A/N: Told you I would give you guys this chapter sooner!

Thanks again to everyone still reading and letting me know what they think of it. You are all so über great, it's ridiculous.

Summary: In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

Disclaimer: "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

We've stumbled into a pocket of action, so fasten your seat belts. Well...steamobiles don't really have seat belts. 1890s...you know how it is. Rather, I'd ask you to hold on tight. (winks from behind monocle)

Chuck flashed when Casey not-so-casually mentioned Sarah being the "Ice Queen". Now that he knows the truth, what lies in store for our trio? I don't know! I do know. You should read this chapter and then you'll know, too!

Enjoy!

Anger seeped through Sarah's system as she received no response from Chuck, who was probably fuming on the other side of the door. Fuming…or worse. He could be terrified of her.

Because there was no telling how much Casey may have told him about who she really was. And if Chuck was locking her out of the room, it could only be because he found out the truth—that she was a con artist. Casey could have said any number of things—and she was sure some of the worst lies he came up with would quite possibly be true.

"Chuck! Please! Open the door. Let me in."

She heard nothing but a strangled voice and a thump.

"Fine, then I'm coming in," she said under her breath, stepping back until her heels were against the wall behind her. She surged forward and raised her leg, pounding her boot with just the right amount of pressure in exactly the right spot, sending the door flying open, the wood near the lock splintering.

She paid it no mind, though, because as soon as she entered, her blood froze in her veins. She saw immediately that Chuck was nowhere to be found, and the window was wide open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze coming in from outside. His ice was on the bed, his coat was gone. He was gone. She had lost her charge.

"Damn it!" she cursed loudly, rushing to the window and pushing her head out to look first left then to the right. He was nowhere to be seen, and the rain made matters worse, considering the number of black, nondescript umbrellas bobbing around on the sidewalk below.

She pulled back in and walked through the room. "Stay here," she growled at Casey, to which she received a muffled curse. She knew it was a curse even with the gag in his mouth. And she knew exactly which curse it was, too.

Resisting the urge to waste an extra second to kick her captive in the face, she stuck to her usual rule of avoiding unnecessary violence and rushed out of the room instead.

A half hour later, Sarah was no closer to finding Chuck Bartowski. She asked multiple people if they saw a man climbing out of the window, where he went, et cetera. And still, she hadn't found him. Anger coursed through her, and she would never admit it to anyone, but she was worried as well.

What sort of trouble would the toy maker get into running off on his own? And he was definitely upset on top of everything else, which would only serve to distract him. Someone would get the drop on him. There was no way he would be safe here. And it was her fault.

If she had just told him the truth on the train where they were in a controlled location. He had nowhere to run to then. Now he had an entire city at his disposal. It was a smaller city than Los Angeles, true, but for some reason she felt as though there were also more places to hide.

She was a con artist. And Chuck had proven the first time she met him that he had his own moral compass that didn't align with that of the authority figures in the Empire. He risked his life to save a boy from meeting his end at the hands of one of said authority figures. And he even said during one of their outings, on numerous occasions as a matter of fact, that patrolmen were corrupt. Even his past, as much of it as she knew at least, seemed to support that Chuck perhaps wouldn't have been as disgusted by her profession if she had just been up front with him from the beginning.

This was a damn mess.

Deep down inside, she feared something might happen to him. Something she couldn't stop from here in this hotel, sitting at the desk with an indisposed and angry, albeit resigned, bounty hunter lying at her feet. If something happened to Chuck Bartowski, what did that mean for Sarah Walker? What did that mean for Jack Burton?

Or Ellie and her husband?

Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat and shut her eyes tightly, opening them again and staring at her reflection. She wasn't going to give up.

She told Bryce she would protect Chuck, and most importantly, she made that same promise to Chuck himself. And she wasn't breaking that promise. If nothing else, the toy maker deserved that much.

She caught Casey's boots moving in the mirror's reflection. He was a bounty hunter. And he was certainly no one to make allies with. But if for just a moment, she could appeal to him that they both wanted the same thing, to find Chuck, perhaps he would—No. This is too unpredictable.

Who was to say she didn't untie him and they found Chuck and he immediately put a bullet in the toy maker's forehead? And who was to say he wouldn't kill Sarah? Or at least, he could try. She smirked to herself at that thought.

Standing up from the desk, she walked over to where he still slumped over onto the floor, his face red and sweat discoloring his shirt. "John Casey. Bounty hunter. I bet if I untied you right now, you would be able to find Chuck, huh?"

He growled something that sounded like it could have been "You're damn right I'd find him."

"I need to find him." She knelt down at his side and his eyes swept up to her and narrowed. "See, as a con artist, my specialty is swindling, bamboozling, and otherwise thieving rich folk blind. But I'm not very good at tracking. You are. You found Chuck, after all. And you found us here."

