Daylight streamed through the grimy windows of Bartowski Motors, casting long beams over the cluttered garage. The rich aroma of coffee mixed with motor oil, a grounding comfort before the storm. Three half-empty cups sat forgotten on the workbench, their contents long gone cold. The doors were shut and the sign flipped to CLOSED - this wasn't a casual meeting.
Chuck crouched over the top of the sleek black sedan, the sharp metallic snap of a rivet gun echoing as he locked the final piece of the custom sunroof into place. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, leaving behind a streak of grease.
Sarah leaned back in a battered plastic chair, its backrest half-broken with age. She had long stopped caring about getting dirty. Carina, perched beside her, wobbled slightly on the three legged chair that wasn't fully stable. Despite everything, Sarah felt oddly at ease in the moment. It wasn't the alcohol and heavy thumping of her club, nor the salt and diesel of her father's warehouse. Just Chuck working, Carina teasing, and terrible coffee in her hands.
But beneath the easy banter, the weight of what they were about to do pressed down hard. Breaking into a CIA substation wasn't just a risk - it was suicide if they didn't get everything right.
"You know," Carina murmured, watching Chuck work, "I always knew he was cute. But watching him work on a car? Kinda unfair, isn't it?"
Sarah shot her a warning look, but the warmth creeping up her neck betrayed her.
Chuck wiped his hands on a rag and wandered over, picking up his coffee. "I think I'm going to enjoy having a sunroof. Can't wait for a nice day to open it up and just enjoy the ride."
Carina smirked. "Blondie can't wait to open up and enjoy the ride, either."
Chuck took a sip at the exact wrong moment and choked, coughing as he set his cup down. His gaze flicked to Sarah - just for a second - but long enough for something unspoken to pass between them before he looked away, a blush creeping up his neck.
Sarah, keeping her expression neutral, sipped her coffee. But she couldn't suppress a flicker of satisfaction at his reaction.
Carina, looking far too pleased with herself, leaned back with a knowing smile.
Sarah cleared her throat. "Alright. The sunroof is done. Did you find a maintenance access point?"
Chuck nodded, grateful for the shift. "Yeah. It's not too far, I'll only have to be between trains for a few miles. The gate's just got a padlock - nothing Ri can't handle. She'll pop it open tonight, and I'll be inside before the city crews start their day tomorrow. Then I'll be waiting for the afternoon rush hour."
Rush hour. A calculated risk. More civilians meant a slower CIA response if things went south. But it also meant less margin for error.
Sarah hated it. Every part of her screamed to call it off, get more people, more resources, more time. But they didn't have time.
And the two people in front of her weren't just good - they were the best she'd ever worked with. If anyone could pull this off, it was them.
"Okay," she said finally. "Red, you'll be at the station in the morning? You got the maintenance ticket into their system?"
Carina flicked her hair over her shoulder, smug. "Planner was lonelier than we thought. Barely had to flirt - he practically did my job for me. Didn't even verify my fake credentials before pushing the ticket through."
Sarah clenched her jaw. She hated relying on incompetence, but if it got them inside, she'd take it.
"And communications?"
Chuck exhaled. "We tested the radios this morning. Tunnel comms are solid. My only worry is the records room. Depending on how thick the concrete is, we might get interference. No way to know until we're in."
Sarah nodded, rolling that over in her head. "Okay. After the job, we grab our bug-out bags and leave town. We can't afford to sit around."
Chuck hesitated. Just for a second. But Sarah caught it.
"What?" she asked, voice sharper than intended.
Chuck shifted his weight. "I had another visit from the cop who followed me the other day."
Silence settled thick and heavy.
Sarah and Carina exchanged a glance before Sarah spoke. "What did he do?"
Chuck ran a hand through his hair, looking away. "He's not dumb. He's piecing things together. He knows I'm working with you."
Sarah's stomach turned.
"How much does he know?" she pressed.
Chuck met her gaze, steady. "Enough to be a problem."
