AN: And here is the next chapter of Cascade Effects! I was going to post it yesterday, considering White Collar season two ended, but wasn't quite done with it. By the way, how awesome was that finale! I could go on, but I won't in case some haven't see it yet haha. Great episode though, and nice to see some things resolved. As always, thank you for the reviews! You guys really make my day. And if you haven't, definitely check out some of the new stories in the White Collar/Chuck category! I love seeing the section expanding more and more. I'm quite a fan of WC/Chuck crossovers too ;D Big thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab, for going over this chapter (and listening to my crazy potential plot points haha).

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck or White Collar. If I did then this story would obviously happen, and Bryce Larkin would be alive (and Matt Bomer would be on my tv a lot more) :D

Note: Set after White Collar episode 1x10 "Vital Signs", and five years after Chuck episode 3x05 "Chuck Versus the First Class".

Chapter Twelve - Panorama

Colonel John Casey hated silence. He was a man of action, not a man that liked to sit inside Castle by himself while everyone else was on a mission. Though, technically, Chuck and Sarah were returning that afternoon, so their mission was complete. Not that it went well. It had been a complete bust, actually.

While they had found one of Roark's old tech geeks in the personnel files, they never did find the missing scientist. He had a feeling the man was no longer living, but they wouldn't really ever know. The worst part was they never did find David. Casey wasn't one to leave a job unfinished, and this one in particular left a bad taste in his mouth. That could have also been because Shaw had suddenly and conveniently been given a mission, and he hadn't. Being stuck inside made him twitchy, and when he got twitchy, he tended to shoot something. Usually, it was more of a someone.

He was currently packing away some communication equipment, since it was no longer needed, when the sound of a sharp female voice over his shoulder caused him to pause. Glancing at the large bank of monitors, he tried to restrain a pleased smirk when he saw his superior's face.

"Colonel," the stern looking redhead said in greeting.

"General," he said shortly, nodding politely. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, he noticed, but it was quickly replaced with a concerned frown.

"I'll skip the pleasantries. I'm reassigning the team to New York." Casey opened his mouth to ask why, but she held up a hand impatiently. "Agent Shaw ran into a problem during his recent mission."

"Problem?" he snorted derisively, and ignored her warning look. While he had come to respect the CIA agent, he still did not enjoy having a kid as his team's leader. There was something to be said about experience.

"Special Agent Shaw was shot," she said bluntly, her face surprisingly stoic as she watched his eyes widen. "The situation was worse than we believed it to be."

"Obviously," Casey said, but was unable to help a touch of concern from entering his voice. He shuddered at the unwelcome feeling. "He alive?"

"He is. I'll be briefed further on his condition in a while, but until then, I don't know the extent of his injury." She seemed hesitant to say much else, which struck him as odd. "He was working with another agent, and that's all I am at liberty to say. You will join Agents Walker and Bartowski at a CIA substation, and take over the operation from there."

"Understood." His curiosity had been spiked when she mentioned another agent, and he had a feeling it was another CIA operative. Just what he needed–someone to shoot. "That it?"

"Have a safe flight, Colonel," she said gruffly, and killed the video feed. He grunted, slightly amused at the abrupt dismissal. However, his thoughts turned more serious, and he frowned when he turned back to the communication equipment.

The day before Shaw left for New York, Casey remembered stumbling upon the man as he came out of the conference area. There had been a dazed look on the agent's face that hadn't sat right with him. When asked about it, the agent blew him off and muttered something about a mission. At first, Casey had been more than a bit pissed off to be dismissed, but then he realized the news must have been truly shocking for Shaw's mask to slip.

Just what the hell was Beckman sending them into?

Clinton Jones knew something was up. For one thing, Fowler–who was currently using Neal's desk as his own–kept glancing at him every once in a while with a smug smirk on his face. It was beginning to make him uncomfortable. Another thing, Peter was supposed to have called him half an hour ago. There was, of course, the possibility that the meeting with Aaron Carson had just taken longer than planned, but he was sure that the agent would have called to tell him that. He spun his chair back and forth, and stared at the black phone on his desk. He'd given up trying to do paperwork fifteen minutes ago.

"Something on your mind, Agent Jones?" Fowler's voice cut across the space separating them like a knife. He met the OPR agent's cool gaze, and shook his head slowly.

"No," he said shortly.

"I can tell," the man said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jones wanted to hit him.

"Why are you here?" he blurted out, and his eyes widened when he realized what he had said. Fowler let out a barking laugh, and casually put his feet up on Neal's desk. The move caused an unexpected flare of anger to jolt through him.