He let out a short huff of bitter amusement.

"I'll make a deal with you." Casey's eyebrow popped in curiosity. "If you help me find Chuck Bartowski, I'll make sure the toy maker helps you find Agent Larkin. I have no great affection for the bastard. I wouldn't mind seeing him dropped to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. In fact, I'd like to be the one who does the dropping." Casey snorted. The beginnings of a cockamamie plan began to bloom in her brain. "Chuck Bartowski is the only person who can help me find Larkin, so I need to find him."

He growled and bit on the gag a little. She got the hint, untying it and letting him wet him mouth with his tongue for a moment, until he met her gaze again. "He's an innocent simpleton who plays with toys all day long. Plain to see he don't know where the pretty boy is anymore'n I do."

"They grew up together, knew each other as boys. Chuck is the only person on this entire damn earth who Bryce Larkin trusts."

"Hmng." There was a pause as Casey's eyes narrowed. "An' you think the kid would trust you after this?"

"I'm his friend."

"Some friend. You lied to 'im about what you are. You made him think yer an agent."

"Well, look how he ran when he found out I'm a con artist…"

"Not just any con artist, doll face," he snarked. "The Ice Queen. If I brought you in, you know how rich I'd be?"

"Cork it. You really think they'll believe you? People bring women to the authorities all the time, claiming they've got the Ice Queen. Even bounty hunters like you who are supposed to be good at their jobs."

"You'd still go to prison," he argued.

"Mmm. About how long do you reckon that would last?" she scoffed. "Just as long as I can cry my way out of there. All I have to do is play to their chauvinistic needs to save a damsel in distress. Too easy. You think I've never been behind bars before, you damn fool? Never lasts longer than a day or two and then I'm out again."

He curled his lip in what she took to be acquiescence to her point. "Still don't know why you care about Larkin. Sure, he's got lady features, but—"

"I don't care about him," she interrupted. "I want to kill him."

"You want me to help you find the man what would lead you right to Larkin so's you can kill him? Ha! Not on yer life, sister. You know full well I mean to take 'im back to IEL headquarters."

"We leave that part to luck. I want to find Larkin. You want to find Larkin. We both know the best way to do that is to utilize the man you allowed to escape," she said through gritted teeth. God, this was going to be difficult and insanely convoluted. And she knew beyond all doubt that if they ended up finding Chuck, when she told him what she just told Casey, it would most likely send him running for the hills again. Even if she swore she was lying to the bounty hunter. Swearing to lie…ha! What a hypocrite I am.

"So what's yer plan then?" Casey interrupted her thoughts.

"I untie you. We work together to find Chuck. And we use him to find Larkin."

"Heh. And when we find Larkin? Do I get to take him to headquarters?"

"Only if I don't kill him first. Look at it as a sort of…race," she said, playing to the man's personality in the same way she played all of her marks. John Casey was a bounty hunter. He couldn't be in it only for the money; there were other things people did for money that required a lot less work. He enjoyed the chase. He enjoyed a challenge. It was the same reason she continued her own line of work.

It was something of a dare. And she knew it would appeal to that trigger in his brain, the sense of danger and excitement. She could see the glimmer of it in his eyes. And a part of her respected him for it. It wasn't often she met a fellow adventurer. A real one, that is…

Shaking her head to rid herself of that thought, she raised her eyebrows. "Do we have a deal?"

"One thing."

"What's that?"

"How you gonna get Bartowski to trust you again?"

That was a good question. She merely shrugged a shoulder and smirked. "I suppose that's something I will have to figure out. I just have to get him to believe me again. Just like you do. Only difference is, I have something you don't have."

Casey snorted. "I bet you do."

She glared. "Yes, that too. Thank you, Casey. But I was referring to his trust."

"You don't have his trust. Not after this. What kind of idiot trusts a notorious thief and murderer?"

She wanted to snap at him that Chuck wasn't an idiot. But she bit her cheek instead. Because while he proved he was actually creative and intelligent, and in a lot of cases, he was even brave…the fact of the matter was that he was rather foolish. And perhaps too trusting. She was relying on his too-trusting nature, in fact. Because otherwise, she knew she had lost him forever. And that would make protecting him nearing on impossible.

This meant Sarah Walker had to get both men to believe her, while feeding them both different stories. One thing was for sure. Sarah wanted to tell Chuck the absolute truth. He had to be the only person she was completely honest with. Because that was the only way all of this would work. It would be difficult to persuade him, because contrary to John Casey's assumption, Chuck really was brilliant. He wasn't going to let her lie again and get away with it.

She just hoped he would understand this one last time.

It would be a lot to ask for, she knew.

And she was perturbed and unsettled by how much she was beginning to realize his trust meant to her.

Shoving that thought to the back of her mind, and ignoring the chill that went down her spine, the con woman hardened her features and looked down at her captive.

