Author's note: I'm back. Again.
Given that an update is long overdue, to say the least, I thought it only fair to tell you where I am with things.
I have several chapters pretty much ready to go. This would take us to the end of part one, and to a place where it would be more satisfying to leave off in case I need to take another break. I plan on posting these chapters every 3-4 days over the next two weeks. At that point, I'll give a heads up on where I stand.
As a bit of an apology, I'm posting two chapters right away. Sorry for the long absence, but as much as I would enjoy writing these stories full-time, it just doesn't work that way...
Enjoy!
Something didn't feel right.
Maybe it was something as simple as being out of his element. The Stanford campus was like a movie set, with everything seeming a bit too perfect. Flawless stone-faced buildings with red tile roofs surrounded courtyards and beautifully manicured lawns. Idyllic quads were clogged by a morass of students straight out of Central Casting – well-coiffed Greeks, unkempt bookworms, and activists pitching causes to anyone who would listen.
Casey stood out from the crowd as much because of his utilitarian black outfit as the stern look of disapproval on his face. This was where the future leaders of America were groomed? Here, fighting for your beliefs meant petitions and picket lines. Saving the world meant depositing plastic water bottles in the correct recycling bin. This was no preparation for the real world. At least, not the world Casey lived in.
Unfortunately, Casey suspected the knot in his gut wasn't disgust at the denizens of this bleeding-heart factory. No, he and his teammate were closing in on the watch's signal, but according to the campus map, only the only possible destination ahead was the Stanford Oval, a large egg-shaped park surrounded by a one-way road and some diagonally parked cars. That made no sense. Bartowski should be cowering in a computer lab or a library, not basking in the warm afternoon sun.
Casey and an accompanying NSA agent passed between yet another pair of the stone-faced buildings, walked a few dozen paces and stopped at the top of three concrete steps. Across the road was the squatter end of the Oval, all grass and sidewalks and college students. Frisbees, volleyballs and carefree laughter filled the air. The signal tracked dead ahead.
Definitely not promising. Casey pulled out a pair of high-tech binoculars. The autofocus whirred as he scanned the park. A cloud passed overhead, casting a shadow over everything.
"Sir?" one of the other agents said.
Casey lowered the binoculars and turned to regard Agent Thornton. He was a young man, new enough to the agency that he hadn't figured out that his goatee made him too easy to pick out of a crowd. Casey resisted the temptation to haul out his hunting knife and field-shave the man's chin. "What?"
"What's the accuracy on this thing?"
He glanced back at the portable version of the watch tracker, currently held by Thornton. The damned thing was attracting even more attention than their outfits. Once again, Casey found himself scowling at passing students, convincing them to stifle their curiosity and keep moving. "Fifteen, maybe twenty yards."
"So that means the watch is in the middle of the park. Why would Bartowski hang out in a crowd of college students if he knows he's being chased?"
A little slower than Casey's thought process, but not bad for a rook. "I don't think he would."
"So what does it mean?"
"Go with the obvious. There could be a malfunction with the system, but more likely the watch is here but Bartowski isn't. One way to find out."
He headed for the Oval, the other agent in tow. Steps, sidewalk, street, and they found themselves surrounded by students. Some studied, some played sports, some just sat and talked. He couldn't see Bartowski. The knot in his gut grew.
Casey had Thornton check the monitor one last time. The signal tracked to somewhere up ahead to his right. What had Bartowski done? Buried the watch? Casey's eyes skimmed the crowd and the ground, looking for some hint, some clue. He got it a moment later when a familiar-looking girl locked eyes with his.
She was reclining on the grass, off by herself, relatively speaking. She was strikingly unremarkable except for a mop of stringy orange hair. One arm was cocked to the side, holding a book open with a thumb. The watch sat in plain view on a black and orange scarf to her side.
"I think you're the guy I've been waiting for," she said.
He scanned the park to further assess the situation. "I'm flattered, but you're a little young for me."