"Straight to the point." Jones shot him an annoyed look, and was stunned to see the man actually hesitate. "Despite what you may think, I'm not after your consultant."

Jones scoffed, and said bluntly, "You'll have to forgive me if I don't believe that then, Agent Fowler. Last time you were here, you were convicting Neal, not asking for his help. He was arrested for a theft he didn't commit. Your track record isn't the greatest."

Fowler looked surprisingly thoughtful as he listened to Jones, and there was an extended pause–almost like he was weighing his words carefully–before he slowly spoke.

"Agent Burke is your superior, correct?" Jones nodded. "If he told you to arrest a suspect, and all evidence pointed towards that suspect being guilty, would you do it?" Fowler's gaze was intense, but it didn't make him uneasy this time.

"I would," Jones said, and he was starting to get a feel of where this conversation was going.

"All evidence pointed towards Caffrey stealing that diamond. The Department felt that it was best to arrest him." The man shrugged and looked unapologetic. "Caffrey was a criminal with a reputation. If it had gotten out to the press that it was an FBI consultant stealing a precious gem, the backlash would have been devastating to the Bureau. Why should the public trust us to stop the criminals if we can't stop one that's right under our noses? Just because I may think someone is innocent, doesn't mean I won't do what I'm under orders to do. It's not my place to judge whether a suspect is innocent or guilty, but it is my place to look at the evidence and make an educated decision."

"But Neal didn't steal it," Jones said weakly. He hadn't been prepared for this kind of confession from the OPR agent. It made him feel uneasy, and he didn't like it.

"He didn't. But even you, Agent Jones, can understand the evidence was stacked against him." Fowler looked slightly sympathetic, the expression seeming odd on his face. "Thankfully, Agent Burke found the real thief. We don't enjoy locking up people who don't deserve it, even if it may appear otherwise." The man's phone went off and he glanced at it, then held up a finger indicating he needed a moment but the conversation wasn't necessarily over. "I need to take this. Special Agent Fowler."

Jones nodded absently, thoughts a mile away. Everything the OPR agent said actually made some sense. He knew he would have arrested Neal if Peter had told him to, simply because the man was his superior agent. He may have done it reluctantly, but nevertheless still snapped the steel cuffs on. Sometimes he forgot that Neal was not another agent. The consultant seemed almost too comfortable surrounded by the feds that helped put him in jail. It was hard to tell with him, though–the man was a great actor. He was sure that if Neal had been an FBI agent, undercover work would have been his specialty.

"He was what?" Fowler hissed, the noise drawing Jones's attention, along with a few other agents'. The man realized he was the object of unwanted eyes, so he glared at them and they all quickly went back to work. All of them except for Jones, who watched the agent cast a fleeting glance towards Hughes' office. "Fine. I'll be there in half an hour. How many?" A small wince crossed the man's face, and Jones wondered what could be so bad. From the clipped tone, whatever was going on wasn't good. "Understood. Next time, though, he's cleaning up his own messes."

The man sounded mad, and he snapped the phone shut, looking like he wanted to chuck it at some one. Why the anger, Jones did not know. He did know that he was glad he wouldn't be on the receiving end.

Elizabeth Burke let out a huge sigh of relief as she finally put away the last decoration catalog and stood up, brushing her hands off on her black sweatpants. While she did love a pretty dress and heels, she cherished the time when she could dress down for a while. She padded into the kitchen and slipped on her running shoes, calling out to the dog in the process.

"Satch! C'mon boy. Mommy needs to gets some air." The distinctive click of excited doggy paws against the hardwood floor caused Elizabeth to smile.

She grabbed a leash hanging from a hook in the kitchen and walked into the dining area, where their large Labrador sat by the back door, his tail happily thwacking against the ground. When he saw her with the lead, he barked and trotted towards her. After running her hand through his thick fur, not forgetting to give him an affectionate scratch behind his big ears, she clipped the leash on him and opened the back door. Satchmo was out like a shot, down the steps before she even got the door shut. He reminded her strangely of Neal, never able to stay confined for long. Both were quite flirty, too, if she could compare Satch's hilarious courting of their neighbor's dog, Maya, to Neal's "dancing."

Letting the leash go–their yard was fenced in so he couldn't escape from her–she pulled her hair back with a hair tie and began some simple stretches on the porch. The hum of New York traffic combined with the stretching slowly began to relax her, tension starting to release from her shoulders and neck.

Her earlier consultation had gone well, but that didn't mean it had been easy. Trying to please both a bride and her mother was always a difficult task. Add a mother-in-law into the mix, and she had been quite ready to rip her hair out. Hopefully a quick run would help her clear her mind before she headed to her office.