"I can get him to trust me again. You don't have to worry about how. I'm the Ice Queen, remember?"

"What, you gonna threaten to kill him? Think that'll work on a kid like that?" Something happened in Casey's face, something she was unprepared for. Was it a glimmer of respect? It was gone in a moment. But she swore she had seen it. Interesting…

"What do you mean 'a kid like that'?" she prompted, shifting her knife in her palm…not in a threatening way exactly, but just because it gave her something to do.

The bounty hunter grunted noncommittally. "Fer a fella who's more naive than a little rich girl, he's also got a hard head. An' some moxie. You threaten 'im with death an' he'll close up like a clam. You'll never get 'im open again."

For a bounty hunter, John Casey seemed to be rather observant and discerning.

"I'm not going to threaten to kill him. Just leave that part to me. Do we have a deal?"

"I don't know. See, you have a knack fer lyin'…"

Sarah clenched her fist, her knuckles popping, but she kept it by her side. Hitting the man while he couldn't fight back would only anger him. And she needed him on her side just for awhile. Just until she could use him to find Chuck and then hopefully evade him again. Or if it came to it, she might have to dispose of him completely.

She swallowed slowly. "I'm not lying about this," she lied.

"Heh. Think I got shit fer brains? What do you wanna kill Bryce Larkin fer? He break yer icy ticker?"

He wishes…

"Look, Mr. Casey. Either you help me find Chuck or I leave you here while I find him myself. You can help me and get a crack at finding Larkin, or both Bartowski and I will disappear off the face of the map again. This time, I promise you aren't gonna find us until long after Bryce Larkin is dead."

It was getting easier and easier to talk about killing Bryce, she mused to herself. After everything he had done to her and to Chuck, it made sense. Obviously Chuck would never stand for it. But they would get to that problem when they came to it. For now, she needed Casey's help in finding Chuck. And she needed it fast.

The bounty hunter sniffed in disbelief. "Sure."

Suddenly her fist was in his shirt front and she tugged him close, gritting her teeth in frustration. "You better damn well stop sassing me, you shit fortune hunter, because it only takes one flick of my wrist to cut you from ear to rear, you get me?" He didn't answer. "I said, do you get me?" she repeated with a snarl.

Casey grunted and nodded and she unceremoniously let go of him, causing him to hit the floor harder than necessary. He winced and made a displeased face. Although he seemed to always have the sort of face that was in a state of perpetual displeasure. "Fine. We'll do it yer way. One condition."

"You aren't in a position to make conditions."

"Hear me out."

"Fine," she hissed. "Make it quick."

"You and toy boy try to make a break fer it without bringing me to Larkin, I reserve the right to shoot the both of ya."

Like hell would she ever let Casey get the shot off, especially if it was Chuck in his sights. So she nodded.

"Hm." Something indiscernible crossed his features. But she feared he might have seen something in her face, perhaps, something she hadn't meant to show. She hardened her eyes further and lifted her knife. "You gotta deal," he grunted, holding his wrists up.

"We need to shake on this, though. For now, we're on the same team. We both want to find the toy maker. We both want to find Larkin. That means you don't tell him what I'm up to. And I don't stab you in the back, as much as I might want to," she said, beginning to cut his ties at his wrists.

"Heh. S'that mean I don't get ta shoot you in the back, neither?"

"You try to shoot either me or Chuck, and the deal's off. I'll kill you. You understand me?"

"Murderin' folk left an' right is what yer known fer. Not me," he snarked.

She moved to cut the ties around his ankles. "You know how the press is. Overblowing things to make a fortune. People these days won't read a story 'less somebody ended up dead or married or both."

That made him chuckle. "Not sure all those dead bodies left in yer dust are overblown. How do you exaggerate a dead body, huh?"

"Here's another rule," she growled, pointing her knife in his face. "Don't act like you know me or my life story."

"Heh. Touchy."

As she cut the last vestiges of his bindings, she mused on just how much worse this day could possibly get.

}o{

Spoke too soon.

She watched John Casey take another swig from his flask of whiskey as he looked down the road. He was almost too annoying to be real. He spat constantly and had a massive chip on his shoulder. He snapped when she asked him a question and his replies were usually an array of grunts or growls. How she was supposed to decipher them, Lord Almighty only knew.

But she was studying his methods. He was like a hound dog, his nostrils flared as though he were sniffing out a scent, his eyes constantly narrowed, his jaw set.

And this made her the most uncomfortable—his hand was constantly near his hip where his gun hung from his belt. Perhaps she was being paranoid, but she couldn't help imagining him pulling his gun out and shooting Chuck the moment he laid eyes on him.

Because she was a woman, her gun was hidden under layers and therefore harder to get at. But she had created a method to ease the difficulty a bit. She wasn't entirely sure that meant she would beat him to the draw. And if she didn't, it would mean the end of Chuck Bartowski. She shivered involuntarily.

