Chapter Twenty … in which Casey courts death, Zondra questions her judgment, Chuck confronts the unexpected, and Bryce's sincerity is called into question—again.
This chapter takes place three months after the last chapter in our story. Since the bank heist, Fulcrum has gone to ground, giving our characters time to scheme.
Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…
Chapter 20: Schemes, Scallops, and Shark's Teeth
Bullets riddled the brick wall's cornerstone a fraction of a second after Major John Casey stepped around it, sending mortar flak flying everywhere. The distinct jingle-jangle of the casings hitting the concrete floor echoed through the hallway as angry metal bees whizzed past his head, on a mission to sting, bite, or chew their way through his flesh. He was pinned down, with no apparent means of escape, and they were closing in. His SIG-Sauer P229 had half a mag left—then it'd just be his knuckles, knives, and know-how. How in the hell had it come to this?
Now he was just kidding himself. He knew exactly how he'd wound up in this godforsaken place. After Bartowski and Walker dumped an email full of Fulcrum secrets into his lap three months ago, he and Ilsa'd been running at a fever-pitched pace, trying to keep up with the fallout. They'd spent the past twelve weeks on one fruitless scouting mission after another—and they were no closer to discovering the identity of the enigmatic cryptographer 'V.H.' who was supposedly lurking in the L.A. area or locating any other rogue factions, Fulcrum or otherwise, than they'd been before.
At least they hadn't been … until today.
Casey backed further down the corridor, his gun trained on the corner he'd just taken, checking the empty offices along the way in search of cover. While he tried each door, hoping to find one unlocked, he'd allowed his mind to drift, thinking about how odd—and yet how natural—it felt to link their names together once again. They hadn't been "Casey and Ilsa" for a long, long time … and when they had been, their names had only been paired romantically—or whatever you wanted to call it—and then only with each other. Now they were full-blown partners, thanks to the collaboration between the NSA and the NGSE.
After Ilsa'd divulged that French Intelligence had knowledge of Fulcrum and the Cipher, Casey'd felt like he had no choice but to read her in on what he was doing in Burbank, Intersect and all. Once he'd finished, it'd taken another half-bottle of Johnnie Walker for them to conclude that combining their efforts, as well as their agencies, was the only way forward … and then persuade the leadership of their respective agencies to agree. So now here they were, together in every sense of the word—and if she spent more time sleeping at his place than at the apartment across the courtyard she'd rented after Zondra split … well, no one had to know about that, did they?
Casey reached what looked like a supply closet just as one of the goons came barreling around the corner, firing haphazardly in every direction. The ex-Marine eyed him with contempt, right before putting a slug through his ear.
Five shots left, seven goons to go.
Kicking in the door of the closet, he thought about how thrilled he'd been to have Ilsa back in his life—and in his bed, for the foreseeable future … but not as thrilled as he'd be if she'd show up right now, guns blazing, to help him fight his way out of this mess.
He'd figured the old warehouse would just turn out to be another dead-end lead—after all, the intelligence agency purge that'd resulted from the San Francisco bank heist had forced most rogue agents to go into hiding. So when Ilsa'd offered to come with him to check it out, rather than pursue her own lead a few miles down the road, he'd brushed her off, figuring they could cover more ground this way. Nothing else they'd investigated so far had yielded anything of interest; why should this?
But he'd been wrong. Oh, how wrong he'd been. And now here he was, holding out in a tiny supply closet, without sufficient firepower or his partner—who he'd promised to rendezvous with after he'd checked this place out, for some wine, Wayne, and Coltrane.
Well, unless things changed drastically, the only 'True Grit' shootout he'd get to experience tonight was the one he was currently knee-deep in. Perhaps this had been his destiny all along—to find himself alone and outgunned on the seventh floor of a not-so-abandoned warehouse in downtown Los Angeles, with a militia full of miscreants out for his blood. It seemed he'd gotten too close to someone's base of operations—maybe even the headquarters of that Children of Colossus group Bartowski and Walker had mentioned in the email they'd sent him, detailing all the intel they'd scored from Fulcrum.
He must've stood out like a pregnant pole-vaulter on the warehouse's security cameras when he'd approached the building. It was the only explanation for why these thugs were gunning for him like this, with a single-minded intensity that conveyed a simple, solitary intention: To take him out with extreme prejudice.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway as he stuck his head out of his refuge to check for the imminent onslaught. The coast was still clear. Making a convertible out of that last guy's head must've given the rest some pause—but he knew the respite wouldn't last long. Casey glanced desperately around the storage room, searching for anything that might help him find a way out of what his mother would have called "this foolish coil." And he'd been a fool, no doubt about that. He was outgunned and alone—rookie mistakes, both of them. He should have known better.
There wasn't much in the supply closet that he could use as a weapon, but there was a plethora of cleaning solvents and chemicals. Calling on his military training, Casey grabbed a bottle of turpentine off one of the shelves and mixed it in with a half-gallon jug of isopropyl alcohol. He then ripped a cleaning rag into thin strips, wetting them with the turpentine as he went. Stuffing the strips into the top of the plastic jug, he holstered his gun and stood by the doorway with the jug in one hand, his lighter in the other.
He let his mind go blank as he scanned the area outside the closet, tuning out the roar of voices and the hail of bullets as his assailants shot blindly around the corner. It was a trick he'd taught himself long ago … to leave part of his attention, the crucial part, focused on his surroundings, while letting the superficial layer of his mind wander. The reptilian element of his brain was geared to prioritize survival. If allowed free range, rather than forced scrutiny, it usually found a way out.
Well, it always had before. Here was hoping it didn't let him down today … because otherwise, he was screwed.
He'd lost his focus before—and recently, too … which was the rub. If it wasn't for him, Bartowski would've never wound up on that rooftop, lying in a pool of blood big enough that when Beckman's team analyzed it, they'd come to the conclusion that their pet asset was almost surely dead … if he hadn't been captured by the enemy and saved for their own uses, just like Larkin had been.
Either way, Beckman was still looking for Chuck—Casey was sure of it. No matter what else had happened, 'presumed dead' wasn't the same thing as finding a body, especially when the body in question was that of the country's most prized intelligence asset. They would never stop. And unless they did, Ellie and her newly-minted fiancé—because yeah, she'd said yes to the guy who'd saved her brother's life; how could she not?—would always be in danger.
