A/N1: So how about ownership of Chuck? Right? Interesting.
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Chuck, Sarah and Syd had had a busy afternoon. The MI-5 officers didn't have the facilities for the magical clean-up of the remnants of the gunfight at the Lobster Pot, so everyone had to pitch in. The Royal Navy had a ship in port and lent a contingent of Royal Marines to help with the disposition of the bodies of the attackers. The five Fulcrum survivors had to be brought to MI-5 holding cells to sleep off the trank darts. The newly purchased hard drives had to be collected and brought to a secure site for them to be sorted through. And finally, the Fulcrum men had to be interrogated.
Chuck had just completed the last of the interrogations, ex-CIA operative Brian Larson, and they were finally going to get a break. His stomach growled and he suddenly remembered that he hadn't eaten since breakfast at the hotel that morning and it was now approaching dinner time.
Sarah met him in the hallway outside the Larson interrogation room and gave him a quick kiss. "I got all I'm going to get from Larson. I'm done with this guy," Chuck told Sarah as the door closed behind him.
"Right. I'll get him moved back into the holding cell. In the meantime, I got Director Malone to activate Colt and his men. I'm going to get them to St. Louis and get Fitz and his guys here with us. If we are now targets to Fulcrum we should start running with a bigger team."
"Good. That's going to be helpful. Casey and Z?" said Chuck.
"Left them voicemails," said Sarah as they walked down the corridor to a conference room. In the room, Sarah perched her butt on the edge of the table and continued, "I also asked Malone to put some security on our family and he agreed."
"Good idea. If it's open season on us they should be covered too," he said with a frown. "Wait a second." Chuck took out his phone and did something for a minute or so. "Yeah. We'll have to get the bomb squad to our cars. My car and your car have been tampered with."
"Casey's car? Zee's car?" asked Sarah.
"No, they're still ok. Guess they didn't go look for them at the airport," she said. Casey had driven them to the airport in Burbank in his beloved Crown Vic when they left on this mission. "Good thing you put those sensors in the cars after the Gentle Hand bombing."
Chuck made a wry face and said, "Yeah. Lucky us."
"Malone also decided to revamp the security at Castle Studios. Switch out the civilian guards for armed operatives. It's getting closer to open warfare with the shit they pulled on us today," said Sarah. She looked half worried and half pissed off.
"We better talk to Casey and Z. This is going to need some new strategic thinking on our part," said Chuck.
"Yeah. They didn't respond to my voicemails yet. Let me send him a text. Let him know to call us when he frees up," she said, poking at her phone. A little while later, her phone dinged and she said, "He says he'll call us when they can get to a SCIF."
"OK," said Chuck.
Syd came into the room with sandwiches, chips (which he called crisps), soft drinks, and bottles of water for all of them and they filled him in on the developments while they ate.
The conversation circled around what the team could do to both protect itself and continue to move to the defeat of Fulcrum.
They had just finished eating when Sarah's phone binged with a text message. "Casey and Z are ready to talk." Handing the phone to Chuck she said, "Here's the info for the connection to the SCIF they are in."
Chuck took it and had the connection between their conference room and the SCIF in St. Louis made in less than a minute.
On the screen in front of them sat Casey and Zondra, both in wheelchairs and wearing hospital gowns. Each of them had an IV drip attached to their arms with the drip bag hanging on the wheelchair pole.
"Jesus," barked Chuck in surprise.
"Are you okay?" asked Sarah.
"Hope so," said Casey. "We're in a SCIF in a secure wing of the Dalton Memorial Hospital. It's the hospital the IC uses here in town. Crawford had booby traps around his house. We ran into some anthrax spores in his safe. They are keeping us for a week for observation. If any spores got into our lungs we'll know it in five to seven days."
"How do you feel?" asked Sarah.
"Fine so far. They are pumping us full of antibiotics in case anything develops. Prophylactically is what they said."
"Or even thinks about developing," said Zondra.
"And if it does?" she asked.
"They tell us most people survive," said Zondra, deadpan. Chuck, Sarah and Syd all recognized the seriousness of that prognosis. 'Most' could be as low as 51%.
"Got your message on our phones," said Zondra. "But by that point the Fulcrum team sent to intercept us at Crawford's house had already made their play."
"And ended up in body bags," said Casey grimly. "Crawford's house was rigged like a fortress. Whole front was covered with remote detonated mines. It was a fucking bloodbath. They never even got close or got a shot off."
"Who's your friend?" asked Zondra, gesturing at Reilly.
Chuck said, "Syndey Reilly meet Zondra Rizzo. Zondra Rizzo meet Sydney Reilly. He's MI-6. Sir Trevor sent him over to lend a friendly hand if we needed it. And we sure as shit needed it. Like you guys, Fulcrum sent almost a couple of dozen guys to take us out here on the island. Between Syd and Sarah only five survived."