"I thought you'd be harder to spot. What's your cover supposed to be? Death?"
Bartowski had made a similar joke on his previous visit. He decided Stanford must teach humor as an elective. Clearly they needed a new professor.
He frowned. "I know you from somewhere."
"Yes, you do. I saved your ass in a physics classroom a while back."
Casey wanted to groan. Bartowski had recruited the Stanford CIA recruits. "Where's Bartowski?"
"I don't know."
"And I don't have time for games."
"I have no idea where he is."
"Then how'd you get the watch?"
She squinted as the sun emerged from behind a cloud. "Some strange frizzy-haired dude gave it to me."
"Barnes," Casey grumbled under his breath. That explained a number of things. It also meant that she likely was telling the truth about not knowing where Bartowski was. At least the last of Bartowski's idiot accomplices was now accounted for. "I'll be taking the watch."
"My orders are to keep it."
"It's NSA property."
"So? I'm CIA."
"Not if you don't live to join."
She laughed a genuine laugh. Casey was impressed, but only slightly. She might just be too naive to be scared.
He asked, "You don't think I would kill you?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"If the watch were worth killing over, nobody would entrust it to a recruit. I certainly wouldn't have orders to let you find me."
"Not a bad assessment. However, sometimes things change."
"Which is why I didn't come alone."
He didn't need to glance around stupidly; his entourage took care of that for him. Without taking his eyes off the girl, Casey said, "Red hat, swim suit, tau omega, flat tire."
"What is that? Some kind of code?"
"Your team. Number one is sitting about fifteen yards behind you, wearing a red hat and barely pretending to be interested in his textbook. Number two is off to my right, face down on a beach towel, about to get a terrible crick in her neck because she can't lie naturally and watch us at the same time. The guy in the Tau Omega T-shirt is so tense right now that his shoulders are up around his ears. Your last line of defense has been trying to pump up his bike tire ever since I first surveyed the Oval."
"I'm impressed. So I guess you know we have you surrounded."
"But how do you know that I didn't just call out the four members of your team to a pair of snipers?"
Her aura of certainty wavered. "You wouldn't do that. You're NSA and we're CIA."
"That matters far less than you think."
"And there are all these witnesses. You wouldn't kill anyone."
"I won't, but my snipers will. They'll take out the four members of your team and then slip away. While the other students are panicking, I'll heroically rush over to protect you, only you'll faint from all the excitement – and the tranquilizer I'll inject into you. We'll carry you off in the confusion. Before anyone figures out what happened, your team is dead, and you're on your way to be tortured to find out what you know."
She swallowed hard.
"This isn't something we do for fun. You did a good job to assume this wasn't some run-of-the-mill training op, but you were sloppy in your deployment. You set up looking into the sun, immediately putting yourself at a disadvantage. Even worse, each member of your team is predictably placed, each has distinguishing characteristics that attracts attention, and each chose a position that makes it difficult to react if the moment of truth comes. You're team lead?"
She nodded.
"If your team is gunned down, guess whose responsibility that is."
Her eyes turned distant. Then her sly little grin was back. "It's a good thing you don't have any snipers, then."
Casey grunted dubiously. "And why do you think that?"
"The guy with the goatee told me. His eyes widened when you mentioned them. You're bluffing."
Thornton might find a hunting knife shaving his chin yet. Still, he couldn't help but be impressed with the girl. Most people would be too focused on the conversation to watch for tells in the other agents.
He wasn't about to let her get in the last word. "One more thing. Even the most trivial of details can be critical, so don't reveal anything voluntarily. You gave up Bartowski when you told me how you got the watch."
Her eyes twinkled. "How do you know that wasn't part of my orders?"
Casey certainly wasn't expecting that. The idea made no sense, but he didn't detect the slightest hint of a lie.
What kind of game was Bartowski playing?
She gathered her things, watch included, and stood up. She stared him straight in the eye and said, "Major Casey, your reputation precedes you."
