A/N: This is a CHARAH & CANON story. No fluff, but definitely romance and some action. It takes place two years after the series end.

I just watched the last episode of the series, Chuck vs The Goodbye. Like most Chuck fans, I wasn't happy with the way the series ended. However, this time I really paid attention to the energy of the last scene - Chuck and Sarah sitting on the beach - and had a change of heart. I won't go into my thinking in detail - each one of us could fill a book (pun intended) with our interpretation of that scene. But this time, when I "stepped back" from it I actually felt hope for them. And I'm pretty sure that is what the show writers intended. There are a lot of folks here who have written to that exact premise, and I have loved reading their stories. They help put the kind of closure on Chuck and Sarah that I would wish for them. The first couple of times I saw that episode I was mad. I know that anger always covers up some type of fear. Of course, in this situation, the fear was that Chuck and Sarah would not be able to get back together - that the romance and love they fought so hard for, would be denied. Isn't it amazing how we can become so invested in fictional stories and characters that our emotions are so strongly driven. Yet, that's been the human experience around story telling for millennia. I think that is what drove me to write this story. I wanted to write about that fear and loss, about their individual weaknesses, about the strength they have together, about their indomitable wills which were so well characterized in the series, and — in the end — their romance.

Just a couple of notes about the story itself. First, I'm looking at about a 30K word story. So, the story-line will move fast. Second, I'm going to experiment with a different sort of "voice". The narrative will be terse, the sentences short, without a lot of detail (compared to my normal style), leaving a lot up to the imagination of the reader. If you've read my other Chuck story, Chuck vs The Bodyguard, you've probably noticed the difference. Third, I'm going to publish this story in four chapters - each chapter between 7K and 8K words. I am not one who can churn out a 7K word chapter quickly. That's just not how I write. So, this story will take a while to complete. I would suggest that you put the story on your "story alerts" so you'll know when a chapter is published.

Finally, thank you for reading. And thank you in advance for your reviews / comments. They really are incredibly motivating.


Chuck vs The Fight of His Life

Chapter 1


The tall man stepped off the streets of Fairbanks, through the pub's battered door. The lighting was dim. The air, hot and moist. It smelled like stale beer and fried food and sweat. He stomped his boots on the threshold, knocking off the winter snow.

Conversation died. Every patron turned to watch him. He was a stranger and everyone knew it.

The door closed behind him and he felt a welcomed wash of warm air. He pulled off his gloves, unwrapped the scarf from around his face and unzipped his thick parka. He tried to rub warmth back into his fingers.

The tall man walked up to the bar. He had to duck to keep his head from hitting the slowly spinning fans hung from the low ceiling. He put both hands on the scarred, wooden counter. The bartender was at the far end talking to a customer. He waited. The bartender kept talking.

The hum of conversation resumed.

He waited.

The bartender didn't come.

"Hey," he said, looking at the bartender.

The bartender ignored him.

"Barkeep," he said.

The bartender stopped talking and looked at him.

"How about a drink?" he asked.

The bartender said something else to his customer, then walked over and asked, "What'll you have?"

"Beer. Long neck."

The bartender pulled out a brown bottle and popped off the cap, setting it down on the counter.

The tall man nodded, then said, "I'm looking for someone."

"So?" the bartender said.

"Maybe you can help me."

"I don't think so."

"Give it a try." A photograph and a fifty dropped to the bar.

The bartender didn't look down.

Another fifty landed on the bar.

The bartender looked at the picture. "Yeah. About a week ago. Surprised everyone. Won a big purse." The bartender looked up at the tall man. "What's she to you?"

"She has something of mine. I want it back. Know where she went?"

"Nah."

"Know anyone who does?"

The bartender nodded toward a skinny man sitting in a corner booth. His greasy hair was slicked back. He wore a tacky brown blazer, brown shirt and white tie, like a wiseguy wanna-be from the 70's. Two women, dressed like hookers, were wrapped around each of his arms.

"Ricky runs book around here. He might now."

The tall man took the picture, left the beer and walked across the room.

"You Ricky?"

The table went silent. Ricky and the two women looked up. "Yeah," Ricky said. He gave the tall man a hard look.

The tall man held up the photo. "You know where she was heading next?"

"Hey, man. I don't know you, so piss off."

The tall man was used to assholes like Ricky. He'd been running into a lot of them over the last six months. If there was anything constant in America, from Florida to Michigan and all states in between, it was that there were assholes in abundance.

The tall man threw a hundred on the table.

"Like I said, I don't know you," Ricky said. "You can take your money and shove it up your ass."

The tall man loomed over the table. He slowly leaned down. The two women let go of Ricky's arms and pushed themselves as far back in the booth as they could.

