A/N: I've never named any of my chapters but I think this one should have been named "Patience". You'll see.

Anyway, I'm especially relieved to finally post this chapter since I've been holding on to it for over 2 years (I'm not always that linear when I write stories). The intervening chapters have been my chore to get to the reward. Hope you like it!

Also, KateMcK has been fantastic as always, staying up until the wee hours betaing. Hope this Monday wasn't as bad as expected, Kate.


Okay, this feels weird.

Chuck had promised her it would be a sublime experience, and she liked to feel that she was open to new things, but this just didn't seem appropriate, especially given that it was a suggestion Chuck had taken from Bryce in their fraternity days. Was dredging up all those old ghosts of male bonding and friendship a good idea given that she'd been intimate with both men … and that she was standing here naked in her bathroom?

Oh, get out of your head, Walker.

She took a calming breath, stepped into the hot spray, then raised the bottle to her lips. The carbonation and bite of the hops made a pleasantly warm trail down to her middle, which, when mixed with the endorphins from the hot water on the back of her neck, began to change her mind on the whole idea of beer in the shower.

Not quite a bubble bath and a cab, but not bad at all … and a lot more convenient.

She'd found the beer in her mini-fridge after she had returned from DC and decided it was meant for this; trying something new was the best way to mark painful good-byes, to an old life and to someone she loved. Taking time for small rituals was important for her new approach to living: ending her habit of treating the past like only so much landscape flown over. This was her life and, good or bad, it deserved some reflection, a show of respect.

She looked down at her beer, realizing she'd already finished more than half, then polished the rest of it off in a few gulps. It amazed her how musical a belch could sound in the echoey confines of her shower.

Some show of respect.

She went to work washing her hair and body and a few minutes later she was standing on the bath mat, toweling off. Unlike a bubble bath, showers weren't meant for lingering. Teeth brushing and deodorant followed, then clothes for the day: three throwing knives, lock picks, razor blades, bra, panties, jeans, and a button-down. The basics.

In the mirror she studied her face while adding a light layer of makeup, noting a few of the changes she saw there. Maybe she no longer could pass for early twenties — well, at least to her eyes; others would differ — but that was okay. Losing Chuck had taught her not to fight the progression of time. She would get old and die and so would everyone she knew, but until then she would have lived a life and no one could take that away. It was her saving grace. And the scars of aging? Those were just a record … though it occurred to her she might feel less philosophical about it in forty years than as a young pup at thirty.

It seemed only a minute or two later she was standing in the middle of her room, thoroughly dried hair pinned up smartly, a light jacket against the brutally pleasant LA winter, bags packed and ready to go. She had made several rounds the night before to ensure she'd cleaned out all of her hiding places, so now there was nothing left to do but leave.

"Goodbye room. You were pretty and clean."

She ran her hand over the edge of the vanity wondering if that wasn't a little too trite of an epitaph. She would miss this room. When she'd first seen the place it had been like walking into a daydream: shimmering and elegant, efficient and feminine, and best of all, blessedly free of entanglements. She smiled thinking she'd nearly fit that same description back then. And hadn't it been the setting for a number of firsts for her? First pet …

Sparky, you were cute. Dumb — do all fish try endlessly to eat their own poop? — but cute.

… first Morgan-style surf and turf …

Inedible on a day-to-day basis but it did hit the spot after trudging eight miles through the sewers of Inglewood, South Central, and Huntington Park.

… first movie marathon …

Though the Empire still makes no sense to me. How can they hold thousands of planets in an iron grip and at the same time let overgrown guinea pigs take out their shock troops with rocks and sticks?

… and of course, first time being proposed to … at least as herself and not Chloe Jensen, high school dropout and lingerie model, on the prowl for an elderly Venezuelan sugar daddy-slash-aide to Chavez.

Yes, it had been a good room.

As a kid, bouncing around the country with her father, she'd picked up the habit of taking souvenirs of the places where they'd stayed. She'd never held on to them long, her father being as thorough as he was, but a few had survived, at least until she'd turned fourteen and decided she was too mature for those childish things. It had been sixteen years since then, but now on impulse, she pulled out her phone, stood in front of her reflection in the vanity, and took a picture of herself amidst the mirror-lace wallpaper. Then she was out the door with her suitcase and two big duffle bags, not looking back.

Her first stop was the hardest, emotionally, which was why she'd decided to begin with it. It also happened to be nearby so she had the excuse to use surface streets, making her way past the shop fronts and apartment buildings at the south end of Chinatown to an industrial section east of downtown. After turning onto North Mission she made a quick check of her rearview mirror then looked down to the end of the street, spotting the suburban on her second scan. She had to appreciate the attention to detail she saw in it. They'd chosen a later model with no large distinguishing blemishes, just a film of road grime and a time won patina, giving it anonymity.

She passed by, knowing they wouldn't appreciate her pulling up behind in her Porsche. After another quick check in her rearview, she parked on the other side of the 101 overpass, backtracking on foot. The two Marshals, one male and one female, smiled as she approached, and Sarah was pleased at how well they masked their careful appraisal when she shook their hands.

Then she heard a door opening, and there he was, stepping out the back of the suburban like the boss he often pretended to be. Except that wasn't exactly right. He seemed … different. Maybe some of the swagger had gone, a little gleam lost from the famous smile. Hadn't it been less than two years since she'd seen him last?

"Hey, darlin'"

"Hey, Dad."

