Flashback
Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape Training Complex: Day 17
Chuck wished he could stab Roan Montgomery in the back. But he didn't, 'cause that'd be a bit too extreme for his liking. Besides, he wasn't sure he could win against the old man even with his Intersect-enhanced reflexes, given the sleep and food-deprived state his body endured for two weeks. He always seemed much more well-rested than he was, even though he was always there every time he was awake. Either he was more insane than Chuck had originally pegged him for, and was always bright and chipper no matter how much sleep he got, or he was switching out with several duplicates of his while the brown-haired youth was only allowed minimal sleep.
Where did the others go?
Chuck could have sworn he was just being kicked around by some noobs that weren't really taking their jobs seriously (or perhaps he was just physically numb thanks to the amount of hellish training he went through), but sometime in the middle of the endless days, they'd been swapped out.
With the one and only Roan Montgomery of course.
"Spies have no identity. They have no past, no present, no future. They are nothing. They are shadows. They live and die like any other, but they are true soldiers. Spies are faceless. Spies are nameless. They are only what their assignment requires them to be, nothing more and nothing less. So let me ask you this once again: Who are you?"
"Lieuten–"
SLAM.
Chuck cried in pain as his former instructor slammed his head against the desk.
"Wrong answer, lad!" he said, with a sadistic glint in his eyes as he grabbed Chuck's hair, forcing him to look in his eyes. "I'm asking you again: Who are you?"
"ID number 32567."
"What's your name, ID number 32567?"
Trick question. He wasn't supposed to know. Spies were faceless. Spies were nameless. As soon as they walked through these doors their original identities had been forfeit. Only when they left, would they be allowed to breathe freely again.
He wasn't a spy and didn't even want to be considered one in the first place. But he had to learn how to think and act like one in order to learn how to defend himself from them. That was the whole point of this training.
"I… kinda forgot."
SMACK.
"Liar. You do know."
"No, I'm pretty sure I don't–"
Roan slammed his palms on the interrogation table. "Yes, you do."
Keep going on like that and I'll forget for real. "I'm… Lester Papadopoulos," Chuck said, scrambling for the first ridiculous name that came to mind. He knew right then he just lost half the battle; he wasn't supposed to reveal anything in the interrogation which could be recognized as a direct connection to his real identity, or anyone who had once been an integral part of his life. He wasn't supposed to remember any of that. That was the only way to keep his dignity in case he got captured by the enemies.
"You liar. Who are you?" Roan asked, shining the light directly into his face. He saw stars, and for a second dozens of random memories flashed through his head: Him bumping his head on the playground slide when he was four; his sister making dinner; Morgan and him splashing mud at each other on their last day of school... All of his synapses were firing at random and conjuring up images of absolutely no importance.
Chuck repeated his initial answer once again, this time with a bit more conviction.
"I'm… Lester Papadopoulos. I am a nobody."
"Oh, really? You don't look like nobody, Mister Lester," Roan replied in a rather amused tone.
"You finally understand, Sir. I'm actually a somebody."
"And who is this somebody?"
"…Nobody?"
"Oh?"
"Just kidding. I'm actually from the City of Angels." Chuck laughed a bit, looking over his side as if he was sharing a joke with someone standing there.
Roan smacked Chuck's head against the desk once again, causing the Intersect host to yelp in pain.
"Stop messing around. Answer the damn question," the older agent snapped, his face contorting into an ugly frown. Chuck would have to be quick to escape his wrath, otherwise the rest of this session would be even more painful.
"I'm not lying. I'm nobody. Everyone keeps saying that nobody is perfect. Therefore I am perfect. And since I am perfect, that makes me some sort of angel sent from Heaven, right?"
There was silence as the veteran spy gave him a strange look. And then he leaned back, starting to chuckle. It was the kind of laughter that clearly indicated Chuck was off the hook for the time being (as Roan enjoyed his quips somewhat), but also promised extra pain later. And the anticipation of that pain was much worse than just receiving it.
That was how great interrogators broke people. Not with pain, but with the anticipation of it. It drove people mad, expecting something rather than experiencing it. There was nothing worse in this whole world than to be indebted to someone who could not be trusted. Debts of benevolence, or debts of suffering. Those could always be used to keep one in line; no matter how tough they considered themselves physically and mentally, it wouldn't matter much in the long run.