"The five tranked by Chuck," said Sarah.
Syd raised a hand in greeting and said, "'Ey, Colonel. Nice to meet you Agent Rizzo."
Zondra raised a hand in response and Casey said, "Reilly."
"What happened to the contents of the safe?" asked Sarah.
"We're at a stalemate. It's covered in the spores. The docs and emergency personnel want to burn it. Literally. It's dangerous as hell. But God knows what's inside. I've forbidden them from destroying it until after Z and I can check out the contents. Right now, it's in limbo while we fight about it. With our exposure they won't let us near it."
"Ok," said Chuck. "Problem for later, I guess. The immediate problem is that I just interrogated a guy this afternoon who told us that the Sachem has declared open season on us now that we've found Orion. It's what Sarah warned you guys about."
Zondra said, "But they don't have Orion."
"I know. The way they figure it, if we are out of the picture the safety of Orion goes to the IC and that makes him vulnerable," said Chuck.
"Not wrong," said Casey after a moment.
"I know. Anyway, with that development, Sarah got Malone to activate and arm Colt and his guys. We're sending them to St. Louis and we're bringing Fitz and his guys here with us. He's also putting protection on our family and beefing up security at Castle Studios."
"All good calls," agreed Casey, nodding.
"Also, we've got to get demo teams to look at Sarah and my cars. Somebody's been messing with them. Probably gotten them rigged," said Chuck.
"Shit," growled Casey. "Alright. That all makes sense. Gonna be a rough spell for us, I guess. How'd you do with the bank's computers?"
"They were sold to a guy who deals in secondhand office equipment, but he has no record of which of his computers came from the bank. We bought his whole inventory and have to go through it. Needle in a haystack. Gonna take us a couple of days at least."
"Well, Z and I are stuck here for a few days too, if you want to send some up for us to sort through," said Casey.
"Thanks, but it probably makes more sense to do the initial sorting here. Once we can identify the ones from the bank, we can think about bringing them back to the States for the deeper dive," said Chuck.
"Got it," said Zondra. "We just expect to be bored as shit."
"Yeah. And sitting ducks. Be good to have Colt and his guys here," said Casey.
"For sure. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that you guys dodged the anthrax infections," said Chuck.
"Thanks. Us too," said Casey.
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Mike Colt looked out the window of the Citation as it flew over the middle of the country. Scatterings of snow covered the yellow/brown fields with long straight roads disappearing into the distance. He was in an introspective mood and found himself considering how he had ended up where he was.
Once out of the Army, he had drifted and had sunk into a very bad place. A place he was deeply ashamed of. He carried an enormous burden of shame and guilt over that period of his life. Eventually he went to work for some very bad characters in Fulcrum, selling his skills to people who could only be considered enemies of the very country he had sworn to protect. The final mission for them, to steal tech from the NSA at Fort Meade, had wrecked him and his men. They had the bad luck to run up against Chuck and his team, especially his sister. Thinking of that moment again, he involuntarily shivered as he remembered the fear she'd generated with only the look in her eyes. Fear that, in hindsight, had been entirely justified. They had been destroyed by that encounter. It was only their hatred of Fulcrum and relative anonymity and Chuck's imagination that had pulled them from a black underground prison and into the real world. They were gifted with a break they in no way earned or even deserved. Not even a little bit.
After a rocky start, Colt was now good friends with Fitz, sitting across the aisle on the jet, and the two men had lunch together in the Studio commissary a couple of times a week. He understood that his insane run across a gunfight to save a small child had been critical to his future and the future of his men. Without that it was likely that the original plan to drop them back in the hole would have remained unchanged. Of course, Frankie and Marty had done a good job as well, nailing a bunch of Fulcrum guys even while themselves unarmed. Impossible to know which action had influenced Chuck's decisions, probably both in combination, but regardless, they were granted a reprieve. Not yet forgiveness, but some kind of parole. And it beat the living shit out of the hole in the ground.
And now? Now it seemed that the situation had become so grave that they were to be trusted enough to be armed and operational. Colt grinned to himself. He knew from Fitz just how legendary the Carmichael team was rapidly becoming. He understood that veteran intelligence operatives from around the country would willingly amputate a body part for the privilege of a mere "try-out" to join the team. And the good that he and his men could do here might offset some of the bad they had done while working for Fulcrum. Maybe not redemption, but at least something on the other side of the scale. The effect of luck in his life, both good and bad, could not be overstated.
His mind went down a tangent and began to consider the philosophical concepts of mercy, of forgiveness, of the extraordinary mindset that permitted the granting of second chances. And the unanswerable and ineffable question of why some people manifested those qualities and other people didn't. Chuck did. Maybe no one else on the Carmichael team would have, but Chuck did. And for obvious reasons, Chuck was the leader that the rest of them followed. With the back of his hand, Colt wiped tears from his cheek, happy that none of the other passengers on the plane could see his face or read his thoughts.
