CHUCK VERSUS ROUTE 66—PART ONE (Chuck 6-05)

The fifth episode of an imaginary sixth season of Chuck.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck but I thank the folks who do, for letting us FF writers keep on playing with their toys!

CHAPTER 1

Saturday night, in the desert of westernmost Arizona

(Music: "Western Sky," by Those Darlins)

Sarah isn't inclined to cling to the tame Interstate highway, even after night falls. Once she and Chuck have crossed the Colorado River and left California, she steers the Corvette onto another remote segment of old U.S. Route 66: a narrow two-lane that climbs sinuously through a rugged, eerie landscape of rounded granite boulders and bristly Joshua trees. As Sarah enjoys putting the Corvette through its paces on the backcountry desert road, Chuck is content to lean way back in his leather bucket seat, to revel in the evening warmth, and look far up into the star-spangled sky.

Until Sarah interrupts his stargazing with a request, voiced just above the whistle of the desert air streaming past their speeding vehicle:

"Umm…sweetie?"

"Mmm? Yeah, babe?"

"I need a pit stop. We're out in the middle of nowhere, I know—but would you see if there's some place with a half-decent restroom in the next twenty or so miles?" She points to the iPhone resting between them on the center console.

"Sure thing." But before Chuck can even reach for the phone, he spontaneously flashes…road maps and travel-guide listings kaleidoscope through his mind…then he shudders once and his eyes refocus.

"Uh…yeah. Yeah, and close. There's an old mining town—more tourist trap now—called Goldroad, six miles ahead over the next ridge. Gas station's probably closed but there's a bar and grill that'll still be open."

Sarah glances over at him. "Thanks…but did you just flash on that?"

"Yeah," Chuck replies. "Not intentionally."

"What's up with that? You weren't in any danger this time."

"Well maybe this time it's 'cause you're in need, babe—"

Sarah shakes her head. "Having to pee doesn't exactly qualify as a deadly emergency, Chuck. I mean…I can always pull off the road." Then—a second later and in a more solicitous tone, she asks him, "You are gonna tell Ellie about these reflex flashes you've been having…right?"

"'Course I am."

"Good. Because if you don't, I will." She takes his hand and caresses it—then hammers the accelerator.

Minutes later, they crest a pass and slow down for the approach into Goldroad, Arizona. It's a tiny burg that consists mostly of a few kitschy souvenir shops with western-style false fronts, asleep for the night and stretched along a single street beneath a rocky hillslope scarred by old mine workings and dun-colored tailings piles. A herd of feral burros, obviously accustomed to people and their vehicles, loiters near the only service station, in the center of the town. The self-serve pumps appear to be working but—as Chuck predicted—the mini-mart and restrooms are locked.

Just ahead, all manner of pickup trucks with gun racks, high-clearance SUVs, jeeps, and motorcycles are parked thickly along both sides of the street: two lines leading straight to the one establishment still open in town: a throbbing, neon-splashed honky-tonk in a sagging, sprawling old ranch-house sort of structure. A big rooftop sign illuminated in garish blue and yellow announces: GOLDROAD BAR AND GRILL—LIVE MUSIC NITELY.

Still several blocks away, Chuck and Sarah can already hear the fiddle, steel guitar, and bouncy vocals of a Western swing band playing full-tilt inside the joint. Laughing, rowdy-looking men and women—some in cowboy hats, some in ball caps, and some in biker leathers—flit in and out of the doors, and cluster in shadows all around. There aren't any parking spaces up close, so Sarah brings the blue Corvette to the front, takes it out of gear, and looks imploringly at her husband.

"Chuck—I've really, really got to go now. Would you please find a place to park so I can run inside?"

"Of course, babe."

Sarah's already out of the vehicle. Whether it's her striking appearance in a form-fitting black aviator jacket, or the novelty of the sleek half-century-old resto-mod sports car—or some combination of both—more than a few of the patrons standing outside are already staring.

"I'll come after you soon as I get this parked," Chuck says. But rather than get out and walk around to the driver-side door, he swings his left leg over the center console, intending to slide across from the passenger seat to the driver seat.

