A/N: Not the typical start for a "Chuck" fanfic. Bear with me for one chapter. Also, my undying gratitude for the fabulous beta reads from the multi-talented Truthseekr and writing sensei Sharpasamarble. If something in this chapter doesn't make sense to you, it's almost certain they did their best to alert me to it and I just dropped the ball. Oh well, there's always next chapter. :)
'Unsanctioned Relationship' happens in an alternate universe immediately after 'Best Friend' but before 'Suburbs'. You knew 'Best Friend' was supposed to air before 'Suburbs', right?
Chuck vs. the Unsanctioned Relationship
Chapter 1 – "Phoenix"
The smooth, wet blacktop turned into a slushy mess as the main road forked to the northeast, leaving the less well-paved secondary road in its place. Without thinking, she looked up into the rear-view mirror to make sure another vehicle, ten or eleven car lengths behind, didn't make the turn with her. Yeah, right, she chastised herself, even as her habit kept her eyes glued to the mirror. Had there ever been a car, even once? She couldn't remember.
Not surprising, she thought, after five years worth of these supply runs.
Taking note of the steadily decreasing angle of the sun, she pressed a little harder on the accelerator – it would be better to be home before dark under these conditions. Along both sides of the road, the jumbled piles of plowed snow were still a pristine and textureless white, a testament to how little auto traffic made its way along this route.
With a muffled whine, the back end of the Rover skidded to the left as the outside rear tire lost traction on the icy incline. Without hesitation, her right hand flew deftly to the 4WD control on the shifter and engaged it while she steered into the skid with measured precision. After a small chug, the SUV swung back into line without even leaving the lane. She allowed herself a smile – whatever decline her skills had suffered from disuse, her reflexes were still sharp.
Her smile was short-lived. The truth was… she didn't know what she had left. The life she now led, while appropriate for her circumstances, simply didn't test her skills in the ways they used to be tested. Begged to be tested. Her physical regimen, extensive during her time as an operative, now consisted solely of morning runs and stretches. Her improvisation skills, once formidable and clever, were now reduced to field repair of broken appliances and crafting meals from pantry dregs. And it'd been three years since she'd stopped going to the shooting range – the sense of pointlessness had just become too unbearable.
This was not what the CIA had trained her for.
"So, I'm wondering," Graham said slowly, deliberately, "if you're having some adjustment issues with your training." He looked up from his salad, his eyes betraying the concentration he was devoting to her answer.
So three months of acclimatization to the academy was all she would get before he started pressing, she thought. This also answered the question regarding the unexpected lunch invitation. She weighed her options carefully, finally selecting one that pushed the ball back in his court. "Is this about Instructor Keenan's report?" She kept the tone light, casual, matter-of-fact.
He stared at her impassively, without blinking, without a muscle moving in his face. She knew it was one of the tools he used. One designed to draw more information from those who couldn't bear the silence.
One that she was prepared to defeat.
She looked down at her own dish, moving the greens from one side to the other. It was important to keep time moving, to keep his stare from gaining power over her as the seconds ticked by. She could push lettuce back and forth until the cafeteria emptied, if that's what it took. After what must have been twenty five seconds of silence, Graham resumed as if there had been no pause at all.
"He's mentioned that you've been uncharacteristically… average in his class. Since it's traditionally one of the most popular classes taught here, and I have some personal stake in your success, I thought I'd give you a chance for an explanation," he said finally.
Keeping her face tilted down towards her food, she let her eyes drift up to measure his mood. There was no overt threat yet, leaving room to maneuver. "I suppose I'm not doing as well as I could because I don't really understand the value of the skills he's promoting, sir." She added the honorific as a totem, an offering of respect that might ward off hidden ire and buy her more leeway.
Graham's mouth formed a tight smile, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "'Adaptation and Improvisation' is a mandatory course and no less important than the firearms and martial arts training that you've excelled in."
Her eyes widened at his casual disclosure and she looked up, although she immediately hated herself for the tell. Too late to disguise it, she started talking in an attempt to distract him. "I didn't realize you were keeping such close track of my performance." She tacked on a carefully practiced smile that was part cosmetic surgery and part seduction school.
"Don't try to play me." His voice chilled her to the bone and her smile faltered. She looked down at her salad and put on her best cowed expression. It didn't require much effort. He accepted her gesture and continued, "Look, you need to absorb and integrate what Keenan is trying to teach you. It's been proven in the field and it will – at some point in your career – save your life."
"I guess," she began. "It's just that I can't imagine that impaling someone with a chopstick," she waved the chopsticks in her hand around for emphasis, "or knocking them senseless with a laptop computer is something I'm going to do when I've got a SIG in my hands." She used her most earnest expression, the one that had gotten her past so many uncomfortable moments in her life both before and after her CIA indoctrination.
