Sometimes it makes no sense

This side of cruel coincidence

Caught up in our own barbed wire

To set us free

Believe this

"Goodbye is Forever"

Arcadia

October 2, 2021

CIA Safe House, Los Angeles, California

Hannah sat on the sofa quietly observing the havoc her words had seemed to wreak. Chuck and Cole were arguing, of that she was sure, but they were keeping their voices low, probably to keep her children from hearing. It didn't seem to be a disagreement per se, more like frustration and misunderstanding amplified in this bizarre situation.

"Someone needs to tell me what's going on!" Hannah shouted, surprising herself with the volume of her voice. She silently hoped she hadn't been loud enough to call attention to this from her children. Both men stopped, turning to look at her.

"We aren't sure. I think that's part of the problem," Cole said, moving away from Chuck and towards her.

"Start at the beginning, Hannah," Chuck said, glancing at Cole as he spoke. "You start. We'll fill in what we need to."

She tilted her head, her mouth slightly open, as she collected her thoughts. "It was…" She closed her eyes, thinking. "In May 2019. My husband and I worked at DMI, a French IT firm. I was in charge of the applications technicians. He was a project manager. We worked at the same firm, but we never really worked side by side. He came home from work and told me about the new project the company had started him working on. He told me specifically because he was thinking about some of my team members for the project. The contract was from the French government. They had a nonfunctional prototype they said had been secured from a private firm in Hungary. The French government hired DMI to modify the prototype to function as an interface with a military satellite."

"Cole, did you know anything about this? Does this sound familiar? At all?" Chuck asked, gesticulating wildly with his hands.

"Operation Stormchaser," Cole said, in a tone he would have used finally revealing the truth after a string of lies, though Chuck was certain no deception had been part of his information. He had opened his mouth to continue, but stopped, now gaping, as he watched Chuck flash. Chuck turned slightly away, shaking his head like his ears were ringing. Telling Hannah he had been the Intersect was dangerous. Showing her he was still the Intersect was unacceptably dangerous.

"Oh..uh…that, huh?" Chuck stuttered, pressing his lips together, opening his eyes wider as he communicated with Cole wordlessly. "Weather satellites France launched in 2009. In a geosynchronous orbit around Earth. But the French government was also using them as surveillance satellites."

"The French military thought if the prototype could be modified, forces on the ground could direct the satellites autonomously. But it was a wearable interface, like a headset. Not an implantable computer," Cole insisted. "The code word the Sentries were using, Ultimate Intersect, was never mentioned in any piece of Stormchaser intel. Ever. Not by the DGSE, MI6, or the CIA."

Chuck nodded stiffly, affirming the fact that nothing he had flashed on had anything to do with the Intersect.

"That's what the government wanted everyone to think," Hannah cut in. "That it was wearable tech." Chuck and Cole both turned to her expectantly. "Jacques told me that. That's when he used that phrase. But he said it in Latin, you know, like they would have used in Star Trek or whatever. He made that comment." Her speech pattern changed, from precise words to a quicker explanation. "He had special security clearance for the company. It was pretty commonplace, considering we did a lot of work for the government, kind of like your firm, Chuck."

Cole sighed heavily in frustration. "After I got word from the DGSE, after the automobile accident, I went through every document in the database at your firm, everything that he had ever worked on there. There was no documentation, at all, that corroborates what you're saying he told you."

Chuck was uneasy, almost frantic, watching as Hannah grabbed the arms of the sofa. She would have fainted onto the floor without the deathgrip he saw. He thought he might possibly have to hold her up. "What…what does that mean? I don't…I don't…" she stammered. She gasped, clutching at her chest. "Should I have told you this before? When you contacted me?"

"How would you know that was important?" Cole said gently. "The both of us," he gestured towards Chuck, "Only told you the very minimum, to keep you safe. Or so we thought."

Hannah's eyes flooded with tears. "Oh my god, was he murdered for that? For that project? Or was it over my son, like you said before?"

