This story will have multiple points of view, each one depicted by the name of the character above each scene.

A/N: I'd like to take a moment to thank michaelfmx for all of his hard work in beta reading this chapter, providing valuable insight and last-minute course corrections. I'd also like to thank Emily for ensuring what I sent him didn't resemble Klingon. Of course, I take full responsibility for any and all mistakes.

It should go without saying but … I don't own Chuck.

Chapter 4: Fight-or-Flight

*** Sarah ***

Once Casey left to retrieve Chuck, my time alone with Bryce was spent in deafening silence. I paced back and forth in front of him, trying to contain my fury. Bryce stayed as quiet as a coffin, not wanting to push his luck after the threat I'd made—probably still thinking about the three bullets buried deep in his vest. But the expression on his face was laced with fear, not contrition. Like always, he was only concerned with his own self-preservation.

As the seconds ticked by, I became overwhelmed by the heartache his reappearance had caused. After Chuck told me about what'd happened to him at Stanford, and I fully understood that Bryce had ruined his life a second time with the Intersect, I'd been mortified that I'd ever let my ex get so close to me—not to mention touch me … intimately. It was guilt by association in the worst possible way.

The rage and self-disgust that was coursing through my veins reached its peak. I stalked over to Bryce, my gun still trained on his head, and wrenched the zip-ties around his wrists down as hard as I could. He winced in pain, his eyes widening and his hands turning bone-white from lack of blood flow.

I told myself that it served him right—that it was nothing he didn't deserve. But after the momentary satisfaction this brought me waned, I felt even more disgusted with myself—and empty, the way I often felt when dealing with him. In the past, I hadn't known any better—but now, after spending so much time with Chuck, the difference was blatantly clear.

Looking back, my time with Bryce had amounted to little more than a series of one-night stands, usually followed by a few days of self-recrimination. I'd allowed our encounters to continue for far too long, trying to convince myself that I was still capable of forging human connections—that I was something more than the monster I felt growing inside me.

As if any of that had worked.

With the social isolation that the spy life demanded, genuine connections with fellow agents were as fallacious as they were unrealistic. When the veterans from the Farm preached about how spies don't fall in love, they should've amended it to spies don't fall in love with other spies. After all, how can you share yourself with another person when there's nothing real about you to share?

But even though my time with Bryce had meant nothing to me, I knew it meant everything to Chuck. He was as real as they came. After seeing him with Lou, I finally understood what he'd been struggling with ever since he'd found out about my past. The green-eyed monster was an indiscriminate tormentor that gave no quarter. And now I'd treated Chuck to a goddamn screensaver of my time with my ex. He would never want me after this. No matter how I tried to explain, he'd never understand. I couldn't even blame him for not wanting to try.

It was over between us before it had really begun.

My hands started shaking so much, I had trouble keeping a solid grip on my gun. As I brought my other hand up to steady the tremors, my eyes locked with Bryce's. The asshole had the nerve to give me one of his cocky, flirtatious grins—as if all of this was just a game to him.

To hell with feeling empty. Now I felt something, all right—a resurgence of the visceral hatred that had consumed me just a few minutes before. How dare he smirk at me like that—like we were in on this together, as if all it would take was one quirk of those arrogant lips to bring me crawling right back to his side? I glared at him, my gaze malevolent, and the tremors drained away, consumed by the nothingness I always felt right before I killed. My hands steadied as I shifted my gun from his head, aiming for the body part I knew he treasured most.

Bryce's grin faded, replaced by an expression of terror. I let him see everything I felt on my face—my contempt for the way his existence had intertwined with mine, the pleasure I'd derive from wiping his tainted gene pool off the planet … and from my memory.

Before this moment, I'd only pulled the trigger with explicit orders from my superiors, or in defense of myself and others. But for this smug asshole, I'd make an exception.

Bryce's mouth moved, forming the silent words, You wouldn't dare, as my finger whitened on the trigger.

Behind me, the door clicked open. I heard a gasp, made all too familiar by the harrowing missions we'd shared over the past few months.

For the second time that day, Chuck Bartowski was seeing me at my absolute worst. Of course Casey had chosen this exact moment to walk back into his apartment—and here I stood, gun in hand, my macabre target on full display.

