Bartowski Uninterrupted

by dvock67

Chuck Bartowski, average nerd herd supevisor, former hot shot at Roark Industries and has a girlfriend who never seems to leave him alone. Seemingly ordinary in public, but behind the scenes, CIA's greatest asset, weilding the one of the most advanced supercomputers inside his head.

9. Chapter 9

Carina lounged on Chuck's couch, arms crossed, one leg lazily draped over the other as she exhaled an exasperated sigh. She looked both bored and pissed, an impressive combination that only she could pull off with such effortless ease.

The dim glow of a nearby lamp cast a warm hue over the room, contrasting with the tension crackling between her and John Casey, who stood rigid across from her, arms crossed, looking every bit the immovable wall of muscle and gruffness that he always was.

"I cannot believe," Carina huffed, tossing her head back dramatically, "that you confiscated the diamond I liberated after shooting me with a tranquilizer dart." She tilted her head at him, her lips forming a slow smirk. "Not exactly a fair trade, Casey."

Casey grunted, his expression locked in that trademark scowl of his, unimpressed and unyielding. "Yeah, well, we got reliable intel that it's not just some dirty drug diamond cartels are using to finance their operations in the States." His tone was edged with irritation, his eyes never leaving hers. "Turns out some very bad people are planning to use it as a bargaining chip to buy missiles. The kind that level cities."

Carina let out an exaggerated groan, rolling her eyes as she flopped back against the cushions. "Oh, great. There goes my credit for a successful undercover operation." She threw her arms up in mock despair. "You do realize I spent weeks getting close to the guy who had that diamond, right? Weeks, Casey. And you swoop in, tranquilize me like some common criminal, and take off with my prize?"

Casey shrugged, unapologetic. "Cry me a river, Freckles."

Carina narrowed her eyes at the nickname, but there was a glint of amusement buried in her irritation. She shifted, stretching like a bored cat, her body moving with effortless grace. Then, in an instant, her entire demeanor shifted.

She scooted closer, her sultry smirk returning, her voice dropping into something smooth and dangerous. Leaning in, her lips brushed against his ear as she whispered, teasing, "But can you at least tell me where it is right now, lover boy?"

Casey stiffened instantly, his jaw clenching, muscles tensing like she had just pulled a knife on him.

"Not a chance," he said, his voice flat, though there was an unmistakable edge to it.

Carina's smirk widened. Oh, this was fun. Her fingers lightly traced over the sleeve of his tactical vest, her nails dragging just enough to be felt. "Oh, come on, Casey," she purred, her breath warm against his skin. "I promise I won't steal it back."

Casey didn't budge. "That's exactly what a thief like you would say."

"I prefer acquisition specialist," she corrected, her tone playful.

Casey rolled his eyes and took a deliberate step back, breaking her hold. "Not happening, Carina. The diamond is somewhere safe, far away from you."

Carina pouted, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. "That hurts, Casey. Really. I thought we had something special."

"We don't," Casey deadpanned.

Before she could push further, her phone buzzed loudly, the sharp sound slicing through the tension. Carina arched a brow and fished it out of her pocket, glancing at the screen. Her playful smirk faded, replaced by something more serious.

"Miller," she answered smoothly.

The voice on the other end was crisp, authoritative. "This is Deputy Administrator Heartwell. I have General Beckman on the line. She has something really important to talk about."

Carina's eyes flicked back to Casey, her curiosity piqued. A call from Beckman? That was rarely something simple.

"Patch her through," she said, sitting up straighter.

Casey, arms still crossed, watched her carefully. "This ought to be good," he muttered.

Carina shot him a wink before her expression turned professional. "General," she greeted smoothly, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

The voice on the other end was clipped and authoritative, the kind of tone that had seasoned operatives standing at attention. "Miller, I have been informed that you've had an encounter with Mister Bartowski."

Carina arched a brow, her lips curving in a slow smirk. "Well, technically, it was him who stumbled upon me," she corrected, her voice carrying an amused lilt. "And by 'stumbled upon,' I mean he saved my life by taking on a group of mercenaries all by himself. It was kind of impressive. Actually, scratch that—definitely impressive. Totally turned me on."

She shot a glance toward Casey, who rolled his eyes with a muttered curse. Carina just grinned and stretched lazily, as if recounting an amusing anecdote rather than a life-threatening encounter.

"Had my plans for the afternoon all figured out," she continued dryly. "But then Colonel Loverboy over here decided to tranq me before I could properly thank my hero."

A heavy silence followed.

When Beckman finally spoke, her tone was edged with something that was almost disbelief. "Bartowski fought against a group of armed individuals—by himself? He has that level of combat proficiency?" A pause. "Put the phone on speaker. I want to talk to Casey."

Carina smirked and obligingly tapped the speaker button, tilting the phone in Casey's direction.

"Well, Colonel?" Beckman's voice filled the room. "Were you aware of this development?"

Casey, who had been standing with his arms crossed like an immovable boulder, exhaled through his nose. "Ma'am," he said, his tone as dry as sandpaper, "with Carina's talent for embellishments and half-truths, you really can't blame me for doubting every single word that comes out of her mouth."

Carina placed a hand over her chest, feigning deep offense. "Wow, Casey. That hurts. Really. After all we've been through?" She sighed dramatically. "I mean, sure, I do have a habit of making things sound more fun than they actually were, but this time, I swear, no exaggeration." She gestured animatedly. "Chuck went full-on action hero. It was sexy as hell."

Casey gave her a flat look. "Chuck Bartowski is about as much of an action hero as a golden retriever puppy in a firefight."

Carina chuckled. "Then I guess you're in for a very big surprise, Loverboy."

Beckman, who had remained silent, finally spoke, her voice measured and sharp. "Colonel, I want a full report on what exactly happened with Bartowski. If Miller is telling the truth, then this is a very concerning development."

Casey grunted. "Yes, ma'am."

Carina's grin widened. "Told you. But does anyone listen to me? Nooo. You all just shoot me with tranquilizers instead." She stretched her legs over the couch, looking far too pleased with herself. "I feel so unappreciated."

Casey let out an exasperated grunt, arms still firmly crossed over his chest. "You should be used to it by now," he muttered.

Before Carina could throw another quip his way, a sharp voice cut through the speaker, laced with disapproval.