"Tell me, Ricky," the tall man said, his voice low and dark. "Do you know what the most dangerous thing in the world is?"

Ricky leaned back, his shoulders hunched. He swallowed, saying nothing.

"It's love. People will do anything for love. They'll fight off hoards, sell their souls, even sacrifice their lives. They'll hurt and maim and kill."

The tall man saw the sweat break out on Ricky's brow. His message had been received.

"Where was she going?"

Ricky fidgeted nervously in his seat. "There's a big gig in Vegas. A week from now. Lots of high rollers. Mega money. Said she might go there." He wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve.

The tall man stood up slowly. He turned and walked toward the door, leaving the hundred on the table.

"You don't want to cross her," Ricky yelled at the tall man's back. "She's dangerous."

Yes, she is, the tall man thought. The most dangerous thing in the world.


Chuck Bartowski adjusted his seat all the way back and closed his eyes. It was still too tight in coach to fit his tall frame. His ears popped as the jet gained altitude. A direct flight from Fairbanks to Las Vegas. If he was lucky, a direct flight to Sarah Walker.

Ricky's information put him only a week behind her. Always following a cold trail, Chuck hadn't been this close since he'd started looking for her a year ago.

For the first time in a long time he had a glimmer of hope. Hope that he might actually find her. Hope that he'd see her. Have a chance to talk to her. To tell her … what? He'd practiced a million different things to say. None of them were right.

Chuck had given up hope after the first year she'd been gone. He'd kept working at the Buy More. Financially, he didn't need to work. He owned the place, after all. But it kept his mind and body busy. He'd managed to not go completely catatonic thanks to his friends and family. Even Casey had helped, like a grounding rod. It seemed his relationship with Gertrude Verbanski had gotten him in touch with his lady feelings.

Only Casey and Sarah knew Chuck had downloaded the Intersect again. When he'd defused the bomb under Beckman's seat at the concert, she'd assumed it was due to his experience, computer expertise and spy training. He'd been behind her and she hadn't seen him flash. Of course, in the end, it hadn't been his flash that had saved the day. It was Sarah's repressed memory that rose to the surface and reminded Chuck how to burn-out the computer and stop the timer for the bomb.

Beckman thought the Intersect was lost with Quinn. With the Intersect destroyed, the government had no need to be involved with Chuck's life any longer. She'd left Carmichael Industries with a thank you and an open invitation for them to save the world anytime they felt the need to.

Carmichael Industries was finished.

Casey left to be with Verbanski.

Chuck had tried to rekindle Sarah's feelings on the beach. But the magical kiss hadn't been magical in the end. Sarah had left to go find herself. She'd never returned.

Chuck had learned how to more effectively suppress his flashes. His secret was safe. He was finally free from the spy life. Finally free from the constant danger to his family and friends.

It was a bitter sweet pill. The spy life was gone. But so was the love of his life.

On the first anniversary after Sarah left him, he'd changed. He hadn't been able to pinpoint what had changed him, or why. But his depression evolved into anger. His despondency morphed into a burning desire to take action. To find Sarah. To find his wife.

The first six months after his reawakening had been all research. He'd called in favors from contacts he'd made over his five years in the spy game. He'd learned a lot.

Sarah had gone back to Langley after she'd left him on the beach. She'd been debriefed, evaluated and recertified. Then she'd been assigned to the CIA substation in Paris, running missions in Europe. That lasted for a year. Then, out of the blue, she'd resigned. After that, she'd disappeared. Totally off the grid. Untraceable.

One year after she'd left him on the beach he'd started looking for her. At the same time she'd quit the CIA and vanished. Chuck knew that wasn't a coincidence. Maybe she'd caught wind that he was trying to find her. She was a spy, after all. She probably kept tabs on anything that happened online that had her name attached to it. Her friends would let her know if people made inquiries about her. She must have caught wind that Chuck had started looking for her. And she'd probably disappeared because of it.

Despite his efforts, Chuck spent six months following up on vague bits of information. They all lead to dead ends. Then, six months ago, one of Casey's undercover NSA buddies had come across a video on the dark web. He'd contacted Casey. He thought he'd recognized one of the people in the video because he'd worked with her in the past. CIA officer, Sarah Walker.

The video was grainy, shot in low light from a distance near the back of a crowd, probably on a cell phone. But when Casey saw the video he knew it was Sarah.

Casey'd sent the video to Chuck. When he'd viewed it he'd known, too. He'd sparred with her countless times and fought side by side with her many more. It was her style, her moves, her grace and power and speed. It was Sarah. Her hair was short now, and she was thinner, more gaunt. She reminded him of the actress who played Sarah Conner in the second Terminator movie. Lean and powerful, broad shoulders, narrow waist and hips, whipcord muscles in her arms and legs. And intimidating as hell — kind of like his mother.