I glanced away from Bryce and looked into Chuck's eyes, afraid of the judgment I'd see there—which would be no less than what I deserved. But to my shock, all I saw on his face was genuine concern … for me. Was it just because he was a more-than-decent human being, an empath who didn't want anyone around him to suffer? Because he could tell the pain it caused me to have become this person—a mercenary who was standing in an NSA agent's living room, aiming a gun at an asshole who used to be her partner and occasionally shared her bed?

That seemed most likely—that he felt nothing but pity. But could it possibly be because he still cared for me, even though he'd walked in on me kissing the man who'd betrayed him? The latter seemed a long shot, even for Chuck. Still, a tiny part of me couldn't help but hope.

I lowered my gun, horrified that he'd seen me like this, my heart breaking all over again. I tried to think of something I could say, but as always, Bryce decided he needed to be the center of attention.

"Hey, Chuck." He let out a shaky sigh, relief clear in his voice. "I'd shake your hand, but as you can see, I'm a little tied up at the moment. A bit of Walker's handiwork."

Casey grumbled something under his breath, only to have Chuck turn on him with a growl. "If you say it, I swear to God—"

Casey shook off the jibe without a second glance. "I'm a man of few words, Bartowski. Won't waste any more on you. Now stop your bellyaching so we can call this in."

My heart started racing as Casey walked over to his communication system to conference in with Graham and Beckman. This was it. The moment of truth. What would they say after they found out what'd happened?

My stomach churning, I looked back at Chuck, surprised to find him still staring at me. After he caught my eye, he mouthed, "Are you okay?"

The question shook me from the floor up. After everything I'd put him through, he was still concerned about my wellbeing.

I started to reassure him, the way I'd always done, no matter how screwed up our situation might be. But at the last second, I changed my mind. There was no way I could repair the damage I'd already caused—but at least I could stop lying to him. So, instead of the curt nod I'd normally give him, I shook my head.

I was semi-rewarded for my courage when he gave me a grim smile of acknowledgment—and then nodded back, the kind gesture taking me by surprise all over again.

As Casey's TV sprang to life—with Beckman on one side of the screen and Graham on the other—I chastised myself for my lack of faith. Chuck's reaction shouldn't have surprised me at all. He was the same man I'd fallen for—compassionate, empathic, and always looking out for everyone but himself. The complete opposite of someone else I knew.

Still, something about his demeanor struck me as unusual. I was standing to the left of Bryce's chair and Casey to the right. Chuck was off to the side, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. He almost looked relaxed, which made no sense, given his typical anxious mien and the dire situation. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something different about how he held himself—and damn if I didn't find it sexy as hell.

Before I could dissect that doomed thought any further, General Beckman addressed the room. "Report, Major."

Casey stood ramrod straight, coming to attention. "Yes ma'am. As you can see, Bryce Larkin is no longer at large. He was dumb enough to show up at the Bartowski residence during their Thanksgiving dinner looking for Agent Walker, and we were able to re-apprehend the traitor."

Bryce snarled. "I'm not a traitor!"

Graham's gimlet gaze fixed on my ex-partner. "Then explain yourself, Mr. Larkin. This may be your only chance."

"Yes, sir." Bryce squared his shoulders, trying to look as dignified as was possible when zip-tied to a kitchen chair. "The Intersect was a mission, sir. I never went rogue. I was recruited by an outfit called Fulcrum, a special-access group inside the CIA."

"Special access…" Graham shook his head, his weary expression hovering somewhere between disgust and disbelief. "Why would you believe … whoever they were … was aboveboard? Why not come to me?"

Bryce's gaze swung between me and the Director. When he answered, it sounded as if he was speaking to both of us. "They knew who I was. My activation codes, my record. They ordered me to shed my agency contacts and go deep. Only then did I realize it was an internal strike to download and destroy the Intersect. Fulcrum had plans for its intel."

I couldn't help but scoff at his ridiculous story. "Why should we trust a word you say?"

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Sarah." He leaned forward as much as the zip-ties would permit, his eyes sincere. "I didn't know who to trust."

Beckman cleared her throat, reclaiming Bryce's attention. "Why involve the asset—a civilian?"

"I needed a friend who wasn't a spy," Bryce explained. "Chuck didn't know anything about Fulcrum or the Intersect or Sand Wall."