He felt even more off balance. "My reputation?"
"One of my friends joined the NSA after he graduated. When I found out I'd be meeting you, I put in a call to him to find out what I could. He couldn't give me any details, but you're a legend over there. It would be an honor to work with you some day."
She didn't wait for an answer. She just turned and walked away. Damn if the girl didn't have initiative, confidence, and a bit of style already. She needed some seasoning, no doubt, but there was some steel in that one.
Her four back-ups similarly packed up, each meeting Casey's eye and tilting their heads respectfully before going off in separate directions. He wondered how each would have reacted had they known why he was chasing Bartowski – for either of his missions.
"Back to the plane," Casey said gruffly, refusing to let any emotion creep into his voice.
"Buh-bye."
A flight attendant beamed expectantly from the galley to one side of the cockpit door. Given what might await Chuck in the terminal, he didn't feel much like grinning. Still, remaining inconspicuous was critical, so he forced a mumbled response through his clenched-tooth smile.
His mouth reverted to a thin line as he turned to follow the stream of exiting passengers. A blast of warmer air, redolent of gas fumes, stole in from the tarmac to ruffle his hair. The whine of the plane engines was louder outside the plane. The engines wound down. His stomach spun up. He had never felt so alone.
After pulling his plain green cap lower and throwing on a pair of sunglasses, he started up the confined jetway. The arrhythmic clumping of shoes sunk into the grooved rubber floor mats and the beige walls. Bright lights glared down from above. Few people spoke.
Even the moderate slope represented a significant effort. He was strung out from stress and lack of sleep. His tired limbs ached with each step. Lugging a laptop bag over one shoulder and his black duffel over the other seemed cruel and unusual.
He felt like he'd been up all night cramming for an exam. In a way, he had. When he entered the terminal, he would discover whether his plan, one that seemed reasonably solid on paper, was enough to fool several cadres of agents – or if he'd only been fooling himself.
The terminal and whatever else lay so close, so far ahead. He calculated the distance to the doorway and counted it down. Thirty feet. Twenty feet. Ten feet.
Time to see if grades were posted.
The river of passengers disgorged into the terminal. Most of them surged around the slower-moving Chuck. From his moving island in the center of the stream, his eyes skimmed a hundred people in the immediate vicinity. He saw people waiting for the next flight. He saw people walking perpendicular to his path as they went to and from other areas of the terminal. He saw people sitting at the restaurant across the way.
He didn't see anyone who might be looking for him.
No cluster of uniformed men stood waiting. No men in dark suits worked too hard to seem nonchalant. No Casey. No Sarah. That was a promising sign. Agents wouldn't know whether Chuck was hopping another flight, so they would likely want to pick up surveillance at the gate. Still, nothing was guaranteed. Not yet.
Taking a cue from an overhead sign, he headed left towards the baggage claim, using deliberately measured steps. Chuck didn't know much about the art of remaining inconspicuous, but he reasoned that anyone who moved at too fast a pace would stand out. He strove to find an appropriate middle ground between crawling behind a thin-haired man with a walker and sprinting for the concourse exit as fast as his leaden legs would carry him.
Minutes later, he reached a constantly revolving door that shuttled people from the secure area. A bored security woman sitting at a tall desk paid no attention as he entered the door. When he exited the opposite side, a boldly lettered sign hanging from the ceiling proclaimed, "Welcome to Dallas!"
He allowed himself a small smile.
Dallas was a logical destination for a number of reasons, foremost being a need to avoid potential delays. He could take a direct flight to Dallas, minimizing complications from connecting flights, and the weather forecast had been for clear and sunny skies all day.
A few airlines offered longer nonstop routes, such as New York or Washington. Chuck had been tempted to try to gain more of a lead with a single flight. However, people were going to figure out the ploy with the switched tickets, and a longer flight would allow a better opportunity for his opposition to catch up using a faster plane. Chuck needed to ensure enough of a cushion that he could make his next moves without them breathing down his neck.
