There are people who watch you in your

Windows at night

And they follow your movements in the

Cold fluorescent light

They wait for their moment,

They'll get you in the end

"Safety in Numbers"

Joan Osborne

September 29, 2021

R.L. Stevenson Elementary School, Burbank, California

Sarah stood behind the white line striped on the field. She treaded carefully, pressing forward onto the balls of her feet to keep her heels from sinking into the turf. Of all the extra curricular activities in which all three of her children participated, archery was the one where Stephen was relatively alone. All of the other boys on the team were older than him, most by three years. In a sea of fifth graders, her tall and lanky son stood out dramatically. Amidst middle school boys, he appeared average height. His features and his voice gave him away as younger, but he matched, and usually exceeded, the skill level of the older boys.

This was practice. Stephen stood, the quiver on his back, his red tipped arrows poking out at an angle. He had perfect form as he hoisted the bow and set the arrow, lining it up perfectly to the target. She watched him squint one eye, the normal stance. Only because she was aware now, she focused intently on his face, watching the strange tilt to his eyes that he blinked away after a few seconds. He flashed, Sarah thought to herself. He had been doing it all along, she knew. If she hadn't been keyed in to pay attention, she might not have noticed, it was so subtle.

Then she held her breath, watching as in rapid fire succession, her son hit the yellow 10 point circle at the center of the target over and over again, until he had emptied his quiver. The older boys, the coach, as well as every parent standing on the sidelines had stopped what they were doing to watch him. The last arrow hit, and Sarah heard the cheers and clapping. Her son looked uncomfortable, embarrassed at the attention.

He walked towards the target to collect his arrows as the coach waved gently at Sarah, then approached her from the other side of the field. "Mrs. Bartowski," he said with a stiff smile. He was a weathered man, coarse hands and a gruff manner, but with kind eyes.

"Hi Coach Benson," Sarah replied with a smile. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to talk to you about your son," he said.

"Is everything ok?" Sarah asked, perplexed at what the topic could be. Her son was not a behavioral problem in any way, shape, or form.

"Everything is too good," he guffawed. "And by that, I mean, your son. He's incredible. I've been coaching the competitive archery team for almost 30 years. I have never seen anyone, let alone a nine year old, who can shoot like your son."

She smiled anxiously, uncomfortable and unaware how she should respond. She had already talked to Chuck about Stephen's Intersect in terms of his karate. Archery was not a contact sport, so she didn't have the same concerns Chuck had. And it wasn't cheating, for the same reason he wasn't cheating at karate. He was using his natural born abilities, which just happened to make him superior. "We always encouraged him. He has a natural talent for it," she said with a smile.

"I'm not sure how much you're aware of, Mrs. Bartowski. Olympic target archers shoot from almost 80 yards at a stationary target. Regular high school aged kids shoot at 50 yards. Your son could beat every member of my high school team right now, at nine years old," he told her, his eyes widening as he stressed his words.

"Wow," she said, partially for his benefit, but inside secretly knowing what her son was capable of. "That's amazing."

"At the rate he's going, he would qualify for the Olympic Team probably by the time he's in high school. At 14," he told her.

She sort of knew that, but found in the moment she was thinking more about how they could do something like that, while they were under protective detail. It made her boiling angry, but she swallowed it down, knowing this coach had no idea and the emotion would be misplaced in the conversation. "I can't believe it," she gushed.

"I think being on this team is holding him back, I hate to say it," he said, an edge of disappointment to his tone. "Everyone likes Stephen. He's a good kid. But the older kids can't help but feel upstaged. I can't legitimately place him on a high school team at nine. It violates regulations, even though I think his skill set is better suited for that."

"Are you kicking him off your team?" Sarah asked, bristling as she made the connection, fiercely protective of her son.

"No, Mrs. Bartowski, I'm not. He's the reason why we're going to the finals. I just think you should think about a private coach, you know, someone who could just focus on him and honing his skills. He's world record material. And once you throw in a moving target, forget it. He's a phenom. That can be hard, when he just wants to fit in, but he can't, because he's so exceptional," the coach explained more. "I just can't do any more for him. I thought it was fair to tell you that."

