Your Massacre of Me
Your Massacre of Me
Leaving on a Jet Plane
A/N: Many thanks to those who reviewed; I really appreciate your comments. Please continue (or start) to tell me what you think. Wouldn't you want someone to do that for you? —your humble author
LA/Ontario, thankfully, had very short lines at the ticket counter and screening area. Chuck knew it wouldn't take them long to figure out what had happened and they would make a beeline for the nearest airport. Surely, though, the terminals would hide him until his plane departed at 7:00—a three-and-a-half hour wait.
"Watches, jewelry, change, cell phones, and shoes can go in that box, sir," the security guard instructed before coughing violently into her palm. "The metal detectors are pretty sensitive."
Chuck emptied his pockets and removed his watch. He balanced himself on his left leg while he unlaced his right shoe, then switched places. In hindsight, loafers would have been a better bet.
He stepped through the metal detector's archway and nearly jumped out of his skin when it began to beep. He hadn't been this edgy since the last time he stayed up all night drinking Jolt and playing Zelda: Ocarina of Time with Morgan. Before the Intersect came along, it had been an annual event.
"D'you have anything metal left in your pockets or a metallic surgical implant somewhere?" she asked.
"No."
She cleared her throat. "Any jewelry you forgot to take off?"
"No."
"Do you have anything else on your person besides your clothes, sir?"
Chuck patted himself down, then pulled out his wallet. It was the only thing besides his clothes and dental fillings that God hadn't given him at birth. The fillings were porcelain, so if the metal object wasn't in his wallet, God had some explaining to do.
The security guard waved her wand over the wallet. "Any change in it?" she asked when the wand beeped.
"No, it doesn't really hold change."
She shrugged and tossed it into the x-ray machine, then went to confer with the obese guard sitting in front of a monitor. They murmured back and forth for a moment before she called Chuck over. He looked behind him at the three waiting passengers and then hurried over.
"You got a metal thing," the heavier guard explained, pointing at the monitor. "What is it?"
Chuck had no idea. "I have no idea."
"It can't be more than a centimeter in diameter," the woman said as she handed it back. "Maybe it's a dime that got lost. Frankly, I don't care; it's not contraband. You can go."
Chuck slipped his shoes back on, shoved the laces into the sides, and grabbed his stuff. He hurried down the terminal to find the nearest populated departure gate and sat down to examine his wallet. Money, Red Cross donation card, CVS card, bank ID, license, Buy More ID, debit card, ATM card, and VISA. He dug around in the linty crevices but found nothing metal.
Finally, he reached for the only picture he kept in the wallet—a well worn photo of him and Ellie at Stanford. She had her arms around him and a giant smile plastered to her face. She was so proud of him and excited on his behalf and she only cried a little when it was time to part.
He had trouble removing the picture from its pocket; it got snagged on the wallet's seam. When he turned it over, he knew why: Someone had placed a dime-sized tracking device there.
At first, Chuck wanted to smash the device or flush it down a toilet—anything to make it disappear, but they had to already know where he was. Logic dictated that, instead of trying to stop them, he needed to misdirect them. That was when a revelation came and Chuck smiled for the first time since leaving his apartment that day.
A Southwest Airlines flight to Sacramento was just starting to board a few gates away. Chuck slung his backpack over a shoulder and walked quickly in the direction of boarding passengers. He was about to approach a young woman, but changed his mind and accosted the man in front of her.
"Excuse me," he said, getting close to the businessman while squinting at the destination display. "Is this the 3:45 flight to San Francisco?"
"No, it's the 3:55 flight to Sacramento."
Chuck dropped the homing device into the man's jacket pocket. "Thanks."
As Chuck walked away to buy a newspaper to hide behind for a few hours, he tried to shake the image of his poor victim being interrogated by government agents. It wasn't fair getting some innocent bystander involved. Had his experiences to date hardened him? Was he really willing to sacrifice another person for his own freedom?
Now conflicted, Chuck turned around and headed back to the Sacramento departure gate. He'd just make up some story—yet another one—and get back the homing device. Sometimes, it was hard to remember all the lies.
Unfortunately, in the few minutes he'd been away, the man had boarded. There was no way to retrieve the gadget without arousing suspicion.
Chuck's shoulders fell and he sighed before shuffling back toward his own gate. He very sincerely hoped to never see Casey or Sarah or Bryce or anyone else connected to espionage ever again.
He just hoped that didn't mean never seeing Ellie or Morgan or Awesome again, either.
Casey stood in the airport and stared at the tracking signal, which had started to move outside of the building. It moved faster than a human on foot and began picking up speed quickly. The screen on his PDA-like device suddenly flashed from a small scale map of the immediate area to one that encompassed the airport and everything else within a one-mile radius. Casey whipped out his mobile.
