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

A/N: Give it up for michaelfmx and Emily Colin, coming through for the win in this conclusion of the first act of ASITHOC, the remake (what would've been the Nemesis arc). I really have appreciated all of your help. I've learned so much just by working with the two of you. Like always, any and all mistakes are mine alone.

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

Chapter 7: Cambio de Guardia

*** Sarah ***

The tires of the armor-plated Chevrolet Suburban screeched like a chorus of wailing banshees as I fishtailed around a hairpin turn, coming off the Five at breakneck speed. How had this fallen apart so quickly? What had I missed? We hadn't even started leaving traces of Bryce's digital signature yet, and we were already being pursued by a half-dozen maniacal motorists, hell-bent on corralling, crashing into, or killing us. At least no one had fired any shots … yet, I reminded myself. Even if this was a Fulcrum strike-team—which all the signs suggested—they'd still want Bryce taken alive. Right? That was my hope, anyway.

I struggled to navigate the lumbering behemoth of an SUV through the thickening early-morning traffic of San Fernando, almost regretting abandoning my Porsche in long-term parking back in Burbank. At the time, I'd wanted Chuck to have a means of escape that didn't resemble a Tylenol gel capsule. The Herders were designed to stand out like rolling billboards—the last thing he needed if he had to cut bait and run before I could get to him. Not to mention the tracking devices they were all equipped with, courtesy of the good ol' U. S. of A.

I'd tasked a courier to deliver the Porsche's keys to the Buy More, picturing Chuck's face lighting up like a Christmas tree when the package arrived. I'd written a note giving him directions to the lot where my car was parked, telling him it was a temporary trade—my car in exchange for his t-shirt—but felt that I was getting the better end of the deal. I'd meant it as a romantic gesture, sure … but also a practical one, providing Chuck with a crucial form of transportation should the shit hit the fan. Given his brilliance, I was sure he'd understand the dual meaning.

Then I'd had to choose another car from the fleet the CIA had on hand—with Bryce in mind.

Yes, there were definitive tactical advantages to leaving Chuck the Porsche. But one of my biggest motivations was selfish: I didn't want to be stuck in the restrictive confines of my sports car with the bane of my existence, for however long this mission lasted. Even in this spacious, overpriced land yacht, Bryce was still a little too close for comfort.

I glanced over my shoulder as we blew through another intersection with a caravan of nearly identical Land Rovers hot on our tail, and saw Bryce crouched down, peeking over the back seat with his gun at the ready. He'd been back there since he dove into the car twenty minutes prior, yelling "Go, go, go," while reloading his sidearm, his breath coming hard and his face etched with fear. There was a story there, I was sure, but I had yet to hear it. The only communication we'd shared since the briefing in Casey's apartment was the text I'd sent him with the address of our rendezvous point. After walking out of the courtyard—and Chuck's life for the foreseeable future—I'd been too heartbroken to talk to anyone, let alone Bryce Larkin.

Swerving back into my lane to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming school bus, I decided I'd been kept in the dark for long enough. It was high time I knew what the hell Bryce had gotten us into.

"What did you do, Bryce?" I said, an accusatory edge to my voice. "Why am I finding myself knee-deep in this shit just moments after seeing you again? Not that I'm surprised."

In the rearview mirror I could see Bryce glance back, a contrite look overtaking his face. Well, that was new.

With a huff, he spun around to sit straight in the seat as he checked his weapon. "Right. That." He jerked a thumb toward the insane number of European SUVs bearing down on us like the wrath of God. "So … after leaving Chuck's place last night, I might've done something you're probably gonna think was a bit rash."

Annoyed, I waited for him to elaborate as one of the Rovers managed to close the distance, pulling up next to the passenger's side rear fender in an apparent attempt to pull a PIT maneuver. Checking the side mirror, I waited until it was almost metal-on-metal and tapped the brakes while yanking the wheel hard right. They sailed past us, and I caught their rear fender instead, reversing the maneuver. After we were clear from the impact, I watched in the rearview mirror as they spun out of control, careening into a ditch, rolling violently and eventually coming to rest, upside-down, in a cloud of dust and smoke.

One down, five to go, I thought dismally as I slammed my foot back to the floorboard, the SUV's V8 engine screaming in protest.

Regaining my focus, I tried once more. "Again, Bryce… What. Did. You. Do?"

"Alright. Alright. I get it. You're still pissed," he muttered, his normal bravado taking a back seat, "but I swear, I had the best of intentions."

He was seriously starting to try my patience.

"Tell me, Bryce … NOW," I screamed as—fittingly—we came upon a fork in the road. At the last possible moment, I jerked the wheel left, nearly clipping the front edge of the largest, most tricked-out RV I'd ever seen—complete with a tow-behind trailer, a BMW nestled in its superfluous haunches.

With the Doppler effect from the RV's foghorn blaring in my ears, I gunned it down the two-lane road, eyes darting to the rearview mirror to see how things had panned out. From the looks of it, quite well—there were only three Rovers left in the mix, the other two apparently having veered right at the fork. Since the three remaining SUVs had to wait for the gargantuan RV to pass, it'd given us a little breathing room. But they'd eventually catch up. It was only a matter of time. The added weight of the armor-plating had many benefits, but speed was not one of them.

