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

A/N: Apologies all around for taking so long to refresh this story. I was actually prepared to post this chapter a few weeks ago, but when michaelfmx brought to my attention that one of the characters was acting out of, well, erm, character (thank you for that, btw!), I decided to give it a second look. When I asked Emily to peruse the same chapter, not only did she agree with his assessment, she ended up giving me a crash course on why you should never write in the past perfect tense—unless absolutely necessary. So, tucking my tail between my legs, I decided to reformulate the entire thing.

Of course, as our luck would have it, disaster decided to strike as soon as I started, sidelining my plans to rework the chapter, at least very quickly. It took two weeks of working on it a little each day, but I finally managed it. I can only hope it was worth the extra effort.

Either way, without further ado, here's the beginning to the next act of ASITHOC.

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

Act II

Chapter 8: Red Inn

*** Chuck ***

As I stared down at my iPhone, willing it to signal an incoming call or text message from Sarah, my leg bobbed at an ever-increasing pace, threatening to jackhammer a pothole in my bedroom floor. I was a nervous wreck, and the countless cups of coffee I'd consumed since Zondra dropped me off—admonishing me to 'stay in the house'—had only amplified my anxiety. I desperately needed to hear from Sarah soon, at least to let me know she was okay, or I was gonna end up losing my fucking mind.

I was worried sick, imagining the worst.

It'd been almost fourteen hours since I'd last seen or spoken to her—plenty of time for her and Bryce to have made it to San Francisco—and on top of my concern for her wellbeing, I was missing her like a phantom limb. So much had happened since she'd left. So much I wanted to share with her, if only to hear her reassuring voice.

But there was nothing I could do but wait, keep my phone charged, and hope for the best. So in the interim, I decided to chain myself to my workstation, only leaving it for snacks, coffee refills, and bathroom breaks, until I got a handle on my ever-changing situation.

I still needed to find the Magi—but that could wind up being a fool's errand. I had no idea if he was still around, much less if he'd be willing to help. So I put out feelers, and shifted my attention to gaining access to the internal networks of the DEA and NSA's Human Resource departments. My goal was two-fold: to test how hardened their systems were, and to obtain the personnel files of the two Squad members who hadn't been a part of the original investigation. It would've been far more convenient to plug a USB drive into my head and download what I'd seen in my flash, but that obviously wasn't in the cards. Instead, to find tangible, shareable data that could help corroborate my suspicions, I had to resort to extreme measures.

I wanted the headshots of Carina Miller and Amy Monroe I'd seen in their files. I had a hunch that, since the Squad's existence was classified, Zondra's photo—and perhaps Sarah's—would've been the only ones that Graham's investigative team had shared with the High Country sales clerk. The other two Squad members hadn't been suspected of anything, so there would've been no reason to risk blowing their cover. I suspected the person behind the betrayal that severed Zondra and Sarah's friendship—and broke up the Squad—likely had plenty of opportunity and very little scrutiny. Specializing in signals intelligence would've only made it that much easier. But I had to be sure.

With Carina and Amy's photos in hand, I could reach out to the clerk to see if he recognized either of the two agents—and if he'd seen them before, I was hopeful he'd still recall the encounter. To say that everyone in the Squad was highly memorable was a gross understatement. It was like the Intelligence community didn't know the meaning of the word incognito. Recruiting four model-esque field agents as part of a supposed 'clandestine' team seemed more than a little counterintuitive—but what the hell did I know? I was just a renegade hacker and a lowly IT specialist. Tonight, though, I planned to use all of my talents to the fullest.

The first morsel of Piranha's feeding frenzy was one of the DEA's drug-testing facilities in Sioux City, Iowa. Compared to their main headquarters in Springfield, Virginia, Sioux City's aging routers and standardized firewalls were low-hanging fruit, easy enough to penetrate. A quick spoofing of my MAC address to disguise myself as one of their multifunction printers, and I was instantly connected to their domain.

But gaining administrative access to personnel files proved to be a bit trickier. The DEA used a robust, two-factor authentication system to connect with Springfield's mainframe. Along with a username and password, it required a six-digit security code, generated from a key-fob that changed every thirty seconds. The fob's code needed to be tagged onto the end user's password—neither of which I had.

To skirt around that little speedbump, I decided to scan the network for nodes already connected to their internal systems, and whose hard drive had spun down in a state of hibernation. If there was one thing I'd learned during my time as a hacker, it was that human error, or lapses in judgment, were usually the easiest targets to exploit. There was always that one person who failed to follow security protocols—like logging out at the end of every day. And unlocking a Windows-based user profile had always been child's play for Piranha.

Unfortunately, once I was in, a quick search for Carina Miller was a complete bust. So I narrowed down the search parameters, using their built-in filters … and my best guesses. Job title: field agent; sex: female; hair color: auburn; eye color: blue; weight: between 115 and 135 pounds; height: between 5′ 10″ and 6 feet tall; age: between twenty-five and thirty—then perused the filtered results. It took a while to scan them all. There were hundreds, but when I finally found her, my jaw dropped. Like Sarah, Carina wasn't even her real name. There on the screen, in all her troublemaking glory, was the headshot of one Margaret-Anne Clementine Miller, from Hoboken, New Jersey. And she'd had the gall to pick on my name? I could only hope I'd see her again to return the favor. Sarah was gonna absolutely lose her shit when I told her—if she didn't know already. They'd been close, after all—but that close?

Besides the headshot and 'Clementine's' personnel info, there was no other information to glean. Unsurprisingly, the dossier listing all of her deadly attributes and skillsets had been withheld from the unworthy eyes of the Human Resource department. So I saved what was there to a flash drive, and moved on.