Finished stretching, she jogged over to the door in the fence and whistled. Satchmo looked towards her from where he was investigating a potted plant, and she beckoned him to her. For a moment, he seemed torn between the plant and her, and she snorted in amusement.

"Satch! Come on. Leave the poor plant alone." He cast one more suspicious doggy look at the plant, before trotting towards her. "That 'a boy," she said, bending down to grab the leash and giving him another scratch behind the ears. He leaned in to her touch, his brown eyes big and adorable and his tongue lolling out from the side of his mouth in happiness. "Maybe more like Peter…" she trailed off in contemplation, walking out of the yard and shutting the fence door behind her.

She never noticed the large black car that turned the corner half a block back and began to slow down as it drew nearer.

Chuck Bartowski was worried. Getting the news that a teammate, and good friend, had been shot was never something he enjoyed. He had unfortunately experienced it one too many times. His hands tightened on the armrests, and he could feel Sarah's concerned gaze on his face. She reached out, grabbing his right hand in her left and squeezing in reassurance. The ring on her finger cut into his hand painfully, but he didn't mind. Quietly, she placed her head on his shoulder, and he automatically put his cheek on the top of her blonde head.

"He'll be fine, Chuck," she whispered, "He's survived worse."

That part was true. Bio-agents, bombings, and torture were probably ten times as worse, and Shaw had survived. They all had. They were a closer team because of it, and he honestly wouldn't have it any other way.

"He never mentioned he was going on a solo mission." Those types of missions were always a sore spot, considering they were a team. "In New York, no less. The man knows how much we love New York," he said, indignant. His ran him thumb over the large diamond inlaid in her ring, a small smile touching his lips as he remembered their first trip to the city together. Proposing to the love of his life while dangling thirty stories up in a New York skyscraper had been strangely fitting, considering. At least, according to Shaw it had been. He frowned when his thoughts turned back to the agent.

"Yes, well, I don't think he withheld it on purpose," she said, meeting his concerned brown eyes, then glancing back to their joined hands. "We aren't supposed to know everything for a reason. You know that."

"It doesn't make it any easier," Chuck hissed, but backed down when Sarah glared at him. "Sorry, I shouldn't take this out on you."

"You're right, you shouldn't," she said simply, turning away from him to look out the window of the plane. The grip on his hand increased in pressure, and he winced. "You're not the only one worried. But we can't do much until we learn more. Who's picking us up at the airport?"

"Some agent called 'Fowler'," Chuck said, scowling as he fiddled with his phone. "His file was in the Intersect. He's formerly NSA, now an Internal Affairs investigator for the FBI, and that's all I could get."

"He's not with the Agency?" Sarah asked. It wasn't uncommon for them to work with government agencies, but they certainly preferred to work without the other being aware. Also, considering the Ring was a rogue intelligence agency with members from all of the alphabet agencies, they could never be too careful.

"Did I forget to mention that he's a liaison between the NSA and CIA?" he said with false brightness, meeting her eyes. She shot him a mild warning look, but was unable to stop the smile that tugged on the corners of her lips. His smile turned more genuine, and not for the first time, he realized how much he truly loved her. Not many women could put up with him.

"You did, but I think I have it in me to forgive you," she said airily, but then turned more serious. "Is he Ring?"

"That would be a resounding 'no'," he said, unlocking his phone to check for new texts. They were still waiting for Casey to confirm he was on his way. "He works directly under Beckman. I just don't know why he's currently with the FBI."

"Perhaps he's undercover," Sarah suggested. "I mean, tactically it would make sense. The CIA and NSA aren't the only American agencies that deal with intelligence."

"You think he's passing her information about potential Ring agents?" he asked curiously. It did make sense when he thought about it.

"He would be in the perfect position to," she reasoned. "Internal Affairs investigators are able to look into agents' backgrounds without undue suspicion."

"Speaking from experience, right?" he teased, and then yelped as she struck his arm with her hand. He knew he deserved it though.

A few years back, she had had a bad experience with a CIA Internal Affairs guy. He was no longer among the living. If it was one thing he knew Sarah hated, it was someone telling her how she should do her job. It was even worse when that same guy tried to bring her into the Ring, but it had helped them realize why Beckman had assigned the man to their team–to flush him out. Still, the man had dredged up some things that Sarah had not taken kindly to being dredged up. In some ways he was glad that her past had been exposed a little more, since it had lead to a better understanding between the two, but it had been a difficult time for everyone involved.

"You know what they say about experience," she purred, letting go of his hand only to place hers on his knee. He swallowed uncomfortably, watching as it slowly began to creep up. It was one of the CIA's private jets, so it was just them in the small, empty aircraft.