"You're lookin' good kiddo. Good to see life working for the man hasn't made a square out of you."

She raised her shoulders a fraction and attempted to raise the corners of her lips, but the lump in her throat forced her to swallow instead. It wasn't as if she often saw her father but this latest situation had a note of finality to it.

"Whoa. Why the long face? I'm not dying or anything. It's just witness protection."

She'd been contemplating a hug but stopped at those words. "Just witness protection? Have you been paying attention? This isn't some kind of vacation. This is anonymity … forever. This is me never getting to see you. It's not just witness protecion."

"Hold on, nothing's changing. It's not like you ever saw much of me anyway … and I thought you preferred it like that." He snickered then choked on it, guilty uncertainty registering on his features. He lowered his voice. "Besides, don't you work in law enforcement or something? You could always find me if you wanted."

She kept her features still, trying to read his face. Unfortunately he was nowhere near as open as Chuck. "A cop? No. Why would you think that? Anyway, it doesn't work like that; I looked it up. Only WitSec will know your location and they take their job very seriously. It would be a big ordeal for you to get another meet with me if it happens. Don't get me wrong. I'm much happier knowing you aren't going to end up embedded in the foundation of a parking lot but …"

"Well when you put it like that it like that …" He winked at her but she wasn't having any of it.

"I just can't believe you're trying to go straight." She paused as her eyebrows came together. "You do know you can't run cons now, right?"

"Yeah, they were pretty clear about the rules … model citizen and all that." His smile didn't falter but she didn't miss the effort it took.

"What happened to you?"

"Angel …"

And here comes the charm offensive. So what line of bullshit are you selling now?

Instead of a line, however, his smile finally did fall. He appeared to consider his next words and then give up in defeat. "Look, I'm done. I've had a good run but now there's no more fish to catch … or at least the fish have finally gotten too big."

"Yeah, I'd say so. The Russian mob? And then getting caught the way you did? What were you thinking?"

He deflated further. "I'm not proud. Things just haven't been the same since that Ahmad job with you and the Shnoo—you and Charlie … and Cop Face. I don't know. I just haven't been myself. Maybe I just wanted to retire." The last he said under his breath.

"You wanted to retire? Jesus, Dad! Why didn't you come to me? I could have helped."

"Feeks, I know what kind of dad I was to you. The least I could do was not come knocking on your door, hat in hand. I didn't want to screw up what you had going on. Anyway, it's not so easy to just … you know …"

She waited for more but he wasn't forth coming, so she finished his thought for him. "Not so easy to stop, is it? Being your own man, not having someone to answer to, making your own rules … it's addictive."

He eyed her warily, then smiled. "It's a little disconcerting that you know me far better than I know you these days." He turned towards the street, surveying the dingy, low buildings and the overpass. "Real nice spot they chose for us, isn't it?"

"It has its advantages." She had no doubt it was chosen for the number of freeway entrances in the close vicinity. He turned back and the curious expression he regarded her with made her uneasy.

"I really messed up the chance I had to be part of your life, Fika."

"Dad, this isn't the time—"

"It's true. I was always so proud how quickly you picked up cons. You soaked up everything I taught you like a sponge. I'm sure not much has changed, but now days … I have no idea who you are, the things you've learned. I mean, it looks like you're doing great …" He nodded in the direction of the overpass and her Porsche. "… but what do you do? Who do you work for? Are you a Fed? A Marshall? Please tell me you aren't DEA … or, god, not the ATF."

"Where'd you get the idea I was a cop, anyway?"

"Charlie told me. Well, I guessed and he confirmed it."

Sarah closed her eyes.

"Relax. He's a good enough judge of character. He knew I'd never do anything to hurt my daughter." She opened her eyes at his praise, wondering if he was being ironic. "And I never said a word about it to anyone. You know I wouldn't." That, she would believe. "So … which is it?"

"I don't know what he told you, but I'm not in law enforcement."

"Oh come on, Angel Pants, you can tell your dear old dad. What's it gonna hurt?"

She eyed him stonily, not taking the bait.

"Aw, Bunny Boots, you gonna hold out on me?"

She hadn't heard that one in a while which meant he was already deep into his arsenal. At least he hadn't called her …

"Fifi…"

Damn it!

He said it with his most wheedling, ingratiating smile and it threatened to unlock a whole treasure chest of frustrating memories. She held on, however, giving him nothing, hoping his ability to read her mind had faded with time.

It hadn't.

"Wait, you really aren't a cop, are you? You're telling the truth." He watched her carefully a moment longer then broke out in an excited whisper. "Sonofabitch… my daughter's a spook." He nearly hopped off the ground as he said it, then reached out and gave her a quick hug, which she didn't return. "You knew who Ahmad was right off the top of your head. I should have seen it, even back then. I knew you couldn't be a cop." A goofy lopsided smile broke out on his face. "Wait, does that mean Charlie … and Cop Face …"

If she could have struck him mute or dead with her stare she would have done it on the spot.

"Okay, don't worry Darlin'. None of my business. I'm not gonna screw up your gig. I'm just happy to know my daughter's got tricks up her sleeve. Maybe I even taught her some of those tricks." He snickered a moment shaking his head. "A spook." He caught her eyes again and quickly sobered. "Alright, alright, I'll leave it alone."

"Good." Her whisper was schooled and lacking in emphasis. "I would imagine loose talk about people being spies could get them in trouble, maybe killed."