"General," Deputy Administrator Heartwell interjected, his tone clipped, "is she telling the truth? Was my agent tranquilized by your officer on scene?"

For the first time, Carina actually looked mildly interested in the conversation. She tilted her head toward the phone, watching with a smirk as the room tensed.

"Colonel Casey acted within operational parameters," Beckman replied smoothly, her voice as even and unreadable as ever. "His priority was securing a high-value asset that was at risk of being compromised."

"Ah," Carina drawled, propping her chin on her hand. "By compromised, do you mean 'taken by a much more competent and stunning intelligence operative'?"

"By compromised, I mean at risk of falling into the hands of a trained thief," Casey shot back, his patience thinning.

Carina gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "Oh, wow. The slander. And here I thought we had something special, Casey."

"We don't," Casey deadpanned.

"Well, that's just rude."

Heartwell, clearly not in the mood for their banter, exhaled sharply. "General, you do realize that Agent Miller was in the middle of an undercover operation sanctioned by my department, yes? That tranquilizer stunt jeopardized a lot of groundwork." His voice carried the weight of authority, but there was a simmering edge of irritation underneath it.

Beckman, unfazed as always, replied with a measured calm. "The extraction of the diamond became a matter of national security. Colonel Casey acted to ensure that an asset tied to the potential purchase of high-grade missiles did not slip into unknown hands."

Casey gave Carina a pointed look. "Unknown hands," he echoed, making it very clear who he was referring to.

Carina just smirked. "Awww, you think I'm an unknown? That's actually kind of sweet."

Heartwell was clearly unamused. "My agent should have been briefed. Instead, she was neutralized like an enemy combatant."

Casey shrugged. "She acted like an enemy combatant."

Carina turned toward him, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Are you always this rough with women, or am I just special?"

"You're special, all right," Casey muttered under his breath.

Beckman, clearly having no patience for any of this, cut in briskly. "Deputy Administrator, while I understand your frustrations, we do not have the luxury of departmental egos in this matter. If the intelligence is correct, the diamond was far more than a financial asset—it was a strategic one. Allowing it to remain in unverified custody could have led to catastrophic consequences."

Heartwell was silent for a moment, but his displeasure radiated through the speaker. Finally, he exhaled sharply. "And where is the diamond now?"

"Secured," Beckman answered. "And out of Agent Miller's reach."

Carina scoffed. "Oh, ouch. I can be trusted, you know."

"No," Casey and Beckman said at the same time.

Carina chuckled. "Fair enough." She sat up a little straighter, glancing toward Casey. "But I still think Loverboy over here owes me an apology."

Casey gave her a long, unimpressed stare. "Not happening."

Before Carina could fire back, the sharp voice of Deputy Administrator Heartwell cut through the room, laced with something that hadn't been there before—genuine intrigue.

"I beg your pardon," Heartwell said, his tone shifting from irritation to something dangerously close to shock. "The Bartowski you mentioned—does he happen to be the same Doctor Charles Irving Bartowski?"

Carina arched a brow, glancing at Casey, who frowned slightly, sensing the change in the conversation's weight.

Heartwell continued, his voice gaining momentum, as if connecting the dots in real time. "Former Division Head of Roark Industries? One of the biggest federal contractors and tech solutions providers to practically every U.S. government agency—military, Air Force, even the post office? The same Charles Bartowski who practically designed half the cybersecurity software and failsafes we still use to protect our systems?"

Carina, now thoroughly entertained, arched a brow and glanced at Casey, who was scowling so hard it looked like his face might get stuck that way.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she smirked at the phone. "Aye, Chief, the one and only," she confirmed breezily. "But Loverboy over here kept telling me Bartowski was involved in something 'beyond my pay grade'—then knocked me out before I could ask any fun questions." She pouted dramatically, even though Heartwell couldn't see her.

Casey let out a slow, measured breath, his patience running on fumes. "First of all," he growled, "stop calling me Loverboy."

Carina shot him an impish grin. "Not a chance."

Heartwell, however, was in no mood for their bickering. "General," he said, his voice now edged with something dangerously close to frustration, "are you telling me that this same Charles Bartowski—who, by all official records, retired from Roark Industries and is currently working at a big-box retail store—just jumped into the middle of a mercenary shootout to rescue my top operative, and not only survived but neutralized the threat alone?"

The silence that followed was heavy, weighted with the sheer absurdity of what had just been said.

Carina, always one to enjoy stirring the pot, let out a slow whistle, stretching out on the couch like a cat basking in the sun. "When you say it like that, it does sound kinda crazy," she admitted, tilting her head. Then she smirked, turning toward Casey. "But hey, I was there, and I can confirm—our friendly neighborhood Buy More employee threw down like a guy who's been doing this for years."

Heartwell exhaled sharply, clearly trying to keep his irritation in check. "You expect me to believe that a guy who sells printers and Geek Squad warranties for a living just happened to take down a group of hardened mercenaries?"

Beckman, ever composed, replied smoothly, her voice carrying the crisp authority of someone used to revealing only as much as necessary. "I expect you to acknowledge that the situation is more complicated than it appears, Deputy Administrator." She paused for emphasis, then added, "That's why I made this call to you in the first place."

Heartwell, still fuming, folded his arms across his chest. "You'll forgive me, General, if I find that hard to swallow. A former cybersecurity prodigy turned retail employee just happens to intervene in a high-level operation, takes down multiple hostiles solo, and now you want to tell me this is just… complicated?" His voice dripped with skepticism.

Beckman, unfazed, adjusted her glasses. "Tell me, Deputy Administrator—are you aware of the Intersect Supercomputer?"

Silence.

The shift in the conversation was immediate. Heartwell, who had been radiating frustration and disbelief moments before, went utterly still. His expression barely changed, but something behind his eyes flickered—caution, realization, maybe even recognition.

Carina, sensing the sudden weight in the room, leaned forward with interest. "Ooooh, now this is getting good," she murmured.

Casey, on the other hand, barely reacted—but that, in itself, was telling. His stance remained locked in place, arms crossed, jaw tight. The only noticeable change was the briefest flicker of his gaze toward the phone , as if waiting to see how much she was about to reveal to "outsiders" regarding the Intersect

Heartwell exhaled slowly. "I know the name," he admitted at last, his tone far more measured now. "But very few people do."

