you, uh, here with a date?”

“Just another Stanford undergrad in my program at SC. We drove up together to save on gas.” Jill’s expression softened. “I never heard back from you, five years ago, and I wanted to—”

Chuck’s phone beeped. Torn between relief and sheer aggravation, he held up a finger and scrambled for it. Casey’s angry visage filled the screen behind the text message: “Where the hell are you and Walker??? Get over here now!”

Chuck figured the grunt was implied.

Proving that she had a sixth sense about these things, Sarah appeared at his elbow and glanced at the phone in his hand. “Got the stuff,” she said without commenting. “Ellie likes relish and mustard on her hot dogs, right?”

Why did it continually amaze him that the CIA would know that sort of thing? “Uh, yeah. Hold on just a second, though.” He turned to Jill. “What was it you were going to say?”

Her smile had all but vanished. “Actually, never mind. It’s not important.”

But it is, Chuck wanted to say. It’s so damn important that I spent five years wondering.

However, duty called. Chuck possibly had a raging crossbow-carrying fiend to face in his old college library, and Jill probably wanted to get back to watching the game.

She proved him right by smiling sadly at him. “I should get back, Justin’s probably wondering if I fell in or something. It was nice seeing you again, Chuck. And, ah, nice to meet you, Sarah.” She reached out to pat Chuck on the arm; he nearly stepped sideways into Sarah, but avoided it at the last second.

Sarah let the motion go without comment. “Likewise,” she told Jill, giving the other woman a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Y-yeah, it was nice seeing you again,” Chuck said, though the jury was still out on that one. “Uh, don’t be a stranger.”

“Same goes.” Jill melted into the crowd.

Sarah gave him approximately a minute to stand quietly, reeling, while the crowds moved all around him. In the end, he broke the silence first. “Sorry to leave you with the food-grabbing duties. Here, I can take some stuff.”

“I got you a pretzel,” Sarah said, handing him the hot dog and Diet Coke. “So you don’t steal all of mine like we both know you’ll try to do.”

Chuck mustered up a weak smile at that. “To be fair, I only did that once.”

“Uh-huh, right. C’mon, let’s take this stuff back to Ellie and make our excuses so that Casey doesn’t have a conniption.”

He let her muscle her way through the crowd, as she was better at it, and probably wasn’t in a state of emotional shock like him. Could he have come across as even more of an idiot? He wasn’t the smoothest of guys to start out, but—had he really asked if her name was still Roberts? And babbled on for twenty minutes about his childhood doctor? Good one, Bartowski. Maybe next time you should charm the girl by talking about your cavities.

Hell, maybe he should have let Sarah introduce herself as his girlfriend. They’d played a married couple before, after all, and having a woman like Sarah pretend to be actually interested in a nerd like him would be a real social win. Except…he wanted to stand on his own power. He couldn’t always just hide behind Sarah Walker whenever something scared him. And pretending to let Sarah Walker be his hot girlfriend just wasn’t fair to her. She wasn’t some eye candy to be displayed like a friggen’ trophy, after all.

He turned to say as much to her, just to make sure there weren’t any hurt feelings—partners, after all, needed to be on the same footing—but she was already studying him intensely. When he blinked at her, he could have sworn the faintest tinge of red started up around her cheeks. “Are you okay?” she said, stopping him at the top of the bleachers.

“Wh-what? Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Give me an honest answer, Chuck. Are you going to be able to handle going into that library, knowing Magnus might be waiting for us?”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I? I couldn’t get my bearings well enough with the security feeds Casey tried to show me this morning.” Chuck squinted at her. “We’ve faced scarier things than crossbow-toting psychopaths with questionable names, Sarah. Why are you really asking?”

Sarah bit her lip. “I know she meant a lot to you. You carry her picture around, after all. I just want to make sure your head’s in a good place in case something happens. I can call Casey, put it off for a few hours—”

“No, I’d rather get it over with.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Sarah searched his face once more, but took him at his word. They started clambering down the walkway to their group, while the UCLA fans let out a roaring cheer. Under it all, Chuck leaned in close. Sarah had made an excellent point about wondering where his head was at. The least he could do was reassure her. “Look, Jill happened a long time ago. It was just a surprise, that’s all.”

“I said it’s okay, Chuck.”

It shouldn’t have been okay. He should have been approaching Fleming-induced levels of rage, but he was just too drained from all of the crowds, from constantly keeping up a cheerful face around his sister and Awesome, even from the constant nearness of Sarah. He’d have to simply have his full freak-out later on, when he finally alone, tucked into the corner of his room at the Bachelor Pad.

At least Sarah hadn’t said anything about the stalking, he thought. She swapped items with him, telling him to wait in the aisle while she carried the hot dog and soda to Ellie. Whatever she said must have worked to get them both off of the hook from watching at least the first half of the game, for Ellie glanced over and gave him a small “Go ahead” wave. He waved back and waited, as instructed, for Sarah to come back.

“I told Ellie you wanted to show me your old haunts and that we’d be back to watch UCLA lose in the second half,” Sarah said when she returned.

Chuck handed over her pretzel. “And Ellie was okay with that?”

“She says have fun, be safe, call if we run into any trouble.” Sarah shrugged. “So…ready to go face a guy with a crossbow?”

“I could really use that plus five cloak of resistance right about now. And maybe some new pants for later. Just in case.” Chuck made it a point to grin over at Sarah.

She rolled her eyes back, but led the way out of the stadium.

Chuck glanced back to his sister, and Awesome’s cabal of frat guys, just the once on the way out. He was surprised to see Ellie looking back, watching them go. Or rather, he saw, watching Sarah go. And her eyes were most definitely narrowed in suspicion.

Uh-oh.

Chapter 20: Books and Battlegrounds

Notes:

There is no such thing as a self-made man. You will reach your goals only with the help of others. — George Shinn

11 NOVEMBER 2007
OUTSIDE LARKIN HALL
19:43 PST

“What the hell took you two so long?” Casey hopped out of the back of the Dodge Charger sitting not-so-inconspicuously a few blocks from the library. Even if the mission had called for plainclothes, he had evidently taken the black tactical dress uniform to heart. Black pants, a black shirt, a black jacket. A black glare of death really completed the ensemble.

Despite the furious look, Chuck opened his mouth to take the blame. It was his fault that they were running so far behind. Even if Sarah had set the pace for their walk across campus, he knew that she’d only done so to cover for him and to give him time to push the whole conversation with Jill back into some corner of his mind where it wouldn’t interfere with their mission.

Sarah, however, just elbowed him aside. “I got distracted,” she said.

Casey growled. “Bartowski…”

“What? Why is that my fault?”

“Oh, lay off him, Casey. I like football.” Sarah gave Casey her sunniest smile. “Sorry.”

That was odd, Chuck thought. She didn’t sound the faintest bit apologetic. To spare her Casey-flavored scorn, he forced a laugh. “Casey, is it true that you got shot with a crossbow bolt?”

Casey’s growl was only audible to small creatures and Chuck. “Who the hell told you—Walker!”

Sarah affected an innocent look as she climbed up into the van to retrieve the rest of her weapons. “What? He guessed.”

“You guessed?” Casey demanded.

“Well, you were limping kind of obviously.” Chuck wrestled down the urge to dive behind the nearest large object from the power of Casey’s glare alone. “And Sarah told me Magnus’s weapon of choice is the crossbow. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together. So, where’d you get hit?”

He actually took a step back when Casey’s glare shifted to a growl. “Drop it, Bartowski.”

“Must’ve been somewhere bad,” Chuck said before his brain could shut his mouth up.

Indeed, Casey looked like he might simply lunge for the other man’s throat, except that Sarah came out of the van just then and smiled at them both. “If you kill him,” she told Casey, “he can’t tell us where the intel is.”

Casey must have really wanted him dead, Chuck discovered, as the other man spent nearly thirty seconds—thirty long, interminable seconds—obviously debating if it was worth breaking orders over. In the end, he shut the van door behind Sarah, glared at Chuck, and jerked his head: let’s move, team.

“Wait a second,” Chuck said as Sarah handed him his tranq gun. He shoved it back in his waistband and followed the other two agents across the street. “Casey, did you get shot in the ass with a crossbow?”

Casey’s shoulders stiffened, but mercifully, he didn’t turn and strangle Chuck on the spot. Sarah, however, gave him a look of laughing exasperation. “Quit, you,” she said. “It bears repeating—if he kills you, we’re never going to find this intel.”

She had a fair point.

“And, yes, for the record, Casey did get shot in the ass with a crossbow bolt,” Sarah finished.

Casey and Chuck both stared at her. “You realize that it’s theoretically possible for Casey to kill you and still get the intel?” Chuck finally asked, as it looked like sheer anger might be paralyzing Casey’s vocal cords.

Sarah shrugged. “He can try. Probably bleed to death before he gets five steps.”

“Or his heart explodes from your kung fu ways,” Chuck muttered. He held his hand up in a gesture of innocence when Casey growled yet again. “We can debate long and hard about who can kill whom first or survive what karate chop to what body part. However, there is still some sort of disk in Bryce’s dumpsite in that library. Maybe we should get that first and the two of you can kill each other. All I ask is that you wait until we get back to Burbank, as my sister and her boyfriend will get suspicious if they have to hold conversations with Sarah’s corpse on the road trip back.”

Though Casey looked intrigue by any situation that might involve Sarah’s corpse, he dropped the subject with a final, threatening growl. Chuck wasn’t sure if the growl was acquiescence to any part of his suggestion—fighting, killing Sarah, or waiting until they got back to Burbank. Or hell, killing Chuck, as that was always on the menu.

Maybe he shouldn’t mention the crossbow thing again for a little while. Just to be safe.

When they reached the library, Casey pulled something out of his pocket. “Reactivated your ID,” he said, handing over the plastic card to Chuck. “Couldn’t Photoshop the stupid grin off, though.”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “What’s the matter, Photoshop too hard for you? Maybe you should just stick with MS Paint.”

He couldn’t quite hear what Casey muttered in reply, but he didn’t figure it was kind to either his sexual practices or his ancestors. Bemused by that, and Sarah’s quiet snicker, he glanced down at his old student ID. He immediately regretted it.

“What is it?” Sarah asked when his entire body tensed. She instinctively moved in front of him, eyes sweeping over the library in search of danger.

Chuck shook off the half-migraine. “Uh, wow. My file in the Intersect has every grade for every paper I wrote at Stanford, and all of my IQ testing. It’s higher than I remember.”

Casey slowly took his hand off of his gun hilt. “You just flashed on yourself?”

Wordlessly, Chuck held up the ID.

“Anything interesting?” Sarah wanted to know.

There had been, but now really wasn’t the time. Chuck tucked a tiny nugget of information away and mustered up a semi-confident smile for his teammates. “We’re good. Let’s go rescue Professor Fleming’s porn collection.”

They made it through the scanners at the front doors easily—Casey, Chuck saw, had used a picture of himself in a suit for the ID. Sometimes Chuck wondered if the government agent actually understood the definition of blending in—and headed straight upstairs to the Scary Stacks on the third floor. The spookiest floor in the building would always be the basement, where the light sensors worked only when they wanted to and the smell of slight decay permeated everything. He wondered if that had changed at all. Probably not.

The rest of the library had changed in small ways, but nothing massive. Chuck drank in the details as they walked. Now that they were actually inside the library, where there might be a mercenary after the intel, the prospect of getting shot with a crossbow suddenly seemed a lot more pressing. As Sarah had pointed out earlier, a crossbow could kill him just as dead as a SIG or a bazooka or a heart attack (all three of which were options in his day-to-day life, Chuck felt).

So he chose to focus on the nostalgia. As a scholarship student, he had clocked so many hours in the library, battling the constant paranoia of losing said scholarship and having to return to Burbank as a failure. Bryce and Jill cracked that maybe he should use his MacGuyver skills to convert his study carrel on the fourth floor into a cot or at least a hotel suite of some type. They’d even taken turns bringing him food. Of course, Jill bringing him food usually meant dinner and making out in the stacks. Bryce meant a dinner and a dart-gun battle.

Man, they’d had some epic wars.

He must have made a “heh” noise, for Sarah glanced over at him. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing to do with the mission. Just thinking about all of the times I had in here. Traditions and the like.”

“Traditions?”

They’d reached the third level. Chuck scanned the area around the stairs, trying to match his memory to his time five years before. With a shrug, he headed left. It wasn’t quite a gut feeling, but close enough. “Yeah, we were really big on traditions. You know, the birthday shower tradition—”

“The one shower a year you nerds got?” Casey wondered under his breath.

Chuck rolled his eyes. He’d always felt he had exquisite hygiene. “Not quite. Your friends gang up on you on your birthday and throw you in the shower.”

“And?” Casey prompted as Chuck led them all around a set of shelves.

“Um, that was pretty much it.”

“Exciting.” Casey snorted. “Least they could’ve done was thrown a hooker in there with you.”

“Oh, yes, my girlfriend at the time would have loved that.” Chuck rolled his eyes. He made the next right turn on instinct. “And for your information, all of our traditions were not totally lame. It was always kind of fun to try and beat campus security so that we could dye the fountains red right before a big game, and there was always—” He turned left in the maze of bookshelves and stopped. “The tradition of having sex in the Scary Stacks. The ones in the basement, not up here. I never actually got to try that one, actually, and I’m probably always going to be a little disappointed about that.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the Scary Stacks,” Sarah said.

“Thanks for the offer,” Chuck said, “but tradition has it that you have to do it in your final semester of your senior year and—who-wah?” He shook his head as if to clear water from it. “Did you just—”

Casey snapped his fingers to get their attention. “Keep it in your pants, Walker. Bartowski, why the hell are we just standing here?”

“What? Oh, right. Just need to see where we are.” Even while his mind whirled, threatening to show him the images of Sarah that were now permanently locked into his brainfile, Chuck looked around the library. He all but smacked his forehead with his palm when he realized it. “I’m an idiot.”

“What’d you do now?” Casey immediately growled.

Chuck simply reached forward, felt for the hidden catch under the bookshelf about chest height. It gave without protest and the data disk tumbled into his palm. “Ta-da.”

“That’s it?” Casey asked, snatching the disk from Chuck’s fingers.

“I know, rather anticlimactic, isn’t it?” Chuck stooped so that he could check the rest of the dumpsite, hoping to find something else—anything else. He and Bryce had never used their dumpsites to leave messages for each other, but then again, neither he nor Bryce had ever turned traitor without any explanation whatsoever. There was a first time for everything.

The dumpsite was empty. Not even a dart for old times’ sake. Chuck fought back a bitter wash of disappointment.

“Okay, then. If only all of them were this easy.” Sarah reached around Chuck to close up the trapdoor under the shelf. “Let’s head back to the football game.”

“Oh, joy.”

They fell into step as they headed back toward the stairs, taking the same convoluted route they’d used to get to the dumpsite. Maybe it was the big game going on across campus, or the fact that it was Saturday night, but the library was almost barren of all signs of life. Of course, Chuck thought, there was probably some solitary geek sitting up in a study carrel on the fourth floor that probably wouldn’t leave until the security guard made his final pre-closing rounds.

He wondered if Kevin was still on duty on Saturday nights.

When Sarah grabbed his arm before the final turn to the stairs, he froze on instinct. “What? What is it?”

“Shh.” She cocked her head, listening for something he’d never be able to hear. The woman had ears like a bat.

On Chuck’s other side, Casey drew his weapon. Chuck didn’t reach for the tranq gun—not with Sarah so close by. He’d take his chances with the enemy and being a quick draw during his dart gun wars with Bryce.

“Get low,” Sarah ordered, pushing on Chuck’s shoulder to ensure that he obeyed. She nodded at Casey; he moved to the end of the aisle, his boots making no noise on the carpet. Chuck crouched, trying to peer through the shelves while above him, Sarah eased books aside to give herself a small window. She swore just loud enough for Chuck to hear.

“What is it?” he hissed.

Sarah ignored him to signal to Casey. After a moment, Chuck dragged out his memory banks and interpreted the signal from his training at Officer Candidate School. Seven men, incoming. Armed. And Magnus Ragnhildur with them, of course. Casey rolled his eyes and signaled something back that Chuck couldn’t interpret. Something rude, he figured, as the finger Sarah shot back at Casey didn’t strike Chuck as being an official tactical signal.

So they were on a level in Green Library with Magnus and seven armed mercenaries. That was just fantastic. Chuck peered through the shelves, moving books to one side as Sarah had. If he squinted, he could make out a set of combat boots guarding the stairs—and their escape route.

He pulled the tranq gun out and offered it to Sarah, gesturing in the guard’s direction with his free hand. She shook her head and cupped a hand around her ear. Too loud.

Well, in that case…

Chuck signaled to Casey and tried to sign that he had an idea. Unfortunately, he’d always sucked at charades, a point that was driven home when Casey stalked back and grabbed him by the throat. “Speak, idiot!” he hissed.

“I know a way out,” Chuck said, trying to keep his voice down. ‘There’s an emergency staircase in the back. We can go around the main staircase to the fourth floor—I know how to bypass the alarm on that door.”

Sarah and Casey glanced at each other and shrugged. “Lead the way, numb-nuts.”

They had to sneak around to the opposite side of the staircase, which unfortunately only led up, but at least Magnus hadn’t thought to post a guard there as well. Chuck’s heart pounded loud enough to drown out an entire drum corps on speed, but none of Magnus’s men seemed to hear them. He focused his attention forward, on getting up the stairs. Sarah and Casey would protect him. They would finish getting up the stairs, Chuck would rig the door just like he used to back in school, and they would simply stroll out of the library as though nothing had happened.

Nice and easy. Simple even.

Too bad the universe hated him.

“Hey!” The shout stopped him halfway up the stairs.

Chuck froze. Sarah didn’t. She whirled on the spot, a knife suddenly in hand. A flick of her wrist and that same knife sprouted from the guard’s shoulder a millisecond later. Chuck didn’t get a chance to stare, for Casey hauled on his arm, pulling him up the stairs. He had the choice of going along or being dragged.

He went along.

Footsteps pounded behind them, drowning out the guard’s swearing. Chuck got a brief, hysterical flash of some librarian trying to shush a band of mercenaries. At the top of the stairs, he and Casey went left, Sarah headed right. “Sarah!” Chuck cried, trying to turn and follow.

Casey, however, was having none of that. He grabbed Chuck by the scruff of the neck and hauled. “She’ll be fine, let’s go.” They headed deep into the stacks, out of sight of their pursuers. “Which way?”

“Um…” He lost precious seconds looking around and orienting himself. “This way!”

Hopefully, somewhere else in the library, Sarah had developed a mental connection that allowed her to find the door. Or, better yet, evade the bad guys, maybe take out a few, and beat Chuck and Casey to the door. Chuck could hear said bad guys tromping around, looking for him and Casey. But they didn’t have his skill with treating this library as a war zone or even Casey’s commando abilities. He led Casey up rows of shelves, ducking behind endcaps and—

“You do realize that the shortest distance between points is a straight line, don’t you?” Casey grabbed Chuck by the arm. “Door. Now. Go.”

Chuck shrugged, turned, and started to sprint.

Started to. He managed a few running steps before one of Magnus’s thugs rounded the corner and pointed a gun right at his chest.

Chuck froze on the spot.

If anything, they’d startled the mercenary just as much. He shifted his grip on the gun, his eyes shifting from Chuck to the armed Casey, and opened his mouth, possibly to alert the others.

Chuck felt like some sort of puppet-master had taken hold of the strings jerking him around. Before he realized exactly what he was doing, he lurched forward, swept out his left hand in a blade stroke, knocking the gun away. His right hand swung up in a hard right cross. It caught the guard right on the side of his jaw.

Bad idea.

The guard dropped like a rock.

Chuck’s hand exploded at the contact of broken and damaged skin to the guard’s face. He sucked in a gasp, ready to let out a scream of pain—

Casey slapped a hand over his mouth. “Keep it inside! You’ll give us away!”

It took every bit of willpower Chuck possessed, but he swallowed his scream, a new layer of sweat popping up on his skin from the effort. His hand throbbed. It felt exactly as though somebody had taken a hot iron to it and pressed so hard that he could all but smell the burning flesh. Every heartbeat flooded fresh pain into his knuckles. He gritted his teeth and slowly forced the pain to recede, inch by slippery inch, until his brain could function again.

“Good?” Casey demanded.

When Chuck nodded, the other man removed his hand.

“Good. Now tell me where the hell you learned how to throw a punch like that.”

“Mortal Kombat,” Chuck whispered, his voice raspy. “Or Army Officer Candidate School. I forgot how much it hurts!” Especially with torn up knuckles.

Before Casey could reply, another thug came around the corner. They blinked at him in shock. He blinked back.

The roundhouse caught them all by surprise, the guard most of all. He was still wearing the shocked look as he fell and landed on his buddy.

Sarah appeared in the space he’d been standing in. She took in Casey, Chuck holding his injured hand, and the first unconscious guard on the carpet. “What the hell?”

“No time. Let’s move.” Casey grabbed Chuck, pointed him in the direction they’d been traveling earlier, and shoved. Chuck stumbled forward, already running. They were nearing the door, he knew, which was out of the way from the rest of the library, but situated on the perfect corner in relation to his dorm. Without rigging the door, he’d have to walk an extra three blocks back to his dorm.

He thanked his lucky stars he’d been so lazy back in the day.

“We’ve got company!” Sarah warned, her voice still only loud enough to carry to him and Casey. Indeed, Chuck could see black blurs through the shelves as they ran—Magnus’s men running alongside them. They’d be out in the open in less than five seconds. On the other side of the gap, they’d head into the older, wooden shelves that extended far over their heads and provided a better cover.

They just had to get there first. Chuck stretched his legs out just a bit farther.

They split up when they hit the older shelves. Sarah sprinted off to the left, while Casey stayed right on Chuck’s heels. He pushed a hand up against Chuck’s back to keep him running. “She’s going to circle around, take them out. Keep moving!”

They were still outnumbered six to two. Two to one, really, Chuck thought, his brain automatically simplifying the fraction. Well, it was two to one as far as he was concerned. With Sarah and Casey being as supremely powerful as they were, it was more like a one to one ratio.

“Wait a second.” Casey held up a hand. Halt. Panting, Chuck did so. “Something’s off.”

What? What is it?”

“They’ve got us surrounded.” Casey squinted around, but neither of them could see anything through the shelves. “Get ready to shoot, and get low. This could get ugly quick.”

“Or we could go up,” Chuck said foggily, craning his neck.

“What?”

“Up!” Without bothering to explain any more, Chuck scrambled up the nearest bookshelf, kicking books aside in his haste, and still trying to be quiet. It wobbled dangerously, but the weight of the ancient textbooks kept it anchored enough that he could climb to the top. Casey may have started to ask what the hell he was thinking, but they both heard the footsteps approaching. His eyes widened; he scaled the shelf opposite Chuck and crouched, one finger over his mouth—as if Chuck were going to intentionally make noise and give away their position.

Now what? Chuck wondered.

Casey seemed to read his mind. He gestured at his gun and then at Chuck. It took Chuck a couple of seconds to catch on. He fumbled for the tranq gun, glad for the modifications Casey had made to the grip for sweaty hands. When he was gripping the weapon with both hands, he couldn’t stop the small, sardonic grin. Still playing dart guns in the library after all of these years.

Only this time, losing meant dying.

Meep.

The footsteps drew nearer. Casey held up a hand—wait, hold still. Neither moved as one of the thugs walked down the aisle, gun out, a mere four feet below them. He peered left and right, as if they could have hidden inside the shelves, but never up. Still, Chuck held his breath until the thug rounded the corner.

One scary situation down. Millions to go.

He turned to Casey to hiss, “Now what do we do?” He never got the chance.

A feminine grunt, possibly of pain or surprise, rang out through the stacks. Chuck jolted to his feet.

“Bartowski!” Casey hissed, glaring. “Stay put!”

“It’s Sarah!”

“Shut up, and stay there. Walker can handle herself!”

Chuck glared. “She shouldn’t have to!” And before Casey could reach across the space and grab him, he took off running down the shelf, his chucks sliding in the dust. He hopped the first set of shelves before he think to psych himself out. The quiet thump that followed meant that Casey was still right on his heels. Chuck ran for the next gap.

“Hey!”

They’d been spotted. Damn it.

Chuck ran faster. Behind him, he heard an ominous thud, but no gunshot. He risked a few seconds to glance back, spotted Casey on the ground standing over the thug that had seen them. “Go, Bartowski!”

Okay, Casey had it handled. Chuck hopped the next shelf, wobbled a little when he misjudged the landing a little bit, and began sprinting again. He didn’t think he’d moved this fast in Green Library since he’d misread the due date on his quarterly final paper his sophomore year. And back then, he wouldn’t have dreamed of running across the tops of the shelves like he was right now. He probably would’ve been expelled.

As if you could expel Chuck Bartowski, model student.

He was pretty sure Sarah was up ahead to the left, but she hadn’t made any noise past the first grunt, so all he could do was pray that he had been right. He ran hard. One more shelf to hop…

And there she was, not in any distress or pain, but in constant, fluid motion. A killing machine, almost. It was Sarah Walker versus three of Magnus’s thugs, and it was obvious from only a glance which side was the outnumbered one.

Chuck skidded to a halt. Kung fu goddess, he thought, all but gaping. How on earth did she know where to be when? She moved with such ease, dodging, sidestepping, evading, attacking. A short punch to the gut there, a high-kick to the face. It was like a mortal dance to some instinctive, fierce music that nobody but the battle participants could hear.

A roundhouse, beautifully executed. One thug down, two to go.

It was obvious after just a few seconds that the thugs weren’t the masters of the martial arts. Street fighters, Chuck would have called them, minus the weird hair-dos and, oh, the Asian influence. They fought dirty, mean. One got in what Chuck decided was a lucky hit. Sarah’s head snapped back—she stumbled back, apparently temporarily stunned—

Something nearby Chuck growled. An actual animal noise of fury.

Oh. That was him.

He launched himself from the top of the shelf, arcing through the air, intending only to take out the one who had hurt Sarah Walker, vengeance burning hot.

He missed completely. Maybe the thug saw him coming, maybe it was just bad luck. Either way, the thug side-stepped. Chuck landed on his feet, tripped forward, and went down to his hands and knees.

The thugs stared.

Sarah didn’t. She let out some kind of high-pitched kung fu yell and whirled into yet another textbook roundhouse kick. Thug One fell. A left cross and Thug Two joined his pal on the ground.

In an instant, Sarah was crouched next to Chuck, helping pull him to his feet. “Oh, my God, are you okay? What on earth were you thinking? You could have broken your leg!”

“Or your fool neck,” Casey added as he came around the corner, limping slightly.

“Only thing wounded is my pride,” Chuck assured them both, though his hand was still killing him from the punch. “I was trying to help.”