Bryce checked over his shoulder again, saw we had a minute or two, and ran a hand through his uncharacteristically frazzled hair. His head down, he braced his elbows on his knees, his gun held loosely in his right hand. After a moment, he looked back up, his eyes unguarded as they met mine in the rearview mirror.

"Before last night," he began, "I'd never seen Chuck that angry. Sure, I'd seen him upset, mostly at me—which I'd deserved," he added, raising a preemptive palm as I shot him the most sinister look I could manage through a mirror. "But when he lost his shit last night during the briefing, I had to come to terms with the fact that I'd played a major role in pushing him to the brink. He'd always been so levelheaded—the smartest, most well-rounded person I'd ever known—but now he's become desperate and reckless, and it's all my fault. I was afraid if I didn't act, he'd wind up getting himself tossed in a bunker or worse."

I glared at him, twirling a forefinger for him to get to the point.

In the reflection, I saw him shake his head. "You have no idea how incredibly important he is—not just to me, but in general. He's literally one in six-point-six billion. And believe it or not, I never meant for any of this to happen. In fact, I paid a pretty hefty price trying to avoid it. I had to do something before it was too late and we lost him to Fulcrum, some godforsaken hole in the ground, or hell … maybe both."

Before I could unload on Bryce for thinking I'd buy the steaming pile of bullshit he was selling, I heard a bloodcurdling crack, followed by a recoil. The rear windshield spider-webbed in concentric circles, the bulletproof glass thankfully doing its job, absorbing the impact of what sounded like a high-caliber round. Then I heard two more recoils in quick succession, hitting the tailgate this time, if I had to guess.

"Damn," Bryce hissed. "They're shooting at us."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," I snapped, raising an irritated eyebrow. "You mind skipping over the part where I'm supposed to believe you actually have a conscience and get to the fucking point? For the last time, Bryce, before I shoot you myself…"

He dodged the question by spinning around on his knees and rolling down the back window, directly behind me. Half of his body leaning out, he unloaded his entire clip into the closest Rover, thirty or so yards back. I was impressed to see most of his rounds find their mark. The driver slumped forward and he and his crew veered off the road, slamming into a thicket of sycamore trees. Too bad they hadn't decided to splurge on the bulletproof glass. I could only hope the last two Rovers had the same Achilles' heel.

Bryce wore a satisfied grin that faded as soon as it met my dissatisfied scowl. Swapping out his empty clip with a fresh one, he flopped back into his seat and cleared his throat.

"As I was saying," he drawled, "I needed to do something … so after I left Chuck's, I made a few phone calls and arranged a meeting with Delgado and his team so I could turn myself in."

"You what?!"

My vision turned vermilion—a conflagration of hellfire burning white-hot behind my watering eyes. What the hell was Bryce playing at? Had he really tried to sabotage our mission before it'd even started? Or better yet … had he succeeded? Fulcrum's belief that Bryce was the Intersect was one of the only reasons I was in this fucked-up situation in the first place. If he'd somehow managed to blow his cover—or endanger Chuck's by extension—I'd take great pleasure in peeling the bastard's cold, lifeless skin from his wretched bones.

My hand tightened around the wheel in a vise grip. Smoldering, I decided the rearview mirror couldn't convey the full force of the death-glare I intended to unleash. I twisted around in my seat to look him dead in the eye, daring him through the heat of my gaze not to elaborate any further.

But before he could say another word, one of the remaining SUVs capitalized on my distracted state, pulling up next to the driver's side door, his counterpart tight on our ass, boxing us in. With just the two lanes, there was nowhere for us to go.

Their windows were down, their massive guns drawn. They'd gotten the drop on us, but had yet to fire a single shot. What were they waiting for? It wasn't like we could roll ours down and have a leisurely, close-quarters shootout at over ninety miles an hour. First of all: fuck that, and second: we'd be eliminating the one protective barrier the ballistic glass provided. We'd already missed our opportunity to hold them off by bickering with each other.

Naturally.

I scanned the road ahead, praying for some other form of salvation. But none was to be found. The asphalt threatened to give way to a wide-open expanse of nothing but California blue sky, and it looked as if we were about to run into a dead-end, both figuratively and literally. Then I noticed the guardrail that cut across the picturesque scene, dotted with a smattering of yellow rectangles. Right-facing chevron signs disappeared around the bend, obscured by a steep, rock-covered hill. If I had to guess, there was a ravine on the other side of that railing.

An idea worthy of the Mad Hatter's machinations sprang to mind. We were already traveling at ludicrous speeds, and the driver to my left was paying more attention to me than to the traffic signs ahead. Here was hoping it stayed that way.

I decided to give my 'partner' a bit of fair warning, even if he didn't deserve it. "You might want to buckle up and hold on to your ass, Bryce."

"Why? What are you planning to do?"

"Something I saw in a cartoon once, but I'm pretty sure it'll work."

Now it was Bryce's turn to scream, "What?!"

I inched closer and closer to the Rover next to me, trying to minimize the impact when we'd finally hit. I wanted centrifugal force and kinetic energy on my side, not dumb luck. For the first time in my life, I had way too much to lose.