There was one conundrum Casey couldn't explain, which bugged him no end. The traffic and satellite footage in and around Burbank at the time of Chuck's shooting had all been erased. He'd asked Bartowski, using the video application that Chuck swore was secure … but the erasure hadn't been the moron's doing. And while getting rid of that footage certainly worked to their benefit, it also made Casey uneasy. If someone was helping them, it also meant that that someone knew what was going on. Casey didn't like unknown variables, especially not in a complicated situation like this.
The chatter coming from down the hallway grew louder and more agitated, as if his assailants were gearing up for a pell-mell kamikaze charge. Casey lit the rags and tossed the jug within a few feet of the spot from where the blind shots were emanating. His timing would need to be perfect. He upholstered his gun, trained his sights on the plastic container, and waited.
With a cheesy battle cry, the first guy's gun cleared the corner. Casey fired, hitting the plastic jug dead-center, nearly cutting it in half. A conflagration erupted with a whoosh as the surrounding air was sucked into the chemical reaction. Fire and brimstone spouted from the jug, raining down on four of his attackers, coating them in a makeshift liquid inferno … a veritable molten goo. The remaining men retreated, watching helplessly as their compatriots writhed and thrashed on the ground in a pointless battle to extinguish the hellfire.
Four shots left. Not a bad return on investment, with only three goons to go.
Now that there were more munitions than men left standing—and given that it wasn't in the NSA agent's nature to sit back and wait for the fight to come to him—Casey went on the offensive. With the charring corpses still lighting up the hallway, he decided to use the traffic jam to his advantage. He bum-rushed the bottle-necked junction—no pun intended—and leapt over the flames, spinning in the air.
When his feet hit the ground, Casey let the momentum carry him through and fell to his ass, sliding across the floor as he took aim. Predictably, the last three assailants were all pressed flat, their backs against the wall, lined up like ducks in a row and just as easily dispatched.
Blowing out a steady breath, Casey stood to assess the situation. A ding from the elevator at the far end of the hallway drew his attention. He narrowed his gaze to focus on it—and the largest man he'd ever seen ducked to fit inside the lift. The guy was massive, with skin the color of burnished mahogany and a bulk that would have been at home on a professional linebacker. He spun to look at Casey as the elevator's doors closed, a grimace contorting his face.
Checking to ensure his count was correct and he indeed had one round left, Casey tore off after him, taking the stairs two, sometimes three at a time, hoping to beat the guy to the bottom.
Emerging from the stairwell, he was alarmed to find the mountainous giant already waiting for him right outside the doorway. He tried to lift his arm to take aim, but it was no use. The brute seized Casey by the wrist that held his gun, with hands so large, they could have wrapped around it twice. He flung the NSA agent like a ragdoll, slamming him hard against the opposite wall and sending his gun flying who-knew-where. He tried to stand up, but the Goliath hit him across his jaw hard enough to ensure his ancestors felt it.
A looming shadow engulfed Casey's sight—the gargantuan man closing in for the kill.
Just as Casey started to make his peace with the world and all the things he'd yet to accomplish, a brilliant light enveloped the room, turning everything a radiant white. Thunderous bass cleaved his head in two, leaving him deaf, dumb, and blind.
When Casey's sight cleared, Ilsa was standing over him, worry clear in her eyes, her halo set firmly in place. His head felt like the cracked Liberty Bell. "Casey, are you okay?" she said, shaking his shoulder. "Speak to me!"
He had to clear his throat twice before his voice would work. "What the hell was that?"
"Flashbang," Ilsa said, looking at him like she was worried he'd lost his mind along with his hearing.
He shook his head and immediately regretted it. "No … before that."
A small smile lifted her finely-etched lips. "I'm not sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say part man, part building? Either way, I wasn't about to try and take him down alone, so I … improvised."
"Improvised," Casey croaked, pulling her down into a hug. "Thank God." Over her shoulder, he scanned the space—left, right, then up … just in case.
As happy as he was to see Ilsa, Casey had to admit, he was even happier knowing—
The Colossus of a man was gone.
OoOoOoOoO
Sitting in the surveillance van across from the Café Santana Roasting Company in sunny Oakland, California, Chuck thought Bryce might be on the verge of losing it—and not for the first time today, either.
A muscle twitched at the corner of Bryce's right eye, his mouth forming a scowl. Staring out the van's front window, his hands gripped the dashboard as he muttered incoherently under his breath. Like hail on a metal pane, the drumming of his fingers was as relentless as it was loud—perhaps keeping pace with the rhythm of his heartbeat. His face was rigid with tension, lines marring his ordinarily youthful appearance. In the past few hours alone, Bryce seemed to have aged a decade.
Troy Mason was the source of the problem. Well, that and Zondra's increasingly close proximity to him.
To Chuck's relief, the team had decided that Sarah might not be the best person suited to get close to Mason. Even though Sarah and Bryce had been working with the FBI under aliases, they'd still been in direct contact with two agents who'd turned out to be under Fulcrum's thumb. Now, with ex-FBI agent Juliette Reeves still on the run and her whereabouts unknown, it would have been the height of foolishness to have Sarah be the one to figure out where Mason's loyalties lay. If he turned out to be a Benedict Arnold and was working with Fulcrum, the results could be cataclysmic. Instead, Zondra had volunteered to be the one to approach him, with Chuck and Bryce teaming up for surveillance duty—much to Bryce's chagrin.
Sarah'd decided to handle Monica Whittaker's overwatch herself—in partnership with Jackson, of course—since Bryce insisted on taking point with Zondra and making sure nothing went awry. She'd made contact with Whittaker, letting the woman know that Fulcrum intended to use her as leverage against her boyfriend, Nathan Page. Graham had also reached out to the DNI as promised, advising them of the threat. Whittaker had been reluctant that Sarah and Jackson were watching over her at first—then grateful when the seriousness of the situation settled in. No one from Fulcrum had approached Whittaker so far, but Sarah intended to stay vigilant. After all, the closer she got to Nathan Page's girlfriend, the better her chances of endearing herself to the guy who was her best hope of cultivating an ally within the DNI.
After Graham had issued his orders, the team had spent the better part of a week surveilling Mason—following him, learning his habits … the full gamut. The guy had a set routine from which he never deviated: Wake up, go for a run, go home, shower and dress, then head to Café Santana before he commuted to work, where he taught quantum computing at UC Berkeley, just fifteen minutes away. For a professor, he was absurdly fit; he ran at least five miles every morning and hit the gym on his way home from his day job.