Chuck had done his research. He'd learned everything he could about the history, the culture, and the structure. He learned how the money worked. He learned how law enforcement was evaded, or paid off. He'd learned how the lowly struggled to survive. How the elite migrated across the country. Like nomads, moving from venue to venue, chasing the big money.

On a hunch he'd contacted Emma. He didn't think Sarah would directly contact her mother or adopted sister. But he had a suspicion. Emma had born it out. She'd started receiving money from an anonymous source. But she knew it had to be from Sarah. Large sums. Multiple cashier's checks. Each just under the ten thousand dollar amount that would trigger an automatic review. That jibed with Chuck's research.

Then he'd hit the road and scoured the country for the past six months. Starting in Atlanta, he followed footprints of blood and money. He'd show her photo, drop some cash and deal with assholes. Finding her trail had been a slow process of trial and error, traveling across the US, city to city to city. One person remembered her, the next two didn't. But slowly, methodically, he'd honed his search for the path she'd taken, until each city he hit was a place she'd been only months or weeks earlier. That had lead him to Fairbanks.

Who would have thought that some slimy dirt bag name Ricky might have the answer he was searching for. That in a little dive bar in the middle of Alaska he'd start the sprint to the finish line.

He was close. He could feel it.

He knew Sarah. If she was going to Vegas, she'd need to arrive early. She'd need time to prepare. She'd want to win. That was Sarah. Never second best.

He had a week to find her. A week to search a city of over a half million people. He hadn't had odds this much in his favor since he'd started.

He'd find her. Even if she didn't want to be found. He didn't know what he'd do then. He'd burn that bridge when he crossed it.


In the past year Chuck had learned a lot about the underbelly of crime. It was the same beast in every city. The faces were different, but the people were the same.

So, when he landed at McCarran airport, the first thing he did was hit a couple of seedy bars near the airport, at the south end of the strip, just off highway 15 leading out of town. He dropped some cash and got the names of a couple of the prominent bookmakers. One of them would have the information he wanted.

Chuck paid cash for a cheap motel several blocks from the main highway. The room was old and worn, like everything off the main drag. The glamour and glitz of the strip hid the bleak history of the city of sin. A history of desperation, of pain, of defeat and of death.

He dropped into the worn chair next to the worn Formica table, next to the worn curtains looking out onto a worn asphalt parking lot. He pulled out his burner phone and dialed the first bookie's number.

The third person he called told him what he needed to know. Armed with this information he called a new phone number.

A woman answered, professional and courteous. "Hello. How can I help you?"

"I'm in town, visiting," Chuck said. "I'd like tickets to a show."

Silence. Then, "Which show?"

"Spartacus, Blood and Sand."

"That show runs for three consecutive days, beginning this Saturday and ending the following Tuesday evening. Reserved seating only. Reservation is ten, goes toward minimum of twenty-five. Are you still interested?"

"Yes."

"Please pay your reservation fee and pickup your ticket tonight, 8:30, at 15488, SW Crestwell."

"I'll be there."

"Name for the reservation?"

"Carmichael. Charles Carmichael."


Sarah Walker rolled across the mat and struggled to her hands and knees. She shook her head, trying to clear her double vision. She rubbed her jaw where she'd just taken the brunt of a round-house kick from a purple-haired amazon. It hurt, even with the protective head gear.

She'd let herself get distracted. Thinking about him. Thinking about how a friend of an acquaintance of a rival had called her, letting her know that he had tracked her to Fairbanks. She'd dropped her guard and her sparring partner had tagged her. Hard.

Actually, her sparring partner was more like a sparring enemy. There was no love lost between the women clandestinely training here. They were all after the same thing - big money. If some of them were eliminated before the event, so much the better.

The Amazon Woman came at Sarah, a heel strike aimed at the middle of her back. Sarah rolled away, rotated on her hip and swept her leg under the amazon's legs, sending her to the mat. Sarah rolled back to the corner of the mat and stood, catching her breath. Her vision was slowly returning.

Amazon Woman climbed to her feet. Her face was tight and red and seething in anger. She screamed and charged toward Sarah.

Amazon Woman was big, muscular, powerful. But that made her slow and predictable. Big fighters always went for the power strikes, relying on their bulk and strength to disable their opponent with a knockout punch. That's how Amazon Woman came at Sarah. Rushing in, arms drawn back, ready to deliver a hammering blow.

Sarah had fought plenty of foes larger than her while working for the CIA. They may have been strong, but she had been faster. She slid under the amazon's right cross, grabbed the arm as it flew by, used the amazon's forward momentum to hip-throw the woman to the mat. Sarah kept hold of the right arm, twisted it into a wrist lock, dropped down to her butt and wrapped both legs around the woman's arm. She dug her heels into the woman's armpit and neck, then pulled and twisted.

