A/N: Okay, so I feel I owe everyone an explanation as to why this chapter took SO long to post... It was actually finished a couple of weeks ago, then at the last minute I decided to change a few things, and after that my beta and I thought that it be best if it was split into two chapters. Both are a little short, but bleh. Chapter 6 will be posted soon.

Speaking of my beta... I'd like to say a huge thank you to DanaPAH for all her suggestions and for tolerating my mistakes and annoying questions. Also, I liked to say thanks for everyone who's reviewed the previous chapters, particularly to NMH and TSYldchild, whose reviews always put a smile on my face.

Chapter 5

The Longest Day

Part I: Recall

October 11th 2007

Directorate of National Intelligence, Washington D.C.

21:23 EST

Langston Graham sighed and sunk back in his leather chair.

The meeting had not gone well.

The bottle of Bushmills sitting on the desk was looking really tempting right about now.

To have met like this was ridiculous. It should not have happened. Not here. Not in his office.

It could have potentially compromised the entire operation.

That was probably what Bryce Larkin had wanted. To compromise the operation. He had been against it from the start, but Graham had overruled him, and rightly so.

Graham had never liked Larkin. He was far too arrogant and never seemed to respect the authority of his office. Graham tolerated him for one reason: he got results. That was the only reason he hadn't been thrown from the CIA long ago.

But after tonight, Graham was starting to reconsider.

Screw it, he thought. He was having a drink.

He removed the cap from the bottle and let the golden liquid flow into a glass. It had really been a long day.

# # #

October 12th 2007

Rome, Italy

09:15 CET

"I really don't understand how you can drink that at this time in the morning," Sarah Walker said, looking across the table at her companion, wrinkling her nose with an expression of faint disgust. "Didn't you have enough last night?"

"Relax, Walker, we're not in the States anymore," Carina Miller replied with a grin, lifting the red straw to her lips so that she could take a sip from whatever eloquently coloured fruit cocktail she was drinking. "I'm just blending in; it's all part of the culture here."

Sarah tried and failed to suppress her own grin at her friend's nonchalant attitude. "If you say so."

Looking around, she noted that most of their fellow patrons did not share Carina's choice in beverage and had decided to go with her own shot of caffé instead. Blending in indeed.

She did, however, have to agree with Carina's assessment of the situation; they definitely weren't in Kansas anymore.

They were sitting in a small terraced café overlooking the centre of Rome, largely devoid of tourists. Sarah had a little rule whenever she was in Europe: eat and drink where the locals do. This hadn't anything to do with cover – both her and Carina lacked the dark Mediterranean complexion, anyway – but simply because the food – and the coffee - always tended to be better. With pastries for breakfast, the stuff 300 million Americans ate everyday called "food" just didn't compare. Europe really was genius.

The sun was already high in the sky, and their table umbrella was casting a neat little shadow which tightly encompassed the both of them. Just visible in the distance, the tourists were already out in force with their backpacks and baseball caps, queuing up for the Colosseum, undeterred by the heat.

Sarah didn't envy them.

"There is however, one thing I certainly did not get enough of last night," Carina said, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

Sarah craned her neck over to the next table, where Carina's gaze seemed to have fallen, to see two young Italian men not-so-subtly eyeing them. Sarah smirked and slowly shook her head, taking a sip of her own bitter drink.

Carina very slowly uncrossed her long legs so that she could lean forward on her elbows, and put on a innocent expression. "I wasn't talking about them," she said in a low, sultry voice.

Sarah sighed and felt her face going rapidly red, suddenly very conscious of the low-cut blouse she was wearing. "You really are persistent, aren't you?"

"And you really are stubborn," she shot back with a grin. "What I don't get though-" She paused mid-sentence to take another long sip of her drink, this time through the green straw. "-is why you were fine with it that one time back in-"

"Okay!" Sarah held up her hand to interrupt before Carina had yet another chance to remind her of that infamous drunken encounter. "That was over five years ago!"