Chuck walked closer to her, sat beside her on the sofa. "It's worse than that, Hannah. If he used those words in a conversation he had with you in May of 2019, he knew top secret government information he would have had to have gotten from some other source."

"But what does that mean?" Hannah pleaded, leaning closer to Chuck. "That he lied to me?" Her eyes grew enormously wide, as she flailed backwards, as if something had just occurred to her, and rocked her to her core. "That he knew about my son?" she shrieked. "This can't be happening…it can't be happening…" She muttered to herself.

"You could be right, Hannah. I had no idea that your husband had any foreknowledge of the Sentries work, or the code name. We know it was the Hungarian, only now the motive isn't quite as clear. But your son is still in danger, just like Chuck explained. He was coming after you and your children. Now we have to figure the rest of this out, how this fits in," Cole explained.

Hannah's composure slipped, as she broke down in tears. "Was he working for someone? Lying to me…and my children?"

Cole shook his head in exasperation, uncomfortable in the moment. Chuck stepped in. "You told me about him. How much you loved him. That he loved you. And your children. That he was a good father to them."

"And he lied to me! How do I know what was real and what wasn't?" she shrieked.

Sitting beside her, Chuck touched her back, sliding his hand around her shoulder to offer comfort. "I know, believe me, I know how that feels. But you told me how good he was to your children. That they loved him. Do you really think that was a lie? That he could fake that? Or what you told me about him?"

"I didn't think you were lying to me either, Chuck, but you were," she shouted back at him. "That's not fair," she said quickly, correcting herself. "I'm sorry."

"I probably deserved that," he said dejectedly. "But you told me you knew what I was doing, that you were just in denial about some things. It wasn't all a lie, Hannah. And that was just a few days. Could I have kept that up for nine years?"

She stayed quiet for several minutes. "How did he know that information? And why just tell me, in a casual conversation like that?" she asked.

"We don't know. He could have been blackmailed. He could have been trying to protect you. We'll figure it out," Cole told her.

Chuck's thoughts scrolled backward, years, as he recalled Mark Ratner, Sarah's classmate from high school. He stole bomber plans from his company for Volkoff Industries, it was later revealed, to protect his wife, or so he'd believed. The truth, that she was only using him for that, had been a hard pill to swallow. The CIA had transferred him out through WITSEC in 2008.

It was never far from Chuck's mind, especially after he had talked to Mark about the impossibility of men like them ending up with girls like Sarah or Heather. Chuck's advice had been tragic, once the truth was known. But what if Heather had been innocent? What if her love had been genuine, and not the charade they both had seemed to see through so easily?

Exactly this, Chuck thought. Ratner would have been killed, and most likely Heather as well. Had Mark any confidence at all, would he have shared the threat with his wife? That's what loving couples did—shared things. Everything. Perhaps Jacques had told Hannah simply because he trusted her implicitly, and would have told her more had he not been murdered.

"Hannah, he only brought that up once? Or multiple times?" Chuck asked.

"Just the once," she said softly. "He talked about the work he was doing, in very general terms, you know, what was allowed. But he never used those words again. I really didn't think anything of it at all until you described it, Chuck. And then he died three months later."

"Go over it again, Hannah," Cole interjected, a delicate balance of sharpness and compassion in his voice. "Even minor details may be important." He sighed, looking at Chuck again before he spoke. "Did he tell you those words by accident, then tried to backtrack, you know, deflect or change the subject? Or was he being direct, telling you that for a reason?"

She was trying to focus, but she was anxious, nervous, not quite able to sit still. Chuck watched her close her eyes, taking deep breaths to steady herself. "Just concentrate. As close to the conversation, word for word, as you can. I know it was a long time ago. But just try," Chuck told her calmly.

She waited, searching, focusing on a vase on a nearby table. She closed her eyes again, and began speaking slowly. "It was three days after our ninth anniversary. May 27th. 2019."

"Ninth? Really?" Chuck interrupted, then blushed fiercely as he realized she was trying to concentrate. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"What?" Hannah asked, curious at his reaction.