Having re-established the roles of their mentoring relationship, Graham softened his tone. "Many of your opponents will have been in the field for years before you meet them. Some will have grown sloppy and careless. You won't have to worry about them. It's the savvy veterans and cold-school killers you'll need to be concerned with. That shiny pistol won't be any good to you if it isn't in your hands the second or two before you're dead. In those cases you'll have to make do with what's in reach, plus the only two advantages you can always count on: Speed and surprise."
She gave him an accepting look, trying not to reflect any energy back to him and prolong the sermon. From the moment he brought it up it was a fait accompli. She had no real choice in the matter. This was just the game they played; she tested him and he showed her the bounds. There was no confusion, however, over whose game it was. Without him as her sponsor, she was nothing. Worse, she'd be gone.
Graham finally let his gaze drop momentarily, letting out a breathy sigh. "Look, I'm sorry it has been harder on you than other recruits. Given your family history and the environment that you grew up in…" He paused, searching for the right words before letting silence end the sentiment. "For your sake – for both our sakes – you have to be outstanding in every category." He leaned in a little closer. "Do you understand?"
She didn't reply, concentrating instead on balancing her chopsticks on the edge of her plate as she'd been taught, one crossed over the other in an aesthetically pleasing fashion.
Ahead, two wooden posts appeared on the right, one topped with an orange stripe of paint and tilted askew from the other. A familiar and friendly sight, they marked the turnoff to the gravel road she always took. The road that led her home.
Home. It was the center of her existence now, the anchor point of her life. She grimaced at the word "anchor". It implied being weighed down. Tethered. Captive. But that wasn't the case, right? She was here because she wanted to be here. He was here.
This was their dream life.
She smiled at the sense of satisfaction that phrase still evoked after five years of marriage. Try as she might, however, she couldn't avoid the small asterisk that followed, along with the footnote explaining that nothing is ever completely perfect, not even in dreams.
She reached over to the wheel with her right hand, touching the bulge in her driving glove, beneath which she knew the two rings lay. She could feel them rotate around her finger as she massaged the spot, bringing her both comfort and reassurance. Some things didn't change with time, she thought warmly.
But some things did, the agent voice in her head said. She bit her lip. She'd deal with those feelings – no, they would deal with them together, and only when she was sure of what she wanted. Right now she only knew she was restless and guilt-ridden. Not enough to act on. Not nearly enough to risk unraveling the life they'd sacrificed so much for.
Above the road, directly in front of her, the trees made a recognizable shape, a backwards 'K' that she knew meant the drive was nearly over. Good news, since there was probably only about a half hour of light left. The sun was already beginning to sneak behind the nearby trees – soon their accumulated shadows would accelerate the onset of night.
He'd be waiting at the door after hearing the car approach – ready to help with the shopping bags, to give her a hug, a kiss, and a genuine smile that she would return in kind. Even with the growing malaise she felt there was no denying the simple joy in moments like these. They were the crown jewels of the life she lived. But were they enough to keep her sidelined here? Was it selfish of her to enjoy this life while squandering the investment the CIA… that Graham had made in her? Could she really stay in this life forever when she was capable of so much more?
She peered through the darkening woods in the distance. She should be able to see the lights from the house soon. He'd have them on, knowing she was coming back late. Their glow would be visible from the end of the driveway, twinkling through the ice-covered branches in a rainbow of reds, blues and greens.
The light bar changed from red to green and she catapulted herself through the doorway, dashing the four short steps to the first wall. Time to do her thing. Dressed entirely in black Lycra, she looked every bit the ninja she was reputed to be. High on her chest, under a cloth flap were 10 small darts, each with a retractable barb tip that would penetrate the skin and make the dart irremovable without the proper tool. All of her classmate defenders in this scenario used a pistol to deploy them. She, on the other hand, applied them directly.
It had become her favorite training exercise. From her record of success, it was fair to say that she owned this event. It was the reason she was granted the sole aggressor role and why the exercise had transformed from an assault scenario to a defense scenario. Originally, the solitary aggressor was intended to fail, but she broke the mold by beating the defenders consistently. The test administrators had tried to compensate for her by increasing the defenders' advantages, but eventually their more complicated schemes became too difficult for the other students to run, and it didn't matter because she won anyway. At some point they gave up and just went with the flow. It wasn't the first time she'd prevailed against the academy.
She leapt up to grab a support joist on the overhanging roof and swung herself over the edge and on top of it, walking swiftly and with cat-like balance over to a point directly above the entry door. Lying down across the narrow overhang, she reached down and knocked three times on the door. She then retracted and flipped onto her back, pulling two darts from her bandolier while leaning just far enough out to keep watch on the doorway below. After several seconds the door opened and a gun barrel protruded a few inches beyond the door frame, followed by arms, shoulders and finally a rapidly swiveling head. Too bad its owner wasn't looking up.