We passed the last road sign warning motorists to reduce their speed in order to safely manage the treacherous turn. The other driver's eyes met mine a moment later, regret and fear stamped on his face. But it was too late. I gunned it, whipping the wheel right while he did the same trying to brake. It allowed me to pull the nose of the Suburban just ahead of the Rover's in the nick of time as we both skidded sideways, slamming into the roadside barrier. The high-pitched wail of rending metal filled my ears and the impact jarred my body as our combined inertia punched a gaping hole through the guardrail like a needle through quilt-work, sending him sailing into the abyss.

Just as I'd planned, the bounce-back effect from the perfectly-timed dual collision—us into him, and him into the guardrail—launched us through the air in the opposite direction. First one wheel landed, then another, until all four tires gripped the road, eventually bringing the mammoth vehicle under my control—albeit squealing and squawking the whole way. Surely a greater beast had never been tamed.

Quickly checking the driver's side mirror, I was even more pleased to see the trailing SUV also fail to hold the line at those ridiculous speeds. The top-heavy Land Rover drifted into an uncontrollable skid. Without the railing there to slow its momentum, it veered off the cliff, soaring even further than its predecessor.

Bryce's face twined with one part shock, one part awe, before he spoke. "I can't believe that worked."

I preened—only to be cut off at the knees with his follow-up.

"You've been spending way too much time with Chuck."

The more I thought about his kneejerk reaction, the more I felt the need to call him out. "Or maybe not enough," I said with a bit of vitriol, "considering you're still sitting here, safe and sound, while he's suffering from the consequences of your actions yet again—without me there to save his ass like I just did for you."

I expected him to argue the point, but his only retort was, "Touché," as he climbed into the front seat, holstered his gun, and exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

Unable to deal with his verbal whiplash, I assessed the SUV's damage instead. The collision had definitely left its mark. The Suburban was horribly out of alignment and there was a steady stream of smoke wafting from under the hood. But all things considered, it'd held up pretty well. It would at least get us far enough to report in and ask for a replacement. But first things first.

Bryce had cracked his window to get some air, taking in the rolling countryside with a tranquil look on his face. Oh, hell no. The arrogant prick did not get to sit there, looking all peaceful, while I was wallowing in anguish, wondering if Chuck was in even more danger because of some foolish stunt he'd pulled.

"Dammit, Bryce," I growled, gearing up for a fight.

"What?" He turned toward me, not an ounce of trepidation on his face—a state of affairs that goaded me even further.

"You were saying? … Something about Delgado? … A meeting? … Some idiotic notion about turning yourself in? … Why the hell would you do something so stupid?"

"It wasn't stupid, Sarah," he insisted, sounding defensive. "A little reckless, maybe. But not stupid. I was never planning on turning myself in. I just needed a way to get close enough to Delgado to take him out and send as many of his lieutenants with him as I could—or die trying."

I scoffed to express my ire and disbelief, but he pressed on anyway, his expression determined. "It wasn't stupid. Listen. If I failed, the human Intersect would be dead, right? At least as far as Fulcrum was concerned. Chuck would be safe and Graham and Beckman could relax, buying him some time. And if I succeeded, it would only reinforce their notion that I really did have the Intersect. Whoever was left alive would pass it along, and Fulcrum would double down their efforts to try and find me."

"And what would've happened to Chuck if they captured you? Obviously that didn't happen, Bryce. But you and I both know that everyone eventually talks."

He reached into his jacket's inner pocket and pulled out a small oblong capsule.

I gasped. "Cyanide?"

He gave me a wry grin that conveyed no humor whatsoever. "Under my tongue."

"So this was a suicide mission? But why …?" I couldn't finish the question, although I thought I knew the answer.

"What did I have to lose?" He gave a one-shouldered shrug, slipping the pill back into his pocket. "The only two people in this world I care about can't even stand the sight of me. I had to try to make things right between us," he gestured a thumb at me, and then to himself. "All of us. So I put on a hoodie, slipped my Ruger LCP ankle-piece up my sleeve, and donned my Glock for a bit of distraction and misdirection. I knew the first thing they'd do would be to make sure I wasn't armed—especially before they took me to see Delgado."

He leaned back, staring straight ahead. "Sure enough, when they patted me down, they had me put my hands behind my head. They took my Glock from its holster, frisked me, and told me to lower my arms. Before I did, I let the Ruger slip out of the sleeve and into the sweatshirt's hood. A bit of Die Hard inspiration mixed with some Now You See Me moves."

I had no idea what he was talking about. Some obscure movie references, maybe? Chuck would surely know.

"Once they were satisfied," Bryce went on, "they led me into a windowless room with Delgado and six of his lackeys, handing him my Glock. The Ruger only held six rounds, so I knew I had to make them count—then improvise."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Tommy actually gave one of those clichéd, villainesque speeches—gloating about how bringing in the Intersect would send him rising through Fulcrum's ranks like a shooting star—before he started in with the questions. When he asked about Chuck's presence at the detention center, I tried to blow it off, saying he was just an old college buddy of mine who'd offered me shelter while I was on the run, but Delgado wasn't buying it. He ordered the two minions that patted me down to go pick him up. He wanted to find out what Chuck knew."