Amy Monroe's file was next on the menu. Given the NSA's well-known digital acumen, staging a full-frontal assault against the best cybersecurity experts in the business would've been insane, if not downright suicidal. Especially since I already had a built-in backdoor, one which I planned to exploit for other means.

After launching my virtual machine, the latest and greatest BackTrack Linux distro, I had free rein over Casey's internal systems within minutes … and his pre-authenticated connection to Fort Meade. I repressed a snicker, picturing him watching me supposedly toss and turn in my sleep, when in actuality he was staring at his own catalogued footage. It felt pretty damn good to be handling him for a change.

As soon as I keyed in the search for Monroe, I hit pay dirt. Casey's security clearance was obviously so much higher than that of a lowly HR paper pusher. And as far as I could tell, judging by the size of it, I had Amy's complete, unredacted file. I decided I would read through it later, when I had more time.

Before disconnecting from Casey's system, I planted what I lovingly called the ET worm virus. It captured the keystrokes used for all username and password fields filled out on the host's computer—and then 'phoned home' those clear text results. The beauty of it was, as soon as Beckman and/or Graham connected to Casey's system, they'd unknowingly be infected too. I made sure to limit the virus to respawn just once, when it was transferred to a new host. Casey's computer was about to become the epicenter for my budding plan to know everything they knew—and so much more.

Straightening up in my chair and cracking my back, I logged into the email account I'd set up for Agent Charles Carmichael after the La Ciudad mission, figuring that someday it might come in handy. I sent Mr. Deacon of High Country an email, explaining that I'd been assigned to this cold case and, although I knew it'd been years, it was my hope he might still recognize one of the women in the headshots I'd attached to the email. I added my phone number, asking him to contact me as soon as possible.

I knew this was a long shot. It had been four long years, for God's sake. But I'd had such a visceral gut reaction after my flash. I knew I was onto something—something that'd been missed by the interagency task force investigators. If only High Country had utilized security cameras, none of this secondhand bullshit would've been necessary. Perhaps the traitor had chosen this store for that exact reason.

Spending so much time staring at the screen was making my head throb. Rubbing my temples, I glanced down at my phone for the thousandth time—and then a chirp sounded from one of my computer's many minimized windows, signaling an incoming message. My pulse quickened when I saw which one it was: a chat room I used to frequent, back in my hacker days.

And there he was, the Magi's stacked, three-crowned avatar, shining like a beacon in the night. Even though it'd been years, I was sure he'd recognized mine as well. The yin-yang symbol made from two fish circling each other—one red with black eyes, the other black with red eyes—had once been iconic among our legion.

His message was simple: Piranha?

My hands shook as they touched the keys. So much was riding on the next few minutes.

Fighting off the burgeoning panic attack that threatened to swallow me whole, I took the next step in our familiar ritual. As highly sought-after in the hacking community as the Magi and I both were, there'd never been such a thing as being too careful when it came to making contact with each other. Treading carefully, we exchanged hash files and utilized their respective, predesignated keys to verify each other's identities. Once confirmed, I wasted no time with pleasantries. Instead, I launched into a tirade, begging him for his help.

Ever since the debacle at Thanksgiving, I'd vacillated over how much I should share with him, if I got the chance. I'd eventually concluded that if I wanted a true ally to help me escape from this mess, I'd have to be as forthcoming as possible. As complex as my situation was, he'd need all the pertinent details.

So as succinctly as I could, I laid it out for him, in all its horrid and unbelievable glory—from the moment I'd been press-ganged into servitude by the federal government for opening an email that contained all their secrets; to the fact that my brain was housing a super-computer called the Intersect, and exactly what that meant; to all the ways in which my life and my family's were on the line … finishing with the details from my flash on Zondra's boots, including the High County clerk's involvement and my suspicion it'd all been a setup. The latter, I told him, was my immediate concern, as it would dictate who I could trust within my inner circle.

After I finished, I expected skepticism, maybe even laced with some snide comments—as if I'd been screwing with him this whole time. I knew how ridiculous this must sound to any rational, sane individual. It was such a tall order for anyone to believe, let alone a virtual stranger—in both senses of the word.

I definitely hadn't anticipated the amount of venom that came pouring out of the Magi's keyboard.

You've got to be freaking kidding me, he typed—only 'freaking' wasn't the word he used. Those (expletive deleted, expletive deleted) backstabbing, power-grubbing (about ten more expletives deleted).

Then he went on, undaunted.

That goes to show the types of megalomaniacs they have running the federal government these days, enslaving innocent civilians for their own nefarious purposes, never worrying about any repercussions. They think they have free rein, always working under the guise of national security, explaining away any collateral damage as the cost of doing business, should anyone find out—or get hurt or killed, for that matter. Well, they messed with the wrong clan this time. They won't get away with it. Between the two of us, we'll make sure they never do something like this to anyone else again. You just wait, Piranha. We'll make them all pay.

I sat back, stunned. His vitriolic reaction told me two things. First: his hatred toward the government went well beyond any anger solely attributed to what they'd done to me. And second: I'd just unwittingly unleashed a force of nature that might end up causing lasting damage to Graham, Beckman, and their respective agencies for generations to come.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I had never intended to stir the pot until it boiled over, but one thing was certain: Their unfettered access to unlimited power shouldn't go unchecked. Something had to change, and I figured it might as well start with me.

So I wrote back: I guess that means you'll help?

His reply was as succinct as it was definitive. I'm in.

Relief swept over me, and my headache started to recede. We spent a little time catching up, reconnecting and trading code, and creating a shared drive for any information we might uncover. Then we circled back to Zondra's boots—and that's when things got interesting.