He took a deep breath. The one thing he knew for absolute certainty was that this was a second chance that he would not squander. He was going to lead the best team, the best element in Carmichael's orbit. It was the most important thing he could do and nothing else mattered to him anymore. He was going to make Chuck and his team damn proud of their decision to trust him and his men. He intended to show Chuck that this was the best decision he'd ever made. Well, except for the decision to marry Sarah, of course.
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"Are you contagious?" asked Colt.
"No. If we've got it, it's in our lungs and won't be spread by coughing or breathing or anything like that. At least that's what the docs tell me," said Casey.
"Ok," said Colt. "You guys look good."
"Feel fine, but I'm sure we're going to be bored as shit. And Walker tells me that Fulcrum is now directly gunning for us."
"Right," said Marty. "That's what we heard too. Frankie and I will be outside your door all night. Mike and Jack will take our place in the morning. Nobody in or out that's not medical."
"Good thing I wasn't looking forward to a visit from a candy-striper," said Casey.
"Other than gatekeepers, is there anything we can do to help, as long as we're here?" asked Colt.
"Naw," said Zondra. "We're arguing with the staff here. The anthrax was a booby trap in the guy's safe. They want to destroy it and we want to examine the contents. But there's no way they will let us anywhere near it now. If we've been infected and get another dose, it's almost certainly fatal."
"So where does it stand?" asked Colt.
"Stalemate at the moment," said Zondra.
Colt stood to his full height and cracked his knuckles and said, "Perhaps they just need the argument made by someone more persuasive." Honestly, he looked imposing.
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The door to the room was sealed with the edges protected by rubber and plastic. As the door was opened, the negative air pressure caused a slight breeze at Colt's back, ensuring that nothing inside the room would accidentally blow outside the room.
In the center was a plain steel table with Crawford's safe wrapped in plastic sheeting. Colt put down the bag of tools he'd been carrying and looked at the safe through the plastic. He could still see the white powder on the outside near the split along the length.
Colt was wearing a white coverall from head to toe with a cowl with a clear plastic faceplate. There was a respirator on his back, feeding him clean air. He had white boots and gloves with the connection between the coverall and the boots and gloves covered by duct tape so as to be airtight. It was frankly astounding that they had managed to put their hands on a protective suit in Colt's size. Although they finally managed, that had been one of the arguments that his men had tried to convince him to let one of them take this task. But, at the end of the day, no one was surprised when Colt insisted on doing it himself. They had known him in combat in both Iraq and Afghanistan and knew with certainty that Colt invariably chose to take the most dangerous assignments for himself. He was always protective of his men. And, despite the protection afforded by the outfit he was wearing, messing with anthrax spores was very dangerous.
He took a pair of medical shears from the bag at his feet and cut the plastic wrap open, revealing the anthrax covered steel beneath. Next, he took a car jack from the bag and slipped two modified ends into the gap made by the split. He began to pump the jack, widening the gap as the sound of tortured metal reverberated around the room. Stopping for a minute and looking through the widened gap with a flashlight, he could see several piles of cash, bound with rubber bands. After widening the gap some more, he was able to get one of his hands inside. Packet by packet, he removed the money. If the post-it notes on them were to be believed, there was $120,000 in the safe. The money could literally be laundered to remove the spores.
Next, he identified the booby trap that had sprayed the spores at Casey and Rizzo. If he followed it correctly, Crawford would have unlocked the safe and opened it only an inch or so, then reached in with a finger to set the trap on safe, so he could fully open the door and put things into or take things out of the safe. Closing the safe door would reset the trap. When Casey and Rizzo had smashed open the safe, the trap was triggered and the spores were ejected through the crack and coated everything inside the safe.
Next, Colt took out a few small vials of brown powder, putting them on the table next to the money. Someone could analyze them later to figure out what they were.
Finally, all that was remaining in the safe were a few manilla file folders. He took them out one at a time and cleared a place on the table, dropping the money into a sealable plastic bag and the mysterious vials into a second one, and putting both bags into the tool bag at his feet.
Taking a portable scanner from his bag, Colt began the process of scanning every page of every folder. He knew it would take a while, but this was why he had come. He didn't waste any time reading them. Time for that later.
He was mostly through the first file folder when he got an itch on his nose.
'Goddamn it,' he thought.
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A/N2: Anthrax. Yeah. Was in the news a lot in the early 2000's. In the weeks following 9-11, for about a month, five people died from an engineered strain of the bacterium when the spores were spread by mail. Inhaled anthrax spores have a fatality rate of 45%. Casey and Zondra's treatment here, with massive doses of preventative antibiotics, is accurate for the treatment for pulmonary anthrax.
A/N3: You know what's expected of you. Go for it, please.