Okay. So I know Part Eight was an awkward resume point given how long this series was on hiatus (as Poa – I think - rightly pointed out to me in a PM). While that may be so, Number One, I wrote the part a couple months ago and simply didn't want to "throw out" a chapter I had written. Number Two, along with Part Three, Part Eight is probably my favorite of this story so far. Number Three, and probably most importantly, Part Twelve will be a companion piece of sorts told from Rachel's POV, hence the reason it was titled Secret Agent Dreams and Stranger Things, Part One.
Also, with the progress I'm making, expect Part Ten in about a week (Part Nine was the last I had "in the can" before my hiatus, so I wanna try to get a few part ahead again). Don't worry folks, I think I'm gonna cruise through Part 12 or 13 in relatively short order. And because I feel like giving spoilers, the titles for the next few parts will be:
Part Ten: The Vegas Job, Part Eleven: About a Boy, Part Twelve: Secret Agent Dreams and Stranger Things, Part Two, Part Thirteen: Monsters (Tentative title)
PART NINE: OVER/UNDER
"So what's the situation?" General Beckman inquired.
Sarah and Casey faced the main monitor inside Casey's apartment. The General seemed less than pleased by the amount of progress.
"We have a confirmed sighting of Agent Roe and the asset in New Mexico," Casey informed.
"Why was Agent Roe in New Mexico?"
"To make a withdrawal," Casey continued. "Agent Roe possessed a safety deposit box at this Roswell bank under her Annabelle Reed alias."
"And the contents of this box?"
"Undetermined. But if she's like any other agent, it probably contained rainy day cash and a few dummy ID's. A little something to help her disappear should the need arise," Casey concluded.
"And you are no closer to finding her and the Intersect?"
"She stole a pickup truck to make her getaway from Roswell. New Mexico Highway Patrol later found the vehicle abandoned near the Texas border."
"So that's a 'no'?" the General dryly asked.
Casey bit back a retort. "Yes, ma'am."
Beckman shifted her focus to Sarah. "Have you anything to add, Agent Walker?"
Sarah turned a rather chilly look on the General. "Not at this time."
Beckman either didn't notice or didn't care about her attitude. Merely said, "Progress report in six hours."
The screen went blank.
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MOTEL ROOM
SOMEWHERE IN WEST TEXAS
It wasn't terribly fair, Chuck decided. If they were gonna fight, the least Rachel could do was uncuff him from the bedpost. It wasn't like he could actually beat her. And frankly, it took some of the fun out of it. Hold on. Did he just think that? Fun? Blimey. Must be the Stockholm Syndrome.
"You kidnap me and expect me to just help you?! When's the last time the CIA had you drug tested? Or administered a CT scan? You really expect me to trust you?"
"No, Charles," Rachel snapped back. "I don't give a damn about your trust, I only care about your compliance. Of course, if you don't want your sister to make it to her wedding day..."
"You even think about touching my sister," Chuck snapped back, "and you lose all currency with me."
Whoa. Where was this bravado coming from?
"I don't think you're in a position to bargain, Chuck. You're just a tool I need to accomplish my objective. So don't for a minute think you or anyone you care about is anything but expendable."
"And what do you need me for? Somehow I don't think I'm here just because you get lonely on long car trips. Tell me, Rachel, what do you have in store for me? What nefarious job do you need me for? Or are we just heading to a rendezvous with Fulcrum? C'mon, Rachel, tell me. How much does a Human Intersect go for these days? Is it enough to ease the guilt in your conscience about turning traitor? Or is guilt not even an issue anymore?"
Before Chuck could even blink, Rachel crossed the room, raised her right hand and delivered a devastating slap to his cheek. Chuck tried to recoil, but Rachel gripped his jaw in her hand and forced him to focus on her. With absolutely contempt—
"Don't you dare ever insinuate that I would betray my country by handing over its single most important intelligence asset to a terrorist organization like Fulcrum. Are we understood?"
When Rachel released her grip, no one was more surprised than Chuck when he fixed her with a hard gaze. "Oh, crystal."
Rachel released an exasperated cry of frustration. "Jeez, Chuck, are you this big a pain in the ass for Sarah?"
"First off, yes. Second, don't ever compare yourself to Sarah, because frankly, there is no comparison. You pale."
This time it was Rachel who recoiled. For the briefest of moments, Chuck thought she might break into tears. Instead, she gritted, "Black Jack Joe".
The flash hit Chuck like a sledgehammer.
- An Ace of Spades
- A ledger full of betting information
- An FBI file with the name Joseph Paul Murphy
- A Las Vegas video screen with the betting lines for college basketball games
- An Ace of Spades
"Ah!" Chuck cried out. His glare at Rachel didn't weaken. "Give a guy some warning!"