Or maybe he wouldn't shoot Chuck. Maybe he would shoot her instead. What would happen to Chuck if something happened to her?

Shaking her head, she followed Casey's quick pace, silently reminding herself that if she were dead, it didn't matter what happened to anyone else. Her survival was the most important thing. And so she kept her hand hovering by her gun, ready to act just in case.

"Where are you taking us?"

"Can it, girlie," he snapped over his shoulder and she grit her teeth. She felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment. It was as though she were some sidekick buzzing around his ear while he did the real work, and she hated that. But she had no choice.

There was no way she would find Chuck by herself.

She wasn't a tracker.

Plenty of people in her line of work tended to get carried away when they were burned. They would track down whoever it was that burned them and exact vengeance.

Not the Ice Queen. Even though the papers may have played it that way for its readers—it sold papers after all. No, if Sarah was burned, she disappeared somewhere to lick her wounds, regroup, and go back to work. Seeking vengeance meant asking for trouble. And all she wanted was to survive each day, move forward, keeping working, keep living.

Therefore, stalking wasn't her specialty.

As they crossed the street, she glanced at the boy waving an open newspaper over his head, holding a basket full of them in his other hand. He was yelling something about a stabbing in the nicknamed Tenderloin district, which certainly wasn't a rarity, but it was what was on the back of the paper that caught her eye.

She wandered away from Casey and fished in her pouch for a coin. "Might I have a paper, young man?" she asked sweetly, flashing her coin.

The boy's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he held up the basket and grabbed a new paper out of it. "Why yes, miss, o' course." She thought he was a hairsbreadth away from sweeping his newsboy right off his curls to be respectful, but he didn't, considering his hands were full.

"Thank you."

"Y-Yes, miss." He swallowed. "Thank you, miss."

She smiled and stepped away, flipping the paper over and moving underneath the tarp overhang, despite the rain having stopped hours earlier.

"What're you doin' wanderin' off? To get a paper? How's that s'posed ta—"

"Would you be quiet, Mr. Casey?!" she snapped up at him, her eyes fastening on the bold black letters: Georgiana Manderly of NYC to star in Bizet's Carmen, Prussian Ambassador to Attend

He wouldn't. Would he?

Sarah thought back to the conversation she'd had with Chuck before John Casey showed up. He was so intent on using the Intersect for good, even if it meant risking himself. It was incredibly heroic and radically stupid, but would he make the attempt to save the ambassador on his own?

Any other man would get on a train and be far away from this place, far away from the people he thought meant to harm him. But Chuck Bartowski was different. She had known it immediately after she met him. He wouldn't be able to leave without doing his best to save the ambassador's life. It would eat at him. The fool.

Was he still in San Francisco, biding his time until the opera tonight? The opera had been in his flash, and here was a headline stating that Commander Albrecht Huber would be attending it tonight.

Could Chuck's assumption be right?

And was he fool enough to go it alone?

Of course he was.

She knew where to find him, though he wouldn't be there until…She looked down at the article…Eight o'clock tonight.

"I know where he's going to be."

"Huh?"

"Eight o'clock tonight. The opera house near City Hall."

"Heh. What, he's some kind o' art enthusiast? I kin see Toy Boy as a soprano." He snorted at his own quip and the implications that went with it.

She ignored him. "He's going to try to stop Commander Albrecht Huber from being assassinated."

She swept away from the stunned bounty hunter, headed back in the direction of the hotel she and Chuck had been staying in. There was planning to do, and preparations to be made.

}o{

Chuck Bartowski stood in the shadows of the courthouse on McAllister Street, a top hat smashed low over his hair, wearing the best suit he had been able to afford with the money Sarah had told him to be more frugal with. He rolled his eyes a little and ran his fingers across the brim of his new hat with a frown.

Chuck leaned on his cane and squinted into the darkness, fishing in his vest pocket for his watch and glancing at the time.

He still had no plan for getting into the opera without a ticket and he was sure he could not afford to buy the ticket at the door. With the ambassador's attendance having been put in the papers it was certainly sold out anyway.

With twenty minutes before the overture began, he had time.

Plenty of time.

Time to think about what had happened earlier that day at the hotel. Time to think about Sarah Walker. The Ice Queen. He could no longer recall the details he had seen in his flash when John Casey had called Sarah the "Ice Queen". It was the same as when you first woke up and remembered hazy details about a dream you had, but when asked about those details later, you were unable to recall them. That seemed to be characteristic of his flashes. That flash in particular.

All he knew was that the Ice Queen was wanted by numerous government intelligence communities, not just the U.S. Empire's. And the things she was wanted for…Well, he didn't want to think too hard on those. That was what they called a selective memory, wasn't it?