Once the trials in court concluded, one felt free after receiving their punishment. Some would look to reforming themselves during and after their prison time; some would go on to commit the same crime post-release. But being on probation for seemingly eternity... having to endure the proceedings of a trial that felt like it would never end... well, there was no need for others to drive you mad when your own fears could do the job by themselves.
That was generally the rule. During an interrogation, it was the interrogators who had the power. The ones answering the questions, on the other hand, were basically giving away bits and pieces of themselves to someone else. Putting themselves at the mercy of another.
But, if you knew how to play your cards right, you could always turn the situation around in your favor. Get the other individual angry and unstable, and suddenly you're the one on top.
"Remember one thing about torture and interrogation, Lieutenant Carmichael: It is better to lie than to speak the truth, but it is also better to give an empty truth than a bad lie. Lies are like a maze. What a liar wants to do is to create a maze no one can truly escape from, whilst an interrogator wants to make sure that a liar gets lost in his own maze. However, if there is no way out – when everything you can possibly say is obviously false, and your tormentors know it – keep your answers as simple as possible. They will hurt you anyway. You might as well give it your all to make sure you have the last laugh over them while you are doing it."
Chuck blinked in confusion as Roan handed him a water bottle. He was indeed sweating from the whole ordeal. He drank the water given to him. He was that thirsty. The water was warm but it was good enough for him. He would take anything that could be considered as salvage at this point.
Was this it? The last stage of the training?
"Now it's time to fill your questionnaire, brat!" Roan handed him a bunch of papers, a test of sorts prepared by the agency's best psychologists to measure a person's willpower to withstand all sorts of abuse and torture.
The hatred rolling off him in waves crashed and broke against the shore. His heightened feeling dissolved into apathy. If this was truly necessary in order to protect his sister from their father's legacy, then he would bear as much pain and humiliation as he needed to. He knew what was at stake. He knew what might happen to him and Ellie if people realized who their father was and what was inside his head. He would rather suffer at the hands of someone he trusted rather than an enemy on the battlefield, who would want to utilize what was inside his head for their own nefarious means. He would rather be trained to pieces by the likes of the Montgomery; this way, at least there was hope of being able to glue himself back together somewhere down the road.
"Death is cheap, and life is not," Roan droned, making his voice as monotone and sleep-inducing as he possibly could. Other times he made himself much more exciting and worth listening to. Chuck tried to pay attention, to figure out what the old man was truly up to, because the techniques behind his psychological torture were really interesting, even though everything just felt so stupid and boring at times. "The more you hate someone, the easier it is to kill them. But no matter how much you love someone, nothing you do will bring them back to life. That's the one and only constant truth in a spy's life."
...xxxxxxxxx...xxxxxxxxx...xxxxxxxxx...
He still remembered the first time he went to buy a tux for himself upon Roan's insistence. The old coot refused to let him inside his classes otherwise, and he had to attend them in order to finish his training. Money wasn't a big issue since the Admiral agreed to cover for everything, but choosing the right one for him was. Ellie had brought him clothes since he was a toddler and really had an eye for that; without her to help him with this insurmountable task, he started freaking out a little. Thankfully, with some assistance from a helpful salesman, he found himself a black peak lapel tuxedo with a lay down collar shirt and dress pants that suited him very nicely. In fact, he felt so happy and relieved that he almost hugged that guy, but knowing it would be weird to do that to a complete stranger, he just shook his hand and paid him a nice tip. Initially he wanted to go for the white dinner jacket, like Bond wore in that scene in Goldfinger, but it didn't look that great when he actually tried it on.
There was no way in hell he was going to wear anything else on his first mission!
He gazed into the mirror. It had been a while since he had dressed formally like this. He was pretty happy with how he looked and even managed to somewhat tame his crazy hair. Sure, he would have struggled to tie the bow tie, but a well-timed flash easily solved that issue.
After hearing a click behind him, he quickly turned around. His jaw almost dropped at the sight of Sarah walking towards him in a fancy red dress.
Sarah had to swallow hard as he turned to face her. The tux really looked good on him. God, he should always wear that suit. ALWAYS. He even wore his dress shoes, though she had always loved seeing him in his trademark Chucks.
Chuck cleared his throat, trying his best to look confident. However, he couldn't prevent his voice from croaking a little while greeting her. "Wow... Sarah, you look gorgeous."
She smiled broadly, still trying to recover. "Thank you, Chuck. You look very dapper."
"Of course. I am fatally attractive after all." He grinned cheekily.