*** Chuck ***

As soon as the last syllable left Bryce's mouth, the Intersect surged to life. My eyes fluttered as a series of images flashed before them—each for a millisecond, but my brain managed to catalog them just the same.

A wall full of metal drawers.

A file folder with the official CIA seal, marked TOP SECRET.

Inside, a memo on CIA letterhead, subject: OPERATION SAND WALL. The operation had placed a tremendous strain on Fulcrum, causing agents from multiple countries and projects to be reassigned—thus compromising security and endangering their lives and their missions.

I could see when and where their training had taken place—and what it had focused on: situational awareness, memory and pattern recognition, the ability to transfer knowledge from one context to another, along with some other, highly-prized attributes—automaticity, problem-solving, decision-making, and mental flexibility, to name a few.

Lightning-fast, the image shifted to another file marked OPERATION SAND WALL, INTERSECT with the same seal … and inside it, a schematic, divided into quadrants and etched with a numbered network so intricate, it resembled dendrites. And then another schematic, and another.

And then—a detailed procedural strategy, complete with blueprint, of how Fulcrum planned to infiltrate the Intersect complex. They had run over five hundred computer simulations to figure out how to best carry out the breach before they'd settled on the northeast corner, second-story window. And they'd chosen Agent #499034 to lead the infiltration—was that Bryce's activation code? I committed it to memory.

The image of the blueprint zoomed in closer, then closer still. It dominated my vision, until it was all I could see. And then it was gone, replaced with a bisected blue-and-white file folder: OPERATION SAND WALL, INTERSECT, SCHEMATICS, MAPS and DIAGRAMS.

A black-and-white image of the inside of the complex followed—then another, on the heels of the first. I saw equipment. A security feed. And then an overhead view of the complex itself, shot as if from a plane or satellite. It zoomed in, closer and closer, until I finally saw a white-paneled grid with what must've been the access point circled in blue.

Then it vanished. The same wall of metal drawers appeared in its place, as if it'd been sucked outward—and then that, too, was gone.

Unbelievable. It looked as if Bryce had been telling the truth all along. So, instead of being thrown in a jail cell for the rest of his life for sending me the Intersect, he'd probably end up receiving a freaking medal and commendations for throwing me under the bus.

Not only that, but the mission had been marked top-secret, eyes only. Sarah couldn't have known anything about it. She hadn't been in league with him, after all, which left me even more confused—and now slightly skeptical—about what had really gone down in my bedroom. Between the murderous looks she'd been giving him since I walked in and the fact that she'd nearly neutered him with molten lead, love was certainly not in the air. I had no idea what was happening—maybe it was some kind of CIA ruse? I wouldn't put anything past them—but at least she wasn't a double agent.

That thought left me with little solace. I was still standing in a room full of people who represented a threat to me and my family, with two even more dangerous people examining my every move through a TV screen. I was far from alone—and yet I'd never felt so lonely in my life. Something had to change—drastically.

Sarah snapped me out of my flash-induced haze.

"Chuck, did you just…?"

"Flash?" I finished, somehow managing to hold her gaze. "Yeah … Operation Sand Wall." I repeated the name. It tasted like vinegar on my tongue.

I couldn't believe what I was about to do for Bryce after he'd framed me for cheating, robbing me of everything. It would be so easy to return the favor in spades, but that wasn't me. I'd never stoop that low, no matter how much I hated him. "That was the name of the Intersect mission. I think he's actually telling the truth for a change." I pinched the bridge of my nose, shaking my head. "I don't get it, Bryce. How the hell are you alive? You're like a freaking cockroach."

Casey echoed my sentiments with one of his patented caveman grunts. I'd apparently been spending far too much time with the NSA agent, because my brain translated this one effortlessly to mean 'good point.'

"I don't know how they did it, if that's what you're asking," Bryce said. "They probably used one of the European clinics. I don't remember."

"Do you know why they did it?" Beckman asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure you know the first part already. I downloaded the Intersect, blew up the computer, and raced out of the DNI. Then I ran into you, Casey." He glared at the Major.

"I recall," Casey said. "And yet here you are."

Bryce shrugged, as much as he could while zip-tied to the chair. "So I'm on the ground. No white light. Just Casey staring down at me. And then they brought me back, but they weren't trying to save me. This was a Fulcrum team. They wanted something."

"Clearly," Graham said with barely restrained patience. "But what?"