Sarah forced herself to stay calm. "We knew there'd be heat. Since he knows where you work, close up shop tomorrow morning. Keep your bug-out bag with you. We still have to do the drop at Jack's warehouse, but after that, we're ghosts."
Chuck nodded, but Sarah could see the tension in his jaw.
Carina exhaled. "We're still doing this, right?"
Sarah hesitated. The CIA substation wasn't a normal job. It was a fortress. A breach like this would not be ignored.
Too many players. Too many things that could go wrong.
Sarah let out a slow breath, then looked at both of them. No fear. No second-guessing.
"We do this," she said, voice like steel.
And that was it. No turning back.
o-o-o-o-o
The VIP area of the Ice Queen's lair was quieter than the club below, but the pulse of the bass still vibrated through the walls, a steady, rhythmic thrum beneath Sarah's feet. The weeknight crowd was thinner, the air a little less thick with sweat and spilled drinks, but the energy never fully died in a place like this.
She sat alone, cradling a crystal tumbler of twelve-year single malt scotch, letting the smoky heat coat her throat as she gazed out over the floor. From up here, she could see everything - the shifting bodies, the subtle exchanges of cash and favors, the quiet power plays woven into the club's very foundation.
She had dismissed Jack's men to the entrances, preferring the solitude. She needed space, needed to think.
A leather jacket rested over her shoulders, well-worn and familiar. In here, she was supposed to wear power - jewel-toned suits, high heels, the kind of sharp-edged glamour that kept men in line and reminded them she wasn't to be crossed. But tonight, she needed something real.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a man with wild curls and warm, thoughtful eyes. Chuck. She could still smell the oil and burnt coffee from earlier, could still hear the teasing lilt in Carina's voice, could still see the way his hands moved over the car with steady, practiced ease. He had proven himself in ways she hadn't expected - not just with his skill behind the wheel, but with his instincts, his loyalty.
That was rare in their world.
A shift in the crowd below caught her attention. Someone moving with too much confidence, too much familiarity. Her stomach turned before she even saw his face.
Bryce Larkin.
She clenched her jaw.
His presence here wasn't a surprise - not really. He had a habit of showing up at the worst possible times these days. But Sarah had made her decision a long time ago.
Still, she couldn't ignore him. That would only make things worse. She met his gaze and tilted her head toward the stairs, a silent acknowledgment.
Bryce smirked, taking it as an invitation instead of a necessity, and wove his way through the club toward her. Sarah turned away, downed the last of her scotch, and made her way to the bar before he reached the VIP area.
By the time he strolled in, she was already pouring herself another drink.
"Hey, doll, pour me one too."
Her grip tightened on the bottle.
She hated pet names.
Without looking at him, she grabbed another tumbler from the lower cupboard. She felt his gaze linger on her, sliding over her like a familiar weight she wanted to shake off.
"What do you want, Bryce?" she asked, her tone sharp, cold.
He had the audacity to look wounded. "Can't a guy have a drink with an old friend?"
Sarah scoffed. "We're not friends."
Bryce exhaled through his nose, amused, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression - something calculating.
"Fine," he said, taking a sip of the scotch she hadn't actually offered him. "I come bearing intel."
Sarah arched an eyebrow. "And what could you possibly have that I need?"
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to add weight to the words. "It's about your boy, Chuck."
Her spine stiffened, but she forced herself to stay relaxed, taking a slow sip of her drink. "What about him?"
Bryce smirked. "Thought you'd want to know he's working with the cops."
Sarah's fingers went white around the glass, but her face didn't betray a thing.
Chuck had told her about the cop. He hadn't hidden it, hadn't tried to play it off. He had been honest. That meant something.
Bryce, on the other hand...
She turned her gaze on him, cool and unimpressed. "I don't know what game you're playing, but you're wrong."
"Am I?" Bryce reached into his jacket and pulled out a grainy photograph, sliding it across the bar with deliberate ease. "Had a guy keeping tabs on him. He came back with this yesterday."