"Right you are. Enough said." He paused a moment, seeming to collect his thoughts and she held him with a hard stare till he looked away nervously. "So where were we? Oh, I was apologizing, wasn't I?" He said it like it was the most natural thing for him to do.

Sarah sighed. "Apologizing? Since when do you apologize for anything? Oh no, don't tell me you found …"

"Jesus? Please. Besides, I'd never be able to find a church we didn't rob blind. No, let me put it to you this way: don't ever date a psychotherapist. They'll mess with your head in ways you don't even know how to fix." The fact that the spark in his smile returned right at that moment told her everything she needed to know about who would be looking after him in his new life. She just wished she'd had the chance to meet this woman. He continued. "Okay, I'll just say it. I'm sorry Feeks … Fifika …"

"It's Sarah now."

"Okay, Sarah then. I'm sorry … for all the time I wasn't there for you, even when I was … physically. You were a sweet, brilliant, amazing kid and deserved better than you got. A lot better. You know, you were the best thing that ever happened to me. When your mom was gone I was all rebel, no cause, except for you. You gave me reason to stay outta jail, and even then I still couldn't stop … being me. That's what I'm sorry for, Angel. If I could go back and change things … well, I guess there's no point in woulda shoulda. Only here and now matters. Look, I know I'm about to go into hiding … but if you need me here now, just say the word. I'll ditch those two humorless androids over there. I'd do anything for you kiddo. You know you're the only thing I've ever really been proud…" He didn't get to finish as she'd wrapped her arms around him, squeezing his breath out in an "oof". "You got one hell of a bear hug there, kiddo."

She held onto him a moment longer then stepped away again to look him in the eye. "I'm not going to say you were a great dad. There were so many times …" She paused, shaking her head."… but you're my dad. Who else can say they've had as much a hand in who I've become … other than me? And a few of the things you taught me have saved my bacon … more than once." He brightened at this and she was glad she'd used a favorite phrase of his. "I never went without food, clothes, or a roof over my head … or an education. It doesn't really matter either way because I love you, Dad. Nothing changes that. So go to your psychotherapist girlfriend. Go live a normal life, a good life. That's what you can do for me."

Stan Piotrowski was not a crier, at least not for all the time she'd known him, but she didn't miss the way he hesitated before responding. "It's nice to hear you open up once in a while. It's good for you. And I love you too darlin'. You ever make me a grandpa you might understand just how much. Speaking of which, what ever happened to Charlie? I liked him. You two still together? Don't tell me I bet wrong." He watched her expression as she thought of where to start. "Don't hold back. The more time we talk the more time we have together. Just spill."

She had to give the two WitSec agents credit for giving them that time, not coming over to interrupt, and seeming to make a concerted effort at finding their shoes, the sky, the traffic, and just about anything more interesting than the blonde girl quietly crying by the side of the road. She was surprised at how, with new perspective, the joy and pain still felt fresh, even in her heavily redacted retelling. But it was her chance to let her father be a part of her life, and he made the most of it, offering consolation, perspective, and laughter in turns. And when they finally said their goodbyes and hugged for all the hugs they wouldn't have later, even his eyes were nearly humid at the edges.

The last thing she saw before they herded him back into the suburban was his small, sad smile, brightened with a wink. She was struck again by how small and human he seemed now, no longer the capricious god-like figure whose actions had so ruled her early life. She waved till they rounded the bend in the road and wondered if he'd seen her.

She let the sniffling continue until she returned to her Porsche, then it was time to get back to the schedule. Two goodbyes down; only a few more stops now. She felt an uncomfortable flutter in her middle at the thought but quieted it, focusing on her next destination.

Back on Caezar Chavez heading east, she opened the windows, ignoring the slight chill, and let the wind play with her hair. Though seeing her father off to witness protection had been far more poignant than she'd expected, she was still committed to her new glass-half-full view of things — resolution with her father being better than nothing at all — and she'd find a way to see him again, somehow. If nothing else, she could write. Despite the open windows she turned the CD player on, singing along quietly with the Wilson Philips album she'd bought in a fit of sentimentality. It had helped temper those dark memories of the airport in Leesburg that still seemed to creep in during quiet moments.

The sky was typical of an LA winter, not seeming to know what season it should be, the sun peeking through scattered clouds. It's light gave the blue-collar Latino neighborhood she was driving through a cheery warmth, making her destination seem less the chore that she had imagined it would be. She was long overdue, having intended to come down and see how he'd been situated after returning from her trip with Carina but instead putting it off for weeks. On impulse, after another quick check in her review mirror, she stopped and made a purchase at a boxy little storefront on 1st then continued on her way, a respectful but pretty bouquet resting on the passenger seat.

Her CD finished, so she flipped on the radio, catching Billy Idol in the middle of "More, more, more!" In spite of herself she snorted, remembering Chuck's growling, sneering rendition of "Rebel Yell" from what seemed almost a lifetime ago.

God, has it only been two and a half months?

That entire night had been a revelation. There was no doubt, the real Sarah Walker liked to dance and sing and she wanted people to know it. Those things were hers and couldn't be claimed by Beckman or any of Graham's stooges left in the CIA. Chuck hadn't tried to claim them either, just admiring with opened mouth. She could see his awed half smile like it was yesterday.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts she nearly missed the trees and low hedges of her destination, and had to put the Porsche's cornering characteristics to work in order to make the turn. Mid block she slipped through the entrance, dialing her speed back to a stately crawl out of respect for the inhabitants. Surveying the rolling lawns, dotted with an LA mix of oak and palm trees, she supposed it was a peaceful enough place to rest, though the aesthetics were lost on the dead.

