A/N1 Our story begins in earnest.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Don't own Chuck.


ACT I

CHAPTER TWO

Emissary


Beckman's cell phone vibrated her from sleep, making a wooden sound on the nightstand. She picked it up and looked at the time before pressing the button to answer it. 4:42 am. The call was from Madeline Upshaw. Too early for Madeline, but Beckman had to answer.

"Diane, sorry to call in the wee hours, I know how we need our beauty sleep, but I just got a bit of intel I thought I should pass onto you. Your people may find it tomorrow, but we...well, it is what we do. Faster than anyone else. Spy on spies. My analysts run daily checks on known aliases of intelligence officers and others…" Madeline was clearly not in a hurry to tell Beckman too much more about her operation. "Anyway, a little while ago the computer coughed something up and my analyst called me.

"A Rebecca Franco checked into a motel not too far from the docks in San Diego. We tapped into the video-feed and I am sending you a snippet now…"

Beckman received the snippet and played it on her phone. It was grainy and low-quality, but it certainly looked like Sarah Bartowski checking into the motel. Beckman watched the video a second time. Yes, the woman really did look like Sarah. But she looked...odd. The wrong sort of clothes. She moved stiffly. Why would Sarah be checking into a motel in San Diego, one near the docks? Where was she going?

But the main question was: why hadn't she contacted Chuck? Beckman knew if Sarah had contacted Chuck, he would have contacted her. But he hadn't contacted Beckman, so Sarah hadn't contacted Chuck.

Beckman was immediately torn. Should she tell Chuck? What the hell was going on?

"Diane, she checked in for one night. Paid cash. So far as the video allows us to tell, she is still there. Is there anything you want me to do?"

"No, not right now, Madeline. Thanks for the help, especially at this time of night...or morning. I will get back to you if I need anything. Can you continue to look for signs of Quinn? Particularly, any sign that he might be in or around San Diego?"

"Sure. G'night, Diane." As the call ended, Beckman heard Madeline apologize to someone for the noise. She tried not to let her imagination run away with her. Roan was in California, not DC.

Beckman rolled out of her bed and put on her slippers. She left her bedroom and went into her study. She sent the video from her phone to her computer. She watched it a few more times. Unfortunately, it was video only, no audio. As she watched the video again, she noticed that Sarah (she was sure now that it was Sarah) was flirting with the clerk. He was tall, thin, curly-headed. Maybe Sarah did have a type, after all.

But It was unlike Sarah Bartowski to flirt with a man. Ever since the Shaw nightmare ended (Beckman choked back a mouthful of still-bitter residual guilt), ever since Sarah had informed Beckman that she and Chuck were dating exclusively, Beckman had never known Sarah actually to flirt with a man. She had pretended to flirt once or twice on missions, but she had not actually flirted. She was with Chuck, really with him. Sarah was not the type to stray, not even into flirtation, much less anything else. But, on the video, the interaction looked like actual flirting. That was even more confusing-or anyway it added to Beckman's confusion.

Beckman picked up a pencil and wrote down a couple of questions about Sarah that were bothering her. It always helped her to see the questions written down. It did again. As she stared at them, she had a thought.

Carina Miller was in Tijuana, working on a joint NSA/DEA task force, a mission against one of the cartels. Although Carina was there, the DEA's part in the early stages of the mission was simply advisory; they'd play a larger, more important role later. Carina could be in San Diego, could be at the motel, in less than an hour's time, once she got started.

Beckman put in a call to Miller. It was likely, given the time difference and Carina's well-known nocturnal habits, that she was still awake. In bed, perhaps, but still awake.

ooOoo

Beckman ended her call with Carina. Carina had been out the door before Beckman ended the call. She was due to report in as soon as she'd found Sarah and figured out what was going on. Beckman did not read Carina in on the Intersect. She left Quinn's motivations and the causes of Sarah's possible condition vague. She had warned Carina to be careful, that Sarah's psychological condition was fragile. She hoped that would be enough.

But Beckman was now dithering, having second thoughts. Maybe she should have read Carina in. But Beckman's instincts, as always, were conservative. So even though she brought her phone back up and almost called Carina twice, she did not do it.