Not only was Mason a brilliant cryptographer, he was—at least in Chuck's opinion—devastatingly handsome. He was around six-one, with wavy brown hair that had a tendency to fall into his gray eyes and a solid build that reflected his obsessive attention to physical fitness. None of this made Bryce feel any better, especially since Zondra had found a way to make herself part of Mason's daily routine.
Café Santana was near Maxwell Park, Mason's neighborhood. Every morning, Mason showed up at the coffee shop for a grande flat white and a blueberry scone … and so Zondra had gotten a part-time job there as a barista. She'd worked there for the past eight weeks, always requesting the morning shift, and befriended Mason—first kibitzing over the routine nature of his order, then moving on to small talk. Zondra hadn't started out intending to seduce the guy, but she was beautiful, charming, and smart. It was inevitable that a straight, single dude like Mason would be entranced by her interest in him.
"Here's your flat white," Zondra said, echoing over the speakers in the surveillance van. "Just the way you like it."
Chuck squinted at the footage on the computer screen, just in time to see her smile at Mason. He was dressed as usual, in dark-wash jeans and a crisp button-down. Also as usual, he returned her smile before taking the drink from her and stuffing a sizeable tip into the jar next to the tea display. Glancing over at the screen, Bryce scowled even harder.
If there were any doubts in Chuck's mind that Bryce's feelings for Zondra were genuine, the past three months had laid that notion to rest. The cocksure-superspy persona that Bryce used to think made him God's gift to all women had been replaced by a somewhat vulnerable, attentive boy that just wanted to get to know the girl better. After Chuck's heart-to-heart with him during the bank mission all those months ago, Bryce was no longer scared to put himself out there—to make a fool of himself by showing Zondra just how he felt. Unfortunately, he was being forced into playing a long game … which was easier on some days than others.
On the screen, Mason sipped his drink, giving a throaty hum of appreciation. "Thanks, Elena," he said, using the alias she was operating under. "This tastes amazing. Your lattes are phenomenal … has anyone told you that? Each one's a masterpiece. You're a latte Keith Haring in the making. An Egon Schiele. A veritable Picasso. Seriously, your work ought to be immortalized." He took another sip, savoring it in an exaggerated fashion, as if the coffee were a fine wine. "I don't know what I did before you started working here—but do me a favor, would you? Don't you ever think of leaving me. My sanity just might depend on it."
"For the love of God," Bryce growled, muting his mic so Zondra couldn't hear. "It's a tasty beverage, not the holy grail. A $5 cup of coffee. I'm telling you, Chuck—there's something off about this guy. I mean, come on—who the hell comes up with cheesy pickup lines like that?"
"You got me, buddy," Chuck said, keeping his voice mild. He couldn't help but feel sorry for Bryce. The guy was trying so hard … and Chuck couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have Sarah overtly flirting with someone else right in front of him, even if he knew it was all in the name of the job. The Peyman Alahi mission came to mind, when a bikini-clad Sarah had temporarily distracted Alahi while Chuck and Carina made off with his diamond. It wasn't the same scenario, but at least it gave Chuck a glimpse into what his friend might be going through.
Although Zondra was friendlier with Bryce these days, she still kept him at arm's length. To Chuck's surprise, that didn't seem to deter Bryce in the least. He gave her space anytime she needed it and didn't push her for anything other than what she was willing to offer. And when her walls did temporarily drop, he spent those precious few moments listening, paying attention to her cues, and engaging her in lively discussions about subjects that mattered to her.
He'd even learned to cook, after a fashion, watching YouTube videos on preparing her favorite foods and then presenting them to her with the gravity of a knight offering a tribute to his lady fair. The burnt eggs for breakfast had long since fallen by the wayside; this past weekend alone, he'd made a spinach-and-mushroom frittata and sat hopefully across from Zondra as he dished it onto her plate, his body tense as a bird dog on point until she'd taken the first bite and smiled at him in affirmation. Chuck didn't know whether to be impressed or disturbed by the intensity of his focus.
"Your scone," Zondra said now, tucking the pastry into a waxed paper bag and holding it out. Mason accepted it, grinning back at her like she'd solved the mysteries of the universe.
"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself," he said, dropping the scone into his messenger bag to save for later—the way he did every day.
"It's not that hard." Zondra rolled her eyes. "You always order the same thing."
"Yeah, well, I'm a creature of habit. And I'm glad I am, because otherwise we might've never met." He grinned even wider—if that was humanly possible—flashing his teeth, and Bryce sighed, settling back into the seat of the van.
Chuck adjusted his own position, stretching to ease his cramped muscles. For once, the ache in his limbs wasn't from long hours spent behind a computer or even from being shot—it was from the four-hour workout he'd done the night before, courtesy of the increasingly unnerved spy in the driver's seat.
Bryce's change in demeanor hadn't stopped at how he was treating Zondra; he'd also decided to take Chuck under his wing. With reluctant agreement from both Sarah and Zondra, he'd insisted that part of Chuck's physical therapy for his injured shoulder should be weight training and self-defense.
At first Chuck hadn't taken Bryce all that seriously—the guy was the least likely personal trainer he could imagine, never having focused on anyone other than himself for a prolonged period of time—but true to his word, the next morning Bryce had gone shopping. That afternoon, he'd returned with a rented truck full of equipment … then spent the rest of the evening transforming their garage into a dojo/fitness room. It wasn't an easy or cheap task to undertake and Chuck had a sneaking suspicion that Bryce had paid for everything out of his own pocket.
For the first month they'd stuck to light weights and calisthenics, allowing his shoulder to fully heal while building up his strength and stamina … much to Sarah's delight. Then they'd added heavier weights and begun his self-defense classes, which ended up being a mixed bag of Krav Maga, Judo, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and Muay Thai. Even though it'd started out as Bryce's idea, both Zondra and Sarah had jumped in on the action. So there he was, day after day, getting thrown and pinned to the mat by two gorgeous women as his former/current roommate shouted encouragement and criticisms. Sometimes, Chuck couldn't believe the trajectory his life had taken.
At first, especially when he was still healing, he crawled into bed every night sore and exhausted. Over time, though, he began to hold his own, understanding how to maximize leverage and use his opponents' momentum and strategies against them. His body began to change also, shifting from that of a reasonably fit desktop warrior to someone who actually had muscles with definition. When he looked in the mirror, he sometimes had a hard time recognizing the guy looking back.
