Disclaimer: Unfortunately I don't own nor am I involved with the production of Chuck. On the plus side, I work cheap so if Chris or Josh is reading this - call me.
Synopsis: Chuck is stranded in Topeka, with Casey closing in and Sarah not far behind. He prepares for the end game and makes plans to separate himself from the past once and for all, but he knows it's not something he can do alone. So Chuck begins calling in favors, contacting friends, and reaching out to people who may, or may not, have his best interests at heart. It doesn't matter, all he wants now is to shut the door on who he was - it's time for Chuck Bartowski to die.
A/N: Adult language and situations apply.
A/N Addendum: Sorry for the late update – I said the tenth and I meant it, but at the last minute I got tickets to see the Blues play the Columbus Blue Jackets and it was a make or break game for the playoffs. What can I say – Hockey wins EVERY time, so I blew you all off and went and saw the Blues dominate the hell out of the Blue Jackets, 3 to 1 baby! Of course what's a victory without a little celebration and I may have had a few too many only to wind up at a post victory party where I met Roman Polak and Brad Boyes, and celebrated until the wee, wee hours of the morning. Of course I didn't manage to get out of bed until close to 3PM the next day and it seems there was this Easter thing going on, who knew? Actions, consequences and all that. Anyway, with the Wild taking down the Predators we are in the PLAYOFFS! Go BLUES!!! Oh, and here's the update.
Chuck versus Topeka - Chapter Three – Get Away From the Past, His Story
Something sharp and jagged was sticking its point into his hip, soundlessly Chuck shifted his arms to allow his hands a better chance at finding whatever it was. He almost groaned from the pain, it felt as if his left shoulder was separated, bastards had enjoyed restraining him a little too much. 'Yes!' he found it, a nice sharp splinter of chert, he gingerly wrapped his long tapering fingers around it and dragged it behind him. Now if he could just use the chert to cut through the zip-tie...'YES!' He almost gasped, the thrill of two small victories in a row after the day he'd had, it was almost too much. 'Damn Damn Damn I'm an idiot.' He thought. Chuck's head snapped up to scan the area. His eyes went from left to right, in an almost constant up and down motion as he took in every aspect his surroundings. He was intently aware of every movement of two Fulcrum agents in front of him made, and of the equipment they'd brought with them. Two of them were about thirty feet off setting up a sniper's nest, and coordinating with the other two members of the 'cleaner' team. Around them lay two duffel bags loaded with weapons and ammunition, too far from Chuck to do much good. His eyes, instead, fell to a spot not fifteen feet from him where one of the cleaners had taken off his tactical belt. He'd complained about the knife handle sticking into his side. Chuck grinned.
After they'd restrained his arms with a zip-tie they'd dumped him on the ground, against the back door of the sedan, and ignored him. After all he was just an untrained analyst, a geek as one of them put it, what could he do? He knew they were here for Casey and Sarah, not him. Fulcrum wanted the two agents dead, the cleaners had told him as much. Chuck discovered that since he'd gone off the grid four months ago Casey and Sarah had been hunting Fulcrum cells looking for him. He had no idea how successful they'd been until the cleaners let it slip. The cleaner team was about to eliminate the 'threat' to their operations. Chuck couldn't let that happen. It didn't matter that his friends would kill him if he succeeded, they were still his friends...she was still Sarah, she was still the woman he loved. Finally the tough plastic of the zip-tie separated, Chuck rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation and carefully, quietly, made his way to the tactical belt. It seemed to take him hours, but he knew it had been just seconds, it was the adrenalin in his system, distorting his perception of time's passage. He had to focus, exactly the way Franklin had taught him. Ignore time, focus on what's going on not what you think will happen. Act. React. Execute. There is no thinking involved. Thinking is death in combat. He'd reached the belt and a small breath escaped his lips. His fingers wrapped around the rough, rubberized handle, and he pulled it from the kydex sheath with a soft click. He stopped but the neither man had heard him. His two targets were five feet apart, one hunched over the sniper weapon, focused intently on it's assembly, the other was checking a map of the area and noisily rustling the paper.
Chuck moved into a half crouch as he approached the man with the map. In his head he replayed what Franklin had taught him about killing a man with a knife. It was a slaughter house, the carcass of a freshly killed pig hung on a meet hook. Franklin was standing there, glowering at him, shouting at him through every step, 'Point of blade to the right of the spine between the third and fourth ribs!' 'Free hand over mouth!' 'A single sharp thrust into the back!' 'Cover mouth and snap head back!' 'One Fluid Motion, Now do it again!' Chuck repeated the mantra in his head, and soundlessly he slid his left hand up toward the man's face as the point of the knife pricked his shirt just to the right of his spine, between the third and fourth ribs. In one fluid motion Chuck had covered his mouth and snapped his head backward while thrusting forward with the knife. For the briefest moment he smiled, he'd done it just like Franklin taught him. Then the smile vanished. Something happened that Franklin hadn't bothered to teach him about. As Chuck held the man, he could feel his last breath, warm and moist, as it was forced out of his nose and over the back of his hand. The man's blood coursed over the knife blade, covering his hand, hot and wet and slick with life. Chuck felt that life drain out of the man until all that was left was another pig's carcass, he set it down gently on the gravel, and withdrew the blood stained knife clutched tightly in a blood stained hand. He stilled a small shudder within himself. Act. React. Execute. The entire time his eyes had never left the sniper, who had started humming to himself, proud of the job he'd done assembling the sniper rifle. Chuck frowned, the sniper had shifted position, his back was at an angle that would make a clean kill difficult. Chuck took a step and dislodged a rock, it wasn't much but it was enough to alert his target. The sniper half turned toward the sound, and for a moment his back and shoulders squared to Chuck. Now, without thinking, Chuck lunged forward knife point first. He stood up, it was lodged just to the right of the spine, between the third and fourth ribs. Franklin would be proud. He vomited.
He woke with a start, the taste of blood, bile, and dust still present in his mouth. Chuck bolted from bed and ran to the bathroom where he spent the next several minutes dry heaving. He hated dreaming about Moab, it was always the same. Sickness, sadness, regret. Sometimes it was just a twinge, and he could go back to sleep, some times it hit him hard. Tonight was the worst though, he could taste the blood in his mouth, feel the dusty grit on his teeth, the bile in the back of his throat. He didn't know why it was so bad tonight, maybe it was his time. Franklin always said he'd know when his time was up, so now when things were coming full circle, maybe his time was almost up. Chuck's nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of his own scent. He stank of stale sweat and his stomach was still doing back flips, but his first priority wasn't a shower or pepto, it was to place a call to a friend. Whatever the dream meant it reminded him that he wasn't without resources of his own. He returned to the room and reached for the phone. It was time to call on Franklin James.
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Cheyenne Wells, Colorado
The sound of a phone ringing split the stillness of the night, and it was immediately accompanied by the sound of beer cans being kicked around the floor, dogs howling, and the not so gentle cursing of an old man with a fairly productive and wet sounding cough. The phone continued to ring as he hobbled down the stairs and into an tidy, but well used, kitchen. The man's crutch caught on the curling edge of a worn piece of linoleum and nearly tripping him. He reached for the wall with his free hand and steadied himself, then running his hand along the pale yellow flowered wallpaper he grabbed for the receiver, yanking it off the phone hanging there.
"It's three o'clock in the Goddamned AM, somebody better be dead or their gonna be dying." A wet cough punctuated that remark.
"Jesus Frank, you've got to lay off the smokes. You sound like shit." A softy chuckle came across the line.
"Chester? Is that you boy?" Frank suddenly perked up.
"It's me Frank." There was a pause on the line. "I need a favor."