There was no real way to be sure if Sarah was the Ice Queen. But it was rather random for Casey to call her out as such if it weren't true. Why not just call her a con artist? Or a liar? But to specifically label her as the Ice Queen had to mean something. It was too…specific.

If she was the Ice Queen, Chuck reasoned it meant one of two things, both taking into account that Bryce really was an agent with the Imperial Espionage League, this being very likely considering both Sarah and John Casey confirmed it.

The first theory was that Bryce Larkin had somehow allied himself with a dangerous con artist and sent said dangerous con artist to Chuck's doorstep to protect him. It was wildly unbelievable, and he couldn't think of any reason why Bryce would put himself and Chuck at such great risk.

The second theory was that Sarah had lied about everything. She found out about the Intersect somehow, and about Bryce Larkin's duty of protecting it. Then she had followed Bryce's scent to Chuck, just as Casey had. She played Chuck like a fiddle to confirm her suspicions that he had the Intersect, then took him away from the threat of the bounty hunter.

But if the second theory was what had actually happened, what was the con woman's endgame? She could utilize the Intersect for herself, gather all of the information in Chuck's head and…

God, he felt as though he might go mad. Standing out here in the shadows, the fog rolling overhead like an all-consuming, frigid specter. How was it possible to be lied to so many times by the same person and fall for it every damn time?

He didn't want to think of Sarah Walker as a murderer, or as a manipulator. There were too many instances where he had seen what he knew was a real, beating heart shining through her blue eyes. Soft, quiet moments where she almost seemed like an open book, or maybe it was just the potential of it, but no sooner had he witnessed it, she would shut herself off again. Even after she had told him she was an agent, when the veneer of sweet waitress had been stripped away, he had seen swift flashes of vulnerability. Or perhaps not vulnerability…instead a candidness. She hadn't known he was watching then. She couldn't have.

Perhaps she was a con artist after all. But he couldn't wrap his head around the idea that Sarah could be so nefarious and ill-meaning as to lie about Bryce sending her to protect him, with the goal of using him and hurting him herself. She hadn't harmed him yet.

In fact, she had even saved his life.

A chill wracked through him as he suddenly thought back to the first moment he met her, kneeling over him. He had asked her in that alley way what happened to the patrolman who shot him.

He must have realized he was a barbarian and left before he could cause anymore trouble.

The brute had realized no such thing. The only explanation was—the realization made Chuck pull his coat tighter around his body—she had disposed of the patrolman, most likely. And while Chuck couldn't really fault her for doing something to keep the patrolman from killing him, he couldn't help but wonder if the man was still alive, patrolling the streets of Los Angeles at this moment. Or if he was later found dead in some alleyway somewhere, the reason for his demise a mystery those who stumbled upon his body.

It made sense that Sarah wasn't the agent she claimed, considering how reluctant she had been to help him save Huber's life. And yet, she had still helped him chase Nooman through the streets of San Francisco. Or had she been playing him again?

His head was clouded with confusion, and he forced himself to stop thinking about her.

Focusing instead on completing his mission.

Chuck wasn't a complete fool. He knew the chances of successfully rescuing Albrecht Huber were slim. But he had to try. Who knew if the flash he had was even accurate? And even if it was accurate, there was a definite chance he was misinterpreting it completely.

Maybe the Intersect was faulty. It didn't work the way they had meant for it too. That made complete sense, considering how complicated and impossible the technology was. And considering what had happened to Prototype 534. Chuck shivered and steered his thoughts in another direction.

Even if the flash was accurate, there was the chance Harold Nooman was long gone by now. In some other city.

But right at that moment Chuck saw the dark, stout figure of a man moving down McAllister in the direction of the opera house. The man wore no hat, oddly enough, so that when he passed beneath the lamplight, Chuck knew immediately who he was.

Harold Nooman had seen a barber since that very same morning when Chuck first spotted him leaning against the lamppost watching the parade, but it was definitely him. The toy maker waited for the man to pass, then reached up to make sure his faux facial hair was in place. He patted at his beard and mustache, picked up his cane, and slowly eased out of the shadows, quietly trailing Nooman.

Chuck watched as the assassin moved quickly down the street towards the majestic, once-white pillared opera house. Years of industrial emissions had crusted it with a layer of soot and dust, giving the building a grey-brown, dull look. Lamps adorned the walls of the building and glowing gas lamps flanked the walkway that led to the front steps.

Nooman glanced around once, then moved amidst a crowd of opera enthusiasts. He fit in well, as they all wore austere outfits, morose in color.

The sky had darkened significantly as the fog began to roll in, the typical unpleasant mixture of smells hanging in the air, including vehicle exhaust, factory emissions, and stagnant bay water. The gas lamps from the balconies of the ornate stone building created blurry beams of light in the drifting fog, giving the place an eerie atmosphere.

