A/N: More of our arc — The Will to Believe.

The Missionary

Please don't cry
For the ghost and the storm outside
Will not invade this sacred shrine
Nor infiltrate your mind

My life down I shall lie
If the bogey-man should try
To play tricks on your sacred mind
To tease, torment, and tantalize

Wavering shadows loom
A piano plays in an empty room
There'll be blood on the cleaver tonight
And when darkness lifts and the room is bright
I'll still be by your side
For you are all that matters
And I'll love you till the day I die

There never need be longing in your eyes
As long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine

— The Smiths, The Hand that Rocks the Cradle

Chapter Nineteen: Tijuana No!

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Graham's voice cut into Beckman's ear from her phone with a serrated edge. "Where is the shithead Intersect again?"

Beckman breathed out, holding the phone away from her ear and glaring at it.

She put the phone back against her ear. "He and Agent Walker have just crossed the US/Mexico border, following a lead in the kidnapping of General Stanfield's granddaughter."

"Holy goddamn motherfuck!" Graham bellowed, so enraged Beckman half expected spittle to come from the phone. "How dare you make decisions like these without me, while I am trapped in a paper-clip-bending meeting on Capitol Hill. You said you read Stanfield in?"

Beckman put an edge in her voice. "Overlook doesn't belong to you, Langston; the Intersect doesn't belong to you. This is a joint NSA and CIA op, the intel in Bartowski's head is half ours. I can't sit on my hands while you sit on Capitol Hill. A decision had to be made and I made it."

"And Stanfield is on his way to California?"

"Yes, he and Agent Casey. They'll be on the ground in another hour or two. Agents Walker and Bartowski. After a stop at Stanfield's daughter's house, they plan to follow Walker and Bartowski into Mexico. We have reason to believe the kidnapping was orchestrated by a Sinaloa Cartel. Agent Bartowski identified a Cartel enforcer near the daughter's house, um…driving an ice cream truck."

"Hell and piss on a stick! Ice cream?"

"Not a typical Cartel money-maker, not even with sprinkles."

"Don't get cute, Becky."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine! Fine. Fine." The righteous indignation in Graham's voice quieted a little. "Sorry, I just want to get up to speed — and when this is over, we're going to have to revisit best practices."

Jesus! Beckman thought, Langston Graham's whining about best practices!

Chuck stared into the passenger-side mirror. The border crossing was falling into the distance behind them. "That was easy enough."

"Generals get things done," Sarah said, herself looking into the rearview mirror, but then searching ahead for the SUV that she knew was now a few minutes ahead of them.

The border traffic was heavy and she was able to spot the tall black vehicle stopped ahead of them. Darkness was falling, and that was going to make tailing the SUV trickier, and Sarah bit her lip, trying to make herself focus, to bite back her tiredness.

Beckman had managed to get them through the border without any problem but that was only the beginning. They had just switched venues, as it were — they were now on the Cartel's home turf. Sinaloa had a huge influence in northern Mexico.

"I've been thinking," Chuck said, stopped, starting again, "the Intersect rates it improbable that the cartel is doing this on their own. Kidnapping is their style — but not across the border, not someone like Stanfield's granddaughter. They're doing this for someone else, for the people that put the bomb in Stanfield's room. The cartel's either getting paid a lot, or they're repaying some sort of debt."

Sarah listened as the line of cars began to move, her eyes still focused on the SUV.

"Right. That sounds right. I have a…old friend…who's DEA." She saw Chuck react to her oddly tentative 'old friend'. "She's worked in Mexico, battled the cartels, and has told me about them. This all feels too overtly political to be their plan. Money fuels the cartels, not geopolitical intrigue. Stanfield has nothing to do with Mexico, cartels. He has commanded mainly in the Middle East. It's hard to imagine the cartel has any quarrel of its own with him, but maybe they took up someone else's."

Chuck nodded.

"Where do you think we're going?" he asked, as their car and the cars around them began to move more quickly.

"South, still south, that's all I'm sure of. For now, deeper into Tijuana."

