A/N1: Owner...wait...what? Sorry, I got confused there for a second. What were we talking about?
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Tuesday, December 2, 2008; 5:10 AM EST
Kenyon Stringer, Senior Special Agent of the FBI, grabbed his suit jacket from the hangar and headed downstairs, donning the jacket as he went. Pulling on his overcoat next, he picked up his bag from the floor near the front door, grabbed his car keys from the table and hurried out. He wanted to be early for the 6 AM meeting. Maybe he could catch a few minutes alone with the Director.
The sky was still dark, dawn more than an hour away, and the air just a few degrees above freezing. Stringer put the heat on in the car once he'd started up, even though he knew it would blow cold air until the engine heated sufficiently.
The alert for the emergency morning meeting had come in overnight from the Assistant to the Director. All of the top people would be there. He wondered what was going on and dreaded the possibility that there may have been another terrorist attack. He was just reaching for the car's radio to put on a news channel, when his cell phone buzzed. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was Statler. He put the call on speaker.
"Morning, Jenn."
"Hey, Ken. You on your way to the Director's meeting?" she asked.
"Yeah. You know what it's about?"
"The public's being told it's right-wing militia violence, but we know it was those assholes in Fulcrum. Carmichael's team flushed them out in Ventura at the Roark Instruments tech campus."
"Oh, shit. Casualties?" asked Stringer.
"Nineteen of ours. Over seventy of theirs," she said. "There are still wounded being treated so numbers may climb."
"Shit. Well, they lose the war of attrition, I guess." He had a bitter look on his face.
"Yeah," agreed Statler. "Anyway, believe it or not, I'm not calling about that. I've still got the Rivers investigation ongoing. I know this Fulcrum thing is going to be all hands on deck and I've already been pulled in. I just want to make sure you leave Rossi on Rivers, if you can. We've got a CI inside and stand a real chance of losing her without support."
"Ok. I understand. Let me see what I can do. I'll see you in a few minutes and we can talk about it some more after the meeting," said Stringer.
"Naw. That's why I called you so early. I'm going to miss the meeting," she said.
"Why?" he asked.
"I'm at Reagan. Carmichael's sent a jet for me and Tony and a handful of CIA guys. I'm heading west," she said.
"Why you?" bitched Stringer. "We could use your help here."
"Tony and I worked with Carmichael's team a couple of times already. Guess he's comfortable with us. And I guess he wants that now. Comfort, I mean. He's freaking out," she said.
"Freaking out? Why? I heard that guy has ice water in his veins," said Stringer.
"Yeah. I know. But ...listen, this is just between us, okay, but there was a major problem with the Ventura thing. One of theirs got taken by Fulcrum. Guy who goes by the codename Orion..."
Stringer's eyes got wide and he immediately pulled over to the side of the road.
Statler continued, "...We don't think Fulcrum knows they have Orion yet and we need to keep that from them at all costs."
"Of course. Why is this Orion guy so special?" he asked.
"I have no idea, but apparently everyone is after him."
"Alright. Good luck with Carmichael and his guys. I'll see what I can do about the Rivers thing," he said.
"Great. Thanks, Ken. Say hi to the Director for me," she said.
"Yeah right. Safe flight," he said, already reaching for a different cell phone.
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Tuesday, December 2, 2008; 5:57 AM PST
The sky to the east was light gray tinted with a bit of peach, with dawn coming in a few minutes. Zondra and Casey had just about finished with the last helicopter. The avionics had already been removed and sent by messenger to Castle. Now the agents were stripping the aircraft of paperwork, or anything else of a potential intelligence value that they could find.
Casey made a note on his phone and told Zondra, "I'm heading over to the Naval Base to see if we got any of the pilots there. If anyone knows the destination of the four birds that got away, it would be one of them."
Zondra was still in the cockpit and making notes on her phone. "Go for it, Case. I'm heading back to Castle when I finish here."
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Tuesday, December 2, 2008; 6:44 AM PST
Stephen was roused from a light sleep and taken from his cell. Unlike the previous time, his hands were cuffed behind his back and two men escorted him with drawn weapons. Both men stayed two paces back.
He found himself back in the living room with Roark and Smith.
Roark approached him with a smile. "Sleep well? No peas under the mattress? Any visions of sugar plums dancing in your head?"
"Don't expect a great Yelp review, Ted. I tried to make an outgoing call and there are no bars," said Stephen.
"Yeah," agreed Roark, waving his hands around. "Underground, see? Stone and the electromagnetic spectrum. Look it up sometime."
Without warning, Roark threw a roundhouse punch into Stephen's chin. With his hands behind his back, Stephen had no way to block it and the punch staggered him back. His arms were caught by Roark's men before he could fall.
"OWWW. FUCK. THAT FUCKING HURT," yelled Roark, shaking his hand. He looked at Smith almost accusingly, but Smith was impassive. "What the fuck? How do they do that in the movies? I think I broke my fucking hand." He continued to shake it. "Shit. Goddamn hurts."