Amazon Woman screamed, then tapped out. Sarah held on a moment longer, just for spite, then let go. Amazon Woman groaned in pain as she rolled to her back and cradled her arm to her chest. Sarah stood and walked off the mat. She sat on a bench against the wall. She pulled off her headgear and toweled the sweat from her face, then took a swig of water.

"Aye, and she'll sure and be looking for payback sometime soon," came an Irish lilt.

Sarah looked up at Ryan O'Flannery, the owner of O'Flannery's Gym, her current training facility.

"She'll have to get in line," Sarah said. She took another swig of water.

Sarah liked O'Flannery. He'd been nice to her over the past week. Almost like a father figure. Yes, he was taking money to provide a training facility for a small number of contestants preparing for an illegal fight. But there were over a hundred women invited to this high-stakes venue. Another dozen gym owners were doing the same thing. She couldn't fault him for trying to make ends meet. And, after all, this made her a criminal, too.

O'Flannery bent down examining Sarah's cheek. "You want me to take a look at that?" he asked.

"No, thanks. I'll just ice it when I get back to …" She didn't finish the sentence.

Back to — where?

To my home? To my motel? To my hole in the ground?

"I'll be fine," Sarah said. "Thanks."

"Okay, Lass. But you be sure and watch your back. This is serious money. Not all of the fightn' will be in the cage. If you know what I mean."

"Yeah. I know," Sarah said and gave him a grim smile.

O'Flannery sighed and sat down beside Sarah. He was probably in his sixties. Small build but fit. Thick reddish-silver hair. Dressed in matching gray sweat pants and shirt, a white towel draped over one shoulder.

"I still can't figure you out, Lass. Why you're here. What you're doing. You're not like the rest."

Sarah looked down as she unwrapped the tape from her hands. "I'm right where I'm supposed to be," she said.

"You see, that's what I mean," he said. "Everyone here wants to be somewhere else. They're trying to win big, so they can get to that somewhere else. So they can be someone else."

Sarah shrugged.

"I've watched you over the past couple of days," O'Flannery said. "You just don't fit in. Most of these street mongrels are mean. They fight because they're angry. They fight so they can hurt someone. Like her." He tilted his head toward a brunette working on a heavy bag across the gym.

Blood Rayne. Too theatrical a name for my taste, Sarah thought.

Sarah watched the brunette move through a deadly barrage of punches and kicks. She wasn't big. She didn't look intimidating. But Sarah knew her reputation. She was skilled, tough, deadly. And she didn't stop until she was pulled off. She'd killed three women in the cage over the past year. And she was the odds-on favorite to win this tournament.

"She's got no soul," O'Flannery continued. "It's other's pain she feeds on, like a goddamned vampire. The money's just a side benefit."

O'Flannery shook his head. "But not you. You take a beating, get up, get back in the cage, take another beating. It's like you're angry at yourself. Punishing yourself."

Sarah pushed out a huff and scowled at her hands.

"Don't get me wrong," O'Flannery said. "You're a hell of a fighter. One of the best I've ever seen. I've followed your fights over the past year. You've climbed the ranks fast. But, Lass, long-term careers aren't an option in this game. People get in, make their money and get the hell out before they get hurt permanently. Or killed. You could already be out, with a lot of money."

He reached out and gently took Sarah's hands, stilling their preoccupation with the athletic tape. "So, the question is, Lass, why are you still here?"

She sat quietly, staring at his hands on hers.

O'Flannery gave Sarah's hands a gentle squeeze. "And it's none of this nosey old man's business," he said.

He dropped her hands and they sat, watching Blood Rayne.

After a while the brunette fighter stepped back from the bag and turned her gaze to Sarah. They locked eyes. Blood Rayne's lips slowly turned up into a smirk. Then she bared her teeth in a humorless smile. Sarah got the message. If she ended up in the cage with the brunette, only one of them would walk out.

"You're even money to make the top eight," O'Flannery said, breaking the silence, continuing to watch the brunette across the way. "You make the top four and the odds will stack up stout against you. If you win the tournament … well … you'll be making a lot of dangerous people very unhappy. Like Taggart."

"I suppose," Sarah said, still watching Blood Rayne as she attacked the bag with a series of devastating kicks.

"Taggart's not only promoting the fight, but running the book on it," O'Flannery said. "Keeping everything wrapped-up tighter than a Leprechaun watching over his gold." O'Flannery barked out a laugh. "I be making a pun without trying. That's a hoot."