That receipt from High Country, the Magi wrote. It's got me thinking. Did you happen to check any of the backlogs from the eyes in the sky that day?

Um, I responded, puzzled. I'm not sure what you mean.

Stand by, he typed … and then disappeared.

I sat and waited, staring at my phone, my leg acting if it'd been launched pell-mell, pogo-sticking into an overinflated bouncy-castle, hoping the universe would soon send me a sign that Sarah hadn't paid the ultimate price for any of my transgressions.

As the minutes ticked by, my treacherous mind entertained every imaginable fate that might've befallen her. Finally, mercifully, the Magi came back.

Check this out, he typed, and began to play an obscure video that engulfed my entire screen.

The footage rolled, showing me an overhead view of the United States, as if seen from a satellite. The camera zoomed in, Colorado and the Rocky Mountains coming into focus—then closer still, zeroing in on one town after another, until it settled, the video coming to rest atop a single building.

I gave its surroundings a cursory glance; a line of motorcycles were parked in a row out front. This had to be the roof of High Country.

In the bottom right-hand corner of the screen was a timestamp matching the one on the receipt. I stared, spellbound, as a single patron made their way into the store from the parking lot, exiting from one of the only two cars parked out front. Then, to my shock and dismay, a familiar-looking woman left the store, carrying a shopping bag.

No, no, no. This couldn't be right.

As if the Magi had the same thought, the lens zoomed in even closer, until there was absolutely no doubt. The woman's distinctive red hair stood out in the afternoon sun like a beaconing flare, causing my heart to plummet. If only I could see her face to be one hundred percent sure—but the vantage point only provided an overhead view.

My mind was swimming with so many questions. How'd the Magi acquire the video in the first place? Where'd it come from? What was its source? And if he'd been able to get it so easily—four years later—why hadn't the investigators accessed the same kind of technology to prove or disprove Zondra's involvement?

The relief I'd felt when the Magi agreed to help me faded, replaced with alarm. This was not at all what I'd thought I'd find out. And it only served to make everything even more complicated.

As we watched the woman get into a blue convertible sedan with its top down, a swift knock at my door sounded, almost making me jump clean out of my chair.

"Chuck? You up?" Ellie called, a tentative edge to her voice.

Looking at the clock on the nightstand for the first time in hours, I realized just how late it'd gotten. With my blinds drawn, and as engrossed as I'd been in what we were doing, I hadn't noticed that the sun had come up. I was gonna end up paying dearly for another sleepless night—the second in as many days.

I had to clear my throat, dislodging the lump that'd formed from watching that disconcerting video, before I could respond. "Yeah, Ellie. I'm up. I was just about to hop in the shower."

"Okay," she muttered through the door, "just checking. I didn't want you to be late for work. Breakfast will be ready by the time you get out."

Listening to her retreating footsteps, I turned back to my keyboard. I'm sorry, Magi, but I need to go. Can you upload that video to our shared drive?

A moment later he responded, Done, and a new MP4 file appeared in our share.

Remember, Piranha. His next message could've been bolded, italicized, and underlined, and it wouldn't have made a more profound impression on me. You're not alone. Concentrate on taking care of yourself and your family, and I'll spend as much time as possible digging up whatever I can on my end. Keep monitoring our drive for anything I find, and I'll keep close tabs on the message boards, waiting for you to log in. We'll pick it back up as soon as you can.

Maybe it was my desperation, given that we'd never met, but I felt buoyed by his overwhelming support. Sounds like a plan, I wrote back, feeling my shoulders relax just a little bit. And thanks, Magi.

In his typical, flamboyant style, the three-tiered crowns of his avatar coalesced into one, shrinking down to a single pixel, until there was an audible pop, as if from a soap bubble. And then he was gone.

I purged everything from my computer before shutting it down, gathered a fresh set of clothes, and scurried down the hall towards the bathroom, trying to avoid a run-in with Ellie or Devon in my disheveled state. The last thing I needed right now was having to explain to either of the two overbearing doctors why I looked like the walking dead.

Once I was safely in the confines of the shower, the hot water pouring over my head, I took stock of the myriad of changes that'd occurred over the last forty-eight hours. It wasn't until I was brushing my teeth—smacking my face a few times to add a little color to my cheeks—that I made it through the entire list.

When I emerged from the bathroom, dressed but not at all prepared for work, I took another glance at my phone, hoping against hope that I'd missed a call from Sarah telling me she was safe and sound—only to be disappointed … yet again.

*** Sarah ***

I was stuck inside a recurring nightmare, screaming Chuck's name again and again. Every time, I saw two of Fulcrum's goons drag him away at gunpoint. Every time, I saw the agonized look on his face when one of them pulled the trigger—and I was too late to save him. And just as I watched him fall to the ground, covered in his own blood and gasping my name, it started all over again.

But this time—finally—I woke up.

Even through my closed eyes, I could see a hint of sunshine that'd cut its way through the darkness. I could feel it on my face—warm, comforting, inviting—and my eyelids fluttered, eager to take it in.

The last thing I could remember was driving our mangled SUV into a thicket and then wrenching the door open, desperate to escape the carbon monoxide's intoxicating effects. My vision had blurred, narrowing at the edges after I'd hit the ground, until I saw nothing at all.

Frankly, after everything we'd been through, I was just thankful to be alive. But it still begged the question—where the hell was I?

Well, there was only one way to find out. I tried to force my eyes open, but that turned out to be a tactical error. As soon as I'd cracked them a hair's breadth, the sun's rays scorched my retinas—as if I'd been trapped underground for a very, very long time. Suppressing any panic, I clamped them shut again, slowing my breathing while taking inventory of my injuries ... and my surroundings.