"Find out which plane is taxiing down the runway now."
"Uh…um…that's…uh…that's flight 2283. It's going to Sacramento."
"Contact Agent Walker and tell her to take a jet to the plane's arrival point; the Intersect should be on board. If she can't get there in time, find a way to keep everyone on the plane when they land."
"Yes, sir."
Normally, Casey wouldn't accuse Chuck of doing anything devious or underhanded. There had never, in the history of the world, been a person less inclined to covert operations than Chuck Bartowski. But this time, the kid seemed desperate to escape. So, instead of leaving the airport, Casey pulled out Chuck's picture and his own badge and approached the Delta Airlines desk.
"Have you seen him?"
The clerk shook his head. "No. What'd he do?"
John didn't grace the man with an answer, but moved to the next counter. It took him nearly an hour to find the Southwest ticket agent who had sold Chuck a ticket to Yuma. Apparently, Bartowski had picked up a few tricks during their missions together.
After getting clearance from the senior TSA officer and informing General Beckman of his suspicions, Casey entered Terminal Four and headed towards Gate 405.
But he didn't find Chuck at Gate 405. He didn't find him at Gate 406, either. Or 407. Had he made a mistake? Had Chuck, perhaps, bought two tickets? Maybe he really was on the plane to Sacramento. Then again, Casey felt certain that he'd spoken with every single ticket agent in the greater Los Angeles area. Whatever the case, the Yuma plane departed in just under two hours and Casey was growing angrier by the second. If he found—when he found Chuck, the younger man was going to learn a lesson about the consequences of pissing off government operatives.
Chuck picked at the hamburger in front of him. Usually, he quite enjoyed Carl's Jr. and its Western Bacon Cheeseburger. He adored the OREO cookie shake. But despite his physical hunger, having not eaten since that morning's breakfast with Morgan, Chuck couldn't muster up an appetite. Just looking at the food made him queasy.
He peered out from behind his newspaper and scanned the area around Gate 405. He didn't see anyone familiar. Or anyone holding a gun. Or anyone looking really, really angry. With only an hour and a half until departure, Chuck began to feel hopeful that he might make it.
The sound of footsteps stopping at his table caused Chuck's heart to double in speed and intensity. Its thumping reverberated throughout his chest and he couldn't seem to draw in a breath.
"Excuse me," a young woman said softly. She peeked at Chuck from behind his newspaper and offered a shy smile. Chuck had never been so glad to see an unfamiliar girl in a Carl's Jr. uniform. "Hi."
"Hi."
She bit her lip and looked down for a moment. "It's really slow today, so I couldn't help noticing that you've been here for a while, but you haven't eaten any of your food. Is there something wrong with it? I'd be happy to get you something else," she offered readily.
Chuck's shoulders relaxed from their tense position and he nearly smiled at her. "No, it's fine. I—I guess I wasn't hungry."
"Maybe you've got preflight jitters. I have one customer who flies out on the third Monday of every month; he has two vodka and orange juices at the Highballer—that's at the other end of the terminal—a Breakfast Burger here, and then two neat whiskies. Apparently, it's the only way he'll step foot on a plane."
"I'm not much for alcohol, but I bet it does the trick."
"Mr. Mahoney always boards with a smile plastered on his face."
Chuck managed a tiny smile of his own. "That's probably because he is plastered."
The conversation died down and both parties looked uncomfortable. She began to edge away, looking very mildly disappointed.
"Well, if you need anything, let me know; I'll just be at the counter. My name's Lisa."
Chuck stood and awkwardly offered his hand. "I'm Chuck." Why did a cute girl have to be flirting with him at such a bad time? If only she were really ugly, with an unpleasant personality. "I hope I see you the next time I come through."
Lisa grinned. "I hope so, too."
He watched her walk away, then turned back to his paper. He had nearly found an article to read when he sensed her approaching again. She stopped and he tilted the edge of the paper forward so it wouldn't obscure his line of vision.
"Bartowski."
Everything inside of Chuck froze when he saw Casey's face. The shock nearly sent his heart into fibrillation and it certainly did a number on his brain, which completely ceased functioning.
"Get your things," Casey commanded. He looked angrier than when his car had been destroyed.
At first, Chuck couldn't move. Then, slowly, one after another, the synapses in his brain began firing again and Chuck found something inside himself that vaguely resembled courage. Or suicide.
"No."
Casey looked surprised for a brief moment. Clearly, he hadn't anticipated any resistance. "What?"
Might as well go for it, Chuck reasoned. "What're you gonna do, Casey? Drag me out of here? Make a big scene? You can't shoot me in front of these people."