Graham wanted to throw his phone across the room, preferably at Beckman's head. But she wasn't in his office, and he did not want to have to get a new phone.

He stood and paced around his office, stalked it from corner to corner, diagonally.

Normally, he stipulated that no meeting he attended, even one on Capitol Hill, was so important that he could not be reached, but he had removed that stipulation for his meeting today.

He had also made sure that Beckman did not know about the meeting, and keeping her in the dark was one reason he removed the stipulation. He did not need her calling him during the meeting.

It had been a meeting of the HPSCI, the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, once known and sometimes still called the Pike Committee, since Otis Pike had been its first chairman in the 1970s. It had taken careful maneuvering to get the meeting at all, much less to keep Beckman from hearing about it. But Graham had done it. And he had laid out his reasons for removing the NSA from Overlook, for removing Agent Casey from Burbank. The current system didn't work; it was cumbersome; two heads were less than one.

That had been much of his argument — in the meeting. He'd argued in other ways on calls to the members prefatory to the meeting.

No decision had been made, but Graham felt good about it going his way. Maybe as soon as tomorrow.

Overlook was going to be his, and only his. Bartowski would be his, and only his. Graham would be captain of Bartowski's fate.

But Stanfield and his grandkid — that's a new goddamned angle. A complicating angle.

Graham had stonewalled Stanfield for so long that Graham thought Stanfield had given up on the request to talk to Walker and Bartowski.

Graham should have foreseen General-to-General tactics coming.

Stars tend to clusterfuck. Shit.

Still, if the HPSCI came through with what Graham wanted, Stanfield would have appeared on the scene too late to make any difference.

Graham kept pacing anyway. He needed to call for a car and to go to Beckman's office, but he had to calm down first. Otherwise, he might strangle her.

Napoleon in a damned skirt. Someone needed to ship her to Elba.

Casey was seated in the backseat of the car with General Stanfield. They had moved quickly to deplane and enter the car.

Stanfield was on the phone with Skipper, his daughter. "We'll be there soon. Any more communication?" The look on his face, part relief, part anxiety told Casey the answer had been no. "Okay, honey. Yes, I know that they were there, and, yes, they are the best. I have their other partner, an agent named Casey with me. We'll see where things stand once I get to the house." He paused. "I know, Skip, I know, but if I have to go, I'm going. We'll get Nat back. I promise."

Stanfield ended the call and turned a grim smile to Casey. "She's a military brat and too smart for her own good. She knows that the chances that this ends with all the good guys — and kids — still alive aren't good."

"You're right about Walker and Bartowski. You did the right thing asking for them, and sending them. Walker, well, she's Walker. She's too much Graham's for my liking, but maybe less than I thought, and Bartowski — well, we still have a lot to learn about what he's made of, or so I reckon."

Stanfield was thoughtful. "That anyone could go through what he's going through, not just the download of the Intersect, but all that's happened since, and still manage to be sane, much less more or less the same decent guy he seems always to have been…All that suggests a surprising depth and resilience of character."

Casey lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, he's rubbery, that's sure. It would take that to bounce back from what Walker did to him."

Stanfield shook his head. "Goddamn spies." He looked at Casey and twisted his lips. "Sorry."

Casey lifted his other eyebrow. "Don't be. I was a soldier once and I miss it, the feeling that my hands were clean."

Stanfield nodded. "It's harder to keep that conviction as you climb the ranks. Being farther from the effects of your actions makes it harder to sort them into intended effects and side effects. Everything starts to seem intended, something you're responsible for. "

"I suppose," Casey conceded, "but as a spy you face constant opportunities to make a ruin or a blank of yourself, to betray what's deepest in you."

"What about Bartowski?" Stanfield asked, bending the conversation back, "can he keep from it, from making a ruin or a blank of himself? Men like him don't typically find their way into the shadows."

"No," Casey said, "and if they do they have a hard time ever getting out again." Casey was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, he seemed to be surprised by what he said as Stanfield was, as if for the first time Casey had been touched by second sight. "If Bartowski ever needs to find his way back out, it'll be Walker who helps him do it."