I was lying in what felt like a warm, plush bed, the soft sheets draped lightly over my bare legs. The sensation was disconcerting—but not as much as the throbbing pain that swamped my ability to think clearly. My head pounded in perfect synchronicity with my racing heart, and my face felt like I'd gone a few rounds with Iron Mike Tyson back in his heyday.

Still, I had no idea where I was … or how long I'd been here. Had I been captured by Delgado's men? Had Bryce? And most importantly, had Casey—and whoever Graham sent him as backup—managed to keep Chuck from falling into the hands of the two minions Bryce warned me about?

I tried to focus on what was important, like trying to contact Chuck as soon as possible, but it was no use. My thoughts scattered, consumed by an insatiable thirst unlike any I'd ever known. I licked my lips and found them dry and cracked, the corners threatening to split. My mouth tasted like it held the contents of the Buy More's infamous mystery crisper, my head thumped and swam, and my stomach couldn't decide whether it was in desperate need of food or whether eating would result in immediate ejection.

Had I been sedated? And if I had, that could only mean... Oh God, Chuck…

Grimly, I told myself to snap out of it. I was a CIA agent, and a damn good one at that. I'd been trained to withstand drugs of all kinds. And for the first time in who knew how long, I was awake—and alone, as far as I could tell. I had to figure out what was going on, and escape, if need be. I might not get another chance.

Pushing through the pain, I willed my eyes to open. The light stung, and tears welled, streaming down my cheeks. I lifted a hand to wipe them away, stunned by the amount of effort it took. And then I blinked, again and again, until the room came into focus.

I was looking up at a ceiling fan, rotating in a slow, leisurely fashion that was at total odds with the urgency I felt coursing through my body—not to mention, it was making me dizzy. Mustering all the strength I had, I shoved myself up to my elbows and looked around.

I was in a small bedroom. Not a hospital room or any kind of institutional facility; this was someone's home. The room was simply appointed but clean: A queen-sized bed flanked by wooden nightstands, and a dresser with a mirror mounted on top. Sunlight streamed through a window hung with sheer white curtains; they stirred in the breeze from the fan, which felt good on my feverish cheeks. Next to the window sat a wooden chair, the pants and shirt I'd been wearing when I'd passed out neatly draped over the back.

With a sense of impending doom, I lifted the patchwork quilt and sheets that covered my body to see what lay beneath. Good news: I wasn't completely naked. Bad news: I was only wearing the blue panties and the midriff camisole set I'd put on before coming to see Chuck.

Who the hell had undressed me while I was unconscious? Had they taken any other liberties while I was out? And if they had, what would Chuck think once I told him? I'd have to, no matter how painful it might be. No secrets, no lies, I reminded myself.

These were all extremely important questions, some of which I was frankly afraid to know the answers to. But—everything in its own time. I sat up against the headboard, ignoring the tremors in my muscles, and got a good look at myself in the mirror.

Not only did I feel like I'd stepped into the ring with Tyson, I looked the part as well. No wonder I was in so much pain. My eyes were swollen and ringed with black, yellowing at the edges. A strip of medical tape spanned the bridge of my nose.

Great. I had no idea where I was; if I didn't get a drink of water soon, I'd probably pass out from dehydration; and now, on top of it all, I looked like some asshole's battered wife. What else could go wrong?

I shouldn't have asked. When I glanced away from the mirror, my gaze fell on my left hand. There on my finger, as if none of the intervening months had passed, were the engagement and wedding rings of the now-infamous Sarah Anderson.

I tried to swallow my anger, if only to prioritize my current dilemma, but it nestled in my stomach like a fire-seed, flaming hotter by the moment. I needed answers, and I needed them now. And if I wasn't satisfied by the time I got them, there was a good chance someone was about to lose their worthless life.

Fueled by my intensifying fury, I threw off the covers, draped my trembling legs over the side of the bed, and rested my feet on the cold, wooden floor. My knees threatened to give way when I pushed off the mattress, and I allowed myself a moment to adjust to the sudden bout of vertigo that washed over me.

I wobbled over to the chair on spaghetti legs—my head a whirlybird without its rotor—and retrieved my clothes. To my surprise, I saw my leg strap, complete with its three throwing knives, lying on the seat.

So, whoever undressed me hadn't been trying to leave me completely defenseless. Not that this assuaged any of my fears. There was still no sign of the purse that'd held my badge, gun, and most importantly, my iPhone, so I'd have a way to contact Chuck.

Wincing, I bent and picked up the strap, extracting one of the knives before affixing the rest to my ankle. Even if whoever'd brought me here wasn't hell-bent on my immediate demise, that didn't mean I'd drop my guard any time soon. Knife clutched in my fist, I straightened, biting my lip to suppress the pain that shot down my side. My ribs were bruised, maybe even cracked—probably from the SUV's seatbelt, if I had to hazard a guess. But I knew it could've been so much worse.

The tremor in my hands made buttoning my pants and shirt a challenge, but I finally managed it. As quietly as I could, I made my way to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it, listening. When nothing but silence greeted me for a good thirty seconds, I opened the door and eased into the hallway, my throwing knife at the ready.

Just as I'd suspected, I was in a small, but well-kept, house. There were two other doors in the hallway, both shut. Behind the closer one—presumably the bathroom—I could hear water running. Judging from the Marina-style layout, the second room was likely another bedroom.