He definitely felt like less of a liability, which might've been Bryce's plan—and especially now, when he'd left the safe house for the first time in months, being able to defend himself really mattered. He was thrilled to be outside, too. Even if all he got to do was 'stay in the car' on a stakeout for Zondra's protection, along for the ride in case he flashed, he didn't mind one bit. Or at least he wouldn't, if he was sure Bryce wasn't going to spontaneously combust.
Glancing away from the screen, on which—since there were no other customers in line—Zondra and Mason continued to flirt, Chuck watched a guy with a lumberjack beard walk a tiny brown poodle across the street, bending to pluck a daisy and tuck it into the poodle's pink-and-white collar. God, humans were weird—and he was so glad to be among them once again. Torn between sympathy for his friend and relief at being out of the house, he did his best to suppress the look of happiness that was doing its best to spread across his face. It wouldn't be fair—not when Bryce looked so miserable.
"So," Mason said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "have any big plans this evening?"
"I have to work until two today." Zondra reached under the counter to restock the to-go cups, her voice nonchalant. "Other than that, I'm embarrassed to say I don't have anything on the books. How about you?"
He took a slug of his coffee. "I'm equally pathetic. How about we be pathetic together?"
Zondra burst out laughing, and Chuck knew her well enough to know it was genuine. "I think that may be the worst invitation I've ever received."
"It was pretty bad, huh?" Mason dropped his eyes, managing to look abashed. "Let me make it up to you. There's a restaurant that just opened—a little bistro, farm-to-table, with a fantastic outdoor space. My buddy's the chef. Care to join me? The wine list is amazing and the tiramisu's even better. There's live music … a guitarist that just got a record deal, so we'd be seeing him before he makes it big. It'll be the least pathetic evening you can imagine."
Zondra's hands found her hips. "That sounds too good to be true."
"If it is pathetic," Mason said, that crooked grin tugging at the corner of his lips again, "that'll just give me incentive to do better next time. What do you say?"
"Well—" Zondra hedged.
"Here." He grabbed a napkin and scrawled something on it. "This is my number. You don't have to decide right now. Just call me after your shift and let me know."
She took the napkin, sliding it into the pocket of her apron. "Thanks, but I don't need to call you."
"Did I mention the wine list?" He rocked back on his heels. "And if tiramisu's not your thing, you should try the Nutella cheesecake. You don't even have to talk to me. You can just eat the cheesecake and express your appreciation in my general direction."
The bell over the door to the coffee shop dinged as it opened and the man with the poodle walked in, the little dog tucked under his arm. Seeing him, Mason stepped aside, turning to go. "Just think about it," he called over his shoulder. "No pressure."
"Like I said, I don't need to," Zondra said. "You had me at 'farm-to-table.' Here."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, punching in the digits from the napkin. A moment later, Mason's phone chimed.
"That's my number," she said unnecessarily as the guy with the poodle walked up to the counter, pausing at the bakery case to peruse the multitude of goodies inside. "Text me and we'll work out the details."
The rest of their conversation was lost as Bryce let out a growl loud enough to shake the interior of the van. "'Farm-to-table,'" he muttered, sounding disgusted. "It's not enough this guy's brilliant and cut—he has to be a foodie, too? The universe hates me."
"It doesn't hate you. No one hates you." Chuck did his best to sound reassuring. "This is just a mission."
"Yeah, yeah. The mission. Can we just talk about something else? Anything. Like your web crawlers … get any hits yet?" Bryce said, in a pitiful attempt to distract himself from his obsessive line of thought. Unfortunately, all he'd done was bring the conversation around to Chuck's own obsession.
It was kismet how the Three Kings revelation had come to him. Staring at the screen as he scrolled through the last of Fulcrum's intel months ago, Chuck had had a sudden memory of how he and his dad used to look at the constellations together. They'd stand out on the back porch in the dark, his dad's hand enveloping Chuck's smaller one, guiding Chuck from one group of stars to the next.
"That's Ursa Major," his dad had said. "The Great Bear. And there's the Dog Star, Sirius … the brightest star in the sky. And right there … that's Orion, the hunter. See there? That's his belt. They also call it the Three Kings."
"The Three Kings?" Chuck had said, peering up at the sky. "Why?"
"Because of those three bright stars—Mintaka, Alnitak, and Alnilam. Legend has it that those stars represent the three Magi in the Christmas story. There's a variant of the carol 'The Quest of the Magi' that goes: 'We three kings of Orion are, bearing gifts we traverse afar, fields and fountains, moors and mountains, following yonder star.'" His dad had put his arm around Chuck's shoulder. "Look for those stars, Charles, and you'll always be able to find the hunter."
Chuck had repeated the stars' names to himself—Mintaka, Alnitak, Alnilam—thinking that they sounded like something out of Star Trek or Star Wars. He'd never forgotten them, or the idea that they were royalty. And sitting on the couch in the safe house with his arm in a sling, Bryce, Sarah, and Zondra all staring at him, the memory had come rushing back.
"Orion," he'd said, with an unmistakable sense of certainty. "That's who the Three Kings are. Orion, the Hunter."
Bryce's mouth had fallen open. Chuck was sure he was thinking of Project Omaha—the Intersect's brainchild—and the moment at Stanford when everything had gone so badly askew. Get Chuck off Professor Fleming's radar, Orion had ordered, compelling Bryce to do the unthinkable. The guy had been a talented computer scientist, according to Casey's files, and he had some kind of vested interest in Chuck. It had to be the same person that Fulcrum was trying to chase down. In this case at least, the hunter had become the hunted.
"Orion?" Zondra'd said, incredulity in her voice. "We heard rumors about him out at the Farm. Said he was a techno wizard of some sort—some kind of digital Houdini. If that's who Fulcrum's looking for, it all fits."
"Holy crap." Chuck had settled back against his pillows. "We've got to find him before Fulcrum does. If we do—maybe he can help me get this thing out of my head. God knows what'll happen if they get hold of him first."
And so he'd spent days creating an automated search algorithm to scrape the web for any traces of Orion. Every day, he checked the results … but so far, no dice.
"I haven't found anything yet," he said to Bryce now, watching the lumberjack bestow a kiss on the poodle's head. "But I'm not giving up."
Bryce's eyes were fixed on the door to the coffee shop. It swung open, as it always did at 8:45 on weekdays, and Troy Mason strolled out, dark hair tousled and messenger bag slung across his chest, looking pleased with the world.
"Of course you're not," Bryce said, his gaze shifting to the monitor screen as Zondra took Paul Bunyan and his pooch's order. "And neither am I."
