A/N: I know it's been absolutely ages since I updated this story, but for anyone who is still interested, it's a bit longer than the previous chapters, so I hope that makes up for it.

Again, I want to say a massive thank you to my beta, DanaPAH, who has been really amazing in editing this chapter and made a load of helpful suggestions.

Dana – Apparently there are two spellings of Whisky, a Scottish spelling (Whisky) and an Irish spelling (Whiskey). I went with the Scottish spelling as I'm most familiar with it, but I guess they use the Irish one in the States. ;)

Also, my incorrect spelling of Johnnie Walker has now been corrected.

Even though this isn't a Christmas story, thought I'd say Merry Christmas anyway for those who celebrate Christmas, and Happy Holidays for those who don't!

Please read, review and enjoy!

Chapter 3

In My Sleep Seeing Red

October 2nd, 2007

Los Angeles, California

17:38 PST

Chuck slit the card into the electronic lock of the hotel door, and after a green light flashed, stepped into a much nicer room than the one he had just left. It was pretty impressive; there was a king size bed at the centre, a flat screen TV, a large bath and a rather spectacular view of downtown L.A. The CIA would never splash out on a room like this for only a few days stay. Yet another difference in the way that the CIA and The Ring operated.

He was staying under an alias. An alias to his alias. Several minutes ago, Daniel Marks had checked in, here in town representing his New York management consultancy firm at a conference, or so the receptionist's computer had told him. What Chuck was really here for, he couldn't say. It had been a short and uneventful flight back from Mexico and Cooper had refused to divulge anything about what they were here to do, other than that they had something to take of. When Cooper had dropped him off, he'd told Chuck not to get too comfortable, as they were only going to be in Los Angeles for a few days.

Chuck threw his small travel bag down on the bed and ran his hands through his hair. He had cut it short several weeks ago, and his brown curls were only just starting to reappear. Still, despite its short length, his hair was a mess. He hadn't had time for a shower before they left Mexico, as Cooper had started pounding on his door at the crack of dawn, saying they had to leave. The drive back to the dusty Mexican airstrip in the open top Jeep hadn't done wonders for his cleanliness either, and the small Cessna thathad flown them back didn't have the facilities for him to clean up in.

He really did need a shower.

He sighed and kicked off his boots.

Chuck began to methodically empty his pockets, dumping his phone and wallet on the bed. The latter fell open, revealing the empty picture holder. His heart began to fill with regret as he stared into it. He could almost see the crumpled picture that used to be there of him and Ellie, back when she was in medical school and he was at Stanford. They had looked so happy in that photo, despite all the hardships they'd had to endure. That felt like a life time ago.

He'd had to get rid of that photo.

He quickly closed his wallet, shutting the memory away and began to strip. He put his dark jacket over the back of a chair. The jacket was heavily worn and he probably should have thrown it away by now, but Ellie had bought that for him. He needed that jacket.

He cast his gun down on the bed, next to his wallet and phone and, instantly, felt lighter. Carrying it with him so often was starting to make him feel that the gun was an extension of his actual person, and that disgusted him. Yesterday that disgust had finally come to the surface. He'd hastily had to reassemble the Walther in the morning before Cooper could see the evidence of his moment of weakness.

He let his shirt and jeans fall to the floor, before pulling off his boxers. Not bothering to fold his discarded clothes, he strode straight into the bathroom and into the walk-in shower. He turned the temperature gauge right down and, pulling the handle down hard, let the freezing water rain down on him.

He silently screamed into the shower wall as he let the water rinse all over him, washing away all the traces of the last few days. His skin felt like it was on fire.

He was in control.

His skin was becoming raw.

He was in control.

Outer extremities were starting to lose feeling.

Busgang was on the floor dead in Mexico.

Just a little longer.

He was responsible for his death.

His body was now begging for a release.

That was enough.

Chuck slowly began to reverse to temperature gauge.

Like a sudden release of breath, he started to feel better, the warm water gradually returning feeling to his body.

He was in control.

He controlled his life.

After toweling himself off, he went back into his bedroom and pulled on a clean pair of boxers and crawled under the covers of his bed. Into the warmth.

Chuck didn't feel tired.

Despite everything, he felt wide awake.

He just stared at the ceiling above.

He really wasn't feeling that tired.

He didn't even want to close his eyes.

