Frea's A/N the First: I keep doing this awful thing where I forget to ask mxpw for an A/N to put at the beginning of the chapter, so I'll just thank anybody who's read, anybody who's reviewed, and our awesome beta team, Steampunk Chuckster and quistie64. Did everybody see that the great and glorious q has finished her short story, Chuck vs. the Sound of Music II? Should only take you about half an hour to read if you haven't started the story yet. I recommend it! And Steampunk Chuckster is back to work at Chuck vs. the Con Game. You should go read that (but after this chapter. What? I'm vain). Damn but we have some fine talent in this fandom.

mxpw's A/N the First: Frea, I will have my revenge.

Frea's A/N the Second: Sure you will, puppet!mxpw. Sure you will.

Gathering the Troops

It wasn't a secret to anybody in the Windy City that Morgan Grimes was my best friend, but the Bishop knew better than most.

He'd found out more or less by accident. It had been on one of my first cases, back before Ellie had placed the ad in the paper "on my behalf," and I'd met Sarah. I'd been on the hunt for corruption down by the docks, paid for by a Mr. Moses Finkelstein up in Evanston who was worried a few of his workers were getting stiffed on their paychecks. Morgan, thinking there might be a story to get him out of the inking room at the Trib, had tagged along on my heels, following me from source to source. Our ending up in the Lazarus Room for the very first time had almost seemed like fate: we'd wanted a drink after a long day, some of the dock workers were headed that way, and the Lazarus Room had looked as good a place as any to wet a man's throat after an honest night's work of sniffing out corruption.

Little had we realized at the time what sort of trouble we were stepping into. In fact, we might actually not have known we were in a notorious crime-lord's den of iniquity had Morgan not decided to start something with the bartender. I hadn't been able to afford new shoes, much less good alcohol—and Morgan was worse, as he was supporting his sickly mother—and the mook behind the bar charged us two dollars for a beer each.

"Highway robbery!" Morgan had said, and if I hadn't been there, I imagined he might have thrown that beer right in the barman's face. I'd hauled him back, but it had been too late: before we knew it, we were being dragged to the back room, taken in to see a "Mistah Karpazzo, owner of this fine establishment."

He was two weeks out from killing his boss, and making his name synonymous with crime in the city of Chicago, but we hadn't known that at the time. Instead, I'd been too busy apologizing, hat in hand, to the soft-voiced man darkly back-lit by the back room.

We'd gotten off with a warning. Maybe he liked us, I don't know, but either way, that was our first encounter, and ever since, the Bishop's known that Morgan and I've always been as thick as thieves.

Something felt wrong, though, as I rested my hands heavily against the desk and stared at Sarah and the weasel tied to the chair. The Bishop had Morgan, but why? The weasel had just said that Colt was the one who had a beef with me, not Karpazzo. And Morgan wasn't even connected to any of the power players here. He wasn't with Carina and the CIA, he definitely had no love for the Feds or the Soviets, and the only reason he was ever really interesting to the Bishop was through me. So what was I missing?

"Chuck?" Sarah asked, peering at me. "You've got that look on your face."

"What look?"

"The one that says your brain's working full speed. Where's your head at?"

"On my shoulders," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Does something feel strange about this to you? Why Morgan? I mean, he's a Tribune inker who chases conspiracies that he mostly makes up himself. I mean, I love the guy. He has his faults and all, but just the other day, I dropped by to see him and he was staring at a building. Not exactly a mastermind."

"I could beat it out of this rat, if you like," Sarah said, placing a hand on the weasel's shoulder.

The man went even paler, if that was at all possible. "I don't know nothing! I don't know nothing! Please, make her stop."

Both Sarah and I gave him a long look.

"No," I said. I could feel panic rising like a tidal wave, chanting He's got Morgan, He's got Morgan in my head. "Apparently, he don't know nothing."

"I'm sure some trauma to the head might shake new memories loose." Sarah's face was deceptively pleasant as she said this.

The man whimpered pitifully.

I felt like doing the same. The Bishop had my best friend and I couldn't think of why.

Wait. The building. Morgan had been staring at a building when I'd talked to him the other day. He'd been there because...

I burst into action, rifling through the papers on my desk, and ignoring the bewildered looks from both Sarah and the other man.

"Chuck? What are you doing?"

"Where is it?" I said, and for once, wished I had listened to Sarah more about keeping my office neat. Finally I found the paper from the other day, and I practically tore the papers to shreds as I flipped through them for the relevant article. "Found it!"

"Found what?"

I threw the paper onto my desk and shook my head at Sarah. I walked up to the weasel in the chair and pulled him to his feet. "Alright, time for you to go." I started to escort him out of my office, Sarah taking hold of his other arm. "Some friendly advice, pal? Pick another line of work, you're not very good at this one." And together, Sarah and I pushed him out of the office and into the hallway.

He looked like he might turn around and fight his way back, but one look from Sarah stopped him in his tracks. I was already on my way back inside, Sarah soon following on my heels.