"Precisely," Beckman said. "And now you understand why this isn't just some incident involving a former Roark Industries employee. Charles Bartowski is the Intersect."

If the air had been heavy before, it was suffocating now.

Heartwell visibly tensed. "That's impossible," he said, though his voice lacked conviction. "The Intersect was always theorized as a data processing system—an AI with predictive capabilities. Are you telling me it's not a program, but a person?"

Beckman's expression remained unreadable, her tone sharp and measured. "I am telling you," she corrected, "that it was a program—until two days ago. The Intersect was housed within a classified supercomputer containing our nation's most valuable intelligence—every piece of high-level data from the CIA, NSA, and every allied intelligence agency across the globe. That supercomputer no longer exists."

Heartwell frowned. "What do you mean, 'no longer exists'?"

Beckman's gaze darkened slightly. "The facility was compromised. It was attacked by an unknown force, and the agent in charge of securing the Intersect—Bryce Larkin—made a judgment call.*"

Casey grunted at the name, his jaw tightening. Carina, who had been lazily sipping from a soda can she had snatched from Chuck's fridge, nearly choked. "Wait, wait, wait—Bryce Larkin? As in Blondie's ex? The spy who ghosted her? The one who made her listen to Norah Jones on loop, and left her crying into her cereal?"

Beckman ignored her and continued. "Larkin knew the Intersect couldn't fall into enemy hands. He had seconds to act. Before detonating the supercomputer, he extracted the entire database and sent it offsite for safekeeping."

"And let me guess," Heartwell muttered, rubbing his temples. "That 'safekeeping' turned out to be Charles Bartowski."

Beckman nodded. "Larkin sent the entire Intersect database directly to Bartowski's personal email in the form of an encrypted attachment."

Carina let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, that's beautiful. You're telling me the single most valuable intelligence asset in the country is walking around in a guy who sells flat-screen TVs and fixes routers?"

She turned and looked at Casey, eyes alight with amused disbelief. "Please tell me this is some kind of elaborate prank. Like, hidden cameras? You're on it, too, Loverboy?"

Casey just scowled harder, his eyes dark with the weight of secrets he'd been forced to keep. "You think I'd joke about something like this?"

Carina blinked, her grin faltering slightly at the grim set of his jaw. "Wait... you're serious?"

"He downloaded the Intersect," Beckman confirmed, her voice steady and severe. "Unwittingly, unintentionally, but the result is the same. Charles Bartowski's brain now houses the full capacity of the Intersect project—every database, every encoded asset file, every intelligence report going back decades."

Heartwell sounded like he was about to choke. "That's insane. That's—utterly—insane! You're saying one civilian… has full access to top-tier classified data from every agency in the alphabet soup?"

"CIA, NSA, MI6, Mossad, even the Chinese MSS," Beckman confirmed. "Everything we had. All in his head."His mind processed and absorbed every classified intelligence document, every encrypted security protocol, and every national secret within seconds."

Heartwell's hands clenched into fists. "You're telling me we lost the Intersect—our most advanced intelligence system—and all that information is now inside the head of a civilian?" His voice was sharp, incredulous. "Tell me we at least have a way to extract it."

A beat of silence followed.

Then Casey, arms still crossed over his broad chest, exhaled through his nose. "Thankfully, Bartowski—being the bonafide genius that he is—managed to save a backup copy on his hard drive. We've already sent it to NSA headquarters for analysis." He shot a pointed look toward Carina. "Along with the diamond Freckles here decided to steal."

Carina, reclining on the couch, placed a hand over her heart in mock offense. "Steal is such an ugly word, Loverboy. I prefer 'liberate.'"

Casey's glare hardened. "You prefer 'grand larceny'."

"Semantics."* Carina waved a dismissive hand, but then she frowned slightly, tilting her head. "Hold up. You're telling me Chuck just… what? Plugged in his hard drive and made a copy of the most classified intelligence in the country?"

"More or less," Casey grunted.

Heartwell looked equally disturbed. "How the hell did he even manage that? The Intersect was supposed to be firewalled beyond conventional hacking. If he saved a backup, that means he bypassed encryption protocols that are designed to be unbreakable."

"Because they're not unbreakable to him," Beckman interjected, her voice unwavering. "Charles Bartowski isn't just any civilian. He was one of Roark Industries' lead engineers before he walked away from the defense sector. The man practically designed half the security measures you're talking about."

Heartwell exhaled sharply. "And no one thought to keep an eye on him after he left?"

"We did," Casey muttered. "But the problem isn't what he was doing—it is what he is still capable of pulling off if we can't keep him in check."

"Jesus," Heartwell muttered, running a hand through his hair. "So let me get this straight. We now have an ex-government contractor slash world class hacker with top-level coding skills who just so happens to be the only living repository of the world's most classified intelligence, and somehow, he's still out in the wild?"

"Not for long," Beckman said, her tone final. "Bartowski is now our highest-priority asset. Colonel Casey, I expect you to ensure his security at all costs."

Casey's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Understood, General."

Carina smirked, still lounging. "Aaaand here I was thinking today was going to be boring. So, what's the plan, Loverboy? Stick Chuck in a bunker and hope he doesn't lose his mind?"

"We're not 'sticking him in a bunker,'" Casey growled.

Heartwell, however, wasn't convinced. "Maybe we should. General, if what you're telling me is true, then every hostile intelligence agency, rogue operative, and mercenary for hire is going to be gunning for this guy."

"Which is exactly why we aren't locking him away," Beckman countered. "The moment he disappears, we confirm that he's valuable. Right now, we maintain plausible deniability. The fewer people who know what's inside his head, the better."

Carina let out an amused hum, tilting her head as if deep in thought. "So let me get this straight—we're just going to let him keep living his normal, adorable, nerdy little life while also being the most dangerous man in the world?" She drummed her fingers on the armrest, then grinned mischievously. "Never mind all that—am I allowed to sleep with him or not?"

Casey groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, while Heartwell muttered a quiet, "Oh, for God's sake."

Beckman, however, was utterly unfazed. "Agent Walker is designated as his primary handler," she stated flatly. "She has been given direct orders to monitor and manage Bartowski's well-being. That means you do not interfere, nor do you complicate matters by seducing him."

Carina gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in exaggerated offense. "General, are you implying that my professional integrity could be compromised by a pair of soulful brown eyes and a ridiculously good head of hair?" She let out a dramatic sigh. "How dare you?"