Row after row of markers, stones, and obelisks slid by, and it occurred to her that after death, one didn't escape anonymity in crowds anymore than they did in life. Fortunately she had the location of the little plot memorized and found it efficiently. By the time she got out of the car a light breeze had picked up, weaving between the headstones. She blamed it for the shiver that ran through her.

The plaque where his ashes rested was a modest one, the CIA, under the guise of an anonymous benefactor, not willing to spring for better. Not willing to spring for anything, actually, as they'd taken it out of her paycheck. She laid the flowers at the bottom then stood back, wishing she'd thought of something to say.

I hope you would have appreciated this. It took a bit of work since the CIA was happy to leave your status as "missing". At least this is better than being donated to an anatomy lab, right? And your family can visit, though I guess they'll never know the real reason you died. Hey, at least you didn't get turned into a zombie. None of those people got a proper burial. Crap, I'm not very good at this, am I?

She sighed and pursed her lips.

Look, I'm trying to turn over a new leaf here and make up for some of the stuff that has happened around me … or because of me … though you have to admit, I never could have predicted this would have happened to you. And if you hadn't been such a jerk … sorry, I'm really failing here. Let me start over. This probably would never have happened to you if I hadn't come to Burbank and kept Chuck from being carted off to a bunker. Whatever any of us thought of you, Emmett, you didn't deserve a bullet in the eye. I'm sorry you died and I'm sorry it took this long to bury you properly. If there is an afterlife I truly hope you can let all of this go. Trust me, it's not worth obsessing over the unfairness of the world.

It occurred to her that people usually said something positive about the dead and she thought for a moment, scratching absently behind her ear.

"You were tallish … and you didn't smell bad."

With that she headed back to her car, smiling, glad there weren't more than a couple visitors to notice when she gunned the engine on the way out, taking only half the time to reach the entrance as she had on the way in. Back on the street she let out a relieved sigh. She had no illusions that she'd completely overcome her fear of what it meant to die.

Okay, last two stops. The flutter in her middle returned but she forced it down, then glanced at the chronometer and sucked air through her teeth.

Two hours and twenty-five minutes? Hope that's enough time.

After a quick scan of her rearview, she made a beeline down 1st for the entrance to the 5 then headed north with little hindrance — Hail Santa Ana, full of cars, blessed are thee when you don't suck — exiting on Colorado Street only a few minutes later.

Two hours and ten minutes. Still doing okay.

In short time she had parked outside the Glendale Home Depot and was walking the isles, ticking off a list in her mind. Into her cart went a cordless drill, Dremmel, reciprocating saw, and several other items, each hunted down with efficiency and concentration. She had just dropped a carbon fiber claw hammer into her basket when a man browsing the end cap of the aisle tripped her internal alarm. He'd been competent enough, having changed jacket, hat, and glasses since she'd seen him in the lobby of her hotel, but he hadn't swapped his shoes, which was a mistake. Apparently he was a bit too vain to leave a $600 pair of Santonis in the closet. She let her glance slide past him, showing no recognition as she continued to her next objective. Letting him know that he'd been made would only make what was about to happen more difficult.

Anger and relief ran through her in shifts. Being treated like a foreign agent in country was wrong on several accounts, particularly since Beckman — and she had no doubt this was the General's doing — didn't have any authority to order physical surveillance of a CIA officer. That made this a favor called in, or maybe the woman was desperate enough to contract directly. Despite her outrage, Sarah had practically expected this kind of treatment having yet to turn over Stephen Bartowski to Beckman. After the end of the Ring, the General had put all of her efforts into rounding up the last loose ends of the Intersect technology, which meant keeping Steven under her heel, though Sarah had a suspicion that the woman might have had other motivations. Her obsession and prickliness over Chuck's father seemed a bit excessive.

In any case, Steven had become Sarah's sole responsibility now that her stint as viral Internet star had removed the clandestine part of her operations capability. She had no intention of letting Stephen be found, however, and she'd known that at some point Beckman would begin to suspect she wasn't applying herself to the utmost in finding the man. She was relieved now that the suspense, the uncertainty over Beckman's patience, had been removed.

Sarah finished her shopping, paid, and trundled her haul out to the car, discreetly surveying the parking lot. Having confirmed she was being tailed she spotted two of the cars quickly. She was pretty sure she'd noticed a silver Corolla behind her as she'd left Maison21 that morning. The one she saw now, parked close to the lot's exit onto Harvard, bore the 6FLT on the license plate — "six-felt" was how she remembered it — that she'd seen behind her at a red light as she was driving to the cemetery. It wasn't a stretch to assume all three were all the same car. She marked the long blonde hair just visible through the reflection off the windshield, wondering if it was real or a wig that would be switched out later.

As for the second, a dark grey Mazda3 hatchback that had followed her down 1st Street after her visit to the cemetery, it normally would have taken a miracle for her to recognize it; there had to be literally hundreds of thousands in LA. In fact she would have completely missed it if it weren't for the octopus-shaped splat of bird poop on the upper passenger side corner of the windshield, out of reach of the wiper. When trying to remain inconspicuous, the devil was in the details, and if this driver had been on her team she would have given him an earful. She marked a dark spot on his broad chin, probably a mole.