# # #

Echo Park looked exactly the way it had the last time he'd been there. The hanging plants weres still slighly overgrown, the garden chairs were still spread casually around the courtyard and water was splashing from the fountain into the pond, still peacefully breaking the silence.

Chuck smiled contentedly as he surveyed the nostalgic scene before him.

It was good to be home.

He walked past the fountain and up to the apartment he used to share with his sister. The door was hanging slightly ajar, giving him pause.

No-one was there.

He frowned slightly at the lack of greeting party.

"Ellie? Devon?" he called as he leant hesitantly through the door. A feeling of unease was starting to creep up on him. "Guys? It's me."

No response.

Not wanting to jump to any conclusions, he swallowed back his unease and stepped inside.

They could have just stepped out for a minute, or gone for a run and forgot to close the door, or someone could have broke in and-

"Ellie? Dev-"

Relief flooded through him and the smile returned to his face as he saw his sister and her boyfriend sitting on the couch. He had missed them both terribly and his sore eyes drunk in the sight before him.

He took a deep breath.

"Hey guys. How are you?"

His smile slipped slightly as he recieved no response from either of them.

"Err, guys? It's me. I know I haven't been around in a while, but it's me. It's Chuck."

He then noticed that they hadn't looked at him. Instead, they were both sitting upright staring at the television. The television that was turned off. And even more troubling were the blank expressions on their faces.

"Ellie? It's me. It's your brother! Say something!"

Seeming to recognise the rising level of desperation in his voice, Ellie turned her head slightly towards him and squinted, not quite looking into his eyes. Her eyes were very white and she seemed to be gazing right through him, trying to focus on something in the distance.

"My brother?" she questioned, the words seeming to sound foreign to her as she said them. "My brother's dead."

Chuck started to shake his head."Dead? No, Ellie. I'm not dead. I'm here, see."

He moved over in front of them, blocking their view of the TV, and picked up Ellie's hand.

"Look," he pleaded, holding her hand tightly, trying desperately to find some form of recognition in her eyes. "See, it's me. I'm here."

Ellie merely shook her head. "No. No, you're not my brother. Chuck died a long time ago."

"I didn't die, Ellie. I'm here. Ellie, please. I'm right here!"

Ellie didn't answer.

"No, bro. You're not," Devon said, answering for her, his voice low and carrying the same hollowness as Ellie's.

Now Chuck was really starting to panic. What was wrong with them? Couldn't they see that it was him? Sure, he had been gone a while and they were probably upset that he hadn't exactly kept in contact. But for them to think he was dead? He hadn't changed that much, had he?

"Hey, buddy," another familiar voice said from the back of the apartment.

Chuck's spirits immediately lifted and he looked up to see Morgan walking round the corner, his bearded friend eating an apple.

"Morgan!"

Chuck quickly moved past Ellie and Devon, towards his best friend. His best friend who had miraculously recognised him.

Morgan drew his other hand out of his pocket and held it up in front of Chuck. "Wow, slow down there, buddy!"

"Morgan, we gotta do something. Something's wrong with Ellie and Awesome. Something's really very wrong. They don't know who I am!"

Morgan grimaced and shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with them. Sorry, buddy, I hate to break it to you, but you're dead."

"What? No, I'm not. I'm right here!"

But before Morgan could respond, he felt a hand on his left shoulder. He turned to see Cooper standing there next to him. His grey, emotionless eyes were staring into him.

"Come on, Chuck. It's time to go."

"No!" Chuck cried, trying to shake hand from his shoulder. "This is my family! I'm staying right here!"

Cooper frowned and looked around."What family? No-one's here, Chuck."

Chuck looked around the now empty apartment, stunned. Ellie, Awesome and Morgan were all gone.

They couldn't be gone, they were just here. He had just seen them!

"NO!"

"Come on, Carmichael." Cooper said laughing him off, gesturing towards the door.

The grey eyes suddenly filled with malice. "Chuck's dead."

Chuck felt a sudden wave of anger pass through him, "No, I'm not."

And he lashed out at Cooper.

# # #

Chuck was ripped back into consciousness by the sudden pain in his hand.

And the strength his anger.

His right hand was throbbing.

He opened his eyes to see that his knuckles were covered in blood. He turned to see that

he had hit the small wooden cabinet by the side of his bed. The wood was splintered slightly, with several drops of blood mixed in.

Shit.

His head fell back down hard against the pillow.