"I'm implying," Beckman cut in sharply, "that if you do interfere, I will personally have a memo issued from the Director of National Intelligence reprimanding you for insubordination. And if you think I won't follow through, Miller, try me."

Casey smirked, arms still crossed. "You heard the General, Miller. Keep your hands to yourself."

Carina pouted but leaned back, clearly enjoying herself. "Fine, fine. I'll play nice." She shot Casey a sideways look. "Unless Chuck wants me to be bad, of course."

Casey's glare could have melted titanium. "Miller."

"Relax, Loverboy. I'm just messing with you." She stretched lazily. "Mostly."

Beckman, not interested in indulging Carina's antics any further, shifted gears. Her gaze sharpened as she turned back to Casey. "Colonel, while I don't hold you accountable for the diamond incident—given that Bartowski wasn't under your protection at the time—consider this your official warning."

Casey straightened instinctively. "Ma'am."

"From now on, I expect Bartowski to remain far away from armed and dangerous individuals." Beckman's voice was ice-cold. "That means no more reckless engagements. No more running into gunfights. And no more scenarios where he's risking his life to save unhinged DEA agents who put themselves in danger."

Carina placed a hand over her heart with mock offense. "Ouch, General. You wound me." She smirked. "But I do appreciate the shout-out."

Beckman wasn't amused. "I mean it, Colonel. Bartowski is now the NSA's top priority. Losing him is not an option. Do I make myself clear?"

Casey gave a firm nod. "Crystal, General."

Heartwell, who had been silent for a moment, finally let out a slow exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Christ." He dragged a hand down his face, as if trying to physically wipe away the absurdity of the situation. "This is insane." He spoke through the other end of the phone. "What do you want from me, Diane?"

Beckman's expression remained unreadable, her voice sharp and unwavering. "I want your agent to keep her mouth shut regarding the entire Intersect debacle and forget that Charles Bartowski exists in the first place. Then you can continue your little war on drugs without any further distractions." She folded her hands behind her back. "In fact, we'll even support you in the background—logistical assistance, occasional intel, access to certain classified resources."

Heartwell narrowed his eyes, his posture stiffening. "You want us to forget about the Intersect?" His tone was dangerously low. "You do realize that it was never an exclusive CIA-NSA asset? My agency has fed intelligence into that database for years—we've allocated resources, we've cooperated whenever asked, and now you're telling me to act like it never existed?"

Beckman's gaze was unwavering. "That is exactly what I'm telling you."

Heartwell scoffed, shaking his head. "Unbelievable." He exhaled sharply, then his frown deepened. "And let's not forget the fact that Special Agent Miller was tranquilized by your operative without any proper justification." He crossed his arms. "That is still an issue."*

Carina smirked, leaning back into the couch. "Awww, Chief, I didn't know you cared."

"I care about protocol," Heartwell shot back, then turned to Beckman again. "And protocol dictates that my agents don't get taken down by your people unless they're a threat. Was Miller a threat, General?"

Beckman didn't even blink. "Miller was in possession of a high-value intelligence target—an asset that could have led to catastrophic consequences if placed in the wrong hands. Colonel Casey acted in the best interests of national security."

Heartwell wasn't satisfied. "You drugged my agent and stole classified property that we had no confirmation of being linked to a terrorist threat at the time. You overstepped."

Casey, arms still crossed, finally spoke. "If I hadn't stepped in, she would've bolted with that diamond, and we wouldn't know what it was being used for. Turns out, that rock wasn't just a cartel trophy—it was a bargaining chip for a missile deal." His voice dropped into a low growl. "So excuse the lack of diplomatic courtesy, but I did what needed to be done."

Carina tilted her head at him, smirking. "Aww, so you do think I'm good at my job."

"Not what I said," Casey grumbled.

Heartwell exhaled sharply, clearly trying to rein in his frustration. "So what now? You want me to just walk away from this, pretend none of it ever happened?"

"Precisely," Beckman confirmed. "We wipe this incident from your books, your agent forgets she ever heard the word 'Intersect,' and we all go back to our respective jobs. You focus on your DEA operations, we focus on national security." She leaned forward slightly. "Or would you prefer your entire department be cut out of all future intelligence-sharing agreements regarding the Intersect?"

Heartwell's jaw tightened. He knew a threat when he heard one.

For a long moment, Heartwell locked eyes with Beckman, his expression hard and unreadable. The weight of the conversation hung heavy in the room, tension thick as steel cables. Then, finally, he let out a slow, measured exhale and dragged a hand through his graying hair, resignation settling into his features.

"Fine." His voice was gruff, reluctant. He turned his gaze toward Carina, who was still lounging on the couch like she had front-row seats to the best show in town. "Miller, your mission in LA is officially over. Consider yourself pulled. You'll be returning to base by the end of the week."

Carina raised an eyebrow. "So soon? And here I was starting to like it here. LA's got a certain…charm."

"You'll get over it," Heartwell deadpanned. "We've got new assignments coming down the pipeline. There's a potential operation in Spain that needs eyes on the ground. You're being considered."

Carina smirked. "Spain? Ooo, tapas, sangria, and hot European arms dealers? You do know how to spoil me, Chief."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Heartwell muttered, then his tone dropped into something sharper, more pointed. "But before you get too comfortable, let me make one thing crystal clear, Miller."

She tilted her head in amusement, waiting.

"If you so much as think about seducing Bartowski, I will personally put your salary on hold and cut your mission funding by half." His tone was unwavering, the warning unmistakable. "Do you understand me?"

For the first time in the conversation, Carina actually blinked in surprise. "Damn, Chief." A slow, teasing grin spread across her face. "That's some serious commitment. You afraid I'll steal him away from Blondie?"

"I'm afraid you'll be a distraction to an already volatile situation," Heartwell shot back, unimpressed. "Which, if I recall, is exactly what you specialize in."

Carina pressed a hand over her chest in mock offense. "You wound me, sir. Truly."

"Good," Heartwell said flatly. "Then maybe you'll take me seriously."

Casey, standing with his arms still crossed, let out a low, approving grunt. "For once, I actually agree with Heartwell." He shot Carina a warning look. "Bartowski's got enough problems without you turning his life into one of your little adventures."

"Oh please, Colonel Loverboy," Carina purred, leaning forward. "You make it sound like I'm a bad influence."