OoOoOoOoO
Downshifting, the Porsche's motor whining, Sarah made the final turn that wound its way towards her destination—the safe house, and Chuck. She'd put the car's top down, and the bay breeze whipped through her hair, freeing her mind as well as her spirit.
It had been a long day, but a fruitful one. She'd spent that afternoon with Monica Whittaker, chatting for hours over herbal tea and cheese fondue. Whittaker turned out to be smart, savvy, and resilient—just Sarah's type. As a former Air Force intelligence officer, she was easy to get along with—their conversation flowed with familiarity and kinship. Not that they were friends, or anything … but it was nice to have her protective detail duties be for someone she enjoyed spending time with. She just prayed that Page loved Whittaker as much as she'd let on; it was clear she was crazy about him. The woman had tried to keep their conversation professional, but when she talked about Page, Sarah could tell she had a hard time suppressing her enthusiasm.
Sarah couldn't blame her. When she thought about Chuck, it was all she could do to stop a stupid, lovesick smile from spreading across her face. They'd basically been living together for the past three months, and Sarah had worried that would be a disaster—that they'd hit a roadblock before they'd really gotten going—but that hadn't proved to be the case. In fact, the opposite was true. She looked forward to coming home to him every day and seeing his face light up as she slid onto the couch next to him, glass of wine in hand. Sharing what she'd been up to and hearing the ins and outs of his search for Orion was the highlight of her day—or maybe that title was reserved for the moment that she slipped into bed next to him and he wrapped his arms around her, the big spoon to her little one.
And it was arms now. His shoulder was completely healed, and Bryce had initiated a self-defense regimen as part of his recovery that had done more than just get Chuck back to where he'd been before the gunshot—it had created a new and improved version of the nerd she'd fallen in love with. He had muscles in places they'd never been before, and watching him spar with Zondra, she realized just how far he'd come. It was impressive—and sexy.
The diligence and innovation that characterized his pursuit for Orion was sexy too. She loved watching Chuck's mind work, although she was disappointed for him that his search hadn't yielded results. Still, she knew Chuck well enough—and had enough faith in him—to know it was just a matter of time until he found what he was after. Listening to the passion in his voice as he described the bots he'd created and how they crawled the web every day, looking for traces of the enigmatic figure who might be able to pluck the Intersect from his brain, Sarah felt herself fall a little bit more in love with every passing moment. As fruitful as today had been, she'd missed Chuck and couldn't wait to see him.
She pulled the Porsche into a spot in front of the safe house and got out of the car, already anticipating what she'd tell Chuck about Whittaker—right after she kissed him silly. But when she swung the door open, her dreams of a romantic interlude evaporated. Bryce and Zondra were standing in the living room, and they were arguing … loudly enough that there was no way to ignore them. Chuck stood between them, apparently trying to mediate.
"I just have a bad feeling about the guy," Bryce was saying, with the exaggerated sort of patience that made Sarah suspect this wasn't the first time he'd voiced his concerns. "Something's off about him, Zondra. I don't trust him and I don't think you should go."
Zondra glared at him. "This is bullshit. You're just jealous, Bryce. I'm a professional and I know how to do my job. Back off."
He didn't give an inch. "I know you're a professional, for Christ's sake. No one is accusing you of anything or devaluing your ability to follow through on the mission. Just listen to me, would you? My gut says this is a mistake."
"Oh, and you think I should listen to your gut?" Zondra tossed her hair. "Is it some kind of gastrointestinal Tarot deck? Do you have a little fortune-teller in there with a pack of cards, or maybe a Magic 8 Ball? Or are you letting your personal feelings get in the way of what has to happen here, just because you don't want me to go on a date with anyone but you?"
"Now wait just a—"
Her voice rose. "I'm not your personal property. I don't belong to you, or anyone but myself. If you can't show me the respect of allowing me to do my job, then do us both a favor and leave me the hell alone."
Color rose in Bryce's cheeks, and he folded his arms across his chest. "I do respect you!"
"You obviously don't. Now get out of my way. I have to get dressed."
He ran a hand through his hair. "Please just listen to me. We can figure something else out. I'm telling you, I have a bad feeling about where this is headed. Don't go."
"Don't you tell me what to—"
"Hey, hey, hey," Chuck said, taking a tentative step toward Zondra. "Let's all just calm down and then maybe we can—"
She turned a wild-eyed glance in his direction, simmering like a pot on the boil. "And you! Don't you tell me to calm down. Do you have any idea how insulting it is? I would've expected better from you!"
Chuck's mouth fell open in shock. He was still searching for the right words to say when Sarah grabbed Zondra by the arm. Z's eyes widened, but Sarah didn't give her a chance to speak. Instead, she dragged her friend down the hall to Zondra's bedroom and shut the door.
Z sank onto the bed, looking pissed. "Can you believe him, Sarah?"
"Which 'him'?" She opened Zondra's closet, rifling through it for the perfect first-date dress. "You were pretty mad at both of them."
Zondra waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, Chuck's just playing peacemaker, trying to make things better. That's who he is. He can't help it. But Bryce—all that caveman 'I don't want you going out with him' crap. Who does he think he is, my keeper?"
Bypassing one dress as too formal and another as too drop-dead-sexy, Sarah took her time, choosing her words carefully before she spoke. "I don't think he's trying to be an ass, Z. I really don't. I've worked with the guy for years. Make fun of his gut instincts if you want, but he's usually dead on. If he says the guy's dirty, I wouldn't be so quick to let it go."
Zondra made a low, dissentient noise. "You can't deny that Bryce is letting his personal feelings get in the way of this mission."
"I wouldn't try to deny that. He's into you, that much is obvious. He said so outright, and there's a thousand other signs. The way he looks at you—the way he's teaching himself to cook, for God's sake. It hasn't been easy for him, watching you get close to Mason. It's tearing him up, Z. You have to see that."
Zondra hurled a pillow onto the floor. "I'm just doing my job!"
"Sure. But that doesn't mean it isn't hurting him." She pulled a classic little black dress out of the closet and held it up, considering. "Both things can be true at the same time, you know. He can hate watching you with Mason and also be justified in feeling like something's not right. I know it isn't easy, but don't just dismiss what he's saying out of hand because you think he's gone all protective-alpha on you or whatever. At least consider it."
Her lips a thin line, Zondra shook her head. "I'm going on this date, Blondie. I have to. I've been working toward it for weeks."
"But?" Sarah prompted.
For the first time since Sarah had walked through the door, she saw her friend smile. "How did you know there was a 'but'?"