"You got married in 2010? Two months after you left California?" he asked. He knew, from their previous discussion, that she was already pregnant when she'd met him.

Her eyes filled with tears. "I had a job interview the day after I quit the Buy More. I left to move to France a week later, once they offered me the job. I met him on March 3, my second day at work. I found out I was pregnant three days later." She blinked away her tears. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" She sighed wistfully.

Chuck swallowed hard. "As a matter of fact, I do." He felt Cole staring at him, and chose to ignore it. "Go ahead. I'm sorry if I distracted you."

"No, no, Chuck. You reminded me of something," she added, her voice livening. "He bought me baking dishes for our anniversary. Pottery is traditional for the ninth. He had always followed that tradition. He was talking about that project, but it was about the dishes."

Chuck looked at Cole, seeing the older man's impatience, gesturing for him to remain calm. "We were speaking French, of course. He started talking about it, mentioning the people on my team he was thinking of using." She stopped, straining to remember. "He was nervous. He dropped his fork and almost knocked over his glass. I was going to ask him what was wrong, but my son interrupted the conversation. I forget what it was about, but I remembered how distracted he seemed. I didn't bring it up in front of the kids."

"Once they left the table, I started talking about the dishes again, since I'd used them for the first time that night." Hannah could almost see the wheels in Chuck's head turning, searching through her words, looking for her point and any deeper meaning. "The name of the dishes was Ultime. Ultimate in French. Emile Henry," she clarified, speaking quickly in perfectly pronounced French, "is the manufacturer. Like Corningware, but popular in France."

Cole was pacing, attempting and failing to mask his irritation at something he thought was superfluous. Chuck flashed him a warning look.

"He mentioned the name first in Latin. But in French, it's pronounced Intersection Ultime. He said it was a code. I asked him what that meant, but he changed the subject again. Talking about the dishes. He said only the best for me. But…" Her eyes fluttered frantically and the cadence of her speech increased. "He got the name wrong. It's made by Emile Henry. But he called it Emile Thysebaert. He's an impressionist painter."

Chuck licked his lips, pressing them together. "Is that significant somehow?"

"Notre Dame de Paris. It's one of his paintings." Her eyes misted again with tears. "He asked me to marry him on the actual steps of the cathedral. We bought that painting. He told me all about it. It hung in our living room."

Her face paled again, and Chuck watched her ball up her trembling hands into fists. "He said we should go back there. For Bastille Day. Which I thought was odd. Then my daughter asked him for help with math and he left to help her. I meant to ask him what he meant. But it just slipped my mind, and he never brought it up again."

"What, Hannah?" Chuck asked, not losing his compassion, but edgy now in his impatience.

"The fire," she said, her nostrils flared and her chest almost heaving.

Chuck looked at Cole again, who now looked almost as horrified. "What?" Chuck asked again.

"Notre Dame almost burned to the ground on April 15th of that year. And you said on May 27, he acted like he forgot that?" Cole interjected.

"Why is that a big deal?" Chuck asked.

"No one in Paris could have forgotten that. It would be like the Statue of Liberty falling into the Atlantic Ocean. Big deal," Cole explained, as Hannah nodded.

"Is that some kind of clue? Some kind of code? I don't understand…" Hannah asked, perplexed.

Her confusion grew as she watched the look exchanged between the two men. Chuck was almost certain, and he knew Cole thought the same thing. It was code. Only, Jacques Robert wasn't a spy. Was he? Why would he leave a coded message for his wife, who would never be able to know what he meant?

Unless, somehow, he was hoping she would find someone else who could. But the idea would not leave Chuck alone. Why communicate like a spy, if he wasn't? Unless he was an asset of some kind, and had a handler. Did the DGSE have the same type of structure as the CIA?

"What, Chuck?" Hannah prodded, seeing the expression on Chuck's face, knowing he was thinking so quickly he couldn't speak. Chuck was a rambler, she remembered this even after all this time. His silence was significant. The complexity of what he was actually processing frightened her.

When Chuck turned to look at her, his eyes were on fire. "Bastille Day is July 14, right?" he asked pointedly. Hannah nodded, distracted by his intensity.