"You are a bad influence," Casey muttered. "Which is exactly why you're leaving."

Carina just smirked. "Well, then, I guess I better make my last day count, huh?" She shot Casey a wink before reclining back against the couch, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Heartwell let out a deep, frustrated groan, his voice heavy with resignation as it crackled through the phone. "Are we done here, Diane?"

On the other end of the line, General Beckman remained as composed as ever, her tone firm and unwavering. "For now. But I trust we have an understanding, Deputy Administrator."

Heartwell exhaled sharply. "Crystal." His voice was flat, edged with reluctant acceptance. "Not happy about it, but crystal."

There was a brief pause, then the line went dead as he cut the call.

The tension in the room lingered for a moment longer before Beckman's voice broke the silence. Though her expression remained unreadable—as always, a perfect mask of control—no one could actually see it, given she was still only present via speakerphone. That did nothing to diminish the weight of her words.

"Casey," she addressed curtly, "keep a close eye on Bartowski and Walker. I want real-time updates on everything—movements, interactions, potential threats. If anything seems out of place, I expect to be informed immediately."

Casey nodded instinctively, despite knowing she couldn't see him. "Understood, General."

Beckman's voice lowered slightly, becoming sharper, more calculated. "And make sure Walker is employing every method available to her to get Bartowski under control. He may be compliant for now, but he is still unpredictable. The sooner we have him fully working for us—willingly—the better it will be for us and the Intersect project as a whole."

Carina let out a low whistle, shaking her head with amusement. "Damn, General. That's cold. You're basically asking Blondie to seduce him into submission, aren't you?" She smirked. "Gotta say, I respect the strategy."

Casey shot her a glare. "It's not about seduction, Miller."

"Oh, come on," Carina drawled, tilting her head. "You're telling me, Sarah Walker, Director Graham's Wildcard enforcer, golden girl of CIA, hasn't already been batting those big blue eyes at him? Sweet, awkward, brilliant nerd like that? She could have him eating out of the palm of her hand if she wanted to."

Beckman ignored Carina's commentary entirely, her focus locked on Casey. "Ensure that Walker remains on task. Her attachment to Larkin must not interfere with her primary objective."

Casey exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. "I'll keep an eye on her, General."

"See that you do," Beckman said curtly. "This is bigger than any of us, Colonel. We need Bartowski fully integrated into our operations. He may not realize it yet, but he is now the most valuable intelligence asset in the country."

Carina hummed in amusement. "And here I thought I was the most valuable asset. My ego is so bruised right now."

"Spare me," Casey muttered.

Beckman, once again, did not acknowledge Carina's antics. "I expect your next report within twenty four hours, Colonel."

With that, the line clicked off, leaving the room in silence.

Carina exhaled dramatically and leaned back into the couch with a satisfied stretch. "Well, that was fun," she quipped, her voice rich with sarcastic amusement. "You guys have such a healthy work environment. So warm and welcoming. Really, it's inspiring."

Casey didn't even blink. His jaw was clenched, arms still folded tightly across his broad chest. "Miller—"

"No, no, don't stop on my account," Carina interrupted, sitting forward with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I mean, it's just such a unique team dynamic you've got going here. Orders to surveil your own teammate, emotionally manipulate a civilian asset into compliance, all while pretending none of it's personal. High-functioning dysfunction, I love it."

Casey's scowl deepened into a thundercloud. "We're not manipulating him. We're protecting national security."

Carina gave a low chuckle, shaking her head. "Sure, sure. Because nothing screams national security like turning the world's most socially awkward tech genius into a glorified government pet."

Casey turned to face her fully, his expression granite-hard. "Bartowski has government secrets embedded in his head. Secrets people would kill for. Countries would go to war over. He's not a civilian anymore—he's a high-value target, and we treat him as such."

"He's also a person," Carina said, her voice sharpening. "A sweet, goofy, alarmingly nice and brave person who saved my life without hesitation. Just saying, he doesn't seem like the liability you're making him out to be."

Casey grumbled something under his breath, clearly unimpressed with her perspective.

Carina smirked. "You know, I actually like the guy. So forgive me if I'm just a little curious why the grand plan is to manipulate him instead of just leveling with him. You ever consider asking him what he wants?"

"He doesn't get a choice," Casey snapped, his patience wearing thin. "He has every classified intelligence file in his head. He's already in this, whether he likes it or not."

"Ah, so that's the logic. 'He's in too deep, might as well control him like a puppet.'" She clapped her hands together lightly. "Good stuff. Very ethical."

"It's practical, Miller," Casey said, voice like gravel. "*The guy's a walking security breach. If we don't keep a tight leash on him, he could get himself—or worse, others—killed."

Carina tilted her head, considering. "I get that. I do." Then she shot Casey a knowing smirk. "But let's be real—you're just pissed you actually like the guy."

"What?" Casey scoffed, his posture stiffening. "I don't—"

"Oh, please," Carina drawled, rolling her eyes. "Big, grumpy Colonel Casey, secretly warming up to the nerd. It's adorable."

Casey's silence stretched for a beat too long, and Carina grinned in satisfaction. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

She stretched her arms lazily before pushing herself up from the couch, sauntering toward the door with an almost exaggerated sway. "Well, Loverboy, I'd love to stay and keep poking holes in your worldview, but I have a city to enjoy before my grand departure."

Casey rolled his eyes. "Don't let the door hit you on the way out, Miller."

She paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder with that signature sparkle in her eye. "Just think about it, Casey. Maybe treating him like a person instead of—"

BOOM.

The entire world seemed to tilt sideways. The door exploded inward with a concussive blast that shattered the air. A fireball of pressure and heat surged through the room, hurling debris and wood splinters like razor shrapnel. The couch toppled. Windows cracked. Smoke and dust swallowed the once-cozy living room in a blink.

Carina hit the floor hard, her body rolling instinctively into a crouch as shards of the doorframe rained around her. Somewhere to her left, she heard Casey bark out a curse—already moving, already drawing.

Casey's SIG Sauer was up before the smoke had fully cleared. His body flowed into motion like a machine built for violence—muscle memory kicking in, calculating angles, scanning targets.

From the swirling gray haze stepped six men in tactical gear, their weapons sweeping the room with terrifying precision. Black helmets, ballistic armor, Russian suppressors. No insignias. No words. Just kill.