"I've known you for years. Come on, girl. Spill."
"Fine." Zondra shrugged. "I feel guilty, okay? When I told you I still loved Bryce, that day at the Saville, I wasn't lying. I did love him. Or—I do. Or—I don't know." She bit her lip, looking uncharacteristically indecisive. "I guess I felt like I shouldn't love him, because he'd been so awful to me. Like the guild would revoke my feminist card if I did. And also, after Chuck sacrificed himself to save me, I realized that was what true love looked like—someone who would do anything for me, no matter what it cost him. I was pretty sure Bryce wouldn't throw himself in front of a passing butterfly, let alone a speeding bullet, to save my life. And I wanted the speeding bullet kind of love. I didn't want to settle for anything less."
"And now?"
"Now," Zondra said, weighing each word, "I don't know what to think. I don't know this new version of Bryce Larkin. It's like being around a different person. I only know I don't want to hurt him, and he's making it impossible to do anything else. And Chuck—he saw me flirting with this bastard Lon Kirk on a mission back in Burbank. I didn't want to; I thought I had to. The guy was disgusting, and I let him put his hands on me. Chuck's face—he was so disappointed. I feel like I'm letting everyone down."
"You're not letting anyone down, Z. Don't worry about that for a second." Sarah's voice was fierce. "Bryce will adjust. He'll have to. And Chuck respects the hell out of you. As for me, all I ask is that you watch your back tonight. No matter what else you think of him, Bryce's instincts are solid. Watch your back, and know that I'm there for you. I'll always have your six."
Her eyes welling with tears, Zondra nodded. "Any other sage words of advice?"
"Sure." Sarah held up the dress, lightening the moment. "Wear your LBD. It's perfect."
Twenty minutes later, Zondra was outfitted in the little black dress and three-inch heels. She'd put on smoky eyeliner and nude lipstick, and Sarah had done her hair, curling it so that it fell to mid-back in an ebb and flow of dark brown waves. Z looked in the mirror, giving herself a tacit nod of approval.
"It'll do."
"Are you kidding? Troy Mason will end up spilling his guts. Come on, time to go."
Sarah followed Zondra out into the living room, and had the perfect view of seeing Bryce's jaw drop when he caught sight of her. He turned away, wanting to hide his reaction, but it was too late. God, he was so hung up on her. Sarah just hoped they didn't wind up breaking each other's hearts.
"You look nice," Bryce said to Zondra at last, sounding shy.
Zondra looked at the floor, the loveseat, the ceiling—anywhere but at him. "Thanks," she managed eventually. Sarah felt sorry for the pair of them.
"Let's go." She twirled the key to the surveillance van on her finger. She, Chuck, and Bryce would be riding together. They'd follow Zondra to the restaurant and wait at a safe distance. "Nutella cheesecake waits for no man—or woman."
"Mmmm, Nutella cheesecake. Sounds amazing." Chuck draped an arm over Sarah's shoulders. "Do me a favor, Z—save me a piece? With all the calories I'm burning on the mat, I've earned it."
Zondra shot him a smile, and Sarah knew she intended it as a peace offering. "I'll do my best."
The four of them headed out the door. Chuck, Sarah, and Bryce climbed into the surveillance van, and Zondra got into her Jeep—no easy feat in three-inch heels.
"I don't like this," Bryce said again as Sarah started the engine, but he didn't sound possessive, the way Zondra had accused him of being—he sounded worried and forlorn.
"I know you don't. And I trust your instincts." Sarah reached behind her to squeeze his knee. "If you say something's not right, it probably isn't, Bryce. But Zondra's good at what she does, and we're here for backup. Everything's going to be fine."
Bryce mumbled something under his breath. Sarah couldn't be sure, but she thought it sounded like "Famous last words."
She pulled out behind Zondra, trying—and failing—to shake the feeling of dread that roiled in her stomach. And when Chuck squeezed the fingers of her free hand, offering reassurance, for once it did nothing to help.
She'd just gotten Zondra back. She didn't want to lose her again.
"It'll be fine," she repeated, more to herself than for anyone else's benefit, and hoped like hell it was true.
OoOoOoOoO
The twenty-minute drive to Refinery77, Mason's friend's Russian Hill bistro, went quickly. Zondra's mind was partially on the 'date' to come, and partially on Bryce … how sweet he'd been over the past three months, and how jealous he'd been tonight. That possessive attitude of his didn't fly with her. It wouldn't, even if they didn't have such a screwed-up history. How could she ever be with someone who wouldn't allow her to do her job—who didn't trust her enough to take care of herself?
Then again, she trusted Walker—and Walker trusted Bryce. Was it possible that he was reacting so strongly because he really did sense something off about Mason, and was just trying to look out for her? Was Zondra so scalded by their history that she couldn't give him the benefit of the doubt? If Walker had come to her with the same fears about Mason's motivations, would Zondra have believed her—or would she have blown up at her the way she did with Bryce? Maybe she was guilty of the very thing she'd accused Bryce of doing … allowing their past history to blind her.
She worried over this conundrum all the way to Refinery77, where she magically found a spot just half a block from the restaurant. The van had pulled over a block away, close enough to be available in the event of trouble, but sufficiently far away that it wouldn't be noticed. Turning off the car, she dropped her keys into her clutch, checked her lipstick, and strolled down Mason Street—irony or ego?—toward Union.
Refinery77 was halfway between Mason and August Alley, a sleek, wood-framed hole in the wall with a bright red door and twinkling lights that framed huge windows. Zondra stood outside for a moment, letting the scent of perfectly-charred beef and mushrooms sautéed in butter fill her lungs. For a moment, she let herself look forward to the evening—if for no other reason than she'd likely get to savor the best meal she'd had in months. Then the doubt crept in, a drop of dark ink swirled in clear water. She and Mason had never discussed her love of good food, beyond her recommendations for the delectable white-chocolate scone at Café Santana that he stubbornly refused to try. As far as he knew, she was a barista who'd mastered the art of the perfect latte and the snarky comeback. Was he trying to impress her? Or was this a slip on his part, because he was actually a Fulcrum agent who'd done some digging into her past, discovered the cooking classes she'd taken, and was leveraging the information to make her a Nutella cheesecake-flavored offer she couldn't refuse?
That was ridiculous. She was letting Bryce get to her. Beyond his "gut feeling," they had no evidence that Mason was anything other than what he appeared to be—a fearsomely intelligent cryptographer with a fitness obsession and an addiction to blueberry scones.
