A/N the First: Wow, we've made it to chapter 63 of this story! That still amazes me. Anyway, lots of thanks owed for this chapter. I'll name them in no particular order: mxpw, the best beta reader on the planet (he's got the awards to prove it. They're sitting on a shelf next to his collection of Frea voodoo dolls).

Oh, and everybody who's still reading and reviewing. And quistie64. And Google. And the people that originally created Chuck, as without them, Fates wouldn't be here and I wouldn't have met so many awesome people. Enjoy the chapter!

Freedom comes from strength and self-reliance. — Lisa Murkowski

Witness Protection

11 JULY 2008
WASHINGTON D.C. (IN FRONT OF A YOGURT SHOP)
16:12 EDT

His first thoughts—that he was being paranoid, that he was hallucinating—was a complete wash. The minute he slowed, the three men behind him did the same. One man halfway down the block ahead of him looked up and quickly away. A fifth man across the street pretended to be far too interested in a copy of the Post. Casey would have scowled at that.

Casey would have also scowled at the fact that all five men wore lightweight jackets. Even though it was cooler than the previous day, Chuck was walking around in shorts and a T-shirt, like most of the tourists around him. Five men in jackets stood out like a sore thumb, which told him two things: his pursuers were packing, and they didn't care about being discreet.

Panic rose, but only for a split second. The day went cold, crystal clear focus sliding over his vision. It was a gift to be aware of his Lincoln training, for he could identify every egress point and escape route in a matter of seconds.

The problem was that there were five of them and only one of him. He could calculate the odds of getting away cleanly, and they were only twelve percent in his favor. The longer he kept the guys following him on his own terms, the better his chances of getting away were. Even better than that, he needed to get to some place crowded and public. That was the first thing Sarah had taught him in her lessons about how to lose a tail.

He changed route and headed for the Federal Triangle area. He switched his duffel to his left hand, leaving his right hand free to defend or attack, depending. As he did so, he pushed the button on his watch.

His next act was to reach for his cell phone and hit speed dial for Sarah's number.

The call didn't connect.

Chuck checked a window display as he was going by, using the mirroring properties in the shop's glass to check out his followers. One of them must have a cell phone jammer. "Dammit." Casey and Sarah wouldn't be picking up on his watch beacon, either. If they knew to block his cell, they'd know to block his watch. Which meant Graham had sent them. They likely had training. But if they'd come from Graham, they needed Chuck whole, mostly in one piece, and ready to be taken to the DNI to upload the Intersect.

Without, hopefully, letting them know he was onto them, he headed into an open-aired shop that sold cheap, touristy knickknacks and odds and ends. It was crawling with tourists and had multiple exits, and he could hear Sarah's patient instructor voice telling him that this was ideal. If he could just get out the other side, he'd have a little more leeway.

He nearly tripped over a mother and her two toddlers, one of whom was covered in what looked like some kind of red syrup. "Sorry—sorry—"

The mother gave him a dirty look. Chuck, about to apologize again, spotted one of the men following him coming in the entrance and cursed under his breath. He sidled away through the racks of postcards.

The man followed him. Desperate and trying to hide it, Chuck looked for a weapon, any weapon, among the curios and I Love D.C. coffee mugs. His eyes fell on the rack in the corner, toward the door on the opposite side of the shop. He gave one wincing apology to his masculinity and headed over, taking time to make it look like he was actively, if insistently, shopping. When he reached the rack, he spun it around, pretending interest. It only took about five seconds—five long, interminable seconds—of keeping his head before the man approached, one hand inside his jacket.

Chuck counted under his breath, dropped the duffel, and turned. The man cursed as he received a face full of Strawberry Sparkle Body Spray.

"Sorry," Chuck said to the world, and shoved the man into a table full of folded up T-shirts. He sprinted for the exit. He couldn't tell if the crashing noises behind him were the man recovering or surprised tourists, but he wasn't going to waste time looking over his shoulder to find out. He exploded out into the sunlight again, already in mid-turn. He tripped, went down to a knee, and scrambled to his feet.

"Police! Freeze!"

The Lincoln senses informed him of the number of people around, most of them startled and confused. It also informed him that there was a man on the sidewalk about eight feet away with his gun out to his right, standing in a perfect isosceles stance.

Chuck froze.

Police? What the hell? The men trailing after him couldn't be cops. They had to have been sent by Graham. His watch and his phone weren't working, and cops didn't have jammers, not for tracking regular civilians. And it made no sense of cops to be following him, anyway. He didn't break the law—unless it was CIA-sanctioned. Slowly, he turned in place, hands held aloft. The cop was pointing a taser at him. Chuck almost preferred a pistol. At least that way this guy wouldn't be able to fire into the crowd if Chuck chose to run.

What the hell was going on?

"Hands on your head!" the cop said, and two of his buddies came around the corner to join him on the other side of the tourist shop with Chuck.