"Are you trying to distract me, Mrs. Carmichael?" he said, and he felt her breath tickle his neck as she laughed. They really shouldn't be doing what they would soon be doing (making out heatedly in the back of the jet), considering they were heading to New York because one of their teammates was shot while on a mysterious mission. However, everyone dealt with stress, and frustration, differently. At least she wasn't shooting him.

"Is it working, Mr. Carmichael?"

"I'm gonna have to go with 'yes'."

Aaron Carson was mad. No, actually, it was more like extremely pissed. That CIA bastard Larkin had broken his nose, killed two of his best men, and was still breathing. If he had it his way, the 'still breathing' issue would soon be resolved, preferably with a bullet. But at this point, anything would do. His employer would not be happy with him when he heard of this. Yet, there was a bright side to everything. He had blown Larkin's cover wide open. It had been an unexpected, but most certainly not unwelcome, bonus.

Still, he was putting off the call he would need to make. Right now it was a little difficult anyway, considering he had one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a piece of his shirt to his bleeding nose. All he was doing was delaying the inevitable, though, so he scanned the street for empty parking spots. There was one up ahead, and he sped up a little before someone else could take it. Carefully, he maneuvered the black SUV into the spot, which took him longer than it usually did. The broken nose probably had something to do with it.

Putting the car in park, he shut off the engine and sat there. After a moment, he glanced at the front passenger seat, where a slim black phone lay in the tan leather seat. He took a steadying breath and reached a shaking hand for it. Clumsily, he flipped it open with his thumb and stared at the glowing numbers. Number one in particular seemed to mock him. With a sigh, he leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes for a second. He had to do it.

Carson grimaced as he looked at the phone again, and before he could change his mind, pressed the number one. It beeped, and he put it to his ear. The sound of the call connecting grated on his ears, but the person on the other end quickly picked up.

"Carson. Do you have Larkin?" The man was always direct and to the point, sometimes annoyingly so.

"About that," he replied, nervously glancing out the car's window. His voice was slightly muffled from the cloth he was holding to his face, and every movement of his mouth was painful. "We had him–"

"Had? I don't like past tenses, Aaron." He knew he was in deep shit when the other man called him by his first name. "I needed you to bring Larkin to us. What did you do instead? Invite him to tea and then send him on his merry way?"

"We had him," Carson said between gritted teeth, "but he disarmed me and killed David and Hutchinson. David got a shot in, just not on Larkin."

"Why am I not all that surprised?" the man said, and even through the phone Carson could see him shaking his head in disgust. His tone was sardonic as he went on, "Were you able to confirm that the FBI is even working with the Agency?"

"They are not," he said quickly. "The agent, Burke, was clueless until Larkin fought back. The man had no idea that he was working with a trained CIA agent."

There was an extended pause at the other end of the line, and Carson took the time to scan the area again. Finally, the man spoke.

"Were you at least able to smuggle Axis out?" There was a silent warning in the man's voice, but Carson nodded, then realized the man couldn't see his response.

"I did. I–I was able to put all the information onto one painting. The holographic metal worked like David said it would, and the CIA is still none the wiser. But I did find out something you may find… interesting."

"And that is? I don't have all day, you understand. Things to do, people to kill." Carson wasn't entirely sure the man was joking, and a shiver raced down his spine.

"Larkin had trouble with the paintings," he blurted out. "He's an Intersect."

"Carson, if every person who had trouble looking at one of your damn paintings was an Intersect, I would be one. Thousands of people would be one."

"No. No, this is different. Larkin is different. He got a headache because he glanced at the painting; he couldn't look at it for more than a second." Now was the hard part; the part he didn't want to admit. "Before he fought back, I think he flashed. He had such trouble with the painting because his Intersect was trying to show him what was below the pictures–the holographic metal they're printed on."

"If what you just said is true," the man said seriously, not sounding as if it was a big revelation, "and Larkin is an Intersect, which is troubling to think about, you understand that we'll need to accelerate the Axis project. Find that music box and finish Intersect X, or I'll bring in someone who can. Understood?"

The last words held an ominous tone to them, and Carson's heart jumped a little in his chest. He knew what would happen if he failed, and it would not be pleasant.

"Understood," he said, gulping. There was a click, signaling the end of the conversation. Looking at the phone in dismay, he tried to take a deep breath to calm himself, but instead he felt a sudden burst of anger and threw the phone in the passenger seat.

Breathing heavily through his mouth, as his nose was a little damaged at that point in time, he seethed, "I hate Bryce Larkin."