He glanced over at the small clock in his room, and saw that it had been 40 minutes since he'd got out of the shower. He was now drenched in sweat. At least he had slept.

He was about to go clean his hand when his phone started to vibrate. Grabbing it with his good hand, he pulled it to his ear.

"Yeah, what is it?" he growled, the anger he still felt echoing through his words.

Cooper gave no indication he had heard – or cared about – Chuck's tone.

"I'm texting you an address, be there in 30 minutes."

Chuck was really getting impatient with Cooper's cryptic nature. "Why? More scientists to execute?"

The other man actually chuckled down the phone, which only fuelled his anger.

"Not this time, Carmichael. But there's something special we got planned for you."

Chuck listened for more, but there was none.

# # #

The day was starting to wane when Chuck got a cab to the downtown address Cooper had texted him. He'd barely had to time to clean up his hand and re-shower before he'd had to leave the hotel room. He'd wrapped up his hand in an improvised bandage; fortunately the cut wasn't deep enough for him to need stitches. His travel bag hadn't contained any painkillers and, consequently, the pain currently emanating from his hand was keeping him alert. It almost made up for his lack of real sleep. Almost.

He'd asked the driver to roll down the window on the way over. The air that had blasted his face was cold, but it had helped calm the emotions that had been running through him since the dream. He desperately needed to relax. He could not afford to have these emotions running through him right now.

The taxi dropped him off in front of a large indistinct office building, where Cooper was waiting for him. He payed the driver and walked over to his partner.

"What happened to your hand?" Cooper asked, nodding at his bandaged hand.

"Kitchen accident," Chuck replied dismissively.

Apparently satisfied with the response, Cooper gestured for him to follow and led them into the office building.

They passed through a tall glass door and crossed the large empty lobby. The guard sitting at the reception desk briefly looked up at them before going back to his crossword. At the back of the lobby there were a row of elevators, which they came a stop in front of. Cooper pressed the up button and, with a little ring, the elevator doors on the far left opened. They stepped into it.

"Which floor?" Chuck asked.

"The top one."

He hit the button for the twentieth floor, thinking that was odd. The building had looked at least ten stories higher from the outside.

The elevator began to rise.

"So," Chuck began, digging his hands into his pockets. "Something special planned, huh? Is it a mission?"

No answer.

"I only ask," he continued, allowing his overriding tendency to babble breaking the uncomfortable silence, "because I wasn't sure whether there was anything I needed to bring for said mission. Throwing knives? Nun-chucks? Lightsaber?"

Cooper frowned at him. His attempt at humour clearly not getting through.

Although, that was implying that the other man even had a sense of humour.

"No, it's not a mission."

Before Chuck could reply, the elevator doors opened to reveal a small room with another reception desk at the centre. The guard behind this one was wearing a different uniform. He readily jumped up from his seat as he saw the two men step out of the elevator and nodded at Cooper, before walking over to the other side of the room, where there was a second elevator. He twisted a key into a wall panel and the other elevator's door opened.

Chuck followed Cooper across the room to the other elevator, his curiosity rising. The doors closed as they stepped inside. This elevator was considerably smaller than the one they had just exited. There were twelve buttons by the door, none of them labelled. Chuck counted that Cooper hit the seventh one up.

Probably something more important than typical offices up here.

Cooper turned toward him. "I'm going to need you to hand over your gun."

What the hell?

He'd grown accustomed to carrying the gun on him and, as much as he hated having to do so, being asked to surrender it now was making him feel uneasy. Unprotected.

"Why?"

Cooper shrugged. "Precaution."

They still don't trust me.

Chuck raised an eyebrow slightly and passed the other man his gun.

"Do you have any other weapons on you?"

"No. Just the Walther."

The ride up was briefer this time. They exited into a long narrow corridor, the lighting arranged in such a way to almost conceal the doors on either side of it. Several security cameras were tactically placed along its length.

At the end of the corridor there was a door to a large looking office with a secretary's desk in front of it. Behind it sat a blonde women in her thirties, dressed in a business suit. She was talking on the phone as they approached.

"Yes, contact the ambassador about the ransom offer..."

She trailed off as she saw Chuck and Cooper come to halt in front of her.

"I'll have to get back to you," she said before hanging up the phone.

She flashed a smile at the two men, which Chuck could see that it was forced.

"Gentlemen, you can go right in. He's expecting you."