“Next time, you should stay put. I can handle this sort of thing.” Sarah smiled apologetically at him, just a flicker, and turned her attention to the unconscious bodies on the ground. “Okay, that makes five that I took out, and the one that Chuck did.”

“I got one, too,” Casey said, looking put out that he and Chuck had managed to neutralize the same number.

“So you didn’t take out Magnus?” Sarah asked him.

“No, I—”

“Get down!” A glint in the corner of his eye was all that Chuck needed. He fell forward more than dove, taking Sarah with him. They landed with a gust of air and a tangle of limbs.

The crossbow bolt thudded into the shelf where Sarah’s head had been nanoseconds before.

They both stared at it.

Sarah recovered first, shoving Chuck off of her. She hauled him away from the target zone, using her body to cover his from any further fire. He would have protested, but she had already dragged him out of danger by the time his brain connected the dots. He could only be grateful that the crossbow took so long to reload. Though it did bring up an important question.

“Which country on the planet would send their spies out armed with a crossbow? Florin?” Chuck demanded once he, Sarah, and Casey were all safe behind a shelf. Sarah and Casey were both on one knee, guns out and trained on both possible exits from their barricade.

“Iceland,” Sarah said.

Chuck blinked. “We’re up against an Icelandic spy?”

“Well, officially, Iceland is unaware of Magnus’s activities.” Casey rolled his eyes, not at Chuck but at the unseen Magnus. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the desk, pushing it at Chuck. “Take that. Walker, make sure he gets to the door and then come back and help me with scene clean-up. I’m going to go take out Magnus.”

Chuck stuffed the data disk in his pocket. When Sarah jerked her head, indicating that he should follow her, he went without question. Sarah and Casey had once again risen to save the day. Casey waited until they were at the opposite end of the aisle before he crouched low and sneaked around the corner, out of sight.

He’d be okay, Chuck thought. It would take a hell of a lot more than a crossbow to stop an angry John Casey. And no way was he letting Magnus Ragnhildur get away when doing so meant that he only took out as many bad guys as pathetic Chuck Bartowski.

“Which way?” Sarah whispered.

Chuck edged by her so that he could lead the way. She had her gun out now, not that it mattered. Anybody on the fourth floor would have heard all of the running and fighting, which was louder than it always seemed on TV. One thing was certain: the CIA and the NSA would definitely have to confiscate all of the security camera footage from the library if they wanted to hide the identities of two of their top agents and their Intersect. It was probably a useless idea. If he knew the students on duty, the library techs would all be watching right now with popcorn. And later, they’d try to sell it on the Internet.

Tuition didn’t come cheap these days, after all.

He led Sarah to the door without any further trouble. She stood guard as he knelt by the door, rigging it not to set off the fire alarm. It took him less than a minute to remember the proper sequence. He looked up at her with a grin, but she simply nodded and pulled him to his feet. “Go,” she whispered. “Head back to the football game, stay with Ellie and the others. You’ll be okay.” Her expression told him she expected nothing less. He straightened a little bit. “I’ll be there as soon as the scene is wrapped.”

“Sarah, Magnus is—”

“Casey and I will be fine,” Sarah said.

“Okay.” When she put it like that, he had no choice but to believe her.

“If you run into any trouble, anything at all, I want you to press the panic button on your watch and immediately head for the most public area you can find, okay? I will find you.” Sarah met his eyes and waited until he nodded back to show that he understood what she wasn’t saying. “Go.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chuck pushed the door open. Halfway through it, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Stay safe.”

“You too.”

She waited until he was in the stairwell and safe from Magnus. As he headed downstairs, he glanced back and saw her take off, hurrying to back up her partner, the Intersect and the mission objective now out of danger.

11 NOVEMBER 2007
AUXILIARY LIBRARY
20:49 PST

He knew that he should listen to Sarah and go right back to the football game. In fact, he’d stood outside of the stadium with every intent and purpose of obeying for what felt like a good half hour. But somewhere inside that stadium was Jill Roberts, ex-girlfriend, and just one of thousands of people. Thousands of people, Chuck knew, that he could embarrass himself in front of. Thousands of people that he was just too tired to face.

So he’d gone to the nearest safe haven—well, safe haven that wasn’t Sarah Walker. He was under no illusions there. Because she wasn’t right next to him, he could admit it. His panic attacks were less severe or, really, nonexistent whenever she was around. She’d saved him, after all, from fading into obscurity in a frozen bunker five hundred miles south of nowhere. She’d been his only source of strength for one very terrifying week on the run, and she continued to be a sort of beautiful, blonde crutch to lean on. He should return the favor by heeding her orders and pretending to be a good little Stanford fan in a game they were probably losing anyway.

Instead, he swiped his ID at the door of Auxiliary Library (though it was just a useless gesture; the sole library worker on duty didn’t even look up from her magazine) and headed into the stacks. This was where all of the unloved, unnecessary books lived. Overflow library, auxiliary library. Superfluous. Whatever the word for it was, Chuck had always felt kind of at home here.

Plus, it was empty, and quiet. The shelves were crammed close together, giving it a cramped feeling. He could finally breathe again.

When his pocket buzzed, he braced himself, expecting that Sarah had made it back to the game and was now furious that he hadn’t listened to her.

It was Ellie’s face on the view-screen.

“Hey, sis,” he said, keeping his voice low only because it was a library. It wasn’t like anybody was around to hear him, but some habits died hard. “What’s up?”

Football game noise flooded in when she answered. “Where are you?”

“Uh…”

“Are you coming back to the game?” Ellie went on, ignoring his non-answer.

“I…” Chuck trailed off. He didn’t want to lie to his sister, but he couldn’t really say whether or not he would physically be able to go back into the stadium, and he had no idea how long it would take for Casey and Sarah to finish cleaning up in the library so that Sarah could make him. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?” Ellie sounded suspicious, which wasn’t an abnormal setting for her these days. “Is Sarah with you?”

Now he would have to lie, or else confess that his “office manager” was currently cable-tying unconscious thugs in the library across campus. “Uh, she ran into some old friends from Harvard and they went for coffee. I told her I’d make the excuses for you.”

“Okay, so if Sarah’s not with you, where are you, then?”

Chuck looked around at the tall, crowded shelves around him, lit only dimly because the Auxiliary Library always had terrible lighting. “I’m…in the library,” he finally confessed. “I’m kind of hiding out.”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Which library are you in? I’ll come hang out with you.” The noise level on Ellie’s end of the line grew—somebody had either scored a touch down or a first down, apparently. “I’m kind of footballed out, it’d be a nice break.”

Chuck squinted at the shelf in front of him, as though he could see his sister through some magical scrying pool located there. Had she somehow picked up on the fact that he couldn’t go back to the game? She’d always been the savior type, whether it was taking the blame for the time Chuck disassembled the vacuum cleaner or taking over the parenting duties when their father had vanished. Was she rescuing him again?

Probably. He was too tired to mind.

So he gave her directions. They hung up, Ellie promising she would be there within fifteen minutes. Chuck pocketed his phone and headed up to the second level, where there weren’t any cameras. He moved by instinct toward the back right-hand corner. There’d been a sagging comfortable chair there back when he was a student, excellent for napping between classes.

It was still there. Chuck felt a little spurt of happiness.

He bypassed the chair, heading instead of the shelf to its right. He could only hope they hadn’t rearranged the shelves in the past five years…

They hadn’t. The catch was still there. Chuck twisted it, glanced around to make sure he was truly alone, and knocked his elbow covertly against the shelf, just once. The trapdoor opened easily.

He’d modeled his dumpsite just like Bryce’s, a little drawer that could hold quite a bit when it needed to, and virtually undetectable. One just had to know exactly where it was. He hoped that Professor Fleming hadn’t messed with it.

The two things he’d left inside had been untouched by everything except dust. Reverently, he pulled out the first item. His back-up deck for Magic the Gathering, perfectly aligned to fight any foe, large or small. He’d spent hours selecting just the right mix. It even felt familiar as he paged through, smiling as each card brought on memories of some of the epic tournaments he and Bryce had participated in.

The second item was a lot smaller and held ten times the emotional punch. He pulled it out and squinted, rubbing the dust off on the hem of his shirt. It was smaller than he remembered, just a little twist of metal. He’d intended to use it five years before, before he’d shipped off to OCS, but the right situation had never come up.

And now, Chuck thought, it never would.

He tucked the ring in his pocket when he heard footsteps, double-checking to make sure the trapdoor was closed. Ellie came around the corner to find him sprawled over the chair.

“Should have known I’d find my little brother hanging out in the library on a Saturday night with a deck of cards,” she said, smiling a little.

Chuck shifted his legs so that she could sit on the arm of the chair. “I just love the smell of dusty books. And magic.” He waggled the cards.

“Good to know some things never change.”

“Who’s winning?” Chuck asked, flipping to the next card.

“Stanford.”

Chuck blinked. “What? That can’t be right.”

“Yeah, Devon’s a little put out by it.” Ellie ruffled his hair. She and Sarah were probably the only ones on the planet that could get away with that without him flinching. “But your alma mater is on fire today, so there’s not much he can do about it.”

“I’ll have to buy him a beer,” Chuck mused. “And rub it in his face.”

Ellie let that go with a smile. “Chuck…”

Chuck glanced up. That was his sister’s serious voice, the one she’d used to break the news to him first that their mother had left, then their father. She had something on her mind.

“What’s up?” he asked, purposely keeping his voice casual. Inwardly, he tensed.

“You didn’t leave the football game because you wanted to show Sarah around campus, did you?”

Ellie kept her eyes level on his, making it impossible to look away. Chuck stared back, frantically hoping that his poker face was coming along. He’d out-bluffed the government in Athens with that code and video file, but the government had nothing on Ellie Bartowski. There was no way in hell he could tell her that he had been running a mission to retrieve intel stupidly left around by his old CIA recruiter. So once again, he would have to lie to his sister. “El…”

“You left,” Ellie said, her gaze steady, “because you were having a panic attack and Sarah noticed it.”

It hadn’t been a panic attack so much as his entire body threatening to shut down on him. He thought he’d hidden it pretty well. Who had he been kidding? Ellie and Awesome were doctors, trained to notice details about reactions in case their patients couldn’t or wouldn’t talk to them. Even the most unobservant person could see the nice coat of sweat he put on to go outside.

“Look, I know you can’t tell me anything about what you do now, or what the government did to you to give you PTSD. There are days where I’m just so happy to have you back that I don’t care that I can’t know. But there is one thing I do feel like you owe me to stop lying about.”

Oh, God. She knew. She somehow knew that Chuck had faced down a crossbow-toting Icelandic spy in the library. And now she was going to kill him for going near anything dangerous.

“About Sarah,” Ellie went on.

Chuck blinked. “What?”

Ellie regarded him steadily, her look one that Chuck knew well. This Ellie would not accept a lie, a half-truth, or an evasion. This was an Ellie that Chuck remembered well. This was also an Ellie that Chuck was powerless against.

“So,” she said, “what branch of the government does Sarah work for, Chuck?”

Oh, crap.

Chapter 21: Tap-Dancing Through a Minefield

Notes:

Confidence…thrives on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection and on unselfish performance. Without them it cannot live. — Franklin Delano Roosevelt

10 NOVEMBER 2007
AUXILIARY LIBRARY
21:07 PST

“You said what now?” Chuck asked, though he’d heard his sister perfectly. Too perfectly. As in, there was no way in hell he could have misunderstood her question, since it had been asked at regular volume in an empty corner of an empty library.

At that moment in history, he would have given his left foot for anything to get him out of this conversation. A phone call telling him that the president needed him to flash on something. Magnus skewering him with a crossbow. Sarah appearing from around a corner and brightly announcing that it was time for them to go, big things to do at the office tomorrow. An excuse. A hole in the floor. A time machine.

None of those things happened. Instead, Ellie gazed at him levelly, her expression unchanged. She summed up his own thoughts by saying, “You heard me. Now answer the question.”

“Ellie, I really—”

“Before you tell me that you can’t tell me,” Ellie said, holding up a finger. “I want to point out that I invited this woman into my home. Into my home, Chuck. She’s been a part of my life, she’s gone to parties with me, she’s met all of my friends. If she’s been lying to me from the beginning, I deserve to know about it.”

She didn’t add “And kick her to the curb,” but her tone did.

“Are you crazy?” Chuck asked when he rediscovered his voice. “Sarah’s just your roommate and my office—”

“Oh, come on.” Ellie poked him in the arm. “Don’t insult me.”

“Ellie, I’m not—”

“She arrived a week before you came back from the dead. She always seems to know my schedule. And even though she’s got the world’s scariest memory for where everything is in the apartment, she just happens to mix up the name of the computer guy she’s got her big job interview with—Kowalski instead of Bartowski, which is her roommate’s name?” Ellie rolled her eyes. “And let’s not even forget the fact that you obviously knew her right away that first night.”

“Obviously?” Chuck felt the first stab of insult. He thought he’d put up a pretty good show when Ellie had first introduced him to Sarah as her roommate.

“Oh, probably not to anybody else.” Ellie rolled her eyes. “But come on, Chuck, how long have I been your big sister?”

“A long time.”

“A long time,” Ellie echoed. “And I know how you act around pretty girls when you meet them for the first time.”

“Maybe I just didn’t notice she was pretty,” Chuck argued, feeling stupid.

Ellie gave him a look: get real.

“Everybody has different standards for physical beauty, you know. She could just be not my type.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Sarah came to visit me at work and my gay nurse friend commented that she was so pretty that he’d go straight for her. My straight nurse friend agreed she’d probably go gay. You know just as well as everybody else on the planet that she’s beautiful, so just answer my question.”

He wanted to. Like nothing else did he want to just sit and start spilling, telling her about everything that had happened, that was happening. With their parents so busy all of the time, they’d had to learn to rely upon each other as children. At one point in his life, he had been able to tell Ellie everything. Now, the knowledge of everything that he wasn’t allowed to tell her sat on his chest, a crushing weight, every time they even talked on the phone.

His mouth worked now. No sound came out.

Ellie sighed and looked away, into the shelves. Her disappointment struck him like a fist. “I thought so. Tell your government buddy that she has twenty-four hours to get her stuff out of my place, and I’ll pay her back for the rest of the rent for the month. I don’t need the government watching my every move.” She rose to go.

Chuck surged forward and grabbed her wrist before she could leave. “Ellie, Ellie, wait. That would be a bad idea.”

“Why?”

He couldn’t lie to his sister. Ellie had been through enough. She’d lost her parents, her brother, all without any explanation. All at once, Chuck felt a fury build up, so hot and intense that he could practically taste it. His free hand clenched into a fist.

They had no right to tell him what he could and couldn’t say.

He was a government worker. He had to follow orders. But it was Ellie. And that right there made up his mind for him.

“Wait here,” he said, his decision made. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

“Chuck—”

“Less than a minute, I promise.” He released Ellie’s wrist and hurried away, pulling out his wallet. The Velcro ripping sounded like an explosion in the silent library, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He removed three small, flat pieces of plastic from the hidden compartment and fiddled with two of them as he walked. Setting them up on either side of the stairwell was easy, lining them up was a bit trickier. He’d almost completed assembling the speaker out of the third piece of his perimeter gear when he made it back to Ellie.

She’d taken a seat as he’d requested, but not on the chair. Instead, she sat on the floor, apparently heedless of what the dust in this library could do to her jeans. Her back rested against the bookshelf so that she could look out the small window at the sky.

Without a word, Chuck sat next to her. He clipped the perimeter receiver to his belt loop and pulled out a flat, round circle. It wasn’t large, just bigger than his thumbnail, and it fit perfectly over his watch face.

Ellie looked away from the night sky. “What’s that?”

“White noise generator.” Chuck adjusted it over his watch.

“And the…” Ellie poked the perimeter receiver. “Whatever that is?”

“I set up something to alert me if somebody comes up here.”

Ellie goggled. “Chuck, what the hell—”

But he just shook his head. “What I’m about to tell you is…well, they’ll throw me in prison for it, and I’m already under suspicion, so better safe than sorry.”

“Better safe than—”

“And I can’t tell you everything,” Chuck barreled on. If she kept interrupting him, or he thought about everything too much, about how much trouble he could get Sarah and Casey into, about what the knowledge would do to Ellie… He hurried onward. “Some of it’s not mine to tell, and there are other people that could get into trouble, people that I…that I care about, even if some of them are scary.” He specifically avoided bringing Casey’s face to mind. “So whatever I tell you, it has to stay here, okay? Right here in this room, and you can’t talk to me about it over the phone, or in person unless I specifically tell you it’s okay, okay?”

He could see the wheels working in his sister’s head even as she stared at him, her eyebrows drawn close together and her mouth slightly open. “You’re scaring me,” she finally said.

Chuck winced. “I’m sorry.”

“You make it sound like you’re a super-secret spy or something,” Ellie said, her eyebrows lowering. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to deny it.

Chuck didn’t say anything.

“Oh, my God,” Ellie breathed. “You are, aren’t you?”

He remained still. It was easier to let her draw her own conclusions rather than confirm or deny. Right now, neither of them had technically done anything wrong.

“I mean, I knew you were doing something for the government. I just thought that they had you in a think tank and put into seclusion or something like that.”

“A think tank?” Chuck wrinkled his nose.

“It made more sense in my head.” Ellie pushed her hands through her hair, something she usually only did when flustered. “I mean, you’ve always been brilliant and creative, and kind of annoying with the way none of our household appliances were ever safe but—a spy, Chuck? With danger and—and guns and…” She trailed off and simply gaped.

Okay, maybe he should start talking. “No,” he lied, trying not to think about Triad, Peyman Alahi, Carina, defusing a bomb, or taking on a guy with a crossbow. “No, Ellie, I’m a spy because of what’s in my head. Which I can’t tell you about, so please don’t ask.”

His sister’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a few seconds. Finally, she shook her head, as if in a daze, and stared at him. “How?”

“How did this all happen?” Chuck leaned back against the bookshelf and looked away, out the window. “They recruited me from Stanford, my last semester there. And I went along with it because I was hoping to make a difference in the world, like you were doing with medical school. I didn’t expect what happened to happen and trust me when I say that, if I could go back now and change it, I would.” He stared at his hands.

“Who? Who recruited you?”

“The CIA.”

“The…” Ellie trailed off and rubbed her fingers down her jaw-line, her eyes wide. “The CIA? The Central Intelligence Agency?”

“Not the Culinary Institute of America, no,” Chuck said, a small smile twisting up one corner of his mouth. “I know. That was my first reaction, too.”

“You’ve been a CIA agent for—for this whole time? All five years?”

Chuck nodded. “Joined up right out of Stanford, yes. I’m still working for them.”

“Doing what?”

“Data analysis.” Well, more data filtering these days, as his job, on paper, was pretty much to watch a “data-dump” and report any flashes to either Sarah or Casey. But he licked his lips and said, “And I code. Really, I’m just a glorified code monkey for the government, that’s all.”

“So, if you’re just a code monkey, as you say, why the hell do I have a—is Sarah CIA, too?”

Chuck just nodded. CIA, he thought, and very likely to karate chop him into many, many pieces and disperse with them where nobody would ever find him.

“So why do I have a CIA agent for a roommate?”

“She’s there to protect you.” Though, Chuck thought with an inward wince, she probably wouldn’t be there for long. After all, there was no point in having Operation Prometheus if the Prometheus portion was murdered by his CIA teammate.

He’d also said the wrong thing, judging by the way Ellie’s eyes widened. “Why the hell would I need protection?”

“Uh, yeah, about that…”

Chuck…” Ellie’s tone held a warning note. If he lied, he imagined that he’d very quickly learn just how well she’d done on her surgical rotations.

Chuck sighed. “About a month and a half ago, something happened—a game-changer, you could say. They’d been keeping me in deep seclusion because I was working with some pretty sensitive stuff, but a building was destroyed—” The blood drained out of Ellie’s face, and Chuck held both hands up to reassure her. “I wasn’t anywhere near it, I promise. I was half a world away. But some intel in that building was, um, outsourced. It was…sent to me through some very questionable means.”

“What?”

“I helped B—the guy who sent it—I helped him plan the operation. Without knowing it, of course. But I’m under a lot of suspicion right now, which is the reason for all of…” He waved a hand at his watch and the white noise generator. “And it probably didn’t help that Sarah and I went rogue.”

“What?”

“It’s a long story—”

“Rogue? What? You’re—Sarah’s a rogue spy?”

“What? No!” Chuck stared at Ellie as though she’d suddenly started speaking Swahili. “No. She wouldn’t do that. Not Sarah.”

“You just said that you and Sarah went rogue—”

“Oh, right. Well, like I also said, it’s a long story. She only went off the grid to protect m—the intel.”

“Must have been some intel.” Ellie leaned back against the bookshelf and folded her arms over her chest.

Chuck had to laugh a little, though there was no humor in the noise. “Trust me, it is. And because I have it and they don’t, I finally had some leverage. Sarah came and got me out of where they were keeping me, and we went on the run together.” He described what he could, keeping the details vague, though he was sure quite a few of them slipped in his excitement of finally being able to tell Ellie—or anybody at all really—about some of the adventures he and Sarah had had on the run. By the time he finished up his tale, Ellie was visibly gaping.

“You really did all of that?”

“It was all Sarah,” Chuck said. “You have no idea. She’s so awesome, it’s just amazing to see her in action. She really shouldn’t be here or in Burbank or anything. She should be out, taking out the bad guys.”

“If she’s as great as you claim,” and there was a healthy dollop of sisterly doubt in Ellie’s voice, “why is she, then? In Burbank, I mean?” Her tone added: and living with me?

Chuck scrubbed his hands over his face. “Because of the leverage.”

I don’t understand.”

“I may have bluffed the government with the intel I have.” Chuck gave her a sheepish look at her disbelieving stare. “She went off the grid for me and they can’t do anything to me because of the intel, but she was kind of expendable in their eyes.”

“Expendable?” Ellie gaped.

“Uh, ha. No, not like that.” Though it was exactly like that. Chuck felt a thin trickle of sweat slide right between his shoulder blades. “You know, uh, fired. Dishonorable discharge. But don’t worry, nothing came of it. I bluffed, and they were afraid to call it. I got a representative—her name’s Gwen, and I think you’d love her—and she helped me call some of the shots.”

“Gwen? Is she CIA, too?”

“No, FBI.” Chuck had to smile. “Ellie, she’s like a you twenty, twenty-five years down the road. I told her my story and she walked right up to my bosses and started making demands on my behalf. And they’re clearly terrified of her. She says jump, you not only ask how high, but where to land and what would she like you to do next, too.”

Though he could see the shock and the surprise working through Ellie’s system, she mustered up a small smile for him. “I think you’re right. I like her already.”

“She’s the reason I got the operation set up in Burbank at all.” Chuck began flipping through the Magic deck, idle movements of his fingers.

“I still don’t understand how any of that has anything to do with Sarah living with me and lying to me about who she is.”

“Orders, I expect.” Chuck sighed. “When I demanded the operation be set up in Burbank, I also requested that they furnish protection for you. They’ve even got an agent that checks up on Morgan. I didn’t specify that it had to be Sarah, as I figured she’d be off in some war zone doing…whatever it is she does. Trust me, when I came in and found out that she’d been installed as your roommate, I was, well, to put it honestly, I was shocked as hell. But happy, too. She’s one of the best, Ellie, she really is.”

“You could have told me who she was from the beginning, you know.”

“If she’s one of the best, why isn’t she living with you, protecting you?” Ellie poked him in the shoulder. “If this intel is as important as you say it is…”

“I’ve got a roommate-slash-bodyguard, don’t worry.” Chuck half-smiled. “He’s big, and he grunts a lot, and he’s nowhere near as pretty as Sarah, but he’s actually halfway decent. I didn’t think so at first.”

Ellie squinted and poked him in the shoulder again. “I thought you said Sarah wasn’t your type, Chuck.”

“Oh, c’mon, sis.” Chuck gave her a look. “I’m breathing.”

“It’s a fair point,” Ellie said. “But if she’s—”

The jangling of her cell phone made both of them jolt. Ellie laughed a little and put her hand over her heart as she pulled it out of her purse with her free hand. “It’s Devon,” she told Chuck. “Should I—”

“Go ahead and answer. Just don’t tell him anything about all of this,” and Chuck waved a finger in the air to indicate the general area and their conversation, “over a phone line, okay?”

“Okay.” Though she smiled, Chuck could see that Ellie’s hands were shaking slightly as she answered the phone. “Hey, babe. What’s up? No, no, just hanging out with Chuck. He’s showing me some of his old haunts on campus, and we’re waiting for Sarah to get…really?” Her face scrunched up in confusion. “But I thought you said that Todd was the attending on tomorrow’s…oh. Well, what time do you need to be there? Mm, okay. Yes, I guess we’d better get moving. Can you get the car and pick us up? That’ll probably be faster. We’re in front of…” She glanced at Chuck for confirmation.

“The Auxiliary library,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s…actually, I’m not sure. Here, I’ll just hand you over to Chuck and he can give you directions.”

“Ellie, we’re in a library,” Chuck said, glancing around and automatically lowering his voice.

“As your little sensor thingie pointed out, we’re alone up here, nobody’s going to care if you talk on the phone.” Ellie rolled her eyes as she gave him the phone.

She had a point. A minute later, Chuck hung up the phone and handed it back. “He says to give him ten minutes, but it’ll probably be closer to fifteen.” He started to push himself to his feet, but Ellie grabbed his forearm before he could. He froze. “What? What is it?”

“Chuck…” She swallowed hard. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

Chuck waited, warily. He knew that look well. Ellie was building up to something, and in these situations, it had always been better to just wait her out. The best way to get a Bartowski to talk, after all, was silence.

Well, silence, the threat of torture, holding Sarah at gunpoint, probably all manners of truth serum, and asking an outright question.

Face it, Chuck told himself. Bartowskis just talk too damn much.

“But?” he prompted when it looked like Ellie might take awhile to screw up the courage.

“But what if it happens again?”

Chuck blinked. “What if what happens again? Me joining the CIA? Pretty sure that’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, sis.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean, I always knew you worked for the government, I just thought it was some sort of research, a think tank thing. I never imagined that you were a spy, or that you were working with something so sensitive, they put you in seclusion.” Ellie looked troubled by that, but at least the tears in her eyes were still unshed. He’d feel like a grade-A creep if he made his sister cry in the middle of a library. “What if it happens again? What if they take you away again, and don’t tell me anything?”

Chuck opened his mouth to say, “They won’t,” but stopped. It was more than a possibility, he knew. Now that he was actually out of that godforsaken bunker, he could see the logic behind throwing him in another one. He was carrying around all of the government’s intelligence secrets in his cranium, protected by only two agents. He hadn’t had any torture resistance training. Hell, he’d failed Officer Candidate School.