Again taking his cues from overhead signs, he navigated through the terminal. He tried to keep his head tilted slightly downwards to minimize his face's exposure to the camera. The melting pot of travelers and airport workers were a blur to him, as he struggled to hide his face and watch his surroundings at the same time.
A pair of automatic doors split open for him, and he walked through them to the sidewalk outside. The line at the taxi stand was short. Inside of two minutes, Chuck was in a cab and heading away from the airport, periodically peeking at the traffic behind him.
He had no idea what he would do if the cab was followed.
They weren't even out of the parking lot and Casey was already regretting his decision to let Agent Thornton drive. Casey's blood pressure rose as he watched a perfectly good twenty-foot gap in traffic go unused. "If we aren't on the airplane in fifteen minutes," he said, "I promise you your next assignment will be monitoring illegal border crossings from Canada into Alaska."
"But we haven't had an illegal border crossing there in months!"
"Maybe we just aren't looking hard enough."
Thornton's face paled. Their black sedan shot into the next twenty-foot gap with a squeal of tires and a blast of a horn from the cut-off driver.
It was all a question of motivation, Casey mused. People didn't know what they could do until they had no choice. Fear was a powerful motivator.
That made Chuck Bartowski a dangerous adversary right now.
His phone rang. The ID indicated Agent Hale. Casey had made up an excuse to leave Hale at the commuter airport to make slipping away with Bartowski that much easier. Now Hale was conveniently in position to track down where Bartowski had really gone. Better to be lucky than smart.
"Go," Casey said.
"Jeff Barnes had a ticket on Oceanic flight 713, leaving LAX at 11:13 am and arriving at DFW at 4:08 pm local time. Flight manifest confirms a full flight."
Casey checked his watch. Bartowski was already on the ground. "Lay out a flight plan to DFW. Request a priority approach into DFW on my authority. Wheels up in fourteen minutes. Do it."
Without waiting for an answer, he hung up. He immediately dialed into an NSA intelligence center to the analyst assigned to support his team.
"Agent O'Leary," she said.
"Casey here. I need the security camera footage for DFW airport uploaded to our plane's computers."
"There are 1,975 security cameras at DFW. Can you be more specific?"
"Look up the arrival gate for Oceanic flight 713 from Los Angeles. Start from the cameras there and upload any footage between the gate and the nearest exits, including transport points to other terminals and public transportation loading zones. We'll go from there."
"Yes, sir."
"Also, get me a list of Stanford alumni. Criteria: graduated between 2000 and 2004, currently residing in the Dallas / Fort Worth area." Bartowski was using every available resource in his efforts to escape, but his closest friends and family were now accounted for. He no longer trusted Walker, thanks to the divide Casey had created by planting the device in the watch. So, if Casey could eliminate the possibility that Bartowski was getting help from an old college crony, Casey could be fairly certain Bartowski would be on his own.
"OK."
"One more thing. I want you chained to your desk in case we need anything else."
"How late? I have plans tonight."
Casey pictured the look on Bartowski's face when he realized that he was caught. "So do I, Agent O'Leary. So do I."
Some friendly talk and a fifty-dollar cash tip got Chuck dropped off in the middle of a broad strip mall parking lot about half a mile short of the address he'd given the cab driver. He waved a thanks to the man as the cab drove off.
After a quick check for tailing cars and the normal parking lot traffic, he started lugging his bags towards a large grocery store about a hundred yards away. The cab driver turned onto the main road and disappeared. Chuck turned at a right-angle and headed for a stand-alone Starbucks. An upward-angled jet roared overhead as he pulled the door open and went inside. He scanned the interior, more because he felt he should than out of any real worry.