Swinging her legs over her head and shoving off with her arms, she somersaulted off the roof and dropped right in front of the agent-in-training, her feet taking down his arms and his pistol while her hand jammed a dart directly into his deltoid muscle. As he yelped in shock and pain she landed gracefully on the balls of her feet, grabbing his gun arm and twisting it behind his back, stripping the pistol and turning him simultaneously to face the door he'd come through. Over his shoulder, she could see the second guard, his pistol extended, frantically trying to take a shot around his partner. Better luck next time.
She bent down and drove the guard forward like a battering ram through the doorway. The second guard's eyes got wide and his pistol wavered as he tried to decide what to do. But it was too late – she shoved both guards together, spinning out into a low camel that put her inside the room and beside the second guard in two spins. She jammed the other dart into that guard's calf muscle and ended her move standing against the far wall out of camera view.
It had only taken four seconds to breach the entry, a second ahead of her best. This was shaping up to be a record setting run.
She watched the two student guards, sitting and kneeling in the center of the room, nursing their wounds. When they looked up at her, she pointed at the surveillance camera over her head and grinned through her mask. The message was simple: Smile. You're dead.
In her reverie she nearly missed the driveway turn – but she recovered at the last moment and wrenched the wheel hard over to the right. As the SUV skidded around, she steered left and guided the vehicle onto the incline, goosing the gas to get some forward momentum and control the slip. Behind her, she heard the clink of bottles bouncing off each other in the shopping bags and the muffled thud of something large falling over. Ah well, at least they made it most of the way. Ahead, she looked to where the house was, just becoming visible through the birch trees. She noticed that the lights weren't on yet. That was odd. He probably just hadn't noticed the time, but if so it would be a first. She rounded the last clump of trees at the corner of the property, the last major obstacle which blocked direct view of the house.
As she pulled the Rover to a stop in front of the house, she peered through the passenger window to look at the front door. It was still closed. Hadn't he heard her pull up? She noted the lights were out on the first floor – he was probably still ensconced in his office chair upstairs, singularly focused on some unsolvable problem. She beeped the horn once, then killed the engine and popped the hatch release. Getting out of the car she looked up to the second level windows – sure enough, the light was on in the study. She kept her eyes on the window for a few seconds as she walked to the back hatch, reaching for the handle by feel. But he didn't appear at the window to wave at her and signal he'd be down. Hadn't he heard the horn? Maybe he was listening to music on his iPod, but he didn't usually use it while he worked unless she was cleaning. Another anomaly.
She stopped her normal routine suddenly, as if an internal circuit breaker had tripped. The accumulated series of abnormal events had risen beyond the level of curious and was waking up her dormant agent persona. She'd just burned through too many rationalizations, too many explanations. Get focused. And while it was still probable that all of this would be resolved in a benign fashion she was beginning to feel some actual concern. Think ahead. She extracted the first grocery bag from the webbing and was about to grab a second one when she changed her mind and left it – she might need her other arm free. For what she could not consciously explain. Stay alert. She shifted the bag to her left arm and took the house key out of her jacket pocket as she stepped carefully up the steps to the front door. Looking straight at the door as she unlocked it and entered, she attuned her peripheral vision to the front side windows. She tensed her leg muscles as she started forward. If anything moved she'd be ready to react.
She entered the foyer and stood just inside the doorway. The house was completely quiet, the first floor devoid of light. Out of habit, she reached out to flip the wall switch but stopped herself almost immediately. Better to keep it dark for now. She slid to the right, keeping herself from being silhouetted against the dwindling twilight outside the door.
"Sweetie?" she called out in a raised voice. She listened intently for any sound that might indicate a response. Hopefully, that would be the noise of a rolling chair wheeling around upstairs followed by the soft padding of sneakers along the hall to the stairway. Instead there was only silence. Her eyes darted from the hall to the doorway on her right as she inched forward on the balls of her feet, her free arm extended for balance. At the door she stopped and stole a quick glance into the kitchen. It looked just like she'd left it, as far as she could tell. She took one step in, still scanning the hallway, when a thought suddenly occurred to her.
Maybe he was injured. Unconscious. Lying upstairs, his life hanging by a thread while she stalked shadows down here. That would explain it all, right? An invisible hand gripped her stomach and twisted… and she caved, abandoning caution as she hurriedly moved into the kitchen and set the bag and keys down on the island counter. But even as she turned to rush upstairs her agent voice whispered something to her urgently – something important about the kitchen.
She turned to the opposite counter, her eyes darting across it in the half-darkness. There – the flour container. In a frenzied rush she grabbed it and wrenched open the lid with too much force. It flew out of her hand and clattered across the counter before falling with a noisy clang to the floor. Without pausing she jammed her hand down into the flour, grasping through the powder for what she knew was there. There you are, she thought, pulling out the large plastic bag and tearing its locking seal open.