Walking briskly and a little stiffly toward the front door of the honky-tonk, Sarah pauses to glance back and chuckle at his ungainly move. "Hey, be careful there, sweetheart," she warns him. "Don't you go breaking anything I'll need later on—if ya know what I mean!"

"No worries about that!" Chuck jauntily fires back, as Sarah blows him a kiss and hurries into the building. But with his attention thus briefly diverted, he's hooked the right side pocket of his jeans on the shifter knob. Spread-legged, with his left foot on the floor perilously close to the clutch pedal, and his right foot still wedged under the passenger seat, Chuck is stuck.

"Hmm," he mutters, taking stock of his situation, "this sure wasn't optimally built for tall people." Chuck wiggles his butt to try and free himself. Instead, he accidentally taps the clutch with his left foot, and the Corvette shifts into reverse!

The car starts rolling backward toward a row of black-and-silver Harley-Davidson motorcycles parked near the entrance. Alarmed and unable to work the shift lever, Chuck yanks on the steering wheel. The Corvette swings away from the bikes—out into the middle of the street, accelerating in reverse in the wrong lane.

(Screeee—HAWNNK!) An oncoming Dodge Ram pickup narrowly swerves out of the way as the Corvette hurtles backward toward it.

"Crazy sumbitch! You wasted or what?"

"Pardon me!" Chuck yells back at the driver. He manages to steady the wheel with his left hand while working on extricating his jeans pocket from the shifter with his right. The Corvette continues in reverse along the centerline of the main street. Chuck looks over his shoulder and glimpses the headlights of the next oncoming vehicle: an 18-wheel semi-trailer, just coming down the grade into town.

"Now what?" he asks himself, hearing a distant throbbing grumble as the semi driver hurriedly applies the jake brakes. On the edge of his field of vision, Chuck spots the service-station driveway coming up fast on his left side. He holds his breath and pulls on the steering wheel. The Corvette gracefully pivots off the street and backs into the driveway well before the groaning semi arrives. Chuck realizes that in the process of turning sharply, he's slipped free of the shifter, so he immediately whips his right leg over, and lunges for the clutch and then the brake. He's ended up safely parked in a perfectly good place at the rear of the service-station lot.

"Let's leave the backwards driving to Sarah," Chuck resolves, shaking his head, as he throws on a light jacket and heads up the street to find her.

(Music: "House of Blue Lights," by guest stars Asleep at the Wheel)

The first thing Chuck sees after stepping into the packed, smoky, sweaty honky-tonk is an array of pool tables under hanging stained-glass beer lights, all in active use by a clutch of leather-garbed folk who appear to be the Harley owners. The Western swing band, seven members strong, is playing hard on a stage at one side of the expansive room, surrounded by a number of dancing couples. In the midst of it all is a weatherbeaten wooden bar, packed with revelers drinking and gabbing beneath tall mirrors and shelves of liquor. Chuck locates the restrooms in the back corner. There's a long line for the ladies' room, and Sarah's in it: two places shy of the door.

He joins her. Sarah looks at him, frowns, and bites her lower lip.

"Poor baby," he says. "I can try smuggling you into the men's room. No line."

"It's all right—I'm almost there now," she replies. "You could wait for me at the bar."

"'Kay. Get you something while I'm over there?"

"Thanks—but it's a little difficult to think about drinking anything at the moment."

"Right. Sorry 'bout that." Chuck kisses Sarah, then crosses the room and squeezes through a three-deep row of patrons to reach the bar, the top of which is covered in colorful Mexican ceramic tiles and cluttered with bottles and glasses showing various levels of consumption. The rollicking music is much louder here.

The nearest of three busy bartenders—a short, buxom, greying blonde—brings out a rag to wipe down the bar in front of Chuck, then grins up at him and loudly asks, "What'll ya have, hon?"

"I'd really like an ice water," he quickly replies.

The bartender wasn't anticipating that. "Ohhh…kaay…Anything else?"

Suddenly mindful of standing out as a hopeless dweeb, Chuck says, "Sure. Whisky…yeah—whisky chaser."

"What brand, hon?"

"Oh…I dunno…Johnny Walker Black, I guess."