"Thank you," she said sincerely. The coach nodded, grinned without teeth, and walked back towards the team.

As the coach walked away, she got a better view of her son running towards her, his gear all packed into his bag. "Hey, Mom," he said with a huge smile, out of breath from running.

"Hey, kiddo," she said, reaching for his hair and rustling it. "That was some amazing target practice there. I'm so proud of you."

"Uh, Mom, it's the, you know, the…zap thing," he said conspiratorially, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, thinking he would have to remind her of that.

"I know," she said with a wise smile, amused at his attitude. "Your Dad told me. You still did amazing. That's all you, you know. It's a little different than the others, but it's still you."

He smiled, considering what she said. "What did Coach say?" he asked as they started to walk to the car.

"That you need a private coach because you could be in the Olympics when you get a little older," Sarah said, pursing her lips, but still unable to hide her beaming pride in him.

"Whoa," he said, stopping short as he walked beside her. "Really?"

"Really," she said, taking his gear and tossing it into the trunk, then shutting it.

"Wait til I tell Griffin," he mumbled as he shut the car door. Her mind raced over the thought–Griffin, Andrea, Jim. Normal people, she thought. Her friends, her son's friend. What would they think, if they knew the NSA was following Andrea, with her two daughters in the car? She couldn't help but reminisce, knowing when she and Chuck had been lying at the beginning of their cover relationship. He had been the one lying to his sister, her boyfriend, and his best friend. Eventually they had all understood, even forgave her, once all the truth was out. Would Andrea react the way Morgan had? Sarah doubted it. It wasn't awesome, she thought. It was just dangerous, a danger of which she was totally unaware. They weren't even that close, all things considered. Never before had she felt like she understood how hard it truly had been for Chuck in the beginning, after he had downloaded the Intersect.

Sarah turned on the car radio, turning it up, hoping the music would distract her spiraling thoughts. Stephen was terribly quiet, way more than usual, which came to her attention, as he usually talked over the music and sometimes even the talking when they drove. "Are you ok?" she asked, looking in the rear view mirror to see him.

"Yea–yeah," he stammered, like she had distracted him from something. "Just thinking," he said quietly.

"About what?" she asked.

"About why the National Security Agency is following us home from archery practice," he said, deadpan, while Sarah struggled to right the wheel in her shock. Oh, boy, she thought.

September 29, 2021

Burbank, California

Chuck opened his front door, his edginess from counting the cars in the security detail dissolving as he heard a symphony of giggles and laughter coming from his living room.

"Daddy!" both little girls shrieked, running towards him. He stooped down on his haunches, grabbing one in each arm, hugging them tightly against his chest.

"Hello, my little aces," he said sweetly. Their names starting with A's, he had modified his father's common phrase to accommodate his daughters as well.

"Hello, Charles," Corrine called, turning sideways to regard him over the back of the sofa. Her long auburn hair was crazily braided and sticking out in a myriad directions.

"Oh, I see Abby convinced you to play hair salon," Chuck laughed.

"And don't I look positively smashing?" Corrine teased, smiling at the little girls giggling profusely.

Addressing her father, like she had something very important to tell him, Ally said, "Daddy, Aunt Corrine has to stay with us because Aunt Vivian's condo got flat from paint."

Smiling, Chuck corrected her. "Her flat is being painted," he laughed.

"What's a flat?" Ally asked.

Corrine stood and walked towards them. "It's an English word for apartment or condo," she explained.

"But you already speak English," Ally said, her little face pinched with confusion.

"British English, like England. We have some words that are different from American English. Like we call french fries chips, the trunk of the car is the boot," she said with a smile.

She made both girls laugh, as the dog approached and circled everyone, his tail wagging happily against the furniture. "He didn't jump on you, did he?" Chuck asked, scratching the dog behind his ears.

"Delightful little fellow, no. Just kissed me to death, which is just fine," she smiled, patting him on the head. Each girl grabbed one of Corrine's hands and pulled her back to the living room. She gave an apologetic shrug to Chuck and followed.

"Now it's makeup time," Abby added with excitement.

"Girls," Chuck said firmly. "Maybe Aunt Corrine should get a little rest."