Stanfield gave Casey a searching look and Casey, shrugging to himself or Stanfield or both, and feeling the rising heat of his face, turned to face the window.

The Tijuana traffic thinned as the SUV led Sarah and Chuck still further south, south by southwest. It was full dark, but the SUV stood out, its size and its distinctive tail lights. Chuck had been watching the SUV and gazing around at the blaring, neon city.

"The cartels have made a mess of this place — over two thousand murders a year. It's not just Sinaloa; there's a new player, another cartel, mostly drugs, Jalisco Nueva Generacion. Or so says the Intersect. The outskirts of the city, these neighborhoods, can be especially bad. Like here, Nueva Aurora. Shootings almost every day."

As if on cue, the SUV turned onto a side street, just past a large but rundown mission, Agape.

The SUV continued for a couple of blocks deeper into the neighborhood, among the thinning houses, most in serious disrepair, many with lawn chairs or handmade benches outside beneath trees.

The SUV finally pulled into the short driveway of the largest of the houses.

Lights were on inside the house but none outside. The SUV shut its headlights off.

Sarah drove past without slowing as Chuck craned to get a better look. "Three men, including our guy, got out," he told her.

Sarah turned at the end of the irregular block (it was unclear exactly what shape it was, except that it wasn't quite square) and pulled off the road on the far side of an old van, standing on cinder blocks. In the flash of their headlights, it looked like it had been set on fire years ago and then left, blackened, to rust.

Sarah turned to Chuck. "You stay here; I'm going to go and scout the place."

Chuck shook his head. "No, I'm going with you."

"Chuck," Sarah said, a sigh in her voice, "have you ever fired a gun?"

He scrunched his face. "A squirt gun. Some guns at the arcade. — But I have the Intersect."

"Yes, and we have no idea what it will allow you to do — beyond what you did to me and Casey that first night, in self-defense. Graham's never given us the go-ahead to test it. It's too dangerous for you to be involved in this, gun in hand."

"True," Chuck conceded, "but that doesn't change anything." He paused, kept his tone even but serious. "I hated watching you at Mattress Bob's; I'm not going to sit here listening for gunfire." He looked into her blue eyes. "I won't stay in the car, no matter what you say. I will try to stay out of the way, but I will not stay out of it altogether."

Sarah sighed more loudly. She couldn't win this argument, and she was flustered by his comment about Mattress Bob's. It might have been a swipe at her, at seductions, but it didn't sound like that. It sounded like he had been concerned. She remembered him looking for her out the windshield of the van.

"Okay, stay close to me. I'll give you a gun, safety off. You understand to keep your finger off the trigger unless you are committed to pulling it?"

He nodded, his expression intense, serious. The jokiness that sometimes seemed a halo around his face was gone. His eyes seemed darker in the night.

After waving the phone at Sarah, Chuck sent Beckman a short note and the address.

They got out of the car after Sarah popped the trunk, and took her gun from her purse, shoving it into the waist of her jeans. She opened a case in the trunk and took out a gun. She loaded it, clicked the safety, and handed it to Chuck. He took it from her after blowing out a breath. Two dark jackets were folded beside the case, and Sarah took one and put it on, nodding Chuck toward the other. He put it on and put the gun in the pocket.

"So, what's the plan?" He asked quietly.

"There's got to be a rear door. We'll cut across here, between these houses. That should get us to the backyard of the house they stopped at. Three of them, lights inside, so we'll assume at least four. If the baby — if Natalie — is there, and if she's still alive, there'll be at least one woman in the house. Cartel men don't care for infants. Machismo." She spat the word. "So, the fourth person might be a woman, probably a neighborhood woman drafted for babysitting.

"More likely, at least one other man is inside, keeping watch on the baby and the babysitter. So, I guess that we are facing at least four men, and two victims, the baby and the babysitter.