She was reaching into the bag when the flour container exploded.
With a sharp bang, the container crumpled, throwing flour violently into the air in a billowing white cloud and instantly blinding her. By reflex, she dropped to her knees and lost her balance, falling backwards against the corner of the island with a heavy thud and then sideways onto the floor. She dropped the bag and sat up quickly, putting her back against the island as several more incoming rounds slammed into the cabinet and wall, throwing splinters and ceramic shards in all directions. Alternately scraping her hands on her jeans and swiping at her face, she desperately tried to get the flour out of her stinging eyes so she could see again. When, at last, she could hold one open, she reached down and felt for the discarded freezer bag. From it, she extracted the Colt M1911, shaking the weapon as she brought it up to remove the coating of flour. She cranked back the slide and flipped off the safety. Okay, she thought, coughing and spitting the flour out of her lungs, thosearen't shadows.
She realized she was panting, and her arms were shaking. Adrenaline, her agent voice said. She willed them to stay still and took several controlled, deep breaths. Come on, get it together, the voice continued. The light just turned green. Her breath hitched and her jaw clenched involuntarily, her expression hardening. Time to do your thing.
She blinked her eyes and took stock of the scenario before her. The flour "smokescreen" had probably saved her life – her poorly executed attempt to evade had succeeded, but only through blind luck. Without the kitchen island being where it was, she'd have been in the open, flat on her back and unable to see. Instead, she had momentary cover. The shooter had to be in the living room, shooting through the kitchen door with a narrow angle to her position, which explained the small dispersion of hits. Another lucky break – had he been in the foyer hallway she'd be dead now. Amateur.
She blinked a few more times in rapid succession. It was hard to tell in the growing darkness, but she thought she'd regained enough of her eyesight to risk a peek. Drawing the gun up in front of her, she threw her head quickly out beyond the edge of the island to peek back towards the hallway. Nothing. She extended a bit further, trying to reach the angle where she could see into the living room. In the dim light she could just make out an unfamiliar outline. As she resolved the shape she jerked her head back just in time to miss the two rounds that blasted the cabinet behind her, punching two ragged holes and showering her with wood fragments. Without thinking she moved right back into the line of fire and fired off two quick rounds of suppression fire. Through the smoke she saw the figure dart right, deeper into the living room. 6 rounds left.
You drove him back, but now he knows you're armed, her agent voice informed her. She kicked herself – not the smartest play she could have made.
Sitting back again against the island, she replayed what she'd just seen in her mind. He was short, thin, light-complexioned. Wearing what looked like a dark grey raincoat and… something about his head… his ear. He was wearing a very visible earwig – a radio transceiver – in his left ear. This told her two important things: One, he wasn't a top operative of a western democracy. They were better funded and used better equipment. Good news for her, since she was clearly not performing up to her own standards. Two, and infinitely more important, he was not working alone. Her agent voice screamed at her again, and she cursed herself for being so far behind the moment. Angrily reaching for her cell phone, she paused for just a second while struggling to remember the quick dial sequence. A fast glance at the doorway told her the hall was still clear, but it was a momentary respite. He'd be coming soon.
She stared at the phone in her hand while she waited for the call to complete. It – and the hand holding it – was shaking again. Not too violently yet, but enough that she had to grab her wrist to read the screen. In the back of her mind she made a note to stick with two-handed stances – she wasn't going to be hitting anything one-handed in the near future. Finally, a tinny voice came from the cell and she put it up to her ear.
"Watch desk. Identification?"
She drew a blank. What the hell was her operative I.D.? Wait, she thought. Don't be stupid.You know this. "Sp-sparrow." Yes, that was it. "My codename is 'Brass Sparrow'. Watch desk, did you get that?" She waited for a response, strained her ears for a sound. And it came, but it wasn't from the cell.
Without hesitation she spun around the corner of the island and fired two more blasts through the doorway, the second splintering the far door frame. She saw the figure retreat, once more, towards the living room. He'd made another mistake, but how long would her luck hold out? 4 rounds left. She'd have to take him out to get more ammo, the spare clips were in the living room and the upstairs linen closet. Great. She heard another noise and started to raise the Colt when she realized what it was.
"…copy Brass Sparrow? I need your station code and alert level." The voice intoned.
"Watch desk, I need… I am engaged with one or more hostiles…" She nearly screamed it into the phone. " I need – "
"Brass Sparrow," the scratchy voice interrupted, "I need your station code and alert level."