Still, the ink swirled, darkening her mood. Determined to cheer herself up, she yanked open the door to the bistro, tested her comms to make sure they worked—Chuck's "Good luck, Z" and Bryce's "Be careful" ringing in her ears—and stalked inside.
Mason was lounging against the hostess stand, deep in conversation, wearing a pair of slim black pants, a button-down white shirt, and a charcoal suit jacket the exact color of his eyes. He straightened up when he saw Zondra and smiled, the hostess forgotten.
"You look beautiful," he said. "I mean, I thought you were gorgeous in an apron, but this definitely puts that outfit to shame. I'll be the envy of every guy in here tonight."
Bryce snorted, and Zondra felt herself blushing. "You'll turn a girl's head, talking like that."
"You think I'm turning your head? Wait until you try the scallops with butternut squash caponata. You haven't lived until you've had those—paired with the Alsace Pinot Gris, of course." He held out his arm. "Shall we?"
Suppressing the unladylike urge to drool—scallops were one of her favorites—Zondra looped her arm through his. She felt the tiniest bit foolish … was he being cheesy, or mocking the formality of his own gesture? If it was the former, she was glad this date wasn't the real thing—but if it was the latter, well, she was liking Mason a little more with every passing second.
They followed the black-clad hostess through the restaurant to the outdoor courtyard. Refinery77's interior had been nice enough—low lighting, the pleasant hum of conversation, candles burning on every table—but when they reached the courtyard, Zondra sucked in her breath. It was gorgeous. A tree grew through the center of it, hung with fairy lights and an assortment of hand-carved wind chimes that clinked together in the evening breeze. The wrought-iron fence that surrounded the candlelit tables was hung with overflowing flowerpots, a profusion of blues and purples spilling over the sides and filling the air with fragrance. In the corners, flanked by torches, were exquisite abstract sculptures. There was a small stage where she guessed the musicians would be setting up later, and tables scattered throughout the space, set on a foundation of cobblestones and mosaic-studded concrete pavers. Other than Zondra and Mason, the courtyard was completely empty.
"Your table," the hostess said, gesturing them to seats beneath the tree. "Here's the wine list and your menus. Your server will be out in just a moment."
Zondra slid into her seat, feeling awed—and a little suspicious. "Where is everyone else?"
The candlelight flickered across Mason's features as he smiled. "It pays to know the chef."
She smirked at him. "I've known a few chefs in my time. Doesn't matter who you know—unless you pay them a pretty penny, they're not giving up the best seats in the house just because you're their buddy. What gives?"
"I have no idea." Mason shrugged, draping his suit jacket over the back of the chair. "Maybe it's too early, and folks are waiting for the guitarist to get here. Or maybe I just got lucky. There are worse things than enjoying an incredible ambiance, alone with a beautiful woman."
Bryce's words nagged at her—Something's off about him, Zondra. Flipping open the wine list, she shoved his voice away, but it refused to go—maybe because she could hear his groan of irritation loud and clear through her earwig.
"Seriously?" Bryce said. "Would he like some Velveeta to go with his Alsace Pinot Gris, or would that be too low-class for Mr. Sophistication?"
Damn Bryce, anyway. He didn't belong here. Zondra intended to savor each bite of her scallops, drink every bit of her wine, and devour the Nutella cheesecake—to hell with the calories.
"Are there really seared scallops?" she asked Mason.
"There are. And they're the best." He grabbed the menu and opened it up so she could see. "Butternut squash and all. If you like scallops, you won't be sorry."
She gave him her biggest, brightest smile. "I love scallops. And I'd love a glass of the Alsace Pinot Gris," she said as the waiter came up to the table. He was exactly the kind of guy she'd expect to see waiting tables in a place like this—a perfectly trimmed goatee, hair up in a man-bun, and a diamond stud in one earlobe.
"You heard the lady," Mason said, leaning back in his chair. "Two glasses of the Alsace, please. I believe she'd like the scallops—unless you've changed your mind? I mean, you might actually like to look at the menu. Everything here's incredible. You can't go wrong."
"I'm feeling pretty good about the scallops."
"Scallops it is, then." He scanned the menu. "Is the almond-crusted salmon as good as it sounds?"
"It's fabulous," the waiter said, his teeth a brief flash of white in his dark beard.
"Then the salmon it is." Mason shot her a conspiratorial look. "I might be persuaded to share—if you're willing to part with a scallop."
"That could be arranged," Zondra said, tucking a wavy strand of hair behind her ear. The guy was cute, she'd give him that. And he had excellent taste in dining establishments. She was sure he didn't burn his eggs unless properly supervised.
The waiter nodded. "I'm Van—I'll be your server tonight. If you need anything, just let me know. I'll be right back with your wine."
Mason was right—the Alsace was delicious. As Zondra sipped, the smoky flavor of the wine lingering on her tongue, she thought that whatever happened tonight, she'd have to remember this vintage. It was well worth the price of admission.
"So, Troy," she said, eyeing him over the rim of her glass, "tell me more about your job. What are you working on right now?"
He gave her a self-deprecating eye roll. "Ah, the usual grind. I teach—you know that. Quantum computing—sounds a lot cooler than it is."
"I highly doubt that. I'm not much of a techie, but I'd love to learn more. What exactly do you study?"
Mason folded his hands on the tabletop. "Do you really want to know?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't," she said, giving him the full benefit of her gaze.
"Okay, then, but remember, you asked for it. If you fall asleep before our entrees arrive, don't blame me." And he was off and running, telling her about the intricacies of his work. Zondra listened with half an ear, paying attention to anything she could use. So far, there was a whole lot of nothing … but like anyone else who loved what they did, he was infinitely happy to talk about it.
He wound down just as Zondra was buttering the last piece of focaccia in the bread basket. "God, you must be bored to death. I'm so sorry. Sometimes when I talk about work, I just get carried away. I'm not always like this, I promise."
"I asked for it, remember?" She leaned forward, letting the candlelight play across her face. "And I learned a lot. This is pretty heavy stuff for a girl who spends most of her time making lattes."
"Picasso-quality lattes, Elena. Don't sell yourself short." He raised his own glass, considering. "What about you? Are you happy where you are? Or do you have bigger plans?"
She shrugged. "I like the coffee shop, for now. It gives me a chance to meet people, and the freedom to do whatever I want in the evenings. It's not forever. Maybe one day I'll get sick of it and move on. But there's something satisfying about giving people what they need to start their day off perfectly. I like the camaraderie of it, the connections. I mean, without it, I wouldn't be here, with you."