She turns, and a moment later sets a generous shot of whisky and a beer mug full of ice water down in front of him. Chuck leaves a ten-dollar bill on the bar and hoists the shot glass.

"To you, John Casey…wherever you are." He drains the glass. The whisky burns going down, but Chuck channels the tough ex-Marine and neither coughs nor grimaces. He sighs, trades the empty shot glass for the mug of ice water, and turns to look back toward the ladies' room. Sarah's no longer in the line outside the door.

Then Chuck shifts his focus to the pool tables. At the table nearest to him, an incongruous pair of opponents—a slender baby-faced man who barely seems old enough to be in the bar legally, and a craggy, bearded mountain of a biker—are playing ten-ball. It doesn't look like much of a contest to Chuck. The biker sinks shot after shot, while the young man muffs nearly all of his. He somehow gets a few lucky shots in, but the biker makes short work of him. The big man belly-laughs, snatches up a cocktail glass hidden under the pool table, and empties it of a wad of twenties stuffed within. Then he looks around for a new challenger.

But instead, as Chuck looks on, the baby-faced man confers with one of the other spectators, a silver-mustachioed figure in a gleaming white Stetson and turquoise bola, and whispers something in his ear. Mustache man nods, reaches into his pocket, and passes a hundred-dollar bill to the young man. Baby-face steps back to the table and waves the bill at the biker, who grunts and racks the balls once more—

Just then, Chuck is startled when a pair of soft, warm lips plant a moist kiss against the back of his neck. The kiss feels nice, but strangely unfamiliar. He turns to discover that his stealthy attacker isn't Sarah, but—

"Carina?"

The sexy DEA agent, his wife's former partner and friendly rival, stands before him in a chambray blouse, tight jeans with a silver concha belt, and mauve ostrich-skin boots, with her long red-gold hair tightly braided on either side of her head. With this look she blends in perfectly with most of the female patrons in the place.

"Heeey Chuck, how's it hangin'?"

"Carina—what the hell are you doing here? Does Sarah know you're here?"

"Yeah. We already said hi in the girls' room."

Just then, Sarah pops in through the crush of cowboys, cowgirls, and bikers. She must have seen the kiss, because she frowns disapprovingly at Carina and stands a little bit in front of Chuck, as if to shield him from any more playful assaults.

"Quite the coincidence, dear," she says pointedly.

"Well…you know I'm bad, I'm nationwide," Carina replies. "Just stands to reason we'd meet up sooner or later." She looks around the room with an expression of mild disgust. "Wouldn't have figured in a dump like this though."

"Are you working?" Sarah asks.

"Like I'd tell a couple of civilians anything!" snorts Carina. "Is Martin here?"

"Morgan," Chuck corrects her. "And no—it's just the two of us."

"And a '62 Corvette," adds Sarah.

"Just the two of you on a road trip? Sounds tedious." Carina cocks her head and looks knowingly at them both. "Come to think of it…it's mid-May…your wedding anniversary's coming up, isn't it?"

"It's on Wednesday," Sarah quickly replies, and slips an arm around Chuck.

"Hmm. You seem to be over that amnesia thing I heard about. Good." Carina's eyes twinkle. "So do you remember when I tried to seduce your asset? Twice?"

"To no avail," retorts Chuck with a laugh, and Sarah smiles at him.

He gestures toward the billiards area and continues, "Whatever you're here for, Carina, I'd bet it has something to do with that pool-playing kid over there."

Carina looks impressed. "Nice. You may have left the biz but your spydar's still in working order, I see. And what the hell—you're gonna watch it all go down in a few minutes anyway…."

She draws in closer to Sarah and Chuck and lowers her voice.

"The kid's a shark, a natural. He's in with the mustache guy, who's a major regional distributor for the Palomas cartel. They've been sandbagging their mark—that hairy lardball soon to be taken to the cleaners—he's the leader of the Hells Javelinas motorcycle club."

"They're already breaking the law just with the gambling," Sarah points out.

"I'll let the sheriff worry about that," Carina retorts.

"I see," says Chuck. "They get the biker boss in their debt and then put 'im to work?"