"I have to tell you though, I was half-expecting your suit to be a white dinner jacket." She winked at him with a playful smile as she ran her hands down his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles.
"Oh, I would have. But unfortunately I left my dining suit in LA," Chuck joked.
Sarah laughed a little, giving him a smile which warmed him all over. "Shall we?"
Chuck accepted her arm and said, "Yeah, if we don't leave now we are going to have a very angry NSA Agent to deal with."
"Don't mind him much. That's just his default setting." Sarah giggled bemusedly as they started heading towards her limo.
...xxxxxx... xxxxx...xxxxxx...
On their way to the hotel, Sarah gave him a watch with a built-in state-of-the-art tracking system. Unfortunately it didn't have a panic button installed like the various upgrades he made to his original watch. It also lacked some other cool features. But it was a Rolex and Sarah really seemed to like it, so he ultimately wore it on his right wrist while the original was hidden beneath his sleeves on his left one. It felt kind of awkward to wear both at the some time but he couldn't take it out for extended periods of time without worrying about massive headaches. And he didn't want to risk not wearing it on his first mission.
"I wonder what Mr. Van Gogh was thinking when he made that."
They had moved inside the classy art auction and he and Sarah looked at a beautiful painting of a town and swirling stars and moons in the sky.
"Vincent van Gogh once stated that it's all in the eye of the beholder. It's whatever you want it to be basically. But if you really want to know what this particular artist might have thought, well, it's about light and darkness."
"How is that?" Sarah squinted at the painting as if trying to find out why it was so.
"Look at the town and the sky. It's shrouded in darkness, signifying the presence of despair, greed and fear in one's life. But the lights from the town windows and the moons and the stars... they are bright. Very bright. It's a sign of love and hope, the light which truly makes us strong. Allowing us to fight when all else is lost."
"How is it you know everything?" Sarah asked, rather impressed by his explanation.
"I just like knowing about things when I can. I am an analyst. That's what puts food on my table." Chuck shrugged. "Everyone sees the world differently. I see it as a book waiting to be read by people."
"You sound like everything is predetermined in this world."
"Nah! Like I said, it's a book waiting to be read by people. Everyday is like a new page. So you never know what tomorrow will read."
"Well, it seems you have gotten wiser." Sarah smiled, even further impressed by his reasoning.
"I dunno about that. Like I said, I may know about a lot of things..." Chuck scratched his back with a sheepish smile.
"But not everything." Sarah got to him in time.
Just then, his brand of luck struck as an accident prone guest lost their footing and mashed a spring roll against his shirt.
Am I not allowed to look cool for once without something embarrassing happening to me right afterwards?
"Oh, nice," Sarah said, her voice dripping with humor and amusement. Apparently she found the whole incident quite hilarious.
Chuck exhaled with a sigh. "I have been a spy for all of five seconds and I already have soy sauce on my shirt."
"Go and wash it off. And Chuck? Stop saying you're a spy." She glared at him with a hint of disdain in her voice.
Ouch! I didn't know she was that touchy about the S-word.
"Right, of course." He shrugged as he started walking down the stairs which led to the men's washroom.
...xxxxxxx...xxxxxxxx...xxxxxxxx...
"Such misfortune."
Chuck cursed under his breath as he began removing the stain of soy sauce with a wet towel, still not believing such things kept happening to him despite having two supercomputers locked inside his brain. His new day was certainly off to a stellar beginning.
He glanced at the mirror, taking a good look at the hulking figure who stood right next to him. He felt the usual minor headache as the flash produced highly disturbing visuals he recalled seeing during his last briefing, including those of several dead bodies, said man shooting someone in the back and taking the painting that was at the heart of this mission.
Chuck immediately went pale as he realized this man was likely a cold-blooded mobster involved with the plutonium, and perhaps La Ciudad as well. He wondered if he should go all Intersect on him and knock him out while he had the chance, or wait till Sarah and Casey got involved. Beckman and Graham had made it clear to him that his job during the missions was only to provide information and leave all the heavy-lifting to those two. And the last thing he wanted was to be humiliated by the CIA Director again.
The man quickly turned to Chuck, having noted his lingering stare. "Do we know each other?" He had a thick British accent.
While Chuck was nervous for a moment, he immediately schooled his features as the Carmichael part of his brain took over. "No, no. I just thought you looked like my Uncle Patrick from Melbourne." Chuck gave the man an apologetic smile. "Sorry if I startled you."