"Oh, don't worry, Charles. This is heaven," she crooned, smiling widely. "I never got to do any of this with my daughter. And until Vivian has any children, these are my girls," she beamed, bopping both of them on the nose with an index finger.

It was as Corrine went to sit back down, Chuck looked closely at the outline of her gun, tucked carefully in the waist of her pants, under her loose fitting blouse. It was a harsh reminder of why she was really here. But he trusted her, and he trusted her to keep his family safe. The details concerned him, wondering how he would ever explain should her expertise be necessary.

Chuck pulled at his tie, loosening it as he made his way into the kitchen. He was leaning into the refrigerator when he heard the front door open again. The girls screeched again as Sarah appeared, followed by Stephen, banging his way through the door with all his gear. "Basement with that stuff, kiddo," Chuck called.

"I'm going to the Olympics!" he yelled, a wide grin on his face as he walked towards the basement door.

"What?" Chuck asked incredulously, standing quickly, almost bumping his head on the refrigerator.

"Maybe someday," Sarah answered, smiling, though Chuck saw the urgency on her face that told him something else had happened. She approached him quickly, waving to Corrine, then leaning to peck him on the cheek.

"Is he being serious?" Chuck asked her.

"Yes," she said, waving her hand dismissively, "but we have a more pressing concern. He figured out that we're being tailed. By the NSA."

His eyes wider, Chuck whispered, "He flashed?"

"He had to have, although I only saw him do it while he was at target practice. Hence the Olympic mention, thanks to Coach Benson," she explained.

"What did you tell him?" Chuck asked urgently.

"That it has to do with our work, and that it's nothing to worry about. But something else he has to keep a secret," she whispered. She started moving around him, pulling out pans from the lower cabinets, getting ready to start cooking. "How'd it go, with Hannah?" she asked softly.

"Better than I expected," he said, while she tried and failed to discern his tone. She spun, regarding his face, as he looked deep in thought. "We cleared the air. I think," he added awkwardly. "You have no idea how awful I feel…that she's a widow, with two kids, because of me."

"Not because of you, Chuck. You need to stop blaming yourself for everything. What happened to her was not your fault," she stressed. She moved to the refrigerator, pulling out the meat and vegetables she had planned on cooking. "You didn't tell her, about her kids, right?" Sarah asked cautiously.

"I would have to explain too much, so no, I didn't," he said, his face flushed, unable to shake the discomfort in the moment.

Her back turned to him, she stopped chopping, laying the knife down but not turning. "Explain to me again how Cole is so sure…that you aren't their father."

"Blood type," he said softly, almost choking as the words came out. His ears turned flaming red, as he yanked on his collar uncomfortably. "Sarah–" he started, the apology in his tone.

"Don't, Chuck," she said, trying to tame the harsh edge to her voice, not sure she had spoken the way she intended. "That was a long time ago. I just…was so shocked. I thought you were more cautious than that–"

"I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you," he grumbled under his breath. He stepped toward her, gently turning her by grasping her elbow. He was still red, sweating. "I was. We were," he told her, closing his eyes. "It's just–"

"I know, I know. Nothing is 100 percent," she said, her voice strained.

Impassioned, he leaned close to her ear. "Sarah, you were the third. And the last. In my life. Just bad luck that you knew…the other two," he finished hesitantly. He covered his face, wishing the conversation would just end. He had awful pictures in his head of her with Bryce Larkin, and Daniel Shaw brought forth by the conversation.

She knew that, cherished that secret, holding the knowledge close to her heart. It was the right thing to say, to remind her that the stuff from the past was just that–the past, that had no bearing on their lives now. She leaned forward, hugging him. "I'm sorry," she said.

He kissed the top of her head, and released her. She turned back to her cooking. Reaching over her shoulder for a raw carrot, he asked, "How was Vivian?"

"Upset. Mad as hell," Sarah explained. "She was in there with Casey for almost two hours."

The topic created internal upheaval, new worries and fears churning inside him. Liam Conklin was a serious threat. Casey was looking, with his agents, and he had to let go, accept it was out of his control, but that the others would fix the potential damage. Carina and Zondra were getting to the bottom of the European connection. Tomorrow, he would join the fight, armed with his computer skills. He couldn't stop feeling like they were inadequately prepared, that there should have been something else they should have done, or that they could do.