"I came to in the ambulance, with the leader of their group, guy by the name of Tommy Delgado, looming over me. He demanded to know what happened to the Intersect files. Said he'd let me die if I didn't tell him. I was barely able to hold it together, what with being shot in the chest and having a psychopath staring me down, but somehow I managed to pull it off." He looked up at Sarah—for validation, if I had to guess. But to my surprise and confusion, she rolled her eyes again and glanced away, as if disgusted by his presence.

Bewilderment washed over me. First she'd kissed him. Then she'd zip-tied him and threatened him with her own personal version of castration by firing squad. Now she was acting like cockroach was too good a name to call him. What the hell was going on?

In my peripheral vision, I saw her shift her gaze to me. The disgust that had marked her expression a moment before was gone. Instead, I could swear she seemed almost wistful … and sad. I turned my head to get a better glimpse, and just like that, her face went blank, her mask sliding firmly back in place. But her cheeks burned crimson, as if she was mortified that I'd caught her looking at me like that.

The absurdity of this situation had reached epic proportions. How do you fake a blush? But if her embarrassment and anger with Bryce were sincere, then what the hell was her end game? It made no sense, and the whole thing was starting to make my head hurt.

Bryce spoke up, distracting me from my confusion. "I told Delgado I'd seen the files," he went on, his gaze shifting back to the screen. "That they were inside me. So he ordered his lackeys to do whatever it took to save me. He and his team are still after me, by the way. That's why I ran from the detention center. Delgado was there. It's also why I came here seeking Agent Walker's help. I need to be brought in … this time, to the real CIA."

"Hold up. Hold up," I cut in, waving my hands with a flourish. "Fulcrum thinks you're the Intersect?"

"That's enough," Graham said, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on his polished desk. "Agent Walker. Please cut Agent Larkin loose and return his weapon. We have a lot more ground to cover that may force us to dive into," he paused, giving me a pointed look, "deeper waters." His voice hardened. "The asset is no longer needed. You are to return to your residence, until further notice."

That son of a… The asset is no longer needed?

Graham's condescending turn of phrase, delivered in his typical authoritative timbre, felt like it'd been shouted in an echo chamber. It ricocheted inside my head as my imagination ran wild. I knew all too well what happened to obsolete technology when there was a major upgrade available. And the government had to be in the process of rebuilding everything that Bryce had destroyed—everything I'd just flashed on. It was only a matter of time before Graham or Beckman uttered those same words—this time, to end my life and correct the mistake that'd been made when Bryce emailed the Intersect to a lowly Nerd Herder making eleven dollars an hour. I was inconsequential, or at least expendable in the interest of National Security.

Ever since Casey had admitted to shooting Bryce just because he'd been ordered to—and aiming to kill—I hadn't been able to get that thought out of my head. They wouldn't bother throwing me in a bunker when they finally had a replacement. Expediency, not justice. That's how these people operated.

Well, vive la résistance!

So, instead of slinking away with my tail between my legs as I normally would when one of the 'bosses' barked an order at me, I leaned back against the wall, ignoring them completely as I watched Sarah cut Bryce's restraints with one of her razor-sharp knives. He stood up, rubbing his wrists, glancing over at me with a curious expression—probably wondering what the hell was going on with my blatant disregard for his superiors.

Graham cleared his throat, coughing this time, as I pulled my phone out of my pocket, ostensibly to 'check my email.' Wink, wink … nudge, nudge.

I didn't need to look up to realize how pissed off Graham was getting. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his fists clenching in anger, pressing down hard on his desk, his knuckles whitening his sable skin.

Since Graham was apparently rendered speechless by my insolence, Beckman decided to lambast me in his stead. "Mr. Bartowski! Has the Intersect scrambled your brain to the point where you're incapable of rational thought, or are you willfully choosing to ignore a direct order?"

At that, I lifted my head. "Ah, there it is. How kind of you to address me by my name," I said, giving them an insouciant half-smile. "To answer your question, I can hear you just fine. But when someone refers to me as an object—strike that, a possession—I've decided to stop listening. And besides, I don't work for either of you. You've made that abundantly clear many times over, Diane."

Sarah let out a sound I'd never heard her make before—like a squeaky toy that had been stepped on. A moment later, I had the gratifying opportunity to witness Diane Beckman's jaw drop to her chest. "I beg your pardon," she said, her tone clipped, just as Graham stepped in, trying to change tactics.