"But that's a guess, Chuck. Just a guess. Trust your eyes before my guesses, but use my guess to keep yourself on your toes. Just because you don't see someone doesn't mean someone's not there. Assume they know the house, the angles, the hiding places. And, remember, you don't."

Chuck nodded once. Sarah stared at him for a second, sizing him up.

Sarah skirted the van slowly, surveying the scene, and then she ran, low and quick, across the street. Chuck copied her posture and ran after her. Street lights had ended not long after they entered Nueva Aurora, so the neighborhood was lit, to the small extent that it was, only by lights in houses.

One of the two houses Sarah cut between had a light on in a side window, its soft glow accompanied by loud Mexican ska music. Chuck knew the band, Tijuana No!, and he knew the song, Pobre De Ti, although he hadn't heard any of their music since his college, listening to KZSU, Stanford student radio. The other house was dark, although as they passed by it, Chuck thought he saw the tip of a cigarette inside glow orange. He tensed, but he heard no sound except the music.

The ground was mostly dirt, with only patchy grass, but the patches made running, especially while staying low, tricky. After a moment, Sarah stopped and bent down, her hands on the ground. Ahead of them, still at a distance, they could see the back of the house they intended to enter. There were no lights on in the back of the house.

The rear door had a screen door on it, but the screen door was hanging crooked as if bent on its hinges.

Sarah pointed to a tree in the yard. A man was standing underneath it, but he was facing the tree, pissing on it. Chuck felt Sarah's strong hand on his shoulder and he looked at her. Her eyes told him to stay where he was. He put his hand in his jacket pocket as Sarah started toward the tree. He held his breath, his hand closing around the cold gun handle.

Sarah had a distance to cover, and any sound would alert the man. Chuck thanked God the man must've spent the afternoon drinking, because he was still pissing as Sarah reached him, the sound of the stream helping to hide her quick but careful steps.

She was on him in a minute, and Chuck saw her hand go up, gun in it, and then fall hard on the temple of the man. He crumpled at her feet, in the steaming mud puddle he had created. Chuck was up as the man fell, running toward Sarah. She was bent over the man, frisking him — at least that was what Chuck took her to be doing.

He reached her just as she put the man's gun in her jacket pocket.

"One down," she reported, and for a crazy moment, Chuck felt like they were playing a video game as if it were all unreal and they had infinite lives. And then the sharp odor of the urine struck him and he understood that was not true. One life. For Sarah. And for him.

One. No more. He swallowed hard.

"C'mon," Sarah whispered. She approached the screen door slowly, listening. The breathing of the man on the ground behind them was the only sound, barely audible. Sarah reached out for the door handle but Chuck put his hand on her shoulder this time. She stopped and he stepped around her.

He used the handle to lift the door, straightening it on its top, remaining hinge. The straightening made no sound. Then, holding the weight of the door using the handle. It squeaked, but quietly. When it was open, Chuck nodded and Sarah moved around him to the wooden door. She turned the knob — and looked back at Chuck. He met her eyes and she turned around and pushed the door open slowly. Chuck added his left hand to the screen door handle, the weight was awkward and his right hand was tiring.

Sarah went inside. Chuck followed, still holding the screen handle until the screen door was closed, then he let it settle back into its earlier crookedness.

Chuck turned and almost ran into Sarah. She put her hand to her ear and Chuck listened. He heard tinkling music, familiar and yet strange. Then he recognized it as the music of a child's toy, a crib mobile. He dimly remembered the sound from a visit to a friend of Ellie's, a new mom. And then he heard a baby's cry.

Chuck felt the tightness in his chest increase, a steel band squeezing. Natalie is here! They could save her if they could somehow manage to get her out of the house and get away.

A deep male voice yelled from the front of the house, and the baby's cries grew louder. A woman's voice responded, not to the yell but the cry, soothing, singing. The cries and the singing sounded closer to them than the yell.

Chuck moved. Sarah grabbed his arm but he put his finger to his lips. He pointed to the gun in her hand. She understood. He led the way farther into the house. Lights from the front rooms could be seen shining underneath closed doors. A door to the right was pushed closed but not latched. The crying, now quieting, sniffles, and the singing, interrupted by soft laughter, were both coming from behind the door.