"What was that all about, Chuck?"

I picked up the paper and tapped at the article about the mysterious death of Dr. Busgang. "Right here. This is why Morgan was casing the McCallister building. He was convinced that this Busgang's death wasn't so cut and dry."

"Did you say Busgang?"

"Yeah. Why, do you know him?"

"Not personally, no, but I remember hearing his name a lot right before I left the OSS. He was apparently some kind of communications expert. Like you."

I almost couldn't believe it. It looked like one of Morgan's crazy conspiracy theories was actually right for once, and it was probably going to get him killed. I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let that happen.

Sarah put the paper back on my desk and squeezed my arm. "Chuck, what do you want to do? We should call Sergeant Casey."

"I think you're right, Sarah, but that's not enough. I think I have an idea." I smiled at her then, but I know I didn't feel it, and it probably looked more like a grimace than anything else.

I reached across my desk and picked up my telephone. I placed it up to my ear and blinked when I heard a faint click. It was something just about everybody else would have either ignored or never noticed, but I had spent the last years of the War doing nothing but listening to, breaking, and studying communications. I knew when a phone line was being monitored, when somebody else was listening.

Good, I thought, the more invited to the party, the better.

I placed the telephone back in its cradle. "The line's tapped."

"What?"

"My phone line, it's tapped. It's gotta be Shaw or the Soviets. This isn't the Bishop's style."

Sarah nodded her head slowly, like she was parsing my words. "Are you sure?"

"Trust me, I'm sure."

"Okay, I believe you, but that does complicate things. What were you going to do?"

"Call the Bishop. Make a trade."

"Chuck, no. I want to save Morgan as much as you, but we can't give something like the Omega Machine to a man like the Bishop."

I ran a hand through my hair, undoubtedly messing it all up. "I know, believe me, I get it. I remember what technology like this can do in the wrong hands. But—" I placed my hand back on the telephone. "But I have an idea. Something crazy, but I think it could work."

The wary look on Sarah's face made me reconsider if what I was thinking of doing was the right course of action, but it was the only idea I could think of, the only way I could get everybody chasing after me in one place. I smiled again at Sarah, and this time I knew it was more genuine. "I think it's time we called checkmate on the Bishop."

I could see Sarah fight a smile, but eventually it won out, even if it did come with a slight roll of her eyes.

That gave me the confidence I needed to dial the operator and say, "Hello, operator? I'd like the number for the Lazarus Room, please."

My shirt collar felt stiff and constrictive, but I knew tugging at it would only earn me a reproachful look from Sarah, so I kept my hands by my sides. A time or two, I reached for my pocket watch, only to remember that it was currently keeping some lucky cabbie company instead of me. So I had nothing to do but wait and try not to fiddle about, while the desk sergeant glared at me and Sarah, who was apparently unaffected by the bustle of a police station all around us, calmly reading through the rest of the edition of the Tribune that contained the article on Dr. Busgang.

Getting changed into my nicest shirt and vest had been her idea. She'd also dressed up considerably, too. If she'd caught my regular glimpses at her legs, she hadn't said.

"And you're sure he's not here?" I asked, almost giving in and pulling at my collar.

"Positive." Sarah didn't look up from an article on the mayor. "I called ahead and sweet-talked Miss Greta a bit, made sure Shaw's out on business. We're free and clear."

"Probably looking for some other poor scapegoat to pin something on," I said, scowling at the mere thought of the wooden-faced FBI agent. My good leg started jiggling, the nerves making my foot tap. Sarah looked at me out of the corner of her eye, but thankfully didn't threaten bodily harm. After her way of dealing with the Bishop's weasel, I couldn't help but be grateful about that. "Do you think they'll even see us? Casey said the cops were looking for me and—"

"Casey riles you up." Sarah sounded bored. "You annoy him, but he likes you, and that annoys him more. It's too bad we didn't think to grab the crosswords section of the paper before we left."

"Bored?" I asked, swiveling to look at her.

"No, but you look like you could use some distracting. And most of the other ways I might use are right out, considering we're in the middle of a police station." Sarah raised an eyebrow a quarter inch.

This time, I had to pull at my collar, to let some of the heat out. I was amazed steam wasn't rising off of my skin. "Aw, shucks, ma'am," I said in my best back-country voice, and she rolled her eyes at me, though I could see a tiny piece of a smile quirking at the corner of her lips. "Do you think—"

"Carmichael, what the hell are you doing here?"

I nearly sprang to attention at the authoritative bark that cut through whatever flirting I might have been attempting. It came not from the police captain I'd come to see, but from the tiny woman who guarded his office like an ever-vigilant lioness. Mrs. Diane Beckman had been born to be an Army general in another life, if you asked me, though she certainly didn't look it. Her hair was the bright, burnished red of a newly minted penny, her eyes were beady and glaring, and though she barely topped five feet, she had a glower that could stop a man in his tracks and make him beg for mercy.