"And yet I still talk about it. You should take that as a compliment, Walker."

Sarah looked away in embarrassment, imagining that she must currently look like a sunburnt tomato. Although, given the location and the fairness of her skin, that could soon become a reality.

But Carina wasn't ready to give up yet. Her grin, which seemed to be permanently glued to her face, was doing all the talking for her. She really needed to stop being so reactive to Carina's teasing, as it only seemed to fuel on the fiery redhead.

"C'mon, Walker!" she said with a fake pout. "I promise you'll enjoy it."

Sarah fumbled around with her napkin, which had suddenly become very interesting.

After a couple of seconds, Carina's face began to turn to a more – and somewhat unfamiliar - sympathetic expression. "Still hung up on Bryce, huh?"

Sarah's eyes shot up.

Bryce.

It had been a while since she had heard that name.

She had not seen or heard from him since he had put that letter under her door all those months ago. After Bryce had left, she'd decided not to pursue Bryce and Chuck's history at Stanford, or what had actually happened between the two of them, whether in Colombia or elsewhere. She genuinely did feel bad for Chuck losing his job and for what Bryce had done to him at the hearing, and it was with a ounce of guilt that she had decided to let the matter be. There really was nothing she could have done anyway. The blood had already been spilled.

About a month later, she'd been reassigned to a joint CIA-DEA task force, working in tandem with Carina. They'd mainly been based in Spain and Italy, working the European end of the South America – Africa – Europe smuggling route. Their orders had been to "get close" to the drug barons who imported narcotics in the Mediterranean and to gain information about their smuggling routes. This mainly involved getting invited to seemingly endless parties, drinking, snooping around mansions, drinking, the occasional knife fight, more drinking, and sunbathing. Oh, and more drinking. She could see why Carina had joined the DEA.

Whilst she, too, was enjoying this somewhat "vacation," it wasn't exactly for her. The CIA's angle was that the same smuggling routes could be being used in weapons trafficking, although, thus far, aside from some minor small arms, said weapons had not precipitated. She was sure that they were making a difference, working the drug angle alone, but it just wasn't the same. Even though missions with Carina were never boring, she missed the adrenaline that came with CIA missions. The missions with Bry-

"I'm not hung up on Bryce," she growled in defiance.

Carina arched an eyebrow sceptically. She wasn't buying it.

"Bryce is on special assignment," she lied, hoping Carina would not notice. "No contact in or out. It's just part of the job, Carina."

If anyone could tell if she was lying, it would be Carina. The woman could probably win the Nobel prize entitled "How-To-Tell-When-Sarah-Walker-Is-Lying." Well, technically speaking it wasn't a lie, as she didn't know where Bryce was. He could actually be on special assignment. Maybe.

"He still shouldn't have left you like that," she said quietly, her blank expression giving nothing away as to whether she believed Sarah or not. If Carina could tell she was lying, she wasn't going to let on.

Sometimes the woman opposite her had the tendency to act more like an older sister than a partner or a friend.

Sarah heard something flick from the under the table, that sounded disturbingly like a-

"The next time I see that asshole," Carina continued, her eyes narrowing to slits, as she pulled a switchblade out from under the table. "I really am going to teach him the meaning of the word pain. I'll start by introducing him to Mr-"

At the moment, right before Carina could detail every unpleasant thing she going to do to Bryce for leaving her, Sarah's phone rang.

Feeling as if a balloon had suddenly burst, Sarah quickly pulled the phone out of her bag. "I have to take this."

Trying to ignore how Carina had started to slice open a grapefruit with the switchblade, she stood up and walked over to an empty corner of the terrace.

Glancing down at the phone, she saw that it was a Langley number. That was odd, considering all of her orders were usually routed through the local sub-station. "Walker, secure."

"Agent Walker," came the monotonic voice that could only belong to a Langley switchboard operator. "Please hold for AD Skinnard."

There was a click and then a pause, before a tired voice said, "Agent Walker?"