The mobster silently nodded, dismissing him as one of those nosy annoying Americans he encountered during his day to day life. With that, Chuck left the washroom, constantly looking around to make sure he wasn't being followed. He swiftly walked back up the stairs where Sarah was waiting for him.
"That was a very dangerous man."
"Who?" Sarah asked, noticing the tense look on his face.
Chuck glanced towards the washroom, which the mobster on whom he flashed was leaving. "He is the one who killed all those smugglers in the pictures."
Chuck felt Sarah grab his arm as she protectively blocked him from the man's sights. "Is he related to La Ciudad?"
"I dunno. But he definitely has something to do with the plutonium..." Chuck explained calmly, or as calm as he could possibly appear while being on a dangerous mission like this.
Sarah slightly narrowed her eyes, still keeping a sharp eye on the British gentleman. "I'll take a closer look."
The blonde led him towards the ballroom. "Okay, no need to rush this, Sarah. We should wait near the painting to be sure. La Ciudad will most likely show up there," he insisted, barely managing to keep his cool as he tried to reason with her.
However, she didn't even turn to respond to his suggestion, now fully embracing her Ice Queen mode. "Chuck, go wait at the bar," she commanded.
And she walked away, leaving him at the mercy of a very angry and frustrated NSA agent, who had a terrible aura of hostility surrounding him, practically scaring the crap out of any prospective customers who dared approach him. That didn't stop Chuck trying to have a little fun at his expense and vent some of his own frustration about the whole situation as he approached the bar.
"So you don't get be a guest, Major?" he asked, trying his best to hold his laughter in.
"I blend in where I can, kid," he quietly growled under his breath. "Would you like to drink anything?"
"Vodka martini, please. Shaken, not stirred," he replied in the cringiest British accent he could muster.
Casey grunted at his request but began working on his drink regardless, with a smile which looked as phony as a three-dollar bill. "Want a cherry with that?" he asked, lifting a cherry with his toothpick.
Chuck turned to look at Sarah. She seemed to be getting along with the mobster pretty well, and he in turn offered her a glass of champagne. Even while knowing she was a kickass federal agent with years of experience and special training under her belt, he still couldn't help but feel a tad concerned for her, given the kind of dangerous individual she was conversing with.
Just he finished updating Casey on his findings, the person standing next to him turned around and exclaimed, "Chuck Bartowski?"
Oh shit! Today is just not my day. What were the odds he'd potentially have his cover blown courtesy of a chance meeting with an old Stanford classmate on his first super-secret mission?
Chuck was panicking inside, but pretended to not recognize the guy, hoping that would be enough to drive him away. His old classmate, however, remained unfazed.
"Alan Waterman, Stanford?"
He didn't have much choice but to give in at this point and replied, "Hey Alan! How are you?"
Alan bragged, "I'm great! I don't know if you heard, but I sold my software company. Kind of unemployed. Problem is I am too young to retire, too rich to work. What about you? Anything after you did your PG thing from WSU?"
Chuck rolled his eyes. It was the kind of conversation he usually had every time he ran into his old classmates who had made it big on their own. Hey, Chuck! I am rich and successful. How about you? Wait, you aren't? Oh, that's a shame. Okay, see ya!
"Ah, nothing much I guess. Just the daily life of your everyday commercial scientist. Travel around the globe, learn new stuff every day, work on your pet projects when you want to – the usual, you know. And work at ESRI to keep in touch with the real world. That's how I keep myself relaxed and at peace."
Alan now had a shit-eating grin on his face. "You are one unique character, Bartowski! Listen, here is my card. I wouldn't mind chipping in if you have any of your pet projects ready. It will be great fun and with a brain like you involved, that'd be a money spinner for sure." He winked, handing him a card.
Chuck took the card and to his utmost dismay, flashed again. "Insider trading and offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands? No thanks, Alan. I think I'll pass."
Alan's eyes bugged out and he more or less snatched his card back, quickly running away with his tail between his legs. He turned towards Casey, flashing him a devious smirk.
"You should probably inform the SEC and IRS about a company called Zinc Link."
"Good job, kid. I see the taxpayer money wasn't wasted on you," he commented with a hint of amusement in his tone as he began wiping the bar in front of him.
Chuck glanced back at the dance floor where Sarah was busy getting handsy with the Brit. That really didn't feel like a good job to him. After what felt like hours of laughing and flirting, she took his hand and started heading towards the roof.