Chuck obeyed, warily. There was still the sound of swearing and confusion from inside the tourist shop, which accounted for the fourth man, but where was the fifth? Why had they sent five cops to track him? Only one had a taser out, but he could see the glints of silver at their waistbands: their badges.

"Up against the wall!"

He could see people in the crowd going for their camera phones to record this: understandable, given that most people had never witnessed somebody getting arrested in person. Still, it would be a mess for Beckman's people to clean up. And maybe Casey and Sarah might see him on YouTube and know where he was if he didn't get a phone call. He kept his head down, even so, while the second cop came up behind him.

"Don't try anything, Carmichael," the cop said, and Chuck realized that he wasn't getting that phone call. "The boss wants you whole, but he didn't say anything about being nice."

"Which boss are we talking about?" Chuck asked, feeling a droplet of cold sweat slide under the collar of his shirt. He knew this was Graham's doing, knew in a sudden bout of clarity that Graham may have let him walk out of the office that afternoon, but he had truly never let Chuck get away, nor would he.

"You know exactly which boss we're talking about," the man said, and Chuck heard the damning click of the handcuffs closing around his wrists. In a louder voice, the man said, "Charles Carmichael, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent."

And while he went through the whole Miranda speech—which was truly worthless, as Chuck knew now that the man was definitely not a cop—the others who had been tailing Chuck worked to disperse the crowd. Chuck was forced to keep facing the wall, even as his thoughts raced.

Why had he thought Graham wouldn't leave this alone? Why hadn't he told Casey? Or Sarah? Why had he just assumed that would be the end of it?

They were going to put another Intersect in his head. They were going to enslave him for forever.

"Come along," the "cop" who'd threatened to taser him said. "You've got a meeting to get to."

It was childish, and also probably something he and Morgan had talked about doing as teens, but Chuck hawked a loogie at him. He took the short-armed punch to the gut with a grunt of pain and a philosophy that it had been worth it, before he was marched off, down the street.

11 JULY 2008
METRO STATION
16:30 EDT

They hadn't loaded him into the back of an unmarked van, or even a police car. With every step, Chuck felt the paranoia and confusion grow. He was marched down the street, flanked by two men, with another walking point, another trailing behind, forming a cage around him. They'd handed his watch and cell phone off to the man he'd sparkle-sprayed in the face, which meant Sarah and Casey had no way of tracking him, even if they were to pick up on the fact that he was missing.

They led him down the steps to the Metro, flashing their badges to get past the gates and into the station. By this point, Chuck was more than confused; he was absolutely at sea and without a clue as to what could be going on. What was their endgame? Why take him there?

He soon found out. A quick hop on the orange line away—just two or three stops—and he was marched off the train, taken across the platform, and pushed through a service door tucked out of the way. He made sure to look directly at every single camera he could find, giving each a clear profile of his face, until the guard behind him noticed and shoved his head down.

Chuck took great pleasure out of stumbling and causing three of them to stumble as well.

The service door opened into a narrow, damp hallway that smelled of molder and oil and was lit, of course, by a classic horror movie staple: the single flickering bulb. "Nice digs," Chuck said. "Really, I like the ambience. Though I always thought wherever I died, it'd be a little more cheerful."

"Shut up," the man he'd spat on said. During the march, Chuck had taken to calling him Señor Saliva. Even now, he wasn't surprised at the response. Every time he'd tried to speak, he'd received a version of "Be quiet." The one time he'd tried to appeal to another civilian, they'd stepped on his foot and punched him in the stomach.

Maybe Chuck would show up in a cell phone video about police brutality online and that was how Casey and Sarah would find him. It was a long shot.

The hallway led to a set of stairs. Chuck felt panic mount, but he had no choice but to go forward, the soles of his chucks scratching loudly against the dusty tiles. "I really like your interior decorator. Excellent use of space."

No response from the thug squad.

"Not very feng shui, though. Maybe you should bring somebody down here, let them get a look at that? It's really all about how you manage the space, I've found and—"

"Oh, my God," said one of the two men who hadn't spoken yet. He turned angrily toward Señor Saliva. "I hope the boss paid you in advance because if he doesn't shut the hell up, I'm going to turn around and shoot him, I don't care what he's worth."

"Shoot me where?" Chuck asked.

Saliva ignored him. "We're almost there, Patterson. Then we put him in the cell and wait. He'll be the CIA's problem soon."

"Where were you going to shoot me?" Chuck asked Patterson. "This is important. See, my friend—well, she's kind of my girlfriend, kind of not, we have this whole will-they-won't-they bit going that seems kind of cute on TV until you live the real thing, but either way, that's not important. What I was trying to say is that there are parts of me—well, all of me, really, if you want to get down to the nitty-gritty—that she won't want you to shoot and—why are you taking off your tie? You're not going to garrote me, are you? I saw the end of Lethal Weapon Four and I really, really didn't like it, and not just because—oh, God."

Patterson balled his tie up and shoved it into Chuck's mouth. Chuck gagged over the taste of silk. He was proud of himself, though, that he didn't make it easy for the man to circle behind him and tie the neckwear off into a suitable gag.