'Station code!? It's my home, dammit,' she wanted to say. But she knew that wouldn't help. She wracked her brain to remember this arbitrary bit of trivia. Think… think…Wait, it was someone's birthday, she… Got it. "Watch desk, This is station 11-8. Repeat, station one-one-eight. I am alert… Indigo. Do you copy? Indigo." It had all come in a rush, like opening a packed closet door in her mind and having the contents spill out all at once.
"One moment, Sparrow… verifying."
She was still congratulating herself when she saw the fading light from outside being blocked by something in the gap between the kitchen door and the jam, three feet in front of her. Shit. It was the second member of the team, trying to outflank her. Thank God for worn out insulation, she thought, as she raised the pistol and fired three shots through the kitchen door about 4 feet above the landing. Almost immediately, she heard the grunt of pain and the sound of the body hitting the metal stairway and tumbling down the steps.
Then, before she'd even heard the new sound, or thought the next thought, she spun around to her right, kicked off with her legs and pointed her gun back towards the foyer doorway. There he was – rushing forward in what seemed like slow-motion, charging from the foyer towards her position with his pistol leading, firing – the tip flashing in time to a rhythmic popping noise. It was a classic misdirection play. A squeeze.Reckless.
Sliding across the flour-covered floor on her back, she lined up and fired once, hitting him in the shoulder. The impact of the 45 caliber round spun him sideways and he fell to one knee, crashing into the sink cabinet. So focused was she, so automatic did her movements come to her that she didn't even notice when the incoming round creased her own shoulder, throwing up a puff of blood vapor. She lined up on his head and pulled the trigger again.
Nothing happened.
With rising panic she looked at her weapon. The breech was open, the slide retracted – she was out of ammo. She looked over at the other agent, his face twisted in pain but the rage in his stare was inescapable. He knew he was dead, she had the shot. He let out a muffled wail of pain as he gripped his shoulder with his other hand, expecting the end to come at any second. When it didn't he took in her expression and followed her extended arms to the Colt, its exposed barrel a dead giveaway. The understanding coming to him, his anguished grimace became a grim smile. He started to turn towards her, bringing his gun arm up despite the obviously agonizing pain in his shoulder.
She had to do something right now. She dropped the pistol and leaned forward, the sharp pain from her own shoulder taking the air from her lungs in a startled gasp. She pushed through it, rising to one knee and crawling ahead to close the distance to him. Her eyes darted around her as she dragged herself along, both hands reaching out for balance as she attempted to rise to her feet. Something brushed her right fingertips and she looked down – it was… the flour container lid, metal, with a handle on top. Speed and Surprise. It's all you'll have. She grabbed the handle firmly.
The operative had twisted his body sideways in order to get his gun arm high enough to fire – it was waving wildly as he moaned in pain. She could see the open end of the barrel facing her as she closed the last two feet.
With a desperate grunt she heaved forward, swinging the lid as hard as she could at his gun hand. Just as she made contact the gun fired and she felt a sharp tug as the bullet ripped through one edge of the lid before caroming off the ceiling molding. The gun flew from the agent's hand and bounced onto the floor as he screamed in pain. Without missing a beat, she rose up on one arm and backhanded him across the face with the lid, its torn edge scraping off a good bit of skin. He fell backwards onto the floor.
She crawled over him in a fury, raised the lid over her head and bashed him in the face with it several more times with all the strength she had left.
When he stopped moving, the house was silent again.
She looked down at the man's body, what was left of his face, on the kitchen floor in front of her. The growing circle of blood under his head was subsuming the spatter halo from her violent assault. She fell back on her behind ungracefully and let the flour lid drop to the floor. Mercifully, the agent within her felt no need to play back the last several seconds of what she'd just done. The man had been her age, maybe even a little older. One of the 'sloppy and careless,' as Graham had once put it. She looked down at the lid and a slow realization came over her:
Graham had been right. This stuff really could save your life. She snorted gently. Instructor Keenan would have been proud.
After a few moments spent gathering herself, she retrieved her pistol and her assailant's. She tucked the Colt into her waistband behind her back, it would be useful once she'd retrieved more ammo from the living room. She checked the clip on the operative's Beretta. Five in the clip, one in the chamber. Carefully, delicately, she extracted the operative's earpiece from his battered head and held it close to her ear. She heard nothing but a steady, low hissing sound punctuated with occasional bursts of static.
While trying to decide whether to insert the dead agent's earwig into her own ear she was startled to hear a small voice say something. Partially deafened from the last gunshot, she could just barely make out what the voice was saying.
"…dispatched to you, Sparrow. ETA is 16:27 Zulu. That's 21 minutes from now. Do you copy? Two-one-minutes."
It wasn't the earwig, it was her cell phone. She stared at it, laying in the drift of flour on the floor. From what she'd just heard, it sounded like a fast react team in a helo was on its way from the nearest operation center. Twenty one minutes? It had to be Hartford. And it would probably get here too late to have any effect. She didn't have twenty-one minutes before she…
An image suddenly leaped into her mind, shattering her trance and forcing her upright. She dropped the earwig and grabbed the phone.