I must've had a panicked look on my face, because Bryce raised his hand for me to let him finish.

"After they left, I knew my time had run out. It was now or never. So I ran a hand through my hair, reaching back—further than my hairline went, anyway. Tommy must've noticed. He lunged, but a quick kick to his chest bought me enough time to free my gun and waylay the entire room—especially after I was able to reclaim my Glock. Unfortunately," he spared a rueful glance at the road behind us, "I must've underestimated his backup."

"And the two minions?"

As he opened his mouth to answer, we crested a hill, revealing the last two Land Rovers at the bottom, about a quarter-mile away. They were parked perpendicular to the road, the cars' noses facing each other. Eight heavily-armed men stood behind them, their guns trained up the incline, waiting. Apparently, the road's right fork hadn't been an error in judgment, after all—it had been a fucking shortcut.

I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt—but there was really only one option available to us.

Given the wrecked state of the Suburban, it wasn't like we could turn around and run. I looked over at Bryce to convey this, but there was no need; we'd worked together long enough for him to already know. He was latching his seatbelt, pulling it tight.

"Don't worry about Chuck," he offered in reassurance. "As soon as I broke free from Delgado's compound, while evading this clown posse"—he pointed at the Five Points Gang-style roadblock ahead—"I called it in. Graham has detailed descriptions of both of Tommy's minions. He's sending Casey additional backup." He looked over, bracing his hands on the dashboard. "They'll be ready."

Taking a little solace from that news, I gripped the wheel, my foot meeting the floorboard once more. Thoughts of Chuck raced through my mind: Our last, bittersweet kiss, mending and breaking my heart all at once; his early-morning stubble scraping my heated skin; his hands gripping my waist with such desperation, his desire for me all-consuming.

I held on to those thoughts as we reached maximum speed. The SUV shook violently, the out-of-whack alignment playing havoc with the steering. Delgado's remaining crew pelted our windshield with scattershot, turning it into a lacework of splintered safety glass. It held—for now—but my visibility was shit. Of course, that would only continue to matter if we survived the impact, making it through the roadblock to the other side.

I had a split second to pull my knife from its scabbard and clutch its handle between my palm and the wheel. Then we hit.

I'd been in wrecks before, but never one as bad as this. An unimaginable cacophony of sounds assaulted my senses as the Suburban slammed into the SUVs' noses dead center and plowed through. There was a teeth-rattling thud and then the ear-piercing shriek of metal on metal as the Suburban's airbags deployed with such force, it felt like an uppercut from a heavyweight boxer.

I entertained the hopeful thought that the four tons of crumpled metal hurtling through the air had taken out our opponents—but no such luck. A moment later, rapid-fire bullets dotted the sides of both doors like Morse code.

Shit. I spun my blade, stars dancing in my head from the airbag's impact, and punched a hole to deflate the lifesaving device. It was the only prayer I had of seeing the open road ahead—as much as the semi-shattered windshield would allow me. Then I stomped on the gas. The gears ground, the tires spun—and then, with a rending screech of metal, we pulled away from the tangle of vehicles.

Additional shots pummeled our tailgate as we limped down the road and away from immediate danger, smoke now billowing from under the hood. Only then did I assess my injuries. I tasted iron, and no wonder—my mouth and nose were pouring blood. I glanced at Bryce and saw that he was out cold, his body limp and his airbag pinning him in place—but at least he was breathing.

We'd somehow made it through, but we wouldn't make it far. I needed to find cover, quick. The acrid smell of smoke filled the cabin, and my head began to spin—a warning sign of carbon monoxide leaking from the engine compartment. I tried to roll down the window, but could only crack it an inch or two before it jammed.

After what seemed like an eternity—but was probably no more than five or six minutes—I pulled in behind an abandoned church and drove straight into a hedgerow of tall bushes. I was relieved to see most of them spring back into place, masking the large vehicle. Feeling the last of the adrenaline drain from my body, I shut off the engine, opened the door—slamming my shoulder into it with all of my might to make it give way—and fell out. I landed flat on my back, shafts of sunlight poking holes through the canopy above.

And then everything went black.

*** Chuck ***

As the deranged Dirty Harry wannabe shoved the cold blue steel of his 44 Magnum into my side, it occurred to me that the term Black Friday had been coined for the kind of hellscape this day had become. Having a ridiculously large gun pointed at me was the rotten cherry atop the crap sundae I'd been forced to eat ever since walking through the Buy More's front doors for my shift.

I'd been freaking out all morning, knowing that Sarah was placing her life on the line, providing those Fulcrum fanatics a glow-in-the-dark target with her ex-boyfriend and erstwhile lover as bait—all in an attempt to keep me and my family safe. Guilt, longing, overwhelming regret, and jealousy intermingled as I seesawed, second-guessing my choice not to run away with her when we'd had the chance.

If that wasn't bad enough, I'd spent most of the day at the beck and call of rabid holiday shoppers, whose single-minded, vicious determination to get their greedy mitts on cheap electronics—no matter who they had to take out in the process—gave bargain hunting a whole new meaning. And in the midst of those festivities, I'd had to put up with Jeff and Lester's bullshit—first, refusing to help anyone who didn't use a Mac operating system, then stalking unsuspecting women, camcorder in hand. Their voyeurism made me so incensed, I'd warned them that they were on the verge of being fired. When they'd argued I didn't have the authority, I'd upped the ante by threatening to issue Big Mike an ultimatum: either they went, or I did.

