A/N: At this point in the story, a special task force from the SEC is looking into ownership of Chuck. Naw, just kidding.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gradually, dawn was sliding into the day and the sky was beginning to show the first hint of its arrival. The horizon was just becoming visible, a slightly lighter gray against the black of the ground, with the streetlights still stark glowing globes of brightness, increasingly aberrant as the sky lightened. Hank Hathcock knew that the sky to his back, unseen, would be lighter still. The window he and his partner were looking out of was facing westward and wouldn't see any direct sunlight until sometime in the afternoon. The room itself was dark, rendering he and his partner effectively invisible for the time being. If all went according to plan, they would be long gone before the light of day had reached them.

His partner was new to him, as they had only been working together for a few weeks. While he didn't enjoy the break-in period as they got to know each other, he had to admit that she wasn't giving him too much to complain about so far and he hoped she could say the same. With a mental shrug, he guessed they were both still on their best behavior. Iryna something...he couldn't yet pronounce her Eastern European last name. Lithuanian or something similar, he thought. Too many back-to-back consonants for his understanding. American born and bred, but just with an unusual name. Anyway, she seemed to know her business and was solid and professional, at least so far. He'd seen her shoot at the range last week and she was good. But the range was only the range and a moving breathing target was an entirely different matter. He'd known a few guys who could ace the training and botch the real mission anyway. He understood that she'd never downed a target in an actual combat situation. She wasn't intending to today either, the plan being agreed that he would be the shooter and she'd be the spotter.

Overall, he was content with the plan. Personally, he preferred morning hits, especially at this distance. They were just a touch over a mile away from the target, targets plural actually. Not a record setting distance, but up there among the farthest sniper shots and something to be pretty proud of if he could pull it off. And he would be taking down moving targets, making the shot that much more difficult. At that distance, almost anything could affect the bullet's trajectory, sending it off target. The reason Hathcock liked the morning, particularly in warm weather climates like Los Angeles, was that the black ground had not yet had the opportunity to heat up. There should be very little heat induced updraft to account for, one less complication.

Hathcock knew that the trajectory of the bullet was almost entirely determined by the person behind the rifle, in this case a serious heavy weapon, the Barret M82-A1. Sure, some errant gust of wind could pop up out of the blue and send the bullet away from the target, but his job, and that of his partner, was to make sure that that didn't happen. Their sole job was to make sure that the bullet hit its target. The fact that the bullet itself was of a medium weight, 45 grams, helped it withstand light wind gusts.

Hathcock grimaced slightly. Of course, any potential crosswind was the most important consideration at distance. And the longer the distance, the more chance for the wind to affect the trajectory. Hathcock watched the tell-tales, the wind indicators, he could see. There was a Castle Studios flag flying near the water tower, at the moment hanging limp with the calm winds. He watched the movement of the smoke of a lone smoker with his cancer stick under a streetlight near the gate. As the sun rose, he'd be able to see leaves on trees and grass, but not yet. If he'd have managed to get onto the Studio grounds itself, he'd have planted a few tell-tales for his own use, just simple bits of cloth nailed to a post or doorframe or something and visible from his position and which would indicate the wind strength and direction. Unfortunately, after the Fulcrum attacks on the Carmichael team the Studio was now locked down with almost military protection at the gates and around the perimeter. Which was why he and his partner were a mile away, with him looking at the parking lot through the scope of his weapon and Iryna using her spotter's scope.

Surprisingly, the distance from the rifle to the target was one of the least complicated aspects of the shot. Hathcock had learned on his very first day of sniper training that everything on earth accelerated to ground at the same rate, 32 feet per second per second. Falling faster as time went on. That, of course, included a bullet when it left the barrel of the weapon. So, at any given distance, it was easy to calculate the drop. Hathcock was using a medium weight bullet, which made it a medium fast bullet. He knew that the math was simple and the faster the bullet, the less drop (just less time for gravity to do its thing). But, of course, with a lighter faster bullet the more likelihood that a gust of wind could affect the course of the bullet side to side. So, he preferred a medium weight medium speed bullet as a comfortable compromise. As far as he was concerned, the fact that it was a round he'd worked with for years justified its use. He knew the characteristics and could adjust to the field conditions.