"Bikers as drug mules? Now there's an original idea," Sarah scoffs.

"But it still works, given the right circumstances," replies Carina. "Those bikers happen to be on their way to a major outlaw rally in Idaho and Palomas wants to move product that way. They'll pay handsomely for a safe delivery."

She glances over at the Stetson-hatted mustache man, who seems wholly focused on the new game between his young hustler and the biker boss. "But I could care less about the grungy Javelinas—I'm here to land the bigger fish."

"I assume you aren't working alone," Chuck notes.

"Course not, Chuckles. Anyway…you two vagabonds oughtta do a little dancing, have a drink—and watch for when the real show gets going." Carina reaches out to give Chuck's butt a quick squeeze—before Sarah sharply swats her hand away—then grins at them both and melts back into the crowd.

Sarah looks at her husband and rolls her eyes, then slips her arms around his neck to pull her face up close to his.

"We don't have to stick around here if you don't want…." she begins.

He chuckles at that. "You know we both want to see how the deal goes down."

(Music: "Get Your Kicks On Route 66," by guest stars Asleep at the Wheel)

Forty minutes later, Chuck and Sarah are swinging and spinning around with the other couples in the swelling crowd in front of the stage. Enjoying themselves immensely, exchanging tender looks and occasional kisses as they dance, the Bartowskis also keep watch on the action at the pool tables, and track Carina's movements around the room as best as they can.

"I think we're holding our own out here," Chuck murmurs in Sarah's ear.

"We are," she murmurs back. "Especially since neither of us ever danced western swing before. Glad it was in the Intersect."

"It's different, huh…me teaching you the steps this time?"

Sarah laughs and nuzzles his neck—before leaning back, her hands clasped in his, for another energetic whirl around the floor in time to the catchy music. But before the song ends, they hear loud and angry words coming from the billiards area. They turn that way in unison—just in time to see the leader of the Hells Javelinas lay his cue stick on the table and hurry out through the front door, followed by a dozen or so of his comrades. Immediately afterward, the mustache man slips out after them. The baby-faced hustler stands alone at the table, still holding his own pool cue, looking confused.

Chuck pulls Sarah close again and whispers, "I don't think this is part of the plan. Can you spot Carina?"

"No…wait…yes, there she is, over by the wall. She's talking to someone through her earpiece. Not even bothering to conceal it. She must've been caught way off guard. C'mon!"

Sarah grabs Chuck's hand and tugs him off the dance floor, over to intercept Carina, in a dim corner near the restrooms. The DEA agent is still barking orders at her unseen associates, but her voice is masked by the loud music and banter all around.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asks her.

"Some drunk cowboy just backed his dually into the Javelinas' bikes out front!"

"Wow. Pretty stupid…drunk or not," offers Chuck.

"Yeah, well, the bikers ran out there in force, and the pickup driver's got his pals backing him too. Looks like a major fight's brewing—I'm worried mustache man might freak and run before he can do the deal."

"Not to mention, his baby shark's looking like a fish out of water right about now," Chuck adds, nodding toward the billiards area.

"I know and that's another problem," replies Carina. "I need some way to keep the kid at the table until we can stabilize the situation outside. Any ideas?"

She laughs hollowly at an abrupt, crazy thought. "I don't recollect blondie being all that good at pool—but what about you, Chuckles?"

Carina wasn't expecting Chuck to reply "I can do it. You've gotta stake me though."

Sarah is bewildered for just a half-second, until she realizes what her husband is thinking. Then she pats his shoulder. "Chuck can do it. No question."

"I don't know," says Carina hesitantly. "We can stake you, but you can't just saunter over there as dapper Agent Carmichael on a lark and get in the game—not in this kind of place."

"She's right, sweetie," adds Sarah. "You need a more authentic cover."

Behind them, the door to the men's room opens—and out steps another member of Hells Javelinas, in a blue bandana and black leather vest. As he squeezes past them on his way back to the bar, he smiles politely at Sarah and Carina—who gape at each other in surprise—then swiftly seize the hapless biker by the shoulders and shove him into the ladies' room. Fortunately there's no longer a line of ladies waiting their turns to use it.