Chuck let a puttering steamcar go past before he crossed the street and straightened his suit to make sure he looked presentable enough to be counted amongst the typical opera enthusiast. He slowed his pace and watched as Nooman pulled a ticket from his inner coat pocket and presented it to the usher, who tore it and waved him inside with a bow. Chuck hurried closer to a group that was moving towards the entrance. The man in the center had two women on either side of him, clinging to his arms and giggling at whatever witty thing he spewed from his lips which resided under a perfectly curled mustache. The men and women around him laughed as well.

Oddly enough, the usher paid them no mind as they approached, except to bow low as the well-dressed wit passed him by. Chuck quickly slid in behind the group and laughed uproariously with the rest of them, passing the usher and turning his head away a bit.

"Amusing," he drawled to no one in particular. "Amusing observation," he muttered, slipping in through the doors. The simpering smile immediately died on his face and he broke away from the group, walking further into the ornate lobby. "Can't believe that worked," he whispered to himself.

He absent-mindedly swept his hat from his head and checked that his disguise was still attached to his face. Though he needn't have checked, what with how terribly it itched.

Ignoring the itchiness, he looked around for Nooman, attempting to pick him out from behind, but just about every stout man with short, grey hair looked like him now.

There you are.

Nooman quietly moved through the crowd, his steps slow and calculated. Not many paid attention to him as he skirted the walls of the lobby. Chuck followed closely, trying to push his fears back into the recesses of his heart, ignoring the tingling in his fingers and the lump in his throat. This might mean the difference between life and death—he couldn't afford to lose his nerve just because he wasn't a bounty hunter like John Casey, or an unnervingly enigmatic and capable…whatever Sarah was.

The warning bell would ring soon, and Chuck had a feeling the assassination attempt would occur in the overture, as Carmen's overture was extremely boisterous. He imagined the clash of cymbals would do well to disguise the sound of a gunshot or a struggle or…an outcry of pain…

He paled, but kept his eyes glued on Nooman's back.

It was up to him. No one else was here to help. And if he failed, he was certain Ambassador Huber would be dead by the end of the night.

}o{

"I feel like a peacock dressed like this."

"Must you always grumble about everything?" Sarah snapped under her breath.

"Yes, as a matter o' fact," he grumbled back.

Sarah Walker resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she straightened her corset and took as deep a breath as was possible. It wasn't that she had never worn a corset before. In fact, in her line of work, they were a necessity more often than not. That was, only if she was pulling a regular con job. Anything requiring quick and stealthy movement, or invisibility in general, did not necessitate the cursed article of clothing.

"You use the musician's entrance—"

"I know the plan, Walker. You look for Toy Boy in the lobby. I get backstage."

Sarah grit her teeth and took another deep-ish, calming breath. "Right. Go to it then."

He grunted and ducked down the alleyway, a large cello case in his hand. No one would be at all wise to the fact that there was actually a long-range rifle in it. Unless he opened it, that was. And hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

But it was hard to ignore the fact that this wasn't just about getting the toy maker back. There was a potentially dangerous and murderous man inside of that building with Chuck. And the foolishly brave idiot was going to try to…Lord, she had no idea what he intended to do.

And that filled her with no small amount of trepidation.

She cast her eyes about the opera-goers standing around the walk way, men enjoying cigars or pipes outside in the fresh air before the bell sounded to take their seats, women on their arms. Her vibrant blue gaze settled on a man who seemed to be alone, slowly making his way towards the front steps.

Pursing her lips, she moved towards him gracefully.

Within minutes, she was inside of the theater on the man's arm. He kept reaching up to smooth his waxed mustache, casting furtive glances her way. "I'm sorry they caused such a hubbub at the entrance. Apparently they do not know who I am."

"Apparently," she agreed with a sweet smile. "I do appreciate your help. I just wish there was a way for me to alert my aunt that I am here. And she has my ticket! I just didn't know what to do. And I am afraid I will never find her in this mess of people."

"You don't worry your pretty little head about it, my dear. You are more than welcome to join me in my box."

"Thank you ever so. You're too kind, Sir." She squeezed his arm.

"Call me Normand, my dear."

She stopped suddenly, pulling on the middle-aged man's arm a bit. A corner of her mouth turned up and she looked at him through her eyelashes. "You wouldn't mind if I asked you to buy me a pair of these interesting-looking glasses, would you?" she asked him, pointing over her shoulder at the small stand with opera glasses on display.

"It would be my pleasure," he drawled, seemingly pleased that he could do something else for her.

The man fished the coins from his pocket and paid the salesman, handing the glasses to her. She took them and grinned, her teeth showing. He nearly rocked back a bit at that as she thanked him profusely.

She clung to his arm, letting him lead the way up the carpeted stairs to the floor with the private box entrances.