That had done the trick. They'd grudgingly gotten back to work, and I'd stomped off … only to run straight into Morgan, who'd overheard way too much at Thanksgiving dinner after I'd gone to Casey's. Apparently, Ellie had spent the whole time ranting to Awesome about encountering Sarah and Bryce in my bedroom. My bearded buddy was full of questions about Bryce's return from the dead and—as he put it—'Sarah's unforgivable betrayal.' I could tell he was hurt when I told him I didn't want to talk about it, but I felt like I had no choice. Morgan was the most loyal person I knew, but he couldn't keep a secret if all our lives depended on it—and in this case, they just might.

After that kerfuffle, I'd needed some time and space to think—but privacy hadn't been forthcoming, what with Casey superglued directly to my ass. He'd made it abundantly clear that I wasn't to leave the store without him, under any circumstances. When I asked him why, he just grunted something unintelligible and took up a sentinel position against the wall, his head on a swivel as if he was expecting a Normandy-style invasion. As usual, I felt like I was missing out on some crucial information pertaining to my own safety, and it irked me to no end.

During the afternoon, I'd managed to find some time to work in the cage, trying to reconnect with The Magi on the dark web—but it was hard to make any progress with Casey poking his head in every five minutes, to make sure I was still there. His uncharacteristic concern for my well-being was more than a little unsettling.

Honestly, the only bright spot in an otherwise craptacular day had been the delivery of Sarah's mysterious package and handwritten note. It'd been an over-the-top, touching gesture, signaling both her trust in me and a promise of her eventual return. I couldn't believe she was actually giving me access to her Porsche—that thing was practically an extension of her body. Even more unbelievable, I didn't know how she could possibly think that of the two of us, she was getting the better end of the deal. I decided right then and there to never use the car unless absolutely necessary—the kind of situation where everything went FUBAR and my survival depended on having the extra horsepower. Maybe that'd been her intention in the first place.

For a moment, I'd actually felt … happy. But then came this pièce de résistance.

Not ten minutes ago, a buzzer by the door to the loading docks had sounded, announcing what I'd assumed was a later-than-normal afternoon delivery. I'd been in the cage, trying to touch base with a few of my other coding compatriots—fallbacks in case I never heard back from The Magi. The Green Shirts were supposed to handle all deliveries, so I'd held my ground—until the buzzer sounded for the third damn time.

In what would soon be known as the biggest boneheaded Bartowski blunder of all time, I'd stalked over and wrenched open the door, just wanting the incessant noise to stop.

On the other side of the threshold stood a balding man, his face pockmarked with acne scars, worry-lines, and a withered, dried-out look befitting a man fresh from Thunderdome. He'd seemed haggard, like life had done a serious number on him. But his face lit up like a beacon as soon as his eyes met mine.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he'd offered, his expression negating every word, "but would you happen to know a man by the name of Bryce Larkin?"

In retrospect, I should've slammed the door in his face. But I guess it wouldn't have been a true Bartowski fuckup without me failing to filter my words before they came vomiting out of my mouth.

"Bryce?" I'd asked, my tone way too inquisitive. "Who wants to know?"

No sooner had the words left my mouth than another man had sprung up from behind some empty crates, his massive gun drawn and pointed directly at me. Unlike his counterpart, he'd been young, spry, and—as it happened—in possession of a full head of blond hair.

"Here's what's gonna happen," Mr. Comb-Over began. "We're going to take you for a little joyride and you're gonna follow every order we give you, or things might get … unpleasant."

Before I could say or do anything—though honestly, it wasn't like I'd come up with any grand ideas—Blondie had shoved his gun into my ribs, belying any arguments and adding the rotten cherry to my crap sundae. I had no choice but to follow along, hoping that Casey would eventually come to my rescue—and not murder me afterward for being such a colossal idiot. So here I was, at the mercy of Deranged Dirty Harry and his shiny-domed compatriot.

As the dynamic duo frog-marched me towards a gray Buick sedan parked near the alleyway, I heard the signature growl of a fast-approaching Harley-Davidson. We all turned in concert to see who'd joined the party, as if we'd choreographed the maneuver. If I hadn't feared for my life, I might've laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The rider was clad in black, from helmet to boots. And the bike matched their attire: there wasn't a splash of color anywhere, sans the chrome exhaust and engine.

It was the freakin' Ghost Rider incarnate.

But once the phantom biker closed the distance, I realized that this wasn't some dude playing weekend warrior, or even a Sturgis enthusiast that ran with a pack. In fact, this was no dude at all. She was what Morgan would've called a balls-to-the-wall, badass biker bitch with an attitude.

Antiquated stereotypes and derogatory slang aside, she checked all the boxes. From the skin-tight protective leathers covering her long, toned legs, to the matching, low-cut v-neck vest she wore under a bomber jacket, to the braided ponytail that snaked its way around her neck and over her shoulder, she was hell on wheels, personified. I was suddenly twice as scared as I'd been when all I had to contend with was Dirty Harry's Patronus jamming a damn cannon into my ribs.