And at the center, walking through the chaos like a man savoring the moment, came Peyman Allahi.

His designer suit—midnight black, tailored to perfection—was flecked with dust, but he didn't seem to care. Not even a scratch on his imported leather shoes. His eyes, dark and dead, locked onto Carina with a hatred so deep it burned through the haze.

He adjusted the cuffs of his silk shirt like a man about to sit down for a five-star meal, then raised his voice. "Did you really think I'd let you walk away, you thieving bitch?" he hissed, accent thick with rage. "Where the hell is my diamond?"

From behind the overturned couch, Carina coughed once, waving away the smoke with a grimace. Her expression shifted from reflexive tension to theatrical boredom in seconds, brushing a streak of soot off her cheek like it was an annoying blemish.

"Ugh," she groaned, "Peyman, darling, you really need to let things go. Holding grudges is so bad for your blood pressure."

She peeked over the couch and gave him a taunting smile, even as her fingers quietly checked the holster strapped to her thigh.

Casey was already firing.

Two shots—center mass. The first merc went down hard, a scream cut short by the second bullet.

"DOWN!" Casey barked, flattening behind the overturned dining table, now flipped on its side for cover. "We've got at least nine—no, twelve! Move, Miller!"

Carina ducked as rounds peppered the furniture beside her, shredding upholstery and spraying foam.

"You brought twelve guys, Peyman?" she yelled between bursts of gunfire. "I'm touched! Must've really hit a nerve when I stole your little rock!"

Peyman didn't respond. He simply raised one gloved hand—and three more mercenaries flanked the room, trying to cut off the exits.

"We are not dying here over your jewel-heist soap opera," Casey growled, ejecting his empty magazine and slamming a fresh one into his SIG with practiced fury. Shell casings clinked on the floor beside him as he hunkered lower behind the shredded remains of the table. "You better have a plan, Miller."

Carina grinned, sweat slicking her temple, eyes gleaming like she was born for this kind of chaos. "I always have a plan, Casey," she said, cocking her Glock with a satisfying click. "It's called improvisation."

Before Casey could respond, she spun out from behind the couch in a fluid blur of motion. Her sidearm barked twice—two quick flashes—and a mercenary dropped like deadweight, blood misting the air where his forehead used to be. His partner turned just in time to take the second bullet to the neck, gurgling as he collapsed in a twitching heap.

Carina ducked back behind the couch, blowing a strand of hair out of her face, and flashed a cocky smile. "See? Works every time."

Casey muttered something crude under his breath

Without wasting another second, Carina dropped to one knee, yanked her phone from the hidden ankle pouch beneath her jeans, and scrolled to a secure number coded only as HRT-LA01—the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team, locally stationed and on quiet standby for emergencies just like this. Well, maybe not just like this.

She tapped the encrypted signal beacon and held the device to her ear.

A gruff voice picked up after one ring. "HRT Command. Verify code."

"Agent Carina Miller. DEA Task Force Seven. Authorization: Delta-Five-Echo-Niner-Three." She ducked as another burst of automatic gunfire chewed through the ceiling above her. "I've got a hot zone at Echo-Lima-Seven. Multiple armed hostiles, possibly cartel-affiliated, with military-grade gear. I need immediate intervention, full tactical package."

There was a pause on the other end, then the voice answered sharply:

"Copy that. Visual confirmation?"

"One of them is Peyman Allahi," Carina said, voice low now, serious. "He's here. Alive. Engaged. This is your jackpot, boys."

A sharp breath.

Then

"Mobilizing. Helo is two minutes out. Ground team five. ETA: seven minutes. Hold your perimeter."

"Tell them to bring body bags," Carina added, slipping the phone away as gunfire sparked inches from her head. "These bastards came looking for war."

Casey peeked out, eyes narrowing as he counted remaining hostiles. "Nine left," he muttered. "But they're fanning out. Trying to flank."

"Then let's give them something fun to walk into," Carina replied, eyes sharp, breath steady. She nodded toward a nearby hallway. "You've still got that flashbang tucked in your boot, Casey?"

He raised a brow. "What, you checking out my ankles now?"

"Always, sugar," she winked. "Now hand it over. I'll draw them left. You swing wide and hit the one guarding the window exit."

"On three?" he asked.

"No," she said, already rising. "On awesome."

And with that, Carina vaulted the couch like it was a runway, her gun up, body weaving through splinters and smoke, drawing the mercs' attention like a matador taunting a bull.

"HEY ASSHOLES!" she shouted. "Still waiting on that apology bouquet!"

Gunfire cracked through the air, shredding the drywall like paper as Carina slid across the polished floor, just behind a fallen bookshelf. The thud of boots closed in fast—two of Peyman's mercs zeroing in on her position, rifles raised, cold precision in their movement.

Casey gritted his teeth, the flashbang ticking hot in his hand. He counted the tempo in his head. One. Two. Three—

CLINK.

The device arced through the air like a silvery comet, bouncing once off the wall and landing squarely between the group of advancing shooters.

BOOM!

A burst of white-hot light and thunder shattered the air. The mercenaries screamed as they staggered back, clutching their ears and blinking against blindness.

Casey moved like a predator unleashed.

He was already inside the room before the echo faded, boots crushing glass, weapon up. Two shots—pop, pop—both mercs dropped. One in the chest, the other with a single precise tap to the skull.

From the side, Peyman roared, "Kill them! Burn the place to the ground!"

Another volley of gunfire raked across the room from the opposite hall—suppression fire, meant to keep them pinned.

Carina popped up beside Casey, breathless but grinning. "God, I missed working with you. You still shoot like a pissed-off Marine."

"Because I was one," Casey snapped, ducking and returning fire with brutal efficiency.

"I know," she said with a wink, "it's hot."

Casey grunted, slamming a fresh magazine into his SIG with practiced fury as another barrage of gunfire tore through the apartment's kitchen wall, peppering the counter behind them with splinters and ceramic shrapnel.

"This," he snapped, ducking low and brushing broken glass off his shoulder, "is exactly why Walker hates working with you."

Carina, crouched beside a toppled armchair, rolled her eyes and fired two quick rounds over the edge—one merc went down hard, clutching his throat as he dropped like a sack of bricks.

"Oh please," she shot back, voice breathless but smug. "Walker doesn't hate me—she just resents how effortlessly fabulous I make this job look."