"Is that why Godzilla's hanging around?" Sarah asked, tilting her head toward a football lineman-sized man standing near Blood Rayne. Sarah guessed he stood over six feet tall. He must have weighed close to three hundred pounds, all of it muscle. He was dressed in black slacks, a black turtleneck with a black sports coat. The first time she'd seen him at the beginning of the week she'd quickly spotted the telltale bulge of a shoulder holster.

"Benny's one of Taggart's top dogs. That's why he's here," O'Flannery said.

Sarah gave him a puzzled look.

"Benny's watching over me and you and the rest of the fighters so we don't do anything against Taggart's interests. But he's also making sure nothing happens to the little missy over there," O'Flannery said, shrugging his shoulder toward Blood Rayne. "Taggart's betting that she'll be the goose to lay the golden egg. Doesn't want her taken out before the fight."

Sarah scowled. "I don't like the way he pushes you around."

O'Flannery looked at Sarah, surprised. Then he smiled. "I do believe that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in the last decade."

Sarah couldn't help but laugh.

"Not to worry, Lass. I can handle Benny for a few more days. He's an ill-mannered boor, but he's not stupid. Best you not cross him."

Sarah gave him a reluctant nod.

"You're doing well, Lassie," O'Flannery said. You'll be ready by Saturday. It's getting late and you're tired. Go eat. Go rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sarah gave him a thankful smile. He smiled back, stood and started to walk away. Then he stopped and turned back toward her.

"There is something I'd like to know if you don't mind me asking," O'Flannery said with a sower expression. "How did you come up with that god-awful name?"

Sarah felt her lips turn up into a grin.

"I don't know your real name," O'Flannery continued, "and referring to you by your cage-name is … well … it's a little distasteful for an old dodger like me."

"It's a long story," Sarah said.

O'Flannery watched her for a moment. When she offered nothing more he shrugged and walked away.

Sarah watched O'Flannery go and her throat grew tight with gratitude. He didn't know Sarah Walker, but he knew her. He understood more about her than he realized. And he cared about her — about what happened to her. Without any ulterior motive. Because, at his core, he was a good person. As simple and profound as that.

In her life she'd known only one other person like that. For a while she'd forgotten what she'd known about him.

But then, she'd started to remember.


Chuck pulled his late model Mercedes rental up to 15488 SW Crestwell. It was a two story office building in the city's business district. It was neither flamboyant, nor decrepit. Plain vanilla. Not calling attention to itself. Which made sense. Successful criminals weren't braggarts or egotists. They were pragmatic business people who knew how to hide in plain sight.

He parked and stepped out of the car, smoothing down his Armani jacket. He'd been surprised at how easily he'd slid back into his Charles Carmichael persona — as familiar as the fit of his expensive suit.

He walked through an opaque glass door into a small reception room. An attractive woman sitting behind a desk looked up. It seemed that almost all women in Las Vegas were attractive. Not unlike LA.

"Good evening," she said.

"Hello. My name is Charles Carmichael. I'm here to reserve a ticket for a show."

The woman looked at her computer screen, then smiled at Chuck. "Yes, Mr. Carmichael. If you'll wait just a moment, one of our customer service agents will be with you to finish your reservation arrangements."

Chuck nodded.

A few moments later a door behind the receptionist opened and a mountain of a man stepped through. He was as tall as Chuck and twice as wide. Nothing but muscle under his black turtle neck and black blazer.

"Mr. Carmichael, please come with me," Mountain Man said. "I'll be happy to assist you with your reservation."

Chuck nodded at the man, following him through the door.

They walked down a short hallway and stopped outside an open office door. Another, equally large customer service agent stood next to the door.

Mountain Man said, "Mr. Carmichael, would you please allow my colleague to search your person for any weapons or recording devices."

"Sure," Chuck said. He knew the drill, spreading his feet wide and lifting up his arms.

After a thorough and professional pat-down, along with an electronic wand scan, his searcher looked at Mountain Man. "He's clean."

"Thank you, Mr. Carmichael," Mountain Man said. He turned and stepped through the door into a small office. Chuck followed.

"Please, have a seat," Mountain Man said.

Chuck sat.

The office was stark. The walls were cream colored, with cheap carpet on the floor. A small metal desk sat in the middle with a telephone and a white pad of paper. There were two chairs, one on each side of the desk. A video camera was mounted in the far back corner of the ceiling.

"I need to ask you several questions and I thank you in advance for your patience and understanding," Mountain Man said. "Please don't take offense. This is standard protocol."

Chuck nodded. He was impressed with Mountain Man's polite demeanor. Not that he didn't think the burley thug wouldn't hesitate to crush him if he had a reason to.

Mountain Man cleared his throat. "Are you a police officer, or are you working with, for, or under contract with any law enforcement agency?"