"Shit, you don't waste your time do ya'? No 'how's tricks Frank?', no 'How's Nancy doing Frank?' just jump right in to the favor askin' why don't ya'."
"Frank, I know how tricks are. Do you think I don't keep tabs on you? Please man, you're the closest thing to family I've got."
"That's not true Chester. There's your sister," Frank hesitated. "and Kaley."
Chuck said nothing for a second and then finally managed to croak out a few words. "How's she doing?"
"Kaley? She's a tough kid Chess, a lot like you really." Frank paused then added sincerely, "She thinks the world in all of you, you know. I know you were only with her for a couple of months but that little girl is totally in love with you. She needs you Chess, she needs someone who'll take care of her."
"I know, but her mom needed me too and look what that got her. She's an orphan because of me Frank." His voice choked for a second. "You know I want nothing more than to be there for her but I can't. I can't have her with me, this is no way for a kid to live. She needs to be kept safe, that's why I sent her to you Frank. If you can't keep her safe no one can."
"Right."
"Right."
"You missed Nancy's funeral." Frank's tone was accusatory.
He sighed. "I sent flowers."
"I know, azalea's. She'd have loved them Chess." Frank's voice thickened with emotion. "She loved you too you know, she never wanted you to leave. Neither of us did."
"I know Frank, but if I'd have stayed you both would have paid the price. You know what I'm up against. Besides, thanks to you I've survived this long and even managed to even the score a few times." He chuckled ruefully. "I really do need to thank you Frank, if not for you I'd have never made it as far as I have."
"Shit Chess, I taught you how to survive you did the rest on your own." Frank started rubbing his jaw. "I will say though son, if you'd have asked me two years ago I'd have said I didn't think you had it in ya'. You're up against professionals Chess, you do me proud."
"Yeah, I'm not really proud of what I've done though Frank. In fact for a while I hated you for teaching me. It took a long time until I figured out it wasn't your fault...or mine." His voice started to falter.
"That's right boy, it wasn't anyone's fault but theirs. If they didn't come after you, you wouldn't have had to kill." He started gesturing into the phone. "Remember that Chess, you don't kill to kill, you kill to survive."
He sighed, he'd have to tell Frank about Trenton some time. It wasn't like that. He hadn't killed to survive at Trenton, he'd hunted. "Right, and even then only when there's no other option. I remember that Frank. I also remember what else you taught me."
"What's that?"
"There's nothing more dangerous than a desperate man with nothing left to lose." His voice was flat and emotionless now. "By that standard Frank I'm one of the most dangerous men alive right now."
"Alright then, tell me about it. Nothin' too detailed now, just give me the top down version." Frank hooked a kitchen chair with his crutch and dragged it over to the phone, sat down and leaned up against the wall.
Frank didn't say anything for a few minutes, he absent mindedly started playing with the bandaged on the end of his leg stump and cursing the fact that he'd left his prosthesis upstairs. He listened to everything the young man had to say, and it wasn't much despite the fact that he hadn't even sent a post card in the last six months. The kid was in trouble. The kid was family, or as near to it as Frank and Nancy had ever known. Frank knew what he had to do.
"Right, I got it Chess. I've got to take care of a few things here before I leave but I'll pick up the package, pack up some provisions and be there in about...eight hours." Frank frowned. "That's assumin' the weather holds."
"It'll hold...if you can be here within eight hours that is. Otherwise it's going to be kind of dicey." There was the hint of a smile in his voice.
"Right, I'm closing up shop here. See you in eight." Frank hesitated to say anything else then croaked out his farewell. "Chess? Don't go getting' your ass killed before I get there, hear?"
There was no immediate reply and Frank held onto the receiver until he heard the dial tone. He shook his head sadly and hung up the receiver. Grabbing his crutch he moved quickly to the other side of the kitchen and started the coffee maker, then turned and headed back up the stairs to his room. Ascending the stairs he caught site of pictures lining the wall ascending the staircase with him, and he stopped momentarily at one in particular. His fingers traced the presence of four familiar figures. He sighed and continued up the stairs to his room, his shoulders sagging noticeably as he climbed.
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Topeka, Kansas
Chuck stepped out of the shower, towel knotted around his waist as he leaned into the mirror over the vanity. He rubbed his jaw absent mindedly gauging the depth of his stubble before reluctantly turning on the tap and fishing his razor our of his travel kit. With long, slow, languid strokes the razor glided across his face leaving a trail of smooth skin in it's wake. When he'd removed all but a few traces of the shaving cream he twisted the taps in the opposite direction and then cupped his hands to splash icy cold hot water on his face. The bracing feel of the cold water snapped his eyes open fully. He watched his reflection straighten up, took note of what he saw staring back at him. His exposed skin was still olive tinged but now that coloration covered his entire torso, a torso that had markedly more muscle definition on it now than it had thirty months ago. He tensed his chest and stomach muscles reflexively and watched with some satisfaction as they rippled across his body. He wasn't vain in any sense of the word, but he'd be the first to admit the body he saw looking back at him was a far cry from the soft, somewhat doughy man-child that had been there two and a half years ago. His eyes then fell to the numerous faint lines that crisscrossed his chest and abdomen. Some traced the arc of his rib cage, others slashed across it. In a few areas there were small circles of flesh where the skin puckered at the memory of a bullet, in others there were raised jagged areas where some other foreign material had been introduced to his body. His skin was a roadmap of pain, death, and despair. His fingers traced the outline of some of the more memorable scars until they came to rest on the edge of a patch of mottled flesh above his right kidney, an area where the flesh seemed to have melted and reset roughly. Chuck snorted. Almost ten months later he still felt a twinge when he thought about that night. Everything else he'd been through and the one scar that affected him the most came not from an assassin's gun or knife, but from a patch of rain slicked road and a burning car wreck. He pressed his hand there and whispered simply "Kaley".
The phone ringing broke his reverie and he moved rapidly to pick up. It was simply an automated wakeup call from the front desk. He checked and the time was indeed half past five, he simply replaced the receiver and proceeded to dress. He reached into his suit bag, selecting one of his better suits, a tailored Armani, he laid it out on the bed and inventoried his accessories, a Sig .357 pistol to carry, a tiny Guardian .25 for his pocket, a tactical knife, and a spring loaded baton just for when things get interesting. Those items, along with his cell phone, a digital recorder, a small spray can of ether, three tranq darts, and a few spare magazines were arranged in the order to which he'd conceal them on his person. It was a ritual he'd learned a long time ago and followed faithfully since it had been taught him. For all of Franklin's teachings he'd have never gotten this far without the help of other, equally gifted instructors like Allison or Jack, each tops in their field. He chuckled to himself. Among the myriad of drawbacks to being the Intersect there were some uses, finding people like those that taught him how to survive, no, not survive, thrive under such adverse conditions would have been impossible for a normal person. But when you have the secrets of the two most powerful intelligence agencies in the world crammed into your head? Not really an issue, as long as you know how to access them. Especially if you know how to access them, and he did. He knew how. He'd learned how.
With a renewed sense or purpose he pulled on his shoes, adjusted the weapons stashed about his person, and then checked himself out in the mirror. The suit hung from his broad shoulders as if he were a mannequin. It seemed to accentuate, not hide, his lean yet well muscled frame, and that was important. It was hard to conceal weapons in a suit like this, the fact that he did so gave him an edge. Living in this world was all about edges, edges and staying sharp. The only problem was keeping from getting cut. He ran his hands through the hair on the sides of his head, unhappy with the way it lay. Neatly trimmed, the curls on top tastefully gelled into place yet with enough wave and body to keep him from looking like a typical corporate suit, he missed the long, unkempt locks but this was Charles' look. He adjusted his collar, fiddled a bit with the suit jacket lapels and turned from side to side. The smattering of jewelry adorning him; gold ID bracelet, Rolex watch, cufflinks, were just enough to say 'powerful' yet not so ostentatious as to be distracting or cheesy. He turned again and held his hand against his stomach for a second, checking for any visible signs of pooching that would tip off someone as to the location of his hardware. He nodded appreciably that the coat's tailoring was good enough that if he couldn't see the tell tale signs of a gun, knife, or baton it was unlikely anyone else would either. He sighed. 'Time to get going Charles Carmichael.' He thought to himself 'As Mal would say, I aim to misbehave.'