"We are keeping you safe, Mr. Bartowski," he solemnly stated. "You're being protected by the best agents our government has to offer. In exchange, all we ask for is a modicum of respect and obedience."

It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Respect? Obedience? I thought this was a joint NSA/CIA operation, Langston, not a dog show at the Westminster Kennel Club. How silly of me. My mistake."

"Hold your tongue, Bartowski," Casey growled, his voice skirting the edge of a threat. "Remember who you're talking to. I won't tolerate any more insubordination in my presence."

Scowling, I somehow found the courage to look the trained assassin dead in the eye. "I'm neither a member of the military nor a federal employee, John. I'm certainly not getting paid to risk life and limb on a daily basis. So pardon me if I take the liberty to speak how I choose, when I choose."

I wouldn't have thought that Brigadier General Diane Beckman was capable of squawking, but that's exactly what she started doing. When I heard Graham's baritone voice join in the din, I found myself suddenly tiring of all the grating noises filling the room. And so—as slyly as I could—I glanced down at my phone and accessed the remote admin app I'd uploaded earlier.

Still glowering at Casey, I shoved my phone deep in my pocket, my thumb hovering just above its screen. After a few moments, I let that same half-smile grace my lips as I muted the audio coming from the TV.

Realizing something was amiss, the Major refocused his attention on his communications array. Temporarily freed from the threat of imminent death, I leaned back against the wall to enjoy the show. I was tempted to start whistling, but that would've been pushing things a bit too far.

It was almost worth the price of admission to see the looks on Graham and Beckman's faces when they realized no one could hear a damn word they were saying. Beckman flushed crimson, her face's hue reddening by the second, and the vein on Graham's temple throbbed in time with his quickening pulse. They were both gesticulating wildly, neither knowing that they were the first victims to be bitten after years of sub-aquatic slumber. No one paid me the least bit of attention—except for Sarah, whose eyes narrowed as she took me in. She stared intently, as if trying to solve a complex mathematical equation in her head.

Out of everyone here, she was the only one who might not have underestimated what I was capable of. I didn't know what to make of that—but it had to mean something.

Once, I would've attributed it to the connection between us. But now, I really didn't know what to think.

Chaos erupted around me, with Casey shouting, "Sir? Ma'am? Can you hear me?" and tapping frantically on his keyboard while Bryce emitted what I could've sworn was a chuckle—although Sarah fixed him with such a deadly glare that the sound froze in his throat and ended up sounding more like a croak. Looking atypically discombobulated, the NSA agent began rifling through the stack of mail and file folders that littered his kitchen counter. A moment later, he found the TV remote—what it was doing in the kitchen, I had no idea—and started mashing buttons at random, cursing under his breath. But nothing worked. I had them completely locked out. Just as I'd planned, their systems were mine to control.

More than happy with my first dry run, I took pity on Casey and unmuted the audio.

"—and I have no idea what's happening!" Beckman was saying, sounding uncharacteristically distraught, as the audio roared back to life. "This whole operation has gone to total shit—"

It was my turn to suppress a chortle. Casey, always the consummate, murderous professional, said, "Ma'am? The audio's working again," his tone neutral as usual.

Was it my imagination, or was the imperturbable general blushing? "It's about time," she exclaimed, as if the entire, orchestrated scenario had been Casey's fault. "I don't know what kind of circus you're running, Major, but I would suggest that you fix it … rapidly."

A muscle twitched in Casey's jaw, but his only reply was, "Yes, ma'am."

It was time to get while the getting was still good. "Alrighty, then." I let the words draw out. "Since we're all finally able to hear each other again," I hedged, doing my best to ignore the distinct sensation of Sarah's eyes boring into the side of my face, "and since it's obvious that my presence here is no longer wanted or needed, I just need to know what the hell I'm supposed to tell my sister about tonight's," I parsed my words carefully, "events … before I have to beard the dragon lady in her den. To say that Ellie's royally pissed would be an understatement of epic proportions."

Having regained his composure after my digital detour, Graham steepled his fingers on his desk, looking martyred. "I'm afraid you have us at a disadvantage, Mr. Bartowski. What events are you referring to?"