Sarah didn't want to look. But she did.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The detective was in profile, but she recognized him instantly.
John Casey.
Casey wasn't just any cop. He was relentless. Uncompromising. He didn't make deals, didn't look the other way, didn't leave loose ends.
And there, standing opposite him, was Chuck.
Leaning casually against the hood of his car.
Between them, spread out in plain view, was another photograph. Sarah and Carina.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, breath suddenly too tight in her chest.
"When was this taken?" Her voice was quiet, but sharp as a blade.
Bryce swirled his drink, casual as ever. "Couple nights ago. My guy reports in every few days. Didn't realize what he had at first." Bryce watched her, gauging her reaction.
Sarah stared at the photo, at the undeniable evidence in front of her. Casey had approached Chuck. Had shown him a picture of her. Chuck hadn't told her that part.
If Casey wanted someone flipped, he flipped them.
She wanted to believe Chuck was different. She did believe it.
But trust was dangerous in their world.
The sting of betrayal cut deep, sharper than she expected.
Her feet were moving before she had fully processed the thought.
"Wait, Sar—"
The door swung shut behind her, cutting him off.
She had somewhere else she needed to be.
o-o-o-o-o
Night wrapped around Sarah like an old companion, cloaking her in darkness as she knelt at the back door of Chuck's garage. Her fingers trembled, but her movements were precise, practiced. The last pin clicked into place, and the lock gave way.
She eased the door open, careful to catch the handle before it could betray her with noise. A single light spilled from Chuck's apartment above, stretching long shadows across the workshop. The gun in her hand gleamed under its glow.
Each step up the grated staircase was measured, avoiding the ones she knew would groan beneath her weight. Her breath came unsteady at the top, trembling as much as her resolve. Through the thin door, the quiet clink of dishes echoed in the stillness.
Sarah shut her eyes, willing herself to go numb. A tear slipped free before she could stop it. Chuck was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be better.
But he was just like everyone else.
Steeling herself, she cracked the door open. Chuck stood at the sink, rinsing their coffee mugs from earlier that evening. The sight of him - so at ease, so completely unaware - made something wrench deep inside her. She clenched her jaw, pushing past the ache, and raised the gun.
The door creaked. Chuck turned.
For a split second, his face flickered through confusion, then shock, then fear. His hands flew up, suds still clinging to his fingers, water dripping down his arms and darkening the sleeves of his shirt.
"Sarah!?" His voice hitched, cracking under the weight of his alarm. "What the hell is going on!?"
Her grip on the gun tightened, forcing steel into her voice. "You've been working with Casey, Chuck."
His brow furrowed. "What?" The word was barely a breath. "No - I told you about him! I'm not working with him!"
She wanted to believe him. Desperately. But Casey never walked away empty-handed.
"What did he want?"
Chuck exhaled sharply. "He wanted to cut a deal. I said no. He left." His hands lowered an inch, slow, deliberate. The fear was still in his eyes, but it had settled now, replaced by something quieter. "That's it. I can't prove anything, Sarah. So, either you believe me or you don't."
It should have been simple.
Pull the trigger. Walk away. Survive.
But as she stepped closer, her pulse thrummed in her ears, drowning out logic, silencing the part of her that screamed for self-preservation. Chuck didn't flinch. He didn't plead. He just watched her, waiting.
Waiting for her to decide what kind of person she wanted to be.
A low, frustrated growl tore from her throat as the gun in her hand wavered.
Chuck's expression shifted, resignation giving way to something softer, something almost… concerned. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing over hers. The warmth of his skin seeped through, a stark contrast to the cold metal beneath their hands.
Her breath shuddered. Her heart pounded.
"I trust you." Her words came as barely more than a whisper.
The gun slipped from her grasp, clattering against the counter. And then she was on him.