Baby-face can't figure out what to do. His mark has fled—leaving his cue right there on the table—and the stakehorse from the cartel has gone after him. To this point the kid has let slip only the barest evidence of his skill, but that was enough for him to have already won most of the biker's bankroll, so the other players are circling his table warily, none caring to jump in….

…That is, until an uncharacteristically tall, slim, and clean-shaven Hells Javelina wearing a blue bandana and ill-fitting leather vest—with a sizzling, gum-cracking, blonde tramp hanging drunkenly on his arm—drifts over from the general direction of the bar.

Chuck looks the hustler in the eye and says, "Buddy L said I should take over here 'til he gets done kickin' them cowboys' asses."

Sarah giggles and loudly snaps her chewing gum. Chuck looks at the young man again and shakes his head—as if asking for sympathy—then slips his arm free of her grasp and helps her onto a nearby barstool. She blows him a loud kiss and waves, acting as though the effort almost causes her to tumble from her seat.

Baby-face watches all this and then asks, "Did Buddy L bother to tell ya we were playin' for five benjamins a game before he split? You good for that, pal?"

Chuck reaches for a wad of bills in his vest pocket. For the first time, he notices that the young hustler is wearing a hefty gold-and-diamond ring on his right hand. He counts out five one hundreds, and stuffs them in the empty cocktail glass concealed beneath the table. Then he picks the biker boss's cue off the table and hefts it, gauging the weight and balance.

"Okay," says the young man as he deposits his own money in the glass to match Chuck's bet. "Lag for the break?" He sets the seven-ball and nine-ball on the table behind the head string, and he and Chuck simultaneously bounce them off the far cushion. Baby-face's ball halts about a centimeter closer to the near cushion than Chuck's ball does.

"Yaaay—hic!—schhweetie!" Sarah cries—way too loud and slurring her words. "You—hic!—rock!"

Chuck sighs, and patiently tells her, "He won the lag, babe."

"Oh. Well…you still rock." She leans forward and stares at the table, feigning an attempt to get bleary eyes to focus—and not incidentally, better displaying her cleavage.

"Nice cheering section," says the hustler as he racks the billiard balls. "But do you think you can keep her quiet?"

Hearing this, Sarah sits upright with a stern face and dramatically puts a finger to her own lips—then hiccups again, and breaks out in an unstifled, sputtering giggle.

"Easy, babe," Chuck gently chides. Unseen by his opponent, he winks at his wife.

Over on the stage, the band sets down its instruments for a breather, and the dancing couples diffuse back into the general crowd. Most of them head to the bar. Somebody sticks a debit card in the jukebox and orders up a recorded song.

(Music: "Dim Lights, Thick Smoke," by Dwight Yoakam)

Baby-face breaks and pockets the six ball—then studies the remaining configuration on the table, points to a corner pocket, and sinks the one ball there. But on his attempt to sink the two ball, his cue appears to slip by a hair's-breadth on the shot, and the ball caroms off the cushion just short of the called pocket.

Before taking his turn, Chuck whispers into Sarah's ear: "That miss was deliberate. He's testing me. And y'know—Carina never said if I'm supposed to win or lose."

"Just do whatever it takes to keep him on the hook," his wife softly suggests—then keeps up her cover with a clumsy, sloppy kiss aimed at Chuck's lips that ends up smooshing against his nose instead.

Smiling, Chuck turns his back to his opponent, bends down close to the green felt—and flashes. Body movements, ball configurations, elastic collisions, and imaginary vectors charge his conscious mind. He blinks, takes a few steadying breaths, picks up his cue—then proceeds to call and smartly sink every remaining ball, finishing up with the ten ball.

Baby-face whistles in mild amazement and admiration, but is otherwise unfazed.

"Awesome. Buddy L should've put you in the game a lot earlier, pal. Double or nothin'?"

"Sure…assuming you're good for it."

"Wouldn'a said nothin' if I wasn't." The hustler produces another five hundred dollars and adds the bills to the kitty—then proceeds to win the lag for the break again. And this time, he effortlessly clears the table before Chuck even gets a chance to shoot.