It was frightening, when he thought about it too much.

“I can’t say that it won’t happen,” he said, pushing those thoughts away. He sagged back against the bookshelf and made sure to meet his sister’s eyes. “I can’t promise anything because, well…they’re the government of the United Freaking States of America. But I’ve got people on my side that care about me, that don’t want me to go back into the—into seclusion. I know I talk about Sarah a lot like she’s unstoppable, but I’m not exaggerating. She’s tougher than nails, and for some reason, she seems to think I’m important enough to have a real life. Trust me, it would take a few tanks to take her down once she’s got her mind set on something. And I’ve got Gwen in my corner, too. And even Casey, even if he’ll never admit it. I think the big guy secretly likes me. Well, hates me less, at any rate. And I’ve always got you.”

And then it happened. A solitary tear made its way down Ellie’s cheek. Inwardly, Chuck winced. “Please, please don’t cry. I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere. And hey, if I do…” An idea struck him, and he surged to his feet. “C’mon, you have to see this.”

“See what?” Wiping her face, Ellie allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

Chuck tugged until they were both standing by the dumpsite. “Here,” he said, grabbing Ellie’s hand and putting it against the catch. “Feel that, right there? I set this drawer up when I was a student, as a way to pass messages to my old professor. Sarah and Casey don’t even know about this. Only two people do, and one of them is in critical condition.”

Ellie gave him an alarmed look.

“I was nowhere near him when it happened, I promise,” Chuck said quickly.

Ellie sneezed a little as she opened the catch. “It’s empty.”

“Yeah, I cleaned it out already. But if I have to leave and I can’t tell you, what I’ll do is I’ll leave you something…”

“A note?”

“No, it needs to be some kind of code…” Hoping to find inspiration, Chuck patted his pockets, ignoring the intel disk. He came up with only the promise ring, which he stuffed away before Ellie could see it, and his old Magic: the Gathering deck. He thumbed through it. “Here. This. If I vanish without a trace, I want you to come here, check this drawer. If you find the Prodigal Sorcerer card inside, it means that I went willingly, and that I’m coming back. If it’s empty, I want you to contact Gwen Davenport with the FBI. She’ll know what to do.”

“And what if she’s in on it?” Ellie asked, looking truly afraid for the first time.

Chuck had to admire the paranoia, even if it hurt his heart. “Then try and find Sarah, and hope she’s had her spinach because she’ll have some ass to kick.”

“And what if she’s in on it, Chuck?”

“Then you probably wouldn’t be able to find her.” Chuck shrugged. “But in all seriousness, Ellie, she’s Sarah. I trust her. She saved me, and she’s continued to go to the wall for me, even though I’m this constant drag.”

“I highly doubt that you’re a drag, Chuck.” Ellie turned away to close up the dumpsite.

“Really? Ask Sarah about the time I hit her with a tranq dart sometime, then.”

Ellie whirled, her eyes widening in panic. “Why on earth would you ever have a tranquilizer gun?”

“Uh…training mission.” Chuck held up both hands when that did absolutely nothing to mollify his sister. He scrambled to think up a convincing lie because no way in hell was he telling Ellie that he had willingly gone within a thousand miles of an armed bomb. “I’m seriously just an analyst, but Washington wants us to keep up to date with training, and Sarah was teaching me, and I accidentally tranqed her. But I bought her flowers after!”

“Flowers?” Ellie frowned.

“Well, yeah, I wasn’t sure exactly what to get a girl after you knock her out with a tranq dart. I mean, I know I’ve had some dating disasters in my past, but even that’s a bit beyond the reach of ‘Duck, It’s Bartowski!’ So I figured flowers were safe.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And anyway, we should probably go outside and wait for Awesome. And I have to call Sarah and see if she’s finished up with the—the old classmate.”

Ellie’s eyes narrowed. “And if she isn’t?”

“Then I’ll stay up here with her and we’ll drive back down together.” Chuck shrugged. “I’m supposed to stay within a twenty mile radius of her or my other partner.”

It spoke volumes of his sister’s mental state that she just accepted that with a nod. She bit her lip and glanced around the library. Thinking mode had begun, Chuck saw. “What should I tell her? I mean, you said this conversation has to stay here, but…I’m not that good of an actress, Chuck. She’s going to suspect something is up.”

“Do you think you could keep up an act until we get back to Burbank?” Chuck cringed at the look Ellie gave him. “I know it’s a lot to ask, especially since we’ll be in the car for six or seven hours. But I’ll talk to her, explain the situation the instant we get back. She’ll probably even be relieved that you know.”

If, he amended silently, she didn’t simply kill him with an icy look like he suspected she might.

Ellie seemed to read his thoughts on that one. She gave him a droll look.

“Eventually,” Chuck said. “Eventually she’ll be relieved. C’mon, let’s head out.”

He took the white noise generator off of his watch, and deactivated the perimeter sensors as they headed downstairs. They were still the only ones in the library, except for the single bored woman working at the front desk, evidently. She didn’t even look up from her magazine as they left.

10 NOVEMBER 2007
IN FRONT OF THE LIBRARY
21:47 PST

Chuck hung up his phone and frowned, which made Ellie glance over. They were shivering a little, as the temperature was much cooler at Stanford than Burbank. The fact that they were sitting on the marble staircase leading up to the Auxiliary Library didn’t help matters, either. A nearby street lamp washed their world with orange light. “What did Sarah have to say?”

“Stall,” Chuck said, tucking the phone back into his pocket. “She’ll be here in ten minutes or so. The classmate must have talked a lot, or something.” The last bit was said a bit lamely.

“It’s probably going to take Devon a long time to get to the car. We parked pretty far away because I made us so late, so she’ll probably beat him here.”

“We can only hope.” Except that Chuck wanted to push Sarah’s arrival off for as long as he possibly could. And maybe stop by the van to pick up a few Kevlar vests, maybe a full bomb suit, and cookies. They might mollify Sarah somewhat, as she had shown a partiality to chocolate, but mostly, he was just hungry. It had been awhile since the pretzel at the game. “How, uh, how was the game going?”

Ellie turned toward him, her eyes bulging.

“Well, it’s not like we can talk about anything else,” Chuck pointed out. “So, sis, how was the game?”

Ellie folded one arm over her chest and held a hand out by her face, fingers spread. It was her flustered stance, one he had usually seen only when a big decision needed to be made, or something had gone wrong. “Chuck, I need time to process all of this.” Ellie pushed the back of her hand against her mouth, again something she only did when distressed or upset. Or, Chuck knew, just deep in perplexed thought. “I don’t think I can make idle chitchat right now, so do you think—oh, my God.”

Chuck started to reach for the tranq gun still in his waistband before he thought better of it. “What?” He glanced around, searching for danger, for Magnus, for anything. They weren’t the only ones on the street—people were strolling along both sides, enjoying a pleasantly cool Saturday night on Stanford’s campus—but he didn’t immediately see any threat nearby in any of them until his eyes locked on a lone figure walking toward them, hands in his pockets.

Chuck froze.

Ellie didn’t. “Bryce? Bryce Larkin?”

The figure paused and squinted. Even from this distance, Chuck could see the clear blue eyes, though they were shaded from the streetlight by the brim of a Stanford cap. “Ellie Bartowski?” Bryce demanded in a shocked voice. He strode forward and pretended to notice Chuck for the first time. Chuck knew better. “And Chuck! The famous Chuck Bartowski! I can’t believe it.”

Chuck stayed absolutely still as Ellie gave Bryce a hug. What should he do? His insides had frozen, a coat of frost working its way over everything, making movement impossible. He needed to call Sarah. He needed to stop Bryce. He needed to know why Bryce had done it. He needed to not close his eyes—

He blinked. And as he did so, Peyman’s guard from the warehouse fell to the ground, lifeblood leaking.

The frost turned to nausea.

“C’mere, you!” Bryce, still jovial though Chuck could see evident exhaustion in his ex-friend’s pallor, grabbed him in a bear hug. “How long has it been, huh?”

“Si-since Stanford at least,” Chuck lied. He could feel the damnable coat of sweat beginning to sprout. What the hell? Could Bryce do this? Could he just walk out into public and start having conversations with CIA agents?

Apparently.

“Far too long!” Bryce grinned. “Heard you were back stateside, but I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you hated football.”

“What are you doing here, Bryce?” Chuck said between his teeth, willing Ellie to get a phone call, something, anything to drag her away from the conversation so that he could pull the tranq gun and bring Bryce in. The universe, however, didn’t get his message. Ellie’s cell phone remained silent.

Bryce seemed to know what he was thinking, if the broadening grin was anything to go off of. “It’s the big game, Chuck. Like I’m going to miss that. And I thought I’d drop by, maybe see some of the old haunts while I was here. Talk to some old professors, maybe.”

Oh, God, Chuck thought. He knows about Fleming and the intel disk.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t do anything and blow that part of his cover with Ellie. Why the hell had he been so reluctant to tell her that Bryce was part of the spy game, too? That would have solved all of his problems right now. He could probably just draw the gun and try to hold his friend off until Sarah arrived, but he couldn’t see that ending well for anybody.

Sarah. Oh.

Chuck’s hand crept toward his pocket. If he could just get a message off to Sarah…

Bryce spotted the movement. An imperceptible shake of the head, a shift of one hand toward his waist. Of course, Bryce’s cheerful mask for Ellie didn’t slip an inch even through the threats. He looked wholly captivated with their conversation—idle chitchat, as Ellie would have put it—while Chuck stood silently by and tried not to freak out. Sarah, he thought, unable to move without Bryce blowing both of their covers, Sarah, hurry.

Finally, Bryce gave Ellie an apologetic smile. “Could I steal your brother for a minute? Stanford secrets, you know.”

“Oh, sure. Right.” Ellie grinned and gave Bryce another hug. “It was great running into you again, Bryce. Chuck, Devon will be here in a few minutes. I’ll keep an eye out for Sarah.”

Chuck winced inwardly. There went his ace in the hole. Indeed, Bryce’s body language stiffened just a hair.

“Sarah’s here?” he asked once he’d dragged Chuck out of Ellie’s sight, back into an alley between the library and the science building next door. “How long?”

“To?” If he could play dumb, keep Bryce talking, maybe Sarah would suddenly develop mind-reading abilities and flight. And she could break land-speed records and show up and save the day.

“Don’t,” Bryce warned. Now that Ellie was out of sight, the friendly, charming persona had fallen away. All that was left was a tired edge of exhaustion. “Let’s just keep this simple, okay? I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m here for the disk.”

Chuck scoffed with a bravado he didn’t feel. “Yeah, like I’m going to hand over important intel to a traitor, Bryce. For all I know, you’re working with Magnus.”

The guy with the crossbow?” Bryce’s brow crinkled.

Said crossbow had almost separated Sarah’s head at the neck. “It’s scarier up in person.”

“I’m sure. The disk, Chuck.”

“What disk?”

“You already said you had important intel.”

Damn it. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be on a disk. It could be a flash drive.”

“Well, fine. Hand over the flash drive, then.”

Though the other agent hadn’t pulled a gun, Chuck knew firsthand just how deadly Bryce could be. He’d been the tech support of the Sarah and Bryce Ass-Kicking Squad for two years, he’d seen video surveillance of both the battles and the aftermath. But he also knew to be more afraid of Sarah and Casey than Bryce. He’d already done enough for the evening to piss Sarah off. “Seriously, Bryce, what part of ‘traitor’ is so hard to understand? Is it the part where you blew up government property, the part where you sent me government secrets, or the—”

“Chuck, I know what you’re doing,” Bryce said. “Quit stalling and give me the intel already.”

The disk sat in his pocket, light in weight but an anvil in implication. Chuck swallowed hard. “What’s on here, Bryce? What’s so important to you?”

“It’s something Fleming wanted me to have, not you. Otherwise he would have said White Hat.”

“Yeah, but only because he didn’t know ‘Black Coat’ actually meant ‘turncoat.’” Chuck wanted to cross his arms over his chest, but he knew better. Bryce was going to strike at any second. If he was tensed and ready, he had a very, very slim chance of being able to fight his friend off and get away.

“I was never a traitor, Chuck.”

Pull the other one, Chuck thought. “Again, what part’s the hard part? Blowing up—”

“It was a government sanctioned operation.”

Though that one made him want to stop and think, again, Chuck knew better. He remembered Sarah’s warnings about Bryce’s motives. Trusting his once-best-friend right now might be deadly.

And it would very bad for Ellie to be the one to discover his body in an alley.

So he scoffed. “To destroy their own database and send it to a nerd in the middle of Siberia? Nice try.” Chuck made a buzzing noise. “Game over, no lives left.”

“So I deviated from the plan a little.” Bryce shrugged and gave him a sincere look. “Come on, Chuck. The disk. Now. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

“If you want this disk, you’re going to have to.” Chuck’s fists clenched. He and Bryce looked down at them in surprise. “And no, I don’t know where this bravery is coming from, either. I’d rather hide behind Casey or Sarah, trust me. But I’m not handing this disk over to a known traitor.”

For ten humming, heart-pounding seconds, Bryce just stared. There was a hint of sadness on his face, but he finally conceded with a nod. “Very well. I’m sorry.”

“For wh—” was all Chuck got out.

He never saw Bryce move. Just a blur of Stanford red and blue jeans where his friend had been an instant before, and then Chuck’s knees slammed into the concrete. Bryce twisted one arm behind his back, pressing a knee against his spine.

It hurt. More than a little.

“Damn it,” Chuck muttered, flinching. “Can’t I make it through one freaking day without getting injured in some way?”

“Sorry, buddy.” Bryce did sound genuinely regretful as he turned out Chuck’s pockets. Chuck saw a flash in the corner of his eye of the disk being pulled out, and thought: Casey is going to kill me and Sarah is going to help him dig the unmarked grave. “Didn’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s what you all say.” Chuck scowled. He grunted when Bryce increased the pressure on his back, sending him face-first into the concrete. “Ow! Geez, Bryce!”

“Sorry,” Bryce said again. “Stay down until I’m away. I don’t want to have to shoot you, but…”

Chuck sighed against the pavement. “Yeah, yeah, I get the message. Though you could do me a favor and shoot me now so that Sarah and Casey don’t have to do it later. Really, it’s the least you could do for your old partner alone.”

He heard Bryce’s footsteps still, and a quiet sigh.

“Why’d you do it?” Chuck asked. He kept his head down; he knew that tone of voice. Bryce had meant business about shooting him. “It makes no sense, Bryce. None of it ever did. You’re not a traitor, you’re Bryce Larkin of the Connecticut Larkins. You guys were here before this country was! You practically invented patriotism.”

Something grabbed the back of his T-shirt. Chuck yelped as he was hauled mercilessly to a sitting position against the wall. Bryce knelt in front of him, fury, exhaustion, and desperation all plain on his face. “Listen to me closely because I’m only going to say this once, Chuck. I’m not a traitor. Stealing the Intersect was a government-sanctioned mission. There’s a group, Fulcrum, they’re in all of the intelligent branches, and they’re dangerous. They approached me with the mission to steal the Intersect. By the time I found out what they were up to, it was already too late. So it was either steal the Intersect myself and send it to somebody I trust, or let them destroy it.”

Chuck felt each word punch through him. He wanted so badly to believe, but Sarah’s warnings sat heavy the front of his mind. Still, they couldn’t entirely eradicate hope. “Wh-why would they want to do that?”

“Because they have plans for the intel.” Bryce’s gaze remained steady. “They want to destroy it, and if they find out you’re the Intersect, they’ll take you.”

“How d-did you know that?”

“Tell Sarah she needs to change her passwords again.” Half of Bryce’s face pulled into a smile. Chuck’s fist clenched. “Don’t believe me? I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t believe me, either. But I did it for the good of everybody here. Just look up Operation Sand Wall when you get—”

That was all Chuck heard.

Filing cabinets—footage of a Cold War assassination—

OPERATION SAND WALL. CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY 20605.

TOP SECRET. Documents. Automacity, Problem Solving, Decision Making, Mental Flexibility and Creativity.

Nucleus-styled maps in quick succession.

Floor plans. OPERATION SAND WALL: INTERSECT.

Filing cabinets again.

“—Back.” Bryce frowned. “Are you okay?”

Chuck raised a shaking hand to his aching temple. Flashes hurt just a little bit more when he was tired. “You’re really not rogue.” It was said wonderingly, as if he couldn’t believe his own thoughts. He looked at his friend, and felt the first full spurts of hope ignite through his chest.

“Did you—” Bryce’s eyebrows drew close together. “Did the Intersect really just tell you all of that? Damn, that was fast.”

Chuck ignored him. “You’re still one of the good guys,” he said.

He wasn’t expecting to see his friend look sad at that. “Yes,” Bryce said. “I’m still one of the good guys.” He rose abruptly to his feet. “But Sarah and Casey can’t know, Chuck.”

“What?” Chuck blinked away the last of the fog and started to scramble to his feet. Bryce held out a warning hand to stop him. “Why the hell not?”

“Because they might be Fulcrum. You can’t trust anybody anymore, Chuck. Keep your guard up, and watch your back.”

The thought of either Casey or Sarah possibly even being traitors floored him so much that Bryce was almost away before he regained his senses. “Wait!”

Bryce stopped, but didn’t turn. “Chuck, I have to go.”

“At least give me the disk back, so I can prove to Casey and Sarah that you’re not a traitor that way.”

Yet another sigh. Bryce still didn’t turn. “No, Chuck. Not happening.”

“Fine, then who’s Phillip Dartmoor?” The question came out before he even realized he was asking it, but it didn’t surprise him. The problem had sat at the back of his mind for nearly a month now. Bryce didn’t move to answer now, so Chuck scowled. “I know you left that name in my pocket, Bryce, and I’m confused as to why. I’m having no luck finding him. I’ve looked up every Phillip Dartmoor living on the planet, and I still don’t know why you left me his name.”

“Well, there’s your problem, Chuck. Phillip Dartmoor is dead.” Bryce vanished around the corner.

Chuck stayed where he was, leaning against the brick wall of the library and staring into the dimness. The Operation Sand Wall information still continued to flash through his mind as his brain worked to categorize all of it into usable portions. He let the information wash over him. It didn’t matter as much as the rest of it all.

His best friend wasn’t a traitor.

It almost made the fact that Casey and Sarah were going to murder him for losing the disk a little less scary. Almost.

“Chuck?” Ellie’s voice drifted over the alley. “Devon’s here! Oh, and there’s Sarah!” She sounded nervous about the second prospect.

Yeah, Chuck thought as he rose to his feet, don’t blame you there, sis.

Chapter 22: Talking Points

Notes:

Wise men speak because they have something to say; fools because they have to say something. — Plato

11 NOVEMBER 2007
CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
04:39 PST

It had been the world’s quietest car ride between Palo Alto and Burbank, Chuck thought. Normally, he wasn’t against playing road trip games, but Awesome needed to rest for the surgery, and the others had very considerately remained quiet. Sarah had even taken the middle seat so that Awesome could recline his chair back, which meant that for the entire ride, Chuck could feel her warmth against one side of his body. She spent the first hour of the silent drive obviously trying not to fall asleep, her head bobbing forward and popping back up immediately.

Kung fu was hard work, Chuck figured. He wasn’t surprised when Sarah’s head finally fell back against the seat behind her, though it did give him a few tense moments when she shifted in her sleep so that her head rested on his shoulder. He knew from their travels throughout Eastern Europe that she was a light sleeper, but not now, evidently. She just burrowed in and slept like the dead. When his arm started to fall asleep, he shifted and wrapped it around her. It grew a little too warm in the car, but he could deal with that.

Even while he feared what she would have to say once he confessed everything, he envied Sarah. He would have given anything to be able to turn his brain off, but so much had happened. Jill. The library chase. Taking out a bad guy with nothing but his fists. Ellie knowing. Ellie pretty much knew he’d been in a bunker, and she knew about Sarah, and what he was doing for the government. He wouldn’t have to lie to her as much. There were thousands of things to think about, millions of thing to wonder about now.

But the encounter with Bryce sat in the center of his mind and refused to let him think about anything else. So he went over the Operation Sand Wall documents in his head. They all seemed to point toward a human Intersect, which made sense. He had the very same thing in his head, after all. Except…the reports he’d hacked from his doctors in DC, the ones that had dealt with him as Patient X from behind curtains and other identity-hiding means, all of those reports had indicated surprise that the Intersect was so effective in a human subject.

If they’d designed the Intersect to be tested in human patients, why the hell were they so shocked that it had worked? He knew there was something to be said about government efficiency in that statement, but even that was a bit much.

And who was this Fulcrum group? What did they want? Chuck tried thinking the word as hard as he could, imagining it in his head, picturing every letter. He hoped to induce a flash as he had on the Santa Monica Pier, but the Intersect stayed silent. Unlike his brain. By the time they were anywhere near the Los Angeles area, Chuck had already worried the problem of Fulcrum and its mysterious lack of identity from four directions, and he had come up with nothing satisfactory.

So he puzzled over what he did know. Bryce didn’t want him to tell Sarah and Casey that he wasn’t a traitor because they might be Fulcrum. Which meant, Chuck thought, that Fulcrum could be anybody, if Bryce was willing to distrust his own partner, the woman who had been at his side through every scary situation the spy world offered. Fulcrum’s involvement with the government must be deep and widespread, indeed, and it sounded like Bryce knew what he was talking about. So should he listen to Bryce?

True, he’d always followed Bryce’s lead at Stanford. Bryce, after all, had been right about rushing a fraternity, and he’d known the best clubs, the best place to get food at drunk o’clock in the morning, where all of the good local bands were playing. But there was a huge chasm of logic between trusting a guy because he knew how to make college great, and trusting the guy who said you couldn’t trust the partners that had saved your life time after time.

Maybe field operatives liked to work in a vacuum of information. Maybe they even liked all the doubt and double-talk. Chuck didn’t see how that was beneficial to anybody. And if Casey or Sarah were Fulcrum…

What the hell was he thinking? Was he really doubting his partners? He’d doubted Bryce, his best friend, but Bryce had blown up a government building, stolen secrets, and had vanished into the wind. A little bit of doubt was a hell of a lot more than justifiable in this situation.

Doubting Sarah and Casey wasn’t.

When they pulled into the parking lot of Ellie’s building in the predawn hours, his decision had been made. He shook out his legs and stretched out his back while Awesome and Ellie stumbled away, off to sleep. He put a hand on Sarah’s arm before she could follow. “Hey, you got a minute?”

He’d caught her mid-yawn. “Y-yeah. Can it wait a minute, though? It was a long drive and I have to…” She gestured toward the apartment and gave him a look that was the Sarah Walker equivalent of sheepish.

“Oh. Um, sure, take all the time you need. I’ll just wait over there.” Chuck nodded at the fountain.

It took her more than a minute. Chuck was left staring at the old crack in the pavement by the fountain for a good ten minutes or so before Sarah eased open her bedroom window and climbed out into the courtyard. She’d taken the time to throw on pajamas: a loose shirt and very short shorts so that her legs glowed a bit in the moonlight.

He looked away, staring hard at the crack in the pavement. Now was not the time to get distracted.

“What’s on your mind, Chuck?” Sarah asked, lowering herself to sit next to him on the edge of the fountain. He had to shift his eyes again to avoid staring at her thigh. “If you’re worried about how you did today, you don’t need to be. You led us right to the intel, and you handled yourself with the Magnus situation. It was good work.”

“That’s just the thing.” Chuck licked his lips, his throat suddenly dryer than Arrakis. “I didn’t.” He forced himself to look over—not at her legs, Bartowski!—and meet Sarah’s eyes. “I don’t have the disk.”

“What?” She jolted. Agent Walker took over; sleepy Sarah vanished. “What happened to it, Chuck?”

Chuck took a deep breath. “Well, while Ellie and I were waiting for Awes—for Devon to pick up the car, an old friend kind of showed up.”

“An old friend?”

“Bryce.”

Sarah said a very bad word. She was normally such a still person when not playing the ditz persona that her surging to her feet made Chuck tense. But Sarah only paced a few feet away and back. Chuck wrenched his eyes away from the flesh just below the hem of her T-shirt—well, his T-shirt, really, as she was back in the Stanford shirt from his days of yore—and watched her face carefully for clues about when his death might be coming.

“You gave important intel to a traitor, Chuck?” Sarah asked.

“Trust me.” Chuck thought of the new scrapes on his knees, and the matching ones on his palms. “Not willingly. He overpowered me, Sarah. I tried to stall as long as I could so that you could get there, I really did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“So that you could do what? He’s Bryce Larkin, Sarah. He’s like Kurt Wagner. You can try to hold onto him, but he just vanishes.” Chuck pushed his aching hands through his hair. “And I couldn’t say anything in front of Ellie and Awesome.”

“You could have sent me a text message so that I could have made an excuse or sent Casey after him. He’s vanished back into the ether by now, and we’ll never find him.” Sarah scowled. “Also, for future reference, I can read lips. It’s one of my many talents.”

“I’m sure.” Chuck licked his lips again. “The thing is, I was letting him get away.”

The frenetic energy drained out of Sarah, slowly, dangerously. All movement ceased, so that she stood still as stone underneath the street light tinting the courtyard a soft yellow. Her eyes hardened. When she spoke, her voice was deceptively quiet. “Why would you do that, Chuck?”

He’d been more afraid in his life, but never of a woman, and never of a woman in so little clothing. Logically, he knew Sarah wouldn’t hurt him. She’d stopped hitting him altogether, and there’d been no repeats of the Acropolis Cold-Clock, but…

There was just too much potential for violence to be ignored.

Still, he felt himself shrug. And even though all of the moisture in his throat had vanished, he said, “Because he’s not a traitor, Sarah.”

“Chuck, just because you want something to happen doesn’t mean it’s—”

“Operation Sand Wall.”

Chuck watched her face carefully. She was an excellent spy, good at dissembling or diverting when she needed to. But her eyes had a hard time lying, especially to him. Relief flooded through them when he saw nothing but angry puzzlement now. She hadn’t been in on it; Bryce had been acting alone. Sarah hadn’t lied to him.

“What?” she asked now.

“It’s a Top Secret CIA mission, docket number 20605, proposing practical applications for the database system known as the Intersect. It’s also a detailed evacuation plan—essentially, it’s how to steal the Intersect.” Chuck looked away, staring into the darkness beyond the edges of the street light’s reach. He could call the documents to mind with just a thought, but he didn’t do so. He was too busy seeing his friend’s exhausted face. “Bryce was approached by a group named Fulcrum to steal the Intersect. By the time he realized that they weren’t exactly kosher, he was too far in. He sent the Intersect to me because, and this is all supposition here, so don’t quote me, being in the bunker, it was very likely I was the only one he thought he could trust.” Chuck’s smile turned bitter. “Not like much could reach me in the bunker.”

