Sarah Walker was awake and halfway out of bed before the footsteps outside had reached the courtyard. She pulled the pistol out from under her pillow and stood up in one fluid motion, moving silently on the balls of her feet to the bedroom door. It hung open just a crack; she nudged it the rest of the way with her foot, sliding smoothly out into the hall. The gun was pointed out and downward in front of her, a professional grip. You can never be too careful, she reminded herself, thinking of Chuck fast asleep in bed. But she pushed the image out of her mind as quickly as it had come.
She brought the gun up as she rounded the corner, casting her gaze quickly over the room. Dark, empty, still. The sun was evidently rising in the sky, as weak light crosshatched the floor in front of the blinds. Sarah walked slowly to the front door, keeping a measured pace, one foot crossing in front of the other.
Whoever it was out there, he'd stopped walking. If she strained, Sarah imagined she could hear him breathing on the other side of the wall. Come on.
Keeping her arm steady at a forty-five degree angle to the floor, she peered through the peephole and breathed out, heavily.
It was the FedEx man.
Feeling foolish, she clicked the safety on and laid her gun on the end table by the window. What happened to you, Walker? Hunting the mailman. Jumping at shadows. She waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps walking away, counted out another ten seconds for good measure, then unlatched the door to pick up the package he'd left.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Sarah spun around, feeling her heart flutter in her chest. After two years in Burbank, the feeling still wasn't familiar to her. She'd never been the kind of girl for anything delicate enough to be called a flutter, or even a palpitation. "Hi," she said, smiling.
It was Chuck, emerging from the hallway in his old grey T-shirt and flannel pajamas. He rubbed his eyes, barely awake, and glanced from her to the gun on the table. She could almost see the blood drain out of his stubbly cheeks. "Sarah...?"
"Don't worry," she reassured him immediately, showing him the package. "I almost incapacitated your mailman, though."
He squinted at her, grinning slowly. "Hey, that guy deserves what he gets. I swear he's been borrowing my Netflix DVDs." He padded into the kitchen, rustling around in the cupboard above the oven. "What's in the box?"
"It's addressed to you." Sarah followed him, sliding the package across the counter. It was small, no more than five inches square.
Chuck made an excited noise under his breath. "New RAM from China. You know you can buy 32 GB of memory online now?" He twirled a kitchen knife inexpertly between his fingers, cutting into the packing tape with boyish enthusiasm. Sarah grinned in spite of herself, scooting past him into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the cup in her hands and the sun on her face.
"Uh, Sarah?"
The strain of confusion in her asset's voice snapped her instantly back to reality. She spun around. "What is it?"
A wristwatch was dangling from Chuck's hand. "I don't know. Well, I mean, obviously it's a watch," he added, tilting his head down to look at it more closely. "I don't know why."
"Who sent it?"
"No idea." He nudged the box toward her without looking up. "See? No return address."
"Chuck, put that down." Years of training kept Sarah's voice level, but she knew Chuck would pick up on the note of urgency immediately. Mysterious gifts in the mail couldn't be trusted at the best of the times, even less so when top-secret CIA assets were the recipient. He dropped it on the counter immediately, raising his hands as if to show they were empty, and flashed her a wry Bartowski smile. "What is it, poisoned?"
"Maybe." Sarah was already on the phone, halfway out of the room. "Don't touch!" she called sternly over her shoulder. Chuck looked scandalized. Chuckling, she walked back to the bedroom to get dressed.
"Are you telling me someone is sending the asset...jewelry?"
"Yes, General." Sarah pursed her lips to keep from giggling at Beckman's bewilderment. "It came in the mail this morning."
"I'll contact the postmaster general and have the package traced. In the meantime, take that watch apart and inspect every last spring. Bartowski is to have nothing to do with it. Am I understood?"
"I'll see to it personally, ma'am." Casey stalked into the room, nodding brusquely to the general on the video screen. "Nerd's got a big job today, anyway. Shouldn't be a problem."
"A big job?" It looked as if the words tasted bad on the general's lips. "I was unaware of any missions today."
"No mission," Casey chuckled. "Our boy's on inventory at the Buy More."
General Beckman's brow remained furrowed. "I don't like any of this. Agent Walker, stay close to the asset. Don't let him out of your sight. Major Casey, call me if you discover anything."