Chuck jumped to his feet. "Cole, we need to contact the team in England. Let them know what we just found out. Somehow, they need to get to Paris. I have a bad feeling."

XXX

Cole ended up driving them back to Carmichael Industries, after Chuck made a quick phone call home to explain to his house full of company why he still hadn't returned. Casey was meeting them there, and from the brief phone call, Chuck knew General Beckman was as well. Corrine had assured Chuck that everything was alright. His children were fine, content with the hubbub in the house. Chuck got the feeling she was "handling" him, downplaying his children's upset, overestimating their obliviousness to his absence. It bothered him, but there was nothing else he could do at the moment.

How did you do this for seven years, Dad? He thought absently.

In his head, he heard his father's voice. I was a terrible father, Son. You aren't. That's what makes it so hard.

Chuck felt Cole looking out of the corner of his eye, apparently having witnessed some strange expression on his companion's face. Explaining that part of the Intersect wasn't really necessary, and unwelcome. That remaining tether he had to his father, all that there could ever be anymore, was for him and him alone.

"Asset or spy?" Chuck asked into the silence.

Cole breathed a sigh of relief, understanding in that moment Chuck was on the same page as him. "Seems like an asset to me. He would have been instructed to keep everything from her. Like your family, back when Sarah was protecting you."

Chuck had thought the same thing. He nodded. "There were still things I said around others, even those who had no idea, that meant things more than just on the surface. He was doing that, I'm certain. From past experience, I know, when things cross over from one world to the other, the ordinary life stuff is a stronger influence. It rationalizes easier, if that makes any sense. The code he was using never even fazed her, until we brought it up. Maybe he was just desperate, hoping somehow she'd be able to use that information. It was too late for him, but maybe protecting her and her children was most important to him."

"So the steps of the Cathedral are still not accessible to the public. It was only a few weeks ago that the structure was fortified so they can start restoring the interior and exterior of the building. It took months to remove the external scaffolding that was in place when the fire broke out. But that seems like what he was trying to tell her. Something about July 14 or 714 or something related," Cole related to him.

"If he was an asset, someone was supposed to be protecting him. And failed miserably," Chuck almost growled.

"It happens more than you think, Chuck. You had Sarah protecting you. Not everyone can be that lucky," Cole said casually. The flash of pain on Chuck's face was reined in quickly. Anyone other than a spy, like Cole, would never have seen it. He filed it away, noting silently how much Chuck was holding inside. "The team was contacting the DGSE last I spoke to them. Let's get some answers."

October 2, 2021

London, England, United Kingdom

Sarah broke the silence, after her dire warning settled in the air. "Ilsa, will you help us? Can you?"

"What do you need me to do?" she asked.

"We were monitoring in the U.S. but we were disabled by a cyber attack. We are looking for this man, as well as the Hungarian. The U.S. is their destination. We're trying to apprehend them before they make it out. But we are also trying to confirm that they haven't already left the country," Sarah said blandly. Colin nodded, agreeing with her concise explanation.

"I don't know how much help I can be, but you have my word. I'll help you anyway I can," Ilsa told her. Colin looked quickly at his phone.

"Barker is asking for a satellite link in 30. New information. Let's go," he said crisply. He moved to get back in the car, but Ilsa lingered, touching Sarah's arm to stop her.

Her blue eyes shifted down to Sarah's left hand. "The guy you were protecting? The one who worked at the Buy More?"

"Chuck," Sarah sighed, just pronouncing it stirring a longing she struggled to tamp. She bowed her head once, ever so slightly to confirm.

Ilsa smiled, a warm, genuine smile. "That's nice," she said. Sarah thought how it could have been a condescending comment, but she somehow knew it wasn't. "It gives someone like me hope, you know? That everything isn't really as tainted as I think it is. I'll admit, I was very cynical back then. And he was as transparent as glass about how he felt about you. I felt sorry for that situation."

"We've been married for ten years and we have three children," Sarah told her as they started walking again.