The other thing he was relying on was his familiarity with the rifle itself. His first shot was at cold zero. Zeroing the rifle meant that the sights were properly adjusted so that the bullet would hit the target every time. The complication arose though that as the rifle was used, it heated and bits and pieces expanded. And, as that happened, it changed. The zero when the weapon was cold wouldn't be reliable after the first few shots. But, as he knew this weapon, he could adjust for that as well.

But that didn't worry him too much, as he only intended to fire two shots. The first shot would take out Walker as she walked with Carmichael from the parking lot to the office building. He intended to kill Walker first. By her rep, she'd been under fire many times and could be expected to respond accordingly if he'd taken out Carmichael with the initial shot. As it was, he fully expected Carmichael to stand frozen as Walker's body was blown to pieces by the first round. While he was frozen in place, he'd be an easier shot for Hathcock. A much easier shot than a scrambling Walker would be. Smith had been clear with his orders. With a single long-distance strike, two rounds, the Carmichael team would be decapitated and Fulcrum would be that much closer to Orion.

He and Iryna watched the parking lot in silence, waiting for the morning's flow of cars to begin to arrive. There wasn't much else to do but wait. Eventually, both of his targets would arrive as they did every day, park their car, and walk to the Studio's office building. That's when he would execute them.

Without any warning, the apartment door behind them burst open, taking a large chunk of the door frame with it. Two men were suddenly in the apartment where just a heartbeat before they weren't. Hathcock didn't even have time to be startled by their appearance. They were giants. An African-American man who might have been the biggest man he'd ever seen and a red-headed Viking next to him. In just an instant he saw that each of them had a suppressed pistol clasped in his hands spitting fire and death.

He rolled to the side and began to reach for his sidearm and saw that Iryna was engaged in the same effort. He heard the slugs impact on Iryna, and then, a moment later...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Yesterday

Rachel had long ago abandoned her desk for the conference room assigned to her. From her last job as a corporate lawyer, she had dubbed it a "war room," and she'd essentially commandeered it for the use of her team. This was something she could grasp. She'd run war rooms and due diligence on corporate deals many times since she started working as a lawyer. She'd handled teams with half a dozen paralegals and two or three junior attorneys and coordinated the results of their work for her bosses and clients. This was no different. She could do this.

Early in the morning, Johnny came into her and handed her a sheaf of papers.

"Waddayagot, Johnny?" she asked.

"Rachel, did you get any sleep last night?" the big man asked.

She gave a short bark of laughter. Smiling at him she said, "Sleep is overrated, big guy. Don't worry about me. What's up?"

"So," he said, sitting down in one of the conference room's chairs, "I don't know. Like you said, we've focused on the RI accounts that seem to be more unusual, out of the blue. Most of them seem to be quiet. But Brett found this one. It's separated by five or six cutouts and at least three foreign countries." He gestured to the papers in her hand. "He and Jorge followed the trail."

Mostly, but not entirely, they had been working within the FISA warrants purview. Rachel had a direct line to two lawyers in the Justice Department who would prepare and submit the applications for the warrants. Rachel had called one of them the other night at 2AM their time (11PM her time) and had the warrant by 11AM her time the next morning. Twelve hours. A ridiculously fast turnaround. Truth be told, she and her team were getting FISA warrants like autumn leaves in a windstorm – faster than they could utilize them.

"Jorge got us into the overseas computers?"

"Yeah," he confirmed.

"Ok," she said. "And?"

"Activity," he said. "Thought you'd want to take a look."

"Ok," she said, eyes skimming down the list of payments made from the account. "Hotels. Car rentals. Put a location algorithm on them if Jorge can do it. This one looks like a gun shop maybe. Something to a lawyer in Dallas, we should look into that." Johnny nodded. Rachel kept looking at the sheet and said, "What's this one?"

She'd pointed to a several thousand dollar payment to the Burbank Property Management Company made just a few days ago.

"Don't know," he said.

"Let's look into that one and the one in Dallas as priorities, please," she said. She looked up and him and said, "Good job. And tell the other guys the same."