Cooper gestured for Chuck to go first.

Chuck stepped round the desk and into the large office.

Instead of following him in, Cooper promptly closed the door behind him, causing Chuck to flinch slightly.

Looks like he was alone for this one.

There was a very planar feeling about the room he had just entered. The empty walls were grey, the same colour as the floor. At the rear of the room was a wide window and in front of it was steel desk. There was no sign of any decoration or personal items anywhere in the room.

Behind the desk stood a short man who was staring out the window.

"Welcome, Agent Carmichael. I've been waiting to meet you for a very long time."

He spoke with an accent that Chuck thought was English, but there was something that sounded indeterminate about it.

"Err, likewise," Chuck responded awkwardly, not recognising the other man's voice. "Who are you, sorry?"

The man, who looked to be around forty and was balding slightly at the temples, turned to face him. Chuck noted the expensive Italian suit that he was wearing and, with all the addition security he had just been subject to, concluded that this man must be very high up in the Ring.

"I'm the Director, Charles," he replied simply. "Take a seat."

If not for the blank expression on his face, Chuck would have mistaken his tone for sarcasm.

Chuck walked up to the desk and took the only seat in front of it.

"I have to say, you've really impressed me so far," the Director continued, taking his own seat behind the desk.

Chuck smiled.

"The intelligence you've provided since you arrived has been of great use to us."

"I try to please."

"Evidently," said the Director, pushing his palms together. "Your skills as an analyst have also been useful and Dr Cooper reports that you have performed adequately in the field."

Chuck frowned slightly, Dr Cooper?

"Yes," The Director said, picking up on his surprise. "He holds a doctorate in psychology. He actually speaks relatively highly of you. Judging by your expression, I take it you're not too fond of him. I don't like him, either. But sociopaths like him are an unpleasant necessity in our line of business."

The Director then pulled a file out of the desk drawer and slid it across the table.

"What's this?"

"That, Charles, is you," the Director smoothly answered. "You. Your academic record at Stanford. Your record at the CIA as an analyst and your brief history as a field agent."

He paused to let the last part linger slightly.

Chuck swallowed slightly, trying to maintain the composed expression on his face. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because, Charles. It shows one thing. You've never killed anyone. You were no Bryce Larkin at the CIA, Charles. Not much of a spy, were you?"

"I am a spy," Chuck retorted, not bothered to hide the resentment in his tone.

"You've never killed anyone," the Director repeated.

"I've never had the chance to. The CIA canned me before I could pass my Red Test," Chuck said quickly. He wasn't going to let the past hold him back now.

The Director nodded, then threw a second file across the table to Chuck and indicated for him to open it.

Chuck warily opened the file. Inside was a photo of a man and several papers. The man in the photo looked to be in his late twenties, with shoulder length brown hair and matching brown eyes. There was nothing in this man's appearance to suggest why he was being shown this photo. In fact, he looked perfectly normal.

Chuck frowned, he was starting to get an all too familiar bad feeling about this.

"That is Raymond Perry," The Director said, having allowed him a few moments to read over the file. "Raised on the East Coast. Graduated MIT with a major in computer sciences. Had a brief stint in the army. Now, he works as someone who finds hard-to-get information. Supposedly, he works exclusively for us."

Chuck looked up from the file. "I take it this isn't the case."

"No," The Director said, shaking his head, "He also sells information to the CIA and several other agencies. He thinks that we're unaware of this. We've never really been bothered by his other activities before. But recently he's been exposed to lot more sensitive information and the potential that he could pass it on the CIA has become to greater risk."

He knew what he was going to be asked to do now. He'd managed to avoid doing it so far, but he'd always known it had been inevitable, really. The very thought of it was enough to make him sick to his stomach. Inside, every part of his body screaming at him, telling him that this was wrong. Still, somehow, Chuck managed to remain composed.

Don't say it.

"I want you to kill him, Charles."

# # #

October 5th, 2007

South Central, Los Angeles

California

20:54 PST

The bar Chuck found himself walking into several nights later was several blocks south of Washington Boulevard and not a place he would normally go. There was nothing particularly wrong with the bar; sure it was slightly dingy, but it just lacked an atmosphere. There was no music playing and and the bar had barely any patrons, even considering it was a Friday night.

Not that it mattered.

He wasn't exactly here for a drink.