I paused, listening for all I was worth, but heard nothing but the sound of water gushing from the bathroom faucet and the whir of the ceiling fan behind me. Gripping my knife tightly, I crept down the hallway, which dead-ended in a fully-furnished living room that looked like it'd been ordered whole-cloth from Rooms to Go. There was a couch, loveseat, and matching recliner, all low-end and in the same middling blue. Across from the couch was a coffee table, and on it sat my purse.

I lunged for it, ignoring the stabbing pain in my ribs, and scooped it up. A quick scan of its interior told me nothing had been taken.

Time to level up, I thought, with Chuck's voice echoing in my head. Sliding my knife back into the ankle strap, I exchanged it for my Smith & Wesson, checking the magazine and making sure I had one in the chamber. Then I spared a glance for the rest of the room.

Across from the coffee table was a glass entertainment center with a large flat-screen TV. To my right was a built-in kitchenette. And in the far corner to my left, next to a large window, sat a computer station with two large monitors. The gridded pattern of mini-windows showed the security feeds from every angle of the residence's exterior.

Things began to click into place, and I was not at all happy about the implications.

I rummaged through my purse with my free hand and pulled out my phone, which miraculously still held a charge. But when I caught sight of the date and time on my home screen, my heart sank. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I passed out next to the SUV. What must Chuck think had happened to me? And more importantly, was he all right?

I wanted desperately to text him, but had no idea what to tell him yet. He'd want the same answers I was still searching for. Instead I stalled, checking my GPS to discover where, exactly, I was. Apparently, this cozy little abode was in a neighborhood called Visitacion Valley, in the southeastern quadrant of San Francisco. A quick Google search informed me that it was a family-oriented, working-class district on hilly streets with brightly-colored houses, piled right on top of one another in a domino effect. Its out-of-the-way location made it the perfect place for a safe house.

I looked out the window to confirm my suspicions. The residence seemed to be situated at the uppermost crest of the steepest hill in the neighborhood, giving it a bird's-eye view for miles in all directions. We'd be able to see any incoming threats well before they approached the house.

Our base of operations was small, unobtrusive, and ideally situated. Grudgingly, I had to admit that Graham's support team had chosen a prime location for our upcoming assignment—although I was still bewildered as to how Bryce had gotten me back here in that wrecked shell of an SUV. Even more confusing, I seemed to have been sedated. Worse still was the fact that Bryce had undressed me while I was unconscious. That was as reprehensible as it was unacceptable—an act for which he'd end up paying dearly. Even if he'd seen it all before, that didn't entitle the smug bastard to ongoing viewing privileges.

As if I'd summoned him, I heard the water shut off and the bathroom door open. I backed up into the kitchenette—but I still had an unobstructed view of the hallway. As the bathroom's inhabitant stepped out, I raised my gun and aimed it, just in case.

And then I nearly dropped it in shock.

There, in a bright-pink towel wrapped around her torso and another covering her flaming red hair, was none other than my old friend. For a long moment, we took each other in in silence—her, a vision in Day-Glo terrycloth; me, bruised, battered, and pointing my gun at her head.

And then she lifted her empty hands, palms up, and spoke. "Whoa there, Blondie. Calm your tits, will ya? I come in peace."

"Carina?" I gasped.

*** Chuck ***

As I rounded the corner to the kitchen, making a beeline for the freshly-brewed pot of coffee, the look on Ellie's face made me want to run in the other direction … and duck for cover. Still in her bathrobe, she leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee, watching me like she was afraid I might shatter into a million pieces.

"Morning," she yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Above it, her narrowed eyes tracked my every move.

I turned toward the counter, doing my best to avoid her gaze. "Morning," I echoed, filling my coffee mug, then emptying the rest of the carafe into a giant to-go thermos for work. God knew I'd need it after last night. If I could've asked my sister to set up an IV drip of pure caffeine, I would have.

I thought I'd gotten away with convincing her that nothing was amiss—but no such luck.

"Are you feeling okay, Chuck?" she asked, leaning over to get a better view of my face. "You're not looking so hot. Did you get any sleep?"

"Not much," I hedged.

"Because of Sarah?"

I nodded, my eyes stinging at the thought of not knowing what had happened to her. It was tormenting me more and more as each second passed.

Ellie heaved a huge sigh. "Please, Chuck. Don't do this. Don't let that conniving bitch get the final word. You deserve so much better."

As her words sank in, penetrating the fog that permeated my sleep-deprived brain, the surge of anger that coursed through my veins caught me by surprise. I reined it in, reminding myself that Ellie was still operating in the dark. Like always, she was just looking out for me.

My sister had had a front-row seat to every tragic event I'd ever experienced. Time and again, she'd helped me stitch my heart back together, after so many had gone out of their way to rip it apart. Seen in that light, her hostility toward Sarah was as predictable as it was understandable.

But Ellie had no idea that Sarah could be lying dead in a ditch, having sacrificed everything to protect me and my family. My sister had no idea what I'd endured over the past few months—or the threats she and Devon now faced. If anything, she was the one that deserved so much better—especially from me.

And I intended to remedy that … right now.

As calmly as I could manage, I turned my back to the surveillance, pulled out my phone, and sent a pink-noise signal through the mics to conceal what I was about to say. Having this conversation while we were still under the visual scrutiny of the NSA might be a bad idea, but I couldn't keep it bottled up any longer. Enough was enough. Like I'd told Sarah, Ellie could handle it. She was a Bartowski, and we were champs at rolling with the punches, given all the times we'd been knocked down over the years. If Casey, or anyone else, asked what we'd discussed, I'd just reference Graham's pile-of-shit cover story I'd been ordered to spoon-feed my sister, and leave it at that.

I had to force myself to take a deep breath before I spoke. There'd be no coming back after this.