Ilsa grabbed her arm to stop her forward motion. "Why are you here, risking all that?"

"I didn't have a choice," Sarah said bitterly.

"Speaking of choice," Ilsa started. "How is Casey? I…I'm not sure–"

"He's happy," Sarah told her quickly, knowing as tragic as the past between the two of them was, this was the best she could hope to hear. "He's the NSA director, as I'm sure you're aware. He's a grandfather."

That stopped her walking. The smile beamed, but her eyes misted, a thousand what ifs dancing in her head as she remained silent. "That's so nice to know."

"He's running the op in the U.S., Ilsa," Sarah warned her. Something quickly occurred to her. "You don't mind me calling you 'Ilsa,' do you? I can call you Alina if it makes things easier."

"Officially, sure, Alina is safer. But I missed Ilsa. It's nice to hear that again," she sighed wistfully.

Sarah wondered if Casey would think the same.

October 2, 2021

Carmichael Industries, Los Angeles, California

Chuck, Cole, and Casey were seated around the table in the secure conference room, waiting for the satellite link, when General Beckman arrived. She stormed in, briefcase in hand, her miniature stature almost not noticeable as she took command of the room immediately.

"Report, General," she drawled slowly as she slid her briefcase onto the table top.

While Casey droned on in his brief and clipped monotone, updating Beckman on the latest information that Chuck and Cole had already relayed to him upon arrival, Chuck's brain was on overdrive. Trying to sort out everything that Hannah had told them, combined with the intel Casey said Carter had left for him early this morning when he'd finally gone home to sleep after working all night, had him geared up. Knowing he would see his wife on this satellite feed was doing strange things to his insides. He missed her in a way totally foreign to him, even though she had only been gone about 12 hours. Just to see her face again would stench some of that bleeding inside him, he knew. But he was anxious, worried. Both about what she was going to face, and how she would seem to him.

There was no positive aspect to any of this, he told himself. He would either see something cold in her eyes, some detachment from him and their life together, or not. Seeing her like that was his worst fear, no longer remembering how he had comported himself when things had last been like that with her. Would he make it harder for her by letting his emotions show? Or would staying calm and cool not be enough for her? And what if she somehow was still…just his wife, the mother of his children, with no detectable edge to her? God, that would be worse. He would never feel like she was safe without that part of her brought to the forefront. And he would be back in that hellish non-existence of life–waiting to hear she had been taken, or killed.

"Chuck, you look like hell," Beckman shot out at him, disturbing his reverie.

"Nice to see you too, General," Chuck sighed in return, running his hand absently across his forehead.

"I thought perhaps I could get an explanation out of somebody as to why your wife is in England with a joint MI6 CIA team. But it's still a big secret around here. I don't do secrets, gentlemen," she said dryly.

"She has proper authorization, General," Casey defended, standing to tower over her as she stood next to the table.

"The question you should be answering is why. Not how, General," Beckman snapped. "I'm still technically a superior officer."

"Yes, ma'am," Casey clipped.

"It's Molly," Chuck interjected, all eyes in the room turning onto him.

"Sarah's sister?" Beckman asked incredulously.

"Chuck," Casey warned sharply.

"I trust you, General. And the more you know, the better off we are. This has completely spiraled out of control," Chuck shot back. "You know about the Reizner estate?"

"Yes," she said slowly, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Molly…is Anna Szabo," Chuck replied, pausing, knowing the effect his words would have when they were spoken.

Chuck had seen many different expressions on the face of Diane Beckman over the course of 15 years–anger, suspicion, frustration, detachment, even at times compassion and concern. He had never seen her look like this–dumbfounded, completely blitzed, her eyes enormous and her mouth hanging open. The silent seconds turned to over a minute before she could actually speak. "How is that possible?" she finally asked, her voice hushed in the silent room. She shook herself. "Never mind, the less I know the better," Beckman added. "It actually makes more sense now. That's what Shaw wanted to talk to her about after Christmas back then, wasn't it?"