"Watch desk… Brass Sparrow. Did I hear correctly a team has been dispatched?"
"Roger, Sparrow – ECARS flash heavy inbound, ETA 16:27 Zulu, about 20 minutes from now."
"I copy…" she paused for a moment, trying to formulate the right words. "Watch desk, there's also… my asset is on site..." She'd wanted to say 'be careful not to hurt him,' but she knew there was no way to communicate that sentiment.
"Roger that, Sparrow. Will pass on to ECARS additional friendly on the ground."
"Thank you." It was all she could think to say.
As quietly as she could she tried to get to her feet. The sharp pain in her shoulder flared again and she dropped to one knee – the free fingers of her right hand reached around her weapon to touch the source of the pain. It was just a nick – and not on her gun side. Her hair was wet near the wound, she noticed. Luckily, the wound wasn't bleeding excessively. It could wait. She needed more ammo. Without it she'd have to resort to throwing the gun at any remaining intruders and then rely on her hand-to-hand skills, which were even more rusty than her weapon handling. That would simply not do.
Get your head in the game and get moving. That's two down, she thought. How many more were there? One? Maybe two? One to guard the room, one to guard the asset. She imagined him up there, being held on the floor or restrained to a chair, what would he be thinking? It was a stupid question. She already knew the answer, he'd be worried about her. He would've heard the shots. And now he'd be suffering the silence, wondering if she was lying down here bleeding, maybe dying.
She had to do something. She took a deep breath, put a hand on the counter to steady herself and called out in a loud, bellowing voice:
"Honey… I'm home!"
"Honey… I'm home!" She called out loudly as she tossed her purse and keys onto the hallway table.
There was no response. Hmm, she thought, what was he up to now? The times between government projects were the most dangerous for him – well, actually, for them. He got bored and started working on 'special' projects. The last time, he'd cracked the copy protection on a new type of consumer video disc just so he could store the movies on his Unix-based file server. An achievement which would've been arguably acceptable if he hadn't decided to share his code with the world. Fortunately for them, another individual in Iceland did the same thing with much greater fanfare and his original hack was quietly forgotten.
As she started up the stairs, she heard the music stop suddenly and the chair roll back on its casters. She'd been detected.
A scruffy head bearing a large, beaming smile appeared over the top landing rail, looking down at her as she climbed. "Hey! I didn't hear you… did you just get home?"
"Yep. Just now." She gave him a quirked eyebrow and a smile. "Did you remember to take the towels out of the dryer when it went off?" She reached out a hand as she went by the open laundry closet – the dryer was cold. She paused and stared at him. "Should I bother to open it?"
"Uh… no. Sorry." He made a small grimace which faded back to a smile as she approached. He moved out to the side landing to get ready for the ritual he knew was coming next.
"Well, did you at least remember to eat something for lunch?" she asked, already knowing the answer when he winced and looked down at his feet. She sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"
At that, he looked at her and spread his arms wide, giving her the sad puppy-dog eyes he knew she was defenseless against. Her smile widening, she stepped forward and collapsed into his arms, squeezing him so tightly he grunted as the air was forced from his lungs. But he made no complaint.
"Hi," he said softly, "I missed you."
"Hi back," she sighed, "I always miss you."
When they finally separated, she gave him a short peck that he released late, expecting it to last a bit longer. She chuckled at him.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
He smiled and bounced his eyebrows up and down, giving her a leer that was definitely not related to his stomach.
"Food. I'm talking about food." She smirked and shook her head.
Flashing a frown of disappointment, he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and thought about the last time he'd stopped for a bite. "Yeah. I should probably eat something."
She turned around and put her arm around his waist, pulling him towards the stairs. "C'mon then, you can help me unload the Rover and then I'll whip together some dinner. What do you think?"
"Sure." As they passed the dryer, he noticed her eyes shift to it briefly. He winced. "You know, I realize that I disappoint you when I forget about some of the stuff you ask me to do, and I'm so sorry about that."
She looked straight ahead, a thoughtful expression on her face.
"But you know… if it was important, really important, I'd remember. You know that, don't you?" He tilted his head down and looked at her intently, trying to express how serious he was. He stopped descending on the next to last step and held her waist firmly to keep her there too.
Trapped, she turned to face him, a tired but understanding look on her face.
"Yeah. I know."
The stairway was empty – and so was the landing. This was a surprise, and a worrisome one. She was hoping to take one agent out before she had to cope with breaching the bedroom. It was one thing to locate and hit a single target with a friendly in the room, but quite an uptick on the difficulty scale to take down two targets in the same room with a friendly. Too often that friendly got caught in the crossfire. That could not happen here.