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Cheyenne Wells, Colorado
In and out, slow and steady, the most reassuring sound he'd ever heard. The most reassuring sound any parent had ever heard he was sure, was the sound of a child sleeping peacefully. Fingers traced the outline of her face, moving carefully beneath the drifting locks of soft brown hair, gently outlining every graceful feature, even the ones that weren't as graceful. The mottled skin along the left side of her face, still angry and red as the day it was set alight. A tear formed, as it often did when he watched her sleep, only this time it fell unbidden from his eye, and it was followed by another, and another, until one errant tear splashed upon the child's face. Frank cursed himself then, it would be so much harder now. He sniffled, brushing away the evidence of his betrayal with the rough skin of his thumb, and then smiled as here eyelids fluttered to life.
"Hey Pumpkin. Didn't mean to wake ya', I just wanted to see you before I left." The girl yawned sleepily, her eyes barely focused in the shadows of the room.
"You're leaving me?" Kaley shifted, propping herself up on her elbows. "Where are you going?"
"I got a job to do, an old friend called and he needs me to get him something so I'm going to drive up to Denver." Choking back the truth was more difficult than he'd thought, the little girl in front of him made it so.
"Will you be gone long? Can I go too?" Plaintive eyes searched his face.
"Nah pumpkin, you can't go with me. It's not gonna be a fun trip, just me driving a load of junk out to a buddy of mine, then we'll talk a bit longer than we should before I have to come back. Nothing for a pretty girl like you to do at all." The back of his fingers brushed her cheek and he smiled at her. "An' I wouldn't want my girl getting bored on me, 'cause we both know how you get when you're bored."
"I promise I won't get bored if you take me Frank, I'll be good. I can read a book this time." Kaley reached under the covers until she found what she was looking for and pulled out an old, battered copy of the Soldier's Manual of Common Tasks that she proudly showed Frank. He took the book carefully from her, flipped it open to the place she'd dog-eared in the manual and beamed a smile at her.
"Let's see what you've been readin' up on, hmm 'Performing Operator Maintenance on a Caliber .45 Pistol'. You sure this is what you've been readin' pumpkin?"
"Uh-huh, ask me anything." She nodded, eyes struggling to stay open.
"Alright, list number four on the successful standards of completion."
"Lubricate all surfaces with a thin coat of break-free." The small voice was so confident, but Frank couldn't help but shake his head.
"It says oil pumpkin." His serious voice challenged her.
"But you always say the only gun oil worth a shit is Break-Free, isn't that right?" Frank smiled back at the child, he'd never had his own but she was as much a daughter as Chester had become a son.
"That's right pumpkin, the only gun oil worth a shit is Break-Free." Frank set the book down on her nightstand, then pulled her covers up and tucked her in. "You're tired ain't ya'? Well you get some sleep now sweetie-pie."
"Okay. Will you be home tonight?"
"Nah, I'm gonna be there a couple of days but Janey will be takin' care of you while I'm gone, and you like Janey don't ya?"
"Yeah, I like Janey lots." Kaley failed to stifle the yawn this time.
"I'm gonna get goin' pumpkin, you be good for Janey now, okay?"
"Okay. Bye Frank, I love you." Her unfocused stare and heavy voice told how close she was to sleep.
"Night pumpkin. Love you too."
Frank leaned in and kissed her forehead gently, smiling as her eyes once screwed shut fluttered gently, and the small mouth that had been twisted into a moue relaxed into a teasing smile. He sat there a moment longer until he was sure she had slipped into sleep. Standing up gingerly, he shifted his weight slowly so he wouldn't wake the child laying there and quietly slipped from the room.
Walking down the hallway the prosthetic started squeaking, and as he reached the top of the stairs Frank stopped, plucking a small screwdriver from his pocket and sighed. He hitched up the pant leg hiding the apparatus and adjusted the tension setting, flexing his ball joint repeatedly until the squeaking stopped. He'd had the leg just over three years and it was a vast improvement over the ones he'd seen on other vets down at the VA, but it needed almost constant adjustment or it would lock up and become useless. He tested it again, shifting weight between them and this time a small smile escaped his lips. It felt right, almost like a real leg again, and on a whim he took the stairs down with a bouncing step, reaching the bottom and feeling not at all like a man on his way out. He stifled a soft laugh but his ailing lungs betrayed him and a heavy wet coughing spasm wracked his body until he hacked a ball of dark viscous phlegm into a handkerchief. That was happening more and more often, and Frank knew he'd be leaving Kaley sooner or later. At least this way he'd be doing in his own terms and helping Chester at the same time.
In the well worn kitchen Frank made his way toward one of the cabinets near the sink and retrieved a heavy brushed steel thermos bottle that he promptly rinsed out before filling it to the rim with hot coffee. Reaching back in to the cabinet Frank fished out a heavy travel mug and filled it up as well before turning off the coffeemaker and emptying the basket of grounds into the trash. Taking a long sip off of his coffee he sighed. He made his way to the refrigerator, opening the small freezer and began rooting around behind the numerous packages of freezer burnt meats until he withdrew two foil wrapped packets. Setting them on the counter he tore the foil off of them. Each packet contained several bundles of hundred dollar bills stacked thickly and banded with rubber bands. He stuffed the money into an old brown grocery bag and tossed it onto the kitchen table. Walking toward the pantry he reached up toward the top shelf and felt around for a few seconds until he heard a click. He pulled back and scanned the door jam to the pantry and spotted the tell tale gap he was looking for. His fingers pried apart the space where the wood had been flush earlier, and as he pulled at it a peg board panel slid out. His hands danced over the panel, fingers brushing each piece of hardware lightly until he settled on what he wanted. He took down a well used Colt 1911 pistol, three spare magazines and a silencer, an old Smith & Wesson pocket 22 with a spare magazine of its own, and his K-Bar. He slid the panel back into place and set to work concealing his tools, slipping the spare magazines and silencer into the cavernous cargo pockets of his old field jacket and the knife into a holster on his prosthetic leg.
"Jesus Frank, going to war?" The voice was harsh and throaty, sleep deprived and more than a little cranky.
"Hey Janey, didn't hear ya' come in." Looking up as his hands pulled the pant leg down to conceal the knife strapped to his prosthetic, Frank smiled at the slightly plump, middle aged woman standing before him, giving an appreciative stare at her ample breasts that were straining against the nightshirt she still wore. "Nice of you to dress for the occasion."
Janey looked down reflexively and blushed the way she always did when he commented on her clothes, her body, or anything about her. There was something about the man that drove her to distraction and infuriated her at the same time. Her friends made fun of her for doting on him, arguing with him, caring about him, pointing out that he was thirty years older and a recent widower. Still she flushed like a school girl when he made comments like that, and Janey responded the way she always responded, by attacking.
"Yeah, well you may not have realized it but some of us are asleep at three thirty in the morning. Of course you're getting on in years there, so early onset senility isn't out of the question. In fact with you it wouldn't surprise me at all." His eye roll was all the proof she needed that he wasn't buying her act. "Anyway you've probably got something on your mind, I guess, seeing as you're packing all that hardware."