He sat down on a stool by the bar near the entrance and waved to the sole bartender who slowly walked over, polishing a glass with a dirty looking rag.

"Single whisky. Straight."

The bartender grunted and pulled a bottle of Johnnie Walker down from the shelf. He poured out a slightly conservative measure into a glass and set it down in front of Chuck.

Chuck let the drink sit there a while as he surveyed the other occupants of the bar.

There were a couple of guys in work overalls that were stripped to the waist playing pool at the back. A man in a leather jacket was sipping on a beer in the far corner. And then Chuck saw him. The only other person in the bar.

Raymond Perry.

The man he had been sent here to kill.

Perry was sitting in a wooden booth, alone, looking very out of place in his expensive jacket. A glass of coke in front of him. He looked exactly like he had in the photo the Director had shown him.

Chuck still didn't know what he was going to do.

He wasn't a killer.

After the Director had told him that he had to kill Perry, he'd given Chuck the address to this bar and told him Perry would be here tonight at this time. Perry had been told that this was just a regular meet.

Taking a deep breath, Chuck cradled his glass, but still did not drink.

The Director had made it abundantly clear to him that this wasn't only his Red Test, but should also be regarded as a sign of his loyalty.

From all that he had seen in his file, Chuck knew that Perry was a bad person. No loyalty to anyone. He didn't even have a cause. He would probably sell his mother, just to get the next paycheck.

But that didn't justify what he had been told to do.

Nothing could.

Perry glanced around the bar and looked at his watch, tutting loudly.

He's wondering where his contact is.

Then he heard Ellie's voice in his head.

"You're not my brother. Chuck died a long time ago."

He couldn't get that dream out of his head.

This wasn't him.

He abhorred violence and killing, and in the past he had avoided it wherever possible. Now, here he was, seriously contemplating taking a life.

Maybe Chuck Bartowski really was dead.

Perry had clearly had enough of waiting as, after finishing his drink, he began to shuffle towards the back exit of the bar.

At that moment, Chuck decided what he was going to do.

He was beyond going back now.

It was pointless to try and cling on to the strings of his former life. A life he would never get back.

He knew what he was about to do would change him as person, and he would probably resent himself for this for the rest of his life.

He would just have to live with it.

That would be his punishment.

Screw it.

He made his decision. Swallowing his whisky in one gulp, Charles Carmichael threw a ten down on the bar and followed Perry out of the bar.

# # #

May 10th2007

Washington, D.C.

14:15 EST

The drive back from Langley to her apartment in D.C had been swift. Driving back in the middle of the afternoon meant that the traffic was relatively light and she could let her porche go all out. It was a pleasant distraction from what she had just witnessed.

Sarah Walker loved to drive.

It was the one time she felt completely free and unconstrained. The wind could flow freely through her hair. There was no need to think about anything. No CIA, no missions, and no internal politics. No ridiculous hearings.

When she got back to her apartment building, only a few bills were waiting for her in the lobby mailbox. Despite this being her private residence, very few people knew she lived here. Sarah didn't really have many people in the way of friends. She had her Dad, but she no idea where he was at the moment and, quite honestly, wasn't sure she wanted to know. There was Carina, who was probably the closest thing she had to a friend. Though the other woman would vehemently deny that title. And then there was Bryce.

Bryce.

Who had just sold Chuck out to the committee in order to save his own skin, without a second thought. His actions remained a mystery, and she just couldn't figure out his motives. In fact, as much as she hated to admit it, many of Bryce's actions prior to the hearing hadn't made much sense to her for a long time.

When she reached the top of the wooden stairs, she felt something around her ankles. Looking down, she saw Mrs Wiltes' ginger cat wondering between her legs, purring. She bent down to scratch the cat behind the ears. "You've missed me, haven't you?"

The cat purred loudly in response.

She smiled and carried on to the end of the hallway where her apartment was located. The apartment she kept in D.C. was only lightly furnished, for she was rarely ever in it. She'd spent most of her childhood on the road, not owning more than she could carry. Her career in the CIA only complimented that lifestyle. Still, she liked to think of the small apartment as home.

Apparently someone else did too.

From under the apartment door, Sarah could see that the light was on.

She really doubted that that was Mrs Wiltes' other cat.

Slipping into agent mode with an ease that came from experience, Sarah crept up to the door and cautiously pulled the Smith & Wesson out of her purse. She quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

Someone was standing behind the refrigerator door.