Casey took a few deep breaths to control his rage. "Fine. Get your things so we can go talk. At the bar. Because I need a drink."
Chuck eyed him suspiciously, then looked around. There was Lisa, a cook in the back, one other customer, and various passengers milling outside of the restaurant. That was a lot of witnesses.
"Okay."
At the Highballer, Chuck sat down while Casey ordered three whiskies, one of which he placed before his charge. They sat in silence while Casey knocked back one drink and nursed the other. Chuck tried to knock back his own, but only managed one large gulp before aspirating. Casey looked annoyed.
"This is never gonna work," he stated. "Even if I let you get on the plane to Yuma, you'll be escorted off it after you land."
"I'll make a scene."
"We'll say you're a terrorist; they'll be begging us to take you off the plane."
"How can you do this?"
"It's my job."
Chuck, who was beginning to feel more angry than scared, leaned closer to John. "I will not let you and the government lock me away for the rest of my life."
"It's just until we find Vega."
Chuck's eyes narrowed. "I know your real orders. I overheard them." He looked ready to shout obscenities or cry or shoot Casey with optical laser beams, which, despite the circumstances, sounded way awesome. "Maybe you weren't hugged enough as a kid. Maybe so many years at your job has killed your compassion. Clearly you don't love anybody and nobody loves you and you're okay with that. Great. But I've got family. I've got Ellie and Morgan and Devon and they mean everything to me—yes, even Devon. And I'm not gonna let anybody destroy that; I'm not gonna let you hurt them."
Everything fell into place for Casey. He understood Chuck's motives now and, although he didn't appreciate the accusation of having no one to love, he discovered a newfound respect for Bartowski. Suddenly, John Casey felt the inklings of guilt, a previously unknown emotion. He didn't like it.
"We have to protect you."
"You mean you have to protect the Intersect."
"I mean…we have to protect both." Casey sighed. "If there were another way, we'd take it. Nobody wants this. But after we catch Vega, how do we know whom he's told about you? How many other people are going to know your identity? Your life is in danger. Either they'll kidnap and torture you, they'll kill you, or we'll keep you safe underground. Which option do you think your sister would pick?"
Chuck looked down at his drink. "That's not good enough," he replied softly. "There has to be another way." He looked up again. "I've cooperated with you guys on everything. You want to use me for national security? Okay. You don't want me to tell anybody anything, even though it's put a barrier between me and others? Okay. You want to imprison me temporarily? I even agreed to that, Casey. I have put up with listening devices, people shooting at me, getting drugged, getting lied to, your insults, Sarah's pretend love, sleepless nights, getting shoved into trunks, and constant flashes from the computer in my brain." Chuck's demeanor changed as he reached the final truth. "But I can't make it without my family. That's asking for too much."
A few minutes of silence passed. Chuck stared anxiously out of the window at the planes and ground crews. Casey tipped his half-finished glass of whiskey and rolled the liquid around. For some reason, he looked the tiniest bit sad.
Chuck blinked a couple times to clear his vision. It was strange, but things were starting to blur. And his lungs didn't want to function correctly; each breath was slow and shallow and he found himself having to consciously breathe in deeply. He should never have had a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach.
"Chuck."
Chuck turned his head to face Casey, but it seemed to be in slow motion. Had the world sped up? Had gravity suddenly doubled? And why did Casey's voice sound as if it were in the next room?
"It's gonna be okay, Chuck."
Casey had clearly said words—meaningful words with dictionary definitions and everything—but they meant little as a sentence.
"What's…wrong with me?" Chuck asked.
Casey stood and helped Chuck get up. He took the other man's backpack and began to lead him away from the bar and out of the terminal while he spoke into a cell phone. It wasn't until they neared the airport's exit that Chuck's brain caught up.
"Stop," he managed to say, the sudden, panicked realization lending him some clarity. "What—what did you do to me? Stop…Casey, please don't do this." He staggered in front of Casey, nearly fell over, then gripped his handler's shirt for support. "You can't…please…I'm begging you," he choked.
Casey took Chuck's arms and helped him outside. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he opened the door of a black, unmarked car that was waiting for them. It was here that Chuck's knees gave out and he fell. Thankfully, Casey caught him under the arms and helped him find the backseat. Another agent pulled Bartowski into the middle, buckled him in, then cuffed his hands together. Casey got inside next to Chuck and cued the driver.
Chuck could feel his consciousness abating. His eyes wouldn't stay open, his limbs couldn't move, and the edges of his vision began to darken.
"Please," he mumbled, barely audible, before his head fell back against the seat and he lost consciousness.
Please review