After playing Tetris with her bags and purchases in the passenger seat, Sarah started the Porsche, then watched Blondie in the Corolla head to the lot entrance and make a left onto Harvard. Seconds later Mole-chin in the Mazda went the opposite direction, leaving Mr. Santonis, who had just jumped into a dark blue Hyundai Elantra that she recognized from the cemetery, to be the primary follow. This gave them a number of tag-team options to tail her. While it was true that the lapses with the shoes and the bird droppings marked this crew as never having been trained at The Farm, she knew that they would at least be professional in their driving. It had taken her this long to notice them, hadn't it? The next few minutes would be anything but an academic exercise and she felt a thrill run through her at the thought of the challenge.

At particular issue was the fact that she had no navigator in the passenger seat and casual evasive driving took too much concentration for her to use her phone. She wondered if the streets would give what she needed before her surveillance realized she was leading them on a chase. She turned south on Pacific, hoping the intersection at Colorado Street had a dedicated turn lane. The suspense poured more adrenaline into her veins.

And there you are.

The gods were being cooperative. Not only was there a left turn lane but the light turned red just as she reached it, allowing her to pull up next to the turn lane in front of a line of cars. She could see Mr. Hyundai four cars behind her. Blondie was likely running parallel on San Fernando to her right, and the Mazda was somewhere ahead of her on Pacific. At least she hoped so. And if there was a fourth car …

Trust your driving, Walker. You can beat an invisible tail.

The left arrow turned green and the three cars waiting for it next to her pulled through. Her right foot twitched on the brake pedal, toes tingling.

Patience …

She really needed that one-block cushion to make this work.

Wait for it …

The timing had to be …

Wait …

… perfect.

Go!

She checked her left-side mirror then made a lazy pretense at pulling into the turn lane. With impeccable control, she turned onto Colorado at the same time that the light changed. Now Mr. Expensive-shoes had to make a decision. Did he pull out of his lane and follow, running the light? This would alert his target. Did he let Blondie or Sunglasses re-route and take over as the primary, albeit a block or more behind? This would allow the target to slip away if alerted. It all depended on whether he thought his team was still undetected and that all came down to how well Sarah had sold the casualness of the move. She checked her rearview mirror.

"Ha!"

He hadn't made the turn.

And that's how you dump a tai—oh shit!

Making a right turn from northbound Pacific was the grey Mazda, accelerating and eating up her cushion.

Damn it! How did he get here so fast?

She would have figured, after the merry chase she'd led them on, they would be hanging back, careful not to tip her off. Instead they were aggressively maintaining a constant line of sight. Now she had no doubt that Blondie was one block to her left, waiting for a chance to close. She needed to get to that parking lot first with at least a sixty-second cushion. She gently increased pressure on the accelerator, resisting the urge to floor it, eyes on the light ahead.

Don't you dare!

The damn light had just turned yellow, teasing her. She kept her foot on the gas, willing it to hold on. She blew past the threshold into the intersection just as the light changed. Behind her she saw the Mazda's front end dip subtly, the driver stopping for the red.

Still don't think you've been made, huh? You guys are definitely not CIA.

About midway down the next block she pulled the steering wheel hard to the left, feathering the gas, nearly blowing her second red and making the tires shriek in protest. At this point it didn't matter if they realized they'd been made. She dialed back her speed slightly and slipped into the parking lot entrance, no silver Corolla in sight.

Almost there. Now, please tell me you came through, Turo.

She had called in the chit a day before, anticipating the possibility of surveillance, but now that her tail was a certainty she worried whether she'd paid the man enough. She flew up to the second floor, happy to see that, with the Christmas madness passed, the lot had hollowed out considerably. Scanning the row next to the entrance between JC Penney and Target, she looked for the marker.

There!

A Bruins cap sat on the dash of a beige Camry, parked tail in.

Thank you, Turo! And in beige too? You apparently took "inconspicuous" to heart, didn't you?

Dropping off two rentals, taken out in his name, at locations that had been called in from a burner phone the day before was not a service that Arturo Reyes, manager of the Hertz on South Brand, normally provided. He'd made an exception for Sarah, however, for a couple of reasons. A married father of two, Turo happened to have both an online gambling problem and a weakness for smiles from pretty girls. Those hadn't been difficult to exploit though Sarah was careful not to abuse the privilege.

She pulled into a space across from the Camry, grabbed a duffel she'd wedged behind her seat, and raced across to the rental. Turo had left a key in a magnetic lock box on the driver's side rear fender. Inside she emptied one parcel from her bag on the passenger seat. The parcel contained a jacket, glasses, and a brunette wig, all of which she donned quickly, as well as a black envelope of metal weave into which went her phone and watch. Her head snapped up, swiveling.

You're clear. Now move it, Walker!

She started the car and pulled out of the spot. When she had nearly reached the ramp at the middle of the lot she found an empty parking space between a Lexus and a Beamer and pulled in, ducking her head down. She watched through the windows of the cars on either side, waiting to see if her little friends would show up and was rewarded, moments later, when the silver Corolla flew around the corner at the end of the lot and screeched to a halt next to her Porsche. The speed with which they had found her car left her no doubt they'd planted a tracker on it. Their aggressive follow stance had to mean they were watching for her to contact someone and that someone-of-interest was no doubt Steven Bartowski.

A man with long blonde hair leapt out of the Corolla and inspected the Porsche, then dashed for the mall entrance.

One down.