“I did,” Sarah said.

Chuck shrugged. “But you’re Sarah Walker.”

“Chuck, I’m not one of your comic book heroes.” Sarah crossed her arms over her chest. She let out a slow breath and turned away, but Chuck could see her hands shaking. “Everybody can be broken, and under the right circumstances, everybody can be a traitor.”

Chuck shook his head. “You’re not Fulcrum. You wouldn’t hide something like that from me.”

Sarah stayed quiet for so long that nerves started to jump through his midsection. Had she been lying to him? Was she indeed Fulcrum? Was that what Bryce had been worried about?

But finally, she shook her head and met his eyes, squarely. “I’m not Fulcrum. I’ve never even heard of them,” she said at length.

“Bryce asked me not to tell you or Casey about Operation Sand Wall.”

“You flashed on it? It’s a real operation?” Sarah asked, moving toward him. She hesitated before she sat next to him. She kept her voice too modulated to sound hopeful. He knew better. The shaking hands and the bright eyes alone told him otherwise. He could understand the feeling. He’d felt horrible at the thought of Bryce, his best friend, being a traitor, and Bryce had meant a lot more than that to Sarah. Personally or professionally, he still wasn’t sure, but that didn’t matter.

So he nodded and tapped his temple. “I flashed on all of it, and I think can find it now that I know the project name. I spent the drive home reviewing all of the documents. I’ll pull the hard copies off of the servers for you and Casey tomorrow—well, later today, really. And I want to start looking into this Fulcrum group. I think Bryce has been having a rough time with them, and if he’s in trouble, I want to help.”

“Of course you do.” Sarah pushed her fingertips against her eyelids. “Chuck Bartowski, saving the world, one broken spy at a time. We’re going to have to tell Casey, you know.”

“I know.” And frankly, the thought terrified him.

“And he’s going to be pissed about you losing the intel.”

“I know that, too.”

“Don’t be surprised if he tries to use you as a punching bag instead of Frank.”

“You’ll protect me, right?” Chuck deliberately batted the puppy dog eyes he’d always used to bribe cookies out of Ellie.

“From Casey?” Sarah scoffed. “You’re on your own there, bucko.”

“Bucko?”

“Shut up about the nicknames.” Sarah sobered abruptly. “Did Bryce say what he wanted with the intel? Is it about Fulcrum? Fleming’s still critical, so we can’t ask him what it is.”

Chuck shook his head. “He only said that Fleming wanted him to have it, was all. It could be anything from secret Stanford spy traditions to cheat codes for ‘Missile Command.’ Who knows?”

“I guess we won’t.” Sarah looked troubled, but she sighed and rubbed the back of her neck with one hand. Chuck could sympathize. Even with her nap on the way home, she had to be exhausted. Hell, he hadn’t even gone through a kung fu exhibition, and he could feel weariness dragging at his limbs. But Sarah didn’t complain. She just had him walk her through the entire encounter with Bryce, going over everything twice.

When he had finished, she stayed quiet for a moment. “I’d like time to think about all of this, but we do have to let the others know. I’ll send a report to Casey and the Director and the General over the secure connection, and then we can both deal with the fall-out when they wake up. Why don’t you go inside and get a few hours’ sleep?”

“Thanks, but,” Chuck rose to his feet, “I’d rather head back to the Bachelor Pad, I think. Ellie’s couch gives me a crick in the neck.”

You wouldn’t have to—okay. You’ll be okay driving home?”

“It’s only a few blocks. I’ll be fine.”

“Before you go, let me see your watch.” Sarah held out a hand. When Chuck passed it over to her, she turned it and pointed at a small red button. “See this? This is called a panic button.”

“Sarah, I know what a—”

“The next time Bryce just happens to drop in on you, your job is simple. I don’t care if he’s a traitor or not. You see him, you press the damn button. The only time you are exempted from pressing said button is if all of your fingers have been cut off, and if that’s happened, I still expect you to try and use whatever nubs are left. Use your damn nose if you have to. Just push. The. Button. Do you understand me?”

When a woman had that look in her eye, there was only one proper response. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Sarah handed the watch back. “Now, go home, get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” Chuck gave her a look. “Okay, later in the morning. Happy?”

“Very,” Chuck said.

“Good. Good night, Chuck.”

But as she turned to go back in through her window, Chuck remembered the other reason that could possibly make him a dead man. “Um, Sarah?”

She sighed. “Yes, Chuck?”

“Just one thing I didn’t tell you.”

Sarah’s head lolled back on her neck: tired exasperation. She was at the end of her rope, he knew. But he couldn’t leave until he fulfilled his promise to Ellie. “It can’t wait?”

“No, it can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Fine, but make it quick. I’m not sure how much more I can handle.” Sarah waved for him to get on with it.

“Um, so, I talked to Ellie today, and she asked me a question, and…” Another deep breath. His next words came out in a rush: “She knows I’m a CIA agent, but not about the Intersect or anything, just that I’ve got important intel and that Pacific Securities is really just a front.”

Sarah gaped.

“Oh, and she knows about you, too. Actually, that was how she figured it all out. I talked her down so that she won’t kick you out or anything, but maybe you could talk to her, smooth things over? She’s a really forgiving person, I promise, and once you come clean with her, too, you’ll probably get along famously.” Chuck gave her a panicked smile. “And anyway, that was all I wanted to say. Since you’re tired and all, there’ll be plenty of time to talk about it tomorrow, right? Good night, Sarah!”

And like the wise man that he was, he ran for it.

12 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: UPSTAIRS
10:12 PST

“Just got off the horn with DC.” Casey propped his feet up on the corner of Chuck’s desk, one dirty boot-heel at a time. Each thud made Chuck’s organized soul flinch just a little, but he kept his face neutral. Ever since Casey had discovered his bordering-on-OCD ways of keeping his desk clean, it had been…well, it had been like Christmas come early for Casey. And since the burlier man was more than a little frustrated and pissed off at both of his CIA teammates…

Chuck foresaw a lot of cleaning muddy boot-prints off of his desk in the nearby future.

“Yeah?” he asked, keeping his attention focused on the ID photos he’d been browsing all morning. “What’d Washington have to say? Any more reveals on Sand Wall or are they still pointing fingers about who started it? Because let me tell you, nothing really gets my day going like the news that not a single higher-up knew about a major mission that took out an entire building and, oh yeah, has everything in the world to do with me and what’s in my head.”

“The news about the op just broke yesterday,” Casey said. “Washington always takes a little while to get their thumbs out of their collective asses.”

Chuck skipped forward to a new page of ID photos.

“Of course,” Casey said, going on, “we could probably know a hell of a lot more about Operation Sand Wall if you hadn’t let the primary source of knowledge get away without a trace.” He leaned forward, lightning quick, and smacked Chuck upside the back of the head.

Chuck jolted forward and scowled. “For the last time, Casey, there wasn’t—”

“You don’t know that.” Casey stabbed a finger at him. “The next time something like that happens, you are on your phone right away, calling me. I don’t care what time of the day it is, I don’t care who’s nearby. You call me. Need a code phrase? Tell me you need some friggin’ gelato. That can be a damned code phrase.”

“Gelato, Casey? Really?”

“Girly enough for you, Bartowski?” Casey crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

Chuck sighed. After arriving home from Stanford the day before, he’d slept for far too long and therefore hadn’t gotten a good rest that night. And his hands ached like nothing else, which only steeled his resolve that he was never taking up boxing. Let others kill their knuckles on other people’s faces. He’d stick to his morning Tai Chi and weight lifting routines—and running around the park when he could force himself to go outside. He wasn’t anywhere near Sarah’s pace, and probably wouldn’t be for years, but it was getting to the point where he didn’t want to die after the first half mile. No, that part came after the second half mile.

He saved his progress on the ID photos. “How many times am I going to have to apologize for this? I made a decision, yes, it was the wrong one, but we know Bryce isn’t a traitor now.”

“Suspect,” Casey said, glowering. “We suspect Larkin isn’t a traitor. There’s no way to be sure. Well, there’s one way to be sure, but you let him get away.”

“So what you’re saying is: a lot. I’m going to have to apologize a lot.” Chuck rolled his eyes and, since Casey was doing it anyway, propped his own feet on the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry, Casey. I should have called you.”

“Next time, do so. I don’t care if your hands have been cut off and you have to dial with your nose.”

Chuck jolted at hearing Sarah’s words repeated from the NSA. “You know, they have a thing called voice dial—why am I even bringing that up? If my hands have been cut off, let’s be real, Casey, I’m going to be on the ground screaming like a little girl.”

Casey shrugged in a way that indicated the visual wasn’t entirely unpleasant to him.

“What did Washington want?” he asked.

“Your paperwork came through.” Casey reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of paper, which he tossed in front of Chuck. “That’s your new dossier. It’s closer to your story than your first dossier was because this is a government-appointed shrink.”

“Wh-what?” Chuck unfolded the paper.

“Didn’t you know? Your rep’s appointed shrinks all bowed out on your case, so General Beckman stepped in. You’re meeting with Dr. Anton this afternoon. Unlike me, they’ll pay him to listen to you, so—what are you doing?” Casey frowned when Chuck abruptly put his feet on the floor and began to type.

“Googling him.”

“Why the hell are you doing that?”

“Because I really don’t want to walk into his office and meet your long lost twin brother.” Chuck shook his head. “If that happens, I’m definitely going to need therapy.”

Deliberately, Casey leaned forward and flicked a fleck of mud off of his boot and onto Chuck’s desk. Right, Chuck thought, trying to ignore the speck, not anywhere near off the hook yet. Probably won’t be for a couple of years.

“Your appointment is at two. To ensure that you get there, I’ll be driving you.” Casey folded his arms across his chest. “And I’ll wait in the car until you’re done getting your kumbaya-yas out.”

“I can drive myself,” Chuck said.

“Don’t care. You’re under twenty-four hour protective detail until they get to the bottom of this Sand Wall thing.” Casey’s grin turned strangely feral. “Get used to having Walker and me breathing down your neck.”

“Where is Sarah, anyway? She’s usually in by this point.” Chuck glanced around his office, as though Sarah would have appeared out of the woodwork or beamed in from the Enterprise. He checked his watch to be sure. “Well, okay, she’s usually downstairs by now, trying to kill Frank.”

“DC.”

The walls groaned and moved inward an inch. “W-what?” Chuck asked. “Sarah’s gone? When?”

“She took the Red-Eye out of LAX last night.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Because I’m telling you now.”

Chuck swallowed hard. “How long’s she going to be in DC?”

“Relax, princess, she’s coming back on the evening flight, she’ll be in at eleven.” Casey rolled his eyes. “Should’ve known I’d be dealing with this when they said I’d be working with a couple of spooks. We’re leaving at one fifteen, so be ready to go.”

He strode out of Chuck’s office. Then, and only then, did Chuck reach for the cleaning supplies he kept in the bottom drawer. As he wiped the heel-prints away, he frowned. He hadn’t thought to ask Casey why Sarah had gone to DC. It had only seemed to matter that she was gone at all. And losing that sort of objectivity was a bad thing, especially when he had two people relying on him to keep up his leg of the tripod. He’d have to do better in the future.

The walls shrank just a little more. Chuck ignored it by wondering what Sarah was doing in DC.

12 NOVEMBER 2007
THE CROWN VIC
15:08 PST

Chuck climbed into the front seat of the Crown Vic, closed the door, and sat silently. He didn’t bother to greet Casey. He merely pulled on his seat belt. In the driver’s seat, Casey put down his newspaper and grunted. He put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking garage.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked after five minutes had passed.

Chuck shrugged. In truth, there was really nothing to talk about. Gwen Davenport and the government wanted him to go to therapy, so he’d gone. And even though he wanted to get better…

“I didn’t talk to him,” he said.

Casey grunted. “What’s his secret?”

“What?”

“I personally can’t get you to shut up, so I want to know—what’s his secret?”

“Maybe I just like you less.” Chuck pushed his head back against the headrest and let it bob with the motion of the car. “Can we stop at a drive-thru? I’m starved.”

They pulled into the first one Casey passed. After they’d placed their order, and the car idled at the window, Casey sighed and rubbed his forehead. Chuck recognized the look well. He’d seen it several times. He called it the “Damn it, Bartowski’s making me have human feelings again” look. “Why didn’t you talk to the shrink?”

Chuck shrugged. “He’s a government appointed shrink. He’s just going to turn around and report everything I say to his higher-ups. If that’s their version of help, thanks but no thanks.”

Casey handed a twenty up to the delivery window and passed Chuck a bag of food with grease spots on it. Drinks followed. “You don’t think this guy can actually help?”

Chuck focused his attention on unwrapping straws for both of them, and poking them through the slots on the lids. “Not willing to try my luck and get burned,” he said without looking up.

After a moment, Casey grunted. “Guess I can understand that.”

Casey pulled the car out of the drive-thru and into traffic. Since he’d left the radio off, silence reigned over the Crown Victoria. Finally, Chuck cleared his throat. “You’ve seen a lot, haven’t you, Casey?”

“A lot of what?”

“Um. You know.”

Casey glared at him. “No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

“Decorated soldier like you, you must have seen some pretty bad things over the years. Bad…stuff…” Chuck trailed off lamely and scrubbed his hands over his face. He really should take a nap soon, or he’d be no good to anybody. He’d never realized how exhausting watching a clock for fifty minutes could be. “Geez. What I’m saying is, and please don’t punch me in the throat, but have they ever made you go into therapy?”

Casey gave him what Chuck had privately begun to call the John Casey Special—two parts frustration, three parts rage, all Casey. Said look usually preceded the threat of violence, though there was only a fifty-percent chance of a follow-through occurring.

This was one of Chuck’s lucky days. Casey’s glare tapered off into a grunt. He turned his face back toward the road, tapped the steering wheel a couple of times.

“Yeah,” he finally said.

Chuck, who’d turned his attention to his burger, almost sent food down the wrong pipe. He coughed and thumped his chest with the side of his fist. “W-what?”

“Yeah, they made me go to therapy once.” Casey’s fingers jerked on the steering wheel. “Okay, not once. Twice. Had to get cleared.”

“And did you talk?” Chuck asked.

For a couple of minutes, it didn’t seem like Casey would answer. The other man just continued to drive, his attention focused both on the road and on his French fries. Finally, he grunted. “Yeah, I talked.”

“Really?”

“Had to. Job requirement.”

“Even though you knew he was just going to report everything about you to some bureaucrat?”

Casey slanted a sideways look at him. “What’s the matter, Bartowski? You think what’s in that head of yours is too special for some government bureaucrat to hear about?”

“Intersect aside?” Chuck waved that off before Casey could come back with some acidic retort. “I guess that’s Casey language for ‘the universe does not revolve around you, Chuck. Get over yourself.’ Heh. Guess I should just talk to Dr. Anton next time.”

“I didn’t say that.” Casey kept his eyes on the road. “At the end of the day, everybody has a choice. It’s your brain, you decide what you do with it—though if you’re taking suggestions, I could get behind the concept of adding shutting up more often to the list.”

“Thanks, Casey.” Chuck rolled his eyes.

“Pilots hate to go to the doctor,” Casey went on. When Chuck gave him a confused look, he tilted an eyebrow, a signal that Chuck should keep his mouth shut and listen. “Going to the doctor means there’s something wrong with them, that they can’t do their jobs because of medical trouble. Sometimes you get a pilot putting off going to the hospital so much that he makes the problem worse—worse enough to get him kicked to another job for medical reasons.”

“Irony,” Chuck remarked, wondering where this story was going.

“It’s like that with psych evals. You don’t want to go in because the doc might find something wrong with you, something that’ll get you kicked out of the Agency or put behind a desk somewhere.” Casey shifted his shoulders, thoroughly uncomfortable now. “A lot of people go in bitter, angry. The psych-heads are used to that. But, and I’m only going to say this once, Bartowski, so pay attention: they can help. And they don’t put the nitty-gritty details in those reports, just so you know. Just about whether you’re cleared for duty or not.”

“So if you say they can help…did they help you?”

Casey snorted. “Hell, Bartowski, I was always the exception. I didn’t need help. My headspace has always been right where it belongs.”

“In a realm that would give Cthulhu nightmares?”

Casey pulled the Crown Vic into Castle’s parking lot and glared. “We’ve talked about the nerd speak,” he said, a slight growl flavoring his words.

“Oh. Hm, yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I can’t help myself sometimes.” Chuck fished in his pocket for his phone as it rang, and took a deep breath when he saw the view-screen. Though she’d made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t angry with him about the Bryce or Ellie situations, he still felt nerves writhe through his midsection. “It’s Sarah. Anything you want to tell her?”

“Tell her to pick me up a soft-shelled crab sandwich.” Casey grabbed the fast food bag and his drink, abandoning the car as Chuck took a deep breath and answered the phone.

“Tell Sarah you want her to give you crabs. Check. Hey, Sarah,” Chuck said the last into the phone, dodging expertly. Casey growled and stalked away. “How’s DC?”

“Oh, good, Casey told you.” Sarah sounded both relieved and exhausted. “I thought for sure he’d just ‘forget’ to mention it, and leave you wondering.”

“Maybe next time. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Orders came in pretty late, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Chuck rolled his eyes when Casey closed the front door of Castle before he could reach it. He moved over to key in his code. “Don’t worry about waking me up. Or you could just send a text.”

“Okay. Next time, I’ll do that.” Wherever Sarah was, it sounded busy. Chuck could hear voices in the background, which made it a little hard to hear her. “This is the first chance I’ve had to get away today, and I’ve only got a couple of minutes. They think I’m in the bathroom.”

“So you sneaked out to call me?” Chuck couldn’t stop the grin. “Look at you, breaking the rules for little old me.”

“I wanted to know how your therapy session went.”

Though she couldn’t see him, Chuck shrugged. Dr. Anton had seemed like a nice guy—boring, mid-forties, bland—but the session had been Chuck staring at the clock after they’d been introduced. “It was fine,” he lied.

“Did you like the therapist?”

“He looks nothing like you or Casey. I’m good. Why’re you in DC?”

A tired sigh on the other end of the line. “Briefings. Back to back briefings. Lots of things to discuss, lots of wheels suddenly in motion. I’m just glad Graham stepped in and said they could only have me for a day. Otherwise, they’d probably keep me for a month.”

Chuck felt something punch through his stomach.

Sarah, across the country, seemed to sense his unrest at that thought. “I’m coming home tonight,” she said. Though her tone was purposely light, Chuck knew better. He inwardly kicked himself for being so pathetic and needy.

If Sarah could keep it light, so could he. “What’s your flight number?” he asked as he dropped into his desk chair. “I could come get you.”

“Oh, no, Chuck, you don’t have to do that. I can just get a car service.”

“I don’t mind. It’d give us a chance to catch up.” Clear up any lingering awkwardness, he added silently, as they still had a thousand things to discuss about Ellie alone.

“All right.” She was apparently on the same length, for she said, “I need to talk to you before I see Ellie. If you really don’t mind coming to get me, that is.”

“It’d be my pleasure. Where should I meet you?”

They made the arrangements quickly, as Sarah had to hurry back to the meeting. It was only after they’d hung up that Chuck remembered Casey’s request. He shrugged and sent a text message off. Oh, forgot to mention that Casey wants you to pick up a soft-shelled crab sandwich.

A couple of minutes passed while he went through the security protocols on his computer and collected his assignments for the afternoon. As he pulled shipping manifests up on screen, his phone buzzed. New text from Sarah.

Of course he does. Want one, too?

No thanks. Shellfish that’s flown commercial gives me the willies.

Ha. Gotta go. See you tonight.

Feeling much better, Chuck settled in to work.

Chapter 23: Sarah Versus the Bartowskis

Notes:

Integrity is telling myself the truth. And honesty is telling the truth to other people. — Spencer Johnson

12 NOVEMBER 2007
LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT (LAX)
23:17 PST

“You know, I really am capable of sitting here for fifteen minutes by myself without causing trouble,” Chuck said. He was never going to admit having Casey nearby made facing the airport easier. “You don’t have to wait.”

Casey fiddled with an unlit cigar, glaring at the no-smoking signs posted liberally around baggage claim. They’d found a couple of unoccupied chairs to wait it all out, as Sarah’s plane had left Dulles a half-hour behind schedule and had apparently met up with some pretty strong headwinds in mid-air. “I’ve yet to see you prove that, Bartowski.”

Chuck opened his mouth to protest, but stopped. It was a fair point. “Fine.”

Casey threaded the cigar through his fingers. “Leave your phone alone. The screen says her plane’s landed. She’ll get here when she gets here.” For good measure, he kicked Chuck’s ankle, as that entire leg was jiggling. “Have some damned self-respect, will you?”

“What?”

“You’re like a virgin on prom night. She’ll get here when she gets here.”

“It’s taking her a long time.”

“She’s female. They like to make you wait. Lets you know the pecking order.” Casey grunted his opinion of that. “Want my advice, Bartowski? Stay a bachelor.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not a virgin. I just feel that should be stated for the record. And second of all, I’m not looking to date Sarah, so I don’t see what any of this has to do with bachelorhood.”

“You’re not?” Casey snorted. “News to me.”

“One, that’s inappropriate as we’re coworkers. Two, pretty sure that even if I were interested, she’s not.” She didn’t have reason to be, Chuck added silently, as he was nothing but pathetic Chuck Bartowski, who couldn’t go outside without needing a shower. Sarah definitely deserved better.

Casey snorted again. “She’s also right there.”

“What?” Chuck’s head shot up. Indeed, Sarah had just come through the arrivals gate; she stood off to the side, scanning the crowd for him. She waved and began striding over.

“Nice T-shirt,” Chuck said when she drew near.

Sarah rolled her eyes down at the green shirt with the words “Washington DC” embossed in gold across the front. “I spilled my drink on my blouse in DC, so I got this at the gift shop. Don’t mock. Hey, you.” She handed Casey a styrofoam container before she pulled Chuck in for a hug.

When she turned toward Casey, he gave a warning growl. “Touch me, Walker, and I’ll take a page out of Bartowski’s book and tranq you right here, airport security be damned.”

“Aw, I missed you, too, Casey.” Sarah smirked. “You boys are my ride, right?”

“Bartowski is.” Casey put a hand on Chuck’s shoulder to shove him forward. “He’s your problem now, Walker.” With one final smirk at both of them, he left, grumbling about the CIA, as he always did.

“Such a happy soul,” Chuck said. “Do we need to wait for your bags?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“I was only gone for a day. How much luggage did you think I need?” Sarah patted the laptop bag over her shoulder.

“Hmm. Guess I’m just used to Ellie and her convoy of suitcases. She packs the same amount for two weeks as she does for an overnight trip.”

“I lived off nothing but the land and my wits for three days in the Congo,” Sarah said as they made their way to the exit and to the parking garage. “It tends to put things in perspective.”

“Uh-huh. Well, either way, let me take that.” Chuck snatched the shoulder strap before Sarah could protest and slung it across the shoulder opposite from her. She could grab the bag back if she put her mind to it, but not without a challenge.

Instead of protesting, though, she just shrugged. “Okay. Where did you park?”

“Second level, though it’s a bit of a hike. Sorry. You’re not too tired, are you?”

“I slept on the plane.”

“Lucky. I’ve never been able to do that.”

Sarah shrugged again. “I am hungry, though,” she said after a moment of silence. “Think we can stop and get something?”

13 NOVEMBER 2007
MANHATTAN BEACH
00:12 PST

“It’s official,” Sarah said. “I’ll never doubt you again.” She proved it by taking a large bite of her burger.

“As well you shouldn’t. Geez. I can’t believe you’ve been in California a month and you’ve yet to go to an In-N-Out.” Chuck picked up his soda and took a long drink as he shook his head. “So many gaps in your education.”

“I like to think I’m working on it.” Sarah swallowed the mouthful she’d talked around. She looked out toward the water, inky black against the darker oblivion of the night sky. Only a few stars were visible this close to LA. At her request, Chuck had driven them both to the beach and parked. They sat on the hood of his car, facing the water, the food between them. It was more than a bit chilly, but Chuck had brought a jacket—which he’d promptly given to Sarah. He’d worn long-sleeves, after all.

And it wasn’t like he really noticed the cold. He was too busy being impressed by the inroads Sarah was making on her double-double.

“You have much to learn, Kemo Sabe,” he said sagely, eyeing his fries. He hadn’t eaten most of them, but they were still almost all gone.

“Apparently.” Sarah stole another fry. “For example, these. I didn’t see these anywhere on the menu, and yet the guy in the drive-thru didn’t even question you when you said ‘Animal Fries.’”

“Half the fun of the In-N-Out is ordering off the secret menu.”

“Does that make you an In-N-Out spy, I wonder?” Sarah polished off the burger and leaned back.

“Yes.” Chuck kept his face absolutely deadpan. “I am much skilled in the ways of the In-N-Out. In fact, I am one with the secret menu. I’d tell you, but then—”

“I’d have to kill you,” Sarah chorused with him, smiling.

“Apparently your education has fewer gaps than you think.”

Sarah waved a hand, almost a listless motion. “Not really. Bryce used to say that all the time.”

Chuck, reaching for a fry, stilled. He forced himself to pick up the fry and take a casual bite, but not quickly enough. Surely enough, Sarah’s eyes tracked the motion. “And now I’ve killed the mood,” she announced.

Chuck swallowed the fry. She had, but… “If we’re going to point fingers, let’s put the blame where it really belongs, which is with Bryce. He’s the one that really killed the mood here. However, since you brought him up…”

Yes. Time to talk.” Sarah sighed and pushed off the hood of the car. “Walk with me?”

“Sure.” They left their shoes in the car and tossed the trash into one of the receptacles on the way to the sand. Even with Sarah’s announcement, both were quiet until they’d reached the water down by the sand.

“So you went to DC because of Bryce?” Chuck asked.

Sarah stayed quiet for another moment longer. “Yes. And to take a few lie detector tests.”

“What?”

“It’s not a big deal. I had to take the same ones last month after we got picked up in Greece.”

“What?” Indignation had Chuck straightening up. “Why?”

“If I’m Fulcrum or working with Bryce, they need to know right away so that they can start vetting my replacement.”

The thought of Sarah ever being replaced threatened to suck all of the oxygen out of the beach, but his indignation was still burning too hotly for Chuck to acknowledge it. He scowled. “If they’re making you take all of these tests, why aren’t they doing the same to me? Frankly, I find that a little sexist and insulting. After all, I look far guiltier than you do. I gave Bryce those scans.”

“Chuck they can’t make you go through lie detector testing.”

“Why not?”

Sarah seemed at a loss for words, which confused him. It wasn’t that hard a question. She shook her head. “It would be a bad idea, that’s all,” she said after a minute. “We have no idea what sort of thing might affect the Intersect. And Gwen Davenport’s not going to let anybody within miles of your head without explicit written permission.”