That was, until Saliva punched him in the stomach again. Chuck was finding it harder and harder to take those hits philosophically.

Saliva hadn't been wrong; it was only about fifty feet up the corridor that there was an alcove and a door. Chuck was shoved through this. Beyond it lay a small, square room with an ancient mini-fridge and coffeemaker in one corner. They had to move around a table to get through another door. Chuck was promptly pushed through this, and the door closed behind him.

It really was a cell. Underneath the Washington D.C. Metro station, there was a holding cell and a waiting room. It was just his freaking luck. He tried to swear through the gag—which was uncomfortably tight and tasted disgusting—but all that came out was, "Mmph."

Dammit. He couldn't even swear properly.

11 JULY 2008
METRO STATION
17:23 EDT

Chuck scoured every inch of the room for cameras, hidden, or otherwise, but there wasn't anything inside he could use. It was a room with cinderblock walls that had peeled and yellowed with age and a concrete floor so cold that it had burned. It smelled like dust, which of course made him sneeze. But there weren't any cameras and Saliva's crew seemed too annoyed with him to give him much credit and check on him. Chuck, once panic had subsided and clarity had come back, had begun to count the various intervals. No check-in at ten minutes, none at fifteen, thirty, forty-five. It was coming up on an hour, and they would need to move him to the DNI headquarters soon. And there really was no hope of either Casey or Sarah finding him or even knowing he was gone, so if he wanted to get out of there, he had to do it himself. The old version of him would have despaired.

At least Carver and Kohl had taught him one thing: sometimes help didn't come. Sometimes it was up to him.

When an hour passed, Chuck decided he'd waited long enough. It was an interesting study in flexibility and pain to lie down and maneuver his handcuffed hands from behind him to in front of him. He swore through the gag, cursing the genetics that had led to his freakishly long legs and ridiculously gangly build, which came in handy during intramural sports but not during extracurricular jail-breaking. By the time he had his hands in front of him and working at the gag, he was sweating. He whipped the tie off and let out a gasp, his first real deep breath in over an hour.

"That's it. I am never wearing a tie again."

After all, he was a millionaire now. That meant he could be eccentric enough to pull it off.

With the gag off, he could think more clearly. He assessed the situation again, hoping for more insight. Five guys, one away doing things with his watch and his cell phone, probably at an arcade somewhere. What he would say if somebody actually called Chuck's phone—Chuck's teammates, after all, were understandably paranoid—Chuck had no idea, but he'd worry about that later. Another member of the group was doing patrols of the station, probably, in case Sarah or Casey had twigged to Chuck's disappearance. This meant that outside this door, at best, there were three guys and a long run between him and freedom. Even if he got past them, he'd have to face down another, possibly two, in the station.

Unless…

These tunnels seemed old. And where better to have a secret underground system of tunnels than where some of the highest ranking political officials in the country lived? Surely there had to be a secret map somewhere.

Somewhere? This was a job for the Intersect.

He'd forced himself to flash a couple of times before he'd run away in February. After that, however, he'd honed the skill. Maps of Barcelona, Seville, even a satellite map of the tiny town in Poland he'd spent the night in while on the run between Seville and Siberia had proven useful on the run. Now, he closed his eyes and brought to mind as many images as he could of the Metro—the brightly-lined maps of the different trains, the station signs, even the pattern of the tracks, the door he'd been pushed through into the tunnel, the tunnel itself—hoping that something would trip the image recognition software in his brain.

It took thirty seconds, but finally, he flashed. Of course, he flashed on every single map of the tunnels running along, beside, over, and under the Metro system, and they hit him all at once. It felt as though somebody had lovingly removed the top of his skull and had applied a ball peen hammer straight to the pink matter.

He let out a strangled scream.

"What the—" The curses and surprises on the other side of the door made him jump. It was too soon; he didn't even have a set plan yet. He fought off the flash hangover, grabbed the tie, and headed for the door. He'd have to improvise and if he couldn't see out, they couldn't see in. That could only be to his advantage. He grabbed his only weapon—the tie—and tried not to be grossed out by the fact that it was covered in his own saliva from when it had been used as a gag.

Breathe. This time it was Russ's voice, not Casey's, that he heard in his head. That was almost comforting. He took a deep breath, and the door opened.

If forced to admit it later, Chuck would claim no pride in what he did next. The minute Patterson stepped inside, Taser up as he searched the room, Chuck flicked the tie at him like a fratboy with a towel. Given that the spit had weighted it down nicely, it made a satisfying crack as it snapped against Patterson's leg.

"Ow!"

Chuck dropped the tie and drove his knee into Patterson's midsection. He heard something clatter, but he didn't care. He swung upward with both hands, as they were still handcuffed together. It ended up being the world's most awkward two-handed uppercut, and it hurt his hands, but not as much as it would have without the boxing lessons.

Patterson went down like a stone.