"Yeah, well, don't be worrying about what I'm packing. Listen, Kaley's asleep now but she knows I'm leaving. She ah, she woke up when I went to check on her." His sheepish grin softened. "She thinks I'm going to Denver, and I'll only be gone a couple of days."
"Let me guess, you aren't going to Denver and it'll be longer than a couple of days?" Janey pulled out a foil packet of nicotine gum and punched out a square piece, popping it in her mouth and biting into it viciously. "So what aren't you telling me Frank?"
"Early mornin' craving huh? Yea, wish they'd had that shit thirty years ago." Another wet sounding hack tore through his lungs. "Christ this early mornin' shit is killing me."
"Well this tastes like shit but it helps, the craving that is – can't do nothing about the early morning except recommend you get back in bed." The piece of nicotine gum shifted cheeks as she spoke. "Now I'll ask you again, what aren't you telling me Frank?"
Frank didn't say a word but reached into his back pocket and pulled out a manila packet that had been folded in half and was more than an inch thick. He tossed it on the table in front of Janey and she pulled the rubber band off, unfolding the envelope to get at the contents. Reaching inside she pulled out a thick stack of papers, and after briefly leafing through them she looked up to see Frank staring back at her.
"You're not going to Denver are you, and you aren't coming back." Janey's eyes betrayed a hint of shock.
"Not planning on it." He stared, waiting for the questions that were sure to follow.
"What's going on Frank, what have you got into now?" Pulling out a chair at the table, Janey sat down heavily, elbows down, chin resting in cupped hands as she waited for an answer.
"Nothin' this time Janey, it's Chess. You know the boy me an' Nancy took in a couple of years back?"
"Kaley's step-dad?" Her face twisted into a moue just like Kaley's and Frank shook his head.
"Yep, that's him. Well Chess called and he's in a spot, needs me right away so I'm going."
"Just like that. He hasn't been by but once in the last two years and then just to abandon Kaley on your doorstep like, like she was a lost puppy or something, but you're going to run off and help him. He calls and you'll just up an leave everything behind, the bar, Kaley…me."
"Yes, I am. You don't know Chess, Janey. He's not the kind of man to call unless he needs help. Hell, that's not right either. He won't call even if he needs help, so if he called it's bigger than he thinks he can handle, and that's pretty damned big. So, yeah, he calls me up and I'm leaving everything I care about behind, my life, Kaley and you." Frank leaned forward, dropping his hand down to cup the side of her face and lift her eyes to his. "I'm leaving Kaley with you, and the house and everything too. I know you'll take care of it all and you'll be a good momma to her. I know because you lover her, and me." Frank reached out and cupped her cheek tenderly.
"H-How do you know I love you, you crazy old man? You're going senile, that's what it is. This is some sort of dementia and I ought to call the police, or an ambulance…" She swatted his hand away viciously. "He abandoned you and Nancy, never even came to her funeral…and Kaley, he abandoned Kaley but he calls and off you go, Frank to the rescue. He, he…" The rest of her words were swallowed up by a sob.
Frank watched as conflicting emotions played out across the younger woman's face, the tears that had threatened to flood her eyes finally broke the emotional levy. Hands steady as his thumb brushed aside the tears that flowed, the rough skin chaffing her cheeks red as he repeated the process a number of times. When she'd finally stilled a few minutes later he gently chucked her chin until she was again looking at him, eyes red and puffy from her efforts.
"I have always cared about you Janey. You got a fire in ya', a fearlessness in the way you lead with your heart, and all that jigglin' when you laugh don't hurt none either. Honey if I wasn't thirty years older and dyin' of cancer I'd be on your ass like a tick on a coon hound. But I am and I am, and hell, you know I don't like startin' nothing I can't finish, so there was never any point was there?" Her eyes softened as he spoke, another wave of tears fell and this time he let them. "Nancy was the only woman I've ever loved or could ever bring myself to love. When she passed on a part of me went with her, and I'd be along side her right now if not for you and Kaley."
"Then stay here, for me and Kaley. Stay here for us Frank. We need you."
"You know it damn near killed her when he left the first time, Nan loved him so. Then we got Kaley. She loved that girl with all her heart and loved Chess even more for bringin' her to us. Loved him like he was her own." Frank's wistful look gave way to the determination in his eyes. "In a way he is Janey. Chess is family to me and Nan just like Kaley. Just like you. Don't matter if he only lived with us a few months. Don't matter that he hardly ever calls or writes. If you knew what we knew, you'd understand. Chess, he's a good man. A damned site better than I ever was hon', and Kaley's the proof of that. Nan loved him, Kaley loves him, and I can't help but love him too. So how can you ask me to say no to my boy? Kaley'll have you to be there for her, me? I won't be here much longer no matter what happens so I won't let her lose Chess too. I can't. Hell, at least this way I'll get to go on my own terms."
Frank stood back then, and collected his things from the counter. Taking one last look around the place, the thermos tucked under his arm, paper bag in one hand and his coffee in the other, Frank gave a long, last look at the teary eyed Janey who sat half collapsed in the chair.
"It's all yours now Janey. The house, the Bar, an' Kaley. The papers there cover it all, an' if you've got questions there's the number to your new lawyer written on the envelope. He's a good 'un and he won't screw you over like some of them bastards. One more thing, there's a key to a safe deposit box in there somewhere. Get into that when you can on Monday, it's got some things you'll need and there's something inside for Kaley."
"Frank?"
"My Medal of Honor, I-I want…it's the only thing I ever did back in that part of my life that I'm proud of, an' I want her to have it. I want her to be proud of me. Tell her about it Janey, will ya'?"
"Sure thing Frank. Be careful."
"Always am darlin' how do you think I got to be this old anyway?" He turned and left her there, not another word was said as he walked out of his house for the last time.
Stepping out onto the porch he heard the door behind him close with a rattle, and an involuntary flinch went through him. The crisp, cold air of the pre-dawn morning sucked at his breath and resulted in a violent coughing spasm that left him cursing as the paper bag slipped from under his arm and he spilled most of the coffee from his mug. Recovering slowly, he carefully retrieved the bag noting wryly that the bottom had gotten wet from the spilt coffee that was even now beginning to glaze over in the early morning cold. He carefully avoided the spill and made his way to a large metal garage where, after struggling to slide the door open, he climbed into the cab of a battered Chevy Suburban. Frank situated himself in the seat and smiled as the old beast started up on the first turn of the key. He pulled out of the garage and started down the road without looking back. As he pulled away the familiar sound of the dogs, barking from within the heated kennel, assailed his ears. They were the last part of Nancy he had, but he'd let them go for Chess. He'd let his whole life go for the man he'd come to think of as a son. The boy had a way of doing that, inspiring an uncommon loyalty, a need to protect and defend even though Frank knew better than most he really didn't need either. There was just something about the boy, something he'd seen early on.
He looked at the lanky young man standing there, sweating profusely and despite the coolness of the night air his shirt was sticking to his back. The boy was a pathetic sight, covered in dirt, mud and other, less wholesome substances. The mess was smeared on his face, forearms, and clothing. He was panting, exhausted, and nearly broken. Nearly, but not. Frank hauled off and hocked a glob of tobacco juice into the dirt. The boy's eyes narrowed and his back stiffened, he could sense the on coming tirade.
"Damnit Chester! What the hell is wrong with you boy? Don't you know how to listen?" Frank's eyes bore into the young man. There was no response from the filthy creature standing opposite him. Frank rolled his eyes in disgust.
"Shit son you're as useless as tits on a boar hog. Now get yer ass back there and do it again!"
