Frea's A/N the First: Whomp whomp whomp, the chapter is heeeeeeere. That's right, it's time to pile things onto Chuck and make them even twistier than they were before! I'm still in Vienna, chilling with Mozart and the boys, but I wanted to give a shout-out to everybody who's tweeted, tumbled, reviewed, sent messages, that awesome smoke signal I saw yesterday. You guys are the best, and it's a pleasure to be writing for you. Thanks to our great beta readers, quistie64 and Steampunk Chuckster, for being fabulous and helping us sort out this story! And as ever, thanks, Max. Just because.

mxpw's A/N the First: This chapter took forever to write. It just wouldn't work. But eventually we got it under control and I like what came of it. In many ways, this is the last setup chapter for the story. After this chapter, things really kick into high gear. So I hope you guys are ready for a thrilling adventure. Also, let me just say thank you for your patience and willing to read this story despite the lack of a certain blonde we all know and love. For being so awesome, there's something for you at the end of the chapter.

Crooked Branch

Two hours later, I had nothing but the beginnings of a good case of frostbite. If somebody was meeting for business down at the docks, they'd wised up and taken it to warmer quarters. I'd been there for over an hour, teeth chattering the whole time thanks to a biting wind off the Lake, wind that cut through my clothes like knives.

And what had I found? Nothing. Nada. A big fat zero.

I don't know why that surprised me, considering the source of my information. I knew better. But the lure of anything connected to Bryce Larkin, any lead on a case that was making me more and more miserable by the second, had been too much to ignore. So much that I had trusted the word of a man who probably hadn't looked up from the bottom of a bottle in years. One thing was for sure, Jeff wouldn't see a dime of my money. I was cold, my leg was bothering me something fierce, and the frustration of finding nothing after skulking around slip after slip was really starting to mount.

It wasn't that I hadn't found anything at all. I mean, this was Chicago. This was no city of angels. I'd seen enough illegal activity to make Casey rub his hands together in anticipation of some quality skull crackin'. But no Larkin, which was all I personally cared about.

What was so important about this wag, anyway?

I spat out a curse that would have made Ellie box my ears, and decided I had had enough. I'm stubborn as a mule and twice as foolhardy besides, but even I have my limits. I could start digging for fresh leads tomorrow. Maybe I'd hit up Morgan and see if he knew anything from the dailies. The docks might be empty of Bryce Larkin, but if the Bishop was interested enough to drop fifteen big ones, somebody was going to notice something, even in a place like Chicago.

But first, I needed to call for a cab. No way would I make the long trek home, and even the thought of walking to the South Boulevard El station made me want to cry. I'll admit, I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings as much I usually do. I'd like to say it was because I'd gotten used to her watching my back, but really, I was tired and that made it easy for any fat-head to sneak up on me with a pistol.

For example: I made it halfway to the payphone near Pier 12 when I heard the sound of a gun hammer being pulled back right behind my right ear. It's a pretty unmistakable noise, even if I hadn't had a gun pointed at my head a time or two.

My first thought was the Bishop. Maybe he had finally gotten tired of me giving him lip. Or maybe it was one of Chicago's other, finer criminals. Sarah had always believed—erroneously and unjustly, I felt—that I attracted more trouble than any human had any right to.

"Turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."

I didn't recognize the voice, but that didn't mean much. I'd had dealings with most of the Bishop's hatchetman, but not all of them. And I'd made enough enemies over the years to have a veritable Who's Who of the Chicago Underworld gunning for my head at any point of time: Crazy Laszlo, Lon "the Playboy" Kirk, Uncle Bernie and his Downtown Boys all held grudges, just to name a few. Little Lizzie Cutler still had it out for me for telling Casey about the casino in the basement of her specialty sandwich shop.

A gun's a gun, so I did as I was told. I stuck my hands out and turned around slowly. "If you're after a quick buck, buddy, I'm not your guy."

"Shut up."

The man stepped forward, and light fell across his face, giving me my first solid look. He was handsome in a conventional sense, tall and broad, but looking at him, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. Something about his too-dark eyes in an impressively blank face seemed...off. The fact that he was pointing a revolver at me more or less put a damper on any attractiveness he might have had, too. I took in the details, just in case: a worn and unimaginative suit, expected unwarranted obedience, and carrying a .38 Special. It all screamed G-man.

"I don't have any money," I said. "Look, you're better off hitting up the next unlucky john, I'm—"

"I'm not here for your money," the man said. "And I told you to shut up."

"Hey, hey," I said, even as I cursed Jeff with every fiber of my being for the bum information. "We're all friends here, no need for hostility. Or…guns."

The man took a step forward. "You're under arrest."

To my knowledge, I hadn't done anything illegal—lately. I mean, sure, I wasn't really supposed to be poking around the docks at this hour, but this was Chicago. Being nosy merited a slap on the wrist at best, not a trip downtown in bracelets. Being a private dick, especially in a town like mine, meant you had to either develop finely tuned instincts or start getting fitted for your overcoat and concrete boots. And right now my instincts were screaming. There was something fishy going on, fishier even than Lake Michigan in summer. Whoever this man was, he wasn't on the straight and narrow. And I needed to run, which was easier said than done when my leg hurt and the man was pointing a .38 Special at my chest.