We all stared, transfixed, as she rumbled to a halt just a few feet away, revving the engine so hard, the fillings in my teeth threatened to rattle loose. In an act of auditory mercy, she reached over to switch off the bike, released the clutch, and raised her dark visor. She had beautiful brown eyes that were filled with mirth and extremely long eyelashes, which she wasted no time in batting at the group.

"Hello boys," she cooed, honey dripping from every syllable. She leaned back a little and crossed her arms, managing to accentuate her assets even further as her smile grew.

My corrupt companions stood with their mouths agape, hypnotized by the sight of this dangerously alluring creature. I, on the other hand, had spent enough time around the queen of the femme fatales in the past few months that I'd quickly come to an inescapable conclusion: this was all a seductive ploy. Bespelled by her undeniable appeal, no one else seemed to have noticed that, as the woman crossed her arms, she'd slipped her hands deftly under her jacket, disguising the skillful move beneath her provocative veneer. Resigned to a firefight, I braced for impact and prayed she was on the side of the angels.

I didn't have to wait long.

Lightning-quick, her hands shot out, two pistols gleaming in the sun as Tweedledee and Tweedledum stood there flatfooted. I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable crack of gunfire—either to save my life, or do me in once and for all.

But there was only an almost inaudible thwit … thwit … sound, followed by the sickening thud of limp bodies hitting the pavement … hard. When I opened my eyes and looked down, the two goons were lying in a heap by my feet, arms and legs akimbo, a dart protruding from each of their necks.

Astonished, I looked up at the leather-clad Valkyrie, who was holstering her tranq pistols. She flipped down the visor and removed her helmet, finally revealing her face. As expected, she was absolutely stunning, with smooth tanned skin, high cheekbones, and full, pouting lips. As impressive as her physical attributes were, I found her skill with weaponry far more intimidating. The combination was lethal, and just like the first time I'd met Sarah, I had trouble meeting her eyes. My gaze, instead, darted nervously downward, coming to rest on her polished black boots. I peered at them, noting the ornate lion's-head buckles on their bootstraps…

…and then I flashed.

My mind felt like it was being sucked through the neck of a Coke bottle. Images fluttered through my field of vision as quickly as a dealer thumbing through a deck of cards. But as always, despite the speed, I managed to scan each one.

A grosbeak finch drinking from a two-tiered fountain.

A file folder with the CIA seal, marked CLASSIFIED. The Clandestine Attack Team Squad. Even in my flash-induced stupor, this seemed redundant. But I didn't have much time to think about it, because the folder flipped open. Inside was a document outlining the operation.

Like I was looking through a zoom lens, the page loomed closer and closer until the print on it came into sharp focus. On Friday, February 8, 2002, a combined task force had been created to foster interagency cooperation between the CIA, DEA, and NSA. Their objective: to root out direct threats to the United States, concentrating on those south of the border. The team members all reported to their own agencies but were under the direct command of—guess who?—Director Graham of the CIA.

As if an invisible hand was turning the pages, I saw the next one and then the next. On them were headshots of each team member, accompanied by their dossiers. First came Agent Carina Miller of the DEA. Then, Amy Monroe from the Special Collection Service of the NSA—part of a group of signals intelligence spies collaborating with the CIA to penetrate foreign communication networks. And then—

Inside the flash, my jaw dropped. Because on the next page was Sarah Walker. Whatever this squad was, she'd been part of it.

I wanted to stay with Sarah's dossier, curious to learn some of the secrets she thought I'd be so horrified to discover. But I didn't have a chance, because the page with her name on it disappeared, replaced by a headshot of the gorgeous badass who'd just taken out my abductors. Her name: Agent Zondra Rizzo, of the CIA.

Everything came together, in a dizzying rush. The C.A.T. Squad. It was like Charlie's Angels all over again. The objectification of the female agents at play here was staggering.

The page flipped again.

Sarah and her teammates (I refused to think of them as the C.A.T. Squad) had—shocker—achieved mind-boggling success over the year and a half they'd been together. They'd aced nearly every operation assigned to them, taking down gun runners, human traffickers, drug smugglers, and everything in between. So why had they been disbanded? As far as I could see, the misogynistic name aside, they'd been a tremendous force to reckon with.

I desperately wanted to know more. But the page flipped again, and when the next one materialized, none of the female agents were anywhere to be seen. Instead, a photograph of a man's face appeared, paper-clipped to a memo. To the right of the image was printed the following text: Augusto Gaez, leader of the Gentle Hand.

Beneath this identifier was the body of the memo. Gaez was a Brazilian crime lord and terrorist for hire. He and his outfit were loyal only to the highest bidder, which made him unpredictable and public enemy number one. He always seemed to stay one step ahead of the Squad, the big fish that kept slipping off their hook. Beginning to suspect Gaez had a mole in one of the agencies, Graham tightened protocols, only letting Squad members in on mission planning sessions to apprehend the crime lord. But it didn't matter. Nothing seemed to help.