Casey jumped over the bar and began to dash towards them. "You stay," he ordered with a threatening glance, giving him a little push in the opposite direction.
"Stay?" Chuck sighed in frustration. "Stay like a dog. Right."
He knew quite well that Sarah and Casey could easily take down that baddie without even breaking a sweat, but a part of him wished they would show a little more tact and patience. La Ciudad hadn't become the world's most dangerous and elusive arms dealer by being careless.
However, he failed to notice the duo following them.
...xxxxxx...xxxxxxx...xxxxxxx...
With Sarah and Casey leaving his side to take down the baddie, he turned his attention to the mission painting. To his slight confusion, it had a different frame compared to that shown in the newspaper article he read that morning.
The frame was supposedly the major point of interest for La Ciudad given it contained a tube of weapons-grade plutonium. But he wasn't sure if this was what the Intersect showed him about the painting.
"Beautiful painting!" a beautiful voice with a thick Hispanic accent said behind him.
"What's that?"
"The painting?"
"Well, it definitely has a quality about it. Though not like Woman with a Parasol or The House among the Roses," Chuck replied, drawing knowledge from the original Intersect about the art history deep within his subconscious.
"Umm... what?" the brunette replied, dumbfounded.
"I am pretty sure you have no idea what I'm talking about. Well, don't worry. Between you and me, neither do I," Chuck stated, sighing in relief. Now that he knew she was not knowledgeable in art, he didn't have to rely on his Intersect abilities to keep up the appearance of a connoisseur. It was probably a good thing since he was beginning to feel like a scam artist.
"Sorry," she said with a bright smile, extending her hand. "I am Malena."
"Charles Carmichael, but you can call me Chuck." He gently shook her hand in a friendly manner, opting for a more casual introduction.
"So you don't like the painting, Chuck?" she asked, sounding intrigued about his earlier comments about the painting.
"At the end of the day, it's a Monet and probably worth its money. But it's rather dull for my taste. The frame seems quite unique though."
"I see." Malena smiled as she moved a few strands of her hair, revealing a nasty scar on her neck – and just as his luck would have it, Chuck flashed again. This time, he accessed the La Ciudad case file compiled by MI6, which included images of a case of weapons and Malena's neck, which had been slashed in that very spot with a machete.
This woman was none other La Ciudad.
"Can I get you a drink, Mister Carmichael?" she asked in a melodious voice.
"Y-Yes! Champagne, please!" Chuck tugged at his collar in order to breathe properly. La Ciudad was a cold-blooded murderer who took pleasure in killing any potential witness, and she was standing right in front of him.
Oh shit! Oh dear! Where the hell are Sarah and Casey when I need them?
He felt his mind go a mile a minute, trying to ascertain the best way to get out of this predicament. He would have to be extremely careful not to give anything away and make her suspicious, as she likely had a few allies in the crowd. If she cottoned on, she likely wouldn't hesitate to harm bystanders or claim hostages if it suited her.
If only I had my tranq pistol...
Just then, the music changed.
"Mmmm, I love a good tango."
Chuck snorted, rolling his eyes in mild irritation. "Oh, yeah. Who doesn't?"
She quickly moved to his side and grabbed him by the tie. "Dance with me, Mister Carmichael," she whispered in his ears. "You owe me."
"Eh? I owe you?" Chuck feigned a confused look.
She glanced at him, a seductive smile smile gracing her face.
"You will," she said, motioning him to come closer.
Chuck looked back and forth nervously but didn't see his teammates nearby. He figured they were still busy dealing with the guy he initially flashed on. Which meant he was on his own right now.
Aren't they supposed to be the best their respective agencies have to offer? Just how difficult is it to take down a single person between the two of them?
He grunted in annoyance, much to her amusement. Nonetheless, he took his jacket off and handed it to the person closest to him, then rolled up his sleeves before taking strong hold of her hands in a first tango position. Given the harsh expression on his face and his stance, Malena could tell she was dealing with a real tango pro.
"It seems this isn't your first tango, Mister Carmichael," she spoke in a sultry voice.
"My sister is a dance instructor." Chuck gave the first explanation that came to his mind, surprising even himself with it. He put his hand around her hip, beginning the tango. He hoped that the passion evoked by the sensual dance would avert the wrath of the notorious arms dealer. He also hoped Sarah wouldn't get too mad if she were to see him like this. Furthermore...
I hope I'm getting paid for this crap.
...xxxxxxxx...xxxxxxx...xxxxxxxx...