Instead, she sent a text to Ellie Woodcomb. She needed advice from someone who had a genuine understanding of the Intersect and of Sarah. She asked Ellie to call her at her earliest convenience. She hated to phone for fear of waking Ellie's daughter, Clara. She also knew that anything she told Ellie would likely end up getting all the way to Chuck, carried to him, if not by Ellie herself, then by Devon, her husband. Better to wait and see if Carina could figure out what was going on.

ooOoo

Carina was over the border and closing in on the address of Sarah's motel. The whole situation had Carina badly agitated, disconcerted. The last she knew, Sarah and Chuck were happy, settled and settling, ready to give up on the spy game, ready to start their own business, and ready to start a family. They'd been good. Sarah's word. Now, according to Beckman, Sarah was having problems, psychological episodes, memory losses. Sarah was checked in at a dump motel not far from the docks in San Diego, and evidently no one, most puzzlingly Chuck, knew where she was until Beckman found her-or someone found her for Beckman.

Beckman wanted Carina to find Sarah and take her to Chuck, or if she refused (if she refused? What the hell?) she was to take her to a safe house in San Diego and keep her there until Beckman told her otherwise.

Carina had to admit it. She was frightened for her friend. Sarah had gone through so much in her life, and so much in the past five years. She and Chuck had sacrificed, seriously sacrificed, to be together. Suffered. They had fought for their relationship, fought with the government, other people, even with each other, and for years. Sarah had been happy, truly happy, since she and Chuck had finally gotten together. What had gone wrong?

Beckman, Carina knew, played her cards up against her vest, not just close to it. The little general was keeping Carina in the twilight if not the full dark. But Carina also trusted Beckman-or she had come to over the past few years. If she was keeping Carina ignorant, it was not to manipulate her, but to keep her or others...someone...safe. Still, Carina didn't like this feeling of driving in the dark to face darkness. Why wasn't Chuck with Sarah or on his way to her? Sarah, girl, what is going on? Poor Chuckles: you must be frantic.

ooOoo

The woman woke up. She had no memory of hearing anything, but she knew she had. Someone was stalking down the hallway. Trying to move silently. The woman knew that attempting to move silently created its own peculiar sound when not entirely successful. This attempt was not entirely successful. Hardly any attempt ever was.

She shook her head gently, trying to dislodge the sleepiness, the haziness, that still gripped her. It took a moment.

She quickly rolled out of the bed, forcing herself to contain her moan. Her beaten body had stiffened and grown sorer as she slept. She embraced and inhabited her pain, controlling it from within it, as she threw her dress over her head. She put on her shoes as she heard the stalker stop at her door. Light from the hallway, shining beneath the door, showed that someone was standing there.

A weapon. The woman needed a weapon. She grabbed the extra shoelace from her pocket, wrapping on end of it around one hand, the other end around the other hand. It was far from ideal, but it was better than nothing. Much better: he had used such a weapon before. Her hands remembered, even if her mind did only after her hands had. A shoelace could kill, had killed. Oh, my God, what have I done? What have I been?

Enforcer.

But, then, even as her mind gyred and gimbled, a soft knock on the door. And a voice, a woman's voice, an urgent undertone. Friendly. Friendly? "Hey, hey, in there, it's me. Let me in, Blondie."

Blondie? For a split second that seemed familiar. The voice too. Another scrap of memory. A female figure in a mask, all in black. A makeshift cudgel-soap in a stocking. Goldfish flopping breathlessly on the floor. Dying. The scrap was gone. But the engulfing panic that came with it...

Violence and death are not features of your job; they are its very form. Do. Your. Job! Seize the initiative. Strike first!

Another soft knock. The voice, no longer familiar but more obviously urgent. "Let me in. C'mon. I know you are in there. Are you ok? It's me, Carina."

Enforcer, enforce!

The woman's head was imploding. The pain was staggering. Nonsense eclipsing sense. Mind caving in. She nearly fell.

When the pain lessened, she stepped toward the door, cautiously, but toward it. Why? She peeked through the door and saw an attractive redhead standing almost against the door. The woman let the shoelace fall off one hand and used the other to open the door. She braced herself as she did, keeping her body behind the door as she opened it, and only looking around it.