"Sarah, what do you think about me…using the Intersect again?" he asked, blurting it out, losing the internal debate in his head.

She turned around, her eyes wide. "Why would you do that?"

"I'm rusty, don't you think?" he asked her, crunching on his carrot. "Six months of unuse before, and I almost broke my hand on that thug's neck. It's been nine years."

"This isn't the 2.0," she said cautiously. She left everything else unsaid. He knew more than anyone what the government had done to the version he had now, an uber version of the Intersect Jane Bentley had used to create two killing machines, Captains Noble and Dunwoody. A version that could shut down his emotions. An effect he had abused like alcohol, in the darkest days of being without her after she had lost her memory.

"I know. But I got control of that. It wasn't instantaneous, but I did," he told her. Part of that had been in his discovery of the echo of his father left, embedded in the key that was now part of his Intersect.

"Who do you plan on using it on?" she asked, like a henish mother.

"It adds another layer of protection," he said quietly. "I can practice with Stephen."

"Stephen?" she asked in shock. "Use your emotion suppressing Intersect to spar with your nine year old son?"

"I won't hurt him," he hissed.

"How can you be sure? You said it yourself. You're rusty," she insisted.

"Watch us, if it makes you feel better," he told her.

"You're serious," she said, scanning his face, trying to figure out why he wanted this. "You're starting with me, not Stephen. I'll decide if it's safe for him."

"I won't–I can't fight with you," he said, defeated, hoping she understood why.

"What about with me?" they both heard, turning to see Corrine standing in the kitchen entryway, her hair still comically askew. "Sorry, spy," she said, shrugging her shoulders, as if that explained her eavesdropping.

"Corrine, I can't–" Chuck started.

"Of course you can, Charles. I took my vitamin D. No osteoporosis here, yet. And don't forget, I've kicked Intersect ass before, just not yours. Yet," she added, with a wicked grin on her face.

"That's a great idea," Sarah said with a smile. "Dinner's gonna take a while. Plenty of time."

"Come on, Charles," Corrine called, stretching out her hand, inviting him to go change. He gave a wide-eyed glare at his wife, and left to get changed. He heard Sarah calling the kids to the table to do homework as he climbed the stairs.

XXX

"All stretched up?" she asked as she descended the basement stairs, into the open space they used as a practice space, usually for Stephen's karate.

Chuck was shifting, stretching his arms over his head, bending his head from side to side to stretch his neck. "Corrine, listen. Do you remember what happened to me, after I flashed, in Romania?"

"Robot soldier-ish Chuck, is that what you mean?" she asked. "You got a handle on that, didn't you?" she countered.

"I did. But I also haven't tried to control it in nine years. And I don't need the watch anymore, so I don't know if…" his voice trailed off as he worried.

Her voice softened, a gentle smile on her face. "You have that part of your father inside you, literally, Charles. Pull from that, if you need to."

Reassured, he smiled, half his mouth turned up on the side. He nodded, closed his eyes, consciously unleashing the part of his brain that contained the Intersect.

Corrine watched the shift in his eyes, then watched his stance change, his muscles tensing as he raised his fists in a defensive posture. The line of his jaw was harsh, his chin lifted ever so slightly. Corrine looked closely, focused on him. He appeared glazed over, but she watched as he quickly pulled it under control, his eyes still focused on her, emotion alive in them. He nodded once, pressing his lips together. She hadn't doubted his ability, considering what she knew of how his brain worked.

She gritted her teeth, rolling into him, blocking his blows. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. He was in complete control, she knew, as she watched him stand to repeat it. They sparred for almost 45 minutes. She tapped the mat at the end, nearing exhaustion. "Good show, Charles," she told him, panting for breath. "Rusty my ass."

He bounded to his feet, and reached down a hand to help her up. "Thank you," he said, out of breath himself.

"Not bad for an old woman, right?" she kidded. "Your Mum and I do something similar to this once a week. Toned down a bit, mind you. We're not young ladies, Charles."