Instinct made Chuck swoop and grab whatever it was that Patterson had dropped: the taser. It slipped out of his grip—either the sweat or the spit, he couldn't tell. He bent again to grab it, knowing they were coming, knowing there were at least two of them left, that he had to hurry.

Something over his head crackled like a Tesla coil.

Chuck, startled, fell back, landing on his butt. Standing in the doorway was Señor Saliva, once again in an isosceles stance, hands wrapped around a taser. Chuck blinked. Saliva blinked.

As one, they looked behind Chuck, at the two taser prongs twitching uselessly on the concrete floor. Saliva swore. Chuck didn't bother with that luxury. He fell sideways onto his hands and kicked off the floor with his feet, swinging his body around like a pinwheel and knocking the legs out from under Saliva. The other man immediately moved to get back up. Chuck tased him.

And to think he'd said the break-dancing lessons Morgan had made them take at the community center when they were fourteen would never pay off. He owed his friend an apology.

He'd apologize later. Right now, there were two down, one to go. He was still handcuffed, the taser spent, and there was a guy on the other side of the door waiting to do exactly the same thing to Chuck that Chuck had done to Saliva, who was twitching like a landed fish.

Warily, he peeked around the corner and was drawn up short: the room was empty. Where had the third man gone? The man wasn't hiding the under the table, the only place in the room it was possible to hide. Saliva was going to regain motor control soon. Time to go, Chuck thought. He wasted precious seconds fumbling through Patterson's pockets, nearly fainting in relief when he found the handcuff key. And then, knowing his luck was running out, he ran.

He turned left, going away from the Metro station, and booked it, since the corridor was straight for nearly a quarter of a mile and Saliva would be coming out of the cell at any second. Every step between the alcove and the first turn—as they would suspect him to go back to the station—felt like an eternity.

When he finally, finally rounded the corner, he nearly stopped right there, to lean back against the wall and catch his breath, let the adrenaline settle a little. He didn't dare. Fear and paranoia drove him forward. The tunnels were creepy, but almost…homey. Maybe the government bought those kinds of light in bulk; the same ones had lit his bunker. He was far more comfortable, knowing that, than he should have been in the tunnels.

And that was exactly why he had to get out of there. He couldn't afford to be comfortable. Resolutely, he upped his pace. He'd get to the Metro station, find some way to contact Casey and Sarah, and they'd go from there. If he could hold off for just a few more hours, he wouldn't be the newest Intersect anymore, and he would be free.

11 JULY 2008
METRO STATION
17:49 EDT

The mystery of the missing third man solved itself.

Chuck peeked through the service door and into the heart of the metro station, which was of course crowded due to the fact that it was a rush hour on a Wednesday. Men and women in suits and professional attire milled around, waiting to get onto the trains that would whisk them to the outskirts of the D.C. area and to their dinners and families. Chuck waited, crouched behind a service door that led to a janitorial closet and the tunnels, and watched them go by. He wore a work-shirt he'd found in the closet instead of his R2-D2 tee. The nametag said Steve and it smelled faintly of lemon polish.

It wasn't nearly enough of a disguise, not when he wore cargo shorts and chucks, but every little bit helped. The fact that he'd ripped up his knee and blood was still trickling past the paper towel he'd put on it to stanch the flow didn't help.

Which was why, when the third man appeared in the crowd, holding take-out and looking around frantically, he swore. The fourth man probably hadn't left the first Metro station, but he really hadn't expected to find any of them at this station already.

There was no way he wouldn't be spotted. Should he head back into the tunnels? He'd lucked out between the two stations in that he hadn't run into anybody. He wasn't under any illusions: these were tunnels under the nation's capital, where the hoi polloi of the political set lived. There would be guards eventually. And if those guards got him, Graham would know immediately and the cycle would start all over again.

He'd have to wait it out in the doorway.

A train pulled onto the platform, and passengers shuffled on. Most of them were busy looking down at their smartphones or their books, as this was just part of the daily grind. Graham's man walked beside the train, checking through every car, jostling those that were waiting on the platform. He was heading away from Chuck, walking down the line, and there might be just enough time…

Unlike when he'd visited Ellie and had wondered if he could make it cleanly to his car, only to get caught, Chuck didn't think. The minute Graham's man was far enough down the line of cars, he darted free of the door, raced across the platform, and threw himself between the doors just before they closed. He heard them whisper shut behind him and unceremoniously dropped to the ground, head down. The rush hour commuters didn't even spare him a second look.

After a few seconds, Chuck realized that he should probably have a reason for being on the ground and belatedly began to retie his shoe. He turned his back toward the platform and peeked under his arm. Had Graham's man spotted him and gotten on the train with him?

No, he was on the platform. And as the train rushed by, there was no look of recognition, no sign that he'd seen Chuck.

Chuck felt like collapsing into a boneless pile of relief on the spot.

