You got this, Chuck.
He didn't know why he still told himself that. It never helped. Not even once. It just served to make him more nervous, more hesitant.
What if I don't got this?
That question always led down a very dark road.
Well, then you don't get past the bad guys. If you don't get past the bad guys, you don't get the hard drive. If you don't get the hard drive, Keuer sells all of the CIA's most valuable secrets to the highest bidder and disappears in a dark cloud of chaos and billions of dollars to fund some other plot to screw over the known universe.
That sounded just awesome.
Plus, his brain reminded him, if you didn't get past the bad guys, it's probably because they killed you.
Please stop.
Also, they're probably going after Sarah now.
For the love of God—
And they're probably gonna kill her, too.
"Shut up!" he snapped at himself, and immediately clapped a hand over his mouth as if it would stop the echo from reverberating down the hallway.
Idiot.
He stood absolutely still—stiller than a statue—as the remnants of his voice died off, waiting for the sound of boots or voices or handgun slides or any other indicator that he had just blown the whole operation. Moments passed and, mercifully, he heard nothing. He slowly lowered his hand.
You definitely don't got this.
He ignored his brain's latest comment and raised his tranq gun again, resuming a deliberate stance and turning his mind back toward his current mission. He consulted his memory, playing back a flash of the building's blueprint. Take the next right. His eyes settled on a corner down the hall, where a tributary corridor met the hallway he currently haunted.
Furtively, he advanced toward the corner and paused, listening closely for the sounds of footsteps or voices before he glanced around the corner, finding yet another empty stretch of hallway.
This is wrong.
Casey's voice growled in his ear. "Bartowski, what's your status?"
Chuck took a quick inhale. You're not here alone. Casey's super-spy voice could not have come at a better moment. He consulted his mental blueprint again. If it was accurate, the vault was down the hallway and to the left. He raised the transmitter on his wrist to his mouth, muttering as clearly and quietly as he could. "I am approaching the vault."
He began padding down the hallway again, injecting confidence into his footsteps. Trust the Intersect, he encouraged himself. This tactic worked to soothe his ever-timid mind far better. He was approaching his next turn, and he bent his knees a little lower, slowing to a foot-over-foot creep that he had inherited from his handlers.
He could hear muttering voices; he knew even before he looked that there were guards in the next hall. He leaned his head slowly around the corner to catch a glimpse of them. Two broad-shouldered men in black suits stood menacingly in front of a pair of heavy-looking double doors, with obvious bulges in their jacket pockets. They were turned slightly toward each other, conversing in low, serious tones.
Chuck felt the muscles between his brows twitch. Only two? He leaned back behind the corner quickly, raising his wrist to his mouth again. "Two guards in the corridor," he whispered, his voice monotonous.
Casey's voice sounded staticky as he responded. "Be careful, Bartowski. We're getting interference on your end."
Yeah, on your end, too.
Apprehension gripped his chest. Every one of his instincts was telling him to abort the mission, but even to him that sounded ridiculous. No one ever complained that a mission was too easy. Casey would ridicule him, General Beckman would probably suspend him, and Sarah...
He didn't even want to contemplate what Sarah would think.
He took a breath and looked down at his tranq gun, gripping it with surety. As he focused intently on the weapon, he felt his eyelids flutter.
Targets. Sights. Trigger weight. Shots. Recoil. Follow through.
A smirk tugged at his lips as he looked up from the gun. I got this.
He straightened swiftly from his crouch and stepped from behind the wall. One of the guards saw him and squared himself, reaching inside his jacket for his gun. The other guard reacted a fraction of a second later, pivoting on his heel to face him, but both of them were too late. Chuck effortlessly straightened his arms, his eyes instantly finding his target beyond the far sight of his gun. He squeezed the trigger once, letting the minor recoil serve to line up the sights on his other target as he fired the second shot mere milliseconds after the first.
Both men stumbled as the tranquilizer took effect, falling into unconscious heaps on the ground.
Chuck let a breath pass smoothly through his lips as he lowered his gun, his smirk growing more pronounced. He raised his wrist to his mouth again as he strode toward the double doors. "Guards neutralized." He holstered his tranq gun as he walked and bent down to retrieve an ID badge from one of the guards. He scanned the badge over the black pad beside the door and turned the handle.
As he stepped into the room beyond the doors, he looked around. The room was dimly lit and exceptionally bare except for a large, menacing steel door directly in front of him. To the side of the door, there was a small screen with a fingerprint scanner.
"I've reached the vault," he informed through his transmitter, and he reached into a pocket on his vest, retrieving a small black case: a CIA fingerprint bypass kit.
He unzipped the case as he knelt by the door. It contained two small canisters, a pair of gloves, a small penlight and several print-lifting strips. He quickly pulled on the gloves and picked up both canisters. He held the penlight to them to see which was which, keeping the one with the red stripe while dropping the other back into the kit. He straightened and aimed the nozzle at the edge of the door above the circular, wheel-style handle.
"Ignore the handle," Sarah had told him when she demonstrated how to use the kit. "You'll never get clean prints there. Focus on the edge of the door, just above the handle. That's where Keuer probably puts his hand to close the door when he leaves."