Given that most of his answers had included some variation of "shut up," there wasn't much of a chance of me talking my way out of this one, I realized. But there's one thing that has never failed me (Sarah and Ellie might beg to differ), so I decided to try that.

I have one talent in this world: I am really, really good at making bad guys angry.

"Look, buddy," I said, "I don't know who you think you are, but I haven't done anything wrong. I'm cold, I'm tired, and I've had a really crappy day so why don't you leave me the hell alone?"

The big man took another step forward. "If you know what's good for you, you'll shut up."

"Let me see a badge. I'm not going anywhere until I see some proof you're not one of the Bishop's men trying to take me for a ride." Not that having a badge really precluded somebody from being on the Bishop's payroll, but I needed every second I could get. My right hand inched closer to my pistol.

To my surprise, the other man actually produced a shield. In the dim lamplight, I could see that it was real shiny, too, and authentic looking, which told me either this man polished it obsessively or he hadn't had it long. Either way, it was somehow worse that he actually did have a shield. I knew where I stood with the Bishop and his goons. I didn't know what I'd done to have a genuine Hooverman after me.

"Special Agent Shaw. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," the man said. He clenched his jaw. I could almost feel the tension coming off him in waves.

Casey had said there was a FBI agent sniffing around, one who had his men spooked. And standing there among the crates waiting to be loaded onto Pier 12, I could certainly see why. Maybe it was the way his gun hand wasn't even quivering, though he'd been holding up that .38 for quite a long time. Maybe it was the fact that he was trying to arrest me.

But something told me I really needed to get away from this guy. What was he even doing at the docks? Was he working off the same information I was? Coincidences, in my experience, never actually were. Was it possible Shaw was actually looking for me? I'd never met him and he hadn't addressed me by name, and though his eyes were flat and dark, I couldn't help but perceive a sense of smug confidence.

I hoped I wasn't too obvious as I looked around for an escape route. There were crates stacked high about twenty feet. I could duck behind them in a pinch, provided I could get my bum leg to move. And in the distance, the voices of distant night dock workers carried on the bitterly sharp wind. I knew better than to count on them to be in my corner, though. Not too many people would willingly cross a Hooverman, and besides, he could have them on his payroll already.

"I've been looking for you all night," Shaw said.

My stomach sank. "I didn't do anything," I said. Shooting my way out was an even worse idea than running. Shaw was a cop—a dirty copper, maybe, but I couldn't know for sure—which meant taking him down would have cops after me, and that wasn't my style anyway. But I couldn't run with that hand cannon pointed right at me either. "Look, Agent Shaw, this must all be some kind of big misunderstanding—"

From the docks, there was a cacophonous crack, a boom that hurt my ears. It was probably just Teamsters dropping a crate, but it gave me the opportunity I needed. Shaw spun in the direction of the clanging commotion. I sprang forward, just like Sergeant Mankowitz had drilled into me back in Basic, and hit Shaw in his midsection with my shoulder.

It was like hitting a brick wall head on. Needless to say, it hurt quite a lot.

The bigger man went tumbling. My leg nearly buckled me to the ground, but I scrambled to keep my balance. Even though Shaw was shouting, I didn't stick around to find out what he had to say. I split faster than you could say "Jack Robinson."

I knew where I was going: being able to navigate the docks was essential in my line of work. I tried my best to avoid them, but sometimes a case made that impossible. So when I had to work the docks, I made a point to grease a few palms, learn the warehouses, and come loaded for bear. So I left Shaw in the dust and I ran for Warehouse 13. A fellow there still owed me a favor for giving his old lady proof he didn't visit the flop houses. If I could get inside the building, Mac would hide me.

The snap of gunfire rang out. I felt a breeze whiz past my head and a crate ahead of me exploded a shower of splinters onto the ground. I flinched and zigged to my left. Guess I was taking the long way to 13.

Now not only did I have a man out to arrest me, he was taking shots. Hot damn, I needed to ditch this mope. Another shot joined the first, missing me but hitting the concrete nearby. I heard it ricochet. I doubted Shaw would have the patience or coordination to reload on the run, so I just had to pray he missed four more times. His third shot was the wildest yet, which was good, because my leg felt like somebody had run through it with a bayonet.

I tripped. I'm not sure on what, but one second I was looking over my shoulder to see how much distance I'd created, and the next I was flying through the air.

I landed hard on my left side, sliding along the cold concrete like I was making for home. My hat tumbled free as I pushed myself to my feet. When I reached to scoop up the hat—it's hard to find a good hat, even in Chicago—Shaw's fourth shot left a nick in the asphalt near my arm. Part of the bullet must have fractured off, for the next thing I know, I was up and running toward 13, right arm cradled to my chest. And I was definitely leaking.

What did it say about my priorities that the only thing I could think about as I ran was that if she had to sew me up for the thousandth time, Ellie was going to kill me?