He hadn't gotten away yet, he knew. This was just another nerve-wracking step. Señor Saliva wouldn't have been out of commission long from the taser, and he'd have at least his own men combing the metro system for Chuck. And if he contacted Graham, there would be more than that. Though Chuck wasn't sure Saliva would contact Graham, he couldn't take that risk.

Which meant he had to get somewhere safe and wait it out. Once the other agents had the Intersect, he was home free. But until then, he couldn't approach his home, Ellie's home, or Sarah's. They would expect him at all three locations, and they'd have somebody waiting there for each of them. Especially at Ellie's place because Sarah was off with Carina and Ellie wouldn't know how to spot somebody watching the house.

It made him sick, but they wanted him and not Ellie. And as long as he kept out of their grasp, there was no reason to threaten Ellie. But it also meant he couldn't contact anybody. No way Graham wasn't eavesdropping on those conversations.

At the next station, he disembarked and headed straight for the street. He had his wallet and about two hundred in cash, but his credit and debit cards were useless. One swipe anywhere and they would be able to find them. He almost felt bad as he handed both to one of the homeless vets hanging out by the entrance. "Buy yourself a good meal, and if anybody asks, I went that way," he told the man, and headed in the direction that he'd pointed. The minute he was out of the man's sight, he turned the corner and doubled back. He hopped a bus two blocks later.

The next hour was spent hopping from bus to Metro to bus while he thought about what to do. He stopped at a store and sacrificed some money for a new set of jeans and a shirt with a picture of all of the memorials on it, but only after his knee had stopped bleeding. After that, he caught a cab to a bus stop and the routine started again.

He searched through his wallet for anything that might lead to an escape. He pulled out the printed clippings from the Washington Post: Orion's messages to him. Orion could take the Intersect out, could end the government's dependence on Chuck completely. If, Chuck thought, he was telling the truth. And if Sarah and Ellie believed that Lincoln could be removed, maybe Orion could remove Lincoln as well. Provided Orion was who he said he was and that his motives were benevolent.

He had the clippings stored in chronological order, from the first one that appeared on May 28th, an advertisement for a pretty common Optimus Prime action figure that a man was trying to sell for his kid. The thing that had drawn his attention had been that the action figure could be found in a store that was at the intersection of Arrow Street and Hunter Drive. It wasn't the most subtle thing on the planet, but it had been enough. The toy had been a hint, too. Chuck had combed the online personal archives of the Post until he'd realized that the messages to contact Orion only came on prime-numbered days.

Chuck gave thought to calling him right then on the number he'd decoded from the ads. He could test the other man, solve at least his problems with the Intersect, at least. He decided against it. He'd survived for three months evading the government. He could handle three more hours. With that in mind, he switched bus routes again and wondered if it was safe to approach the Porsche. They might be watching it.

There were a few people they wouldn't be watching, he knew. Digital Dave would help him, especially if Chuck stressed that this would get them both free of government manacles. But Dave had a family and Chuck didn't really want to just show up on his doorstep. That was crossing a line. His teammates were off the table. Bryce was just a no-go, even if Chuck had known how to get in contact with him. That bridge was well and truly burned.

Gwen might be able to protect him. She'd certainly pulled off some gutsy moves in the past to keep him safe. But like Dave, she was at home with her kids and Russ—

No, wait, Russ was working late at his D.C. office. He'd made an offhand comment that afternoon during their session at the gym about a difficult client that would require him to stay late that evening, finishing up the specs on "the dining room from hell."

It was a distant enough connection. They'd expect him to go straight to Sarah or Gwen. Russ was a civilian.

Chuck took a chance and disembarked at a stop two miles from Russ's office in Georgetown. He'd walk the rest of the way on foot. It would give him opportunity to scope out the area, make sure he wasn't walking into an ambush. But even though the thought that he might be followed or watched sat like a heavy stone in the center of his back, the street was mostly quiet as he headed to the architectural firm, set in a Georgetown brownstone on a street that had settled in for the evening.

There was a light on in an office. Chuck assumed that had to be Russ. Hesitantly, he knocked on the front door, checking constantly over his shoulder to make sure that he really hadn't been followed.

It was still paranoia even if they were out to get you, he thought. It was simply justified paranoia in that case.

Russ opened the door, his eyebrows shooting up. "Chuck? What are you doing here?"

"I kind of need a place to hide."

Russ ushered him inside. "Need help moving a body?"

"Not this time." He looked ridiculous, he knew, as he hadn't stopped to scrub off the dirt and he was wearing an obviously new T-shirt and jeans that had been grayed by over an hour of public transportation. And, Chuck realized, he was shivering. He didn't know if it was fear or frustration.

"Probably for the best. FBI will only overlook so much for spouses."

Chuck managed a weak laugh.

"Is this a problem for Gwen?" Russ asked.

Chuck considered. "Yes," he said. "But…it may not be safe to contact her."

Instead of looking suspicious or upset that Gwen might be in danger—which would have been his first reaction, Chuck had to admit—Russ nodded. "Think somebody may have tapped our phones?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Come with me."