As she smiled at her momentary mark, she wondered if John Casey could be trusted. Major John Casey, her mind corrected sarcastically. And just what was he a major of exactly? He was a bounty hunter, not affiliated with an intelligence agency. The idea that he had once been in some branch of the military wasn't exactly farfetched, but then why did he break away? Why did he now straddle the law instead of upholding it staunchly as he seemed to be the type to do?

And what of this cockamamie half-hatched plan she was carrying out? Could she convince Casey and Chuck that she was telling the truth? She would have to convince them of two separate truths. God, it was so complicated. What was she doing? How would she explain all of this to Chuck? If she could just find him in here somewhere and corner him, tell him everything, perhaps it all might click into place.

Or better yet, she could do away with the entire complicated situation and spirit him away into the night and they could continue running from John Casey until either or both of them keeled over. That was actually preferable.

That was only if she could get Chuck to trust her again. Which was more than doubtful.

This would all be so much easier if she had an ally. A partner. Never before in her life had she ever thought she would think that. Everything was always easier if you were alone. There were less loose ends to tie up after the job. Rewards to split down the middle. But she wouldn't pull this off without Chuck's help.

Good luck with that, Walker.

She silently cursed herself.

"Miss Harrison?"

She shook her head a bit and smiled up at Normand.

"Are you quite alright?" he asked.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I asked you if you had ever been to the opera before, Miss Harrison." That's right, she was using one of her old cover names. She wasn't Sarah Walker to Normand the businessman, but Miss Sylvia Harrison.

She cleared her throat. "All this splendor, I'm afraid I lost my concentration for a moment. Please forgive me. No, I-I'm afraid I've never been to the opera before."

"So that was why you wanted the opera glasses," he chuckled, leading her to a curtain and pulling it aside. She stepped into the private box and took in the splendid view. Seats upholstered with red velvet stretched in neat rows all across the floor, matching red carpet laid out on the aisles between the chairs. Then there was the mezzanine, two balcony levels over that—lower and upper—and the private boxes lining the walls of the theater on the second and third floors. The railings and outsides of each box were decorated with gold filigree.

"Is that what these are?" she asked, shock in her breathy voice.

"Yes, my dear."

She made a show of holding the opera glasses up and being mesmerized and fascinated by what she saw through them. "It's unreal how close everything seems, like I can reach out and grab them," she breathed, aware that he was sitting rather close to her. The impulse to move away didn't occur to Sarah Walker, as it might have any other women playing the part. She had long ago grown numb to the blatant come-ons of the men she swindled, and so the impulse to use his boldness against him occurred to her instead.

Sarah turned her face away from the glasses so that their faces were mere inches apart. "Are you fond of the opera, Normand?" she asked quietly, not even blinking as his eyes flicked down to her lips. He cleared his throat and she turned back, looking through the glasses again and pointing them towards the orchestra pit.

There sat John Casey in a newly pressed suit and coattails, his surly frown plastered on his face, his back straight as a board as he pulled his cello case out from beside his chair. She wondered just how long they had before he would open it and reveal to his fellow orchestra members that there was no cello inside, but instead a loaded rifle. The fact that he was seated in the pit at all meant that there had been no sign of Chuck in the backstage area.

That meant it was her turn.

The con woman turned the opera glasses up to the private boxes and began running them over each one, stopping once she had Albrecht Huber in her sights. She lingered for a moment, wondering if Chuck might be somewhere nearby. It only made sense he might attempt to protect the ambassador by sticking close to him, even though the chances of the assassin sneaking into Huber's box didn't seem as likely as taking a shot from somewhere else in the opera house.

Huber laughed with his personal assistant, before the thin man settled himself in his seat and nodded politely to the other members of his box. He had no idea there was an assassin somewhere in the building ready to kill him at any moment.

More importantly, Chuck was here somewhere and she had to find him before he ran into trouble. She had to make him see reason.

"Miss Harrison."

"Yes, Normand?" she asked, still looking through the glasses and combing the private boxes.

"I asked if you had seen my watch."

"Perhaps you dropped it, Normand. Look by your feet." Smirking a little upon feeling the extra weight of a pocket watch in her bodice, she spotted an empty private box in the upper left corner of the audience, but from her vantage point, it was difficult to see much else other than the railing and the top of the unoccupied seats. Hellfire!

"I swear I had it. It isn't by my feet. Perhaps, er…under your…er…skirts?" He cleared his throat again and Sarah inwardly rolled her eyes. Of course he wanted to check under her skirts. But he wouldn't find his pricey pocket watch there.

She lowered her hand down and gracefully swept the skirts aside, revealing nothing but the immaculate carpet floor beneath her boots. "No watch. Perhaps you left it in your carriage."

"Perhaps, yes." There wasn't any worry in his tone, which meant he wouldn't miss it much if he never found it again. This suited Sarah Walker just fine.

Her lips smirked beneath the opera glasses until she lowered them again. "My, so many important people here. The ambassador to Prussia, I hear, will be in attendance?"