Chuck knew the reason for the question. To mount an entrapment defense if he was, indeed, an undercover cop and part of a sting.

"No," Chuck said.

Mountain Man made notes on the white pad of paper and continued. "Do you understand the nature of the entertainment venue you wish to attend?"

"Yes."

"Would you please explain your understanding of the venue."

Chuck's stomach clenched hard, like the first moment when, months ago, he'd realized what was going on. He forced his face to remain passive, almost disinterested. "No holds barred, ultimate fighting between individual combatants," he said.

"And do you understand that this particular venue is female only?"

"Yes."

"Just to clarify," Mountain Man said, "the final field will consist of one hundred and twenty eight contenders. Fighters will progress through a standard, single elimination bracket system. Two fights per day, Saturday through Monday. After six rounds the last two contenders will have advanced to the final fight which will be held Tuesday evening."

"I'm assuming I can place wagers on all or just some of the fights, as long as I meet the minimum aggregate amount," Chuck said.

"That's correct," Mountain Man said. "Do you understand the financial commitment required to attend this venue?"

"Ten thousand dollars up front, which is counted toward a minimum wager of twenty-five thousand."

"Thank you, Mr. Carmichael. Do you have the ten thousand in cash on your person to pay the reservation fee?"

"Before I do anything, I'd like to speak to Mr. Taggart."

Mountain Man's head snapped up. His pleasant demeanor vanished, replaced by a cold glare. "Taggart isn't available and doesn't get involved in matters at this level."

Chuck heard the other huge man step in through the open door behind him.

"I think Mr. Taggart will want to hear what I have to offer," Chuck said. He slowly raised his hands, palms out toward Mountain Man. He looked down at his suit jacket, then back at Mountain Man. "May I?" he asked.

Mountain Man looked past Chuck.

The unmistakeable ratcheting sound of a semi-automatic pistol racking a round into its chamber was sharp and clear.

Mountain Man looked back at Chuck. "Very slowly, if you please, Mr. Carmichael."

Chuck reached into his jacket's right inside breast pocket, pulled out a large envelope and sat it on the desk. Then he slowly repeated the process on his left breast pocket. Two fat envelopes sat before mountain man.

Chuck addressed the video camera. "I'd like to be considered for VIP status. I have ten times the minimum wager that I'm willing to place as a reservation, right now." He nodded toward the envelopes.

Chuck had to hand it to Mountain Man. He kept his cool, even though his eyes widened.

"Just to clarify," Mountain Man said, pointing at the two envelopes, "you're committing to a guaranteed wager of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which you're willing to leave on deposit in cash. Right here, right now."

"Correct," Chuck said, still looking up into the camera. "But in return I would expect some considerations to allow me to prepare the combinations and spreads of my wagers before the event."

"What considerations are you thinking of?" Mountain Man asked.

"Please don't take offense," Chuck parroted Mountain Man's earlier phrase back to him, "but I believe those considerations are at a level where Mr. Taggart should be involved."

Mountain Man scowled at Chuck, but remained quiet. A minute passed. The phone on the desk rang. Mountain Man picked up the receiver. He listened, gave a few affirmative grunts, then said, "Yes, ma'am," and hung up.

"Ms. Taggart would be happy to see you," Mountain Man said as he scooped up the two envelopes. "Please, come with me, Mr. Carmichael."


Sarah took the city bus back to her motel. She transferred twice, even though she didn't need to. Counter surveillance training was a hard habit to break.

She shut the door behind her and locked it. She threw her keys and gym bag on a chair by the window. The room was dingy, the carpet worn, the furniture old. Her nose detected a hint of mold and the bleach used in an attempt to cover it up. But the room was cheap, which meant more money could go home to her mother and Molly. Cheap was good enough for her.

Turning the shower handle all the way to hot Sarah stripped off her workout clothes, dropping them to the bathroom floor. She turned to the mirror. A woman she barely recognized looked her over with disdain.

The woman's hair was cut short, the trim poorly done. Her face was thin. Her body almost gaunt, without a soft contour anywhere. But she was muscular. Arms defined, like whipcords. Pecs visible behind breasts which were smaller as the result of more muscle mass. Abdominals tapered down to a six pack at her waist. Hips were narrow with a gap between thighs despite the thick quads and hamstrings. The woman was in the best shape of her life.

And she was ugly beyond belief.

Sarah stepped into the shower. The hot water scalded her skin. She closed her eyes. She stayed until it grew cold.

Wrapping herself in a towel Sarah fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She was tired. So tired. Of everything. But like so many nights before, sleep refused to come.

O'Flannery's question echoed in her mind.

Why are you still here?

Why was she still fighting? Why was she still traveling from city to town, armpit to hellhole?