Chuck wasn't a Starbucks customer. A Buy More wage disappeared pretty quickly when half an hour of work went to purchase a single cup of coffee. Still, he imagined this Starbucks was pretty much like any other, a carefully standardized shrine to all things related to coffee. Standard coffee aromas and inoffensive music wafted through the air. Standard baristas, looking like Lit majors with aprons, waited patiently for Chuck's order. Standard lighting beautifully highlighted all his purchase options - pastries, mugs with pithy sayings, some reading material, and about 87,000 variations on a cup of coffee, if their marketing literature was to be believed.
Chuck passed on all 87,000 variations. He headed towards a back corner dominated by a high L-shaped bar with silver-legged stools. At the far right end of the bar stood two men decked out in Dockers. They hovered over a Powerpoint presentation on a laptop, talking in passionate but hushed tones. Chuck marked them as officers for some start-up. He doubted that the subject of their discussion was anywhere close to as critical as they clearly felt it was.
Towards the other end of the bar, a woman with straight raven-black hair leaned her shoulder blades against the bar, keeping a bit of space between her and the businessmen. She seemed more interested in her folded newspaper than her cup of coffee. Chuck walked up next to her, close but not too close, and set his duffel bag on the floor. He lifted his computer bag onto the bar and fiddled with the zipper. "Anyone following me?" Chuck asked out of the corner of his mouth.
"Three men, dark suits, all wearing shoulder holsters," she said without making eye contact. "Heading for the store."
Chuck couldn't stop from turning and staring at her. He'd been so careful. "Really?"
The corners of her mouth turned up, though she didn't take her eyes off the paper.
He exhaled hard. "Very funny."
"I thought so," Mei-Ling Cho said in her thick Oriental accent. "Then again, I do not get out much these days." Her wolfish grin grew.
Mei-Ling was China's top agent until a few months ago. Because her government would not help her rescue her kidnapped brother, she had come to Los Angeles without her government's sanction to try to rescue him. She failed initially, in part because Chuck unknowingly helped a group called the Triad escape her attack. He made up for it later by brokering a deal for Team Chuck to help her, if she promised to defect in exchange. It would have been a much fonder memory had she not been pointing a gun at his head while he suggested the deal.
Now Mei-Ling was in a protection program in the Dallas suburbs, fulfilling her part of the bargain by delivering all of the information she knew about the Chinese government's intelligence activities. Chuck had always liked her, at least once she had stopped pointing guns at him. Anybody who would give up everything to save a sibling was all right in his book.
"Thank you for coming," Chuck said.
"My pleasure. I am happy for the distraction."
"Life not so good in Plano?"
Her eyes grew hard. "It is all strip malls, with only the occasional actual mall to break up the monotony. How much shopping can one woman be expected to do? Besides, your government does not pay very well."
If only she knew how true that was. "They haven't set you up with a job?"
"Not yet. They tell me it will be at least a year."
"I didn't think there would be that much debriefing to do."
"There is not. The first month was very busy, but now they only come to me with very specific questions. It is strange that they do not talk to me more, as the information in my head becomes stale and less valuable every day."
Chuck knew how that went. "Well, at least you have all that free time."
"To do what?"
"There have to be things you've always wanted to do after your agent life was over – hobbies, sports, those kinds of things?"
She eyed him curiously. "Chuck, agents never think about the future. We live in the moment, because things can change in a moment. There are always new orders, new missions, new enemies. Besides, most agents never make it to retirement, so we do not waste time dreaming about what can never be."
Her words struck a nerve. Whenever Chuck had wanted to talk to Sarah about their future, she would always talk about wanting what time they could have. Time and time again, no matter how he had pushed, she was never willing to talk about anything more. While he had eventually accepted her stance, he had never appreciated why Sarah might feel that way until that moment. He felt guilty about that. "I'm sorry," he said, as much to the absent Sarah as to Mei-Ling.
"No, I am the one who should apologize," Mei-Ling said. "You do not have time to listen to my problems. There is much to be done."
She was right, especially since Fulcrum now knew that Chuck was the Intersect and he had fled from his handlers. It was even more critical that he avoid being captured.
Things had changed.