Author's note:
This fic was prompted by a very strange dream that stemmed from too much sugar, an episode of burn notice and at least partially Frea's O'Scanlin's fantasic Fates franchise she has going. This ISN'T a cross over, but I cannot help if the spy world is small.
First foray into fanfic, please review if you liked or not, unbeta'd so if anyone wants to step up. I also apologise if the formatting is bad, I hate computers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing
The Deals We Make
When they can't find you, you'll turn into a mystery.
But you're no mystery to me.
-Miss California- Something Corporate
Chapter 1-Running
01:41 AM
22nd September 2010
Wichita, Kansas
Casey knelt by the mangled car. Fingering the steering wheel he concentrated hard, trying to feel Walker's hands under his.
Tried to put himself in the Porsche, 5 hours previous.
"Colonel Casey!" He stood quickly, grimacing when the stitches in his leg pulled. Turning as smartly as he could, he stepped around what used to be his partner's pride and joy, taking care not to stand on the detached bumper that hung pitifully from the crumpled hood.
Crime scene techs of many colours poured over the area like ants, swarming around the wreck and adding sweat to the pervasive smell of blood, petrol and mud. One scurried towards Casey, his boots sucking in the ground. Once he got closer Casey could see the CIA badge on his black jacket. With CIA, NSA and military techs controlling the wreck, and FBI and local cops raring at the bit behind the yellow police tape, Casey was surprised it wasn't raining piss from the all the jurisdictional tension in the air.
"Sir. Preliminary reports show bullets in the hood indicating warning shots fired from a second vehicle, tires marks on the road above indicate evasive manoeuvring. The car has left the road before the railings, and rolled approximately 4 times before coming to rest."
Impatiently Casey grunted.
The tech cleared his throat "The, uh, blood in the vehicle typing matches the typing of both occupants, but DNA confirmation will take 24hrs. As of yet we can't give you an approximate on how much blood is in the car." The tech's eyes darted back to the car. Casey didn't look. He'd seen. The part that made him sickest was on the passenger's side, where blood had congealed on the doorframe and what was left of the window, a clear impact point where blood had pooled and run thickly to floor in a dark sticky mess. "And, uh, we found Walker's service weapon in the dirt beside the car, missing 3 rounds. No word on where those bullets are."
Sighing, Casey looked back at the wreck. His battered body armour dragged at him. A glint caught his eye and he leant into the passenger window, resolutely ignoring the frame and found a cracked purple iPod on the floor. Wiping his thumb across the blood splattered display he muttered, "Hell of a 22nd birthday Kid."
09:48 AM
21st September 2010
New York, New York
Bryce had to admit, he did like wearing the stylish suits. Apart from that, his job was incredibly boring. Go into the field, they told him, and you can have your pick of assignments all over the world. He had imagined himself crawling through jungles with resistance fighters in Columbia, seducing French diplomats in ballrooms or even spending copious amounts of time skulking in Afghani tea houses. Instead he was sitting in a cubicle on the tenth floor of a non-descript office building in freakin' New York listlessly flipping through his inbox.
Beatrice…. Saw you were *delete*
Tech Report….internet usage … *delete*
Gary Turner….. Ugh, Bryce flinched, minor flash with that one…New mail management system…*delete*
Beatrice…..Grab a drink? *delete*
Barely suppressing the urge to bash his head against the table, he contented himself to imagining how much worse his fate would be if Beatrice -the airheaded and at least ten years his senior- clerk turned out to have actionable information. Tried to imagine schmoozing it out of her and shivered as her nasal laughter sounded from 2 desks down. It doesn't even echo, he mused. It's possible she is part duck. Part duck Bryce? His college roommate internally corrected him, didn't you see that mythbusters?
Bryce stiffened. Internal dialoguing, especially with people important to him, was a judgement lapse that he couldn't afford. Shaking his head, he rose, intending to get some coffee when his computer beeped.
New Meeting:
Time: 10:00
Notes: WAR ROOM
Scrapping the coffee idea, he locked his computer and his desk and headed towards the insulated conference room.
Sitting in his usual seat near the end of the table, Bryce waited patiently for everyone else to show up. As the new information agent for Operation Fulcrum, good impressions were in his favour. Despite this, Vaughn (or, as the intersect informed him, Mr. Colt) barely nodded at him as he set his papers at the head of the table. The boss didn't really scare Bryce per se, but he always chose suits that belied his muscular frame and carefully controlled his breathing when the big man was around.
When everyone was assembled Vaughn started. When the complex codes started rolling behind his head, Bryce couldn't control the twitch of surprise. Gorram. He knew those codes. No flash necessary. He knew who wrote those codes. In fact he wrote some of them himself. If management had them then,
"Team, we have found the human intersect."
21:45
22nd September 2010
Miami, Florida
Sarah Walker lied to many people, but never herself. That's why the moment she told herself she could slow down, catch her breath, because she wasn't being chased, she immediately countered it with the truth. She was running away. But she didn't bother looking behind her. Her pursuers weren't here, and at the moment all she was fleeing was a wasted 22 hour head start. Her blonde hair caught in the streetlights, glinting as she vaulted a fence.
She had been running since 11:47 the previous day. The moment she had gotten that damn text message.
"J,
rf nds rpair.
gt nw umbrlla, tke essntls & go.
Strm cmng.
B"
The number traced back to a business woman from New York of no importance or connections. Sarah figured the phone was swiped. The message was hardly cryptic. 15 minutes of internal debate later she decided to follow his advice.
And had sprinted right into another shit fight. Her plan A, Michael Western, had been shot that morning. Straight through the chest, by one of his team by the sounds of it. A car crash later and he was no where. Her pace increased and she sucked a vicious breath through her teeth. Dead or alive, Michael Western was no longer her concern. Contingency plan A had involved the protection of a far more experienced operative, one who owed her a favour and was completely unconnected to her. Plan A had meant hiding. Plan A had meant safety. Plan B, well, Sarah muttered to herself, you'd better get used to running.