Another hail of bullets chewed through the drywall above her head. She flinched down with a grimace.

Casey checked his watch, face tight. "ETA on HRT?"

"Five minutes!" Carina barked, ducking as a round blasted the vase beside her into ceramic dust. "And that's if they haul ass like the building's on fire!"

Casey's jaw clenched. "They'd better fly like their pensions depend on it."

A fresh wave of enemies stormed into the far hallway, tactical lasers sweeping the living room. One merc rolled a smoke grenade into the center of the room. It hissed ominously before exploding into a thick, choking fog of white.

Casey immediately popped his thermal scope into place and swung up his rifle. "They're trying to blind us."

"Cute," Carina muttered, yanking a backup Glock from her thigh holster. "That's my move."

"We need to control the bottleneck," Casey growled, shifting to a better angle. "Push them back before they lock us in."

Carina's smile was all teeth. "Say no more, Colonel."

She vaulted over the couch in one smooth motion, dropped low, and slid across the tile floor, twin Glocks blazing like a ballet of bullets. One merc went down with a grunt, another staggered as a shot clipped his leg. A third raised his rifle—only to get tackled full-body by Casey like a freight train in tactical boots.

The man's weapon skittered away as Casey drove an elbow into his temple, then rolled off and snapped two clean shots at the stunned mercs behind him.

"Four minutes!" Carina called out from behind the overturned bar, checking her phone as rounds blasted overhead.

Casey ducked behind a pillar, breathing heavy, jaw tight.

"This is going to be the longest four minutes of my goddamn life."

Smoke continued to swirl thick and choking through the apartment, turning the once-modern space into a war zone. Glass crunched underfoot. Muffled shouting in Farsi echoed from the hallway as more mercs pushed in, sweeping with infrared lasers slicing through the haze.

Casey crouched beside the splintered frame of a bookcase, face slick with sweat and blood from a graze along his temple. "They're tightening the noose."

"Tell me something I don't know," Carina hissed, shoving a fresh mag into her pistol with a sharp click. Her eyes darted toward the hallway—three more shadows, silhouettes moving fast, too damn fast.

"Down!" Casey barked.

The two hit the floor just as a hail of bullets screamed overhead, shredding the remains of a hanging lamp and sending sparks across the floor.

"Three minutes!" Carina gasped, dragging herself behind the island counter, now riddled with holes.

Peyman's voice called through the smoke, cool and venomous.

"Did you really think you could rob me and hide behind American muscle forever?" Peyman's voice slithered through the smoke like poison, sharp and unmistakable. Somewhere behind the fog and carnage, he stalked closer, flanked by the silhouettes of his gunmen. "You think the cavalry will save you?"

A pause—too long, too calm.

"I've bought better men than them. I've buried them too."

His words landed like a coiled threat, thick with menace and certainty.

Casey's jaw clenched. He pressed his back to the jagged edge of a demolished doorframe, breathing shallowly through the smoke. His hands moved with practiced calm, checking the last full mag in his rifle. The stock was chipped. The barrel was hot.

He stole a glance at Carina crouched across from him, her chest heaving, dust smearing her cheek. She met his eyes and gave him a quick, unspoken nod.

We hold.

They were cornered. Outnumbered. But not done.

A sharp clink hit the tile floor—a small, cylindrical object bounced once, twice, and landed near the far wall.

Casey's eyes widened. "Thermobaric!"

He didn't wait. Instinct took over.

He lunged, grabbed Carina's wrist in a steel grip, and yanked her across the room with surprising strength. She didn't protest—she trusted him. Always had, when it counted.

The two dove behind the central structural column just as the device detonated with a thunderous WHUMP.

It wasn't fire—it was force. A hellish wave of pressure expanded out in a flash, collapsing plaster, hurling debris, and sucking the oxygen from the room for a split second of brutal silence. Windows blew out. Picture frames burst. A ceramic lamp shot across the floor like shrapnel.

The air ignited with a choking cloud of dust and pulverized drywall. Every candle, every flickering source of light, snuffed out in an instant.

Carina hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, and rolled instinctively. Casey's body was half-shielded over hers, already pushing up into a kneel, rifle raised, ears ringing.

"Carina, you good?" he barked, voice barely audible through the haze.

She coughed once, shook her head like a rattled cat, then gave him a smirk—blood trailing down the side of her face from a shallow cut. "You always know how to make an exit feel like a punch to the lungs."

"Quit flirting," Casey muttered, peering through the thick smoke and flickering shadows. "We're still alive."

"Barely," she quipped, wiping blood and soot from her cheek. "I swear, next time I'm stealing a sapphire. Rubies don't explode."

"Shut up and cover the right flank. We've got movement."

They both went silent, breath syncing with the tension in the room. Feet pounded against the floorboards beyond the broken walls. Peyman's men were closing in again.

But so was something else.

Something faster.

Something heavier

A rhythmic thump-thump-thump began to echo faintly through the distance—almost drowned out by the creaking walls, the settling debris, and the distant shouting of Peyman's men.

Casey's head snapped up. He recognized that sound.

"Bird inbound," he muttered. "That's rotor wash."

Carina glanced sideways, her blood-speckled smirk sharpening into something fiercer. "Told you the cavalry was coming."

"Let's hope they brought a damn battering ram."

Another thunderous impact rattled the apartment—the front door, or what remained of it, finally gave way under the boot of a brute in full tactical armor. The smoke had barely cleared when five shadows moved in perfect, synchronized formation—black armor, matte rifles, visors down, no words wasted.

The HRT had arrived.

"FEDERAL RESPONSE TEAM!" one bellowed, his voice booming through a voice-amplified helmet. "DROP YOUR WEAPONS! HANDS IN THE AIR!"

Peyman's men turned—some tried to fight, others hesitated. That was their last mistake.

A flashbang arced through the door and detonated mid-air with a CRACK! of white-hot light and sound. Blinded, disoriented mercenaries stumbled back as the HRT advanced like a wave of black steel, precision and fury.

Casey rose from cover like a soldier reborn. He swept around the column and dropped two stunned gunmen with three-round bursts—center mass. Carina flanked to his left, weaving through the chaos, her pistol barking like punctuation. Her eyes found Peyman at the edge of the room, ducking behind an overturned bookcase.

He was trying to run.