"Listen, Ellie," I began, sounding as hesitant as I felt, "I know your heart's in the right place. I really do. And I love you all the more for it. I probably could've gotten by without that disparaging remark about Sarah," I quipped, giving her a lopsided grin, "but I can understand why you're so upset with her."

I reached out to grab my sister's hand, squeezing it, my eyes boring into hers.

"But right now—more than at any other time in my life—I need you to trust me … implicitly. There's so much you don't know about what's been going on—so much I need to tell you. Some of which might be extremely hard for you to hear."

Ellie set down her coffee, her eyes wide and unblinking. "Chuck, you're scaring me. What the hell's going on?"

I glanced down at the counter, trying to gather my thoughts. True to her word, Ellie had already prepared our breakfast. So I dropped her hand, picked up the two plates laden with bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast, and cocked my head toward the dining room. "Come on, sis. We should probably look as natural as possible when I tell you this. But you have to promise to keep your cool."

My sister actually growled. "That's not helping, Chuck," she fretted, but followed me nonetheless, tucking my thermos under her arm and then grabbing our coffee mugs.

In the dining room, I set the plates down and pulled out her chair, giving her a pointed look under raised eyebrows, ensuring her back would be facing the cameras. Without a word, she set down our coffees and took the proffered seat, looking at me expectantly. I was in awe of my brilliant sister's ability to think on her feet, no pun intended: in the time it took to walk from the kitchen to the table, she'd seemed to realize how serious the situation was. Instead of asking me a thousand questions and letting the concern she felt show on her face, she'd donned a neutral mask even Sarah would've admired.

As soon as we were both settled, I dug into my breakfast, trying not to arouse any suspicion. Ellie didn't eat; instead, she pushed her food around her plate, impatiently waiting for me to speak. After a few bites of what tasted like Styrofoam due to my wrecked nerves, I cleared my throat, dropping my eyes to my plate to ensure none of the analysts who might be watching could read my lips.

"The first thing you should know, and probably the most important," I said, giving Ellie a furtive look under my lashes, "is that nothing we say or do in this house is private—at least not under normal circumstances."

Ellie gasped and her body tensed, as if she was about to leap from her chair. But before she could totally flip the fuck out, I shook my head in warning. "Please, Ellie. Don't. We're constantly being monitored. I found a way to disable the mics temporarily, but they can still see everything we're doing."

"They?" she asked, looking as alarmed as the situation warranted.

Instead of addressing her direct question, I gathered all my strength and launched into a CliffsNotes version of what I'd told the Magi. That was all we'd have time for. It wouldn't be long before Casey came knocking, asking for a cup of sugar or offering some other excuse for rolling up on our doorstep—anything to find out what was going on with his precious asset. Ellie would need to know the basics before that happened.

So I started at the very beginning, with Stanford, Bryce, and Professor Fleming. The Magi hadn't needed those details, but this was my sister, and I wanted her to have the whole picture. Speaking as quickly as I could, I hit all of the high points, with an emphasis on getting the Intersect shoved into my head, becoming the most prized intelligence asset in the world overnight, and losing every bit of my freedom in the process. I told her how Casey and Sarah came into the picture, and about Sarah and Bryce's partnership, both working and off-the-clock. And finally, I gave her a thumbnail sketch of everything that had happened between me and Sarah, ending with our talk in the park, our plan to find a way to rid me of both the Intersect and the government's presence in all our lives, and Sarah's offer to serve herself up as a decoy just to keep us all safe.

I skipped over Zondra's leather-clad appearance at the Buy More, and the plethora of problems that followed her arrival. I'd save that little tidbit for when I knew more about what had transpired with the Squad—and when I had a better sense of how Zondra would eventually factor into the overall equation. I was sure I'd have plenty of time to explain during Chuck-Gets-Raked-Over-The-Coals, part deux.

Once I'd finished, I braced myself for the inevitable torrent of questions, praying for both our sakes that Ellie would show a little restraint, at least for now. Casey's intrusive knock was imminent—and his own restraint, nonexistent. But when I looked up from the plate I'd managed to wipe clean, Ellie was rotating her coffee mug between her fingers. Her brow was furrowed, her teeth sunk deep into her bottom lip.

"Ellie?" I prodded, testing the shark-ridden waters. "Are you okay?"

My sister scoffed, looking incredulous. "Really, Chuck?" She shook her head. "I'm at least about ten fucking zip codes away from being okay. This is all so unbelievable, like something out of the Twilight Zone or one of your silly comic books."

Despite the seriousness of our situation, I couldn't let this mockery stand. "Silly?" I gasped, hand to my heart.

"Chuck!" she snapped, clearly in no mood for my antics. And who could blame her?

"Sorry," I apologized, grumbling under my breath, "but they're called graphic novels."

"What'd you say?" Her eyes narrowed again, the aggravated expression in them all too familiar.

"Nothing," I said, fighting back a smile. I hadn't expected that telling Ellie would make me feel so much better—as if a weight had been lifted. Maybe it wasn't fair, since a portion of that weight had transferred onto her shoulders … but I hated keeping anything from my sister, much less a truth of this magnitude.

"That's what I thought." She sat back in her chair, the pensive expression returning to her face.

After what seemed like a few thousand turns of her coffee mug, during which I wisely said not a word, she asked, "Just how much danger are we talking about, Chuck? How's it even possible for them to use what's in your head?"

I checked my watch. We were nearly out of time. As concisely as I could, I explained how certain visual or auditory cues could trigger a flash, giving me real-time, actionable data that Casey and Sarah could capitalize on. I mentioned a few missions, glossing over any near-death experiences which would just freak her out more.