"Will do, Boss," he said.

Later that day, Rachel came down to Castle, the basement headquarters she had now been cleared to access without an escort. Chuck was sitting in the middle of the room talking to Sarah. Chuck's dad was off to the side, head down and working on something on the workstation in front of him, paying attention to nothing in the room but the circuits under his fingers.

With a big smile, Chuck said, "Hey, Rach. Something for us?"

"Yeah. Don't know what it means, but it means something. A Fulcrum account we've accessed has paid for the rental of an apartment overlooking the parking lot of the Studio upstairs."

She slid a paper over to them, a map and available internet photos with things circled. Also, a floorplan of the apartment building and a separate sheet with a floorplan of the subject apartment itself. Sarah spent a long time looking at the aerial shot of the apartment building in relation to the parking lot with an unhappy frown.

She looked up at Rachel and said, 'You did good, girlfriend."

"Not me," said Rachel, with a shrug. "Jorge, Brett, and Johnny. They did good." Chuck and Sarah glanced at each other for an instant, and then looked back at Rachel.

Chuck said, "How about we compromise and say that you all did good?"

Rachel shrugged again and said, "Sure. But the most important thing is what you need next. Can I leave this with you or should we follow up?"

"We're good," said Sarah. "I'll let you know if we need anything else on this one."

"Ok, cool. I'm heading back upstairs."

"Got it. Thanks, Rach," said Sarah.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sarah stopped in to see Rachel on her way home. It was 7 o'clock in LA and would be three hours later in DC. Rachel was on the phone when she came in.

Rachel said into the phone, "You guys keep going. I've just got to step off for a moment or two. I'll catch up." She pressed a button on the phone, turned to Sarah taking the phone from her ear and said, "Hey. What's up?"

"I'm heading home. You ok?"

"Oh, yeah. Great. No worries here," she said with a confident smile.

"You talked to Brian lately?"

"Sure. Just a few hours ago. He's in the middle of a water rights deal for the San Fernando Valley."

"Tell him I said hi. Who are you on with?"

"Two prosecutors from the Justice Department who've been helping to get the FISA warrants and someone from Commerce...the Bureau of Industry and Security about Roark Instruments sales to China and Russia. There might be something there. I think they may have violated the export ban on dual use tech. I just have to cull what we send them to the DOJ to make sure it's all within the searches permitted by the FISA warrants."

"But everyone knows we hold off on attacking Roark until the balloon goes up for everything to hit him all at once," said Sarah.

"Totally. No one is doing shit until they get the word from you and Chuck. You've got the whole Federal government at your beck and call preparing for the attack of the century. You rock, girl."

Laughing, Sarah said, "Ok, Rach. Catch you in the morning."

"Right. You too, Sar," said Rachel, turning back to her phone conference.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chuck asked Rachel's team to come down to Castle early the next morning.

When they were assembled they found not only Chuck and Sarah, but Zondra, Casey, Colt and Fitz. Chuck said, "Yesterday, you guys found an apartment leased to Fulcrum. Mike and Fitz visited it a couple of hours ago. There was a Fulcrum sniper team in place waiting for some of us to cross the parking lot. Thanks to your work, they aren't a danger anymore. Thank you, guys. You've saved lives."

Brett said, "What happened to the sniper team?"

"They're dead," said Fitz.

Brett and Johnny quietly gasped with shock. They were accountants, not military intelligence analysts. This was...holy shit. This was a big deal with real world consequences that they had never really contemplated. They had been instrumental in the deaths, but had also saved lives. Holy shit. In a way that had not yet sunk in, they were realizing the stakes of their work.

Stone-faced, Rachel said, nodding, "Good. Gives us something to keep in mind as we keep going. Glad to know it worked out so well. Thanks for letting us know."

Only minutes later, back upstairs in the war room, Rachel said to her team, "Guys, I'm really proud of you. You did a great job with the apartment thing. Who knows who those snipers were after? Maybe even one of us. And you found the information to pinpoint them for Fitz and Mike. Well-hidden information that anyone else would miss. But not you. Not my team.

