Casey mostly ignored his customer, a neatly-coiffed yuppie contentedly prattling about HDTV standards. Casey had more pressing concerns than darkness levels or the benefits of interlacing versus progressive scan. Besides, he felt fairly confident this guy could blow two grand without his help.
Instead he tuned out the noise and kept one eye firmly on Bartowski. The man had been acting strangely all morning, and his body language when he popped up from behind the Nerd Herd desk spoke of a man looking to run. Casey was slightly reassured when Bartowski stopped to talk to Grimes and Barnes, and even more comforted when Bartowski started walking towards the back of the store with his arm around Grimes and made a call on his cell phone.
That feeling faded when his phone chirped with an unusual set of three beeps, two of a lower pitch and one of a higher. That ring meant Chuck's call was designed to sound the alarm. But the alarm for what?
"Excuse me," Casey said politely to the customer. "I have to take this." Not caring in the least about the chagrin on the man's face, Casey walked into Home Appliances as he answered. "Yeah?"
"We're out of toner cartridges. Do me a favor and look up front. I'm going to look in the cage."
The predetermined code phrase gave Casey all he needed. Carefully, he turned and checked the front of the store. He had little trouble spotting Delgado near the main entrance, scouting the lay of the land. "Roger that," he said before hanging up. He cursed at himself. He had been so distracted watching Bartowski that he missed a well-known Fulcrum operative walking through the front door. At least that explained why Bartowski was acting so strangely. Fulcrum agents tended to have that effect on people.
Casey side-stepped into a row of metallic-finished refrigerators as he dialed another number, allowing him to watch Delgado from behind a bit of cover. Walker quickly answered. "Code blue," he said immediately. "Hostiles in the Buy More. Tommy Delgado under surveillance."
"Any others?"
"Unknown."
"Acknowledged," Walker said.
Casey flipped his phone closed and shoved it deep into a pocket. With back-up on the way, he took a moment to assess the situation.
If Delgado was back, Fulcrum had to know Bartowski was the Intersect. Still, Delgado's appearance at the front of the store was strange. Why had he made himself so obvious? It was almost as if he wanted to be seen.
That made it unlikely that he was alone.
A flicker of movement reflected in the refrigerator finish caught the corner of his eye. He whirled just in time to parry a gleaming knife aimed at the side of his throat. Apparently, the yuppie was at the Buy More for more than just the big screens at bargain prices. The man drew back into an attack position, his sneer as sharp as the edge of his blade.
The sneak attack irritated Casey. He hadn't survived numerous military campaigns and undercover missions to die at the hands of a guy wearing a pink sweater vest.
Sarah hung up her phone and glanced around the Weinerlicious. Luckily, it was early enough that the restaurant was still closed, and Scooter wasn't due in for another hour.
She typed in some numbers on the cash register keypad. A camera descended from the ceiling and a monitor rose out of the counter. She quickly had Director Graham on the display.
"Agent Walker," he said in his gravelly voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Hostiles in the Buy More," Sarah replied as she punched a few more buttons on the cash register. A panel by her feet slid to the side, exposing a set of weapons in customized molds. She pulled out her favorite Sig Sauer and checked the ammunition. "Tommy Delgado confirmed; others possible."
"What?!" Graham hissed. "How did this happen?!"
"Unknown, sir. Orders?"
Graham pursed his lips, obviously weighing something in his mind.
"Sir?" Sarah prodded. It wasn't like Graham to hesitate, and now wasn't a good time for him to start.
Her boss leaned forward. "Same as always, Agent Walker. Protect the Intersect."
Something about the way Graham spoke felt off. "Sir, if there is something I should know-"
"You have your orders. Protect the Intersect. At any cost." Director Graham signed off.
Fulcrum was in the Buy More. Graham had reacted suspiciously to the news. As bad as things were, something else was going on.
Things had gotten dangerously complicated in a hurry.