Chuck pushed the door open. In the room, in the corner, was a crib. A small girl, her hair in pigtails, was sitting in the crib, looking up at the heavy-set, middle-aged woman standing by the crib. She was singing, dangling a stuffed animal, a monkey, toward the girl, who was reaching for it with clumsy, chubby hands. The room was lit by a single lamp.

The woman jumped when Chuck opened the door. He smiled at her, then put his finger to his lips, pointing toward the front of the house with his other hand. Sarah slipped her gun into her other jacket pocket.

"Friends," Chuck said softly, and Sarah repeated the word in Spanish. The woman's eyes grew wide; she glanced to the front of the house, then back at Chuck. "Friends," she echoed in a whisper, her English stilted but understandable.

"Escape," Chuck said, and he pointed to the little girl. The woman stood like a statue for a second, then suddenly she leaned over and picked Natalie up. She handed the little girl to Chuck, and then she bent down and pulled a backpack out from beneath the bed. "For baby!" she said, gesturing to the girl with the backpack.

Sarah grabbed the bag and opened it as Chuck adjusted the little girl in his arm, against his hip. She stared at Chuck, one chubby hand implanting itself in his curls.

Sarah bit back a smile. The woman was watching Sarah watch Chuck and the baby. "We must go!" the woman hissed.

Sarah swung the backpack on her back, turned, and pulled her gun out again. The sound of arguing male voices came from the front of the house; it took Sarah a second to realize the men were playing cards, talking trash about their hands, the game.

Chuck had the little girl in one arm and was holding the woman's hand. He was making faces at the little girl, who now had both hands on Chuck's hair. Sarah realized she was holding her breath, praying the little girl would not make a sound.

Sarah reached the door and pulled it open. The screen door was hanging crooked, barring the way out. Sarah reached for it and attempted to use the smaller, interior handle to lift it.

The door straightened, but then Sarah lost hold of the handle, and the door fell back to its original position with a shriek. The sound might not have reached the men, but it reached the little girl. She started in Chuck's arms and began to cry.

"Go!" Chuck said. Sarah grabbed the door and pushed it open and they began to run back toward the car. Voices from inside the house began to sound, not just playing cards, but yelling in alarm and frustration. They'd almost made it to the street; the burnt van on the opposite side could be seen hulking in the dark.

A voice shouted and a shot rang out.

"Sarah!"

Sarah turned. Chuck was holding the little girl and she was crying. The woman who had been holding Chuck's hand was now facedown, limp in the dirt. Chuck still held her hand, muttering: "Jesus, Jesus…"

"C'mon, Chuck! C'mon!"

Sarah saw dark shapes rushing toward them and she fired at them but did not stop to see the result.

She crossed the street, digging the car keys out of her pants pocket. Opening her door, she threw the backpack over the seat and into the rear and leaped inside.

Chuck came around and managed to get in the passenger seat with the little girl still in his arms. "Drive, Sarah! Drive!" He was wrestling the seatbelt with one hand, wrestling it for two.

She started the car and crushed the gas. The car's wheels spun, caught, and it sprang forward like an attacking cat. Sarah steered it into the street, off the curb, lurching. Two shots rang out and the rear passenger window exploded into fragments. Chuck hunched over the baby, protecting her with his body.

Sarah whipped the car around the corner, its rear fishtailing.

She wanted to go north but she could see a serpent of red taillights lined ahead in that direction, some stoppage of traffic. A moment later, it seemed that soon, anyway, she saw the SUV's lights come on behind her.

Cursing inwardly, she swung the car south. Beside her, in Chuck's arms, Natalie was wailing, her round, red face shiny, her tears glistening in the trailing headlights.

A/N: If all goes as planned, I'll pick up the posting pace again. I had some other things I had to do that took precedence.

If you're enjoying the story, please say so. No reason to push myself if folks aren't enjoying it enough to respond.

Many thanks to Smatterchoo for prereads and conversation.