"Think about this. There are men and women serving in Iraq and Afghanistan right now. Heroes, each and every one. They get shot at everyday. But we are at war here in Los Angeles too. None of us signed up for the military, but one thing led to another and here we are. And the war we are fighting is even more consequential than the ones being fought overseas. And make no mistake, the fight against Fulcrum is a war. It's a war for the very heart of American society. We are going to win it and defeat Fulcrum. No way those assholes are going to wreck something that's been a beacon to the world for centuries. Here we are, part of Chuck and Sarah's team, and I for one could not be any prouder of myself or you three. We are on the front lines of this one.

"Of course, I understand it is a burden. But a burden I am personally accepting with an open and joyous heart. I will do whatever I can to make sure Fulcrum is defeated. Right now, nothing is more important to me. Before working with Chuck and Sarah I was in the private sector. I was helping rich people get richer. For the first time in my life, I'm helping my country and I've never been more motivated to do this work with the three of you.

"This isn't over by a long shot. We have a lot more work to do. I know it and you all know it too, but now you can see what we do with the information as it comes out in the real world. As the military says, as the information is 'operationalized.' And you can be damn proud. You can never tell your spouse or girlfriend or kids, but you can be damn proud of what you do and of being on this team. Johnny, Brett, your kids will grow up safe and secure because of the work you do, of the work we do together. Look at them tonight and think about that. Hug them tight. It's their future we are fighting for, guys. The world you want them to live in. The world you are fighting to protect in a way only you can. Only you.

"And let's remember something else here. We are way more than the varsity. This is the fucking All-Stars. Each of us has been selected to be part of the Carmichael team. And you all know what that means. The best of the best of the best. Think about that when you look in the mirror tomorrow morning. You are beyond elite. You are working with Chuck and Sarah. There's no more impressive team on the planet and we are doing the most important work in the nation. No exaggeration.

"Mostly, I want to thank you, guys. I am honored, truly honored, to be working with each of you. You are far and away the most brilliant, talented, hard-working men I've ever had the privilege of working with. Thank you. Thank you all. Thank you." She grinned at them. "Now let's get back to work."

After her speech to her team, Rachel went into the restroom, closed the door to a stall and began to sob softly. Her brave words to her team notwithstanding, the magnitude of what she was doing was overwhelming her. In the space of a few short months, she'd gone from being a hard working relatively junior corporate lawyer to running an intelligence team in a deadly war for the very future of her nation. Holy fuck.

She was still crying when, not ten minutes later, Sarah came in and knocked on the stall door.

"Rachel, honey?"

Rachel opened the door and Sarah crouched down and took her in her arms and gave her a strong hug as she continued to cry.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Umm, Monday," replied Rachel. It was now Wednesday.

"Come on. I'm putting you to bed," said Sarah, leading her out of the restroom.

"No. I have work to do," complained Rachel, shaking her head.

"And it will be there when you wake up. Your team is worried about you," she said.

"I'm ok. They shouldn't worry about me."

"Too bad. They are. Deal with it and get some rest. You won't be any good to anyone if you start to hallucinate."

"You mean like have a dream that I've fallen down the rabbit hole and I'm surrounded by spies?" asked Rachel, still being hugged by Sarah.

"Yep. Exactly," said Sarah with a small smile.

"Shit," said Rachel.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A/N2: Lawyers as intelligence analysts. Anyone familiar with the history of the Office of Strategic Services, the World War Two forerunner of the CIA, might remember that it was formed and led by General William Donovan. His non-wartime job was as the name partner of the NYC law firm Donovan, Leisure, Newton & Irvine. In the legal world, he was known for his organizational talents setting up his teams of lawyers to organize and analyze (pre-computers) huge amounts of data and information about various businesses as part of corporate transactions handled by his firm. President Roosevelt understood that exactly those skills would be needed for America's fledgling intelligence service. Along with various oddballs and assorted rapscallions, Donovan recruited quite a few lawyers into the OSS for just that purpose. I've chosen to give Rachel a similar skillset.

A/N3: Little bit of action to start the chapter off, but the hard work here is being done by Rachel and her team. What do you guys think? As always, I do love to hear from you guys. Thanks.