Chuck nodded solemnly. "He's the only one besides Sarah left alive with direct knowledge of the original op. But the Sentries knew. The intel Cole's team recovered proves it. Stephen flashed about it," Chuck added.

"The passport, of course," Beckman mumbled to herself. She spoke up, addressing the others. "The NSA got wind of that in 2007. Graham covered for Sarah, in a very obvious way. That miserable bastard wanted her at his beck and call. She made him look better, cleaned up after him more times than I could count. Her being assigned to protect you was the worst thing that ever happened to him, Chuck. Aside from being blown up with the Intersect computer," she added as an afterthought.

"I always thought you two were…I don't know, chummy, or whatever," Chuck rambled.

Beckman just raised an eyebrow, her lips pursed in annoyance. "No," she said firmly, then sealed her mouth. After another stretch of silence, Beckman asked, "Why hasn't she ever put in her legitimate claim to that money?"

"It was never about the money, General. It was about keeping her safe, and happy. Sarah and her mother always planned to tell her when she was older, in case she wanted to proceed with moving forward to claim it. But she's in danger, obviously, from people like these, and she probably always will be," Chuck explained.

"So you don't think making a huge public spectacle of claiming it, revealing her identity, wouldn't keep her safe? It'd be like trying to steal the crown jewels. Everyone in Europe would know who she was. That kind of fame could protect her," Beckman argued.

"Maybe," Chuck countered. "But did any direct heir to the crown jewels ever just have a normal life? That's what Sarah was protecting her from, on top of everything else."

Beckman thought, nodding her head slowly. "Now it all makes sense," she mumbled to herself.

"Excuse me?" Chuck asked, confused.

"She went straight from Hungary to you, Bartowski. The CIA never had a shot after that, did they?" she teased, her mouth curling up slightly on the side.

The soft trilling of the satellite link alert broke into the conversation. The screen above them came alive. Seated around the table in the spy base in the shot were Carina, with a man on either side of her. MI6 agents, Chuck thought. Next to the shorter man was a woman, only her profile visible. She turned her head ever so slightly. Chuck recognized her, his eyes darting quickly to Casey, who had turned white.

"Casey," she said immediately, her voice neutral. Her eyes showed the emotion, warmth that radiated in every direction, even at the slightest hint of a smile.

Casey swallowed hard. "It's not Ilsa anymore, correct?" he asked. His voice was quiet and gentle, something Chuck had almost never heard from him.

"Alina," she said, "Although, I admit, I miss it more after I hear you say it."

Beckman looked confused, perhaps a little shocked. But Casey pulled himself together, the utmost professionalism and detached aire about him.

"Where is Sarah?" Casey asked, scanning the background and not seeing her.

"I'm sorry, Casey," Sarah said, leaning into the shot over Ilsa's shoulder.

Chuck thought she looked tired, her complexion washed out. But she smiled at him, her beautiful blue eyes aglow with her emotions, even as the rest of her showed no outward sign. "Is everything alright, Chuck?" she asked, ignoring everyone else in the room with her, or seated around him.

"We need your help," he said, unwilling to let himself go in front of all these people. He hoped she could see it on his face and in his eyes how much he missed her, loved her. It took almost a full 30 minutes before everything was recounted and explained.

Carina spoke first after they concluded. "We combed through literally every piece of surveillance footage in the entire country. Unless they teleported out, both the Hungarian and our mystery man are still in England. We have to do some more detective work to actually find them, but we will."

Cole instructed, "The Hungarian is your top priority. Now that we know where he's not, let's track him down and follow him. We need to know what he's doing, where he's going. Sarah, take Carina with you to Paris and try to solve this Notre Dame coded mystery. At the same time, Colin and Nigel are going after the Hungarian. We have an MI6 team on the ground in Hungary, following up on a lead concerning what you relayed about the Reizner estate. Alina's volunteered to head out there, and stay in contact with Team A."