Chuck pressed the top of the canister and a fine cloud of graphite engulfed the edge of the door. He leaned in and blew on the area gently, clearing off the excess powder, leaving several overlapping handprints. He shined the penlight on the prints, looking for a good thumbprint to lift. He smiled as he found one and reached for a print-lifting strip.
Carefully opening the strip with his gloved hands, he retrieved the other canister—the one with the green stripe—and misted the white half of the strip lightly with a clear liquid. Turning the strip around, he lined up the clear part of the strip over the thumbprint and pressed it down firmly, rubbing his fingers over it to ensure that the whole print was lifted. With a swift tug, he pulled the strip from the door and folded it closed again, clear section adhering to the white section.
He watched for a moment, fascinated as the lines of the thumbprint puffed up minutely, forming realistic ridges in the strip. He hastily threw his supplies back in the kit and put it back in his pocket before he straightened up, still holding Keuer's fake finger print. He blew out a quick breath. I hope this works.
Without further delay, he pressed the strip over the fingerprint scanner and waited for the laser to make its pass. The screen above the scanner lit up, displaying a photo of Keuer and a green banner that said "Access Granted." He heard a heavy metallic thud as the locks in the door retracted, and a relieved smile lit up his face as he reached and turned the circular handle.
"I'm in," he said into his transmitter as he pulled the heavy steel door toward him.
As the door swung open, the lights inside automatically turned on. Chuck strode around the door, pulling the gloves from his hands as he went, before he looked up, and he immediately froze in place. A man, dressed in a stylish and expensive grey suit, with perfectly groomed brown hair combed neatly to the side, stood in the middle of the vault.
He reached for his tranq gun, still sheathed on his hip, but Keuer held a pistol up and pointed it at his head.
"I don't think that will be necessary, Agent Carmichael," Keuer sneered coldly.
Chuck slowly released the grip of his gun and raised his hands, his breath quickening, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard multiple clicks echo inside the steel vault and he startled, looking over one shoulder then the other as four men, dressed in identical black suits, advanced on him from the corners of the vault on either side. He looked back at Keuer and swallowed.
"Let me tell you what's going to happen," Keuer said, taking a step toward Chuck. "You are going to come with us."
"Am I?" Chuck countered. He knew he had to flash. He had to flash and get out of this mess. But at the moment, he couldn't see how.
Keuer's eyes narrowed. "There is no need for rudeness here, Charles. May I call you Charles?"
He paused for a fraction of a second, but Chuck knew it was only for dramatic effect. Keuer continued before Chuck had the chance to answer him.
"You will come with us, Charles, one way or another."
Chuck swallowed again. "Is this one of those, "we can do this the easy way or the hard way" speeches? Because frankly, I was never a big fan of those."
Keuer chuckled once and shrugged. "Look around you. There are five guns trained on you right now. Not one of us will hesitate to pull the trigger."
"Where's the hard drive, Keuer?"
Keuer smiled again and shook his head, closing the remainder of the distance between them one step at a time, until he stood uncomfortably close. Chuck resolutely kept eye contact with Keuer, raising his chin only the slightest amount when Keuer shoved the weapon up under his jaw.
"I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Charles," Keuer said more softly, and he leaned in a little. "I never had all the CIA's best-kept secrets."
Chuck swallowed. He knew what was coming next.
"But now," Keuer continued, a victorious smile spreading across his face, "I do."
Now's the time, Chuck, he told himself. As he focused on Keuer's scathing grin, a series of images streamed before his eyes. Chinese symbols, punches, kicks, spins, grapples.
He stepped forward quickly between Keuer's feet and planted his knee behind Keuer's, sending him to the ground. Immediately, he spun around, a well-aimed crescent kick knocking three of the four guns behind him aside, their owners stumbling under the force. The fourth man leapt backwards to avoid Chuck's attack, compromising his posture such that Chuck could take him out with a jump kick.
Spinning again, he saw that one of the men had recovered and was raising his gun at him again. He caught the man's wrist, directing his motion into an overbalance, and brought his knee up sharply into the man's face, his nose crunching gruesomely. He directed a side kick at Keuer and sent him back to the ground. A pair of arms grabbed him around his neck from behind, and he instinctively reached up to grip them. He bent his knees and threw his weight forward, and the guard toppled over his head, landing heavily on his back at Chuck's feet.
Suddenly, a silenced shot rang out and Chuck felt a pinch in his upper arm. "Ah," gasped, not in pain but rather in surprise, and reached his other hand up to his arm. A small dart protruded from the black fabric of his shirt.
The effects were immediate. Wooziness set in, causing the world to blur and tilt. He felt himself stumble to the side as he looked up at a guard, who advanced upon him with his gun trained on his chest. Gathering the remainder of his strength, Chuck took quick sidestep and directed a roundhouse kick at him. The man jumped back, and the kick failed to land.
As Chuck brought his leg back into chamber, he overbalanced and stumbled backward. A sharp, downward blow landed on his shoulder and, with a shout of pain, Chuck collapsed onto the ground.
Groggily, he looked up to see two of the guards and Keuer leaning over him. Keuer looked to be in pain, but that didn't wipe the smug grin from his face.
Keuer raised a hand and waved his fingers at Chuck condescendingly as his vision began to cloud. "Sleep well, Charlie," he sang, and with a few final blinks, Chuck's consciousness faded out.