"Oh, I don't know … how about the fact that Ellie caught 'my girlfriend,'" I said, throwing up air quotes, "and Bryce effing Larkin—the same guy that ruined my life at Stanford—hanging out in my bedroom. For a guy whose funeral I recently had to attend, he was an awfully animated rotting corpse."

I heard Sarah take a deep breath and no longer felt the intensity of her gaze, so I snuck a peek. She was staring off into the middle distance, her eyes glassy and her body stiff as a board. What the hell did that mean? And in light of recent events, how was I supposed to interpret her behavior?

As much as it pained me to say, Graham would probably be thrilled to have the Andersons back in his lineup. From everything I'd gleaned, they were the best of the best. I thought Sarah would've been chomping at the bit for a chance to get back into the field, instead of having to coddle 'the asset.' She was a woman of action, not a damn babysitter. But her attitude right now conveyed anything but satisfaction.

Puzzled, I looked back at the TV screen. Graham was rubbing his chin, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he nodded and said, "Tell your sister that Agent Larkin, while working as a CPA, came across some financial documents implicating some very dangerous people in wire fraud, embezzlement, and money laundering. That his death was staged so the FBI could place him in a witness protection program, and he was at your home to try and make amends, for…" he waved his hand through the air, "whatever happened between the two of you at your alma mater." He sat back in his chair, looking quite pleased with himself.

In … credible.

Morbid curiosity got the better of me, so I pressed on. "Okay, and what should I say about Sarah?"

There was that damn squeaky-toy noise again. What the frak?

Beckman decided she'd like to join in Graham's Crapola Chorus. "That one's simple, Mr. Bartowski," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "You can just say that Agent Walker heard a noise and went to confront Agent Larkin, thinking he was a prowler trying to break into your apartment."

I couldn't help myself. My anger had been building all night and the words left my mouth before my brain could rein them back in. "To do what, exactly—subdue him with her fucking tongue?"

I might've been losing my mind by this point, but I thought I heard a half-sob escape Sarah's lips before an eerie silence settled in the room. And then came the overwhelming guilt as I realized what I'd just done, all because I had the emotional ineptitude of a fucking three-year old. If the regretful looks she'd been giving me tonight were sincere, and her threats toward Bryce were genuine, I'd just pulled a Bryce Larkin and thrown Sarah to the wolves, probably causing her all kinds of grief with the head of the CIA.

"I see," Graham finally said. His tone was glacial. "Then, I suggest the asset tell his sister that Agent Larkin used to be engaged to Agent Walker and wanted to see her one last time before disappearing to see if it was possible to … rekindle their romance."

"But sir—" Sarah protested.

"Not now, Agent Walker. I'll deal with you in a moment."

I wasn't sure what part of this whole scenario Sarah found so objectionable—but I knew which element I wasn't about to cosign for without a fight. "You want me to lie to my sister about all this?" I gestured between Sarah and Bryce. "With that ridiculous story, no less? What the hell is wrong with you people? Ellie's no fool. And she's the only person who's stood by me. Who hasn't screwed me over." Maybe Sarah was on my side, as impossible as that currently seemed—but inexplicable sidelong glances and bizarre dog-toy noises aside, I had no reason to believe that was the case. "What's next? You want my firstborn child too?"

A peculiar expression flashed across Graham's face, and for a horrible moment I wondered if my offhand comment might've held some kind of weight—if any kids I ever had would be part of this whole nightmare. Not like I was in danger of having kids any time soon, given that I couldn't even manage to hang on to a fake girlfriend without Bryce Larkin sweeping her off her feet. "Look," I said stubbornly, "just let me tell Ellie the truth. Get her clearance. Read her in. Do whatever you have to do. Ellie's my only family. She can keep her mouth shut."

"No! That is absolutely out of the question," Beckman insisted.

"So, that's it, then? Just … no?" I deflated a bit. "I'm the one that has your precious Intersect stuck in my brain, in case you've forgotten. And Ellie's a brilliant neurosurgeon—one of the top in her field. There's no telling what this thing is doing to my head. Remember the last time we tried to find out? Oh, yeah … I was almost sold to the North Koreans. Way to go, team!"

The silence drew itself out to uncomfortable levels. It was clear they were finished entertaining any more foolish notions from 'the asset.' I tried one last time in a vain attempt to make them see reason. Maybe I could appeal to their sense of decency.