Sarah punched the 'Hide All' command code into the cash register. The drawer and the rest of her equipment vanished. She worked her way down her very short checklist of things to finish before leaving: sticking the Sig Sauer into the waistband of her uniform and turning off the oil in the deep fry pits.
She lifted the hinged section of the counter and moved purposefully for the front door. Still puzzled by Graham's reaction to her news, she unconsciously looked back at where the monitor had been, frowning as she tried to figure out what it meant.
The bell on the door tinkled wildly. Her head whipped back around in time to see the sole of a shoe heading for her nose.
Only instincts honed by years of training saved her. She snapped her right hand up and batted at the ankle while arching her back to move her head out of range. The heel of her hand found the ankle of her attacker, pushing the path of the blow far enough that it missed its mark.
The desperation of her move threw her off-balance and in no position to defend against a follow-up strike. Rather than try to defend or withdraw, Sarah rotated with the force of the parry, dropping to her left knee as she finished spinning around. Her left hand found the pistol in the small of her back and yanked it from the elastic waistband.
The maneuver left her gun in her off hand and on the same side as the attacker's foot, but forced her assailant to kick at the gun rather than her exposed head or ribs. The ball of the foot made contact with her wrist, sending a stinging numbness up her arm and triggering a shot that flew harmlessly into the back wall before the gun clattered across the floor. Expecting the move, she used the force of the blow to her arm to add a little speed to her torso rotation as she fired a viciously right-handed punch into her opponent's exposed inner thigh. A familiar feminine cry filled the air as she felt her opponent's balance give.
Her punch, though no doubt painful, again left her overextended. She allowed her body to keep moving with the force of the punch and tucked her shoulder towards the floor. She felt a blow catch the edge of her puffy shirt as she rolled across the floor. Popping to her feet, she neatly spun, ready to defend against the next attack.
To her surprise, no attack came. Her assailant stood perfectly composed by the restaurant door, in no apparent hurry to continue the confrontation.
Sarah's eyes narrowed. "Lizzie?!"
Lizzie Shafai smiled. Almond-shaped eyes glistened with the comfort of one who knew she had the upper hand. "Hello, Agent Walker. So nice to see you again."
"Wish I could say the same. Come back for a rubber match?"
"Rubber match?" Lizzie thought about that, and then laughed. "Oh, no, you think you won our second fight because you fell off a building a little more gracefully? That was dumb luck."
"Last time I checked it was you lying unconscious in a pile of garbage. Seemed appropriate."
"You should talk." Lizzie eyed Sarah's Weinerlicious uniform with a catty little smirk.
Sarah wasn't the least bit self-conscious of her uniform. The job, not the uniform, was what mattered. "Ready for a rematch?"
"Well, I could just shoot you." An impossibly quick move later, a small gun was in her hand, illustrating her point. "Lock you in the freezer again."
Sarah eyed the path to get to Lizzie, and more importantly, Lizzie's gun. There was no easy route through the maze of yellow-circled tabletops. Patiently, Sarah waited.
The other woman shrugged and let the aim of the gun wander off to one side. "But, I guess we have time for a quick rematch."
"Have time?"
"We don't really care about you, Agent Walker. We're here for Chuck Bartowski. You know, the Intersect? As we speak, he's being flushed out the back of the Buy More, and given what we know about him, something tells me the two men we have waiting for him will be able to take him down."
Casey threw a pair of quick punches at his opponent, which the other man easily dodged by ducking closer to the bank of refrigerators. His attacker telegraphed a counter with the knife; Casey blocked it by throwing open a refrigerator door. The tip of the knife screeched across the stainless steel like an eight-penny nail on a chalk board, the angle guiding the attacker's knife hand out wide.
With the refrigerator door between Casey and the knife, the attacker knew he was in trouble. He clearly thought the next strike would be at his head, because his off hand went up to protect his face. Instead, Casey kicked hard at the side of the man's knee, and was rewarded with a sickening crunch. The knife hit the floor as the collapsing man's hands went for his injured knee. Now the attacks went for the face. A quick punch and a slam of the head against the refrigerator knocked the man out.