"Carter found a paper trail to a legitimate business in the U.S. where all of that money seems to have been filtered in. Vivian's hunch was good. I'm tracking them down via computer as soon as I can," Chuck told them. Suddenly uncomfortable, Chuck lowered his voice. "Tomorrow the girls have a soccer game and Stephen has karate. I can't work from home without the firewall here, but I should be able to sneak away right after dinner tomorrow."

Chuck had looked away, but his eyes drifted back to the screen. Sarah had her eyes closed, one hand pressed over her heart. When she opened her eyes, Chuck mouthed the words "I love you" ever so slightly. She put her fingers against her lips and kissed them. They signed off, and he realized she had, as always, been absolutely perfect. Not in the least bit cold to him, while still keeping him from worrying about her preparedness for the mission Cole had just sent her on.

"She's alright, Chuck," Beckman told him adamantly, trying to reassure him.

"I know," he told her. Wondering how long that statement would remain true.

October 2, 2021

Undisclosed Location, Los Angeles, California

The room was dark. It was late, what some would call the middle of the night. Not the literal middle of the night, of course, but later than anyone had any business being still at work.

Was that what this was? Work? Where was the line? Where had work ended and life began?

Life was work. Work was life.

She had traded her life for her work, hadn't she? Thinking at the time she was trading up, making an improvement. Her stupid, underdeveloped brain. Science told her the human brain wasn't capable of making mature, adult decisions until the age of 25. Why, then, did everything about life need to be decided before then? If anyone waited until age 25 to figure things out, they were a failure.

Of course. So instead, to not fail, she had decided everything. Early. Life, career path, relationships, everything. She'd had life by the horns, hadn't she?

Until she was gored by those same horns.

My, aren't you feeling a little extra sorry for yourself tonight, she scoffed bitterly to herself.

Perhaps it was just the hour, the dark. Although, she thought sadly, the sunrise made no difference anymore. She could only keep her eyes open in the dark, seeing figures as they moved on the edges of shadows, a distance away from her. Everything else was too painful to observe, like hot pokers inside her eyes.

The intercom on her desk beeped, a blurry red light piercing into the darkness that surrounded her. "The Assistant is here, Ma'am," a voice spoke. She cut the connection without answering aloud. The receptionist was not expecting a verbal reply. The cut connection was sufficient.

She waited until she saw his shadow, hovering in the open doorway. He was blurry as he approached, coming into focus only as he was one step from the edge of the darkness. He knew the correct place to stop, where she preferred him to stand. His hair was gray, almost pure white. Long ago, it had been sandy brown. She knew this; she remembered this. He was short, stockier now in his age. She knew there were lines on his face, deep etched wrinkles that bespoke the life he had chosen.

They had worked together, for the same employer. How had he ended up here? She pondered. And why had she never asked him?

Because it doesn't matter. No one cares, not now, not then. People did this work because they were in it for themselves. They took what they wanted and cared nothing about who they hurt. She knew she had not always felt that way, at some point. Maybe back before her brain was mature, and she knew better.

"What are you waiting for?" she barked at him impatiently. "The word was given."

If he was nervous, or concerned, he showed no sign. He seemed bored, put off even, that he had even been summoned. "Kovacs told you. The NSA is everywhere. We can't go in guns blazing. We need a surgical strike. Precision. At the exact time. There's no room for error here."

"Are you seriously still thinking they will ever be present at the same time?" she hissed at him. "The CIA has the drive! They know everything. We don't have that luxury anymore."

The Assistant Director actually rolled his eyes. "Then what is the priority?"

"The genetic match. The boy. I don't care how. But bring him here," she demanded.

"The mother is gone. Probably after Kovacs," he replied. Was he laughing?

"She was the problem, wasn't she? Your impasse? Stop waiting and do it," she growled.

"What about the father?" he asked, looking down at his fingernails, the epitome of boredom on his face.

"He's a target, of course. We need him. But the boy is essential. You may have to kill his father, to get him away. Not ideal, but collateral damage was expected, was it not?" she said, her voice acidic.

He was laughing, she thought, as he turned to walk away. What was funny?

It took her longer than normal to process the thought. She was alone when she pounded the desk in blind fury. He was laughing at her.