She'd started out in gutted factory warehouses and underground parking garages. As she'd won more fights she'd been able to insert herself into venues with bigger purses. As she'd won more money she'd sent more to her mother. Always anonymously. Always, almost the entire amount. She'd only kept enough to buy bus tickets and pay for motels and food.

But now it was like an addiction. Every time, she swore it was her last. Yet, every time, the physical pain and the adrenalin rush made her forget. Every time, she felt some relief — if only for a few hours — from her guilt and shame. Every time, held her memories at bay.

She thought back to the day the first of her lost memories had crashed back into her life, uninvited and unwelcome. She'd been on a mission in Barcelona. She and he had been on several missions to Barcelona over the years they'd worked together. She knew that because she'd remembered them. The memories had welled up from inside her. They'd overwhelmed her, incapacitated her. She'd lost her focus and almost got herself and another agent killed.

When she'd returned to Langley at the end of that mission she'd found out that he was trying to find her.

She knew she couldn't be a spy any longer.

So, she'd quit. Gone dark. Disappeared.

The memories kept manifesting over the weeks and months that followed. Each one materialized like a ghost taking shape from the ether — haunting her nights, invading her dreams. She couldn't stop them. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

The CIA shrinks had said her memories might eventually return. Maybe a few, maybe all of them. Or maybe none of them. There was no way to know for sure.

Barcelona had been like popping a cork on a bottle full of memories. They all didn't come back at once. They came to her in pieces, as if her mind fought to hoard the most important parts. Hiding them from her out of spite. But they'd come. They still came. One memory after another. One piece of her life after another.

What had surprised Sarah was that the story her memories told wasn't a spy story. Not an action and adventure story. It was a love story. A romance. About a life most people would give anything to live. A life unattainable for a spy like her.

She'd had that life. But now it was gone. And that was that.

She didn't deserve that life anyway. Because she'd wounded him. To the marrow. She knew it was true.

She'd viewed her video logs. She seen their wedding album. Friends had told her about the two of them together. She'd looked at her wedding ring and understood.

She knew he loved her. She'd believed that she had loved him. But the life she'd learned about was nowhere in her experience. And without those memories and experiences, there was nothing for feelings to rebuild upon.

She'd known she could never be what he wanted. She'd known he would never give up on her. Her heart had ached watching him hurt. She hadn't wanted to hurt him any more. And the only thing that would have hurt him more than her leaving — would have been her staying.

So, she'd left him.

Him.

Why was it so hard to say his name.

Chuck. His name is Chuck.

That name cut across her heart like a razor blade — deep, merciless, unforgiving. How did you repent for destroying someone's life? How did you atone for tearing apart another's soul?

You didn't.

Because you couldn't.

It wasn't possible.

He was better off without her.

She didn't deserve him. She never would.


"Good evening, Mr. Carmichael. I'm curious. Why haven't we crossed paths before?" the woman behind the glass desk asked.

Mountain Man had lead Chuck up a set of stairs to the end of the hallway. He'd knocked on a door and then opened it, gesturing for Chuck to enter.

The office was the antithesis of the one downstairs. It was large. The furniture and decor were modern and expensive, with lots of glass and burnished metal accents. The glass and metal desk at the far end of the room was wide, the woman behind it, stunning.

"Because fortune has failed to smile on me," Chuck said.

The woman smiled. It made her golden skin glow and her Asian eyes widen. Long, black hair brushed across her shoulders as she stood and walked out from behind the desk. A black, sleeveless, sheath dress molded itself to her slender frame.

She extended her hand toward Chuck. "Then, we'll have to remedy that." She grasped his hand demurely. "Alicia Taggart," she said.

Chuck had no doubt that Alicia Taggart was anything but demure. He bent down, lightly kissing the back of her hand, never breaking eye contact. "A pleasure," he said.

"Yes, I believe it is," Taggart said as her smile widened.

Chuck relaxed his grip. Taggart held on a little longer.

She gestured toward two chairs with a small coffee table in front. "Please, sit," she said.

Taggart crossed one shapely leg over the other. "You're not a regular patron of the art. What got you interested?"

"Boredom," Chuck responded.

"Do, tell."

"I'm a computer engineer by training," Chuck said, which was true. He'd learned a long time ago as a spy that the best lies were based in truth. Sarah had taught him that. "Statistics and probabilities come naturally to me. I've satisfied my itch via online gaming." A partial truth, although his and Taggart's definitions of online gaming were probably worlds apart. "I've been moderately successful. But after the money wasn't an issue any longer, it got boring."

"I see," Taggart said. "Then you found that there's nothing more exciting than standing right up next to the cage. Sweat and blood flying through the chainlink into your face. The aroma of fear and adrenaline. It's all quite heady."