“Signed in triplicate,” Chuck agreed. “By the president. Still, Sarah, you shouldn’t have to do those tests. It’s like a freaking slap in the face.”

Sarah moved a shoulder. “If it proves I’m innocent and it keeps me here, I’m fine.”

It wasn’t fine. It was bull. Chuck, however, recognized the look on her face, so he kept that to himself. The government had no right in hell to treat one of their best agents that way, not after everything she’d sacrificed for the Intersect project. He forced a teasing smile on his face. “And the tests did prove that you’re not a liar, right?”

“Also that I’m a borderline type-A personality, among other things. And that I’m not Fulcrum.”

Chuck nodded. They walked along the water’s edge for a couple of minutes. “You said something about briefings?” he asked when the silence had stretched into an uncomfortable length. “You didn’t have to sit and lecture a bunch of secret agents in dark suits and sunglasses about gun safety, did you?”

“No.” Sarah smiled. “Just Beckman and Graham.”

“Oh, that sounds like a party and a half.”

“Not really, no. I had to give them both a personalized breakdown of my observations about Bryce.”

“I hope you remembered to mention that he snores.”

“Loud enough to wake the dead,” Sarah said, raising her eyebrows. “Had to wear earplugs in college?”

“On the positive side, it taught me how to sleep through everything up to and including the zombie apocalypse.”

“Handy.”

“I always thought so. Did they know anything about this Fulcrum group Bryce is talking about, or are we looking at a complete SNAFU of epic proportions?”

“It appears that if we did have any intel on Fulcrum, it went the way of the original Intersect files.”

“So…” Chuck swallowed. “Stuck in my noggin?”

“Maybe. They’re not sure. I’ll brief you and Casey on everything they covered today, and about Operation Prometheus’s new objectives and mission tomorrow.” Sarah stopped walking and stared hard out into the water. The moon had waned to a sliver, allowing only minimal moonlight across the beach. Chuck could see splinters of it highlighting Sarah’s hair, turning the blond silver around the edges. Wary now, he paused and turned. He recognized that look, however slight it might be. Sarah was working herself up to tell him something.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and waited her out. It wouldn’t be long now.

Sure enough, she didn’t disappointed. “Chuck, Bryce wasn’t the only reason I went to DC.”

“Okay. What was the other reason?”

Sarah took a deep breath. “Ellie.”

Everything inside Chuck went deathly silent, so quiet that there wasn’t even an echo. He slowly drew his hands out of his pockets to fold his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

His voice didn’t sound like him. It sounded older, angrier. Harder.

Indeed, Sarah gave him a startled look. “They want to add Ellie to Operation Prometheus.”

“And why would they want to do that? Unless…” Chuck trailed off. He felt the first sharp taste of fury begin to boil through him, so cold that it left smoking burns everywhere. “You told them.” It wasn’t a question.

“I had to.” Her chin came up.

“Why?”

“Did you want them to find out because we screwed up somehow?”

“Isn’t it better to ask forgiveness than permission?”

“Which is essentially what I spent all day doing.” Sarah crossed her arms over her chest.

Normally, the warning edge to her words would have made Chuck back off and start apologizing. That was how it went between them, wasn’t it? They had a fight, they saw reason, and it was over. Not this time. Fear of Sarah had been replaced by fear, and anger, and every awful emotion under the sun. He wanted to hack and slash and burn. No way in hell was the government that had managed to ruin his life going anywhere near his sister. He’d take down a platoon of Army Rangers bare-handed before it came to that.

But he wasn’t facing Army Rangers now. No, he just had an exasperated Sarah Walker to contend with, which was worse.

“That’s your own fault,” he said. “If you hadn’t told them—”

“They would have found out at the worst possible moment and they would have done something more drastic.”

“More drastic?” Chuck laughed, an ugly, bitter sound that surprised even him. “Sarah, I told her so that she wouldn’t kick you out of the apartment. That was all it was. It should have stayed between her and you and me. There was no reason to get the NSA, CIA, or the whole damned government involved!”

“And what happens when one us accidentally says the wrong thing, or Ellie herself slips up—”

“Ellie wouldn’t—”

“What then, Chuck?” Sarah’s eyes were practically blazing in the low light, cobalt blue against the night. “They wanted to put her in witness protection.”

Chuck’s stomach dropped out. “Wh-what—”

“But I convinced them that that would irreparably damage the Intersect. So a compromise was struck.”

The words “witness protection” were still making him light-headed. Lose Ellie? After all of the leaps and bounds they’d made, after getting her back after five years apart? No way in hell. Chuck’s knees went rubbery, so he dropped down into the sand right on the spot. “Compromise?” he asked.

“Hear me out.” Sarah folded her legs under her and sat next to him. She seemed to be vibrating with anger, but her voice was coolly controlled. “Their first option was to throw Ellie and Devon in witness protection, as my cover has been blown. If Ellie chooses to keep me on as a roommate, we may not have any trouble, as I talked Beckman and Graham into believing that would be enough.”

“If they’re fine with that, why—”

“It’s pretty much the same arrangement we have now, I know,” Sarah said.

Chuck glowered. “Great. Fine. Let’s do that. I’ll talk to Ellie—”

“But,” Sarah said, holding up a hand and stressing the word, “you need to understand something, Chuck. If we do that, if we let sleeping dogs lie or whatever, Ellie can be used as leverage against you.”

The blood drained out of Chuck’s face. “They wouldn’t—”

“Damn it, Chuck, these are the same idiots who locked you away in the middle of Siberia! Hell yes they would!”

Chuck’s hands started to shake. Both he and Sarah glanced down at them. He shoved them into his pockets and glared at her. “Why did you have to tell them?” he demanded, not caring that he sounded petulant.

“Because let’s say I didn’t tell them, and they still somehow find out. You know what happens then? Ellie lands in witness protection, I’m working in an outpost in the ass-end of Australia, and worst of all, you’re back in a bunker getting fed daily assignments.” Sarah sighed and buried her hands in her hair. “Want to hear option B now?”

“Unless it involves a time machine—”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then no.”

“Too bad. Option B means that—”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” Fury, disgust, fear all mingled together to sit like a rusted, sickening ball in his stomach. He pushed himself to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“To call Beckman and Graham and tell them to leave my sister out of this.”

“Chuck—”

“No. No way in hell am I letting them anywhere near her. You can come with me or you can get a cab, which of course I will pay for since I’m the one stranding you, but whether you come with me or not, I’m going.” Chuck started to stride away.

“Chuck!”

Again, he stopped, but he didn’t turn. “Sarah, for the last time—”

“I’m not stopping you. I just wondered how you were going to go anywhere without these.” Behind Chuck, something jingled.

He turned, slowly, and stared at the keys that dangled from Sarah’s fingers. Even without the lego Darth Vader keychain, they were unmistakable. He felt around in his pockets. Empty. “How the hell—they teach pick-pocketing at the Farm?”

Why Sarah would look sad at that, he had no earthly idea. At another point, he would have cared. “No,” she said. “I learned that a long time before I got the Farm.”

“When? Back in your days of working for the Artful Dodger?” Chuck rolled his eyes and held out a hand for his keys.

Her fist closed around them. “Not until you hear me out.”

“If it puts my sister anywhere near the government, no.”

“Damn it, Chuck, she’s been in range of the government since you decided you wanted the operation set in Burbank.”

“Fine. That’s an easy fix. I’ll leave Burbank—”

“And cost the government millions of dollars to move mission headquarters? Get real, Chuck. And it doesn’t change the fact that Ellie knows. Damn it, I had been doing my level best to make sure it didn’t come to this, so that we wouldn’t end up in this position. I was trying to convince Ellie that we were just dating or something inappropriate, so that she wouldn’t wonder—”

Chuck choked on nothing.

“But I seriously underestimated all things Bartowski. Again. Now will you please just listen to me for one damn minute?”

“Don’t have much of a choice, as you stole my keys.” Chuck waved his cell phone at her, grateful she hadn’t seen fit to take that, too. “Two minutes before I call a cab.”

“Fine.” Sarah took a deep breath. “You’re right. We can go back to the arrangement we have now, with Ellie knowing precisely what she does now and nothing more. But know that Ellie will never fully be safe from the government and the threat of witness protection, so really, burying our heads in the sand and pretending everything is copacetic isn’t an option.”

“What is, then?”

“We invite Ellie to join Prometheus.”

“No.”

“Still my two minutes, Chuck. Ellie joins Prometheus as an auxiliary member, and she gets a rep.”

Chuck’s hands slowly dropped to his sides. “Like Gwen.”

“Not just like Gwen. She gets Gwen. I made that part clear, and I stopped by to see Gwen on my way to the airport. She’s already agreed to take Ellie’s case, which she can’t do unless Ellie gets an official position in the organization. In this case, it would be the NSA.”

Despite everything, Chuck felt a stab of insult. “Why not CIA?”

“Because three CIA members to Casey’s one NSA member doesn’t make any sense.” Sarah abruptly turned and stared out across the water again.

Chuck absorbed all of this without moving. His brain was already at work, turning over everything Sarah was telling him, even through a bitter sort of anger. She had a point. He didn’t want her to be right.

“But it does come with downsides,” Sarah said, still facing away from him. “Ellie would be expected to play a part in Prometheus.” A pause, and Sarah took a deep breath. “Chuck, she would be read into the full Prometheus reports. The Intersect, all of it. She would be brought in as your primary physician, as well as emergency medical help for the team.”

“Isn’t that against common sense—too close to the patient?”

Sarah shook her head. “Yes, but we don’t have a lot of options. Bryce maneuvered you into such a strange position, Chuck. Casey and I are pretty much frozen to Prometheus, whatever we do, as it’s always a risk bringing in new personnel. The more people that know your identity and your abilities, the greater the risk of that knowledge getting out becomes. And with Ellie, you and I both know that would never be a problem.”

“But, if that’s the case, then why does Ellie need to know about the Intersect—”

“Because the Intersect is a part of you, and you’re the first person to ever have something like this buried in your brain. It has everything to do with your health now. Ellie would need to know about it.” She took a deep breath. “There’s another thing. They want her for more than that, though.”

“Why? What the hell does the government want with my sister?”

“Realistically?” Sarah winced, just an imperceptible movement, and Chuck’s eyes narrowed. “Chuck, you have to understand something—”

“Just tell me.”

“Ellie’s made no bones of the fact that she hopes to go into neurology. Her education shows the very obvious trend toward it, and she’s applied to USC for a neurology fellowship.” Sarah turned and faced Chuck. “She won’t get it this year—she’s up against some of the brightest minds in the country, and the program is limited, even if she was in the top five percent of her class and brilliant besides.”

“I hear a ‘but’ in your voice,” Chuck said slowly.

“The government—the NSA in this case—is willing to pull some strings and get her that fellowship.”

“What do they want from her in return, Sarah?”

“They want her to monitor the effects of the Intersect on your brain.”

Chuck sat down in the sand again. “Ellie’s wanted that fellowship since middle school.”

“I know.” When Chuck shot a suspicious look at Sarah, she shrugged. “No, it doesn’t say so in her file. She told me so herself. We have been roommates for over a month, you know. And Chuck, it’s a great fit. She’d be able to look for signs that Casey and I miss, and she’d know your identity and your medical history better than any other neurologist would.”

“And I wouldn’t just be Patient X to her.” Chuck said nothing for a full minute. He had his face turned toward the ocean, could feel the breeze ruffling his shirt and his hair and making his hands and feet cold. But he paid attention to none of it. His brain was too busy spinning, going through every possibility, even though he wanted nothing more than to throw an actual tantrum right there on the sand. The government had done enough to Ellie Bartowski. Couldn’t they see that? Couldn’t they see that they’d damaged her when they hadn’t told her that Chuck was fine? And now they wanted more from her.

But she’d wanted that fellowship for nearly twenty years now. And the government was just…offering it to her. She’d get her dream, she wouldn’t be leverage, and best of all, he wouldn’t have to lie to her. Chuck felt Sarah sit down next to him on the sand, but didn’t look over. Was it worth it? Was all of this, all of Ellie’s dreams and their problems being solved, worth the strings that would be placed over everything?

A thought occurred to him. “So you’re saying that in addition to studying my head and working on a very competitive fellowship, she’d also be team physician?” Chuck gave Sarah a look. “Are you crazy? I know my sister is great, but even she needs sleep.”

“I know that. I petitioned to have Devon added as a civilian consultant so that he can be team physician in her stead.”

“Awesome’s gonna be the team doc?”

“He’d have a more restricted clearance than Ellie, but he’s more qualified for the position, as he’s a surgeon and we might need that. Ellie would have final say on everything having to do with your head, though. Plus it means that Ellie wouldn’t have to lie to him about anything.” Sarah gave Chuck a droll look. “I may have underestimated the Bartowskis once, but not again. Your programming is set to ‘emotional chatterbox.’”

“No emotion left untold,” Chuck said, though he didn’t quite see the humor at the moment.

Sarah let him have another minute of quiet, while his mind roiled and churned. “Where’s your head at?” she finally asked, nerves clear in her voice.

Chuck shook his head. “I don’t want any of this to be happening,” he said. “I don’t care if that sounds petulant, or whiny, or spoiled. I don’t want any of this to go near my sister. She’s a good person, one of the few decent people left in the world.” She’d helped raise him when it would have been the easiest thing to leave him to his own devices. She’d gone out of her way to make sure that her little brother had every advantage on the planet, and now he was dragging her into government conspiracies.

Government conspiracies that could help her get her lifelong dream.

But at a price, he knew.

“And I’m angry,” he went on. “Really mad.”

“At me?”

“No. Well, yes.” Chuck glared at the water. If only she hadn’t told, he wouldn’t be sitting on the sand, contemplating changing Ellie’s life completely. It didn’t matter that she had a point. “But at other things, too. You should have told me first, what you were going to do.”

“Somebody once told me that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Sarah said. Chuck just switched his scowl from the sea to her. She sighed and hugged her knees to her chest. “Guess now’s not the time to be glib.”

“Gee, really?” Chuck’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You’re under orders to tell Ellie about this, aren’t you?”

“She’s getting off work in half an hour. I called her and let her know we needed to talk.”

“You can’t put it off until I’ve had time to think about it, and maybe come up with some alternatives?”

Sarah shook her head, looking sad now. “The bosses want her answer tomorrow.”

Chuck swore his opinion of that.

“You’re pissed,” Sarah said, “and you have every right to be. I know you and Ellie are close, and you see this as the government screwing her over like they did to you.”

“Damn right I do.”

“But Chuck, it’s like you told her the other night. She’s going to have the same people in her corner as you do now. She’ll have Gwen protecting her interests, and she’ll have me and even Casey. And she’ll have you.”

“Lot of help I’ve been,” Chuck said, snorting, “seeing as I’m the one that got her into this.”

“You’re not. If we’re going to put the blame where it belongs, let’s point fingers at the right people, right? It’s not you, and it’s not me, doing this to Ellie. This is all on the government’s shoulders.” Sarah touched his shoulder, tentatively, to make him look over at her. “She’s a victim here, just like you are, and you both have people willing to help you out. Neither of you is alone in this, okay?”

Chuck stared at her until he had to look away. “Okay.”

“Now, c’mon, we need to go. I stopped feeling my feet ten minutes ago, and I want to prep for my talk with Ellie.” Sarah rose and reached down to pull him up as well.

He shrugged out of her grip and pushed himself to his feet without her help. “I want to be there when you talk to her.”

Sarah hesitated. “I think it would be for the best if Ellie and I talked privately,” she said after a few seconds. “I can give her a message from you, but that’s all. I’m the one that’s been deceiving her, so I should be the one that comes clean.”

That was a bit much, the part of Chuck that wasn’t buried under layers of anger and hurt thought. Sarah had been doing her job, representing his wishes, when she had lied to Ellie. It wasn’t any reason to wear a hair-shirt and do penance, but he couldn’t quite bring himself up to say so when he was still so annoyed at her for essentially going behind his back about reporting to their superiors about Ellie.

They walked back to the car in silence. Every few feet, Chuck felt Sarah’s eyes flick toward him. He kept his face set into a scowl. He couldn’t think. Everything inside was a mishmash of confused emotion. Hope for Ellie. Wanting to come clean to his sister, fully. Wanting to run far, far away and take his sister, keep her safe from everything the government could throw at her, the way she’d once protected him from the monsters that lived under the bed and in the closet.

But they were adults now. And the only thing protection he could offer was…Sarah.

She gave him back his keys when they reached his car. Still silent, they pulled on their shoes. Chuck turned on the ignition and put the car into gear. Twenty minutes stretched by, a small eternity.

Finally, he cleared his throat, and Sarah looked away from where she’d been staring out the window with her chin resting on her fist. “One thing when dealing with Ellie?” Chuck said. “She likes to throw things when she’s really angry. Luckily, her aim sucks.”

Sarah smiled tentatively. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Does…if she says yes, and she gets full disclosure into the Intersect project, does that mean that…” Chuck trailed off, cleared his throat. “Does that mean she’s going to find out that they stuck me in a bunker all alone for five years?”

Sarah nodded.

“I don’t want her to know.” Chuck stared out at the road in front of him. Thankfully, traffic was relatively light for this hour, so the ride wouldn’t drag on forever. But he didn’t want to meet Sarah’s gaze right now. He wasn’t strong enough to face whatever he might see there, whether it be compassion or pity or even aggravation. “I can’t let her know that.”

“Chuck, it directly affects—”

“It’s a deal-breaker.”

“If she gets full disclosure—”

“Lie. Tell her that I had a team of five or six with me in seclusion. I don’t want her to know that I was alone.” Chuck swallowed hard. “I don’t want her to live with that knowledge.”

“Lying to her is what got us into this mess in the first place,” Sarah said.

Chuck wanted to disagree that no, telling the higher-ups about it had been the thing that had gotten them into this mess. “This is different,” he said.

“Because it’s you and not the government doing the lying?”

“Because I’ve broken my sister’s heart enough.”

Sarah didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. They rode along in utterly uncomfortable silence until Sarah reached forward and turned the radio on. She didn’t fiddle with it as Chuck would have, so they just listened to the classic rock station without comment until Chuck pulled the car up by the pillars on either side of the apartment entrance. Sarah turned down Derek and the Dominoes and looked over at him. “Okay.”

“What?”

“I won’t tell Ellie you were alone in the bunker. But just so that our stories are straight, you had three others with you, and you were stationed in a small camp in Switzerland.”

He could live with that. “And you visited me a few times.”

Sarah hesitated before answering. “Sure. I can tell her that.”

“It’s partially the truth.”

“Yes.” Sarah twisted to retrieve her bag from the backseat. She gave him one long, sad, searching look before she took a deep breath and touched his wrist. “I’m sorry that my cover wasn’t better when I got here, and that Ellie’s getting dragged into the mess.”

He didn’t want to hear that apology, as it meant that she was already chipping through the wall of anger he felt toward both her and the government. “Let’s just blame the government for that one, too,” he said. “Since it’s a night for pointing fingers.”

“Deal. Go home, get some sleep. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Will you let me know Ellie’s decision?”

“If she doesn’t tell you herself, I will. Text me when you get home so I know you made it all right.” Sarah squeezed his wrist and climbed out of the car. She strode away without looking back.

Chuck idled the car by the curb for a couple of minutes longer. He just didn’t have the energy to pull into traffic and finish the drive home, handful of blocks away or no. In less than an hour, one of the most important women in his life would be offering the other a choice, and he hated himself for hoping that his sister would say yes.

13 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: DOJO
07:24 PST

Chuck hadn’t slept, even though he was exhausted. His brain simply hadn’t allowed it. It had never stopped churning and moving and spitting out logic and statistics until he wanted to pound his head into the wall a few times to just get it all to stop. He hadn’t dared. Doing so would wake Casey, which was the equivalent of poking a sleeping Rancor in the eye and doing the hula in drag rather than bothering to hide. So he’d laid on his back, tucked into the very corner of his room with the mattress Sarah had eventually caved and bought for him, and watched the way the shadows moved across the ceiling as the night dragged on. At around six, he had stopped fighting the inevitable, and had dragged himself downstairs to drown his sorrows in a bowl of cereal.

He’d gone through his morning routine at Castle, as he didn’t feel like waiting around for Casey to come out of his bedroom and comment that he looked like crap. Tuesday meant a round of Tai Chi Quan, Chen style, a good chunk of time sweating on Castle’s weight bench and with the free weights. He’d just finished up a grueling set of push-ups when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Combat boots. Must be Casey, he thought.

Indeed, the other man stepped into the dojo and raised an eyebrow. “Did you sleep at all, Bartowski?”

No.” Chuck wiped off the weight bench while Casey stretched. “Intersect flashes just fine whether or not I’m tired.”

Casey grunted and began his morning stretch ritual. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“We’re being briefed by the higher-ups today. Sit in the back, away from the screens. It’ll look less like somebody gave you a couple of shiners that way.”

“Thanks, Casey.” Chuck rolled his eyes and tossed the towel into the laundry receptacle by the door.

Casey grunted. “You okay, Chuck?”

“I’m fine. Just…didn’t sleep well. I’m going to go shower and get started on the day’s assignments since we’ve got briefings to worry about today.”

Since Casey let that go with yet another Casey-like noise, for which there should definitely be a dictionary, Chuck shrugged to himself and headed to the showers. He peeled off his old Army T-shirt as he walked, as Sarah was still probably at her apartment sleeping like the smart part of the population. Neither she nor Ellie had called during the night. He wondered what Ellie had said, how she had reacted, how Sarah had phrased the problem for her. What was Ellie thinking now? Chuck moved into the main conference bay, heading toward the locker room.

Oh.

Sarah definitely wasn’t a couple of miles away, sleeping like a sane person. Just as he hit the hallway that led back to the gun range and the locker room, she stepped out of one of the storage rooms they used for downstairs offices. Their eyes met. Her eyes dropped to his naked chest, down to the sweaty T-shirt clutched in his fist, and finally, almost reluctantly, back to meet his gaze.

He froze.

“Uh…” Sarah seemed to be blinking a lot, and he instantly felt bad. He probably reeked, covered in sweat as he was. “I was just going upstairs to file something.”

Where the hell was this awkwardness coming from? “Right. And I was, ah—shower.” Chuck pointed.

Sarah quickly stepped out of his way. “Right,” she echoed him. “I’ll, uh, let you do that, then. If you need me—”

“Upstairs, right?” Chuck asked, smiling despite the fact that his body hurt, his hands hurt worse, and every particle of him ached in some form or another. He stepped past Sarah and had almost made it to the locker room before he remembered why he was so tired. He turned.

Sarah suddenly found something on the ceiling interesting.

“What did she say?” he asked, almost too afraid to ask.

Sarah’s gaze cut down to his. Her shoulders seemed to sag, though she didn’t actually move. “She’s thinking it over,” she said. “She wanted to sleep on it.”

If Ellie was anything like him, she hadn’t done much sleeping.

“Oh,” Chuck said. “When…when will we know?”

“Today. I’ll tell you as soon as I know.”

“Okay.” Chuck turned without another word and headed for the showers. After an endless night, it was going to be a hell of a long day.

13 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: UPSTAIRS
09:52 PST

“All right, that’s it.”

Chuck’s nose stopped before it could complete its most recent nose-dive toward his desk, understandably so. Casey had appeared in the doorway to his office, and the look on his face usually warned of violence or a mission to come. Since there was no mission on their slate—the Prometheus team was waiting to be briefed and given new objectives—Casey’s expression could only mean violence.

And since Chuck was currently the only one in his office, there was really only one target for said intended violence. He felt the attack of nerves now was more than justified.

“Get up, CIA,” Casey said, striding toward his desk.

Chuck shot to his feet and tried to stumble backwards. He tripped over his chair.

Casey just grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him away from the danger of stumbling over his own feet. “Time to go.”

“Wh-what?” Chuck blinked.

Instead of replying, Casey simply opened the Scooby door and shoved Chuck through. He followed the nerd down the stairs.

“C-Casey? Where are we going?” Chuck staggered down the steps.

“Once again, I’m cleaning up the CIA’s mess, obviously.” Casey kept pushing and nudging until he’d walked Chuck most of the way through Castle and into one of the cells.

Chuck balked in the doorway. “C-Casey? Are you arresting me?”

“No.” Casey pointed at the cot along the wall. “Grab a couple hours’ sleep. If I let you talk to the higher-ups looking like you do right now, Walker and I are both in trouble, so do us all a favor and get some damned rest.”

And he stood in the doorway of the cell, arms crossed, waiting.

“Um, I’m not going to sleep with you just standing there watching me like that.” Chuck scowled. “And I’m fine, I don’t need sleep—”

Casey merely reached out and poked him in the shoulder. Chuck staggered backwards, stumbling into the cot, his arms flailing. When he opened his mouth to argue, Casey merely raised an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Chuck said. “An hour.”

“Two.”

“Ninety minutes.”

“Fine.”

“And tell Sarah I want to know the instant my sister calls.”

Casey rolled his eyes, but since Chuck was busy taking off his shoes, he just muttered something about being reduced to carrying messages and playing nursemaid for the damned CIA. Chuck thought he heard something about the Khybur Pass as the other man stalked away. He’d have to puzzle that one another time, though.

Mindful that Casey was now the dragon at the gates, and that Sarah would probably back him up, Chuck had no choice but to lay down, even though his head was spinning with the amount of work left to do. A full load of Intersect-related files to review, as well as a cross-current search on dead Phillip Dartmoors, and he’d finally gotten clearance to hack into the gift store security footage at Stanford and see if he could find Bryce buying the Stanford tee he’d been wearing at the game. That was on top of in-depth briefings, both from Sarah over what she’d learned the day before in DC and from the higher-ups, that would be coming this afternoon. Sleeping now would generally be a waste of time.

He was out within twenty seconds.

All too soon, he opened his eyes to see Sarah sitting on the edge of his cot, her eyebrows high. “So that’s why Casey’s so grumpy,” she said while he blinked at her in confusion. “You made him get in touch with the emotions the rest of us mere mortals have to suffer through.”

Chuck pushed his hands against his face. He felt better, marginally—well, actually, he just felt less like crap. “How long was I out?”

Sarah checked her watch. “About two and a half hours, give or take.”

“What?” That shot him to full wakefulness, though he didn’t sit up. That required too much energy. “Casey said ninety minutes!”

“And you listened to him?” Sarah shook her head. “You needed the rest, Chuck.”

“But—but there’s so much to do—”

“There’s always so much to do. It’ll get done when it gets done.” Sarah’s smile faded. “You could probably do with at least another hour, but there’s no time. Ellie’s here.”