"Doesn't it matter what I want?"

Crickets reigned supreme, until Sarah finally spoke up for the group, "I'm sorry, Chuck." Her voice was low and sad, as if she wished things could be different.

Well, if she wanted things to be different, she shouldn't have started this whole shit-show by kissing my personal Judas in front of my sister.

"I'm afraid Agent Walker is correct, Chuck." Graham leveled me with a glare that could've frozen the Ninth Circle of Hell. "If you don't toe the line and deliver on that new cover story—exactly as I've laid it out for you—both you and your sister might find yourselves locked up in a secure facility of my choosing. This is quickly becoming more trouble than it's worth, I assure you."

That was it—the last piece of straw atop the spine of a very, very overburdened camel. It was one thing to threaten me. But Ellie—oh, hell no. There was no way I was going to let her pay for my mistakes.

"Did you just threaten my sister?" I began, my voice more menacing than I'd ever heard it—which didn't say much, given that I'd never managed to sound menacing before. Apparently, all it took was threatening to imprison myself and my only remaining family member for the rest of our natural-born lives.

"Chuck!" Sarah snapped before I could continue, a clear admonition in her tone.

"But…"

"Chuck, please…" she begged, her eyes meeting mine. She sounded almost—frightened.

At the desperate look on her face, something inside of me gave up the ghost. I had no defense against her when she was pleading with me like this … and she probably knew it. "Fine," I said with a huff, my head dropping in defeat.

Without another word or backward glance, I marched out the door, leaving this whole ridiculous mess behind me. As I crossed the courtyard, brooding about the shambles that my life had become, one name sprang to the fore: The Magi.

It had been years since I'd crossed keyboards with the binary guru—my only equal, as far as I was concerned. I would spend some quality time tonight on the dark web. That seemed like as good a place as any to try and get a handle on at least some of my problems. With his help, maybe I could start formulating some kind of plan, figure out what locked doors could be easily circumvented. See if there was a way to siphon off some of the power the government held over me and my family.

But I never got the chance—because as soon as my feet hit the floor of my room, I saw my sister perched on the edge of my bed, her eyes puffy and her cheeks tearstained. She patted the spot next to her.

"Sit down, Chuck," she insisted, her tone somber as the grave. "We need to talk."

*** Sarah ***

After Chuck stormed out of Casey's apartment, it took every ounce of training to contain the cyclone of emotions swirling inside me. What the hell was happening? Everything was falling apart around me faster than I could keep tabs on who, what, when, where, and why.

First and foremost—what was going on with Chuck and this newfound, brazen attitude of his? Had I hurt him so much that he'd thrown all caution to the wind, along with any common sense and what little remained of his survival instincts? He'd never been a coward—quite the opposite, in fact. But not staying in the damn car while on a dangerous mission was in a completely different realm than purposefully going after the heads of the United States intelligence community. When it came to matters of national security, they had little to no oversight or accountability anymore. Broad interpretations of the Patriot Act allowed them the freedom to do pretty much what they wanted, when they wanted—and they often did.

Even through the haze of my worry and misery, I couldn't deny that it was a bit of a turn-on to see Chuck stand up for himself—not to mention, I suspected he'd somehow played a part in Casey's sudden audio issues. The smirk on his lips and the gleam in his eyes had more than piqued my curiosity. In another life, I'd want him to be that fearless and confident, especially given everything he'd been through. But in this one, it was a risky, if not deadly game that he was playing. He had no idea how close he and Ellie had just come to being thrown in a bunker for the rest of their lives—or much, much worse.

High-stakes gambits aside, I'd been shocked at the vitriol in his voice as he lashed out at everyone in the room. His out-of-character comment about me subduing Bryce with my 'fucking tongue' had been a lance through my heart. He wasn't normally one to use that kind of language, nor the tone in which it was delivered. Then again, he was as angry as I'd ever seen him—talk about a tongue-lashing!—and it wasn't as if I could argue the point. I deserved every insult he decided to hurl my way.

Still, I couldn't dismiss the feeling that there was more going on with him than met the eye. I didn't know what it was, but my instincts told me to pay close attention—and I knew better than to ignore the warning.

