A/N For the benefit of those who don't know, there's a Facebook group for Chuck Fanfiction, and we'd love to have some new members. I don't own Chuck. Every once in a while I remember to say it.

Let's catch up with Sarah for a while.

"Go, team."

"Bravo."

"What matters is vision."

"This is the first we've ever seen this car."

On the train, after dark...

Sarah moved down the hall of the sleeping car, silent, invisible. Compartment 47, the one used by Arnaldo and his goons, was just ahead. In a shocking lapse of operational security, they'd billed their meal to it, where any spy in the room could overhear them. As she came up to the door she accidentally tapped a glass bowl with ice cream melting in it with her foot, making the spoon rattle.

She froze, but only for a second, cursing the sloppy passengers and stewards making hash of her plans, but no one responded to the sound from within the compartment. She knew Arnaldo had been on the run for a while, so he must have all his men with him.

The door was unlocked, again pretty sloppy for terrorists, and Sarah wasted no time looking in desk drawers and bags for incriminating-bingo! Right there next to a passport in his own damn name was a notebook, filled with cryptic writing and drawings, apparently in some kind of code. From outside the room she heard the sound of men talking as they approached the room. She put the book back and looked at the bathroom door, but realized she'd only be trapping herself. Instead she went for the window. She lowered the upper pane and climbed out, gripping a metal lip above her as she perched precariously on the top of the outer pane. She heard the sound of someone ratting a spoon in a glass bowl, and she froze again, moving the tips of her booted feet as far apart as the frame of the window would let her.

Some men came into the room, speaking in Spanish and not sounding happy as they did, but she couldn't hear it well enough to know what they were talking about. One of them came over to the window and closed it, cutting off their voices and leaving her stranded. Looking around, she noticed a light from a window a few compartments down that appeared to be open. Looking up, she secured a better handhold and pulled herself to the top of the car, walking down to the place where she remembered the open window being and dropping herself into the compartment.

A man walked out of the bathroom at the sound. "What the hell are y'all doin' in mah room?" he yelled, his accent as broad as the ditzy woman's from the dining car. Sarah really hadn't gotten a good look at him, thanks to the woman's antics, and Arnaldo.

She didn't get much of a look this time either-male, older, dark hair, poor taste in pajamas-before he threw himself back in the bathroom and locked the door. "I'm not going to hurt you," she said, making her generic-European accent almost as thick as his. She picked up his phone and glanced at it, just in case.

"Mah wife is gonna kick mah behind," he wailed.

"Don't worry, I'm going," said Sarah, putting the phone down. She left, closing the door behind her as she decided which way to go. She was on the wrong side of Arnaldo's compartment, so she had to walk past it to get to her own.

At a jog in the hall she encountered the ditzy woman going the other way, carrying a bowl of melted ice cream. "Pehr-dahn," the woman said as she squeezed by, in mangled and horribly-accented French.

Sarah looked after her as she walked away.

They were all back the next day. Sarah had gotten there early for the show.

Arnaldo and his goons sat in the same booth in the dining car, the goons having switched positions but Arnaldo always safe behind them. Mr. and Mrs. American came in with their same flair, and Mrs. American made a beeline for Arnaldo's table, chattering away as if they were the oldest of friends. This time she got around to introducing her husband, dressed in something more flattering than last night's PJs. Which didn't say much. Sarah caught the word 'honeymoon', but not whether it was their third, or fourth.

The woman went for her bag, making both of the bodyguards flinch, but she came out with a phone. She tried to hand it to someone at the table but somehow managed to knock all their bottles of water over. The husband loudly proclaimed his intention to get them new drinks and walked away, leaving his bride to chat up the three strange men.

Sarah waited until the new drinks had been delivered and the bride ransomed, then spirited all the way to the far end of the car, where they suddenly got very quiet. No one else seemed to notice, unless it was to breathe a sigh of relief.

Sarah got up and walked toward the door at the end of the car, right next to Mr. and Mrs. American. She pulled it open, but rather than step through she plopped herself down on the seat opposite the 'happy couple' and glared at them. "You two are idiots, you know that?" she said, her voice low. "And I don't mean this newlywed act."