Chuck bolted upright on the cot, glancing wildly about the cell as if expecting his sister to magically teleport in. “Where?”

“Relax. I left her upstairs in my office. She wants to tell both of us her decision together.”

Everything inside Chuck just stopped moving again. “You already know,” he said, watching Sarah’s face closely. She was apparently struggling to meet his eyes, never a good sign. “You know what she’s going to say.”

Sarah moved a shoulder and looked away. “I’m trained to recognize body language, Chuck. It’s kind of hard to miss with her.”

“There’s really going to be no way to change her mind,” Chuck said, rubbing his hand across his chin and down his throat.

“Probably not. Seems like a general Bartowski trait to me. C’mon.” Sarah patted his knee and rose to her feet.

“You want me to come with?”

“She wants to tell us both,” Sarah repeated, “at the same time, remember? And you don’t want to miss your sister’s first briefing, do you?”

Chuck tilted his head to look up at her. “You mean, I get to be in on it?”

Sarah, already to the door, paused and gave him an odd look. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Well, you didn’t exactly seem to want me there when you were offering her the job.”

“I had my reasons.” Sarah leaned back against the door jamb to wait while Chuck pulled on his shoes and adjusted his tie, taking his time to go through the motions. Every second used was a second put off, a second where he wouldn’t have to go upstairs and face his sister and her decision to potentially throw away her life. He could feel Sarah’s eyes on him the whole time, and knew that she knew exactly what he was doing.

She didn’t say anything.

When Chuck finally rose to his feet and nodded, she gave him a sad look. “Ready for this?”

“No.” He sighed. “But let’s get it over with anyway.”

Together, they headed upstairs to where Ellie waited.

Chapter 24: The Stone Hitting the Water

Notes:

The keys to patience are acceptance and faith. Accept things as they are, and look realistically at the world around you. Have faith in yourself and in the direction you have chosen. — Ralph Marston

13 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: DOWNSTAIRS
15:37 PST

“For our next point, we’ll have to officially welcome Dr. Bartowski to the team at another point in time, as her busy schedule made her unavailable for this meeting.” General Beckman frowned her opinion of that, but, since the briefing had quite a few agenda points to get through, she didn’t seem to want to dwell on the subject. “Until the NSA can furnish Dr. Bartowski with a proper cover identity and code name, please refer to her as Dr. X in your reports.”

Chuck kept the frown off of his face only because Sarah had warned him not to react during the briefing. His feelings about Ellie—and Devon—joining Prometheus were still a mixed kettle of piranhas, even in the face of Ellie’s obvious excitement about getting to work in the field of her dreams. And to finally have her little brother as a test subject, he thought, somewhat wryly. They really hadn’t progressed far from the days when she’d examined all of his playground scrapes and bruises. Maybe he could convince Sarah that they needed to stock Incredible Hulk band-aids in Castle, just for old times’ sake.

“Now, onto why we’re really here,” General Beckman went on when nobody had any comments about Ellie joining the team. “This mysterious Fulcrum group that Agent Larkin told Agent Bartowski about. I trust you’ve all had a chance to review the Sand Wall documents.”

Chuck raised a hand, though he wasn’t in a classroom. “General, if I may?”

Sarah and Casey flicked surprised glances over their shoulders at Chuck. They were seated at the conference table, Chuck on the very end with Sarah and Casey between him and the screens. He usually didn’t speak up during the longer format briefings—that way often led to disaster—but since the subject involved everything that had to do with his head…

“Yes, Agent Bartowski?”

“The documents from Sand Wall seem to point toward the goal of having a human Intersect, but at the same time, all of the reports on my progress as Patient X have all been surprised as hell that I’m even functioning with this mega-computer in my head.” Chuck leaned forward on his elbows, clasping his hands together so that he wouldn’t try to mess with his tie. “I have to admit I’m confused. If a human Intersect was what they were building toward, why are they so shocked that it worked?”

On the screen, General Beckman paused. Her features were normally set to scowl, which hadn’t changed, but now Chuck could sense a troubled undertone to her words.

“Operation Intersect was the brainchild of a small, select group of scientists. Unfortunately, their personal data was deleted from our system early on in the project’s lifetime, so we have no knowledge of who actually created the Intersect.”

“But the scientists that tested me—”

“Only worked on the late stages of the project and never with the Intersect’s creators. They were never told about the Intersect’s ability to reside within a human mind.” General Beckman folded her hands on her desk. She was giving the briefing alone, as Director Graham had been called away at the last minute to a function.

Chuck felt the exhaustion get the better of him, and sighed. “So what you’re saying, General, is that all knowledge of the people that created the Intersect went the way of things like Area Fifty-One?”

“Absolutely not.” General Beckman looked offended. “We know exactly what happened to Area Fifty-One, Agent Bartowski.”

Had she just—was that a joke? Chuck glanced over at Casey, who looked thoughtful, and over to Sarah. She had her hand in front of her face, covering her lips, while she looked down at a file in front of her.

On screen, General Beckman sighed. “Yes,” she said, “I just told a joke. You have my permission to laugh.”

Casey did so. Sarah merely smiled. Chuck was still too busy boggling to listen to cues.

“If you wish, Agent Bartowski, I’ll have any surviving documents that we do have on the Intersect Project sent to you.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

Abruptly, Beckman’s face lost all of its kindness. “Yes, if it means we can proceed with the actual point of this briefing. Let’s move on, shall we?”

Ah, there it was, Chuck thought. Just when he’d begun to suspect that the General had had a brain transplant, she proved him wrong. Whew. He sat back in his seat, but kept his hands folded and clasped on the table in front of him.

“From Agent Bartowski’s reports, we’ve been able to come to the conclusion that Agent Larkin was recruited by this so-called Fulcrum group in order to steal and destroy the NSA/CIA joint version of the Intersect. We believe that Fulcrum wishes to create their own Intersect, but cannot do so without the science provided by the original creators.”

Who were so well-hidden, Chuck thought, that even the Central Freaking Intelligence Agency couldn’t find them.

“So what does that mean for us? For Prometheus?” he asked.

“Your overall mission objective will not change.” Beckman’s gaze swept over all three team members. “Agent Bartowski provides too valuable a service to be ignored, as his odd mental acuity for the Intersect has led us to find things that no computer would be able to discover. However, in light of the fact that we are dealing with an enemy that is almost literally unknown…”

Great, Chuck thought. A faceless enemy. Just what he didn’t need.

“We can be grateful that there have been no signs that this Fulcrum group is aware of Agent Bartowski’s identity. No undue attention has been given to the Carmichael persona, either, but given Agent Walker and Agent Casey’s proximity to the Intersect project, we’ve taken precautions.” General Beckman touched a button on her end of the connection, and immediately photo IDs of Sarah and Casey took up one of the screens on the wall. “Cover identities are being built for Sarah Walker and John Casey in various parts of Africa, running counter-intelligence missions for your respective branches. Major Casey and Agent Walker will now be on the record as ICE Agents Jaime Winter and Mike Rainer. Any reports filed will bear those names.”

“What?” Casey sat up straighter, his eyebrows going low over his eyes. “We’re going with the cover identities Bartowski created?”

“They’re remarkably complex for a few hours’ work. This is strictly for the purpose of introducing yourself to future auxiliary teams. Otherwise, protocols have not changed.”

Sarah flipped through the folder in front of her, which Chuck now saw listed all of the details for ICE Agent Jaime Winter. “Hmm. What are the protocols for when we run into agents we’ve worked with before?”

“You’re good spies, I suspect you’ll come up with something.”

Chuck leaned forward to get a better look at Sarah’s cover details. She swatted at his wrist and pulled the file away, rolling her eyes. Chuck still caught the smile she tried to hide.

“You said our overall objective hadn’t changed,” Casey said, ignoring the Mike Rainer file that lay in front of him. “But some objectives have?”

“Yes. As of this moment, I’m placing Operation Prometheus on the forefront of the hunt for Agent Larkin. I understand that Agent Bartowski has been gathering data on his own. Major Casey has kept us informed of his progress.”

Chuck shot Casey a betrayed look. Casey shrugged.

“Agent Walker, as she has the strongest connection with Agent Larkin, will take over that prong of Prometheus’s objective, using the technology that should be arriving at Castle later today. If Agent Bartowski would be willing to pass all of his intel to her?” General Beckman’s question wasn’t actually a request, but Chuck nodded anyway. “Excellent. I have my analysts hard at work on possible leads on Fulcrum, correlating data based on the limited facts we’ve managed to glean from Agent Bartowski. We’ll have a list of leads for you to follow by tomorrow.”

It was definitely a start, Chuck thought, though he had to wonder what kind of leads Beckman’s people could even hope to generate, given that they’d known absolutely nothing about a cabal that had managed to not only blow up a government building, but destroy one of its greatest projects in the meantime. Still, there wasn’t much he could do but listen as Beckman let them know exactly what was going to happen in the near future.

13 NOVEMBER 2007
BACHELOR PAD
21:12 PST

Thanks to his forced nap in Castle, Chuck was able to make it back to the Bachelor Pad without doing a nosedive into his steering wheel or driving his car off of the road, something that he hoped the US government appreciated. After all, he was carrying their precious Intersect, wasn’t he? They should be grateful every day he woke up and didn’t immediately leap off his balcony. They should give him a friggin’ medal.

A Red Bull or two had helped him get through the lasagna Casey had microwaved for both of them. He’d done the dishes (which involved throwing the paper plates that Sarah despaired of them having away), taken out the trash, regular Monday night things. Since there wasn’t much on TV, he retreated up to his room, but he didn’t turn on the video game console. Schnookie took up one of the dual monitors on his desk, but he ignored her.

It was time to find Phillip Dartmoor once and for all.

First, though, he had to clean all of the files off of his bed. They were just a waste of paper, anyway, since Dartmoor was actually dead, so he gathered them into a stack to dump in the trash can on the way to work the next day.

So much work, he thought, all of it useless.

He wanted to kick something.

Instead, he sat at his computer and hit the space bar to bring his second screen to life. A couple of keystrokes brought up his security checker. Sarah hadn’t been by the Bachelor Pad recently, but before he did anything these days, he had to make sure she hadn’t somehow ninja’d her way into his files. It added an odd flavor to their relationship, but he didn’t mind.

Maybe that spoke a lot about his mental state.

Maybe he didn’t care.

He typed in the last of his security protocols and grinned at his welcome screen, a screenshot of Schnookie trying to eat the end of her own braid. Good times, he thought, bringing up his search matrix. Phillip Dartmoor was already a saved entry in his search bar. It took only a small tweak—changing “Active” to “Deceased”—and he hit the search button.

Well, that made things somewhat easier. Only four Phillip Dartmoors popped up this time, as he’d specified government service. Phillip Dartmoor had to be somehow associated with this Project Omaha that the Gio Pete’s menu had made him flash on. Which eliminated two of the Phillip Dartmoors on the list, as they had perished from old age.

Two Phillip Dartmoors left. Chuck brought up the first, and frowned. Died young, he noted. Age twenty-four. He would be twenty-eight now, Chuck thought, if he had lived.

The other had died at thirty-six. Also young. He’d died the year before, as an officer in the Army Reserve.

Just as Chuck hit “print” for both entries, his cell phone jangled. He picked it up without checking the view-screen. “City Morgue, you kill ‘em, we chill ‘em.”

“Well, that’s certainly…morbid. Hey, little brother.”

Chuck sat up straighter in his seat. “Ellie! Hi. Ah, how are you? You doing okay?”

The last thing he expected was for his sister to chuckle at that. “I’m fine, worrywart.”

“Hey, that’s not fair because I’m pretty sure this is a matter where there’s a pot and there’s a kettle and one of them is black, but wait, that doesn’t matter. They both are.”

On the other end of the phone line, Ellie paused. “Chuck?”

“Yes?”

“You’re babbling.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I know. It’s still a bad habit.”

“I can see that. I’m calling to find out how you are.”

“How I am?” Chuck blinked a few times. “I’m not the one that got conscripted into government service today.”

“Ah. Sarah said you might see it like that.”

“How else am I supposed to see it?” Chuck pushed away from his computer and moved over to his bed, momentarily grateful that he’d cleared it of all files. He dropped onto the mattress and stared at his ceiling. “It’s my fault you’re stuck doing this.”

“Stuck?” Ellie asked. “Don’t look at it like that, Chuck. I’m finally getting that fellowship I’ve always wanted. This is a good thing.”

Chuck really didn’t think it was, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to articulate any of the reasons why he thought so. Mentioning even one aloud would be like hitting the dam with a wrecking ball, and they would all come pouring out in one desperate flood. So he just shook his head, even though his sister couldn’t see him.

Ellie didn’t seem fazed by his silence. “And Sarah told me all about what you can do with the Intersect,” she went on. “She made it sound like something out of one of those weird movies you always used to scare yourself with late at night.”

Chuck had to laugh, though he didn’t quite feel the humor. “Some days, yes.”

“It’ll be really fascinating to finally have a legitimate excuse to poke through your head, little brother,” Ellie went on. “I’ve always said you were special, and now somebody’s willing to pay me to prove it.”

Though he smiled, there were some things he couldn’t get past yet. “You’re not worried?”

“About what?”

“That they’re going to eat up your whole life?”

“No, I don’t think they will.” He couldn’t hear what Ellie was doing, but he imagined that she was sitting at her kitchen counter with a mug of her evening tea, phone held between her ear and her shoulder while she did something else with her hands. Maybe she was painting her fingernails. Or writing a shopping list. With Ellie, each was a strong possibility. “Sarah really made it sound like this Gwen Davenport is going to do everything she can to make sure I’m well-insured against any nefarious plans the government might have.”

This was quite a switch, Chuck thought, from the Ellie that had railed against the government that had taken away her younger brother.

“Not,” Ellie went on, clearly reading his mind as she always did, “that I’m going to forgive them for what they did to you. Ever. Dumping you in Switzerland with minimal contact is completely inhumane and I wish I knew who to sue about that.”

Switzerland? Oh, right. The cover story for Siberia.

“It wasn’t so bad there,” Chuck lied. “And, you know, it had advantages.”

“Like the Friedman Grant?”

Chuck smacked himself in the forehead. “How did you figure it out?”

“I didn’t. Sarah and I kind of did when she was helping me with my security paperwork this morning.”

He needed to have a word with his blonde coworker the next time he saw her.

“Were you ever going to tell me about it?” Ellie asked.

“Honestly?” Chuck shrugged, even though there wasn’t any way that Ellie could see him. “No.”

“I did think it was odd that there was a retroactive scholarship that I was eligible for, even though I wasn’t the top of my class and I didn’t apply. But Devon checked it out and said it was legitimate. How on earth—”

“Just some minor hacking,” Chuck said, hoping to distract her before she started asking more serious questions. He sighed and rubbed at a low-grade headache that had ebbed and flowed all evening. “Look, they paid me a good amount of money to stay at that place in Si—Switzerland. And there wasn’t anything I could really do with it, so I fudged a few things. I made up the grant, I stuck my third grade teacher’s name on it.”

“But paying off all of my student loans—”

“Since I had the scholarship, it wasn’t like I racked up that much debt at Stanford, and I wanted you taken care of.”

Ellie went quiet. For a few seconds, Chuck felt panic begin to claw through him. Was Ellie crying? He hated it when his sister even so much as teared up, which was pretty ridiculous, given that this was the woman that regularly sniffled while watching soap operas. He sat up, searching about for something to say, anything that would stop the tears.

But Ellie surprised him again. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet, but thankfully lacking that throaty quality that meant tears. “It was too much, but thank you.”

Chuck moved a shoulder. Setting up the faked scholarship and using all of his funds to pay off Ellie’s student loans hadn’t been enough, not when he should have been near her or at least been able to call her. But he couldn’t say that now, not when she was being so sincere. So he cleared his throat. “You’re welcome. I wanted you to be okay.”

“I’m okay,” Ellie said, her voice firm.

But for how long? How long before the government decided it was tired of having a human Intersect, and how long before said Intersect and his sister were tossed to the wayside? Or worse?

“Chuck?” Ellie asked when he didn’t reply. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you.”

“I’m okay,” Ellie repeated. “This is a good thing, me joining Prometheus. Okay? You’re not allowed to worry about this.”

“But I want to.”

“Well, that’s just too bad, isn’t it? C’mon, aren’t you happy to have Devon and me on the team?”

“Honestly?”

“If you say no, I’ll tell Devon not to stock cherry lollipops in his office in Castle.”

Chuck smiled. It appeared that his childhood sweet tooth really was going to haunt him, just like Ellie warned him it would. “Oh, come on, that’s fighting dirty.”

“Tough noogies, little brother.”

“You know, I’m more than six inches taller than you.”

“So?”

“So I’m not exactly your little brother, am I?”

“Chuck, I made your Halloween costume every year until the tenth grade. You’ll always be my little brother.”

He had to think about that for a minute as he rested one hand behind his head as a pillow. “Well, okay. But only because that Green Arrow costume from the fourth grade was so spectacular.”

“I’m glad. I stayed up for three nights straight working on that one.” Ellie fell quiet. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, just a brief chance to stop and think. Chuck moved his attention to his ceiling, dimly lit because he only had his desk lamp burning. Finally, Ellie sighed. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” Chuck said, surprised at the answer.

“Good. I know it’s not going to be perfect right away, but I’m glad you’re feeling better. Now, you need to get some sleep.”

“Ellie—”

“Nuh-uh. Sarah said you were exhausted all day, and if I know you at all—which I do, thank you—you’re probably worse off than she was before I made her go sleep. Eight hours, Chuck, or I’ll dose you with a sedative.”

The thought of Sarah trying to face down Ellie in full mother bear mode made Chuck fight a grin as he promised Ellie he would sleep soon. They said their good-byes and hung up. Instead of rising from the bed and returning to his Phillip Dartmoor research, he just worked his other hand behind his head and crossed his feet at the ankles, staring up at his ceiling. He’d memorized the patterns and the shadows, but they seemed just a hair different from up here on his bed, so he took the time to categorize the differences as he thought about Ellie and her words.

She was scared. He’d heard that in her voice, however much she tried to hide it. But there had been genuine excitement, too, both about working on the Intersect and her fellowship, and getting to be a part of Chuck’s super-secret spy life. That would change once she got her hands on past mission files and learned that her little brother had been in danger, but until then…

He might as well take her advice. Before he fully realized it, Chuck’s eyes closed, and he fell asleep in his own bed for the first time in nearly a month.

14 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: DOWNSTAIRS
13:52 PST

“Man, I love this system!” Chuck took a step back to admire his handiwork and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s just so cool. I mean, check this out.” He stretched forward with one arm and touched his fingers to the main screen, which took up half of the office’s wall. The icon nearest his fingertip immediately lit up, and on the screen to the right, a file opened. “So freaking cool!”

Behind him, he heard Sarah’s suppressed chuckle. “You showed me that already.”

Chuck shot a grin over his shoulder. He knew he was acting like a kid on Christmas morning, but that didn’t matter. He and Sarah had finally hooked up the auxiliary monitors in one of Castle’s offices, and the operating system was like something out of a sci-fi film. Everything was controlled by a single touch: the ripple of a finger across a screen could manipulate, resize, open, close, alter, anything Chuck could possibly dream up.

Since it was still faster to input data with a keyboard, though, Sarah sat at the room’s only desk, typing away.

“Here,” she said, selecting a file with the laser pointer. Chuck twirled a finger to make the file spin. He all but heard Sarah’s indulgent eye-roll. “This one needs work.”

“Ah, September twenty-eighth,” Chuck said. “What about it?”

“We need to narrow down the time window, if we can.”

Chuck spread his fingers across the screen to enlarge the file. They’d been hard at work at transferring Chuck’s amassed data from the “Where’s Bryce?” board to much more advanced technology. Now it was just down to tweaking small details so that Sarah could officially helm that part of Operation Prometheus.

“Our little jaunt on the ferry,” he recalled now, studying the data on the file. “And that sweet little bungalow. Too bad we couldn’t have stayed longer. How’d you score that, anyway?”

“I have my ways. Let’s see, I finished up my meeting with Randy around nine or so, and I got back around a quarter to ten. What time did you go to sleep?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe eight? Nine? I was a little out of it.”

“We’ll go with 8:30.” Sarah hit a few keys, swore under her breath at a typo, and fixed it. “Giving Bryce a window of an hour and fifteen minutes to sneak in and plant the menu on your nightstand.”

“Realistically, it would be an hour, tops. Bryce knows I wake up pretty easily in the first fifteen minutes after falling asleep.”

“Do you? Hmm.” Sarah adjusted the data on the file. “Okay.”

“Oh, that makes me remember: I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. How did you know about the perimeter sensors? You didn’t set them off when you came in that night.”

“You had the receiver dangling from the lampshade. I spotted it when I glanced in the window, and so I came in through the window. Simple.”

“Normally I clip it to a belt loop,” Chuck said, frowning as he studied the files splayed across the screens, “but I didn’t want to crush it in my sleep. That’s something I should work on in the design, I think.” As he spoke, he started tapping things on different screens, making things appear and disappear rapidly. In the back of his brain, he mused over the functionality of disguising the sensor receiver, while his fingers continued to race on.

Finally, Sarah moved around the desk and stepped up beside him. “What are you doing?”

“Connecting this room to Castle’s computer mainframe.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Well, I memorized all of the codes, and…a-ha.” Chuck gave her a grin, but quickly returned his attention to the screens. “Now it’s all set, you can access any computer in here. See? Here’s mine.” He tapped an icon twice and swiped a palm across the screen to send it to the left-hand screen.

“Interesting.” Sarah squinted at the screen. “That’s quite the naming system you’ve got.”

“It works for me.” Chuck manipulated another screen to show Casey’s computer.

“It’s all letters and numbers. How do you make sense of it—what’s this?” Sarah stepped around Chuck and double-tapped a word processing document.

“Oh, that? What I remember from every flash I’ve had.”

“And it’s not even pass-coded?” Sarah slowly paged through the documents.

“Sure it is, but you’ve already got admin permissions for everything in this room. Oh, look at that. New message from Beckman.”

“Really?” Sarah didn’t look away from the file she was reading. In fact, her whole body had stopped moving. She was normally a very still sort of person, good at conserving energy when she needed to, so Chuck paid her no mind as he brought up the new missive from their boss and scanned through it. “What’s it say?”

“It’s the list she promised us yesterday. Possible Fulcrum leads.” Chuck opened the document and read through it, letting out a startled laugh. “Ha! She put Bryce on here. Do you think she’s growing a sense of humor because that would actually be—Sarah? What is it?”

She jerked on the spot. “What?” One hand stabbed out and closed the text document in front of her as she turned. “Nothing. Sorry, was just lost in thought. Any of those leads look promising?”

“Couple low-level politicians, oil magnate, some CEOs of…wow, really? Wil Wheaton is on the Fulcrum list?”

“Who’s Wil Wheaton?”

“Never mind. Oh, here’s a fun one,” Chuck said as Casey, scowling came into the “Where’s Bryce” Office. “Sergei Ezersky. Sounds Polish.”

“Russian,” Casey corrected, moving to Chuck’s other side and folding his arms.

Both Chuck and Sarah turned to him, eyebrows raised.

“You can tell because it’s a ‘y’ and not an ‘i.’” Casey gestured. “I came down to see if you received the email, but this answers my question for me. Did you flash?”

Chuck shook his head. “But if we’re going to start with anybody, I’d say this Sergei character seems the best bet.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It says here that he’s a cybernetic toymaker. Toy robots! How cool is that?” Chuck looked from one teammate to the other. “C’mon, awesome, right?”

Casey and Sarah exchanged a look. The former grunted, the latter shrugged. “It seems as good a place as any to start,” Sarah said. She patted Chuck on the shoulder. “Why don’t you get started on that? I’m going to go grab a water—you two want anything?” She left with the request to retrieve a coffee (black and bitter) and a Red Bull (which made her roll her eyes yet again).

The instant she was out of the room, Chuck moved over to the screen that showed his computer. “What are you doing now?” Casey said, a sigh evident in his tone.

“Nothing. Checking something.” Chuck opened the flash document, grateful that the program automatically opened documents to the last viewed page. Something about this file had made Sarah freeze up. He rubbed the side of his thumb against the screen and frowned at the page on screen. He’d told her back in Athens that he had flashed on Randall Kaiser, that the Intersect had told him all about Sarah’s odd albino Canadian ex-boyfriend. And she had a damn near perfect memory, so why would she react so strongly to this file now? He hit print and snatched the page from the printer tray before Sarah could come back in. “Guess it’s time to see why the government thinks a Russian toymaker is evil, huh?”

Chapter 25: Moose and Squirrel, Chuck and Sarah

Notes:

The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds the most discoveries, is not “Eureka!” (I found it!) but “That’s funny.” — Isaac Asimov

18 NOVEMBER 2007
ESTATE OF SERGEI EZERSKY
01:27 PST

“That’s it,” Chuck said. “I’m convinced. This guy is evil.”

“Still no access?”

“What the hell’s taking you so long, Bartowski?”

Chuck wriggled so that he could touch his finger to the button on his earpiece, activating the comm. It was hard to move around in such a confined space, and he banged his elbow because of it. It made him a little grouchier as he answered Casey’s demand. “This guy has the security system from hell, okay? Actually, no. Satan wishes he had a system like this, if only to keep the politicians out.”

“Uh-huh. You promised me ten minutes. It’s been fourteen. Why aren’t you through yet?”

Casey just seemed to get more and more impatient by the day. Or, Chuck thought, he had since the intel disk lost to Bryce at Stanford had shown up in Casey’s prized Crown Vic, taped to the steering wheel, two days before. The car was at the NSA cleaners’, the disk was on its way to DC, and the team was currently running an op on the Malibu estate of one Sergei I. Ezersky. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. Casey was fuming in the back of a van a block away from Ezersky’s estate while Sarah and Chuck were back behind the estate at the security console, doing their damndest to break into said estate.

It wasn’t going according to plan.

“Am I going to have to call the local Nerd Herd to get this done right, Bartowski?” Casey went on. “Get your ass in gear!”

“He’s working on it, Casey,” Sarah said. She was standing watch over the console, which was a waist-high, silver box that Chuck could half wriggle into. She wore coveralls and a gimme cap that declared her a city worker. Even though she had a clipboard (and a very handy gun), Chuck didn’t actually think the disguise was all that necessary. No city worker was going to be lurking on an upper-class Malibu street after one in the morning on a Saturday night. Especially not a city worker that looked like Sarah Walker. It made him feel less guilty about stripping his own coveralls to the waist so that his black tactical suit showed through. He was buried in the security console from the waist up, trying to literally hack it from the inside. It had taken a blowtorch and some creative thinking to get that far, even. Sergei Ezersky really seemed to care about his security.

“Well, tell him to work faster.”