"Come out with your hands up!" she demanded, cocking the gun.

She tensed and tightened her grip on the gun as the door slowly began to close. Her posture immediately relaxed when the door closed completely, revealing a man with his arms in the air, a beer in his right hand.

"Jesus Christ, Bryce. I could have shot you!"

She uncocked the gun and put it back in her purse.

"Sorry." Bryce shrugged nonchalantly, sounding anything but apologetic."I let myself in."

"Well you should have waited," Sarah snapped, slamming the apartment door behind her closed.

Bryce stepped out of the kitchen and sat down on the couch taking a casual sip from his beer. "I figured we needed to talk."

Sarah almost rolled her eyes in disbelief.

Now he wants to talk.

"What's there to talk about Bryce?" she harshly demanded. "You screwed Chuck over to save your own ass!"

Bryce shook his head. "I did what I did for us," he said calmly.

Exasperated, Sarah threw her coat and purse down on an empty chair.

"No Bryce, you did what you did for you. Not us," she angrily countered.

He wasn't going to pin this on us.Whatever us meant.

"And what about Chuck?" she continued, turning to face him and putting her hands on her hips. "What's he going to do now?"

Bryce shrugged again. "He's a bright kid. He'll be fine."

A bright kid?

Sarah couldn't believe how indifferent he was being. Even though she had sensed there was a tension between the two of them, she'd gotten the impression that Bryce and Chuck were friends.

"Look, Sarah. Chuck wasn't suited to be a field agent," Bryce added, sensing her disdain. "He hadn't even taken his Red Test yet. To be honest, I'm not sure he's even capable of doing that."

"Wait a minute?" Sarah frowned, suddenly puzzled by this latest revelation. "If you're not sure he's capable, why did you chose him for the Columbia mission?"

Bryce took a long swig from his beer before pausing to stare into her blue eyes.

"I wanted to help him out."

Sarah laughed sardonically. "Fat lot of help you gave him, Bryce."

"You know how the agency works, Sarah. The committee were out for blood. I wasn't going to lie."

She couldn't deal with this at the moment; everything she was hearing was too conflicting. Bryce's lame attempt at rationalising his actions just didn't make sense. Why did he even come back here?

"Look, Bryce. I really can't hear this right now." She resisted the urge to put her hands on her head; she didn't want Bryce to know just how much he was getting to her. Instead, she walked over to the door and held it open. "I think you should probably leave."

He gave her a defeated look.

"Okay," he capitulated with a nod of his head, and put his half empty beer down on the table as he rose to leave.

He paused in the doorway, giving her a hesitant look before finally speaking. "Sarah..."

She looked down at the floor, not meeting his gaze.

He moved to touch her hand slightly and she didn't recoil. His fingers gently traced her skin.

"I really care about you," he whispered.

He'd never said that before.

She found herself suddenly affected by what he had just said, and she hated that.

No-one had ever said that to her before. It shouldn't be so important to have someone care about her, but it was. She had denied that it was for so long.

But before she could look up, he was already halfway down the hallway.

# # #

October 5th 2007

Downtown, Los Angeles

California

21:07 PST

The Director of The Ring was sitting alone in his office when the phone rang.

He liked his office; the large almost empty room gave space to think. Away from the clutter. Away from all the incompetence.

He'd taken a big gamble allowing Carmichael to come here three nights ago. There were some within the ranks of The Ring that believed him to be a double agent for the CIA. Carmichael didn't have the spine to be a double agent. He did believe the boy would come through for him, though. Judging by who was calling right now, he had been right.

"Yes?"

"It's done," came the calm voice of Carmichael.

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't take-"

"I'm sending you a photo."

The Director pulled the phone away from his ear to look at incoming picture. It was of a man lying on the ground in a pool of blood, a bullet hole through his chest. Even though there was hair over his face, the Director could clearly see it was the dead body of Raymond Perry.

"Congratulations, Charles. You're a true spy now."

He didn't wait for a response and hung up the phone.

Being right was fantastic.

A/N: I know this Chapter has been a little mean to Chuck, but please stick with it. More will become apparent in the next chapter. Well, maybe. I know I keep saying. At the moment I'm planning to have it almost entirely Sarah's POV. So we'll see what happens.

By the way, does anyone know the two things that the chapter title is referring to? Well, one of the them is obvious.

Thanks, you guys are amazing. Now review!