"Break-and-run," says Chuck. "Now I'm impressed."

"So now we're even," says baby-face with a shrug. "Wanna go for the gold?" He slips off his fat diamond ring and proffers it to Chuck to examine. "Five carat stone, custom design. High five figures. Got somethin' to cover it?"

"Is that thing even real?" bellows Sarah, swaying atop the stool.

The hustler ignores her comment and looks expectantly at Chuck. Chuck looks to Sarah, who all but imperceptibly nods yes. He holds up the keys to their car.

"I think a resto-mod '62 Corvette will suffice. Parked just down the street."

"Really? I'da figured you're ridin' a Hog."

Chuck puts his arm around the young man's shoulder, motions toward Sarah with his head, and quietly says, "Actually, the car's hers."

Baby-face chortles. "Geez! I don't know…I win those keys from you, I don't think you'll be gettin' nothin' else from her tonight…."

"Except I'm not going to lose," replies Chuck matter-of-factly.

"Damn—hic!—sshhtraight!" slurs Sarah in an authentically dizzy way.

"Suit yourself, pal." The hustler drops the ring and the keys in the cocktail glass beneath the table, and sets up the balls for the lag. The players at the other tables set down their cues to watch. Another group of spectators is looking on from the bar area, and even the musicians on stage seem to be interested in the game.

Hunched forward alongside his opponent, lowering his cue stick into position, Chuck lets the Intersect take control…he shoots…and this time he wins the lag!

He racks the balls, breaks—and sinks both the seven and eleven balls. Smiling thinly but confidently, studying the table as he circles it thoughtfully and very slowly—to delay the completion of the game as much as possible—Chuck envisions the sequence of shots he'll need to win.

For the first time that night, the baby-faced hustler looks a little worried.

Chuck chalks the tip of his cue stick; blows off the loose powder; chalks it again: buying a bit more time for Carina and her agents to solve their problem outside. Finally, he lines up for his next shot—but before he can take it, a basso voice blasting out from behind him nearly causes him to drop the cue stick.

"Who the hell are you and why've you got on Pinky's colors? What's goin' on here?"

Man-mountain biker boss Buddy L has reappeared—along with five of his fellow Hells Javelinas—and is glaring furiously at Chuck from the other side of the pool table.

"Whaat?" croaks baby-face. "He's not one of you guys?"

"No, he ain't!" Buddy L vehemently replies. "An' I repeat: who the hell are you—wearin' my lieutenant's vest, usin' my damn pool cue an' probably tryin' to take alla my money, too?"

Chuck slowly sets the cue down and holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"Wait, wait…I can explain…let me explain…" He looks all around for Carina but can't find her anywhere in the crowd.

Still sitting on the stool, closer to the bikers than Chuck is, Sarah maintains her false appearance of dead drunkenness, but her eyes narrow and her body tenses.

"You're a damn thief is the explanation," roars Buddy L, pointing a fat forefinger at Chuck. "And what'd you do with Pinky? The man whose leather you've got on?"

"Umm…he's fine. Really. I…um…think he's sleeping in the ladies' room."

Buddy L's face reddens and his fists clench, although he hasn't yet made any move that threatens real violence. But one of his younger associates, a stubbly-faced skinhead standing alongside him, seems less inhibited. He has an empty beer bottle in his left hand, and he starts to slap it angrily against his right palm. Sarah watches him carefully.

Chuck slips the vest off and extends it across the pool table toward Buddy L.

"Here. Take it back with my profuse apologies. Sir."

"That ain't gonna cut it, junior. You ain't no sworn Javelina which means you've already desecrated the colors. 'Fraid we can't just let ya walk with nothin' more than an 'I'm sorry.'"

Chuck glares at the big man. "Listen—I'd like us to settle this like gentlemen, but—"

"Dammit, I've heard enough!" the younger Javelina explodes. He raises the beer bottle and takes a menacing step toward Chuck.

"No—wait!" Buddy L yells. He tries but fails to grab his hotheaded comrade—and then Sarah strikes as fast as a diamondback rattler, leaping from her barstool to yank the skinhead's attacking arm downward, while at the same time knocking his feet out from under him! The biker tumbles forward to the floor (ba-dump!) and the beer bottle shatters (kaassh!) in his hand.