Chuck rolled his eyes and tweaked a wire to the device he’d cobbled together. Even though they were on a severe time limit, he pushed himself out of the console and sighed up at Sarah. “No offense,” he said after he’d shut off his comm link, “but I’m starting to regret that you won the coin toss to be the one to go into the estate with me. He really doesn’t wait very well, does he?”

“Shh.” Sarah gave him an aggrieved look and pointed at her open comm unit.

“Hey, Casey,” Chuck said at it, and ducked back into the console.

“Hey, CIA, here’s an idea: this goes faster if you quit making googly eyes at the blonde and get your bony ass in gear!”

It would go faster without a pissed off NSA agent buzzing in his ear the whole time, but Chuck knew better than to point that out. So he activated his comm unit and started humming Old King Cole.

Sarah booted him gently on the ankle. He shrugged.

Another two minutes ticked by, every second tolling in his ears like an insane gong. Their intel on Ezersky placed him out of town and the estate empty, but every moment that it took him to bypass the security was a moment in which they were in danger of being discovered. Another moment that they were out in the open, with all of that space and danger and the possibility of bullets and bad guys and gunfights and—

Sarah kicked him again. His breathing didn’t slow. She was the one most in danger, standing out there without even a Kevlar vest to protect her.

A second later, he felt her kneel down next to him, and lean into the console. Even though the box was open, save for some computer wiring and the access screen inside, he was already taking up most of the space. Sarah joining him pressed them close together, but she didn’t seem to notice even when he tensed. Her face just over his, she placed a hand over his headset mic. “Keep it together.”

Chuck’s breathing obediently slowed. Sarah waited ten intense, throbbing seconds, her eyes burning and glinting in the reflection of the mini-laptop he’d wedged into the console with him. She dared him to look away.

He couldn’t. Especially after the first couple of seconds had elapsed and he realized that she was now pushed against him far more intimately than she’d ever been before, a tight fit in such a confined space. Sure, there had been that cuddling in the hayloft when she’d used him as a human pillow, but it didn’t match this sort of bodies pressing together, lines and limbs perfectly matched. Heat, a searing red burn, started roiling through his middle, seeping outward to his limbs and fingers and toes.

“You good?” Sarah asked.

Chuck didn’t trust his throat to work with all of the saliva suddenly pooled in his mouth, so he nodded.

“Good.” Sarah tried to wiggle out. It didn’t quite work: she ended up elbowing him in the ribs and smacking her head on the top of the console. They both swore.

“What’s going on out there?” Casey demanded.

“Nothing—”

“Dropped something—”

Sarah managed to extricate herself from the console without further disaster. His whole body on fire, Chuck took a deep breath and wondered what the hell that had been about. Sure, it had held off a panic attack, but still—what the hell? Why had Sarah done that? Right now, she was “Mission Mode Sarah,” as Bryce had once coined it when Chuck had been the tech support to the Larkin-Walker Wonder Team: focused, tense, less playful than usual. But none of that explained why she would just break her guard duty to come inside and climb on top of him like that, even if it had stopped a panic attack.

He forced himself to focus back on the matter at hand. His research on the system had pointed out a glitch in the OS, but a very minor one that shifted and varied depending on the user specs. It was taking him a lot longer to find than he’d anticipated, which was more than evidenced by Casey’s growls.

“Are you any closer?” Casey demanded. “Because another five minutes and I’m scrapping this op.”

“I told you it was going to take some finessing—”

“Five minutes.”

“Casey, it’s not a magic solution, I can’t just snap my fingers and—oh, got it.”

“What?”

“Just a couple of—yep, we’re in.” Chuck booted up the programs he’d installed on the laptop for just this purpose and twisted around so that he could set his watch. “Everybody ready?”

“Ready,” Casey confirmed to the van. “Call signs only at this point, team.”

“All right, gear up, Sa—ah, Guinevere, we’ve got thirty minutes, starting…now.”

He hit the return key on the laptop and pushed himself out of the console. He blinked up at Sarah. “How’d you—whoa. Do you have powers of super-stripping because, geez—”

“Hurry up.” Sarah, her coveralls gone and replaced by the skin-tight burglary/tactical suit beneath, pulled a balaclava down over her forehead. Chuck stumbled as he kicked free of his coveralls. They were going in light, with only a few weapons between them, the computer gear Chuck would need, and a lightweight rope. Together, they headed through the darkness.

“You ready for this?” Sarah asked as they skirted the high wall surrounding the estate.

“I think so.”

Sarah gave him a skeptical look.

“Yeah, well, you know, my wall-scaling days aren’t that far behind me, you know.” Chuck pulled the balaclava down over his face. When Sarah stopped at the pre-arranged breach point and knelt, cupping her hands together, he raised both eyebrows. “Uh…”

“C’mon. We don’t have a lot of time, and I can handle your weight. This way, you can pull me over.” Her eyes met his and left no room for resistance, so Chuck just gave a micro-shrug, stepped into her cupped palms, and managed, on the first try, to grab the top of the wall. He yanked himself up, grunting, and immediately slithered around on his belly to help Sarah up.

She simply leaped, grabbed, and pulled herself up. She lowered herself just as quickly over the other side, apparently trusting that Chuck would follow. He landed a great deal more clumsily and glanced around the well-manicured lawn, all rolling hills in the darkness, before he took off after Sarah.

“You said no dogs, right?” he asked, just in case. It seemed like no huge estate like this should come without dogs.

“No dogs.”

Ahead of them, the house loomed, the light stucco walls gleaming despite the darkness. The lights had been snuffed since the master was away on a business trip in Paris, so there was only the automated lights in the Olympic-sized pool lighting them from below as they ran across a terrace and through an outdoor kitchen.

“Bourne,” Sarah said as they ran, “we’re at the house. How long until—”

Chuck leaned around her and pulled open the back door.

“The doors are open?” Sarah finished, and gave him a wry look through the balaclava.

“Unlocked them from the console,” Chuck said.

Sarah led the way into a foyer more opulent than any he’d ever seen. Not that Chuck had had much opportunity to visit—or burgle, in this case—the homes of the wealthy, but he still figured that this place had to be pretty swanky, considering. Darkness shrouded the entire room in purple, moonlight silvering everything in a gradient. During the day, the place must flood with daylight, but right now, everything from the raftered ceiling to the marble floors felt echo-y and empty, and vaguely wrong. Of course, that could have more to do with the fact that he and his partner were currently dressed like cat burglars…and there was that little breaking and entering thing to contend with. They had false IDs and badges just in case, but the principle remained.

“Computer’s up on the second floor,” Sarah whispered, pausing at the entry into the rest of the house. “This way.”

The house opened up from the foyer into a huge expanse of space. Tall ceilings, airy rooms. Of course, the interior decorator had seen fit to fill the space with as little as possible. Chuck caught glimpses and impressions of rooms, all unfilled with minimalist and Spartan furniture, only a few throw rugs to warm up the cold flooring. There was no personality in the house at all. Had they broken into the wrong house? He hoped not. That security system had been hellacious to crack.

“In here.” Sarah checked a room, deemed it clear, and pulled Chuck in. The room—larger than the entirety of the Bachelor Pad—contained only a desk and a computer.

“Seems to like the bare approach, doesn’t he?” he asked, yanking a palm-sized, flat object out of the holster at his waist. “You’d think a toymaker would have more clutter, right? Kind of like the king in ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,’ you know?”

“I’m sorry, Chitty Chitty what?”

“You never saw that movie growing up?” Chuck knelt by the computer so that he could affix the cloner to its side. When he glanced over at Sarah, she had her back to him, watching out the doorway. He shrugged and got back to work setting up a little stand and transmission dish that could both be folded down into smaller items for convenience. “Probably for the best. I still kind of have nightmares about it.”

Again, no answer.

Chuck hooked the cloner into the computer through a Firewire cable, hooked the transmitter dish up to both, and touched his comm unit to activate it. “Hey, Ca—Bourne, how’s it going?”

“Where are you?”

“We’re in the room, and I’ve got the cloning device all set up. You ready in there?”

He heard the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. “Assuming you’ve done this right.”

“Let’s just assume when it comes to computers, I’m awesome, and leave it at that. Now, hit that key I told you to hit, and let’s do this thing.”

Casey let out a little grumbling, growling noise that translated assent.

Chuck leaned down and flipped a small switch on the side of the cloning device. He hit a secondary timing function on his watch, noting that they still had twenty seven minutes before his hole in the security system closed. “Transmitting now.”

“Downloading,” Casey said after a couple of seconds. The device would create a mirror image of Sergei’s hard drive that Chuck would be able to crack on his own time, rather than worrying about computer security while they were on the estate. There had been no outright indicators in Sergei Ezersky’s financial data or schedule that he might be part of a super-secret underground government group, so chances were, they were on a wild goose chase tonight. But it was the only lead they had until Bryce decided he was tired of playing a ghost.

So Chuck sat back and prepared to wait for the data to finish being sent to a laptop he’d set up in the van. As he did so, and Sarah kept her vigil at the door, he studied the room. It was so…boring. Empty. It made absolutely no sense, he thought again, that a toymaker lived here. Toymakers were supposed to be eccentrics, fascinated by the odd and the absurd. As an eccentric, Sergei Ezersky was just a complete disappointment.

Chuck caught something out of the corner of his eye and frowned. “Hey, what’s that?”

Sarah didn’t glance over. She had her gun out, at rest but still ready to fire. “What’s what?”

“I think there’s something in the floor over here.” Curious now, Chuck rose to his feet and crossed to the far corner. He ignored Sarah’s warning not to touch anything—there wasn’t anything to touch besides the computer and he’d already pawed all over that—and knelt, his gloved hands tracing a minute crack in the floor. The crack spanned along until it intersected with another, which in turn moved perpendicular and met a third. That led to a fourth, finally forming… “A trapdoor.”

“What?” Sarah finally looked away from the door. “I told you not to touch anything!”

“It’s a trapdoor,” Chuck repeated, his voice breathless. “The man has an honest-to-God trapdoor in his house! Ha! I knew he couldn’t have been that boring!”

He felt around for a catch.

“Chuck!” After giving the hallway one final glance to apparently make sure assassins hadn’t discovered them, Sarah hurried over. “What part of ‘don’t touch anything’ did you not—”

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”

“The plan is simple. Let’s stick to it—”

“The blueprints for this house said nothing about a trapdoor. And c’mon, if I’m really Sergei Ezersky and part of some mysterious and ambiguous government group, where am I going to hide my secret information? A computer out in the open or a secret room?” Chuck gave her one final “get real” look that he wasn’t sure she could see through the balaclava and twisted the handle he’d jimmied out of the floor. The door opened easily.

“One condition,” Sarah said.

“Name it.”

“I go first.” When Chuck opened his mouth to protest, Sarah held up a finger. “You’ve got the computer in your brain. I don’t. Ergo, I go first.”

Chuck sighed. “Fine.”

Sarah hit her comm button. “Bourne, change of plans. Stargazer found a trapdoor—we’re assessing the situation.”

“Fine. Transmission’s at forty-seven percent. Make it fast. And don’t get shot.”

“Thanks for the tip, Bourne.”

Sarah and Chuck glanced down through the trapdoor, pulling their goggles down over their eyes as they did so. Even with night-vision, the trapdoor’s contents didn’t reveal much—just a dark hole with a metal ladder leading down. Chuck switched his goggles over to heat vision. It seemed to keep the same ambient warmth of the rest of the house. He glanced over at Sarah, who was painted in hot reds, yellows, and oranges, an interesting look for her. “Ladies first.”

“Get your gun out and keep it out until I get to the bottom,” Sarah said. “You cover me, and then I’ll cover you.”

“Sometimes literally,” Chuck said, and Sarah gave him yet another aggravated look as she hurriedly switched off her mic. Or at least he thought it was aggravated. It was kind of hard to tell with the facemask and the goggles.

He cleared his throat as Sarah climbed down into the floor. “What was up with that?”

“What?” Her head and shoulders disappeared below the floor. With heat vision still on, he could watch her body, colors slithering over each other like a kaleidoscope, as she climbed down the ladder. He saw the colors shift again as she looked up at him. “Are you looking out or are you watching me?”

“Oops, sorry.” Chuck dug out the tranq gun and pointed it toward the door.

A few seconds later, he heard, “Okay, it’s all clear—wow.”

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“Um, just get down here and see for yourself.”

Chuck glanced once more toward the door and holstered the gun before he scrambled down. “The thing, back there. In the console. You kind of climbed on top of me. Why did you do that?”

“Transmission’s at sixty-seven percent,” Casey, who couldn’t hear them, said.

“Thanks.” Sarah hit the off button on her earpiece. “Chuck, is now really the time?”

“I was just curious—whoa.” At the bottom of the ladder, Chuck turned, and froze. They had descended into a room that wasn’t terribly large, just long. Heat-vision gave him readings: the room’s depth, width, height, ambient temperature. It was, simply put, a vault of some type, the floor lit up with the gentle glow of light panels, ringed by uniform shelves that lined each wall. Tiny pinpricks of heat glowed red at equal distances on the shelves.

“It’s light enough in here, you don’t need the goggles,” Sarah said.

Obediently, Chuck pushed them off of his eyes. “I knew it!” he said once he’d blinked a couple of times. He stepped away from the base of the ladder and into the vault, ignoring the hand Sarah put out to stop him. “I knew this guy had to have something interesting about his place!”

Robots. His geek brain nearly let out a yodel at the sight of them, lining all of the shelves in neat rows. They were present in all forms and sizes, categorized by size and type. The larger robots sat on the bottom shelf, shaped like animals: dogs, cats, a T-Rex, a Triceratops, some Velociraptors.

“Well, he obviously likes dinosaurs,” Chuck said, ignoring the fact that he was stating the obvious. He crouched down to poke at a lifelike Brontosaurus.

Sarah grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“I—”

“Do not touch anything.”

“But—”

“You said if he had data on Fulcrum, it would be down here. Let’s find it and get out of here.” Sarah’s tone said what her words didn’t: and quit acting like a kid in a candy store.

“All right, all right, yeesh.” Chuck rolled his eyes and backed away from the dinosaurs. He moved deeper into the vault, eyeing the shelves at shoulder height that contained the medium-sized robotics. These looked almost like the demented crossbreed of rabbits and grasshoppers. They had rectangular bodies, topped with heads shaped vaguely like coffee beans. Made of a black matte metal, they sat on powerful haunches, wide-toed feet. They should have looked angular and evil, but smooth lines all over their torsos, faces, and snouts mellowed them somewhat, possibly aided by the fact that their ocular lights weren’t glowing. Chuck resisted poking one to see how solid it was only because he knew Sarah would smack his hand if he did.

“I think all of these are on,” he said, though the robots weren’t making any whirring noises that signified power.

“Why do you say that?”

“Heat sensors were picking them up. I’d say they’re motion activated, but they don’t seem to react.” Chuck waved a hand in front of one of the robo-rabbits just to be sure. He turned to check the creatures on the top shelf, which looked a bit like Princess Leia’s thermal detonator with legs and minus the gold lamé paint.

“Look out!”

Instinct made him duck mid-turn. He felt the breeze of something whoosh right over his head, ruffling his hair as it passed. He dropped to one knee, whipping the tranq gun out and ready to take down all manner of assassins, security personnel, or ninjas.

There was nothing there.

“Wh-what?”

“Chuck!” Sarah launched into a slide to steal third, landing right next to him. She yanked him down and pointed. “Look up.”

“Holy—”

At some point, a panel in the ceiling had slid open. It must have done so silently. Chuck figured that being taller than most of the population, he really had the market cornered on knowing what was happening on most ceilings, so the room must be well-oiled among other things. That wasn’t the important part. No, that would be the robotic arm that extended from the ceiling without even the telltale whirring of gyroscopes and motor functions. It was painted a dark orange, almost a burnt sienna, and the hand at its end was a three-pronged tool.

Some kind of robotic Igor? Either way, it swayed above their heads, unable to reach low enough to attack either of them again.

“That,” Chuck breathed, “is so cool!”

Both he and Sarah jumped when words rumbled through the room, the deep bass rattling the light panels below their feet. It took Chuck a second to realize that the reason he couldn’t understand the words was that they were in Russian.

“What’s it saying?” he hissed at Sarah.

“Shh.” She listened intently for a second. “It wants us to identify ourselves.”

“You, uh, know the Russian word for ‘friend,’ right?”

“I know a lot more than that.” Sarah toggled her comm on. “Bourne, we may have a problem.”

“What did the geek do now?”

“The trapdoor led to some sort of lab-slash-storage facility, and the room knows we’re here.”

“The room knows you’re there?”

“It’s asking us to identify ourselves.”

“My suggestion, Guinevere? Lie.”

“Gee, thanks. No way I could’ve come up with that one on my own. How much do we have on the transmission?”

There was a pause as Casey checked the screen. “Eighty-six percent.”

“All right. Leaving comm open.”

Chuck leaned over to whisper to Sarah, though he was pretty sure the room could probably pick up all audible words. “Maybe you should answer the disembodied voice, since my Russian is limited to imitating Boris and Natasha.”

Sarah gave him a blank look.

“You know, Moose and—you know what? Not really the time.”

Sarah evidently agreed. She let out a spate of Russian so quickly that Chuck’s eyebrows went up. The voice demanding their identity stopped mid-sentence, falling so abruptly silent that Chuck jumped.

Nothing happened.

“What’d you say?” Chuck asked, glancing around to make sure no other robot arms had descended from the ceiling. The one that had almost taken his head off at the neck stopped swaying gently.

“I identified us as friends of Doctor Sergei Ezersky, and that we intend no harm.”

Chuck glanced around. “Uh, Sarah, not to point out the obvious, but we’re in a room full of robots. I’m not exactly worried about us being the ones to do harm.”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty damn dangerous.”

“You know what? I think I got that. Why isn’t it saying anything?”

“I don’t know. I’m not the computer guy here. Why isn’t it saying anything?”

“Um, maybe it’s analyzing?”

“God,” Casey grumbled from the van, “the CIA has never made me want to shoot myself in the head quite this much before.”

Chuck felt that was a bit unfair, as he was quite certain he’d annoyed Casey far more on many other occasions, but he didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter, anyway. The room began talking again, the light panels once more flickering and rumbling.

“Voice print isn’t a match,” Sarah said, her lips tightening. “I think it’s time—”

She froze. Across the shelves, one by one, little lights began to switch on. The chest lights on the mid-sized robots all glowed blue, their little eyes lighting up with green. Chuck felt a very severe sense of uh-oh begin to spread through his middle. Along the bottom shelf, the dinosaurs remained silent and lifeless, but the twenty or so middle-sized robots more than made up for that loss.

As one, every single robot on the middle shelf turned its head.

Forty little green lights narrowed in on Chuck and Sarah.

“Wow,” Chuck said despite himself. “It really is just like in the movies.”

Bad idea, he thought a split-second later when forty little green lights slowly turned a very scary shade of red.

“Chuck?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah?”

“Run!”

Chapter 26: Overwhelmed

Notes:

It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog. — Mark Twain

18 NOVEMBER 2007
ROBOT VAULT
01:43 PST

Chuck didn’t need to be told twice. Maybe it was the shelves full of robots that activated themselves, maybe it was the creepy red eyes staring beadily at him, maybe it was the robot arm dropping in from the ceiling, or maybe it was the fact that one simply didn’t say no to Sarah Walker, but at her command, Chuck surged to his feet.

He’d had better ideas.

The top of his head collided solidly with the robot arm that had nearly decapitated him earlier. White sparks scattered across his vision. He crashed forward.

Sarah was quicker on her feet than him, thankfully. In a blink, she maneuvered herself between him and the floor, shoving until he was semi-upright. “C’mon!” She yanked on his arm and he had no choice but to go along, even in his dazed state. She half-shoved him, half-pulled him to the ladder.

“What’s going on?” Casey demanded.

“The robots are awake!” Sarah tried to push Chuck up the ladder.

He shook his head to clear it and decided to get with the program, grabbing clumsily for the rung. He glanced over his shoulder.

None of the robo-rabbits had moved.

“Uh, Sarah?” he asked.

“What? Get up there!”

“The robots aren’t moving.”

“Robots?” Casey demanded.

“Yeah, the vault contains a bunch of toy robot prototypes and something Sarah said woke them—”

“Hey!”

“But they’re not moving now.”

Even if they weren’t moving, the robots had tracked his and Sarah’s movement across the vault. Twenty little coffee-bean heads swiveled on their bodies so that forty little eyes could watch the two spies run across the vault. It was almost like the robots were waiting for something to happen.

Uh-oh.

“I’m sorry,” Casey said, and it sounded like he might be laughing. “Did you say you’re running from toy robots?”

Sarah and Chuck exchanged a look as laughter burst out over the comm link.

“It’s much creepier in person, trust me,” Chuck said stiffly.

“Oh, I’m sure it is.”

“Anyway, they’re not moving now, but we should probably—”

He’d spoken too soon. In the middle of his sentence, the robot on the end of the shelf nearest them seemed to quiver all over—right until it launched itself into the air with a little springing noise. It landed on the ground and righted itself.

Chuck and Sarah stared.

The robot paused.

Its old neighbor jumped and landed just as easily.

The first robot began a silent waddle across the floor. Maybe it was his addiction to overly cheesy science-fiction movies, but that seemed a bit unfair to Chuck. Tiny toy robots should make sounds like wind-up toys. Otherwise, how was one to know when it was coming?

“They can jump?” he asked Sarah, just to make sure his head-butt against the robot arm hadn’t caused permanent damage.

“They can jump,” Sarah said. “Up!”

Faced with manic hopping robots, Chuck believed there wasn’t much of a choice but to listen to his partner. He raced up the ladder. “Casey, how long left on that transmission?” he asked as he moved out of the way to let Sarah up.

“It’s at ninety-two percent. What’s going on now?”

“Well, we left the insanely cute tinker toy army of death in the vault and Sarah’s shutting the door now…” Chuck trailed off when Sarah, trying to close the trapdoor, shook her head. “Or not. What’s going on?”

“It’s not shutting.”

“Ninety-four percent.”

“Why isn’t it closing? It opened easily enough.”

Sarah gave him a look that was probably supposed to be annoyed. The facemask dampened the effect. “And I’m supposed to know that how?”

“Good point.”

“Ninety-six percent,” Casey said.

Chuck moved to a prudent distance away from the trapdoor, not commenting at all when Sarah joined him. He was going to have nightmares about the silent, eerie way those robots had begun crawling toward them, and he actually liked that sort of thing, so he couldn’t fault the super-spy beside him in the slightest. In fact, he turned to her and shrugged. “We’re probably okay. There’s no way—”

Poing. Poing.

“They can jump this high,” Chuck finished, and turned his head very slowly.

As he did so, four more robo-rabbits jumped through the hole in the floor.

As one, they all began crawling toward the spies.

“Casey?” Sarah demanded, her voice going a little higher as she and Chuck backed away. “What’s that transmission at?”

“Ninety-seven percent. Why?”

“We’ve got company!”

“Robot company or human company?”

“Robot!”

“And creepy as hell,” Chuck added, still backing away as even more of the robo-rabbits leaped through the trapdoor. Damn, those suckers could jump.

Sarah reached out and blindly fumbled for his arm. “Chuck, go get the cloner and transmitter.”

“It’s not done—”

“Now!”

Though he wanted to point out that the robo-rabbits of doom hadn’t actually harmed them or made any overtures of doing so yet, Chuck knew better than to argue with that tone. He sidled off toward the computer, gulping when half of the little coffee-bean heads followed his progress. “Casey, hit ‘finalize.’”

“Okay. Done.”

Chuck yanked the Firewire cable out and stuffed it into his pocket. The cloner itself went into the holster easily, but he fumbled with folding down the transmitter dish, his fingers clumsy in his haste.

It probably wasn’t helped by the fact that the robots began to waddle toward him.

“Hurry,” Sarah said rather needlessly as Chuck doubled his efforts with the dish.

“What’s going on?”

“The robots are moving again.”

“Definitely time to go,” Chuck started to say, but he froze as the nearest robot to both of them stopped shuffling abruptly. Sarah, likewise, didn’t seem to be able to move. “Sarah? What’s it doing?”

“Why the hell do you think I would know these things?”

Another good point. The edge in her voice told him that she wasn’t really snapping at him: she was just as freaked out about all of this as he was, if not more. In a way, it was comforting to know that something could flap the unflappable Sarah Walker.

Of course, in another, larger way, it was not so comforting. After all, he and Sarah were currently in the same room as twenty—no, twenty four, Chuck corrected as four more robots joined their brothers in arms—of those somethings that had indeed freaked Sarah, a hardened CIA spy, out. He’d have to marvel later. Right now, he was too busy staring in horror as the nearest robo-rabbit shuddered. Silently, the head slid backward along its body, revealing a tiny panel on its chest where the head had been previously.

The panel opened without a noise.

Sarah figured out what the tiny bit of silver poking out of the robot was first. By the time Chuck’s brain registered what it was, Sarah had already hit him from the side in a tackle that would make a pro-footballer jealous.

The dart sailed harmlessly over their heads.

“Oh, that’s so not good,” Chuck breathed.

“Casey,” Sarah said as she and Chuck lurched to their feet and began racing for the door, “change of plans. Incoming!”

“I’ll have the van waiting. What are the robots doing now?”

“They’re armed!” They hit the hallway sprinting, which was like an invitation to the robots. Chuck could hear the poing noise ricocheting off the walls. He glanced back, just once, and had the sudden urge to wet himself. Not only could the little buggers jump, but they could jump fast.

He ran faster. After a look back, Sarah did the same.

“Armed how?” Casey demanded.

“Darts!”

“Poisonous?”

“Don’t know, don’t want to find out!” Sarah and Chuck took the stairs two at a time, racing by boring modern art.

Poing. Poing.

“Oh, crap,” Chuck said as two of the army peeled away, landing at the base of the stairs. “Damn, these things make Olympic long jumpers look like a bunch of out-of-shape slackers.”

He nearly yelped when the heads receded and the chest panels opened. But there was nowhere to go but back up the stairs, where the nineteen other robots were currently hopping their way toward him.

“That’s enough of that,” Sarah growled, yanking out her gun while still running.

The robot aiming its dart at Chuck vanished without even a skid mark.

“Okay, that’s hot,” Chuck said.

Sarah took out another robo-rabbit and didn’t reply. They finished the sprint to the ground floor and raced down the hallway, aiming for the front door. Chuck could hear the deranged robot army poinging along behind them.

“You got enough bullets in that thing for all of them?” Chuck demanded as they made a right turn.

“Nope.” Sarah whipped a knife from her wrist-sheath and twisted so that she was running backwards. A split-second later, one of their pursuers fell over in a crackle of sparks, a knife jutting out of its torso. Mid-turn, Sarah pulled out another S&W and tossed it to Chuck. He caught it only by reflex. “Make yourself useful.”