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure," sputtered the man, in a pale imitation of his outrageous accent. He started to reach across the table. "Mah name is-"

"Be silent," said Sarah. "Do you realize that the guy you're trying to con is a terrorist?"

"We're not trying to con him, honey," said the man in a normal voice. "We're trying to arrest him."

"We're federal agents," said the woman. "Retired."

They picked up their glasses of water and toasted each other. "To not being spies."

Sarah put up a thumb, pointing over her shoulder. "And him?"

The man looked apologetic. "It's kind of hard to turn off."

The woman nodded. "We take out his guards, cuff him to a lamppost and call Interpol while we walk off into the sunset, day saved."

"That's the stupidest plan I've ever heard," said Sarah.

"When you're a spy you can give us a call," said the woman acerbically.

Something about that comment was familiar. Right. Carina. "Is the name Sofia Stepanova familiar to you?" From behind Sarah there came a sound of two heads falling down onto their breakfast dishes. It was distinctive.

Mr. American Spy nudged his wife, already in motion but not nearly fast enough. "'Scuse us, honey, gotta go."

Sarah turned, to see Arnaldo climbing out of his booth at pretty much the same speed, and all three of them ran off down the hall. She knew where they all had to be going and followed, her imperious manner and icy glare keeping the passengers who had been discommoded by the older trio from getting in her way too.

When she got to compartment 47 the door was shut, but it still wasn't locked. Sarah went in, to find the retired spy couple huffing and puffing by themselves. "He's pretty spry for an old guy," said the man.

"He got away?" asked Sarah.

Mr. American waved tiredly at the door in the corner. "Nah, he's in the bathroom."

Sarah opened the door and looked inside. Arnaldo was slumped against the wall, looking unconscious. She looked for tranq darts but didn't see any. "What did you hit him with?" she asked.

Mrs. American looked confused. "Nothing."

Arnaldo sprang up and rushed at Sarah, taking her by surprise as he pushed past her into the hall. Sarah gave chase, not knowing why but pretty sure she could come up with a good reason. A passenger with a backpack bigger than himself saw Arnaldo coming and flinched mightily. The backpack, taken by surprise, kept going. It would have dragged its owner completely around if it hadn't hit Arnaldo and knocked him to one side, where the stairs to the ground happened to be.

So yes, Arnaldo managed to escape the train.

Unfortunately Sarah was right behind him and she was still on her feet. "Up," she said harshly, grabbing him and shoving him ahead of her. "You've got agents coming after you. We need to get you to safety."

"What are you talking about?" he said breathlessly. "I was safe, until they knocked out my Interpol protection team."

"Those were Interpol men?" asked Sarah. Crap. Crapcrapcrap. She pulled him to a stop once they were under cover. "You surrendered yourself?"

"I've been on the run for two years," said Arnaldo, panting. "Not like this, but still...Always looking over my shoulder. I couldn't take it anymore."

"Great, now we really need to get moving," said Sarah, urging him along at a fast walk. "With those Interpol agents out of the way, your own men are going to try to kill you."

"Who are you, and why do you care?" asked Arnaldo, not resisting, since he wasn't stupid. Just curious.

Sarah dropped her accent. "I care because I'm CIA, and I think those two idiots back there were CIA also."

"Is that all this is, professional pride?" Arnaldo sounded disappointed.

"No," said Sarah. "I care because I'm a human being." She met his gaze with her own, squarely. I'm the landlord. "My name is Rebecca Franco, Sr. Arnaldo, and as one human being to another, I'm hoping you'll do me a favor when I get you back to your Interpol handlers."

The two retired agents split up, looking for their quarry, both Arnaldo and the mysterious red-haired woman who seemed to be his ally, but neither of them were to be found anywhere. "Damn it," said the man.

"What do we do now?" asked the woman. "We can't just let a wanted terrorist roam loose."

"I don't know, hon," said the man. "This just isn't our sort of town. Whoever that woman was, I doubt she'll just hand him back over to us." As he finished speaking, his phone chimed with an incoming message. He looked at it, and found an image. "What the hell?"