She suppressed the urge to leave her hiding spot until a few minutes later when two women exited the mall, got into their cars and headed for the ramp. She followed them down to the lower level and then had to laugh inside as she and the other two formed an impromptu fleur de lis, exiting three different directions at the street. It couldn't have worked better if she'd planned it, prey scattering to send her pursuers into confusion. She knew they'd be watching the exits but also knew they couldn't follow all three with two cars. In her rear view she saw Mr. Hyundai drop in behind one of the "decoys" then break off to follow the other. A moment later she noticed the Mazda pull away from the curb behind her, but instead of following, made a U-turn to head off after the Hyundai.

And now they're in full flail. All three burned. Victory!

She looked at the rental's clock.

Crap!

Now it was time to pray to the traffic gods. They'd been generous so far but the next ninety or so minutes would expose her to some of the worst traffic areas LA had to offer, making her way to Santa Monica on a weekend, all the while taking a circuitous route to avoid both red-light and traffic cams; she wasn't taking chances when Beckman and the NSA were her temporary adversaries. While it all might have been a huge pain in the ass, it was still necessary, and not only for her own sake. The operation — yes, it had legitimately become on operation — depended on it.

At the thought of her destination her hands twisted on the steering wheel accompanied by a similar twisting in her gut.

Cut it out, Walker. You can worry about it when you get there, but you're not there yet.

She took a deep breath and headed for the 5, popping an energy bar into her mouth to quiet her empty stomach, if not her anxiety. She made a crooked path, hopping between the freeway and surface streets till she was out of Glendale, then spied the 10 from a freeway entrance. LA's paved battleground was everything she knew it would be: stop and go as far as the eye could see. It helped her understand the obsession some people had with the concept of flying cars, though considering the typical perception of physics that LA drivers displayed on the freeways, she saw it as more of a nightmare scenario than a fantasy.

The digits ticked away on the car's clock, taunting her, but she stayed true to her route, getting on and off the 10 to bypass traffic cameras. Finally, an hour and twenty-four minutes after leaving the Galleria, she found herself pulling into the Sears parking lot on 4th Street in Santa Monica, taking a spot far from the store's entrance. She took a space next to a black Mercedes C300 with a Bruins license plate holder, again parked tail in, and again providing a magnetic lock box with key.

The C300's vanity mirror was barely adequate for her purposes but it had to do, as she'd left her purse with her compact in the Porsche; she hadn't had the time to pull either apart to look for trackers. She did her best to adjust the wig, first adding a skullcap to control her own hair, then applied makeup to fill out her cheeks and chin. After giving the lot a brief survey, she made a quick change of her outfit, replacing jeans, top, and boots with a skirt, wispy blouse, and heels, from a second parcel in her bag. A thigh length jacket rounded out the outfit.

Once she was satisfied she restarted the car and headed back to 4th, backtracking till she reached Pico Boulevard. That's when the trepidation returned. She reminded herself of her exploits as a successful intelligence officer, building herself up to face what she was about to do. Unfortunately, neither this, nor the sight of the normally soothing waves at the end of the road did much to quiet her anxiety. If this operation went badly, her life would become permanently more complex.

She entered the Shutters lot and pulled up to the valet, only giving a quiet grumble in response to the practiced "Welcome to Shutters On the Beach"; parking prices in Santa Monica were the absolute definition of extortion. She bypassed the front desk heading straight back to the spa, feeling anxiety of a different kind mix with her mission jitters.

Far too soon, she was standing before an attractive, smiling attendant who wore an expectant look.

Come on, Walker, get on with it. "Hi, I have an appointment for three o'clock."

"Are you Veronica or —"

"Veronica Bader, yes."

"Excellent. Welcome to One. Is this your first time with us?"

"Yes."

"Splendid. It's always wonderful to introduce new clients to our experience. Let me tell you a little about the philosophy here at …" Sarah tuned out the moment the words spiritual and essence were uttered and let the attendant prattle on while leading her to the room where she would get her massage.

"And here we are. Please make yourself comfortable and when you're ready …"

Sarah noticed, looking through the open door, that the room next to hers was empty.

Damn it! Don't tell me you canceled.

Sarah heard the attendant's patter winding down and smiled, nodding her head. "Thank you."

The woman closed the door behind her and Sarah's eyes surveyed the room for suitable impromptu weapons, almost by reflex. Enduring another massage hadn't been her first option, but when she'd weighed them all, it had seemed the most foolproof … though not if the target didn't show. The room next to her still sounded empty.

Damn!

It wasn't that she wouldn't get another chance but a repeat attempt would be far more difficult. And more importantly, it would be weighing on her mind constantly until she followed through. This had remained unresolved for long enough already. On the other hand she felt a small amount of relief at the thought of not having to follow through.

Or not.

Sarah perked her ears at the sound of the attendant coming down the hall again, repeating her patter. A moment later she heard a "thank you" in a voice she recognized and the door to the next room closing. Sarah undressed quickly, feeling both relief and anxiety, got underneath the sheet on the massage table, and rang the bell on the stand next to it.

Foolproof or not, Sarah began second guessing the plan the moment her masseuse walked into the room and introduced herself. The woman was a perky little sadist, Sarah could see immediately, and she spoke with the passive aggressive superiority of a woman who was a stranger to anxiety. Her leaden forearm crept down Sarah's shoulders with the speed and inevitability of a bulldozer, ramming through knots without mercy or conscience. Sarah knew the effect was supposed to produce a sense of surrender to greater forces but it felt more like a power struggle between mortal enemies. The woman's admonitions to "just breathe" might as well have been provocation for violence. It wasn't till nearly thirty minutes into the ordeal that Sarah began to relax, if only because she had turned over on her back for a foot massage and could visualize the thirty or so different ways to kill or maim the woman with a swift kick.