"Sweetie? You didn't mention you were having guests over," she called out in a loud voice. "It was kind of short notice, but I managed to take care of everyone down here. Is anyone up there hungry? I'm coming up with some hors d'oeuvres for all of you."
She negotiated the last few steps up while checking her watch – the react team wouldn't be here for another fourteen minutes. That was at least ten minutes longer than she was willing to wait. In front of the bedroom door, she leaned her ear carefully against it for several seconds, listening intently for movement that could help her pin down their locations. Hearing nothing, she drew herself back, took two deep breaths and kicked the door in. She dove in low and rolled, coming up on one knee rapidly to shoot the first thing that moved and wasn't her husband. Her eyes scanned the room with lightning speed – darting from one possible cover to the next, her weapon barely trailing behind. But there was no one there.
At the end of the room, the window stood open, curtains billowing inward in the chilling breeze. After a brief glance at the snow-covered garage roof below, she reached up and grabbed the frame, sliding it shut. No one had gone out that way.
She scanned the furnishings and the carpet for blood – for any sign that he'd been injured or wounded in a struggle. But there was nothing there. She sat down heavily on the bed to think and the realization hit her square in the forehead.
He'd almost certainly been long gone by the time she'd gotten home.
There were only two ways out of this part of the house, and she'd just ruled one of them out. The other would have taken them right through the gun battle – no way they'd have risked that. She'd have noticed, in any case. The two operatives she'd killed had simply been the rear guard, left to slow down or eliminate any pursuit. Their worst agents, and they'd almost gotten her anyway. She shook her head in disgust. She'd failed to protect him and now he was gone. She'd have to do better if she was going to get him back.
The assertion startled her. It came from nowhere but it was the perfectly natural decision to make. Of course she had to be the one to get him. They'd taken him from her.
Keep it together. She sniffed and blinked rapidly, trying to hold her emotions in check. Trying to keep her head in the moment. If he'd known where he was going to be taken, he'd have tried to leave a clue somehow. They'd been through this drill before. This was important and he remembered the important things. Didn't he?
She looked over at the vanity, moving across each item slowly, looking for something out of place. Something different. Something only a person who lived there every day would notice. Then she saw it – his valet was open. It was never open, it only contained his dress-up jewelry, and they pretty much never went out anymore. She looked at the items inside. There was something missing. She looked from one item to the next, trying to figure out what made the collection look incomplete. Cuff links, tie clips… they were all still here. Wait. His watch! She picked up the valet and turned it upside down on the vanity, dumping everything out. No watch.
Please… please, she prayed fervently, taking out her phone and scrolling her contacts list to the special name, "Waldo M. Wheredford". She couldn't repeat the joke today, instead selecting the entry as quickly as she could manage it. Her phone screen changed to a map that centered on her position. But as the relayed satellite telemetry from the tracking watch began to arrive from the network, the map zoomed out and jumped north and west of her position. And it was moving like a bat out of hell. She looked at the target data –Velocity 564 mph, altitude 24,000 ft! Her heart sank in her chest. He was clearly on a jet, heading west.
Gone.
Struggling to hold back the feeling of despair, she noted the time and synced it with the aircraft's location and vector. She'd be able to find this flight and figure out where they were taking him. She dialed the operator and got a number for Bradley airport. It was one of many calls she was going to have to make in a hurry. Before he was truly gone. Before she lost him forever.
Ten minutes later she got off the phone with the Interim Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, James F. Gower. Tasking secured, the mission hers – and final favors exhausted. She put aside her misgivings at the massive price she'd paid to secure what she needed to happen – what had to happen.
"Thank you, Graham," she said under her breath, "for everything." Including, she thought, this final favor that Gower had granted in his memory. She closed the cell phone with a soft click.
In the distance she heard the sound of helicopter blades – the ECARS team arriving, at last. A day late and a dollar short, she thought to herself. She looked at the mess on the vanity she'd made from dumping the valet out. The perfect symbolism for what the day had brought to their lives. From the picture of peaceful domesticity to a scene of total devastation. From relative obscurity to a calamity of national proportions. She had to find him, if for no other reason so that they could share a laugh about the whole thing – about the improbability of it all.
Five years. It had been five whole years of nothing. Then, boom. The end of their world in less than a day. She was sure he'd find it a real gut-buster. They'd laugh and laugh until both of them were gasping for breath. She grinned at the scene in her mind. Then something struck her hand and she looked down to see what it was.
It was a tear.