William Skinnard had been the one Graham had assigned to directly oversee her training, and she had always liked him. He seemed to have more of human side to him than Graham, or even Sarah herself. That was probably why he had not advanced past an Assistant Director's position in 15 years.

But despite the prior relationship, for the Assistant Director to call her directly was...unusual. Even if Langley had decided to bypass to usual protocol, she still wouldn't expect a call from someone so high up in the chain of command.

"Yes, Assistant Director," she answered with a professionalism she felt this situation was lacking. "What can I do for you?"

"We have a bit of a situation over here." Skinnard really did sound tired, which, considering it was barely 3am on the east coast, wasn't all that surprising.

"What kind of situation?"

"I regret to have to tell you this, but at approximately 10pm last night, Director Graham was found dead in his office." He paused. "Preliminary findings indicated a heart attack."

Sarah swallowed.

Graham was dead. He had recruited her.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she responded, not sure how she was supposed to sound, or whether she really was sorry. Graham had been the one to put her father in jail, after all. "But I take it you didn't call me in Italy simply to let me know."

"No, Agent Walker, I didn't," he replied. Sarah could almost hear Skinnard's grim smile in his words. "Initial toxicology reports just came just back. They were positive for hydrogen cyanide. Graham was poisoned."

The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency had been murdered?

Well, assassinated was technically the correct term. It was hard to believe someone had managed to pull that off. The DNI was probably the most secure building in Washington after the White House. Despite Skinnard's dumbfounding news, her mouth seemed to be moving. "Cyanide's a fast reacting poison, sir. If the Director was found in his office, that's likely where he came into contact with the poison."

"That's the conclusion over here, too. Surveillance has someone leaving Graham's office approximately one hour before the body was discovered." Skinnard sighed, and it sounded like he was rubbing his eyes.

Sarah felt her brow tighten. "Sir, if you've got a suspect, why are you calling me?"

"Sarah, the man leaving Graham's office was Bryce Larkin."

Bryce?

That was twice she had heard that name today.

She was suddenly deaf to the background noise in the café, and only one thought occupied her mind.

"Agent Walker? Are you still-"

"Are you implying what I think you're implying?" she interrupted, formality be damned.

"I'm not implying anything, Sarah," he answered in a lighter tone. He called her "Sarah" again. "But the special agent in charge of the investigation certainly thinks it was Agent Larkin."

That was impossible.

"Who's the special agent in charge?" she asked.

"Daniel Shaw."

Sarah knew Shaw. He was very high up in the agency, having near complete free reign over what he did. She'd worked with him a few years back, when she was still a rookie. Sarah had to admire the ruthless efficiency with which he operated, if not for the lack of trust he'd shown in her and the rest of his team.

"Where's Bryce now?"

"We don't know. He slipped by the rest of the cameras. Shaw's already put a burn notice on him, OPR's probably going to launch its own investigation and the NSA is getting involved." Skinnard paused. "The way things seem to be moving, I wouldn't be surprised if there's a termination notice out by the end of the day. That's actually why I'm calling you."

Sarah's throat was suddenly dry. A termination notice?

"Sir?" she croaked, all the while trying to moisten her mouth with her tongue. Aside from the shock of a termination order being put out on Bryce, she was starting to feel defensive; surely Skinnard didn't think she knew where Bryce was? Didn't he trust her more than that?

"Sarah, you and I both know that Bryce didn't kill Graham. He's not a traitor, there's just no way. What's more, this situation is about to get very messy, very fast. Someone's pushing the hit on Bryce. The surveillance footage alone isn't enough to issue a termination notice."

In the periphery of her vision, Sarah could see that Carina was starting to eye her. She pulled the phone closer to her ear.

"What I'm about to ask you to do is not an order, but a request. I need you to find Bryce Larkin and discover what really happened, before it's too late."

Sarah frowned at the strange request, but at the same time breathed a silent sigh of relief that she hadn't been accused of working with Bryce. "Sir, with all due respect, do you have the authority to just recall me like this?"