The anger and sadness instantly evaporated from Rachel's face. Now it was filled only with concern.
"God, Chuck, I'm sorry. Are you okay? Did it hurt?"
Once again, Chuck got whiplash from her sudden shift in emotion. With substantially less anger than before, he answered, "A little. Mostly it caught me off guard." Then, a moment later, "Why did I just flash on a bookie?"
"Because," Rachel said, "I need to place a wager. Where is he, Chuck?"
"He owns a dive just off the Vegas strip. Called the Over/Under." Chuck's eyes went wide, his mind still processing the flash information. "Oh wow. He's not a pleasant guy."
"They never are," Rachel said to herself. Then, aloud, "Pack your bags, Chuck. We're heading to Vegas. If you're a good boy, I might take you to see Celine Dion."
"If you're planning to kill me, there's no need to torture me first."
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"Chuck."
That's what she said. On board that airplane, deep in the throes of sleep, Ellie distinctly heard her murmur his name.
Ellie ran her fingers through her hair. How dare she? How dare she dream about her brother after all that's happened?
She stared out the window into the courtyard. Once again, Sarah was camped out by the fountain. A cigarette to her lips, the German copy of Chronicles of Narnia in her lap. Was she... reading it? Did she have nothing better to do?
"You're thinking too much," Devon's voice called from behind her.
"What?" Ellie said, turning to him.
Devon slowed down on his stationary bike. "You're looking for... I'm not sure what you're looking for. But you're missing the obvious."
"Which is?"
"She's going as insane as you are."
Ellie scoffed. "Please. Don't you remember the bank? She barely flinched at the surveillance tape."
"Trying to retain a professional demeanor," Devon shrugged. "Most every doctor does it."
"Right," Ellie derisively declared. "The woman's a pro. She's lied to us nonstop for the past 18 months. Everything she's shown us has been a lie."
"I doubt that. You don't suddenly pick up chain smoking because everything's right with the world."
"She probably just sees her career going down the toilet."
Devon shook his head. "Babe, you're wrong, and I think you know it."
Ellie sighed, turned back to the window. Softly, she admitted, "Yeah, I know."
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Twenty minutes later, Sarah dragged herself into Casey's apartment. She collapsed in Casey's leather recliner and kicked out the footrest. With the Chronicles of Narnia in her lap, she stared out into space.
In the kitchen, Casey was busy fixing a tuna salad sandwich. Cocking his head slightly, he gazed into the living area to observe his counterpart. Damn. She looked like hell.
"Comfy?" he asked.
"Not even remotely," was her emotionless response.
Even though she wasn't looking, Casey nodded at the table loaded with audio surveillance equipment. "Sounds like the Sarah Walker Fan Club has one fewer member."
Sarah knew exactly what he was referring to. "Yeah. I know."
Casey grunted. That drew Sarah's attention.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"That wasn't a 'nothing' grunt. Spill it."
While chewing on his first bite of sandwich: "Just surprised you're taking it so well. Even a blind man can see you've grown a little too fond of life around here. Now that your beau's sister hates your guts, I thought that might hurt your girly feelings."
For a brief instant, Sarah's eyes met his. In that instant, Casey could see a flood of pain flow free. And for most of that instant, Casey actually felt a tad bit sorry for her. But then, Casey remembered exactly who he was and that he didn't care. Nope. Not a bit.
"The person she loves most in the world is missing. Right now she's trying to hold onto something, anything, to keep her from going completely insane. If hating me is that thing then I'm not going to be so selfish as to try to take it away from her."
"Yeah? What are you holding on to?"
Staring at the book in her lap, Sarah said quietly, "Not sure that I am."
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THE HOUSE OF LOVE MOTEL
THE JUNGLE SUITE
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
As Chuck sat on the heart shaped bed with the leopard print sheets, his right wrist bound to the bedpost by a set of furry zebra handcuffs, he couldn't help but contemplate his life.
Eighteen months ago, it was absolutely ludicrous to think he would be sitting in a tacky Las Vegas motel room watching his renegade CIA captor take a hacksaw to a double barreled shotgun. Yet, alas, after driving nonstop for nearly ten hours, here he was.
Her new sawed off in hand, Rachel slipped a shell into each chamber. "Turkey shot," she explained. "I hit someone with this, coroner's gonna need a mop."
Fairly disturbed by the imagery, Chuck simply nodded. "Now I'm thankful you didn't bring dinner back."
"Yeah, sorry about that. Rush, rush, rush. So much to do, so little time."
Chuck watched as Rachel strapped a knife to the inside of her left wrist. "This guy, Joe Murphy, are you going to kill him?"
"If I have to," Rachel admitted. "Though that ain't exactly Plan A."