Casey stood up and closed the refrigerator door. He winced when he saw the gash in the finish and made a mental note to get the damage repaired before Big Mike noticed.
A sharp pain rippled out from the right side of his rib cage. Instinctively, Casey spun away from the contact and was able to dodge two follow-up strikes. The full effect of the pain washed over him as he twisted back into a defensive posture.
A female 'customer' had sucker-punched him in the side, a solid, painful hit. Her turquoise workout pants and the practical pony tail for her straight brown hair had her looking for all the world like a soccer mom fresh from the gym.
"Cheap shot," Casey growled, trying to suck in air without giving away how much his side hurt.
The woman smirked, circling slowly towards Casey's injured side. "I figured you wouldn't mind if I started things off. You know, 'ladies first'."
"Hmph. And here I thought women wanted to be treated as equals."
She gave a mock sigh. "Chivalry truly is dead."
"And soon enough, you will be too."
"Tsk tsk. Not a nice thing for an NSA agent to say."
Casey realized she was trying to get him to talk and move to assess the damage she had done. He stopped making any effort to hide the pain in his quickly stiffening side or his struggle to breathe normally, and even played it up slightly.
The corner of her mouth turned up. She took a quick step to his right and used one of his favorite ploys, a feint towards the injury and then a strike somewhere else. Having used the same strategy so many times, he was ready for it and easily blocked the shot to the face, but pretended like he hurt too much to counter.
He stole a quick glance around, ensuring that no other sneak attacks were imminent. Caught back in the enclosure by the refrigerators, his vision of the rest of the store was largely blocked. He had to find a way to end this quickly. Delgado or other Fulcrum operatives would have Bartowski in custody all too soon.
She feinted a feint, this time following through on her strike to his side. He winced but forced himself to absorb the blow. The move was weakened by the initial fake; it was far more important to block the follow-up flurry of blows from her right hand and left leg. This time, he pretended to try to counter but pulled the punch as if his rib was broken.
"Aw," Miss-blue-pants said as her feet bounced between various attacking positions. "Want me to kiss it and make it all better?"
There are two problems with dancing around too much during a fight. The feet can fall into a rhythm, leading to moves that are all too predictable. More importantly, feet can spend a little too much time in the air. Feet that aren't planted on the ground can't help dodge a punch.
Gauging her moves, Casey took a quick step forward, closed the gap and launched a ferocious roundhouse punch. The woman's eyes widened as she tried to stop her sideways momentum, only to realize that she had no way to do so. He hit her square in the mouth and sent her skidding back across the floor, where she banged into the base of a plain white gas range.
He looked at a smear of lipstick on his knuckles. "Thanks," he said smugly. "I feel better already."
Two down. Now to find Delgado.
It turned out he didn't need to look. A strong forearm wrapped around his neck. Casey tried to jerk free, but the hold had him momentarily immobile.
"Drew Jennings sends his regards," Delgado's voice whispered into his ear.
A syringe bit into the base of Casey's neck, quickly followed by the burning sensation of whatever Fulcrum nastiness was being injected into his veins.
"We'll be in touch," were the last words he heard before darkness took him.
Sarah gritted her teeth. "If you hurt Chuck…"
Lizzie's ditzy laugh grated. "Why, Sarah. Don't tell me that ring was for you after all." She paused thoughtfully. "Or do you just wish that it was?"
The question nettled more than it should have. Sarah felt her mouth hang open stupidly.
Another annoying laugh jarred her back to reality. Lizzie set the gun on the table to one side and readjusted her fashionable black-and-gray sweatsuit. "One more round. We'll even call it the rubber match. Just know that even if you win, you still lose. By the time our fight is over, Chuck Bartowski will be long gone, and you will never, ever see him again."