By the time I'd finished, she'd gone from biting her lip to gnawing on it.

"Does it hurt? Your… what'd you call them? Oh, yeah… your flashes?"

"When I get them one at a time"—I gave a one-shouldered shrug—"they're not so bad. But multiple flashes in a row, and I can get a pretty nasty headache." My sister didn't look at all happy about that little nugget. "But I'm fine, Ellie. I promise."

"Fine? Fine? Are you fucking crazy?" Her voice rose to a near-shriek. "This is not normal, Chuck. Far from it. I'm gonna need to run all kinds of tests just to see how much damage that damn thing is doing to your brain. I'll need weeks of baselines, blood samples, EEGs, MRIs, the whole works. And even then, there's still the unknown that I'll have to factor into the data. Jesus!" Ellie threw her hands in the air. "Fine, he says."

Maybe whoever was watching couldn't hear us—but they could definitely see my sister was upset, which would invite questions I didn't want to answer. "Whoa there, Ellie," I said in a desperate—and misguided—effort to calm her down. "Don't you think you're overreacting just a bit?"

My sister leveled me with an infuriated glare. "Do I tell you how to diagnose a damn computer?"

Looking down at the table, I shook my head.

"Then don't tell me I'm overreacting. Of the two of us, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one with an MD and a specialization in neurology. I'm sorry, Chuck, but this is nonnegotiable. As soon as we can work out the details, you're my new and most important patient. Are we clear?"

"Okay, Ellie. You win." I held up a hand in surrender, trying not to think about all the needles I'd just agreed to let my overzealous sister stab me with … repeatedly.

The silence that followed became stifling as Ellie tapped a nervous beat on the tabletop with her index finger. Then the beat stopped, and the inquisition resumed. "So… Bryce and Sarah, huh?"

"Yeeaahh…" I drew out the word. "I have to admit, that was a pretty tough pill for me to swallow."

"So she told you?"

"Well... Not exactly."

"Chuck!" she moaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Don't you think it's entirely possible that she's just been manipulating you this whole time?"

"Possible?" I shrugged. "Sure… Likely?" I shook my head. "I really don't think so, Ellie."

But my sister wasn't convinced. "Alright, Chuck. Let's review what we know about the situation, shall we?" She laced her fingers together, her eyes zeroing in on my face. "Before Thanksgiving, your relationship with Sarah was just a cover, right?"

"I wouldn't say it was just a cover..." I tried, only to be cut off mid-sentence.

"And before she'd been 'ordered' here to 'handle you,'" she countered, throwing up scare quotes to emphasize both points, "she'd been Bryce's partner … as well as his lover?"

"Yeah, but..." I tried again, failing just as miserably.

"And now," Ellie went on, undeterred, "Sarah's ex-partner and boyfriend—a spy, just like her—who she must've grieved for, has miraculously risen from the dead. And let's not forget about the kiss they shared in your bedroom, or the fact that they're off to parts unknown, doing God knows what, having been reassigned to each other once again. I'd say their timing is pretty fucking convenient. Wouldn't you?"

God! Ellie sure didn't pull any of her punches. I had to remind myself it would take time for her to come around—if she ever did.

"I know how it looks," I admitted reluctantly. "I'm not blind to the situation. How could I be? But you weren't there with us in the park. You didn't hear the vulnerability in Sarah's voice when she told me how she truly felt. You couldn't see the anguish in her eyes when she apologized over and over, asking if I could ever forgive her for not coming clean earlier. And you couldn't feel the desperation radiating off her body when she pleaded with me to give her another chance. It was the most heart-wrenching thing I've ever experienced—and as you know, I've been through quite a lot."

Ellie stared at me, her eyes scanning my face—but she didn't argue. Encouraged, I went on. "Even though it must've been terrifying for her, she offered to resign from the CIA, the only life she's ever known, just so we'd have a chance to be together. And you should know, sis—before you jump to any more conclusions—I was the one who decided she should stay, at least till we can sort things out. She was willing to give up everything—for me."

I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair. "Bottom line?" I continued, giving my sister the most determined look I could summon. "I love her, Ellie. And I trust her completely. I can only hope that one day you will too."

She cocked her head, her brows knitted so tightly, they nearly crossed. "I don't know, Chuck. She's been lying to me for months, infiltrating my home, eating my food, and taking advantage of my hospitality, all while placing my baby brother in harm's way. That's not something I'd be eager to put in a reference letter."

In college, I'd had to read The Art of War. Looking at Ellie now, Sun Tzu's words echoed in my head: 'He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.' In other words, choose your battles wisely. So, that's exactly what I did.

"I get it, sis. Maybe it's too much to ask that you trust Sarah. But would you consider trusting me? After what happened at Stanford, you might think I'm not the best judge of character. But I promise that when it comes to Sarah, I know what I'm doing."

Ellie stared at me for a long, weighted moment before responding. "I do trust you, Chuck. Probably more than anyone else in my life. So I guess that means I'll need to give your 'new girlfriend' the benefit of the doubt, too—if only by proxy. But that's all I can promise, at least right now. I need more time, and not just when it comes to giving Sarah another chance. I need time to think about everything. This has been so much for me to take in … all at once."

I nodded, thankful she was at least willing to meet me halfway. It was more than I could've hoped for, especially after everything I'd just dumped in her lap.

Shutting her eyes, Ellie drew in a deep breath and held it, then let it out—the way she always did when leaving a difficult subject behind. Then her eyes flickered open, her brows un-knitted, and her serious expression morphed into a mischievous grin. I was so glad to see it, even if it meant I might need to brace for impact.