"Mm, yes. An empire run by tyrants. The fact that we welcome them here in the first place is blasphemy, I say. When I was a boy, our king wouldn't have stood for it."

She rolled her eyes to herself and leaned forward to see if anyone had arrived in the empty box she'd spotted earlier. Sarah could only see the top three feet of the curtain that led into the private area. But she could tell when someone pulled it aside to enter the box, as the fabric shifted and then fluttered two separate times.

Expecting some wax-mustachioed gentleman and his wife, Sarah felt her the world shift beneath her when she saw Chuck Bartowski step up to the railing, wearing a fake beard no less, the ridiculous fool. She was floored by the amount of relief she felt at seeing him in one piece. The Intersect in one piece, she corrected stubbornly. The stupid, naive, pig-headed Intersect, who she should have never lied to in the first place. Maybe they wouldn't be in this predicament…But something seemed wrong…

She noted the way his brows were knit beneath the dark curls of his hair, the way he licked his lips, his eyes darting about the audience. And his chin quivered beneath the beard.

Ignoring the man beside her completely, she knew immediately that Chuck had spotted Casey in the orchestra pit. He was going to run again. She knew it. Now that he had spotted Casey, Chuck would think he was in danger.

And then she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she noticed the sheen of sweat on Chuck's forehead. Something was wrong. He wasn't running. He wasn't moving even a single muscle.

She was stuck between two options: blow her cover and alert Chuck to her presence, hoping he would choose her as the lesser of two evils, or surreptitiously sneak out from under Normand's nose to…well, powder her own…and instead go to the box where Chuck was nervously perched to find out what he was doing. Something was definitely very wrong. Chuck was still staring down at Casey, his face pale.

"You know dear, if you focus on the audience, you'll never see what's happening in the opera," came the voice beside her. She cursed him inwardly and lowered her opera glasses, smiling wanly at him.

"Yes, of course." She saw Casey in the pit, awkwardly adjusting his music stand, his eyes flicking about at the other musicians who were just about ready to play the opening notes of the overture. It wouldn't take long for him to get into some trouble if he didn't take his instrument out soon.

She lifted the opera glasses and looked up at Chuck again. A man stood beside him, a deep scowl on his face—Nooman.

Oh, Chuck.

"Damn it!" she snapped under her breath, shoving the glasses into Normand's chest. He fumbled a bit but grabbed them, gaping as she leapt to her feet. "Must powder my nose!"

"But—But my dear, I—"

Without paying him another thought, she burst through the curtains and onto the landing. A few patrons were still straggling, hastening to their own boxes as the notes of the overture wafted out of the auditorium. She wondered if Casey had escaped the pit yet, if he had seen that Harold Nooman was now perched behind Chuck in a private box overlooking the audience, most assuredly pressing a pistol into the toy maker's back. And that particular box had a perfect view of Huber's guest of honor position, directly to the right of the stage and on the second level.

Hell! God damn it! Every curse she knew run rampant through her mind as she racked her brain for a plan.

She knew precisely what would happen if she didn't act fast. Nooman would wait for the climax of the overture before he would dispose of Chuck, shooting him in the back during a raucous clash of cymbals. And then he would promptly pick Huber off from his comfortable perch directly across the auditorium. There was most likely a rifle somewhere in the box up there. He would never threaten Chuck with it, as a pistol was easier to hide from the patrons in the boxes directly to his left and right.

Sarah ducked into a small nook in the hallway and lifted her skirts. In record time, she had a three inch blade clutched in her palm, pressed flat against her wrist and forearm as she dropped her skirts into place and rushed down the hallway again, glad that the floors were carpeted instead of marble so that she could run in her heels without them clattering and alerting others of her arrival. She smiled prettily at a passing gentleman, easing her weapon just so behind her back, then glanced over her shoulder and rushed up the staircase to the left.

When she reached the third level, she stopped to get her bearings. There was an explosive crash of cymbals coming from the auditorium. Was she too late? Would she find Chuck dead on the floor of the box with a bullet wound in his back?

Another clash of cymbals.

Oh, God…

She heard drunken giggles of mirth coming from behind one of the private box's curtains. That certainly wasn't where Chuck and Nooman were.

Fear prickled at her spine but she fought it back, not allowing it to cloud her wits. She counted in from the stage: One, two, three, four…

Chuck was behind that curtain.

She didn't know what she would find there, but she could only hope that he was still alive.

A/N: I cannot tell you how often I have heard Bizet's "Carmen" and it still gets to me. This, however, is going to prove to be quite the interesting opera. (monocle wink again)

Hope you all had a nice MLK day if you're American! And if you aren't American, well Monday's are poo, aren't they? Such poo. Hope this makes your Tuesday better!

Please leave a review! Thanks ever so!

SC