A/N: Wow! I'm amazed! No matter what I throw out there, people seem to be onboard. It gets worse before it gets better, but I promise it does get better. As much as you may dislike Sarah already, you will dislike Chuck even more, at least for the time being. It will all be told in time. Staying on track with my publishing schedule for this story, with my Ring II chapter 3/4s done. Mondays work for this story, provided I give my previewer time. So a huge thanks to nevr for previewing this chapter as well. Enjoy!
It's a two hour flight from Paris to Rome. Carina made all the arrangements while I slept on her bed. I woke up with a headache, most likely from dehydration. Carina procured a giant bottled water for me, as well as some crackers. I sipped and nibbled while she got everything ready, including organizing my things from my hotel. The CIA flight was scheduled for the early evening.
I realized on the way to the airport that it had been over 12 hours since I'd had any alcohol. I was craving a glass of wine, my usual; it was only my promise to Carina that kept me from having it. I napped on the plane, waking to find it was night in Rome when we landed.
I felt jet-lagged, but I knew it was really just withdrawal. I was shaky and a little nauseous. I was headed into uncharted territory, and it was making me uneasy. I was hoping a long night's rest would clear my head for the morning and the mission specifics.
Now I sit beside Carina in the back of a limousine that is taking us to the Villa. She has already explained to me, more in depth, the situation into which we are being inserted. Bellini is a wealthy playboy, his villa in a private compound on the outskirts of the city. Expensive cars, a private helicopter pad, and an army of servants.
In truth, that was all just a cover for the Special Agent in Charge. His wealth and possessions were procured courtesy of the U.S. government in order to maintain his cover. As Carina had hinted at, part of that cover was his identity as a womanizing jet-setter. At any given point, there were many women in residence at the villa. It was how Amy and Zondra could blend in so well, how we were supposed to blend in too. All for the cover, of course, but the cover only worked if the non-agents believed it. A blurred line, as Carina had said, was the way to ensure that.
Carina is worried, I can tell. In the past, she was unflappable, but our roles have reversed so drastically because of my problems. Her job has been complicated by her necessary caretaking of me. How ironic that this safe house, to which we are on our way, has the potential to complete my destruction if I let it. She was right in trying to keep me away. Keeping my promise to her will require all my strength, untested strength that I fear may not exist.
Her cell phone rings. She pulls it out of her pocket and looks at the screen. All the color drains from her face. She fumbles to answer it, purposely terse as she answers. Her hand is shaking as she holds the phone.
What is going on?
"Ten minutes," she says in answer to some unheard question. Her voice is oddly breathy, nervous. "Yes." She says the word so sharply I sit forward, concerned. After a pause, she adds, "No, but, I guess that was the point." The call ends.
"What was that all about?" I ask.
She's still pale and trembling. It's frightening. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. I can't discern what her expression means. But her eyes look so…sad. Sad. I've never seen Carina look sad. She has always been an expert at burying her feelings. I'm troubled.
"The lead on Bellini's team, checking in." She makes it sound so normal, so nonchalant, like she hasn't reacted the way I just saw.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, probing.
"No."
She's lying, and I don't know why. I'm in too rough shape to push. All I want is to sleep. She can explain everything in the morning.
~O~
We arrive in the midst of a party that would rival any nightclub we could have patronized in the city. Cars line the long, U-shaped driveway, making it difficult for the limo to maneuver. The music, muffled inside the car, is blaring once the door is open, the thumping base feeling like it's going straight through me. A uniformed servant is outside, securing our luggage from the trunk while the car idles. Carina holds my arm and guides me to the door.
I can't hear anything over the pounding of the music. Carina converses with the servant who answers the door, leaning close to his ear. People from the party have spilled into the foyer where we stand. Carina has every intention of steering me upstairs and to our rooms, but she never gets the chance.
Instead, we are ambushed by the squealing blonde party girl who is our partner, Amy. She grabs the both of us around the neck and squeezes, her shrieking hellos blending into the din of the party. The mixture of her heavy perfume and champagne fills my nostrils. She narrowly misses spilling her champagne flute down my back.
She wears an impossibly short silver party dress, so short that I'm certain she wouldn't be able to lean forward without exposing herself. The neck is a halter and it's cut to her navel, the fabric just barely covering her breasts. Her long blonde hair hangs in loose curls around her shoulders.
"Come on in, guys," she beams. She reeks of alcohol, but she appears cognizant. She could always hold her liquor better than any of us.
"We just got here, Amy. We're–" Carina protests, but Amy is pulling me forward. Carina follows; I hear Carina's challenging words, but in the noise, Amy either doesn't, or she ignores them.
I'm surprised that Carina gives in so easily, until I realize something else had preoccupied her. When I glance back, I notice Carina is scouring the crowd, as if searching for someone. She sees my questioning look but ignores it. She sweeps the crowd with her eyes, over and over. We are deep inside the room when her posture relaxes, like she's sure whoever she was looking for isn't here.
"Tomorrow is for work. Tonight is for fun."