The red-haired woman stood front and center, glowering at the screen, an odd-looking gun held up by her shoulder. Behind her other shoulder stood Arnaldo, looking terrified. The message said, "His fate is in my hands now. Pursue at your peril."

"I hate blowhards," said the woman, looking over his shoulder.

"I love idiots," said the man, smirking. "She's put part of the store name in the photo, and I can see at least one street sign. We just need to get a phone book."

"What you need is legal counsel," said a man behind them, as handcuffs were slapped on their wrists, joining the American couple together. Two men stepped in front of them, the same two they drugged earlier. "Interpol. You're under arrest."

"Interpol?" said the man. "Not ETA?"

"Try Witness Protection."

The two retired agents shared a look. "Oh."

One of the Interpol agents stepped forward and took the phone from the man's hand, and glanced at the picture. "I know where they are."

"What do we do with them?" asked his partner.

At a bakeshop not far away, as the crow flies...

"I must say I am almost envious of this young man who has captured your heart," said Arnaldo, taking a bite of his pastry with a sip of tea. "It is good to know what you want, and a blessing to know so young. One of my many mistakes."

"I would have made the same one," said Sarah. "I was prepared to run, to spend my days looking backward, but he was wiser than me."

"Wiser than both of us," said Arnaldo.

"Thanks to him we don't have to choose ourselves over our lives, our careers, our families. We can be together as soon as this mission is over. I expect when I get back his sister will have most of the planning already done."

Arnaldo smiled. "Be grateful for such-" He looked out the window, his voice dropping. "Talent."

"Sr. Arnaldo?"

"Those are my men, not Interpol agents."

Sarah stood, but the approaching men had done their job, holding her attention for a crucial second in a building with many doors.

Mr. and Mrs. American toodled up outside the bakeshop on a little scooter, their hands still linked together. Through the window they could see Arnaldo taking abuse, and his red-haired protector watching stoically, her hands behind her head. "It's up to us," he said.

She smiled. "Let's do this."

Sarah had noticed them on their scooter, so when she heard the revving engine she was almost prepared for it. She dropped, her hands dipping down into the back of her coat, because that's where Chuck would have told her to stash her holdout if she'd had a chance to ask him. It wouldn't have worked for a regular gun, which would have made a noticeable bulge under her coat, but for the weapon in question it worked nicely.

The scooter was a great distraction, but the American spies were too slow to take proper advantage of it. As they clambered over the broken window sill, the ETA terrorists all took up proper firing stances, just waiting for their targets to stand up.

Sarah fired her paralyzer as fast as she could aim.

The Americans attacked, plowing through their opposition as if it was standing still, which it was. Thugs in the back pushed forward, but by then the Americans were in motion and doing pretty well for themselves. One terrorist stood up behind them, but Sarah shot him seconds before the American woman kicked him into a display case.

Soon only the leader was left, her gun steady. "I gave you your lives."

"You killed those Interpol agents in front of us and told us to scurry away," shouted the man. "But let me tell you something, honey, we're CIA-"

"Ex-CIA," said the woman.

"And we don't scurry. We testify."

"You die." The girl took aim.

A heavy plate sailed across the floor and smacked the girl in the head, dropping her like a rock.

The American man looked to the source, which must have been Juan Diego Arnaldo on the floor by a spilled bus tray. "Nice toss, Mr. Arnaldo." He looked around. "Where's your friend?"

"That woman was no friend of mine," said Arnaldo. "Her name is Rebecca Franco. You may have blown my cover with ETA, but she would have cut through all of us like butter. A thrown plate is barely enough thanks. I drove her from the movement for her extreme methods and mercenary attitude. I won't be truly safe until she is caught."

"We'll get the word out," promised the man. "We can't go after her ourselves, we have to protect you until new Interpol guys get here."

Arnaldo bowed. "You have my gratitude. May I have your names?"

"I'm Craig."

"I'm Laura."

Craig put an arm around Laura's shoulders. "We're the Turners."

A/N2 Which probably wasn't a surprise to anyone. As a comic pair of spies they were excellent, much more suitable for this role than our heroes. In an earlier episode I diverted them from chasing Otto von Vogel and his tiger, to Milan and Fashion Week.