Frank watched as the boy turned, and without a word of complaint, ran to the end of the warehouse where the beginning of an obstacle course could be seen. He snorted and hiked his left foot up onto an overturned crate. Rolling up his pant leg he retrieved a small screw driver and began tightening the adjustable tension setting on his artificial limb. He stared at the kid while he worked and it came to him, as it often did, that he was upset with himself and not the kid. He'd tried staring the young man down but to no avail. That was what stopped him today. The 'gaze' hadn't worked for him, and that was a first. He was getting used to that with this kid, lots of firsts. He grunted in frustration. Losing the gaze as a tool, it was like losing...well losing his leg. He'd used that gaze for good effect as a drill instructor, hell he'd been known to break cocky recruits using it alone. The kid just stood their unmoved, unaffected, waiting for the next heaping helping of abuse. Nothing fazed him, not the yelling, not the gaze, not even the corporal abuse he suffered for failure. He just absorbed whatever Frank dished out and then came back for seconds. It was like pounding mush, except the kid wasn't mush and that was the problem. He might look wimpy, nerdy, geeky, but there was something there at his core. The kid was really tempered steel wrapped up to look like a geek.
"Okay Chester, we're doing it again...FROM THE BEGINNING!" Frank looked at the kid as he turned wordlessly and started trotting. "MOVE IT BOY!"
The kid said nothing but got to the start of the course, rang the bell to begin the timer, and he was off. Frank watched him and noted his skills, and hence his time, were improving. Frank had been taught as a DI that you had to break 'em to make 'em, but the kid defied that theory. He was probably the slowest learning student he'd ever had, not that he'd had more than a dozen since he'd retired but still, the kid was not a quick study. He wasn't naturally athletic, he wasn't exactly coordinated, and he seemed to lack the temperament for what he was training to do. Truth be told the kid was a loveable geek, why he wanted to learn from Frank was beyond him but he showed up, day in day out at five every morning, working late into the night. No, the boy wasn't a natural that was for damn sure, but he did learn and once he got it down he never made a mistake – he was as good as they come in that respect. Hell in that respect he was the best.
The afternoon had drug on, Frank watched the boy run the course a dozen more times. Most men would have quit, most would have been too exhausted to keep moving, not Chester. Every time he ran the course he got just a hair faster, ran it just a little tighter, made just one less mistake. He'd started off that morning taking over fifteen minutes to run a ten minute course, he ended the day by running the course in nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds. He'd run it a total of seventeen times, and when Frank finally told him it was enough, only then did he collapse. Nancy gave 'em both hell when they got back to the house, ripped into Frank for pushing the boy so hard and then into Chester for being fool enough not to quit. Frank had never seen his Nan take after anyone like that before, no one that is except him. She ran him a hot bath, rubbed him down with Tiger Balm, took dinner up to his room and doted on him like a son. That's when Frank felt something twitch in his side, he felt it too, what Nancy felt. Chester wasn't like any student he'd ever had. The boy had heart, he was determined, a perfectionist, and smarter than anyone he'd ever worked with, it was his motivation he didn't get. The young man had come so far in the last month, he'd found his way through training, he'd found his way into their lives. Chester was a kind, genuine soul, so why did he want to become a killer? Frank would have that discussion with him in the morning, before they'd trained another minute, before his Nan got even more attached to the boy they didn't really know.
The gravel drive Frank had turned down was scraped clean of snow and ice. Grimacing as the Suburban inerrantly found the potholes and bounced the contents of the truck cabin about, he smiled as the long warehouse building came into view. A few minutes later the truck came to a halt in front of the loading dock. The only sound to greet his ears as the echo of the truck door shutting faded was the crunch of his feet as he trod upon the hoar frost that blanketed the ground. In the pre-dawn sky the stars still shown like diamonds in a sea of black velvet, the moon having set only the stars and the light of a distant mercury vapor light near the warehouse lit his way. He made his way across the open ground using slow, confident strides until he finally came to the battered screen door of an equally battered old cracker style house. Frank starting pounding on the door, not stopping until he heard the bolt slide back. The door opened slowly, a small figure bundled severely against the cold stepped out into the harsh pre-dawn. Frank stepped back and gave a long look at the short figure standing in front of him, a thick quilted white snowsuit, heavy winter boots, thick woolen mittens, an old Korean War era trooper's hat and a thick woolen scarf wrapped around the neck and head until only a small slit was open. Turning away toward the warehouse the two walked in silence, two sets of foot steps, one slow and steady the other a staccato of foot falls, echoed across the frozen yard. Frank stopped at the padlocked door to the warehouse, a few moments later the smaller figure trundled up, keys in hand, and began working on the frozen lock. When the lock finally came free the two stepped into a room that felt even colder than the frigid outdoors.
It hadn't taken as long as he thought it would, the small figure was uncommonly strong and managed to move the package single handedly out of the warehouse and into the back of the Suburban. Frank said nothing, did nothing, that's not the kind of place this was. When the package was loaded he simply handed the sack of money to the figure who took it without checking the contents, because that's the kind of place this was. Frank took one look at the package and shuddered. The case was made of anodized steel, a little more than two feet tall, three feet wide and four feet long. There was a panel built into the case so you could look in on the package, and Frank had watched as the small figure slid it open to verify the contents. Frank watched but he didn't bother to look at the time. He looked now and the panel was shut, the crate appeared to be seamless – there were no visible sign of any joint or weld that he could see. If construction of the container alone was any indication, the package was worth far more than the forty thousand he just paid the small figure. Curiosity peaked, Frank's hand hesitated over the panel. He was wondering if he should slide it open and look inside, wondering if he could live with himself if it wasn't a case of his imagination running wild, but thinking clearly. He grabbed the packing blankets next to the package, and covered it with not one, but two of them. Climbing into the cab of the truck he poured himself a cup of coffee, then reached under his seat and retrieved a flask. He poured a generous measure of scotch into the coffee cup and then took a healthy pull straight off the flask itself.
The Suburban bumped and bounced down the gravel drive. Frank realized then that he'd never had that conversation with Chester, the one he'd intended on having the morning after the obstacle course run. The boy had shown up bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to start training again and Frank, well, he'd been so impressed with the boy's determination they got right back to it. Frank was wondering if maybe that conversation wasn't long overdue.
*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*
Topeka, Kansas
The hallway was far from deserted, even though it was just after 5:30 in the morning Chuck was amazed to find two other guests out and about so early and room service carts threatening to choke the hallway. It had to be a Midwestern thing, or perhaps there was a convention of some sort, either way he decided the sudden company worked in his favor. He nodded brightly to the two men, both were dressed in off the rack suits and neither was particularly fit. Not agents, certainly not field agents in any case. Being farther down the hall they naturally reached the elevator first, and the older of the two made sure to hold the door for him. He nodded again as he entered and enjoyed a quiet ride down to the lobby. When the doors opened again Chuck had purposely dropped a pen, giving himself a reason to lag behind and he watched carefully as the two men made their way to the hotel's continental breakfast buffet. Letting loose a breath he hadn't known he was holding, Chuck followed them.
He gave the young hostess a cursory glance, she was cute, desperately trying to look professional, and barely out of high school. He gave her the patented Bartowski half grin and quirked an appreciative eyebrow. A blush was slowly creeping up her cheeks and she couldn't make eye contact with him so now was the time for Charles to press his advantage.
"Hey, um, Kristin. Wow, that's a cute name. Listen, I was wondering, I do a lot of travelling and I'm just not up for the whole continental breakfast buffet thing. I mean seriously, you've eaten breakfast at one Holiday Inn or La Quinta and, well, you know what I mean?"
"Totally, yeah. So you're looking for like the best breakfast buffet in town or something?"
"Yeah, something like that only not really. You know, I'm a California guy and all I'm really looking for is, I dunno, some chocolate croissants, maybe a little fresh fruit, and coffee that doesn't taste like it's made by hobos. Not that there's anything wrong with a good cup of hobo coffee." Chuck's crooked grin grew into a charming smile, and he waggled his eyebrows at the enchanted young woman who proceeded to melt in front of him.