"Yes ma'am." The agents nodded in acknowledgement, hands clasped identically at the small of their backs. Beckman grimaced and terminated the call.
Sarah glanced sidelong at her partner of two years. "What do you think about all this, Casey?"
He grunted, facing away from her. "Seems Bartowski's got a secret admirer." He pulled on a blue latex glove up to his wrist, snapping it tight, and picked up the watch. "Afraid of a little competition, Walker?"
She gave him an incredulous snort and started up the stairs. "Call me when you're done."
Chuck had all but forgotten the morning's incident when he walked into the Buy More stock room. Boxes were stacked four and five high all around him, unmarked. He heaved a sigh and squatted down by the nearest pile, dropping his clipboard on the floor, holding the pencil between his teeth.
"Okay, Buy More," he muttered to the empty room. "Let's see what you sent us this time."
He ripped open the first container. Video games. Dutifully, he made a note of it on the inventory form and slid the box aside. "One down, about a hundred to go."
Sarah sauntered catlike through the open door, smiling at the sight of him sprawled out, surrounded by games. "Want some help?"
He grinned over his shoulder at her, belatedly spitting out the pencil. "Thanks, but no thanks. Technically, it's employees only down here."
"CIA, remember?" She knelt on the floor by her asset, tucking her feet underneath her. "We always get in where we're not wanted."
"Even the Buy More stock room? Talk about a high stakes assignment." Chuck pried open the next box in the stack. "I hope you have a license to kill, Agent Walker, because I will stop at nothing to defend this company." He reached in and grabbed a plastic Wii gun, springing to his feet.
Sarah kicked him lightly on the shin, laughing. "Get back to work."
He groaned. "Just what I needed. A taskmaster."
"A taskmaster with a license to kill," she corrected him, flashing her eyes. Chuck looked like he was about to laugh, but stopped when he saw her expression. Again, she resisted the urge to giggle. For God's sake, Walker, pull yourself together.
She got up and walked to the other end of the room, sliding a knife smoothly out of her ankle sheath as she crouched in front of a large crate. Three seconds later, it was lying open, packing peanuts spilling out on the concrete. "Stereo system."
They got to work.
Casey swore under his breath at the device lying disassembled on the lab table. He'd taken it apart, piece by piece; he'd dusted each component for poison, examined them from all angles under the spectrometer, and found nothing out of the ordinary. There were no hidden bombs, no tracking devices, no timed triggers or pressure pads to release neural gas. It was a watch. Just a watch.
It isn't. It can't be, dammit. He slammed a fist into the table, making the tiny silver pieces jump. I have to find the trap.
He hunched over the pieces again, squinting. Turned the silver watchband over in his hands. Fingered the delicate springs and minute gears. "What are you hiding?" he shouted.
"Is there a problem, major?"
Casey spun around. Beckman was back on the video screen, glaring mildly.
"I haven't found the trap yet, general. That's all." He realized he was breathing heavily.
"Relax." The general gave him what she evidently thought was a bracing smile. "I've dispatched a CIA forensics team for analysis. They should be arriving shortly."
"No." The word came out like a snarl from between gritted teeth. With an incredible force of will, Casey opened his jaws. "I'll find it, ma'am. I have to."
"You don't."
"I do. I will." He was seeing spots.
"Major, what is the matter with you?" Beckman leaned closer to the camera, peering at him over her desk in Langley. The muscles in Casey's neck were bulging. His eyes flicked from her to the lab table; then, roaring, he spun around and dove at it, sending bits of metal and silver flying in all directions. "Major Casey!"
"Ma'am, shut up," he growled, drawing back one fist. Beckman, prepared to dress him down for insubordination, recoiled involuntarily from the NSA agent's face. His eyes were bloodshot and rolled up in his head, like he was staring intently at something far above the camera's field of view; his cheeks, normally ruddy, had no colour at all.
"Casey, stand d-" she began, her voice rising dangerously.
The screen shattered with the force of his blow.
General Beckman leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, and let out a long breath. After a moment, she reached out and slapped a button on her desk phone. The call was answered before it had time to ring.
"Diane. What a pleasure."
"We have a situation in Burbank." She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. "It might be something more...your department."
Halfway across the country, Mrs. Frederic smiled. "Meet me at the usual place. Let's talk."