Shot five wasn't even close. I cursed my bad luck. It was obvious the crazy copper couldn't hit the broad side of my uncle's barn, and yet I had a dripping arm for my troubles.

I ducked under a low hanging pallet and found myself cornered. I was near Warehouse 13, but somehow I'd made a wrong turn. The narrow corridor between packing crates had sent me into a fitting dead end, surrounded by stacked shipping containers. There was nowhere to go but up, and there was no way my leg would let me do that.

Shaw's heavy footfalls echoed on the concrete. I whirled around to see him appear at the mouth of the little alley I found myself in. The bastard didn't even have the good grace to be winded, while I had to gulp in huge lungfuls of biting dock air just to breathe. Sometimes, life just wasn't fair.

I braced a hand against the nearest shipping crate to keep upright. Two things stood out to me: there was something almost approaching anger on the man's face, and even worse, he was reloading the .38 with steady hands. "Now I've got you on resisting arrest, too," he said, looking at me as he finished reloading. The snick-click that sounded as the cylinder locked into place rang with a sense of finality that made me look wildly around for a way to escape.

Stall, my brain told me. I had to stall. He was either going to arrest me or he was going to shoot me, and if there was one thing I'd learned dealing with Chicago's crooks: if I stalled long enough, if I talked long enough, she would find me.

"What are you arresting me for?" I asked, wheezing a little. My arm was on fire and my leg felt worse. Jeff Barnes was a dead man the next time I saw him. "What do you even want with me?"

"Nothing you would understand, Mr. Carmichael. But I must thank you for making my job easier." Shaw smiled and I could only describe the expression as cruel.

As it happened, I don't know what it was about tonight: my luck suddenly turning, the Fates smiling down on me, God, or maybe just my guardian angel, but suddenly the night sounded like the very air itself was being ripped apart.

It's hard to mistake the sound of a Tommy gun opening up, and during my days on the beat, I've heard it more times than I'd like to count—they call it the Chicago typewriter for a reason. I've only been on the receiving end of it once and it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. But tonight, it was like sweet, sweet music as the loudest son-of-a-bitch on the block came to my rescue.

The lack of sudden ventilation holes in my jacket and shoes told me the shooter wasn't aiming for me. Tommy guns aren't accurate, but they generally don't miss that bad. An explosion of sparks surrounded Shaw. He danced a waltz as he tried to avoid the spray of bullets slamming into the ground at his feet and ricocheting off the metal containers behind him.

I stood there and gaped for a few seconds, too surprised to really move. She'd never used a Tommy gun before. Whoever my guardian angel was, she liked knives. But eventually the voice in the back of my head that sounded suspiciously like Sarah's insisted that I should run. Having learned long ago never to argue with a woman if it could be helped—I always ended up losing—I listened.

I ran. I had to go past Shaw to do it, but the man was too busy lying on the ground to stop me. I couldn't tell if he was alive or dead and I wasn't about to stick around to find out. They say discretion is the better part of valor. In that moment, I felt like the soul of utter discretion.

I burst out of the alley as fast as my limp-run could manage and looked back, wondering if I'd see my rescuer. They couldn't be far. There was too little open space for the shooter to be too far off. Who had saved me? Why?

I stopped and tried to control my breathing so that I could listen, which wasn't easy with my heart thundering away in my ears. I could hear the sound of shouting men in the distance, likely searching for the commotion, and the sound of a siren in the far off distance as well. The boys in blue were finally coming to the rescue. Wonderful. I spun around in a circle, just listening. To the west, I barely made out the sound of boots on the pavement. I gave chase immediately.

I had to know who had just saved me. Furthermore, I needed to know why they had saved me and if they had any connection to Bryce Larkin.

Unfortunately, after all the night's events, I wasn't moving too well. All I saw, about a hundred feet in front of me, was the shape of a man running, briefly washed with amber as he crossed under a lamplight. It was impossible to keep up.

The sirens sounded closer and I knew I had to get out of there. If my rescuer had killed Shaw, the last thing I wanted to be was near a dead cop when the bulls arrived. I had enough problems as it was. So cursing Jeff Barnes, Bryce Larkin, and Agent Shaw, I began the long hobble-trek to the South Boulevard El and hoped I wouldn't bleed over everything on the way there.

mxpw's A/N the Second: Well, well, well, what did you all think of Shaw's appearance in the story? Poor Chuck just can't catch a break. Makes you wonder when things are gonna start to turn around for him.

"Hence the stake-out," I said. My eggs arrived and I took my time sopping up the runnels of yellow with a piece of toast. "You really think you're going to find something?"

"Oh, I know I am." Morgan went quiet for a second, while I shoveled my breakfast in. "In fact, I already have."

"What?" I asked around a mouthful of toast.

"Your secretary."

I nearly choked. "Sarah's involved in your conspiracy? That's not funny."

"Not my conspiracy, no. But unless I'm mistaken, that's her, walking toward the corner there." Morgan paused, his brow furrowing. "With a lamp."