"Oh, um, I think the Copper Oven? It's like this really great bakery downtown with like the best croissants, like almond, and date, and chocolate ones that are to die for. And, oh, they have all of these coffees and stuff like a Starbucks, but their coffee doesn't taste all burnt and stuff." She smiled shyly, looking up at him through her long lashes. "Um, you know I get a break in like half an hour, and if you want to wait I could, um, you know, take you over there?"
"Hey, that'd be great but can we make it tomorrow? I have a meeting this morning and I really can't take the time," Leaning in closer until the notion of personal space was just that. "and trust me, I would love to take the time."
Kristin was reduced to blushing and giggles then, but before Chuck could walk away he felt a foreign hand tugging on his coat pocket. He looked down to see Kristin's hand pulling back and reaching in he retrieved a slip of paper, a blank receipt with a phone number. He smiled at her and winked, her pink cheeks reddened considerably and as he walked off he could hear her back hitting the wall behind the hostess' counter.
*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*
Snow was falling thicker now, blanketing the city and finding a cab at six on a Saturday morning proved no mean feat. Fortunately a ten dollar bill was more than enough for the doorman to hail him not only a decent cab, but one that didn't smell like a cab, that is to say the essence of stale sweat and feet was noticeably absent. Chuck settled into the seat, the cab's heater chasing the winter chill from his bones. The weather was turning worse, faster than he'd thought it would. Frank was at least six hours out and if he didn't get here ahead of the storm it was going to complicate things. Still, he couldn't complain. It was a lot to ask of him, to help him kill off Charles Bartowski, but if any man could do it, it'd be Frank.
The cab lurched to a stop then and his head shot up, instinctively checking the sight lines and looking for trouble. What he saw was another cab that had skidded to a stop and hit two parked cars. There didn't seem to be any injuries, but as they slowly pulled around them Chuck couldn't help but notice an attractive brunette, slim build, pleasant features underneath the mantle of snow that was rapidly obscuring them, she seemed to be lost as the cabbie and what had to be one of the cars' owners was arguing.
"Stop here for a second." Chuck waited for the cabbie to stop, then reached across to the other window and pushed the button to lower the window. "Hey, need a lift?"
The brunette looked around in surprise then saw the cab and waved. She wasted no time in making her way over to them, grabbing the door and climbing in.
"Thanks for the lift, it's brutal out there." The brunette began gamely brushing the snow from her face and hair. As she settled in her coat sleeve slid up exposing a good part of her wrist including a tasteful ladies' watch. Chuck stiffened imperceptibly and a moment later the newcomer cast a glance up at her travelling companion suddenly stilled.
"No problem." Chuck smiled warmly. "I'm just off to get some breakfast. There's this bakery called the Copper Oven, it's supposed to be great."
"Oh, um, really? So you're not from Topeka?" The brunette's voice was chattering and not just from the cold.
"No, no I'm from Miami, just up here on for work. I'm in agribusiness sales and support, computer ordering mostly. Sorry, here I am rambling on about my work and I didn't even get your name." Chuck had turned in the seat so he was facing her squarely, one hand resting on the back seat near her head, the other bracing himself on the passenger's head rest, effectively blocking the cabbie's view of the back seat.
"B-Brenda, Brenda Dixon." Brenda's voice shrank as she spoke.
"Hi Brenda, Brenda Dixon. I'm Charles Carmichael, but I'm guessing you already knew that." Chuck smiled warmly at her and the hand near her head moved to gently brush a few errant locks from her face. She seemed to start at his touch before relaxing into her seat.
"How, how did you..." Brenda never finished her sentence.
Chuck waited until she was sound asleep before he pulled the tranq dart from the side of her neck. He slid back into the seat next to her, sliding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her toward him. His hands concealed from view he easily slipped the CIA issue tracking watch off of her wrist and dropped it to the floor where he ground it under the heel of his shoe. He gently pulled her head down onto his shoulder, smoothed out her hair and smiled. To all the world it would look like a man comforting his exhausted girl friend.
"Hey, driver? Listen my girlfriend here is exhausted, we had a late flight last night and she can't sleep or eat on a plane, so she's practically passed our from hunger. When we get to the Copper Oven, leave the meter running and I'll just slip in and get our breakfast, then you can drive me back to my hotel. Okay?" Chuck saw the narrowing eyes, the calculating look, and screwed his smile on tighter. The driver knew something wasn't right, he'd probably been paying attention to the first part of their conversation. Damn. He slipped a fifty out of his money clip and held it between two fingers for the driver to see. "I said okay?"
"Sure thing Mr Carmichael, no problem." The driver snatched the fifty and gave him a slick grin. "Ya' know Mr Carmichael, days like today not a lot of business for us cabbies. Two hundred plus the meter can buy my services for the day."
"Let's make it three hundred, you've got an honest face." Chuck peeled off three hundred dollar bills, leaning forward so his suit jacket fell open and the butt of his pistol was easily seen by the cabbie who was watching his every move. He held the money in between two fingers and offered it to the cabbie. "Do we have a deal?"
"S-Sure Mr Carmichael. We gotta deal." The cabbie nervously snatched the money from Chuck's fingers and eyed him warily. His eyes widened when he heard what Chuck had to say next.
"Listen, Walter is it? Listen Walter, I can see from your hack license that you've been doing this for a few years, so I'm going to guess you know how the game is played. I offered you money, you took the money, so I own your ass now. Do not fuck with me Walter. I'm the kind of people you do not want to fuck with, bad things happen to the people that try. You drive me where I need to go, do what I tell you when I tell you, and I'll pay the meter and even tip you a few bills. Fuck with me and the last thing you'll think before the lights go out is, 'ouch' Okay Walter?"
"S-Sure thing Mr Carmichael. An-Anything you say."
"Good man Walter. Now get me to the Copper Oven, I'm hungry as hell and I get damned cranky when I haven't eaten."
The rest of the trip was blissfully uneventful, or what passed for uneventful in Chuck's life. Brenda remained passed out in the back seat, never moving the entire time. Chuck walked Walter into the Copper Oven, the cabbie seemed sufficiently cowed that he didn't do anything without looking to Chuck for permission first. They left the bakery holding a bag laden heavy with a variety of baked goods, a container of fresh fruit salad and three large cups of a lovely medium roast Hawaiian Kona that smelt like heaven. He directed the cabbie back to his hotel, having him pull into a darkened part of the parking garage where, as soon as the cab stopped, he slipped the tranq into Walter's neck. Hauling Walter's body out of the driver's seat, Chuck stuffed his sleeping form into the trunk, taking care to cover him with the spotted and stinking blanket he found there. It took Chuck a matter of minutes to get packed, checked out, and back to the cab. He set his bags in the back seat next to Brenda and taking the wheel of the cab drove off into Topeka traffic. He had errands to run, and three unexpected problems to resolve: a hijacked cab, a kidnapped cabbie, and a purloined CIA agent.
*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*---*
Topeka, Kansas
Flexibility is how a spy survives, it's even more important when one is running from other spies. Experiences of the last few years had taught him many things, such as the obvious solution was often the best one, and never roll into town without having options. He'd been forced to leave the Holiday Inn, but it was no real loss because he had alternates already booked. He had a cab and cabbie to dispose of, but those were easily dealt with by simply abandoning them both on the side of the road then calling in the cabbie for suspected DUI. He'd get a nice warm cell, the breathalyzer or blood test would clear him of intoxication, and he'd be detained for at least a half a day in processing. That left him only Brenda to deal with. Sometimes the obvious solution is the best, sometimes it's better if you take a more complex approach.