Chuck shook away the twisted sense of déjà vu. He watched as Rachel strung a thin piece of rope through a drill hole in the shotgun's shortened stock.
"You saw that in The Terminator, didn't you?"
Rachel froze a moment. "Yeah." Then, slightly defensive, "It's a good movie."
She slung the shotgun over her shoulder and shrugged on a duster. The weapon was mostly concealed. She looked up to the ceiling and posed for the mirror. To Chuck, she asked, "So how do I look?"
--------
The entire situation, Casey decided, stunk to high heaven.
Despite the fact the little punk cost him a toe, Casey couldn't help but take Bartowski's abduction personally. He was an important asset, maybe the most important asset, and Casey was tasked to protect him.
Then there was Rachel Roe. Beautiful, intelligent, a superb field agent. And she could do this thing with her tongue...
Casey shook his head. Focus, dammit!
He and Sarah had their differences, sure, but Casey could agree with her on one fact. Something about this situation was off. Casey had worked a total of four operations with Rachel Roe, compiling approximately 44 days of service together. By lunch on the first day, Casey knew without question she was the type of agent you'd want guarding your back when you breached a door. A crack shot, fearless, and a heaping helping of integrity.
So why did she abduct The Intersect?
Of course, so much more than that made absolutely no sense. For starters, why Roswell? Casey figured even if that safety deposit box was loaded with bearer bonds, there couldn't have been more than 5 or 6 million in there. And if she planned on selling the Intersect...
They'd had this discussion. Himself, Beckman, Graham, and Walker. How much The Intersect could go for on the open market. Easily 50 million – and at the right auction – maybe even 100 or more. And with a 100 million dollar payday coming, you don't make a pit stop for a paltry five. You take the package, you collect your paycheck, then you find a nice beach in a non-extradition country and spend the rest of your days sipping mojitos and watching the cabana girls.
Of course, Casey didn't believe for a moment she intended to sell The Intersect. That being said, Casey didn't have the slightest clue as to how Rachel thought. All he knew was that he trusted her in the field and there was nobody more dynamic in the bedroom.
Looking over to his recliner, he watched as Sarah continued to read that damn book. The Chronicles of Narnia. In German. She seemed convinced the answer – or part of it – lay within its pages.
At this moment, it once again became clear that Walker felt something for the kid. Or at least thought she did. But whether it was something real or the hopeful, misguided fancy of an emotionally damaged woman playing along to a cruel facade, he couldn't tell. Was Walker even capable of loving Bartowski? Truly loving him? Or anyone for that matter, herself included? Hell, he doubted even she knew.
When most people within the intelligence community thought of Sarah Walker, they immediately recalled her "Golden Girl" rep. A CIA Deputy Director in waiting. And simply looking at the raw data, that rep could easily be believed. Glowing mission reports, high success rates, adulation for superiors.
Truth was, Sarah Walker was a screwed up kid who grew into a screwed up adult. Not that that was an uncommon story in the intelligence game, on the contrary, Casey's own upbringing was... complicated. But her story really took the cake.
Mother died when she was a girl. Raised by her nomadic con artist father. Plagued by an inability to form healthy attachments and interactions with others. She fell for her first partner, Bryce Larkin. Hell, Casey even had it on great authority that she had an affair with her mentor, James Craig (Seriously, the guy was 30 years her senior. How "ick" worthy is that?). Even just listening to her try to converse through a double date with Ellie and Devon was like watching a monkey trying to type Shakespeare.
Casey pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight back the impending migraine. Women and their feelings. They - both women and feelings - caused nothing but trouble. Doubly so when that woman with feelings was a CIA operative who on the rare occasion did form a connection, it proved blindingly intense and all consuming. See the above example of Bryce Larkin and James Craig. And now, Chuck Bartowski.
In the end, it probably didn't matter whether her affection was real or illusion. So long as she played the part, it could trouble. And if the next few days didn't go extraordinarily well, it might also spell the end of Sarah Walker.
At least with Craig and Larkin, Walker could simply throw herself into the work to avoid dealing with the muss and fuss of emotions. Sure, that approach is unhealthy as hell (Or so all those NSA mandated shrinks had told him). But with Bartowski, he was the work. When Casey said the end of Sarah Walker, he wasn't simply speaking of her career.
Things would be so much easier if Casey had simply asked Beckman to reassign the girl months ago. But noooo. He had to be the honorable sort. The sort who wouldn't screw over a partner. Casey had a sneaking suspicion that honor would soon come back to bite him in the ass.
When did things become so damn complicated? Casey wondered.
For months Casey had been keeping a mental wager, an over/under on Walker's inevitable burnout. At the beginning of this assignment, Casey took the "under" without hesitation. Now, it looked like he might win that bet.
Damn.
END PART