Russ led the way through an spacious office that was as modern in its décor as his house was nostalgia-inspired. There were blueprints and drawings framed on the wall of what Chuck had to assume were the firm's previous projects. At another time, he would have liked a moment or two to admire them, but right now, all he could wonder was if Graham had found him, if there were men on the way to arrest him again and force him to upload the Intersect.

Russ's office was actually a bit of a mess, as papers covered the two large desks. There were two large-screen monitors showing different views of the same simulation of a dining room, and the remains of Russ's dinner in a Styrofoam container. Seeing it reminded Chuck that he hadn't eaten; he pushed the thought away and watched Russ reach into a drawer, take out a few folders, and remove the bottom of the drawer. Chuck's eyes bugged out.

The drawer revealed a plugged-in phone. Russ picked it up and hit a button, holding a finger up for Chuck to not say anything. He turned his wrist to get a better look at his watch.

Chuck had one brief, paranoid burst of terror that Russ was calling Graham. Just as quickly, he dismissed it. He was tired, he was a little sore from his handcuff gymnastics, and he was scared. His brain was prone to creating trouble.

"It's Chuck," Russ said into the phone. "He's being followed." He paused and made an "mm-hmm" noise in response to whatever was said. He looked at Chuck. "Who's following you?"

"Graham's men. They want me to—"

Russ held up the finger again, keeping his eyes on his watch. "I think it's serious," he said into the phone. "He's a mess. Mm-hmm. Yes. Got it."

He hung up the phone and carefully replaced everything in the drawer, including the phone. A second hidden drawer revealed two more burn phones, separated from their batteries. He removed both of these. "Okay, here's what's going to happen," he said. "You're going to go out the back and wait there for me. I am going to pull my car around and you will get in and keep your head down."

"Where are we going?"

"Gwendolyn's getting some agents she can trust together. C'mon." Russ led the way out of the office.

"Just like that?"

"My wife's job is…different. You're not the first agent she's had to protect, either from themselves or from Uncle Sam."

"Oh. You have a secret door in your desk," Chuck said, shaking his head.

"Cool, right? I designed it myself." They reached the back door. "I'm going to get the car. Time me. If I don't return within five minutes, head south. There's a bus station. Get on the first bus you can. Use this number and call speed dial number seven. Keep your conversation short."

Russ handed Chuck a burn phone.

"Wow. You really are an old hand at this," Chuck said.

Russ gave him a sad sort of smile and headed outside. Chuck began to count the seconds.

11 JULY 2008
DAVENPORT ESTATE
20:01 EDT

"Uh-oh," Russ said, and Chuck nearly popped up in the backseat, though he'd been ordered several times not to. He couldn't tell what was going on outside the car, as all he could see were trees and lampposts, not yet lit. From the way the car had been slowing down, he'd assumed they were close to wherever they were going.

"What? What is it?" he asked. "Have we been discovered?"

"No. Agent Walker's here. With a redhead."

"Sarah?" This time, Chuck did pop up. He blinked to discover that they were in front of Gwen and Russ's house, heading for the driveway. The bright red Camaro in the driveway had to belong to Carina, as Sarah's Porsche was still in an hourly lot in D.C., for all Chuck knew. As he watched, Sarah, dressed for a night on the town, slid into the passenger seat.

"Get down," Russ said.

"But it's Sarah!"

"And I don't know if she's in on the plan. Stay down until it's safe. Gwen will give us a signal."

Reluctantly, Chuck crouched down again. Nate's baseball cleats in the well by the backseat meant that it wasn't the most pleasant experience. He saw Russ wave, and had to assume it was at Sarah, as Russ pulled into the driveway.

"Wait here," Russ said, and went inside.

A moment later, Gwen appeared. "C'mon, it's clear," she said, opening the back door. "We checked: there's no surveillance and nobody's got the house bugged."

Chuck looked around, but the driveway was empty save for the Davenports' cars. "Where'd Sarah and Carina go?"

"They were here on an unrelated matter. Let's get you inside."

Though the team had stayed at the Davenport Estate for several weeks in December of the previous year, it hadn't really felt like home. It was familiar, however, as Gwen took Chuck around the back so that they could come in through the sliding glass door that led into the kitchen. The estate looked so completely different during the summer, with the evening sunlight shining on lush grass rather than snow and the hydrangeas in full, outrageous bloom around the guest house.

Inside the kitchen, some sort of summit meeting was apparently taking place. Chuck had expected to find either Stephanie or Nate, Gwen's kids. Instead, he found two FBI agents in plainclothes.

"Agent Nickerson, Agent Umani, this is Chuck," Gwen said. Chuck's confusion must have shown on his face, for she continued, "Laura and Desmond are two of the best at what they do."

"Hostage rescue," Laura Nickerson said before Chuck could ask. "Though it probably won't come to that."

Chuck swallowed hard. "Let's hope not."

Desmond Umani shrugged when Chuck looked at him. "I just know people," he said.