Then finally … "Okay, Ms. Bader. I'm finished. Take your time and shower when you're ready."

The woman quietly left, closing the door behind her. At the snick of the catch Sarah jumped off the table, nearly sending herself through the plate glass wall of the shower on her well-oiled feet. The clock was ticking and she didn't want to lose her time window. The room next door where her target was getting a massage would be free for the next sixty minutes since Mr. Herndon — a fictional client Sarah had set up — had canceled his four o'clock appointment.

The sound of water running next door told her the target had ended the massage as well and was showering. Sarah did the same, though with much more urgency and efficiency. Minutes later she was out of the shower and strapping her holster of knives to her thigh out of habit. She wrapped herself in the fluffy white robe provided and waited. When the sound of her neighbor's shower cut off she gave herself a fifteen count then peaked out into the hall. The coast was clear. She padded to her neighbor's door took a deep breath and paused, her knuckles frozen mid knock.

Damn it, Walker! Enough! You've done all the preparation that can be done, now it's up to chance and instinct, just like always. Time to stand up to your responsibilities and get it over with.

Still, this wasn't just any op. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and blew it out.

Okay. Here goes.

She knocked on the door and heard the movements inside go still. Then a voice spoke.

"Um … hold on a second." A pause, then, "Okay, come in."

She slipped through the door in a rush, then turned to face her target. There was instant recognition in the eyes that met hers, widening as the mouth formed an "o". Then the lips pulled down into a grimace Sarah had recently become familiar with. That expression said, "Not again. God, please not again." This much she had expected.

The target spoke in a low voice, balanced between fury and fear. "Do I have to go?"

From denial to resignation in only a few breaths! It broke Sarah's heart.

"God no … no, no. Everything's okay. Don't worry."

"Then what …"

"I need to talk to you, and this is the only place where I can avoid your surveillance — our surveillance — for long enough to do it. No one — absolutely no one — can know what we've spoken about here, or even that we've talked at all without our minders listening."

"What minders? Who? What do they want from me?"

"It's not you. It's because of your — never mind, we'll get to that in a minute. There's not much time and so much to cover. There are so many things that have been kept from you for so long and that is something that needs to be set right. Ellie, it's time I told you everything."


Sarah just barely found it in herself to feel bad for the drivers sitting in the Elantra, the Mazda3, and the Corolla parked near her Porsche in the Galleria parking garage, and only because she knew how Beckman normally dealt with failure. She had parked the rental Camry in the lot on the other side of the mall, changing back into the clothes she'd worn that morning. Then she'd walked back to her Porsche, all the while being careful not to let her eyes stray towards any of the display windows. There would be plenty of time for shopping later, but she had somewhere to be now. It was nice being expected.

As she entered the lot she saw three faces snap up behind windshields then drop back down, studiously paying her no attention. She crossed purposefully to the Hyundai, smiling as the driver refused to look at her, even once she was standing next to the door. The man with the expensive shoes jumped in his seat as she rapped on the glass of the driver's side window, then reluctantly turned a miserable expression on her. It made her wonder what Beckman had told him about her. She twirled her finger in a circle and he dutifully opened the window. She didn't speak right away, instead letting him sweat while she took in the details of his appearance: late forties, unlikely to be former military but possibly an ex-cop, apparently well compensated. From what she had seen, the other two were a bit younger, maybe early thirties. It suggested a P.I. that worked for a large law firm and two apprentices or subcontractors.

The man jumped again when she spoke. "You shouldn't feel so bad, you know. You did good. Your follow strategy works, your driving skills aren't bad, but it's paying attention to the little things that makes the difference between a good tail and a burned tail. Don't worry, the kind of people your clients want you to follow will probably never notice you, let alone shake you, but you should never settle for good enough, don't you agree?"

He offered an "Uh …" but didn't articulate further, so she turned on her heel with a smile and walked back to the Porsche. In her car she pulled the wire envelope out of her duffle and dumped her phone and watch out onto the passenger seat. Not more than a moment after she started the Porsche's engine she heard the phone buzz and reached down to type in her PIN. The screen indicated eighteen messages from a secure number. She dialed.

"General?"

"Walker!"

"Don't be too hard on them. They're not half bad for P.I.s and they'd be good with more guidance. You know, if the NSA is going to get into the physical surveillance business, maybe you should start up a training program or something. Casey can't do it all himself."

The line was mostly silent though Sarah thought she heard an angry snort. Then Beckman spoke in a low voice that shook with frustration. "You're hanging by a tiny thread, Walker. You want to push me?"

"Not at all." Her voice was as sunny as a summer day.

"You had better have a good explanation."

"Me? How about you explain why you think I need rolling surveillance. Or maybe you could show the official order for it." Sarah waited a moment knowing she wouldn't get an answer, happy to let the silence fill in the accusation. "You and your people don't get to know all of my resources, General. I'm sorry but I keep some of my secrets to myself, especially after how badly we were infiltrated."

"The Ring's dead. That little excuse won't fly anymore."