They were rolling down her face, although she hadn't even realized she was crying. She looked up at the mirror and was shocked at her appearance. Covered in flour and blood, tears and mascara streaking her powdered cheeks she looked like some kind of demented clown. She reached up with her left arm, then jerked back momentarily with a hiss. She'd forgotten about the wound on her shoulder. She started up again, pushing through the pain to remove her hair clip. Freed from the restraint, her long chestnut-brown hair fell around her shoulders. She threw the clip at the vanity, where it bounced around until it came to rest near a framed photo next to her hairbrush. Her eyes settled on the picture, and when she reached out to grab a tissue she picked it up as well.
It was their favorite wedding photo. Not an official wedding picture, those were in an album somewhere. This was the one his sister took as they got into the limo. She stared at it without expression, focused on the two of them caught in a genuine moment. It was why they loved this photo. It captured them at the pinnacle of their triumph – the moment they celebrated beating the government, the agency and the odds. They'd pitted their love and their determination against the world and had emerged at the end still together and unbroken. She smiled and wiped away another tear. It had been perfect. In most ways it still was perfect. The thing was, the steep price they'd paid was meant to cover forever. She looked around the darkened room, its emptiness accentuated by pops and creaks from the house as it cooled in the absence of the sun.
Maybe you didn't get forever. Maybe you only got five years.
She tried to recall how she felt that day, the girl in the photo. She looked so sure of herself, so expectant of good things ahead. And his face, so satisfied, so overjoyed. Crazy in love with her despite her moods, the job, her endless rejections. Just seeing his face in the photo made her burst into a grin. He was always able to do that to her.
She moved her finger along the photo to the limo and then to the back window, the writing done in white shoe polish. "JUST MARRIED!" it screamed in 6 inch high lettering. Then, even bigger below it, "ROBERT & KATHLEEN". She stared at the names as memories of their time together flashed by her.
She would get him back, no matter what. He would be counting on her to come for him, to never stop until he was free or she was dead. He was right to carry that belief. She would do it not only because of what they had together but because as much as they had both pretended it was no longer meaningful, he was still her… asset. It was her job to protect him with her life.
Afterward… they'd talk. She'd tell him how she had second thoughts about abandoning her career and explain what she'd had to promise Gower in order to keep him safe. He'd understand. He always did. It was one of the things she loved about h-
She closed her eyes. His absence stung her keenly, like a stab wound through the heart. She would get him back because she loved him, the other reasons be damned. But if she got him back, would she ever be able to leave him again?
She stared at the photo one last time, at the two of them. Then she slid the backing out of the frame and removed the photograph, laying it on the bed. Standing, she walked to the closet and took her overnight down from the shelf. Unzipping it onto the bed, she tucked the photo into the stretch pocket. Then, hurriedly, she pulled open the drawers of her dresser, throwing clothing, cosmetics and toiletries into the suitcase. As she finished she heard the sound of the front door being kicked in by the ECARS team. It was time to go.
At the door, she turned one last time to look over the room that held so many memories for her. She felt the pressure building behind her eyes and she glanced quickly from side to side in an attempt to stave off the tears.
It will get easier, the agent voice reassured her.
"No, it won't," she said, and turned away.
Kate stood outside her house, suitcase beside her, while the ECARS team "secured" the property. She had her cell out and was making the last important call she needed to make today, to an Air Force Lieutenant General at the DNI by the name of Diane Beckman. The plane carrying Robbie was heading to Los Angeles, and so was she. According to Gower, if she was to have a fighting chance to find Robbie in time – to find him alive – she needed to use the unique resource Beckman had at her disposal in that city. What it was he wouldn't say. Not much of a choice, really. She no longer knew any of the identities of agency assets allocated in L.A anyway. She'd have to trust Gower and that meant going through Beckman.
She checked her phone for the time. Gower had told her to wait fifteen minutes while he paved the way with Beckman, and then to call her direct at the number he provided. Nearly twenty had passed – that was long enough. "Fine," she said under her breath as she dialed the number, "No day like today, no stone unturned, no offer of help refu-" Her eyes widened at the realization of what she'd just said. She stopped dialing and let the phone dangle in her hand. She hadn't uttered those words for at least five years, since before… since she was married. It was her old mantra, the one she'd repeated endlessly on her "Sherman's march" up the CIA ladder. Yet there it was again.
After a few moments of reflection, she finished dialing the number and put the cell to her ear. Almost immediately, the phone began to ring at the other end. Considering the low display of proficiency she put on today, she was going to need all the help she could get. If Beckman could supply that help, she was going to find she had a new friend at the CIA.
Finally, there was a faint click, and a muted buzz as the crypto unit clamped the call.
"Beckman, secure."
A/N: Ok, now that you're either confused or ticked off, it's the perfect time to review! Don't worry, I've got an economy sized bottle of Prozac and am being watched every two hours. Oh, and btw, if you're at all curious about who I thought might play these characters if 'Unsanctioned Relationship' were actually an episode of the show, I've put some actor thumbnails on my profile page. I'll update it incrementally as new characters join the plot.