"Indeed," Chuck agreed. "I've been following the sport for the better part of a year, now." Another truth. "I've waited until this event to throw my hat into the ring, if you'll pardon the pun."

Taggart let out a throaty laugh. She shifted in her seat, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, giving Chuck an excellent view of her toned thighs.

Chuck was unaffected by her overt flirting. His goal was another prize. But he had to play the part. He purposefully widened his eyes and leaned slightly forward.

"Well, you certainly know how to get a woman's attention," Taggart said. "A quarter million dollars will do that. Tell me, what type of VIP considerations were you thinking of."

"Nothing elaborate," Chuck said. "I'd simply like to observe the training of several contestants I've been following over the past several months. Not unlike — I suppose — watching thoroughbred horses preparing for a race. I'd like to observe their physical condition, speed, strength and attitude, among other details. That's the kind of information that helps me construct my probability models. From there, wagers and spreads are relatively easy to develop."

"I see," Taggart said. "Should I be worried that you'll break my book?"

Chuck let out a low laugh. "Hardly," he said. "I'm nothing special. I usually do a little better than fifty-fifty on the odds. With a large enough wager, that provides an adequate return without putting someone like you at risk."

Taggart gave him a coy smile. "I appreciate your consideration of my assets," she said.

"There's much to appreciate," Chuck said, flashing his own smile.

Taggart's eyes flared and her smile widened just a hair.

"Which contestants do you want to observe," she asked.

"If I told you, I'd be tipping my hand," Chuck said, apologetically.

Taggart chuckled. "I suppose so."

"If you have a list of the contestants and where they're training, I can identify the facilities I'd like to visit. I can watch my prospects along with the others training there, without giving anything away."

Taggart looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, "I like you, Mr. Carmichael. More than I probably should. I think we can accommodate your request."

She rose, walked over to her desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a manilla file folder. She returned to her chair and handed the file to Chuck. He flipped it open.

"We've contracted with twelve training facilities throughout the city," Taggart explained. "Each page lists the cage-names of contestants training at a single facility. Please identify the contestants you want to observe and make note of the page number. By tomorrow morning at 9 am I'll have arrangements in place for you to visit each facility through this Friday. When the elimination rounds begin on Saturday the contestants will be sequestered through the reminder of the venue. For their protection. You understand.

Chuck understood. At that point Taggart would want to prevent any attempts to injure or kill a fighter before the fight. That was necessary to instill confidence that the book was stable and the fight was on the up-and-up.

"I do," Chuck said. "Your offer is more than fair and I appreciate your generosity. If you'll just give me a moment," he said, and started scanning through the pages.

He found what he was looking for on the seventh page. He scanned through all twelve so as to not give away what his true intention was. He hadn't known exactly what he was looking for when he started. When he saw a specific cage-name under the list of fighters training at O'Flannery's Gym, he knew it was her.

Chuck continued his ruse of looking over the list of fighters. He knew how to find Sarah now. He knew where she'd be tomorrow. His year long search was almost over. But now that he was so close he felt a shadow of doubt. Was this the right thing to do? Did he really want to see Sarah? Talk to her? Maybe she was better off without him. If he showed up, maybe he'd ruin any sense of normalcy she'd made for herself.

And the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars wasn't a small amount to toss out on a whim. The possibility of loosing the money didn't bother him. He could afford it. It was what the act represented. He was going to drop a quarter million dollars just to get what he wanted. Was he really that selfish? A quarter million dollars would mean almost a seven thousand dollar annual bonus for the Buy More's thirty-seven employees. Or, it would go a long way in supporting those same employees pursuing a college education. Had his ego really grown that large? Was he really going to do this?

But this wasn't just about him. This was about Sarah. She'd been victimized by Quinn. She lost as much or more than Chuck had — she just didn't know that because she couldn't remember it. This was about giving her a chance to get back the life Quinn had stolen from her, even if she never regained her memories. And, in the end, he'd do anything for Sarah.

Chuck cleared his throat. "Pages three, seven and nine."

"Very good," Taggart said. "I'll have my staff begin to make arrangements as soon as you leave."

"Thank you," Chuck said.

Taggart leaned slightly forward. "I'd invite you to stay for a drink, but I don't want anyone to perceive you're the recipient of any unfair advantage."

"Although disappointed, I understand," Chuck said, continuing the flirtation and playing his Carmichael persona like an instrument.

"Perhaps Tuesday evening, after the final match?" Taggart said.

"Perhaps," Chuck said.

"Hmmm," Taggart mused. "If you'd care to, would you join me in my box Tuesday evening for the final event? I think your company would be exhilarating."

"I'd like that," Chuck said.

"Lovely." Taggart said. She stood. Chuck did also. "I'll see you then, Mr. Carmichael."