Meanwhile, Sarah and Casey had found themselves in a Mexican standoff with some heavily armed individuals, including the duo who tracked them from the ballroom and the washroom man Chuck flashed on. As it turned out, they were actually Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) agents. The washroom man was simply responsible for intercepting the painting and removing the plutonium from its frame. And the whole thing was nothing but a ruse on their part to lure La Ciudad out of hiding.
In short, both groups attended this event with the same objective, but thanks to a funny thing called miscommunication, all they managed to accomplish was to mess up each other's operation. Much to Agent Walker's displeasure.
"You should have worked with us from the very beginning. Once this mission ends you are in for the chewing out of your lives," she snapped furiously, her gun still trained on the group.
"How were any of us to know the CIA and NSA would be hot on La Ciudad's trail as well?" a senior MI6 agent, presumably the leader, explained nervously. He was not expecting their American counterparts to take this mishap rather personally.
Casey frowned deeply, still holding their ID. "If you have been trailing La Ciudad across five countries, then where is he?"
"She – La Ciudad – is still inside, probably. Waiting for the auction to start."
She? Casey and Sarah turned to face each other, realizing they had left Chuck inside with no one to protect him, even though he asked her to wait till he flashed on their target.
Oh my God. Chuck!
...xxxxxx...xxxxxxx...xxxxxxx...
"What, uh, what line of work are you in, Malena?"
"Why are you so interested, Mister Carmichael?" She smiled seductively, running her fingers up his upper arms.
"No reason. Just making conversation." He sighed before pushing her away in a twirl.
"We can talk later, but for now, dance!" She grinned after she came back in front of him.
"As you wish."
The two of them strutted around the dance floor. Even though he was quite intimidated by dancing with a psychopath, Chuck managed to keep himself steady enough to access his skill flashes and dance like a pro. To those who didn't know better, they could be lovers entangled in a Public Display of Heated Foreplay. Malena couldn't help but stare at him with her mouth agape. She was in awe with how graciously and effortlessly he moved, as if he had done nothing in his life but tango. She was doing her best to keep up with him, her every hair standing on end.
He ended it by spinning her to him and dipping her before pulling her back to her feet. He had to deal with this matter carefully, wanting to remove himself from her presence as naturally as possible.
"I have to say, Mister Carmichael–"
"Please, call me Chuck," he insisted with a friendly smile, trying his best to keep his real emotions in check.
"Okay, Chuck. I have to say that tango was the most impressive." Malena returned his smile.
"My sister lived in Buenos Aires for over a year," he replied, adding another lie.
Unfortunately, before Chuck could come up with a strategy to get away from the vile villain, they were approached by a woman with dark hair and green eyes.
"Excuse me, aren't you Chuck Bartowski?"
Holy crap! That's Hannah, my former Buy More supervisor. First Alan and now her. Why do I keep running into all these people from my past?
"No, I'm not him. Sorry."
Hannah looked carefully at Chuck and his dance partner.
"Are you sure about that? We worked together for a long time and I never forget a face."
"Your friend is very insistent," Malena questioned Chuck, her eyes glittering malevolently.
"I insist. I have never heard that name before." Chuck was starting to get exasperated right now. Why the hell was she trying to get familiar with him in the first place? She barely paid any attention to him when they used to work together.
"Look, if I'm cramping your style, just say so. But I know you're Chuck Bartowski from Burbank," she said for one final time before she left.
Chuck suddenly wished that woman would get sucked into a black hole. He was here for a dangerous spy mission and now his cover was blown in front of the very criminal they were here to nab. He had to get out of here and look for his teammates before things escalated even further.
"I am so sorry Malena, but I gotta go and make a very important call," Chuck said and turned towards the exit... only to be blocked by a hulking figure. He paled as a mini-flash let him know his true identity. This man was a psycho named Yuri "The Gobbler" Gobrienko, La Ciudad's lead enforcer and a character infamous for eating his victims. Alive. The cannibalistic brute cocked his gun and put it in Chuck's back.
"Why don't we head up to my room now, Mr. Bartowski? We'll soon find out who you really are and if the tango is your only skill," Malena said, laughing derisively. The venom in her voice was enough to make Chuck shudder momentarily.
Trust me. Malena. You will most certainly learn about my other skills. Smirking inwardly while maintaining a terrified look on his face, Chuck allowed himself to be dragged out of the ballroom by her imposing bodyguards. Eagerly waiting for the right moment to take them by storm.