Regardless of whatever his intentions were, I had to breathe a sigh of relief when he'd finally caved in and walked out the door. Even though I knew it was for his own good, it'd still made me ill to know that I held the power to force his compliance so quickly, with nothing more than the harsh call of his name. Ours had never been a relationship of equals, and even this time, when I'd had the chance to back his play the moment he'd finally stood his ground, I'd used that power to shove him right back into his protective little corner. But I hadn't known what else I could do.

Graham wasn't someone to be trifled with, much less someone whose patience you tried. His nonchalant kill order, should Chuck run during our first date, had played havoc with my psyche over the past few months. Ever since that night, I'd dreaded getting a non-conditional order of the same variety, this time as Graham's personal assassin. I'd already made peace with the fact that, should Graham ever give such an order, it would be one of my last days as a free woman—or as a CIA agent. We would have to run. In the back of my mind, I'd been preparing contingencies since that first morning on the beach, when I'd asked Chuck to trust me.

I just thought I'd have more time to either rid him of the Intersect, or find a more permanent solution that didn't land him six feet under. Now, thanks to that stupid kiss, my time for planning had probably run out. And thanks to the same, I wasn't sure that I could convince him to go anywhere with me—even if it was the only way to save his life.

Chuck's well-being was problem number one. Problem number two—what was about to happen with my job? Graham had made it clear he was displeased with me—and rightfully so. Was he about to not only reassign me—but reassign me with Bryce, to resume our roles as the Andersons once again? That 'rekindle their romance' comment he'd made had really gotten under my skin, and I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to his cryptic remark. Sure, he could've just been coming up with the easiest way to explain why Ellie had found me alone with Bryce in such a compromising position—or he could've been telling everyone what was about to happen. The very thought of it made my stomach churn.

I would quit before I would ever allow that to happen. I was done hurting Chuck. But if I did resign, neither Graham nor Beckman would let me get within a thousand yards of him or his family. Not that that really mattered. Even without that governmental roadblock, I knew there was no way for me to make amends.

Still, maybe resigning was my best shot at keeping Chuck out of trouble. I could watch over him from a distance. But then, would I lose access to the type of intel I might need to protect him?

Another thought occurred to me—this one so painful, I pressed my fingers to my heart, trying to dull the ache. If I got reassigned—or resigned—who would they choose to replace me? Would that person have to fill my shoes as Chuck's 'cover girlfriend,' cuddling with him on the couch, kissing him to reinforce their cover, getting close to his friends and family … or, worst-case scenario, going full-bore, long-term seduction, with everything that implied? Just like my specialized skills in infiltration and assassinations, there were agents out there who specialized in 'controlling' important assets. How would Chuck react to such a ploy? Would he be able to see through it?

Most importantly, would my replacement carry out a kill order, once the new Intersect went live and Chuck was no longer needed? And even if they didn't, there was still Casey to consider. Even though the roughneck Marine had somewhat cottoned to Chuck over our short time together—a sentiment I was sure he'd never admit, even under torture—he still followed orders as if they were commandments from God Himself.

Maybe I should just try to talk Chuck into running away with me—essentially, taking away his last vestiges of freedom, his friends and family, and possibly even his life, should we ever be caught. But at least we'd be together, and with my training, I felt reassured that I could at least keep us both above ground. But as soon as the idea occurred to me, I dismissed it. I was sure he wouldn't go to a freaking McDonald's with me, let alone abandon his entire existence based on my say-so. To do so would mean placing all of his trust in me, and I'd just shown him I was far from worthy of such a thing. He'd flat-out told me we had nothing else to say to each other; I was deluding myself if I thought he'd want or accept my protection, even if his survival was on the line.

As that disturbing realization settled over me, Graham addressed the room, jerking me out of my reverie. It was time to make a decision that could affect the rest of my life.

"Now that we've," he scowled, his nose crinkling as if he'd smelled something rancid, "dispensed with the stop-gap measure … at least for the time being—the question still remains…"

He folded his arms across his chest and stared me and Bryce down. "What to do with the two of you?"

A/N 2: If you would, please take a moment to leave a quick review. It could be as long or short as you'd like, but it would at least let me know that I'm not playing to an empty house. I get a treasure-trove of inspiration from the thoughts, ideas, or suggestions that you might make. And don't forget to hit that Follow and Favorite button. Those numbers count just as much, if not more.

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SmatterChoo…