His scream of pain unleashes chaos. Instantly, it seems that everyone in the immediate vicinity of the billiards area—bikers, ranchers, tourists, barmaids—is fighting! All except for Buddy L, who stands in the midst of the melee with his hammy hand on his forehead, shaking his head and muttering. Cue sticks swing. Fists pound. Booze sprays. Furniture flies. Bouncers come running.

Sarah drops to the floor, rolls under the pool table, and regains her feet beside Chuck. The Bartowskis instinctively assume their preferred back-to-back fighting stance as Chuck flashes on kung fu—and right away, the two of them are quickly and efficiently knocking down attackers, most of whom are neither skilled fighters nor sober.

"Babe—watch it!" Chuck pulls Sarah's head down just as the barstool she had been occupying moments earlier soars (whooozh!) over them and (ker-resssh!) smashes through a nearby window.

Just as impulsively as it started, the fight rapidly winds down. The bouncers are eventually able to separate the most stubborn combatants, as others retreat outside to nurse their cuts and bruises. But the bouncers, big-boned and heavily muscled as they are, seem to be studiously avoiding any confrontation with Chuck and Sarah.

"Where the hell has Carina gone to?" demands Sarah angrily, scanning the wreckage all around them. "I am so going to kick her tight little freckled—"

"Ahem." Just beyond arm's reach, the Stetson-hatted mustache man from the Palomas drug cartel and two other men stand calmly with their hands tucked inside their jackets, aiming casually concealed guns at Chuck and Sarah.

"I think you two need to cool down," the mustache man tells them. "Some fresh air is in order. Back door…and you lead the way, please."

Everyone else in the room is too occupied with the aftermath of the fight to notice as the three cartel men shepherd Sarah and Chuck away. They pass through the devastated bar and a hurriedly deserted kitchen—where pots are still simmering on stoves and unserved dinners still wait under heat lamps—outside to the dimly lit rear of the Goldroad Bar and Grill: hard against the rocky hillslope, and cluttered with stacked cases of empty bottles and greasy, stinking dumpsters.

"What about your gun?" Chuck whispers into his wife's ear.

She looks embarrassed.

"Left it in the trunk. Sorry…Too much of a hurry to get to the ladies' room."

"It's all right, babe. We'll figure a way out of this."

Meticulously, professionally, the bad guys surround the Bartowskis and bring their pistols out into the open.

"We don't know you," says mustache man, "but we know you work for the DEA."

Chuck and Sarah, shoulder to shoulder, offer no reply. They're both too busy scanning their surroundings, seeking an escape route.

"You two have cost our organization a considerable—" another cartel man begins.

"Hush!" mustache man interrupts him—then turns back to Chuck and Sarah and waves at the pockmarked slope rising behind him.

"There are dozens of old mine shafts all over this place. Many remain unsealed and are quite hazardous. Dark…bad air…so many snakes and scorpions…and very, very deep. Who could even guess which shaft to search for your bodies?"

Sarah reaches for Chuck's hand.

"Might have to chance running for it," she murmurs. "Pick a dumpster."

All of them are suddenly transfixed by the high beams of an SUV parked close by! Next comes the click, click, click of semi-automatic weapons being set to fire. Carina, still in her cowgirl outfit—and ten DEA agents in black tactical suits—emerge from behind the glaring headlights with guns out.

"I might have known," sighs mustache man. "The lovely Carina." He sets his pistol on the ground and resignedly holds up both of his hands. His associates do the same.

"Good evening, Ramón," Carina replies. "Gotcha, finally! Would've preferred it was in the middle of your intended transaction with the Sons of Anarchy—but this'll do in a pinch."

She holsters her weapon and then turns, with her hands on her hips, to look harshly at Sarah and Chuck.

"Whoever you two yokels are, and wherever you came from—you should consider yourselves darn lucky that we got here in time to save you. Darn lucky! You can go now…and I suggest you haul ass doin' it!"

"We will…and thank you…ma'am," Sarah sheepishly answers her, playing along.