She had that glower pinned on me now, with her hands on her hips and a suspicious look in place.

"Uh, hello, Gener—I mean, ma'am."

"And you," Mrs. Beckman turned that glower onto Sarah, and I'm no coward, but I certainly felt a bit of relief anyway. "I suppose you're back now."

Sarah merely looked amused, biting her lip. "I am."

"Couldn't keep this one out of the station? You know the cops are looking for him."

"It was my idea, ma'am."

"Haven't got a single lick of sense between the two of you. Since Sergeant Casey is out, I suppose you're here to see the Captain?"

"If he's in," I said, and politely did not add And not too drunk. "There's something he needs to know."

Beckman studied me like a scientist with a new specimen. "I'm guessing since you so happened to show up in the five minutes in which a certain federal agent is not in the building, it has something to do with him."

Sarah looked pointedly around at all of the cops who were very careful in trying not to look like they were listening in to the entire conversation. It, of course, only made them seem even more obvious about it. "Maybe we could talk about this a little more privately?"

"Very well. Come this way." And with her heels clicking on the linoleum, she led us back into the labyrinthine maze of cubicles that led the way to Captain Roan Montgomery's office. The 42nd Precinct was kept in one of the buildings that hadn't been destroyed by the Fire, so the amenities were old, some of the oldest in the area, and it always smelled faintly of mold. The wiring for the lighting was spotty at best (though I had offered to fix it a couple of times for Casey) so that even though the light bulbs were on, it still felt dark and grim inside.

It was, in my opinion, the perfect place for Casey to work. He tended to growl like a bear a lot, so why not let him have his cave?

Captain Montgomery's office was buried in the back, far enough from the holding cells where you couldn't hear the drunks shouting insults at each other. I'd been in once or twice. After I'd given the police valuable information that had led them to a notorious killer, Captain "Call me Roan" Montgomery had invited me back for the perfect martini, which he claimed he could only make himself. It had three olives. Out of solidarity with Sarah, who'd recently told me at the time that she hated olives, I'd only had one drink. Either way, it was pretty well known that the captain for the 42nd was a bit of a lush, and that secretly, the entire department was held together not by him or any of his men, but by the tiny, fearsome woman leading the way now.

She knocked once on the door, and I got the feeling that it was more for form's sake, before she burst into the office. Roan Montgomery didn't even bother to stand. He was a dashing, suave man who did not look, act, or seem like a cop in the slightest. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, not even dented from the trilby hat squared away neatly on the hat stand, and he had his vest neatly buttoned over a starched white shirt. Not a single line dared muss his clothing, though given that he was flirting with his sixth decade, he had plenty of lines around his mouth and eyes.

"Oh, Charles," he said, putting his feet on the floor and standing. "Always lovely to see you—and the delightful Miss Walker, I see you're back as well. Enchanté, my dear." He bent gallantly over Sarah's hand.

Instead of giggling, however, she shot me a Can you believe this guy? look. I shook my head.

"Hello, Roan," she said, taking her hand back.

I had my own hand pumped enthusiastically by Roan. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, heading for the cabinet that I knew held all of his martini ingredients.

"No, thank you, we're fine."

Mrs. Beckman cleared her throat, making Roan look over. "Perhaps," the secretary said, "Mr. Carmichael and Miss Walker dropped by because they have something important to discuss. I highly doubt this is merely a social call."

"Unfortunately not," I said, inclining my head toward her. "I'm here about the Bishop."

Roan made a hmm noise. "Haven't we killed him yet?" he asked Mrs. Beckman.

"Not for lack of trying."

"Or at least arrested him?"

"Again, no, Captain."

"Would you like a chance to?" I asked, twirling my hat around my finger. "Because that's what I came here to talk about."

Roan put down his drink, suddenly turning serious. "We're listening," he said, and I cleared my throat and began to tell the cops my plan.

Frea's A/N the Third: I think this is just going to be the only update this week, you guys. I'm stressed out with deadlines for a writing thing and work thing and I appreciate the patience. We'll be back on Monday. In the meantime, here's a li'l sumthin'-sumthin' to tide you over:

Sweat dripped in a steady line down my back, so I didn't bother removing my hat.

Sarah, on the other hand, looked completely calm and confident as she walked in beside me. Before I could open my mouth—and probably get us all in trouble—she sashayed up to the barkeep. "Hi, handsome," she said. "Need to talk to your boss."

The barkeep eyed her. "You got an appointment?"

"I'm a secretary. Of course I set one up ahead of time."

"All right, then." It was possible the barkeep was stunned stupid by Sarah's beauty—it had certainly happened to me a time or two—for he swallowed hard and jerked his head toward the back room. "He's with company, so you might have to wait, but head on through there. He'll see ya."

"Thanks, big guy." Sarah winked again and grabbed my tie to pull me along, and I didn't blame the barkeep one bit for looking like he'd been smacked between the eyes with a battering ram.