"And what a crime that would be," he said, his voice soft. "Ah—our entrees. Tell me if the scallops live up to the hype."
The waiter set their dishes on the table and stepped away, heading back inside. A couple passed him, on their way out to the courtyard, but the hostess seated them far away from Mason and Zondra, at their cozy table under the tree.
She impaled one of the scallops on her fork, dredging it in a bit of squash, and lifted it to her lips. The moment she took her first bite, she knew Mason hadn't steered her wrong. The outside was crispy, the inside melt-in-your-mouth delicious. The squash formed the perfect sweet counterpoint to the briny taste of the scallops. She closed her eyes, listening to the wind chimes, savoring the taste.
When she opened them again, Mason was eyeing her with undisguised appreciation. "So," he said, the edges of his mouth curling upward, "did it pass muster?"
"Oh, God." She swallowed, hand pressed to her heart. "It's amazing. I take it back. I don't know if I'm willing to share after all."
"That's too bad. I was about to tell you all about the incredible Fourth of July bash my buddy Jeff has planned. If you think his scallops are good, you should try his pineapple-and-shrimp skewers with spiced mango salsa. But those bashes are invitation only. And I'm not sure I want to extend an invite to a girl who hoards all the scallops for herself." He raised his eyebrows, fork poised above his salmon.
Zondra gave an exaggerated sigh—but still managed to take advantage of this opportunity to suss out Mason's loyalty. It had practically been handed to her, after all. "You're a true patriot, I see. Only in it for the food."
"Oh, I love my country. But I love Jeff's shrimp skewers even more. They're good enough to bring our forefathers back to life." He mimicked her sigh, a wicked grin lifting his lips.
"Fine, I give." She curved a protective hand around her plate. "You can have one scallop. One. They're too good to part with any more."
There was a muffled noise over the comms, like a stifled gasp. Then Chuck said, "What the hell!"
"What's happening, Chuck?" Anxiety colored Sarah's voice.
Zondra's heart picked up speed. Something was obviously wrong—but she trusted her team. Her job was here … no matter how worried she might be about what was happening in the van. Swallowing her unease, she forced herself to focus on Mason—who was still eyeing her entrée with single-minded avidity.
"One it is," he agreed, snaking a scallop and depositing it on his own dish. "And as promised, here's a bite of my salmon."
"I don't know," Chuck said, sounding as anxious as Sarah. "I'm not doing anything. Look! This is totally bizarre."
Zondra shifted in her seat, about to excuse herself to the restroom. Whatever was going on, she needed to know about it. Unfortunately, Mason chose that moment to extend his fork to her, a piece of salmon speared on the end—just as the waiter approached again, doubtless to see if everything was all right. Honestly, Zondra wasn't sure what to tell him. Did Mason really expect her to nibble the salmon off his fork, like some kind of baby bird being fed by mama? Maybe Bryce's Spidey sense wasn't going off because the dude had anything evil in mind—maybe Mason was just plain weird.
Well, he hadn't had anything to eat yet, after all. His fork hadn't touched anything but her scallops. Eating the salmon wouldn't be gross … just peculiar. And if she refused, it would be awkward, right?
Suppressing her aggravation, she leaned forward to take a bite—and felt a needle slide into her bicep. Glancing up in shock, she saw the waiter—Van, he'd said his name was—standing above her. His eyes were flat and shark-like, his mouth a hard seam in the thicket of his beard.
"If it's not you, then who's typing?" Bryce said, a moment too late—and then his voice took on a tinge of panic Zondra had never heard in it before. "Oh, shit. Zondra … get out of there!"
She would have loved to do nothing more. But when she tried to comply, she was horrified to realize that she couldn't move. With a supreme effort of will, she managed to lift her hand—but it flopped back to the tabletop, slack and useless.
"Oh dear," Van said, pulling the needle free and slipping it into the pocket of his apron. "You really shouldn't have had so much wine. It can make one positively … stuporous."
Zondra's eyes slid to Mason, who was watching her with a look that hovered somewhere between eagerness and resignation. "I'm disappointed in you, Agent Rizzo. That was far too easy for an agent of your caliber. A little wine, a few seared scallops, and all your training went out the window. What is the CIA teaching people these days?"
Over the comms, Bryce was yelling her name. She opened her mouth to scream, tried to rise from the table to fight, but her muscles wouldn't cooperate, and all that came out was a hoarse croak. "What … did you give me?"
"Oh, not to worry. It's a derivative of pancuronium bromide—a special cocktail of ours. It won't kill you, just paralyze you long enough for us to get you where we want you without your claws coming out." Mason leaned across the table, spearing another one of her scallops. "You were wrong, I see. There are plenty of these to go around after all."
Zondra struggled to reach her purse, but her hand refused to obey. God, Bryce had been right after all. He'd been right about everything, and she'd accused him and ignored him. She should have been kinder to him, she should have listened—
As if she'd summoned him, his voice came over the comms, harsh and desperate. "Goddamn it. We're going in there. Zondra, we're coming. Just hold on."
She tried to open her mouth to reply, but her lips wouldn't cooperate. Panic surged within her. How long until this stuff spread to her lungs, her heart? What if she died here?
Her eyes darted from side to side, the only muscles still under her command. Her pulse leapt and stuttered. This was like being buried alive.
"Are you frightened? Don't be." Mason's voice was a purr. "Here, we've got you."
Coming around to her side of the table, he hooked one of her arms over his shoulder. Van took the other, and they hoisted her to her feet. Together, they carried her through the courtyard and out into the street.
"Excuse us," Mason murmured to a couple who eyed the trio with alarm. "Nothing to worry about. She just had a bit too much to drink."
Zondra hung limp, the night air cool on her cheeks. Her hair blew into her eyes, but she had no ability to brush it away. Her head rocked to the side and she saw Bryce leaping from the surveillance van down the block, saw him running toward her, cover be damned. But it was too late. Mason and Van ushered her into a waiting car, and she slumped against the window, helpless, as it sped away.
A/N: One more chapter remains in this arc, with another arc left in what we're calling 'Season 1.5.' As we head toward Season 2, you'll begin to encounter some familiar names and faces—but rest assured that our AU theme will undergird the balance of the story.
A/N #2: We love reading your reviews—they mean a lot to us and influence the decisions we make as we craft our story. Please review, follow, and 'favorite' us if you are so inclined.
As always, thanks for reading.