Her lips crashed against his, hands fisting in his damp shirt as she pulled him close, needing to feel something real. He stiffened for half a second before melting into her, his arms winding tight around her waist, anchoring her to him.
A soft groan rumbled from his chest as he pressed back, his fingers tracing over leather and cotton before finding bare skin. She gasped at the contact, arching into his touch as heat flared between them.
Chuck stumbled back, knocking into the counter, but neither of them stopped. Her hands tangled in his hair, his breath warm against her lips, the world narrowing down to just this - his touch, his heartbeat, the way he whispered her name like it meant something.
His grip tightened, and then suddenly, they were moving, crashing into walls, losing track of where one ended and the other began.
By the time they reached the bed, there was nothing left between them but want.
And when they finally gave in, there was no hesitation. No second-guessing.
Just heat, and longing, and the unshakable feeling that, for the first time in too long, neither of them was alone.
o-o-o-o-o
The timer on the stove dinged just as Casey settled into his worn leather chair, signaling his pot pie was ready. He exhaled, setting his glass of bourbon on the side table and pausing the old Western playing on his screen.
As he stood, three sharp knocks echoed against the wooden door. Solid. Purposeful. A shadow stretched across the curtain, broad-shouldered and unmoving.
Casey glanced at the clock. Late. Too late for friendly visits.
His expression hardened as he moved toward the door. Passing the coat rack, he reached inside, unlatched his service pistol, and drew it with practiced ease. Pressing the barrel against the wood, he cracked the door open just enough to see the man outside.
The stranger was built like a linebacker, his crisp suit tailored to his frame, his clean-shaven face unreadable. Their eyes locked.
"John Casey?" The man's tone wasn't a question. It was confirmation.
"Who's asking?" Casey kept the gun just out of sight, aimed squarely at the man's chest.
"Beckman sent me. I have a package for you."
The man reached into his jacket, then hesitated - like he could sense the weapon trained on him. Their gazes held, a silent negotiation.
Casey gave a slight nod. The man resumed, pulling out a slim black leather case, its clasp gleaming under the porch light. It was the kind of government-issue that never looked used. Never had to be.
He extended it toward the door with calculated nonchalance. Casey opened the door a fraction more, taking the case in a quick exchange before the man turned and disappeared into the night.
Casey shut the door and studied the case. Brand new. Too new. Something about it set his teeth on edge.
Then it rang. A phone. Inside.
He snapped the clasp open, revealing a simple burner phone. The screen flashed: Blocked Number.
Flipping it open, he answered. "Casey here."
"John. It's been too long." Beckman. The sharpness in her voice hadn't dulled one bit.
"Major Beckman," he responded. "Didn't expect to hear from you like this."
"It's General now, John," she said pointedly. "And I couldn't risk contacting you through normal channels. You're almost certainly under surveillance."
Casey's grip on the phone tightened. His eyes flicked toward the window.
"No," Beckman continued, as if reading his thoughts. "Only I'm watching you right now. But your phone? That's compromised."
A muscle in Casey's jaw twitched. "Who's watching me, General?"
"That's the problem," she said, voice taut. "The files you sent me? Every man listed is dead in my records."
Casey exhaled slowly. That wasn't just sloppy government work - that was a cover-up. And whoever pulled it off had serious clearance.
"Whoever erased them is in deep," Beckman added, confirming his thoughts.
Casey licked his lips. "How can I help, ma'am?"
She didn't hesitate. "There's intelligence in play - high-value and extremely dangerous in the wrong hands. But considering how deep this goes, I'm not convinced the current holders are the right hands either."
Casey's eyes narrowed. "So you want it stolen."
"I need it stolen," Beckman corrected. "And then I need you to recover it."
He let out a short breath, barely a scoff. "So… help the thieves. Then catch them?"
She sighed. "Yes. Unfortunately."
Casey's grip tightened. "Understood, ma'am."
The line went dead before he could say anything more. He shut the phone with a click, his jaw set in determination.
This just got very interesting.