A rental car to replace the cab, a splash of scotch on Brenda's coat and another on her gums to dress the stage, insisting to the desk manager that their room reservation be changed to someplace toward the back and away from the elevators since his wife suffered from migraines and the play was set. All it took was a fifty dollar tip to an older, world weary bellman and there was no problem getting someone to help him 'walk' his wife up to their room, no question as to why she was passed out drunk in the back of the car just pained expressions of understanding. That was how Mr and Mrs Charles Montgomery found themselves at the airport Marriott with half the staff gossiping about her being a lush, and him being a saint.
The luggage had been unpacked, a half dozen plastic shopping bags from the local Wal-Mart and a DIY store were scattered around the bed, when Chuck could hear the sound of muffled protests coming from the closet near their bathroom. He pushed the closet door open and there she was, the lovely Mrs Montgomery, bound, gagged, and looking quite scared. He smiled at her, and motioned for her to be quiet. He pulled out his tactical knife and brought it to her cheek, carefully severing the bond that held her gag in.
"Okay Brenda, I should warn you that yelling is useless. The staff thinks you're an alcoholic and prone to benders, so if you scream they'll just assume you're awake and I'm trying to calm you down." Chuck smiled wanly. "Also, screaming would not be the best way to convince me not to gag you again, so unless you're into the whole bondage scene…" Brenda shook her head. "I didn't think so."
"H-How did you know I was CIA?"
"The watch, it was a standard GPS tracking watch. CIA issue, woman's sport model. I had one just like it, only the man's sport model." Brenda squirmed uncomfortably. "Don't bother feeling for it on your wrist, I got rid of it not long after I tranqed you. It's about a block from where I picked you up."
"Oh. Where are we now?" She asked innocently.
"Farther away than that." Chuck's level gaze never shifted, but he did. Reaching forward he grabbed her under the shoulders and lifted her up, helping her hop to one of the chairs. He took the knife and separated the restraints on her hands and pushed her gently back into the chair. "That has to be more comfortable than the closet. Be good and I won't put you back in there right away."
"Y-You should know they're here looking for you."
"Who?"
"Agent Walker, the CIA. We've got a team in this area and we…she, she wants to bring you in. Alive."
"Oh I don't doubt that's what the CIA wants, but what about the NSA? What about General Beckman? Diane surely hasn't given up on me, not after all that we've come to mean to each other." The puzzled look on Brenda's face made Chuck relent. "Sorry, the hazards of being on mission for so long, deep cover cynicism."
"I wouldn't know."
"I know, it's pretty obvious. You're an analyst."
"Really? It is?"
"Yeah, you're not acting quite as nervous and out of your element as I did the first time I was kidnapped. Actually you're doing a whole lot better, there was a lot of screaming and begging for mercy when I got kidnapped."
"You…you…wh-what did you do to them?"
"Me? Nothing, I was too busy crying like a little girl and begging them not to hurt me. Sarah and Casey? That's a whole other story." Chuck could see the bemused look on her face and smiled like an indulgent parent. "There was a time Brenda, when I trusted them with my life. Do you mind if I call you Brenda, by the way?"
Brenda shrugged.
"You can call me Chuck." He offered.
"Chuck? Really?" Brenda gave him an almost bemused look then.
"Yep, it's my name. Charles Irving Bartowski. I know, it's the Irving right? I mean naming your kid Charles isn't that bad, Charles is kind of classy and dashing, and Chuck is dependable and forthright, but Irving? Irving is an accountant's name, not just an accountant, one who get's indicted for tax evasion. I mean who names their kid Irving? Why not just go all out and name me Leslie Marion." He watched Brenda's face screw itself into disbelief. "Okay, it's been a while and maybe that wasn't my best material but it should have at least made you laugh at me if not with me."
"I'm sorry I just don't get it."
"Get what?"
"Well, you're supposed to be this dangerous, really dangerous, incredibly dangerous deep cover level five type super spy, and they told us all about the people you've killed and how smart you are with the things you've invented and what you're capable of, and…and no where did it say you were a goof." She stared at him, a hard appraising stare devoid of any fear or emotion. "You look like an agent, move like an agent, you had me in the can before I knew what was going on. We were briefed to give you a wide berth, avoid contact, it made sense then but it just…I don't get it. Who are you? Why are you so important? Why haven't you killed me?"
There was a brief, tense moment when it seemed as if the air had left the room, and Brenda was waiting for the knife that had never left Chuck's hand to silently end her life. Instead he gave her the most endearing crooked smile, gazed at her with warm chocolate eyes and laughed softly. He stood up and reached into one of the plastic shopping bags and produced two bottles of water, handing her one.
"You're going to be thirsty, the tranq darts have that effect on people plus it's easy to dehydrate in the winter." Chuck paused, waiting for her to open the bottle of water and drink, which she did without hesitation. "You are Brenda Dixon, and you work for the CIA but you are not an agent, you are in fact an analyst – that we've already established. Now let's see what we can suppose, you're an analyst in the field and one I didn't recognize which means that Sarah picked you for this mission because I wouldn't recognize you, and since you're an analyst and not an agent I'm going to assume that the rest of the team is made up of analysts and agents that I also won't easily recognize, that would therefore mean that you and they have all served less than three years with the CIA, the exception of course being Sarah herself and her little helper Astrid. How am I doing so far?"
Brenda stood stock still, absolutely unmoving, barely even breathing.
"Wow, so I was right on everything? Huh, even I'm finding that pretty impressive." The surprise in her face was matched by that in her voice.
"H-How did you? I didn't do anything…"
"You didn't do anything, in fact you tried so hard not to do anything to tip me off that I knew I had to be right, otherwise you would have tried to encourage some false assumption on my part. I was once a trusting and naïve person, much like yourself, it took a lot of work for the NSA and CIA to disabuse me of the notion that anyone is ever really trustworthy. I'd suggest you learn that sooner rather than later yourself." Chuck took a drink of water and stared at this shoes intently before looking back at Brenda. "Now to answer your questions in reverse order, I haven't killed you because I don't intend to kill you." He saw the shocked look on her face and hastily amended. "Bartowski's rules for being a superspy, number 17 When I capture a potential ally, I will not threaten them, nor will I tempt them with false promises of gold or glory. Instead I will deal with them as I would want to be dealt with: openly, honestly, with respect and a modicum of trust."
"Bartowski's rules for being a superspy?"
"Yeah, kind of like the rules for being an evil overlord. I adapted a few of them as necessary."
"So you think you can make me into an ally and that I'll betray my friends, betray my country? Is that what you think of me?"
"No Brenda, I don't think that at all. At least not the betrayal part. I don't want that, I wouldn't ask that of you." Chuck leaned in, elbows on his knees. "I want you to know I've never betrayed my country, or my friends. In fact I've worked to make sure that Casey and Sarah stay alive, and I've even fed them information about Fulcrum, SWORD, the Triumvirate… Look Agent Dixon, believe what you want about me, but I was the one betrayed. My trust was betrayed. I know what that's like so no, I don't expect or want you to betray your friends or your country. What I want you to do, is listen. Can you do that for me?"
"What do you have to say? Tell me and I'll listen." Brenda settled back into the chair, arms folded, her face focused intently on Chuck's.
"Okay, good. If you're willing to listen then I guess it's time for me to answer your other two questions. Who am I? Why am I so important?" Chuck's voice dropped into a harsh whisper. "Let me ask you something Agent Dixon, what do you know about something they call the Intersect?"