But as she and Chuck brush past Carina as they leave, the DEA agent whispers, "I owe you guys one."

Leading his wife down the sole main street of Goldroad toward the gas station, Chuck asks her, "You did grab the keys when you went under the table…didn't you?"

"Of course I did—it's me," Sarah answers him with an affectionate smile.

They reach the parked Corvette and climb in. Sarah starts the engine and eases the car out of the gas-station driveway—only to slam the brakes as more than twenty-five Hells Javelinas, accompanied by their women, rumble past on their Harleys: heading west, making good their escape before the county sheriff's deputies arrive at the Goldroad Bar and Grill.

Chuck and Sarah nervously hunker down in their seats, but the bikers just keep rolling by. When the last one passes, Sarah pulls out and points the Corvette east.

"Thank goodness they didn't recognize us," Chuck says fervently.

But Sarah has her eyes on the rear-view mirror, and a second later she replies, "Umm—not so fast."

Behind them, the Javelinas are turning around, with Buddy L in the lead.

"This is not good," observes Chuck.

"Don't freak out, sweetie," Sarah reassures him. "They're not going to catch us."

Once past the crowds lingering around the Bar and Grill and safely out of the town limits of Goldroad, with nothing but another empty, meandering stretch of old Route 66 ahead of them, she floors it. The bikers give chase for a while, but the low-slung, supercharged Corvette with Sarah at the wheel hugs the shadowy curves better than the Hogs can. On the straightaways, the motorcycles top out at 125 miles per hour, but Sarah gets it up to 180. The speedy car soon recedes into a distant red dot.

Eventually, Buddy L raises his arm and slows his bike, and the Javelinas pull into a tight cluster around him on the side of the highway.

"Aren't we supposed to be headed to Idaho anyway?" asks Pinky, the lieutenant—now fully conscious and restored to his bandana and leathers.

"Idaho can wait," Buddy L retorts. "Payback first. We're talking honor here, boys."

"Well, how are we gonna catch—"

The biker boss taps his forehead. "Strategy. There's a shortcut they won't know about."

Twenty minutes later, farther out in the desert

The Hells Javelinas have followed a very rugged dirt road to the top of a broad plateau, stopping beneath a solitary butte carved out of layers of grey and white limestone, where they douse their headlights and scout ahead. Just in front of them, the rough track canters into a steep downgrade that rejoins Route 66 at the end, about a mile away. A single pair of headlights is approaching from the west: Sarah and Chuck's Corvette.

"Told ya this'd work," boasts Buddy L. "We'll be all over 'em in a few seconds."

"Can't wait to get back at that blonde witch," mutters the young skinhead biker. "She got the jump on me back there, that's all." His injured left hand is massively bound up in a crude bandage—so he's had to ride behind his girlfriend as she pilots the Harley for him.

"You shut your pie hole, Bosco!" Buddy L scolds him. "You ain't doin' nothin' to no lady! Me, I'd say you got what you damn well deserved back there. Just that stringbean guy we gotta settle up with—and then we roll on to Idaho."

He leans over his handlebars in anticipation.

"Get ready…leave your lights off and follow me down…."

A Predator drone moving stealthily to the attack is very difficult to spot in broad daylight—and essentially undetectable in the depths of night. The bikers never catch sight of it, nor do they hear it coming until it arrives, and they are immersed in the abrupt, bone-jarring whine of the exotic ultrasonic weapon it deploys. The beam is aimed squarely at the limestone butte towering over their heads, but its peripheral effects are sufficient to cause all of them to drop to their knees, covering their ears in painful distress. Above them, the butte vibrates, shakes, cracks…and its entire front face crumbles into thousands of jagged chunks of limestone—from baseball-sized to truck-sized—that rain down onto the dirt road in a cataclysmic shower.

The Hells Javelinas rise in terror and scatter for their lives.

(Music: "Western Sky," by Those Darlins)

Down below, as they pass by on old U.S. Route 66, Chuck and Sarah hear only what sounds to them like a distant slow rumble of thunder: kind of strange, because the velvety late-night sky is devoid of clouds as far as they can see.