The redhead saw her and blew out a breath. She took one step into the room when the woman saw the gun in the redhead's hand. She jammed her shoulder into the door and pushed it with all her power. It swung hard into the redhead, knocking her to the floor. She'd had no chance to react; she toppled.

The woman swung the door back open and, despite her stiffness and soreness, she leaped onto the redhead, Carina?, before Carina could get off the floor. As the woman leaped, she wrapped the shoelace around her other hand, and, astride the redhead's midsection, she got the shoelace behind the redhead's head and twisted it tight around her neck. Before the shoelace closed off her throat, the redhead spoke two words, her eyes rolling back into her head: "Sarah? Walker?"

The woman, Sarah?, pulled the shoelace as tight as she could. The redhead eventually went limp, her grip on her gun loosened. The woman got one hand free of the shoelace and she grabbed the gun. She also grabbed the redhead's large purse. She stood up. The redhead did not move.

The woman, Sarah, felt in her pocket for the claim ticket from the pawn shop. She was wearing everything she owned. She ran down the hallway and into the elevator. As the elevator went down, she dug through the purse. There were things she wanted to look at more carefully, but she had one thing she was hoping to find. Car keys. There! Sarah latched onto them, looking at the make of car they belonged to. A Ford.

She got outside into the parking lot. She pressed the unlock button on the fob and saw a black Explorer's turn signals flash. She ran to it and jumped in. She started the engine and the car practically threw itself out of the lot and onto the street.

ooOoo

As she drove away from the motel, Sarah began to shake all over. She had to pull off onto the side of the road. What had she just done? She had seen the gun and attacked. Attacked another person. And with brutal, deadly efficiency. Had she killed the redhead? She didn't know. The redhead looked dead on the floor. Sarah felt sick, cold, devastated.

Had the woman come to kill her? She couldn't risk finding out. But if so, why? The woman had called her Sarah. Sarah. It meant nothing to her. But it was a name. She knew Rebecca Franco was not her name. She did not know that Sarah was not her name. She just did not know if it was her name. Goddamn it! And then it occurred to her. The purse. She rummaged through it. A black pass case. Inside, a DEA badge. Carina Miller. It looked legitimate.

She had killed a DEA agent. Killed her. Maybe. Why would a DEA agent be hunting her? The DEA agent seemed to know her, but why did she have her gun out? Questions without answers. Answers without questions. She was so lost.

She looked at her hands. The marks, the bruised indentations made by the shoelaces, could still be seen, blue and red around the backs of her hands. And then she knew something about herself, knew it up from her bones, an upsurge of conviction from the very center of her. She was a killer. What she knew of her skill set geared into her visceral conviction: she was a chameleon, an actress, deadly.

She could attack without thought, without compunction. She had a head full of tactical and strategic maxims. She reached into the passenger seat and picked up the gun she'd taken from Carina Miller. She knew it intimately; it was an extension of her hand. Without a thought or misstep, she broke it down and put it back together. The whole procedure had taken her almost no time and she had done it while also paying attention to the passing cars.

She put the gun into the purse. Digging around hurriedly jin the purse, she found a phone at the bottom. It was locked and she had no idea about the password. She turned it off, then pulled the back off of it and pulled out the SIM card. Maybe she could find a way into it later.

She put the disabled phone in the purse. There was a wallet, with several hundred dollars in it, as well as a couple of credit cards. The name on the cards was not Carina Miller. Had someone sent a killer after a killer?

Killer Kills Killer: headline. Wordy palindrome.

The woman looked into the rearview mirror, preparing to pull back into traffic, but then she shifted her focus. Looking at her own blue eyes in the mirror, she spoke to herself, grimly, her heart sinking even as she tightened her grip on the brutal identity.

.
"Hello...killer. Hello, Sarah. Hello, Sarah Walker."

It was better to be an awful something than not to be anything at all. Hadn't Shakespeare said something like that, one of his characters? Had she forgotten Shakespeare too? Yes? No?

Hamlet?

Help me, Hamlet.

I don't know who is who; I don't know a hawk from a handsaw.


A/N2 And with that learned misquotation, this chapter ends. Tune in next time for Chapter 3, "Corpse".