Roark focused on Stephen and said, "What files were you looking for in Ventura? Oh, right. 'That Intersect thingie' you called it. Fuck you, Orion. Fuck you. You invented that goddamn thingie. Don't know why I didn't put two and two together."
Smith was smiling now, a thoroughly frightening sight.
Roark turned back to Smith and his men, still shaking his hand. "Hurt him a bit, would you guys? Nothing that will interfere with him creating an Intersect for us, like his typing fingers or his brain, but hurt him just enough to convince him that helping us is more beneficial than not. Toes. Toes aren't necessary, right? I mean, you walk funny and can't dance, but he couldn't dance worth shit before anyway. And teeth. You don't really need 'em. Survive on milkshakes. While I'm on the t's how about tonsils? You thought I was going to say testicles, right?" Roark started to laugh. "Testicles are just too damn easy to go for and I don't want to be accused of picking the low hanging fruit, oh, wait, that was funny too...testicles, low hanging fruit." When no one laughed, he continued. "Tough crowd. Anyway, what the hell does anyone need them for anyway? Tonsils, I mean. Not testicles." He turned back to Stephen and said, sternly, "But no ice cream for you after we take your tonsils out. Now that's torture."
"Yes, Sir. We'll take care of it," said Smith.
"Of course you will. I shouldn't try to tell you how to do your job. It's disrespectful of your proficiency. I should just give you the broad parameters of the assignment and you can handle the details. See? That's why I like working with experienced henchmen. No learning curve."
Once again wearing his normal expression of stone-faced professionalism, Smith stepped forward and drove a hard fist into Stephen's kidney. As pain engulfed him, Stephen fell to his knees.
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Tuesday, December 2, 2008; 7:41 AM PST
Casey sat in one of the offices in the back of the aircraft hangar at the Naval Base and waited for one of the spies to bring the prisoner to him. The room wasn't specifically designed for interrogation, but its bare military austerity would work just fine.
An older black-haired man with a day's growth of heavy beard was ushered in by a CIA agent and roughly pushed into a seat. The CIA agent left them alone and closed the door. Casey was surprised. The prisoner was morbidly obese and already sweating, although it wasn't at all warm. The man's cuffed hands rested on the empty table in front of him and his eyes glared at Casey with hostility.
They stared at each other for a few moments, the hostility reciprocal. Then Casey reached into the bag at his feet and dropped a small black book onto the table.
"You know what this is?" he asked the man.
"I want to talk to a lawyer," said the fat man.
"It's the flight log of a pilot named Bernard Ominsky." Casey dropped a photo on the table next to the book and said, "That's a photo of Ominsky. Well, Ominsky in younger days. Seriously, dude. What the hell happened to you? Really let yourself go there, Bernie. You ever heard of salad?"
"I want to talk to a lawyer," repeated Ominsky.
"Ah. I see," said Casey. "We have a misunderstanding." Casey reached out and grabbed one of Ominsky's wrists with his left hand and one of the man's fingers with his right hand. With a push and quick twist, Casey broke the finger.
Ominsky howled in pain.
Casey said, "The misunderstanding is that you think this is a law enforcement matter. I'm not a cop, shit-for-brains, and you are not enmeshed in the famed American justice system. You want a lawyer? I don't give two shits. I want information. And I will torture the shit out of you until I get it. I'm not a sick fuck who enjoys it, but I am serious enough to do it without qualm. Do we understand each other now?"
It was rare that Casey was truly surprised, but it happened again with this man. Ominsky literally grinned at him through the pain and said, "Fuck you." He turned up two middle fingers from his cuffed hands and gestured at Casey, even using the hand with the broken finger.
Casey sighed. This was going to take longer than he'd expected.
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Tuesday, December 2, 2008; 8:31 AM PST
"What's the latest?" asked Chuck.
Sarah, with one hand covering the handset of the phone she was using, said, "Another three and a half hours in the air. They broke records with the speed of the turnaround at Reagan and now they are pushing it as fast as they can subsonic. The FAA corridor is helping a lot, as everything else is diverted out of their way between DC and LA. Bob Hope will give them priority in landing."
"Ok," said Chuck. "Good news."
"Yeah. Jorge and I are taking two of the SUV's to meet them at Bob Hope. He'll bring his buddies back here and brief them on the way. I'll take Jenny and Mike to the Naval Base and get them started on the interrogations, briefing them on the way."
"Good," said Chuck.
Jorge said, "I've talked to Ben upstairs and the Studio's IT people have left us with a shitload of equipment on a trolley in the lobby. When my people get here they can just grab and go. I'm going to house them in Carmichael Industries upstairs. Not enough room down here. But we still have the Roark Instrument's mainframe." He jerked a thumb to the side and gave a small grin at that.
"Yeah," said Chuck. "Irony."
A phone rang off to the side and Rachel said, "Chuck, it's Casey for you."
"Hey, Case. Any luck with Ominsky?"
The Colonel replied, "Naw. Appearances can be deceiving. He's too tough to crack."