She didn't disappoint. "So … Chuck … tell me more about how you … 'felt the desperation radiating off of Sarah's body.'"

Oh, God! Why had I phrased it that way? Couldn't I have said something—anything—else?

"Because it sounds to me," she went on, giddiness in her tone, "like there might've been a lot of body language involved with your talk … in the park … late at night … all alone." She took a noisy gulp of java, smirking at me over the rim.

I could feel my face turning redder and redder—and the more I blushed, the wider Ellie's grin grew. Before I could die of mortification, a heavy-handed knock on the front door spared me from having to elaborate. There was only one person it could be. The major knocked exactly like he spoke: as if he expected immediate compliance, and if none was forthcoming, he intended to beat it out of you. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the door.

Frankly, I'd been dreading Casey's arrival ever since I decided to screw with his audio feeds. But now, with my face the shade of an overripe tomato, I was almost relieved to have the interruption.

"Sorry, Ellie. It looks like our time is up. I know there's a lot more we need to discuss"—I pocketed my keys and grabbed my thermos—"but it'll have to wait."

The smirk disappeared from Ellie's face as if it had never been there at all, and she gave me a curt nod. "Alright, Chuck. Just don't make me wait too long. We need to get a handle on this as soon as possible. To tell you the truth, I'm scared out of my damn mind—especially for you."

"It'll all work out, sis. I promise." Giving her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, I turned and headed for the front door.

Ellie set down her coffee and gave chase, catching me before I could make a clean break. Spinning me around, she engulfed me in one of her patented, bone-crushing hugs. "I'll always be here for you," she whispered, trembling as she held me close, "no matter what."

For once in my life, I hugged her back with equal vigor. "I know, Ellie … and right now, you have no idea how much that means to me. I love you so much, sister of mine."

"Love you too, little brother," she sniffled, releasing her stranglehold, her eyes shining.

I stepped back, gave her a crooked grin, and threw open the front door.

There stood the major, filled with piss and vinegar, his lips pressed into a thin line and his arms folded across his beefy chest. He looked about as pleased to be standing there as I was to see him.

"Heeeyyy, Casey," I chirped, giving him my best innocuous smile.

"Bartowski," he snarled, "what the hell is going on?"

Before I could think of a way to respond to such an ambiguous question, my sister nudged me out of the way. My stomach knotted, wondering if she'd be able to refrain from gouging out his eyes with her claws. But I'd underestimated my sister, once again.

"Good morning, John," she cooed, her voice saccharine-sweet. "What brings you by?"

Casey unfolded his arms, doing his best impersonation of a non-threatening fellow employee and helpful neighbor. "Just seeing if Chuck needed a ride to work," he answered, his voice clipped, unable or unwilling to make direct eye contact with my sister. "We're both scheduled to open the store this morning, and I didn't see one of the Herders parked out front."

His performance was amusing enough—but not nearly as impressive as Ellie's response. As it turned out, she was a true bullshit artist.

"Well, isn't that thoughtful?" She reached out to grab Casey's hand, squeezing it while smiling up at him. The NSA agent looked queasy. "We're so lucky you moved next door. Right, Chuck?" She gave me a quick wink. "I mean, it could've been anyone, and instead we were lucky enough to get someone who's always looking out for my baby brother. You're so sweet, I could eat you up with a spoon."

"You'd at least need a spork, Ellie," I grumbled under my breath.

Ignoring me, Casey somehow managed to reclaim his hand from Ellie's grasp, without being forced to gnaw it off first. Then he got back to business. "Well, Bartowski. Do you need a ride or not?"

Watching Ellie toy with the gruff major had been pretty damn funny, but I didn't feel like pressing my luck. "Yeah, Casey. I do. Thanks." I turned to my sister. "I guess I'll talk to you later?"

She smiled and nodded. "Sure, Chuck. You guys have fun at work."

Ellie's tone was light, but I knew beneath it lurked the weight of all of her unanswered questions—and all the accusations she'd left unsaid. Her face impassive, she leaned against the door jam, her eyes fixed on us as we walked out of the courtyard. Even with my back to her, I could still feel the intensity of her gaze as she watched me leave with a man she now knew to be my handler.

Following Casey into the parking lot, I took inventory of my growing list of allies. I'd joined forces with one of the best hackers on the planet, who seemed determined to wreak havoc on my oppressors. And I had one of the best neurologists in Los Angeles, willing and eager to find out exactly what this super-computer was doing to my brain. Who knew—maybe she'd even figure out how to help me remove it. The best part? I'd never have to lie to my sister again.

My rebel alliance was beginning to take shape. But before I could move forward, I still needed one crucial piece of information.

To know what had happened to Sarah.

Without her, what would be the point?

A/N #2: Well, there you have it, folks … what I hope was a decently-crafted, world-building chapter for those of you still reading. I know it was very Chuck-centric, but don't worry—the next chapter should help balance out the scales.

I also realize it contained a lot of technobabble. All that jargon might not be as exciting as a high-speed car chase, but I thought a realistic look into the hacking world might be an interesting thing to flesh out. Especially since I know what's coming (insert evil chuckle here).

Interesting fact: I based all the technical jargon in this chapter on my personal experience in running penetration tests on network security protocols (in a controlled environment, of course). And BackTrack Linux (now called Kali Linux) really was a nasty piece of software. It had hundreds of hacking tools baked right into the operating system. You still needed to know what you were doing, but if you did, and there was a vulnerability in the network, you'd be able to easily find and exploit it.

A/N #3: As always, if you would, please take a moment to leave a quick review below. And hit that Follow and Favorite button if you feel so inclined. Your support is the reason I keep doing what I do!

Take care,

SmatterChoo…