"Considering the NSA authorized you for protective detail, I'd say you're better than you think," he teased.

"Speaking of that, Chuck. I know you never used firearms per se, but, don't you think it would be wise…if Sarah at least…caught up on her firearms skills?" Corrine asked.

"Sarah and Casey go to the firing range whenever he's in L.A. That works out to about once a month," Chuck told her.

"Yes, but she doesn't have a gun here, does she?" Corrine asked.

"No, of course not!" Chuck said sharply. "I never wanted her to have one when we lived with Morgan. Never mind three little kids."

"Under the circumstances, you may reconsider that, Charles. I'm just throwing in my two cents. That's all I'll say," she said, making a zipping motion across her lips as she started to walk away from him to go back upstairs.

"Corrine," he called, just as she began ascending the stairs. "Do we have any chance at all of stopping these people? They've been at it for nine years. Every intelligence agency on the face of the earth has been trying to take them down, and they've failed at every turn."

She spoke not just as his friend, but as someone whose life he had saved, someone whose life had been given back to her by him, almost at the cost of his own. "That's only because they haven't had to contend with you. Yet."

September 30, 2021

London, England, United Kingdom

Liam knew the hour was approaching sunset. Not that one could ever see the sun in the sky when in London. Right now, the air was damp and cold, with a steel gray blanket above him stretching to the horizon in every direction. He stood on the walkway, London Bridge beneath his feet. Big Ben's warmly lit clock face filled his peripheral vision on his left, the murky water of the Thames his right.

The last time he had been here, he had been with Vivian. He told himself to stop, cursing himself for his own stupidity. He would have to explain how he had screwed this up, lost the access he had been paid exorbitantly to ensure. All he had now was the last report, but it was a doozy. Could he space it out somehow, give himself more time? Time to slip away, figure something else out? Running made the most sense, but he no longer had enough money to run anywhere. Well, you knew that, didn't you? No one turned to criminal activity simply because they wanted to create a nest egg.

Was he really going to tell this man he had failed because his access started listening to her biological clock?

The wind picked up suddenly, blowing his trenchcoat open. He heard the air whistling past his ear, which, he realized later, was what made him miss the approach of footfalls behind him. A shadow fell across his face at the same time he felt the gun hard against his back. The wielder was behind him, blocking the firearm from plain sight, as they were on a crowded bridge.

"Don't move," he heard, a slow growl in a thick Hungarian accent. "You come with me," he ordered.

His mind started spinning, looking for an egress, someway to avoid getting into a secluded location with him. "I have information. Information you paid for."

"My information. You didn't fuck her good enough, eh?" he laughed, with no humor.

"If you kill me, it's all lost," he stammered.

"Don't worry. We will extract it. Before we kill you."

XXX

The Hungarian spoke into his phone, as he stood in a dark corner of the abandoned warehouse. His shoes stuck to the floor. Damn, he hated blood. Killing cleanly was his preference. So much less work, for the same amount of money. He had known Conklin eventually would become a liability, but his access, both to medical information, as well as his ingratiation to the Bartowski clan had protected him, for a while. His resilience in the face of torture had come as a shock. It had taken quite an effort to get it all, but he had. After all, that was what he was paid for. He was good at his job.

"The courier is as good as dead," he said to his contact, a dismembered voice on the line whose face he had never seen. "We have people who have infiltrated the government installation where he is."

They still have all the data. Stupidity is not tolerated. Moving it in one packet was stupid.

"The rest, he will never tell them. We are moving now, for that reason. The NSA is protecting everyone. This may take longer than at first anticipated," he said.

What new information did you learn?

"The child. The confirmed genetic match. Apparently he is…exactly what you have been looking for. Your assumptions were wrong. The mutation is unique to him, and him alone. The rest of the data is unusable," he continued.

My assumptions wrong? That doesn't happen. He was the target all along. Only your informant's incompetence has cost us our way in.

"What of the other?" he asked, gritting his teeth.

If you can gain access, by all means, start there. Just know–failure won't be tolerated.

The line went dead. He huffed, tucking the phone away, turning back to the remnants of the deed he had just completed. Damn, he hated blood.