"I guess I'll find out in the morning," Skinnard said with a muffled laugh. "I take it you accept then, Agent Walker?"

She didn't hesitate. "There's a flight leaving for Dulles at 1500, I'll be on it."

"Good," said Skinnard. "I must stress however, that your investigation is strictly off record. Something bigger is going here; everything is moving too fast. Report only to me."

Despite her loyalty to the agency, she knew that conducting an off-the-books investigation was tantamount to acting as a rogue agent, regardless of whether it had been authorised by a superior. That was one step away from treason.

Sarah clenched her jaw. "I understand."

"Check in with me when your flight arrives in Washington, and good luck, Agent Walker," he said, clicking the phone off.

Sarah stood there for a minute, phone still in hand, trying to process all that she had just learnt. The strong smell of coffee which dominated the little café had suddenly lost its appeal. She turned and walked quickly back over to her table and hovered behind her chair, not sitting down.

Carina, having finished cutting the grapefruit, was now slowly feeding it into her mouth. She looked up at Sarah, her expression having lost any sense of the earlier seriousness she had displayed. At any other time, Sarah would have welcomed this in her friend.

"I'm being recalled," Sarah said simply, breaking the silence.

Carina's mouth dropped open, letting several fragments of grapefruit fall out. "Oh! But we've barely had any-"

"Carina," Sarah interrupted, cutting short her fake whine.

Hearing the tone in which Sarah had addressed her, the professional was back in an instant, wiping the grapefruit away with a napkin. "What's going on?"

"I can't say," Sarah answered. "But I'm taking the 1500 flight back to Washington."

Carina gave a nod of silent understanding. Orders.

"Just do me a favour, okay?" Sarah asked. "Don't let me your superiors know for a couple of days."

"Fine," she said, nodding again after a slight hesitation. "I'll just have to come up with a plausible cover story as to why you won't be checking in." She winked on the word plausible.

Deciding to let Carina get away with her little taunt, she gave her a grim smile. "Thanks," she murmured, before turning to leave.

Carina was hardly big on giving hugs.

As she picked up her bag, she paused to turn back to her friend, who now looked considerably glummer.

"Just make sure I can reach you, okay? I might need your help."

# # #

October 12th 2007

Sarah Walker's Apartment, Washington D.C.

22:23 EST

The 1500 back from Rome to Dulles International had been commercial, with a flight time of a little over 9 hours, and despite being a qualified pilot, Sarah had never been a huge fan of flying. Unlike driving, there was nothing really to do except sit and wait for the plane to land (or crash); there was simply too much time to think.

By the end of the first hour, she'd already finished analysing the surveillance footage from outside Graham's office that Skinnard had sent over to the Rome sub-station, in addition to reviewing all of Bryce's files and known aliases. In retrospect, it had been a waste of time, and hadn't gotten her any closer to finding Bryce or what happened to Graham. The footage clearly showed Bryce Larkin entering and exiting Graham's office. There was no mistaking it. The combed back hair and slight swagger were recognisable anywhere. There was no immediate evidence that the footage had been tampered with, either, or that someone else could have entered the office. Despite her misgivings and faith in her former partner's loyalty, Bryce certainly looked guilty.

Bryce's personnel files had given no clue as to his location, only records of old missions, some of which, she'd been part of, and none of them seemed to have any link to the present situation. Furthermore, if Bryce knew the CIA was looking for him, he wouldn't be using any of his known aliases, anyway. He was too smart for that. Curiously, his records had come to an abrupt halt after the Colombia mission, and there was nothing to indicate what any of Bryce's recent activities might have been. Skinnard had included a note saying that these files hadn't been redacted, but that no-one had ever logged them. If such records did exist, which she doubted, Sarah had a contact that might be able to find them. That was a place to start. However, at 32,000 feet above the Atlantic, that contact had been unreachable, and so Sarah had been left with nothing to do. Besides think.