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Chuck dumped out the contents of his plastic Wal-Mart and DIY store shopping bags onto the bed being careful not to disturb Brenda who was sleeping off a 10mg dose of Ativan. He wasn't' sure if she believed him or not, but by the end of his story she seemed far less sure that she was on the right side, and that was a start. He sorted through the menagerie of what would have appeared to be impulse buys to the uninitiated, and selected a few choice items to start with: aluminum foil, copper wire, electrical tape, heavy shears, a can of Pringles, a tube of superglue, latex gloves, an aluminum salad bowl, a hole punch, a ball peen hammer, a cheap cell phone, a police scanner, and a brand new Blackberry Storm. He dumped the Pringles into a napkin on the bed next to where the rest of the junk was sitting and got to work pulling the components apart. Chuck couldn't help but wonder what Brenda or the rest of the CIA would make of his latest contraption when they discovered it. He knew from what she'd been willing to tell him, and more from what he'd been able to deduce from those inferences, that at least a half dozen of his kluged together inventions were now being used by The Company in various forms. Even if they didn't give him credit for their creation, he left a certain amount of pride in that.
He considered what he now knew. Their being here was an accident, Sarah and the CIA agents had been on their way to Denver when a mechanical failure forced them down here. He was right, the team was selected so he couldn't recognize them, Brenda herself is a relatively junior intelligence analyst who handles mostly anti-terrorism work. She has a boyfriend who's a field agent and he's already promised not to kill him. The CIA really does want him back, and now he knows why. Beckman's troubles are worse than he'd hoped, she no longer has any input into CIA domestic operations at all. In fact it's practically an inter-agency war over him, with Sarah trying to save him and Casey leading the "Kill Chuck" team. Just like old times really. Also he knows now he may have pushed Beckman too far. The NSA is coming after him as hard as they are because she's been playing Captain Ahab to his Moby Dick – she's obsessed with getting him before she's forced out of office. Now the whole Deanna Beckman thing seems really pointless. His lowest point just got lower, Chuck shook his head in self disgust. Still he had to wonder, did Beckman regret sending the kill order now knowing how many lives it had cost, knowing for the first time exactly what the personal cost was when she played games with people's lives, or what the real price was that their work demanded? He wondered too at how Sarah described him to the team. According to Brenda he was basically seen as a twisted genius, deadly, unpredictable, and lethal. Sarah was using the team she'd assembled like a net to draw around him, but she'd come after him herself – that meant a change of plans. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips. Always it was Sarah. He'd felt like a second class, second rate, nobody for so long, but never with Sarah. Chuck had been more than happy at Stanford being Bryce's nerdy friend and Jill's boyfriend. He had no problems at the BuyMore being relegated to Nerd Herd supervisor. He never challenged Beckman or the CIA as often as he should have when they treated him as just "the Intersect". He'd let himself be treated like he deserved less because he thought that's what he deserved. Not Sarah. She'd always told him he could do anything and looking back he knew Sarah was the reason he was still here, still alive and fighting, because she made him believe it was true.
While he worked his mind drifted and Chuck played the what-if game, a favorite means of mental self-flagellation that he often indulged in it when he shouldn't, positing scenarios where he'd gone left instead of right, where the CIA hadn't tried to kill him and he was still working with Sarah or better still they'd quit the CIA entirely, gotten married and were raising a family while Bryce was serving penance as Beckman's cabana boy in hell. Before long he was done with the task at hand and Chuck superglued the last of the modified components into place. To the uninitiated it probably looked like a salad bowl, a Pringles can, a cell phone and a police scanner had suffered a calamitous accident and had been haphazardly reassembled by a blind man. He picked up the Blackberry Storm, removed the back and popped the SIM chip inside and extracted a nearly identical one from a clear plastic tube he'd retrieved from his pocket. Flipping a switch he powered up the contraption, then Chuck plugged a patch cable from the Blackberry into his creation and powered on the phone. He may be living the life of Charles Carmichael right then, but the grin on his face when he looked down at the screen to see the words "ACCESSING SIGNAL" was the same old Chuck Bartowski grin, and when he heard the phone chime and the mellifluous female voice speak he was as excited as if he'd just gotten the latest COD Beta.
"Welcome to the National Security Agency's automated switchboard. Communications control satellite 014107. It is now 14:42 Hours, Eastern Standard Time. Please input Voice Control Pattern for authentication."
Chuck pulled a digital recorder from his pocket and hit play.
"General Diane Beckman" came out of his recorder and Chuck's eyes glinted with glee.
"Voice Control Pattern verified. Welcome to communications control satellite 014107 General, you have been granted direct access to the NSA automated switchboard. Please select the function or functions you would like performed."
Chuck scrolled through the menu and keyed in his entry.
"You have selected, option six: trace and locate NSA personnel. Please identify NSA personnel to locate."
Chuck pushed the button on his digital recorder again and Beckman's voice announced "Lieutenant Colonel John Casey."
"Trace initiated" There was a pause for several seconds until, "Subject found. Lieutenant Colonel John Casey, located 43 minutes west southwest of Kansas City, Kansas. Subject is en route…travel plan filed…destination Topeka, Kansas. Notice, inclement weather may alter estimated time to arrival. ETA currently one hour, forty-eight minutes."
Chuck smiled, it was just what he'd expected to hear.
"Note, subject has requested assistance. Tactical teams Alpha One and Alpha Two are en routed to Topeka Kansas. Estimated time of arrival for tactical team Alpha One, four hours seventeen minutes; Alpha Two, seven hours thirty-one minutes."
That was not what he'd expected to hear. Casey wasn't taking any chances this time, Chuck smiled, his old friend finally showing him some respect but always just a little too little and a little too late. Keying in the next sequence he waited for the response, worrying that the answer would derail his plans.
"You have selected option eleven: assign new travel plan. To assign new travel plans to previously viewed subjects select option now, to assign no travel plans to subjects not previously viewed return to main menu and select option six."
Chuck's smile grew until it threatened his ears. 'God bless intuitive menus and lazy users.' He thought. Chuck worked his way through the menu of options and sub options until he'd managed to reroute both tactical teams, sending Alpha One to Anchorage, and Alpha Two to Portland, Maine. Before logging out he took the extra step of revoking Casey's user ID. It would take Casey a matter of hours to figure out what had happened once the Tac teams failed to arrive, but it would take him a lot longer to fix if he didn't have access to the switchboard.
His first task completed Chuck set back to work with the remainder of his supplies. Motion sensors and cheap cell phones, common household chemicals, cheap electronic toys, it was amazing what one could do with what one found for sale at a Wal-Mart. If the NSA was really serious about terrorism, they'd forget about Fulcrum and go after the folks in Bentonville Arkansas.
Again Chuck found time to think as he worked, but now he was thinking specifically about how to deal with his two former friends. Casey's and Sarah's approaches would be different, Casey would be the blunt instrument and Sarah the surgeon. It was easy to stop a blunt instrument, use an even blunter instrument. He planned on hitting Casey so hard, metaphorically speaking, that the man would be limping for a month, end of story. It was surgical Sarah he had to worry about. She'd always been more dangerous to him than Casey because she knew him better than anyone. On top of that she was already here, in Topeka, instead of in Denver where she was meant to be. What was he going to do? If Brenda didn't pan out, if he couldn't turn her into a double agent for his side, then it could come down to force. If it came down to it he knew he could pull the trigger on Casey, but Sarah? No, there was still no way, there never would be. If it weren't for Kaley he'd simply wait for Sarah to find him and end it all, but it's not about him anymore, it's bigger than that. The game was coming to an end one way or another and while he had more options now they were all 'if' options; if Frank got here in time, if Brenda went double agent, if he could work out a deal with Sarah, if Casey stayed true to character, if Beckman's successor would let it go. Too many ifs for him to deal with, too many chances for things to go wrong, and still it was his only chance to get away from his past.
A/N: As always, feedback is welcome