"You know the saying, 'don't store water in leaky barrels'? I don't just give it lip service. Both of our agencies are like sieves. There were moles before the Ring and there will be moles after, so I keep some secrets to myself. It's the way I've always worked, even under Graham."

"You mean the Langston Graham who's now dead?"

"Graham's dead because his own ambition got in the way of his better judgment, not because of me. Something you should keep in mind." Sarah knew she was playing with fire but wasn't about to stop.

"Is that a threat?" The General's voice registered disbelief more than outrage.

"I'll never be a threat to you."

"I see." It was impressive, the venom the woman could infuse into her tone.

"General, from the beginning of my career till now I have almost exclusively reported to the director of the CIA and the director of the NSA with no go-betweens. One of those two is dead and the other is you. How would anyone ever believe anything I had to say? There's no one to corroborate it. On the other hand, with only a few phone calls you could ruin my life."

"I'm glad you're aware of that."

"What I'm saying is, the balance of power is entirely in your favor. How could I possibly be a threat to you?" Unless, of course, I knew the real reason you wanted Orion so badly.

"Oh, believe me, I know you haven't the slightest idea how to come after me. That's not what I'm worried about. What keeps me up at night is wondering what messes you're going to leave for me when you forget who it is you work for and go off reservation … again. I want you clear on your priorities."

"I've never been clearer about my priorities." Sarah felt like a matador waving the cape in front of a bull.

"Do you understand what 'by a thread' means, Walker? Don't you dare push me. And don't ever disappear like that again. I don't give a damn about your resources. "

"I'm not making any promises."

"Walker!"

"Bye, General." Sarah ended the call and turned her phone off, feeling a guilty thrill of pleasure run up her spine. It wasn't a coup that would ever be repeated but god if it wasn't the best feeling hanging up on that woman, just for once.

She pulled out of her parking spot, not bothering to see if her escort was following, then headed out of the parking garage and back towards the freeway. The dash display told her the outside temperature had "plummeted" to an almost nippy 53 degrees and she laughed at this attempt at weather, dropping the Porsche's top at the last light before the onramp. She hadn't felt so free since … well, it was honestly hard to remember when.

She was still floating on air when she stepped into the courtyard of the El Cabrillo apartments, a sense of heightened awareness and anticipation beginning to vibrate through her. She took in all the details, seeing the small ones that had changed since she'd been there last. Even here the world was in constant motion.

She could see a new Bonzai in Casey's window, hoping it signaled acceptance that he wouldn't be leaving Echo Park anytime soon. The man needed to stop being at war with the world. She assumed most of his wounds had healed though there were, no doubt, still mental ones. As always, that would show through in his abuse of others. She stretched to see if she could catch a glimpse of the old man but Casey was hidden from view. A special ops sniper would never allow himself to be a target for other snipers, even in his own home.

And isn't that interesting.

She caught a quick glimpse of Morgan sprinting past his living room window, pursued by a determined Fabrice. It was only a flash but Sarah could swear she saw clippers, a razor, and a can of shaving cream in the girl's hands? Muffled hooting and giggling were just audible over the trickle of the fountain.

How about that? The little redheaded mystery is still here. Doing a little spying for your aunt? No, even Beckman isn't that obvious. So what does that leave? Have you really got a thing for the gnome?

Even as strange as the arrangement seemed, she couldn't find it in herself to be unhappy about it, as long as they did well together … and as long as they never had the kind of talk she'd had with Ellie that afternoon, for everyone's sake.

Movement drew her eyes to Casa Woodcomb's living room window. She could see Ellie sitting on the couch, conversing with someone outside Sarah's view, her hand briefly ghosting over what would soon be a bump at her middle. Sarah smiled feeling several emotions stirring. Though they were far from having the camaraderie they had shared the summer before, they'd left the spa having come to appreciate how much they shared. They were both driven professionals who had built what they had on the back of their own labor under nearly impossible circumstances, maintaining their independence as they started new chapters in their lives, neither lightly putting their trust in others. That they had been willing to trust each other at all, at least at one point, was not something to be taken for granted. It was an understanding and a big step up from the open hostility Sarah had weathered since she had given Ellie the news of Chuck's death.

Still, she felt troubled over the afternoon's discussion, particularly over the way Ellie had accepted the news of her mother's death. There'd been acceptance of the academic fact but none of Ellie's typical pathos. Too much to process, no doubt. Sarah knew there would likely be some darkness ahead for her, though to her benefit, the woman was surrounded by people she loved, and that would help. Sarah hoped, in time, she could include herself in that number.

Maybe, someday, you could call me family?

The thought brought her back to the deep currents she felt flowing around her and through her, of memories and possible futures mingling together in this courtyard. There was a word for it that she felt was now hers to use and she held it on her tongue. Then she was knocking on the familiar wooden panels, the action recalling so many times she'd done it before, not unlike that evening the previous October, her first official date with Chuck. As then there was the same anticipation of incandescent smile and silly curls waiting behind. He didn't disappoint her and she met that smile with a kiss. In their own time they parted and he stepped aside for her, making a grand gesture to the living room while she rolled her suitcase over the threshold. Feeling a smile that reached from her eyes to her fingertips she spoke the words she'd held waiting.

"I'm home."


A/N: I also could have named this chapter "Misdirection", no?

Anyway, there ends the story proper ... but have no fear. There is a lengthy-ish epilogue, which I'll post that next week. If you feel robbed of Chuck and Sarah interactions there's plenty in that chapter.