Think about the impending shit storm that she would find herself in the middle of once she landed. About how she was about to risk her career, the only thing she had every known and all that she was, to try and prove her ex-boyfrie - dammit, partner's innocence and catch her boss's killer. About why Skinnard had chosen to call her, hardly an impartial judge, to come and sort things out. About how, however much she tried, this situation was probably not going to end well for Bryce.

Or her.

There had simply been too much darn time to think.

It was fortunate that someone had chosen to assassinate the Director on one of the two days in the week when flights ran directly to Washington. Otherwise she would had to have caught a connecting flight from London, and that would have taken at least 15 hours total.

Yep, she'd thought whilst collapsing onto her bed, she really was sick.

She'd tried her contact when she landed, only to find that she was currently out of DC. She briefly considered heading over to Skinnard's office at the DNI, before deciding against it. She had nothing to report, and showing her face at the DNI when she was supposed to be in Italy was hardly the best idea.

Sarah had never been able to sleep on planes. There was something about being trapped in a pressurised, aluminium tube suspended in the air that made sleep hard to come by. She could sleep on planes when she was on missions, when she absolutely had to. But that was different. 18 hours awake was hardly a stretch for her, and she'd frequently done twice that, but she needed to be alert. So she'd caught a cab back to her apartment in order to get a few hours rest before deciding on her next move.

Her eyes had been closed for maybe two hours – not nearly a sufficient time, but enough to at least leave her feeling partially rejuvenated – when she found herself suddenly awake, staring at the wooden ceiling above.

Feeling momentarily dazed, she couldn't quite remember what had woken her.

It wasn't a dream. Even in the worst of circumstances, dreams didn't seem to plague her. Not any more, at least.

The apartment was entirely dark except for a small fluorescent digital clock in the kitchenette area.

She could hear the faint noise of the TV coming from the apartment upstairs. Some stupid procedural by the sounds of it. The light traffic outside was bringing in a small hum from outside her window.

No, none of these things were what had woken her.

It definitely had been something.

Oh, right. Something was scratching at the outside of her door. Angrily.

She'd been conscious for three seconds when instinct took over.

The drawer of the night-stand by her bed housed her spare Smith & Wesson in addition to a silencer and several spare magazines. The one she carried on her person was all of 10 feet away with her discarded clothes.

Rolling out of bed, still in her tank top and underwear – she could worry about modesty later – she pulled the gun out of the drawer and screwed in the silencer, and crept across the apartment towards the scratching.

Seven seconds.

The apartment itself was a studio, with her bed at the far end, putting perhaps twenty feet between her and the door. The lounge/kitchenette took up the rest of the floor space and only the bathroom had its own room.

She pushed herself against the wall adjacent to the door and slowly slid towards it, safety off, nuzzle down.

She was seriously going to kill Bryce if this was him breaking into her apartment. Actually, scratch that, she'd feed him to Carina.

Fourteen seconds.

The scratching got more and more intense as she lined next to the door, until-

Click.

The door swung open.

It wasn't Bryce.

In fact, it couldn't be further from him.

The man who was crouched in front of her door was bald and Latin American. Even from his crouched position, she could see that he was more overtly muscular than Bryce had ever been.

His gloved hands clutched at a lock pick, and there was a cold triumphant grin on his face, which hastily disappeared as he moved to stand up and noticed the silenced nuzzle of Sarah's Smith & Wesson aimed at his head.

"Breaking and entering is a felony, you know," she quipped, taking a step back. "Hands. Now."

He stood there for a second, his expression completely blank. Then...

"Oh, crap," he stammered in a west-coast accent, starting to raise trembling hands. "I must have...must have...got the wrong...the wrong apartment. I'm sorry...Please don't...Please."

"Don't. Move." The stern look she was giving almost made the weapon redundant.

"Please don't," he said, ignoring her warning and continuing to draw himself to his full height. "Please. I won't do it...Just let me-"

And then before she could flinch, he was on her.