Here was the connection. And maybe, the place where everything had gone wrong. Because, to quote every Star Wars movie ever made, I had a bad feeling about this.

The page flipped again, revealing another document beneath. Inside the flash, I sucked in a breath.

The Squad had failed at their latest mission—notable in and of itself. Then, Agent Walker—Sarah—had discovered an electronic bug in the heel of one of Agent Rizzo's boots. She'd accused Rizzo of being a traitor; Rizzo had accused Sarah of setting her up. Graham and the task force had opened an investigation.

My heart hurt for Sarah. From what I'd seen so far, the members of the Squad had been thick as thieves, trusting each other to have their respective backs. When this all went down, it must've felt as if Sarah had lost her family all over again.

But if Rizzo held a grudge against Sarah—if she wanted payback—then how could I trust her intentions?

There was no time to ponder. The page flipped again, revealing the results of the investigation. Agent Rizzo had denied all accusations and passed multiple CIA-administered lie detector tests, even under the influence of sodium pentothal. She'd even volunteered that the boots in question were not hers, although they resembled a pair she usually had on hand.

The boots had been processed by forensics and found to have hardly been worn. Footprint analysis of their inner soles failed to conclusively negate or corroborate her story; the forensics team didn't have enough of an imprint to compare with the cast they took of Agent Rizzo's right foot. Interestingly, the patina of the lion's-head buckles proved that they were far too old to be original to the boots—but the significance of that discovery remained uncertain.

The page flipped again.

Now I was looking at a receipt for the boots, found in Agent Rizzo's belongings. It traced the purchase of the boots to High Country Harley Davidson, a retail chain at 3761 Monarch St, Frederick, CO. The agency had been unable to trace the purchase any further, as High Country's records only showed the date and time they'd been purchased—for cash. A final line indicated that no security camera footage was available to review, and the cashier who'd sold the boots had no recollection of Agent Rizzo when shown her photograph.

That didn't sit right with me. Who could fail to recognize Zondra? Unless she'd been incognito, she was incredibly memorable. As I stared at the receipt, another absurd thought occurred to me—what kind of spy kept a receipt for boots that she planned to wear on missions, where they'd doubtless get scuffed beyond repair? That'd be like keeping a receipt for underwear that couldn't be returned. Not to mention, if she was going to do something nefarious to said boots, and then claim she hadn't purchased them, would she be foolish or careless enough to leave a receipt lying around?

I wanted to peruse the document further, but there was no time. The page flipped, and now I was looking at another memo. This one simply stated that, due to the mistrust within the team, the interagency task force had officially disbanded the C.A.T. Squad on Tuesday, August 12th, 2003. Just like that, Sarah's second family—maybe her only family at the time—was gone.

The memo was brief; that was all it said. I stared at it, trying to read between the lines, but suddenly there were no more lines to read. The pages fluttered, like an old-fashioned flipbook. The folder slammed shut. And suddenly, there I was again, watching a grosbeak finch drink from a two-tiered fountain. Then, even that was gone and I was standing outside the Buy More's loading dock, blinking rapidly to break free of the Intersect's grasp.

Agent Zondra Rizzo came back into focus, her head tilted, and her face scrunched like she'd just smelled something rancid. And after that flash, I could relate. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark. Something that didn't add up. And the relationship between Zondra and the woman I loved was at its heart.

Piranha was chomping at the bit to sink its teeth into this little nugget. I needed a laptop or desktop, stat. But before I could dissect what my gut was telling me, Agent Rizzo's voice reclaimed my attention.

"Is that really what you look like whenever it happens?" she asked, condescension clear in her voice.

I was still a bit off-kilter from the flash—but not oblivious to the fact that I'd been insulted. "Whenever what happens?" I parried, though I was fairly sure I knew what she meant.

"Your flashes." There was a pregnant pause and then a pointed look. "I've been read in."

… and just like that, everything came full circle.

Oh, shit.

"I'm afraid so, Agent Rizzo," I said to my new handler … and Casey's new partner.

"Well, that's unfortunate," she paused again, "but at least there's no need for introductions. Here." She held out her helmet. "Come with me if you want to live," she said in a faux-Austrian accent, mirth dancing in her eyes.

I didn't know whether to be more shocked that she expected me to climb on the back of her Harley, or that she'd just delivered a line from The Terminator as her invitation."If I want to live? … Really?" I deadpanned, staring at her in disbelief.

"No. Not really." Her grin widened even further as she shook her head, her braid swinging. "I've always wanted to say that line during an assignment and the opportunity just presented itself." She shrugged in a 'what can you do' sort of way. "But I really do need to get you out of here before the cleanup team arrives to pick up Dumb and Dumber here. We can't be sure the threat's been contained until they wake up and we've had a chance to interrogate them."

What choice did I have? Especially when she shoved her helmet into my gut, nearly doubling me over. If I had any chance of getting out of this situation unscathed, I'd have to trust her not to spirit me away and place me for sale on eBay to the highest bidder.

I held up her helmet with a questioning eyebrow. "What about you?"

Agent Rizzo looked amused. "I only have the one brain bucket, Chuck, and yours is more important than mine." She patted the seat behind her, coaxing me to hop on. "Besides, at the speeds I like to travel, if we wreck, I doubt anyone will survive."