Amy pulls me into the crowd, a bouncing and gyrating throng of people all pressed together in a small square in front of a bar. I see Zondra dancing, pressed up against a random man. She meets my gaze, but that's the only acknowledgement I get. Things are still quite frosty between us.
Amy hangs onto me. Carina stays close, giving me a cautious, anxious look. The crowd wedges its way between us and when I turn around, Carina is nowhere to be seen. She's tall, taller than me, with red hair, but there are too many people too close. She leaves me in Amy's charge, which is more dangerous than one would think. Like the blind leading the blind.
Amy is breathlessly excited. She leans over the bar and shouts her order: two shots of vodka, straight. I refuse the drink and shout an order for sparkling water instead.
"Aw, you're no fun, Walker," Amy pouts after she swallows her shot in one gulp.
I sip my water, wishing the bubbles that burn my throat had the power to numb me from all this.
We're dancing, alone and together at the same time. So many people pressed together means I'm just bouncing in place, bumping into random people. I spot Carina on the edge of the dance floor, making the most of our situation, her hands raised up over her head, dancing.
She notices my benign drink choice, so she thinks she can relax.
I'm only drinking water, I'm certain. But where I make a mistake is alternating between the dance floor and the bar. Leaving my drink, either to be confused with someone else's, or prey to spiking.
I remember dancing, Amy, Carina…and then nothing. I don't remember anything else after this. I blacked out.
~O~
Scattered images flash inside my head. Pieces of nightmares…only, the images are memories, disconnected and out of order, brief flashes of time over the course of the night.
I wake up groggy, and my mouth tastes like cotton.
This isn't a hangover. I was drugged. I've been drugged enough over the course of my career to recognize it.
The realization hits me first, then I realize I'm in bed. I'm naked under the sheets of the largest bed I've ever slept on. I roll to see Carina, her head on the other pillow, facing away from me. She's also covered by the same sheet, also naked. My leg slides on the satin sheet and I bump something. I look to the foot of the bed to see it was Amy that I kicked. She's sprawled on top of the sheet, naked.
Oh my God…what happened here last night?
My kick wakes Amy up. She giggles once she sees her state of undress. She stands, walking naked across the room in search of a robe. She slips it on as she says, "What a night."
She sounds lucid, utterly fine. Her tone is genuine, not sarcastic or joking. Whatever happened here, she thoroughly enjoyed. It makes me a little sick thinking about it.
"Mmm," Carina hums as she wakes up, agreeing with Amy.
"What the hell happened?" I grumble, my voice morning-weak.
Carina sits up, loosely holding the sheet over her breasts. "You don't remember?" She's alarmed.
"Someone drugged me."
"That was me," Amy says sheepishly as she flips her hair out from the robe.
Carina and I gasp at the same time.
"What?" Amy is outraged. "You said no alcohol. She didn't have any alcohol. It wasn't even half a pill. She just needed to loosen up."
"Well, I blacked out," I grouse. "Thanks a fucking lot."
"You were with us the whole time. You were safe."
Only not able to give my consent for whatever happened here. Although, to be fair, I doubt I would have refused much, even if I could have. The two of them know this; they react in kind.
"Some protection," I mutter.
"I distinctly remember saying no alcohol. I said nothing about sex. Once we were in, we were in. I was hoping enjoying yourself like that would take the edge off today."
What did Carina mean by that? I recall that strange phone call, her unexplained behavior when we arrived. I'm still searching for myself inside, not asking yet what she means.
"I didn't realize you were high. I'm sorry." Carina glares at Amy.
"If it's any consolation, you definitely enjoyed yourself," Amy giggles, "Even if you can't remember it."
The nightmare flashes make sense. Two men and the three of us. A mini orgy in a king-sized bed. I have a sinking feeling.
"It didn't affect your performance at all, Sarah. At least not where I'm concerned." Carina laughs, nodding in agreement. "You're almost as good as Carlo." Amy snickers.
So Amy's fucking the SAC. Expected, I guess, but troubling too. That thought takes precedence over the idea of my wild behavior from last night. At least I was drugged. They were sober and fucking me and each other, as well as the two men whom I can't even picture, let alone remember. Nothing surprises me anymore.
"Boy, you didn't waste any time," I say, commenting on Amy's haste in bedding the agent. Carina is turned away, intentionally, like she's hiding her face from me.
Amy bounces on the bed. "He's absolutely dreamy." She swoons like a teenage girl. "And he fucks like a jackhammer that hits just the right spot. Ask Z."
"Jesus, he's fucking Zondra too?" I mumble. Zondra rarely indulged like that, and she had a strict line of professionalism that forbade fucking marks. I am of the same mind, although my current lack of discrimination for the non-marks is almost as bad. Carina loves doing it, actually telling me once that the more brutal a man was, the better he fucked.
What did that say about the SAC? I shiver involuntarily.
"He's fucking everyone but his female partner, from what I hear." Amy's smile is wide; she has no problem being part of this extensive bedmate rotation. "He's charming. Tall, dark, and handsome." That was Amy's rationale.