"Don't be modest, Des. He's our go-to guy for chatter," Gwen said, explaining to Chuck. "If something's happening in the government, you know Des has heard about it. It's mainly why they gave him such a high security clearance."

Desmond looked apologetic over that. "Big ears," he said to Chuck.

"It's nice to meet you both," Chuck said, and shook their hands.

"There's burgers in the bag if you're hungry," Gwen said. "And then we need to get to work. We've figured out that Graham's gathering a group of agents for a special project tonight."

"I was supposed to be in that group." Chuck dove into the bag with gusto, taking two burgers. He hadn't had time to refuel after his session at the gym.

"You had a meeting with him today?"

"Just a short one. I was at headquarters to visit a friend and he surprised me. I thought he was supposed to be in Asia, which was the only reason I figured I was safe to visit headquarters at all."

"What happened in the meeting?" Laura asked.

Chuck looked from one FBI agent to the other. Talking about the Intersect and Lincoln in front of Devon was one thing, but Dave's paranoid words about Fulcrum sat heavily on his mind now. Who knew how far the corruption went? "I can't…"

"Agents, would you excuse us? This sounds classified."

"Certainly. We'll be in the living room."

"Tell Nate to turn the TV down if it's too loud. Kids today," Gwen said as the other FBI agents shuffled out of the kitchen. "They'll go deaf if you let them. Chuck, are you okay?"

"I'm—I'm fine." He was a little shaken, but he'd had a chance to finally, finally let the adrenaline settle on the ride between Russ's office and the house. The fact that Russ had been so completely nonchalant about sequestering an agent in need away to his house, and so practiced at it, told him that Gwen and Russ likely did this a lot and that there wasn't any reason to worry. Graham couldn't reach him here. Or, if he could, it would be at great time and expense to himself. He took a big bite of a burger. "I imagine I don't smell the greatest and this T-shirt is pretty gross by this point, but I'm physically okay."

"What happened?"

"Graham sent men to get the jump on me. They pretended to be cops."

Gwen pulled out a notepad and began writing. "Where was this?"

"Not too far from the gym." When she asked, he told her the time it had happened and described both the men and the situation in detail. She walked him through the whole arrest, scribbling quickly in her shorthand.

"How'd you get away?"

"They took me to the tunnels under the Metro station. I overpowered one and tased another, and then I used public transportation to get away."

Gwen frowned and wrote something down. "And you're sure they're Graham's men? You heard them say his name?"

"Not directly. They just called him the boss. But this was his work. He threatened me. He said that I didn't have a choice about uploading the Intersect. He said that the Intersect wouldn't keep me from 'snapping like a twig' thanks to the Lincoln programming, and that I have to get the new version."

"That's preposterous." Gwen scoffed, though she looked troubled. "Dr. Bartowski said there's no chance of that happening."

"Yeah, he also called her a liar. Real red letter day for Langston Graham, you know." Chuck finished off the first burger and started on the second. He could practically feel his belly button and spine rubbing together from hunger.

"You said you tased one of them?"

"I hit the other one first and knocked him out. I don't know if he was okay or not after that. I didn't stick around."

"And there were five men total?"

"One's got my cell phone and watch, one was patrolling the Metro station, and one was getting food. I saw him later, but he either didn't see me or I ditched him. I didn't know where to go, and I knew Russ wasn't working late and they might not be watching him, so I went there."

"That was a good move." Gwen sat down at the table, finally, and began rubbing her temples. She was in her after-work getup—pressed khakis and a faded T-shirt that depicted a turkey shaped from a child's hand. "Graham is back to being a pain in my ass, I see."

"'Back?'" Chuck asked. "This has happened before?"

"You're not the first CIA case I've had, so I've gone a round or two with him. It's like dealing with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He'll be the nicest person in the world if he likes you, but if he doesn't…"

"Well, he doesn't like me, and I don't think he ever has." Graham had always been unwilling to put up with Chuck's antics during conference calls. Even when the Prometheus members had accomplished a mission, there was usually more criticism than praise. Chuck had always assumed Graham viewed him as a gnat. He'd had no idea how deep the connections went.

"Well, you are a walking PR nightmare," Gwen said.

Chuck paused with the burger halfway to his mouth.

"In Lincoln, they had a rogueproject on their hands. I know the CIA's motives, and I'm still surprised that they didn't just kill the Lincoln subjects in their bunkers once the full extent of Carver's programming was discovered and they realized they didn't really have the phrases on hand to activate any of these agents that could be handy. After all, you were trained to be one-person armies, and the government likes minimum collateral. And with Carver still alive, there was a possibility he could be found and the phrases could be…extracted. So they kept you on ice." Gwen got up and poured herself a glass of lemonade. She brought over a second one for Chuck while he stared at her, conflicted. He'd never heard her speak so bluntly about the project before. "You lot were useful and the best part was that you were already hidden and didn't question why."

"But why did nobody question the fact that there were people in bunkers?"