The hallmark of Sarah Walker's career was her ability to remain calm under the most extreme of circumstances. However, Lizzie's barbs, like lashes from a whip, cut deeply into Sarah, infuriating her, until all she saw through her white haze of her anger was the mocking figure of Lizzie Shafai between her and the door. Between her and Chuck.
With a battle cry unlike any she had ever uttered, Sarah took off running, taking three steps before launching herself high into the air off one of the chairs.
Lizzie dodged the flying kick easily enough, the cocky grin on her face communicating how easily she expected to win the fight against an enraged Sarah. The grin quickly faded. Sarah fought no less efficiently than she usually did. In fact, she was faster, more vicious, grunting and crying out with every strike. She was more focused, not less.
Punch. Jump kick. Combination punch. Roundhouse kick. Punch. All were blocked, but Lizzie was back on her heels, purely on the defensive. She tried to put tables and chairs between them, but Sarah turned those objects into missiles, sliding them across the floor or flipping them through the air.
All Lizzie could do was parry and hope Sarah made a mistake. That hope was far-fetched. Inevitably Sarah slipped a punch through, tagging Lizzie on the jaw and knocking her back a step. She recovered, but after she blocked several successive strikes, a strong right foot broke through to compress her stomach. She caught Sarah's ankle and tried to spin her around, but Sarah simply whirled in her grasp to deliver a flying kick to the side of Lizzie's face. Lizzie went tumbling into one of the cheap yellow tabletops. The table collapsed under her weight with a terrific clatter. Sarah landed gracefully on her feet.
The panic in Lizzie's body language was obvious. Breathing heavily, the woman's desperate eyes darted around the room as she tried to right herself, looking for something, anything that would help to stem the tide.
Sarah's hair flew wildly, but her eyes were focused and her breathing had a steady rhythm. She stalked towards her foe, already beaten but too stubborn to realize it.
As Sarah closed, Lizzie reverted to amateur form. With a desperate cry, she tossed the heavy center leg from the collapsed table and tried to scamper back towards the door to retrieve her gun.
It was almost too easy. Sarah dodged the missile and cut off Lizzie with a single sideways move. Lizzie launched a clumsy punch, which Sarah parried with the inside of her opposite arm. A quick turn of the arm pinned Lizzie's arm to Sarah's side. She turned her back, keeping the arm pinned, and launched a pair of vicious elbows to Lizzie's face, rocking her back onto her heels. Sarah reached down and put the captured hand into a judo hold, giving the attached body the choice of a broken wrist or a full flip onto her back. The body chose the latter.
Sarah stared down at the woman. Glazed eyes stared emptily back at Sarah as she readjusted her hold on the off-chance the woman had anything left. She didn't.
"You will not hurt Chuck Bartowski," Sarah spat.
A heel to the face stole what was left of Lizzie's consciousness.
Sarah took no time to enjoy her victory. After one last check to ensure her opponent was down for good, she retrieved the two guns and took off out the door, knowing that she was already too late.
Casey slowly woke up. His body fought him every step of the way. Only through sheer obstinance was he able to slowly force himself to sit up, grimacing with the effort.
He was sitting on the floor near the bank of refrigerators. The skirt and the prep were gone. Delgado was gone. The only signs that he hadn't dreamed the whole thing were the marred surface of the refrigerator and a painful stinging at the base of his neck. He gingerly reached back and touched the painful wound. He felt like a giant mosquito had stuck its proboscis through his skin and vomited.
He shook his head to try to clear it. That was a mistake. The room threatened to spin out of control.
His phone rang. Somehow, he located the unit and managed to answer. "Hello?"
"Casey? Where's Chuck?"
"Sarah? That you?" he said groggily.
"Of course! Casey, where is Chuck?"
He tried to think. "He … went out back. Through the cage."
"He's not here."
"What?" Try as he might, he couldn't process what she was saying.
"I'm out back now. He's not here, and he's not answering his phone. He's gone."
"What?"
"Casey, Chuck is gone!"