"Zondra is capable of being sweet-talked?" I ask. It didn't seem possible. Of all of us, she was the least feminine, the least personable. I'm biased, I know, because of the bad blood between us, but she is the all-around bitchiest.
"Wait til you meet him." Amy taps my legs and stands.
I look and Carina is gone, in the bathroom. She slinked away without me realizing it. I have a nagging feeling that I can't shake. Carina was avoiding this conversation. Why? It doesn't make any sense.
I'm putting on my bathrobe when Carina emerges, now dressed in hers as well. She avoids making eye contact with me. I notice her jaw is clenched, that she's biting the inside of her cheek. She only does that when she is in deep thought, like she is trying to solve a problem.
She has a blue mission packet in her hand. She passes it to Amy. "Call Z in here, please."
In ten minutes, Zondra is in our room. She's fully dressed and we take the brunt of her eye-roll, pure disdain for our night of debauchery.
"Work calls," Amy sings as she peels open the velcro fasteners. Inside is a small video playback device that she opens and sets on the bed in front of me. Carina watches over my shoulder. Zondra stands silently at the side of the bed.
The CIA seal is replaced with the faces of General Diane Beckman and Director Jane Bentley. Where was Graham? Why had Beckman called in the NCS?
"Hello, CATS," Beckman starts the prerecorded message. "A bit of background, ladies. Agents Bellini and Dunwoody have been stationed here in Rome for the past nine months, with the primary mission goal of taking down the Ring, the global organization that absorbed Fulcrum once Ted Roarke was taken into custody."
It was meant to be general information, but it was a bit of a shock to me. Graham had pulled me from missions concerning Fulcrum after the disaster that ended in Bryce's death. That was almost two years ago. The CATS had been working mostly in South America, assigned missions that involved drug cartels (hence Carina's involvement) but that crossed into the purview of the CIA as well, specifically where the money that changed hands was being used to fund terrorism or the illegal weapons trade.
The most prolific weapon's dealer in the world was Alexei Volkoff, whose operation was based in Russia. For the most part, the CATS' missions dealt with the intermediaries.
So if Fulcrum was part of a global organization, why was Beckman pulling us in?
As if she were able to read my mind, Beckman's next words answer my question. "Three days ago, three of our agents, as well as two MI6 agents, were killed in Somalia. A bloodbath…started over a poker game." Beckman cringes subtly. "The agents were looking for one component of a highly lethal, next-gen weapon. That component has gone missing. There are two other pieces also now with location unknown. We don't know what it is, or what it does, only that it was created by Alexei Volkoff and there are rumors circulating that make hardened soldiers go pale.
"We believe the existence of said weapon leaked out of Volkoff Industries and that the Ring is looking to reassemble it. It's highly probable that Ring agents stole the piece known to have been in Somalia. The CATS are to work with Agent Bellini's team. We believe your knowledge of Volkoff's associates will be vital to the team, helping them parse the intel they've already been able to collect."
Beckman's face is inscrutable, as always, but there are some things that catch my attention. She hesitated, ever so slightly. It makes me think for a moment she is apologetic, like she knows what she said will cause damage. Maybe it's just my imagination.
Beckman knew what happened to me. I know there had been words between her and Graham after I'd essentially abandoned my post. Graham ok'd my leaving, mostly because of Bryce, but it left the NSA one agent short to protect the Intersect.
Only two months after I left, active surveillance of Chuck by Fulcrum in the Buy More was detected. Beckman had ordered him underground. Bunkered. A life sentence for being a good person. A life sentence he was serving because I took off and left him with someone else, someone who didn't care the way I did, to protect him. Casey got what he wanted–reassignment away from Burbank.
Three years underground, with no contact with anyone who mattered to him…three years of agony, with no end in sight, utterly my fault, the reason I'm sure he hates me with every fiber of his being.
I can't think of this without spiraling into darkness and despair. It's an endless abyss that has the power to suck everything that's left of me into it.
Just like how I killed Bryce, though Chuck may still be breathing, I killed him too. With my carelessness, with my recklessness. On the darkest of days, I've contemplated taking my own life, sure I don't deserve to breathe anymore. But that's too easy on me. I deserve the pain of my life now as penance for what I destroyed. An atonement never sufficient even if it lasts decades.
"Good luck, ladies." Beckman signs off and the device crackles, shorting out, the acrid stench of burning electronics stinging my nose.
I am still wondering why Bentley had been in silent attendance when Carina speaks.
"Sarah, can I talk to you in private?" She glares at the other two. Zondra huffs and Amy flashes a finger-wave, but amazingly, they comply without protest. My anxiety ratchets up while I wait.
"Sarah, I have to tell you something. Something very important. I didn't want them to hear, not, well, not after all that." She looks anxious…and sad again, like she's fighting tears. I feel my heart start to hammer in response to her demeanor.
"What?" I ask nervously.
"Bellini's team lead? The one who called me in the limo? It's John Casey."
I feel like the room is shaking. I don't have time to recover before she adds, "Bellini is an alternate code name for Charles Carmichael."