"Because it's the CIA. The CIA overlooks a lot of things to get its mission done."

Chuck took another bite, though he wasn't nearly as hungry anymore.

"And then, of course," Gwen said, still scribbling on her notepad, "you're discovered by your friend and suddenly, one of the Lincoln subjects is in the spotlight. Graham now can't kill you without somebody calling attention to it. Even worse, you end up being the host for the Intersect. Now he really can't kill you."

"No wonder he bullies me so much," Chuck said.

Gwen took off her reading glasses. "You've maneuvered the Director of the CIA up against a wall. I can imagine he doesn't appreciate that fact."

"But does he really have to be such a bastard about it?"

"Yes. You don't get to become the Director of the CIA by being nice."

"Point." Chuck finished the burger and looked toward the living room. "So they're here for protection?"

"Laura's really good at hiding people in a pinch, but I doubt it'll come to that. Like the rest of us, Graham has to listen to the investors, and they won't appreciate a project being held up because one candidate is missing. The Intersect upload will go through and your contract will be fulfilled."

"Well, there's that, then. Something is finally going right." He balled up both of the burger wrappers and took a sip of lemonade. "Did Sarah know I was missing? That wasn't what she was here about?"

"As far as I know, no."

"I should give her a call."

"You can call once Des is sure the new Intersect's been uploaded. Just in case."

Chuck dithered. "Are you sure?"

"They might be tracking communications to her phone."

"What about Casey? He'll be wondering why I haven't come home, won't he?"

"Your phone texted him about a sci-fi movie marathon downtown. So he has no reason to suspect anything."

"Oh." Chuck didn't know how he felt about that.

"As soon as Des gets word, you can contact both of them. But right now, it's better to be safe than sorry."

It didn't sit well with him, not being able to let Casey and Sarah and Ellie know he was okay, but Chuck nodded. If they were watching his phone, then at least Gwen and the others could warn the team if the man with Chuck's phone made a move against them. Their best advantage right now was being "off the grid," so to speak. It was hard to think of it that way, though, when the last time he'd been off the grid, it had involved running through Eastern Europe, and now he was sitting in a kitchen with the late evening sunlight slanting in across the tiles and a glass of lemonade sweating on the table in front of him.

"We're monitoring your phone," Gwen said. "If they make any move that puts anybody in danger, we'll contact them. And like I said, the minute Des hears that the upload was successful, you can call all of them."

"Okay."

"In the meantime, why don't you go get cleaned up? Laura, Des, and I will keep an eye out."

"Can I do anything to help?"

"Nonsense," Gwen said, and shooed him out of the kitchen. "Let us do our jobs. You go relax."

He took a shower. Since he'd left clothes at the Davenport estate during his last stay, he had fresh duds to change into, but the scab on his knee opened in the shower and had to be cleaned with hydrogen peroxide. When he wandered out, bandaged and clean, the FBI agents were gathered in the kitchen; Chuck was quickly shunted back to the living room. He found Nate sitting on one of the floor gaming chairs.

The fifteen-year-old looked up. "Chuck! Hey! Ready to get your ass kicked at Gears of War?"

"Hey," Russ said mildly from the armchair.

"Sorry," Nate said. "I meant butt."

"Sounds good, but it's not my as—butt that I'm worried about," Chuck said, and settled in for an hour of PG trash talk with Nate as they maneuvered their characters through the game. Summer vacation was in full swing, which of course meant there wasn't a curfew, as there had been the last time Chuck had been at the Davenport house. Eventually, Russ bade them good night. Occasionally, the FBI agents trooped through from their rounds of the property, but for the most part, Chuck and Nate were undisturbed.

Gwen, however, came in a few minutes after ten p.m. "Chuck?" she said, and Chuck's fingers immediately stilled on the game controller.

Nate, probably having recognized his mother's tone of voice, didn't even need to ask if Chuck needed a time-out. He paused the game.

Chuck rose warily to his feet, turning to face Gwen. "What?" he asked, and panic only increased when he caught the look on her face. "What is it?"

Gwen pulled him into the kitchen, though Chuck imagined Nate probably followed, staying out of sight, to listen. He only felt confusion and panic grow when she turned to face him, somber. "There's been an explosion at the DNI," she said.

Chuck felt as though he had gone back in time, to hearing about the first time the DNI had blown up. It had been Sarah that told him then, in the bunker, and she'd been a lot more businesslike about it. "What, again?" was what came out of his mouth.

"It was the Intersect. Nobody in the room with it survived."

Chuck's first thought was to wonder if Bryce had done it this time, too. He immediately realized what an absurd thought that was. Bryce wasn't a murderer. "How…how many of them were there?"

"I don't know. But Langston Graham was among them."

"What?"

"And Chuck, it gets worse."

People were dead. From the sound of it, it was a lot of people, too. "How? What could be worse than that?"

Gwen took a deep breath. "Ellie was in the observation room next door."

Chuck felt his world fall away.

A/N the Second: Wait, what?