"Shit. How about you take him to West LA Doctors and Nurses and get him a dose of SP-117?" suggested Chuck.
"Good idea, kid. Makes sense."
When he hung up, the elevator doors opened, and a flood of team members came in. Fitz's guys, Mike's guys, and Zondra.
"Hey, fellas," said Chuck.
They returned a round of greetings to Chuck and the others in Castle.
"Rough night," said Sarah.
"Yeah," said Leo, wearily. "But you oughta see the other guys."
"I know. But you've got some broken ribs and Fitz, you've had stitches. I want both of you to get checked out by real doctors, not just the EMT's from Ventura. Get Ellie or Devon to take a look. And then get some rest, guys. We're gonna need you at the top of your games," said Sarah. "Actually, that's a good point. We should all start taking turns getting some rest. This crisis is going to last for a while."
Rachel spoke up. "Good idea, Sarah. How about you and Chuck start and lead by example. You can catch a quick nap before heading to Bob Hope for the pickup. And the good news about you both going at the same time is it only uses one bed." She gave an impertinent smirk.
Sarah looked at Chuck, who shrugged. He might be reluctant to leave the command center, but he appreciated the logic all around.
Sarah said, "Ok. There are four more beds downstairs, so don't let them go to waste, guys. Wake us if anything happens."
She and Chuck turned to the stairwell. Rachel said, "And listen, you two, if anything other than sleep goes on down there, be sure to change the sheets before you come up. It's just courteous." Everyone present laughed riotously, except Chuck, who blushed. Even Sarah found it funny. Fitz gave Rachel a high five while Billy gave a boisterous catcall. After the tension of the past twenty-four hours, it was good to let off a bit of steam with friends.
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Tuesday, December 2, 2008; 8:50 AM PST
Chuck and Sarah didn't bother to strip and just emptied their pockets and took off their shoes. In moments they were cuddled up together under the covers of one of Castle's guest room beds, Sarah's head on his chest.
Sarah said, "Chuck, there's something that happened last night that I didn't tell you. Before your dad got taken."
"Mummm?"
"He ordered me to kill him. Kill him so Fulcrum wouldn't take him. It was my duty, he said. He kept calling me Agent Walker. 'Do your duty, Agent Walker. Kill me,' he said." Sarah shuddered in Chuck's embrace. "I mean. He was right. Can't let Orion get taken. It makes sense."
"But you didn't do it," said Chuck softly, his hand rubbing her back.
"No. I couldn't do it," she said. She was silent for almost a minute, and then said, "I know it's early. I mean premature. We're not married yet. But, well, in my head...in my head, I'm not Agent Walker anymore. In my head...I'm already Sarah Bartowski."
"Aw, sweetie," said Chuck, kissing the top of her head.
"I told him I'd save him. I told him I'd save him later. And...I called him Dad. We'll save him, Chuck."
She lifted her face from his chest. Chuck leaned forward a bit and kissed her gently with all his love. "I know. I love you, Sarah Bartowski."
"And I love you, Chuck Bartowski. More than I could ever imagine possible," she said. They smiled at each other and cuddled deeper, shortly drifting off to well-earned, but short-lived, sleep.
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Tuesday, December 2, 2008; 12.05 PM PST
Casey brought Ominsky to LA Doctors with the declared intention of having them deal with his broken fingers. Casey had had to break a second finger on the man's hand before becoming convinced that no amount of pain was going to incentivize the pilot to reveal his destination. He was tougher than he looked.
Neither man said a word on the drive down. Nor did they speak to each other as Ominsky was processed through the initial stages of the medical procedures. For reasons of security, Casey stayed by his side as his fingers were examined and splinted.
When they began strapping him down to a gurney, with an IV drip in his arm, Ominsky started to panic. Casey stood by, impassive. A doctor with all of the calming bedside manner of a Paris Island drill instructor with a vicious case of hemorrhoids approached Ominsky with a syringe of red liquid.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? STOP IT. I DON'T CONSENT. FUCK YOU. YOU DON'T HAVE MY CONSENT. STOP IT, YOU FUCKING NAZIS. STOP." He was screaming and thrashing. His eyes were wide with panic and the gurney began to shake. Casey and a nurse put their weight on it to hold it steady as the doctor took hold of the IV line and brought the drug up to it.
With no warning, Ominsky slumped back onto the cushions and lay still and silent. The doctor and nurse looked at each other. With two fingers, the doctor reached out to touch a spot on Ominsky's neck. And suddenly, all hell broke loose. Casey was summarily thrown out of the room as other medical personnel rushed in. Orders were given that Casey did not understand.
No more than a half hour later, the doctor came out to Casey and shook his head. Ominsky was gone. The stress of the situation had caused a massive and fatal heart attack.
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A/N2: For those who might not remember, SP-117 is the truth serum first introduced to this universe by Payne in the Seventh Arc of this story. As one of the notes there indicates, it may be real (although I personally doubt it).
A/N3: How did I do, guys? Love to hear from you.