“Sarah, this is a gun, I—”

“And they’re robots, not people. So shoot them.”

She wanted him to shoot tiny moving targets while running full-speed through a dark house with his night-vision goggles on his forehead rather than over his eyes. Oh yeah, he thought. Piece of cake.

Not.

He felt something clip the top of his ear, bringing on a surprising burst of bright red pain. “Ow!”

“What? What is it?”

“They’re shooting at me!”

“Shoot back!” Casey, from the van, felt the need to add his two cents.

They didn’t have a choice, Chuck saw. Even as he and Sarah ran full-out, the robo-rabbits kept up. One hopped clear over the spies and hit the ground a good ten feet in front of them with a landing that even the Russian judge would have to give a perfect ten. A second joined it. A third. A fifth. A tenth.

“Shoot, Chuck!” Sarah shouted, her arm swinging up to do the same.

“This is like the deadliest game of Whack-A-Mole ever,” Chuck muttered, but he obediently aimed and squeezed off a shot at one of the robots aiming at Sarah. “Hey! I hit one!”

It was like Duck Hunt, he thought, automatically moving so that he was back to back with Sarah. He let her take out the robots between them and the door, as she was a better shot, while he focused on the robots circling behind them. At least they were slow to take aim—

“Ow!” A sharp prick in the meaty part of his calf made him slap at the wounded site. “What the—ow!” Another dart hit him just below the ribcage. “Damn, that stings!”

Behind him, he heard Sarah’s sharp intake of breath, a sign that she had been hit. She growled something that was probably an expletive and took out two more robots with a single shot. Chuck wasn’t even sure it was possible even though he had just seen it happen out of the corner of his eye.

“Casey, we’re hit,” Sarah said as Chuck took careful aim.

He missed completely. He blamed it on the fact that the room jittered.

Not just shook. The room itself actually started doing something not commonly seen outside of tap-dancing routines or—

“Earthquake!” Chuck yelped.

“What are you talking about?”

How did she not feel that? How on earth could she ignore the rattling walls or the fact that the two boring pieces of furniture in the room with them were dancing? The floor vibrating under his sneakers? How could she completely miss all of that?

So he tried to grab her shoulder and swing her around, to show her that the room was indeed doing a very complex version of the rumba.

He forgot about Mission Mode Sarah.

“Look out!” She shot out her left hand and caught him perfectly between the neck and shoulder, shoving him down. He took a knee even as Sarah’s right hand swung around in an arc, taking out robot minions one shot at a time. The logical part of Chuck’s brain began to count the foes, which was admittedly easier to do since he was so much closer to them on the floor.

The rest of him just wondered why they weren’t shaking. And why Sarah was so insistent on fighting off their tiny enemies when they clearly had bigger problems. Like the house coming down around their ears.

The robot nearest Chuck prepared to fire. He lunged forward, grabbed it, and hurled it like a softball. It smacked into the wall with a scatter of sparks and fell to the rumbling ground. “Earthquake!” Chuck shouted again, now that that problem was out of the way.

Sarah ignored him to keep shooting. Oh, right. She wasn’t from California. She wouldn’t know what to do in an earthquake. No time to explain, Chuck thought as the walls began to jump around like the Harlem Globetrotters.

He did the only thing he could think of: he shoved his shoulder into Sarah’s abdomen, surged to his feet, and ran for it, Sarah over his shoulder.

“Chuck, what the fu—”

“Earthquake!” Chuck kicked a robot out of the way, ignoring the sting in his thigh from its buddy’s dart. “Got to get you safe!”

“Chuck—put me down—”

“Not until you’re safe!” Heedless of the robots hop-hopping their way behind him, Chuck raced through the house. Earthquake protocol dictated getting to the nearest doorway, but this wasn’t some measly little three point oh earthquake. This was like the Big One, the earthquake set on making California its own nation. The only doorway in the house that could possibly be safe enough was the front door with its fortified arch. Chuck sprinted there now, bobbing and weaving as the floor rumbled and tossed below his feet like an angry predator.

And why the hell was it suddenly so hot in the house? Seriously, had the earthquake opened up a crack in the floor that would also serve as ventilation for Hell? Sweat sprouted all over his body, and each breath felt like sucking on an exhaust pipe. He pushed on.

Sarah was also not helping matters. For one thing, she wouldn’t make a good hostage: she wriggled and struggled and hit him with the sides of her fist, demanding that he let her down. When he only tightened his grip, she started swearing, and not just in English. He caught some Russian—fitting, given that they were being chased by maniacal little Russian robots—and Spanish, possibly Italian and something that may have been Urdu.

He crossed the foyer in three long strides, stumbling a little when the earthquake tossed a particularly nasty tremor his way, and dropped Sarah on her feet. “There. Satisfied?”

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“Earthquake!” Chuck turned to point the very obvious rocking of the earth out, and yelped. “Robots! Robots!”

Sarah shot at one, cursed when the slide on her gun stayed back, and grabbed the gun out of Chuck’s hand. She took out two more in quick succession and yanked open the front door. “Go!”

“Sarah, it’s an earthquake, you shouldn’t go outside in an—”

Sarah pushed him through the door. Chuck stumbled and nearly took a facer down the stairs. He lunged for a pillar and held on for dear life, praying that the shaking would just end already. This had to be the longest earthquake ever.

After a couple more shots, he heard Sarah stagger out after him and slam the door behind her.

Not fast enough, unfortunately. A lone robo-rabbit hopped through. Chuck stared blearily at it, wondering why the earthquake currently shaking him to pieces wasn’t tossing it around like a hipster in a hurricane. He almost opened his mouth to ask.

The gunshot startled him. One blink, and the robo-rabbit had vanished. Pieces of it clattered onto the front walk.

Chuck clutched the pillar tighter.

“What the blazes is actually going on out there?” Casey demanded. “Did you two just launch a full-scale war against little robots, Walker?”

Sarah shuffled over to pry Chuck away from the pillar. He ignored her. No way was he going anywhere until the lawn stopped moving like an angry ocean and the earth stopped shaking, even though it was so hot outside that he was half-convinced he’d somehow landed on Tatooine. “Yes,” she said as she tugged on Chuck’s arm with a shaking hand, “and they hit us with some sort of drugged…”

Her eyes rolled back into her head.

Her body hit the front porch with a thud.

“Sarah!” Chuck let go of the pillar to lurch toward her.

Bad idea. His vision did one dangerous pinwheel around and settled firmly so that the world was upside down. He fell to his knees and tried not to lose his dinner right then and there. He’d never liked the Tilt-A-Whirl.

“Chuck, what just happened out there?” Casey demanded. It sounded like he might be shouting down a very long tunnel.

“Sorry, Case, I’m losing you,” Chuck said, and he promptly passed out right on top of Sarah. He’d feel bad about that later.

18 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: DOWNSTAIRS
19:03 PST

He had no idea what was going on. One second before, Chuck was positive that he hadn’t existed. Or maybe he had always existed and this was just what being timeless felt like, but he doubted it. His mind had simply blinked into existence, fully formed, ready to take on a life ready-made for him. The problem was, he couldn’t seem to get to that life. Everything felt separated from time and too slow besides, as if the fourth dimension had stopped working for him entirely.

Sensations trickled in, all hard-won. Somebody had glued his eyes shut and replaced his limbs with lead. Appropriately, his head now seemed to be roughly the size of a prizewinning pumpkin. His throat was sandpaper, his mouth an Oklahoma field in the middle of the Great Depression.

And he had yet to open his eyes. He wanted to—just like he wanted badly to know what was going on—but the connections between his brain and those muscles had withered and rusted with time, leaving him high and dry.

All he could do was make a whuffling little groan noise. At least he thought that was him. It was hard to be sure since his ears didn’t seem to want to work properly.

“Chuck?”

Something touched him. Was that his arm? It had been his arm once, so it probably still was. The touch was cool, soothing, but not as comforting at the voice.

A voice he had once been certain he would never hear again. Wait. When was that?

Where was he?

That must have come out as a question, because the second most majestic voice in the world spoke again. And it answered him.

“You’re in Castle, Chuck. C’mon, let’s see those pretty eyes of yours.”

“N’pretty,” Chuck mumbled as his mouth remembered how to work.

“Oh, come on, you know the girls in tenth grade voted yours the prettiest eyes in the school.”

They had also voted Morgan “Most Gnome-like,” so Chuck didn’t really give the girls of his past much credence.

Still, he obeyed Ellie, blinking his eyes open despite the glue frosting his eyelids. She hadn’t lied, he saw. That sheet metal roof, moodily lit in blue and purple, could be nowhere but in a super-secret underground facility. Or specifically, he saw as he looked around, the infirmary. It was still in the process of being set up, but it was unmistakable. Two cots had been brought into the tiny space in the meantime, and there were medical supplies and equipment in various states of being unpacked lying about. He was on the cot nearest the door, with Ellie leaning over him from a stool beside his bed.

He blinked at her a few times and tried to sit up. Ellie put a hand on his shoulder. “Nuh-uh, stay down. Get your bearings for a minute. You’re bound to be dizzy.”

“Wh’happened?”

“You and Sarah had a fun run-in with quite the nasty concoction of chemicals.” Ellie smiled, though it was strained.

“’M I okay?”

“Yeah, the drug faded pretty quickly, and we’ve been flushing out your system.” Ellie reached out and smoothed his hair back. With anybody else, Chuck would have flinched. “It’s still Sunday. You’ve been out for about fifteen hours, and as far as I can tell, you’re going to be fine. Whatever they hit you with has nothing on that famous Bartowski blood. But just to be sure, Devon’s at the hospital running some tox panels.”

Since concepts like pain were also returning to Chuck’s existence, and he felt vaguely like somebody had kicked him in the forehead a few times just for the fun of it, he only grunted. Had it always been this hot in Castle? Belatedly, he realized that he was covered in sweat.

“Sarah?” he asked, hoping that Ellie understood what he was asking, since his throat hurt too badly to talk much.

“She’s fine. She woke up awhile ago—she got a lighter dose than you did. Apparently she doesn’t have a target on her forehead.” Ellie flicked him gently on said body part. “Here, let’s get you sitting up so that you can sip this.” She helped Chuck lean back against the wall. He was grateful for its cooling sensation against his back.

He was even more grateful, though, for the cup of water Ellie handed him. His hand shook a little as he sipped.

“All right,” Ellie said when he handed the cup of water back. “Let’s do the doctor thing.”

Chuck cleared the rust from his throat. “You’re loving this part.”

“Not when you’re hurting,” Ellie corrected. “I didn’t even get a chance to start poking through your head before you decided to hit it on some random Russian’s front porch.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Chuck said, wincing as he felt around his forehead for a goose-egg. That certainly explained the headache.

Ellie pulled his hand away. “Any dizziness?”

“A little, but it’s going away.”

“Double-vision?”

“No.”

They ran through the checklist. “Why’m I so hot?” Chuck asked when Ellie was satisfied. He peeled his shirt away from his chest. Somebody had changed his clothes so that he was in one of his work-out shirts and sweatpants. He could only hope that it had been Awesome or Casey.

“It’s a residual effect of the drugs that were turning your system into their own personal rave.” Ellie rose and fetched a thermometer. Chuck obediently held it under his tongue, more than familiar with the routine. “Sarah had the same symptoms. It’ll fade when the drugs are completely out of your system, but until then, you’ll be a little warm.”

“Great.” It was hard to talk around the thermometer, but he always figured doctors were well versed in translating. “Do you mind if I…” He gestured at his shirt.

“Go ahead.”

Chuck pulled the T-shirt off and folded it in front of him. It didn’t cool him off as much as he’d hoped, unfortunately. He smiled when Ellie adjusted the thermostat. “Thanks.”

“I’ll just invest in a parka.” Ellie took the thermometer, frowned at the reading, and noted it down. “Now, let’s talk about what you remember.”

“Honestly? Not much.” Everything in his head felt a little blurry, which didn’t bode well for anything. He was probably on medical leave from flashing. Again. “It’s all fuzzy.”

“Hm. Last clear memory?”

“Getting out of the van with Sarah.” Casey had made a final jealous grunt that Sarah would be the one accompanying Chuck into the estate, but it hadn’t been jealousy to be in Chuck’s company. It had been envy that Sarah was the one getting to face more danger. “After that, it’s all a crap shoot.”

“Do you remember anything that happened in the estate?”

“Pieces.” He remembered the robo-rabbits. He’d never forget them, their eerie, silent way of moving, the way they’d hopped, the pain of the darts biting into his skin. He remembered how Sarah’s hand had trembled when she—when she’d what? She’d been trying to pull him away from something. A pillar. He’d been holding on pretty tightly, he recalled, though he had no idea why. Everything felt discordant and out of order, with rough edges that would never fit together seamlessly.

So he shook his head. “I don’t remember much, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay.” Ellie wrote something on her clipboard. “Sarah had the same problem.”

“Really?” That made him feel better. Or rather, less like a failure.

“I think it’s one of the effects of the drug. I’m not sure if that will go away or not when the drug is fully out of your system.”

The fact that he may not get those memories back should have frightened him. Instead, he almost felt like shrugging. “So it’s just like Sarah and I got drunk together, then?”

“Um, yes. I suppose.”

Before she could continue her questions, Sarah poked her head into Ellie’s office. She smiled when both Bartowskis glanced over at her. “Hey, you’re awake!”

“Oh, God,” Chuck groaned when her voice hurt his head, “she’s perky.”

“Ooh. Right. Sorry.” Sarah gave him a sheepish smile. “I’ll tone it down. How’s your head?”

Chuck waggled one hand and used the other to unfold his T-shirt. “How come you’re so upbeat?”

“I got hit less than you did.” After glancing at Ellie, apparently, for permission, Sarah came in and sat on the end of Chuck’s cot. She’d pulled on jeans and a blouse so that she looked absolutely normal, not remotely like somebody who had spent most of the day in a drug-induced coma. “And it passes quickly after you wake up. I was fine after I took a shower.”

Chuck closed his eyes and flushed at the quick flashback that went through his mind at the word “shower.” He drew the T-shirt on, hoping that the movement would hide the blush.

Ellie, always in doctor mode, picked up a second clipboard and noted something down as she moved over to the cabinet full of medical goodies that Chuck could learn to fear before long. “How’s the head, Sarah?”

“Almost back to normal.”

“The fever’s gone?”

“I think so.” Sarah eyed the thermometer that Ellie pulled out of the cabinet and sighed. “I don’t need that, I swear.”

“Indulge me.”

“She’s a lousy patient,” Chuck told Ellie with no small amount of glee. It was unfair that Sarah could look so composed when he felt like something Godzilla had stepped in.

“Oh, trust me, I already know.”

Sarah mumbled something around the thermometer. Given her mastery of pretty much every language on the planet, he figured that she probably meant for her words to be unintelligible.

“Hey, Walker, when I said five minutes, I didn’t actually mean twenty—oh, it’s awake.”

“Hey to you, too, Casey,” Chuck said, giving the NSA agent a look that was half-resignation and half-scowl. “It?”

Casey shrugged from the doorway. He was in off-duty clothes, just a polo shirt and jeans, but everything about him still smacked of G-man. “Not much good without the thing in your head, are you?”

Ellie glared. “John, that’s enough.”

“No, it’s okay, Ellie. Believe it or not, an insult is Casey-speak for ‘I was worried, but I’m glad you’re okay.’” Chuck rolled his eyes.

“If that helps you sleep at night, sure, you go right on believing that. Walker, c’mon, let’s go.”

Apologetic now, Sarah pulled the thermometer out as Casey left. “It’s his car,” she told Ellie more than Chuck. “He’s usually nicer.”

Chuck coughed.

“Well, a little nicer,” Sarah said, giving him a look. “He’s antsy about his car, so I’m going to give him a ride to go get it. And I’d better go before he decides to just hijack my car and drive it over to the cleaners without me. I’m glad you’re okay, Chuck.” She patted him on the knee, gave Ellie a final smile, and hurried away. Part of Chuck couldn’t help but think she was fleeing before Ellie could do anything else vaguely medical. Lousy patient indeed.

“He really was worried,” Chuck told Ellie.

“Uh-huh.”

“Deep down. Very, very deep down.”

“Okay, Chuck. I got it.” Ellie rolled her eyes and picked up the clipboard. “Moving on now. Is there anything else you remember?”

“Um, not much.” He sifted through the pieces of his memories from the night before, and frowned. “Just the robots attacking us until the earthquake started.”

“Chuck, there wasn’t any earthquake last night.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. I felt—”

“The effects of a drug that a tiny Russian robot pumped into you.” Ellie gave him a level stare. “It was all a hallucination, likely brought on by a combination of your panic and the drug.”

“Oh.” How could it not have been real, though? Even if he could barely remember anything about it, Chuck could still taste the remnants of terror. The freaking walls had been shaking.

Ellie gave him a supportive smile. “We both know your instinctive reaction to earthquakes.”

“Ellie, that was one time, like fifteen years ago—”

“Still.” One corner of Ellie’s mouth tilted upward. “Sarah told me what you did.”

That sort of statement, he had begun to learn, could mean bad things for him. He wouldn’t call Sarah and Ellie best buddies, not precisely, but their relationship had eased since Ellie had joined Prometheus. Even so, the two women had only one solid thing in common: him. Which could be daunting. As far as he knew, Ellie hadn’t actually gotten out the pictures of baby Chuck, but she’d already threatened it a least once.

Chuck felt an “uh-oh” was justified in this case.

“What did I do?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“You evidently are quite the master of the fireman’s carry. Sarah says you picked her up and got her to the doorway in what was apparently a ‘hailstorm’ of robot fire.” Ellie made air quotes with her fingers.

Had he really done that? Really? What the hell? That sounded more like some over-muscled action hero than him. “Are you sure? Man, if I really did do that to Sarah, she must have been…” He paused to think about it. “Pissed beyond all reckoning, honestly.”

“She’ll get over it. I thought it was sweet.” Ellie clapped him on the knee, just as Sarah had. “Go on, take a shower. It’ll help you cool down.”

“Okay.” He was a little unsteady as he rose, but he figured that would pass. Besides, he’d dealt with much worse when he hadn’t even been injured. At the doorway, he paused and turned. “Just out of curiosity, why aren’t you freaking out more? I mean, I was shot at by robots last night.”

“Trust me, given your penchant for getting into trouble, I’m amazed that that was all that happened.” Ellie mustered up a smile, but Chuck could see tension straining the edges. “I already had my freak-out. Your friend, Frank, is it? Frank already suffered for it, don’t worry.”

“Whoa. Devon taught you how to box?”

“Devon? No, Sarah.”

Just when he thought his partner’s relationship with his sister couldn’t get any scarier, they proved him wrong. Chuck gave Ellie a baffled look and decided the wisest course was just to leave that one alone. He headed for the showers.

18 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: LOCKER ROOM
18:49 PST

Because the cool water sluicing over him felt nice after what seemed like years of being stuck in an overeager sauna, Chuck silenced the little voices that whispered and warned about water conservation, about what would happen if he used up all of the water, and there was nothing left, and it was too long until the next shipment arrived, and—

“Gorram it,” he muttered and stuck his head under the showerhead in defiance. “You’re in Burbank. Act like it.”

He took an extra fifteen minutes under the cool spray until the voices got too loud to ignore. It wasn’t precisely thumbing his nose at Siberia, but it was pretty damn close. That made him feel a bit more grounded as he stepped out of the shower and into a pair of jeans that were just now beginning to grow comfortable from wear. He’d avoid putting on a shirt until he absolutely had to, as he could feel the drug already beginning to work through his system and overheat everything.

A glance in the mirror made him frown. He crossed to his locker, felt around in the back, and pulled out a small black kit. Everything needed to be laid out with precision, which was much easier to do outside of the confines of his bunker. Just more space everywhere. As much as he cursed it on a daily basis, he couldn’t help but be grateful for it now. He spread out a white gym towel on the bench and set out the tools he would need, lining up the edges perfectly. Only when he was satisfied did he nod to himself and get to work.

Chapter 27: That Which My Heart Desires

Notes:

Nobody can hurt me without my permission — Mahatma Gandhi

18 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: DOWNSTAIRS
19:41 PST

Chuck felt much more normal, like a shroud had been lifted, when he emerged from the locker room. Definitely more like himself. So much so that he smiled when he saw Sarah sitting at the conference room table, one leg folded under the other. She played with the ends of her hair while she studied a file spread open before her.

He paused in the doorway, grateful he’d talked himself into pulling on a shirt. “Sorry I called you perky earlier.”

Mm. Don’t worry about it.” She glanced up to smile at him, and went still. “What did—”

“You like it?” Chuck ran a hand over the new buzz-cut. “It was getting too long again.”

“Oh.” Sarah stared at him for another second before her smile returned. It didn’t seem to be full force this time, and he could sense a hesitation behind it. Still, she crooked a finger at him. He tilted his head forward and obediently let her rub a hand over the crew cut. She laughed. “Next time at least give me some warning. I almost thought there was an intruder in Castle. Why didn’t you just get it trimmed?”

Chuck shrugged and lifted his head. “Less fuss this way. Hey, El.”

“Is that my little brother?” Ellie grinned from the infirmary doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. “No curls. Makes it hard to tell.”

“They’ll be back,” Chuck sighed.

“You know, Chuck, sometimes the ladies do like curls on a man.” But Ellie smiled and held out a hand.

Chuck tilted his head forward again. “Is it lucky to rub my head?” he wondered. “Am I Buddha-Chuck?”

“It just feels good. Speaking of, you must be feeling better.” Ellie glanced between Sarah and Chuck. “Both of you.”

Though it was still a bit warm for his tastes in Castle, Chuck assured her that he was fine, and that he had nothing more strenuous planned than a video game marathon with Morgan, so he should probably just head out. He underestimated Ellie-the-overprotective-doctor, though. She accepted no resistance as she ushered both CIA agents back into the infirmary for one final check-up. “Devon called with the tox screens while you were in the shower,” she told Chuck as she fitted a blood pressure cuff around Sarah’s arm. “While there’s nothing in them that’s a danger to either of you, I don’t want any nasty surprises. So you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Chuck and Sarah rolled their eyes at each other. “I’d better at least get a lollipop out of this,” Chuck muttered.

“If you’re good,” Ellie said, activating the pressure in the cuff.

He’d heard that one before, which meant there was really only a fifty-fifty chance of getting said candy. Chuck sighed and leaned back against the wall in defeat. As Ellie turned away to grab something from the cabinet of medical horrors, he felt something land in his lap. He picked it up: a grape lollipop.

Sarah gave him the secret smile. He grinned back and stashed the contraband before Ellie could catch either of them grape-handed. When she turned with tongue depressors in hand, both Sarah and Chuck gave her innocent looks. She squinted, but apparently decided to let it go with a shrug.

“Okay, you two are fine,” she said after going through the motions. “But you’re both on notice. If you feel even the slightest bit wrong, you tell Devon or me right away, got it?”

Chuck swore to do so right away. Sarah’s promise was a little more reluctant.

A though occurred to him as they all rose to their feet. “Hey, El, you’ve got access to all of our medical files, don’t you?”

“Yes. Why? Are you worried about something?”

“Nope. But maybe you can settle a bet.” Chuck slanted a sideways look at Sarah; she returned it with suspicion added. “How many ribs has Sarah Walker cracked?”

“Oh, God,” Sarah said. “Not this again.” When Ellie gave them puzzled looks, she sighed. “Bryce and Chuck had this bet going, back when Chuck was our tech support. About how many ribs I’ve cracked.”

“That’s…a strange bet.”

“It has something to do with, um, what was his name? Tolkien?”

Chuck nodded. Ellie blinked. “Tolkien,” she said. “What the…”

Sarah gave Chuck a final stink-eye. “Bryce and Chuck have been arguing about whether I’m more like Arwen—”

“Bryce.”

“Or Eowyn—”

“Me.”

“Since we all started working together. The only way to tell is by figuring out how hardcore I really am, apparently.” Sarah waved it off. “And the number of ribs I’ve fractured will apparently tell them that.”

“Well, I can’t tell you,” Ellie told Chuck. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Not like it really matters,” Sarah added. “As, even if you’re right, Chuck, Bryce is never going to come back on the grid just to deliver a comic book.”

“This isn’t just any comic book. This is Miller’s ‘Dark Knight Returns,’ limited edition—signed.” Chuck glanced between the two women as he pulled his shoes on. “It’s something of a big deal. Besides, Sarah, you’ll find him, and I’d really like that comic book when that happens.”

“What makes you so sure you’re right?”

“Because you asked Ellie not to tell me. Clearly this is so I won’t become insufferable and gloat, and you two have a very obvious tell. I bet your blood type’s A positive.” When Ellie and Sarah exchanged yet another wary glance, Chuck smiled to himself. “See, that was a total guess. And you just proved me right. Thanks.”

“On that note,” Sarah said, “I’m going to head out before Chuck figures out my entire medical history. Will you both be okay getting home?”

Once they assured her they were fine, she bade them good-night and left. Chuck finished pulling on his shoes. “Guess we’re debriefing tomorrow,” he said as he and Ellie walked back to the locker room. He ran an absent hand over his buzzed head. It always took him a few hours to get used to feeling air on the back of his neck. He’d left the shaver on a different setting—slightly longer—as a concession, but now he felt normal once again.

Ellie frowned as Chuck opened his locker. “You have to work tomorrow?”

“Probably just the debriefing, and then I’ll get to play with the data we copped from Sergei Ezersky. Or at least I hope we copped it from Sergei. Seems unfair that we’d face down a tinker toy army of death and not get any data. And that’s even if they let me play with it. They still haven’t let me touch my old hard drive, the one with the Intersect virus on it.” The thought rankled somewhat. If Bryce had designed that virus, and Chuck fully believed he wouldn’t have outsourced that important of a job to anybody who might be bought, then Chuck would be one of the few people on the planet able to crack that virus. He frowned at the thought, ignoring Sarah’s “You’re trying to do too much warning” at the back of his mind, as he collected the wallet and keys from the top shelf of his locker. Something fluttered to the ground.

Ellie bent to grab it before he could. Still kneeling, she paused. “Chuck, what is this?”

He glanced down. “It’s nothing, just…” Ellie was holding the cracked, faded, and ancient picture of Jill he’d carried inside his parka for years. He hadn’t wanted to take his pictures with him into Sergei Ezersky’s estate in case something had gone wrong, but he hadn’t noticed the lack of either picture until now. Very gently, he reached down and pried the photograph from Ellie’s grip. “It’s…”

“You kept this with you, didn’t you? All this time? In Switzerland?”

Nice one, Bartowski. You’re having a decent time and you have to drag everything down, Casey’s voice scolded him. He picked up the second photo from th