The distance between them was gone in a blur.

His large wrists were gripping hers, grappling for control of the gun.

Momentum was on his side as he threw the full force of his weight behind him, but she was stronger than she looked and wasn't giving ground.

Sweaty fingers were trying to pry hers off the trigger-guard.

She raised her foot to try and stamp down on his knee, but he'd already anticipated that, using her change in balance to swing her round, back towards the door.

The gun went flying.

She crashed into the wall with a loud thud and collapsed to the ground in a crouch.

Pain was shearing through her left arm where it had impacted and her vision was starting to get-

Shit.

Panic replaced pain and her eyes shot wide open as she looked for the fallen weapon.

It was lying several feet away. Right where her assailant was diving for.

Knowing that she wouldn't make it before he did, she did the only she could.

Attack.

She threw herself at the wall, using it as a springboard to propel forward. A near perfect jump kick landed her outstretched right leg squarely in the chest of her opponent, just as he reached the gun, sending him crashing backwards into a table.

The gun was in the air. Again.

She had it in her hand before she even landed.

Her opponent was slumped against the fallen over table, a nuzzle once again levelled at his head.

"Bitch..." he spat. All traces of the stammering west-coast accent gone, replaced by a more aggressive Mexican one.

"Don't. Move," she repeated again in the same tone. The only evidence of the altercation was a slight increase in breathing.

But he didn't listen. Again.

Over mumblings of pain, he started to grasp at his ankle, pulling at the hem of his jeans-

Clip. Clip.

His eyes went wide.

She stood there for a second, letting the two red dots grow out of his black t-shirt, just breathing.

Thirty-three seconds.

She'd had more pleasant ways to be woken up.

Stepping forward, she crouched over the dead body to remove the concealed pistol from his ankle holster. This motion caused his body to slide down the floor.

As if on cue, it was at that moment her cellphone chose to ring.

"Walker," she answered, after crossing the apartment to get it. Her breathing was gradually returning to normal.

"It's Skinnard. There's been a development."

"Yeah, same here, sir," she said, heading back to the body and starting to search the pockets. "Someone just tried to break into my apartment."

"What? What happened? Are you all right?" Skinnard asked, the surprise in his voice causing it to jump an octave.

"I'm fine. He's not," she said simply, pulling a wallet out of the waist pocket. "Javier Cruz? Know him?"

"Hang on a sec..." Skinnard answered. She heard typing. "Sarah...He's a Ring operative out of Mexico. What the hell would he be doing breaking into your apartment."

"I'm not sure, sir," she said frowning. The Ring? "Judging by his reaction though, he was surprised to see me here."

She discarded the wallet and began fumbling around for her own pair of jeans.

"You think he was looking for Bryce?"

"That would be my guess, sir. Everyone still thinks I'm in Europe. Plus I don't own a TV."

Skinnard didn't laugh. "Okay, I'll send a clean up crew to your place."

"Right," she said in acknowledgement. "You said there had been a development?"

Skinnard paused.

"Not over the phone," Skinnard's strained voice finally said. "Shaw's people are crawling all over the DNI, as well. Can you meet me at the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in 30 minutes?"

"I'll be there, sir."

After hanging up, she paused to rub her shoulder. The pain had already faded considerably. That was probably the adrenaline.

Skinnard had sounded odd in the way which he had said "development." Very odd. Like the way people sound before they are about to deliver extremely bad news.

That couldn't be good. Could Shaw, or worse, the NSA, have already found Bryce? Was he dead? Had her whole trip been a waste?

She tucked away these questions as she shoved her gun into her waistband.

Meeting at night by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, after someone breaks into my apartment, she thought to herself.

How very Deepthroat.

A/N: I was thinking about Pink Slip the other day and got really really angry. Particularly when Javier Cruz says to Chuck "and then you're gonna tell me about the girl." I hate it when people **** with Chuck and Sarah like that. So, I decided to let Sarah get her revenge. Hehe