I struggled to come to terms with what she'd just said, while trying to get the damn helmet over my ears and big fat head. Twisting and turning, I fought with it until Agent Rizzo reached over and gave the top a firm slap, driving it down hard. I was suddenly reminded of the headlocks some of Awesome's visiting frat buddies liked to hold me in while administering their ritualistic noogies.

Looking pleased with herself, she gestured once more for me to climb aboard. Tentatively, I swung a leg over, trying to leave as much space between us as I could while grabbing the bar behind me for support. Of all the ways I'd imagined today turning out, clinging to a piece of metal for dear life while roaring through Burbank on the back of a CIA agent's Harley was not among them.

But as usual, the bizarre events of my life trumped my imagination.

Agent Rizzo pulled in the clutch, then cranked the bike and revved it a few times, the vibrations rattling my bones. "Hold on tight," she yelled over her shoulder, the din of the engine nearly drowning her out.

"I am," I assured her, gripping the bar as if my life depended on it—which I was pretty sure it did.

She looked back again and let out an exasperated sigh. "Around my waist, Chuck."

Hearing her say my name—when we'd never been formally introduced—was beyond surreal … but given the events of the past twenty-four hours, I supposed this was the least of my problems. I reluctantly did as she said, wrapping my arms around her midsection. I couldn't help but notice that she smelled … nice … like sandalwood and cinnamon. This was not good, on so many levels. Sarah was going to end up killing me … or Agent Rizzo, depending on which came first.

She put the bike in neutral, released the clutch, and grabbed my hands, pulling them tighter across her belly. "Don't get any ideas," she admonished, and I shook my head fervently. Before I could say or do anything else, we were off like a bolt of lightning.

I thought I'd be alright, having ridden with Sarah on many occasions when she pushed her Porsche to its limits, skillfully navigating the streets of Burbank at top speeds. But never in my life had I experienced faster-than-light travel. We were just a smear against the wind as the madwoman cackled and shrieked with glee, passing cars and trucks as if they were standing still. When Echo Park mercifully came into view, I was almost sure we'd arrived earlier than when we left.

We ground to a halt and I leapt from the bike, prying the helmet off my head, careful not to rip off my ears in the process. When I finally wrestled it off and looked up, Agent Rizzo fell into a fit of laughter, covering her mouth with one hand as she pointed at my head with the other. Unfortunately, I had an inkling of what she found so amusing.

"It's the hair, right?" I asked, pointing to what I was sure was a rat's-nest of mangled curls.

"I'm sorry," she chuckled, wiping her eyes as she took her helmet back. "I know I shouldn't laugh, but I've never seen anything so ridiculous."

"Thanks. Your heartfelt apology was quite touching." She'd gone from biker chick to femme fatale to would-be assassin and back again in the space of a few minutes—and now she was hovering somewhere in the territory of the middle-school girls who'd snickered when I walked down the hallway. Was this really who I was stuck with for the foreseeable future?

"Hey." She nudged my shoulder with a fist. "It's kinda cute … in a, ah, nerdy sort of way." Her eyes widened, as if she'd surprised herself, and she cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable for the first time since she'd pulled up at the loading dock and rescued me from my kidnappers. But before I could decipher what that was all about, she slipped her 'brain bucket' back on and flipped up the visor.

"Anyway," she went on, business as usual, "I need you to head inside … and stay there, Chuck. I mean it. At least until Major Casey gets home. I have to go interrogate the Marx Brothers to make sure we're in the clear. But tomorrow, you and I need to set aside some time to talk about our cover story."

"Right. About that. Listen, Agent Rizzo…" I tried, only to be cut off.

"Later, Chuck. I really need to get going. And it's Zondra … okay?"

I could only nod as she flipped down the visor for the last time, cranked the rumbling beast, and pulled away.

As soon as she was out of sight, I spun on my heel and rushed through the courtyard, unlocked the door to the apartment, and sprinted to my room. I needed to allay my concerns before I heard back from Sarah and had to dump all of this in her lap. She was already dealing with so much. I was pretty sure of what I'd find, but I still needed the evidence … and so would she.

So I woke up my computer, stretched out my fins...

…and got to work.

A/N #2: This chapter should give those of you still reading (thank you, by the way!) an inkling of what's to come. Canon has completely gone bye-bye. Everything that follows will have this same stylistic approach.

That being said, it may take a bit longer to update the next chapter as I'll need to do a lot of world building for the next act, as well as foster/outline all the subplots that'll weave through the entirety of the story. I'm also planning on taking some time to reread The Guy Who Loved Me, so I can start updating that one as well. And then—surprise!—there's a new AU I plan to release in the next month or so, called In the Shadows of Artemis.

As excited as I am to work on all of the above, this week is not looking that great for extra time to devote to anything besides work and my home life. Just the way it sometimes goes. But I will get back to it the following week, no matter.

Of course all of this is directly contingent on your reactions to the story, so let those barbaric yawps be heard from the bleachers. There's no greater motivator than your reviews and PMs. Hence the rereading of Guy, and its eventual resurrection. And don't forget to hit that Follow and Favorite button. They're just as important to me.

Take care,

SmatterChoo…