"Son of a—he's bolting!" she yelled.

"I've got him," Casey growled.

The two agents surged forward as the HRT secured the perimeter. Glass shattered again as a second team rappelled down from the roof, landing just outside the balcony doors with an acrobatic efficiency that made Carina whistle mid-sprint.

"Well that's sexy."

"Eyes forward, freckles" Casey barked.

Peyman kicked open a side door, nearly tripping in his desperation, and sprinted toward the fire escape—but he didn't get far.

A stun baton jabbed out from behind the stairwell—a waiting HRT operative in full gear—and connected squarely with his midsection.

Peyman convulsed, let out a strangled grunt, and collapsed with a thud.

"Target secure," the operator announced. "High-value asset apprehended. Area clear."

Carina slid to a stop beside Peyman's twitching form, crouched, and gave him a sweet smile. "Don't worry, Peyman. I'm sure federal prison has plenty of diamonds. Just not the kind you wear."

Peyman wheezed a curse, barely conscious.

Casey lowered his weapon, breathing hard as the adrenaline slowly drained from his limbs. He surveyed the room—half demolished, walls cracked, furniture reduced to splinters. But it was over

The HRT team began sweeping the area, zip-tying survivors and radioing for extraction.

stood in the center of what had once been Chuck's modest living room—now a warzone in miniature. Smoke curled in the air like ghosts of the fight just ended. Bullet holes riddled the drywall. The coffee table was in splinters. Shattered glass from the fish tank twinkled across the floor like shrapnel from some forgotten fairy tale. A mercenary's body lay draped across Chuck's "Tron" collector's edition bean bag chair.

He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dammit, Bartowski's gonna have a heart attack when he sees this." His voice was low, a growl of disbelief and exhausted irritation. "And if Sarah doesn't kill me first, his sister definitely will."

Carina, unfazed as ever, smoothed her hair back into place and stepped over a pair of zip-tied mercenaries. She dusted off her jacket like she was leaving a nightclub rather than a live combat scene. "Relax, big guy. A little blood and gunfire never hurt anyone."

Casey shot her a glare.

She grinned. "Okay, technically it did. But not us."

He let out a grunt, pulling out his secure phone and starting to scroll through encrypted contacts. "We'll need a full hush job—walls patched, bodies disappeared, shell casings cleaned. No trace of anything. This is federal containment level, not some DEA parking lot sting."

Carina casually flopped down into the only surviving chair, which let out a creak of protest. "I'll call in a favor with the FBI chief in Westwood. He owes me for that thing in Bogotá." She winked at one of the HRT operators as she dialed. "Don't ask."

Casey didn't. He never wanted to

She leaned back, heels on the edge of the broken coffee table as the call connected. "Hi, Marshall. It's Carina. Listen, I need a containment team, full hazmat sweep, LA jurisdiction, and the fast kind. Think 'Waco meets Men in Black,' and throw in a construction crew for the drywall. Yes, again." She paused. "No, this isn't about that time with the nuns. Different explosion."

He grabbed Carina by the elbow and pulled her into what was left of the kitchen, lowering his voice. "Alright. Make it Code Black. No witnesses. Call in the West Coast rapid-response sweep team. I want a full scrub, top to bottom. And send someone to clean up the damn upholstery—Bartowski's going to have a coronary when he sees the couch. And the fridge. And the TV. Hell, we might as well just torch the whole living room and call it a renovation."

Carina raised a brow. "You want me to add in an espresso machine while I'm at it?"

"Funny," Casey grumbled. "Neighbors probably heard the fireworks. Someone's bound to call 911. We need to get ahead of it."

She was already pulling out her burner. "Want me to loop in the LAPD with a cover story?"

"Yeah. File a statement blaming it on that Chinese hacking group Bartowski exposed when he was still at Roark. Say it's some cyber-revenge job. Throw in attempted data theft. Call it a retaliatory strike. Make it stick."

"And Ellie?" Carina asked, suddenly serious. "She'll lose it if she shows up here and sees this war zone."

Casey gave a reluctant nod. "Send a Bureau liaison to the hospital. I want someone there before the neighbors start lighting up her phone. Tell her Chuck is safe and under federal protection. Gloss over the details, sell it hard. And make sure Devon doesn't try to play hero."

"I'll text the LA FBI chief personally," Carina said, fingers flying across her burner's screen.

Just then, Casey's own phone vibrated violently in his pocket. He pulled it out, frowning when he saw the caller ID.

Walker.

He answered with his usual growl. "Casey."

"Don't get cozy," Sarah said, her voice tight, urgent. "We've got a problem."

"I'm standing in what used to be Bartowski's living room. Be more specific."

"You can go back to polishing your guns later," she snapped, her voice cutting through static as she moved. "Chuck just had a flash. Vuc Andric."

Casey's eyes narrowed instantly. "Say that again."

"Andric," Sarah repeated, already pulling Chuck by the wrist toward her Porsche in the underground garage. "Yugoslavian-born Serbian demolitions expert. Last we tracked, he was operating under a Croatian alias. Chuck saw blueprints—military-grade plastique. The target is the NATO event downtown. Keynote speaker? General Arthur Stanfield."

There was a beat of silence as Casey processed, then his tone shifted into cold, professional steel. "Are you in motion?"

"We're en route now," Sarah said, wrenching the Porsche's passenger door open and shoving Chuck inside. His face was pale, eyes wide with the weight of what he'd just seen.

"I'm ten minutes out," Casey said, already heading for the stairwell, Carina right behind him. "I'll loop in FBI, Homeland, even Interpol if we need 'em. If Andric's really in LA, the kill order's still active."

"Let's not start stacking bodies just yet," Sarah snapped. "We don't have a positive ID. We don't even know what he looks like now."

Casey barked a laugh. "You think he's here for a sightseeing tour?"

"No," Sarah said sharply, eyes flicking to Chuck as she tore through traffic. "I think he's here to assassinate a general in front of a hundred foreign dignitaries and half the world's press. But if we're going to stop it, we need intel. We need eyes on him, first."

There was a beat.

"Understood," Casey said finally. "I'll get local sat-feeds, check recent border entries. You'll get a ping as soon as we locate him."

"Good. We'll recon the perimeter once we're downtown. Send me every scrap you get."

"Copy that," Casey said, already ending the call. He turned to Carina. "Change of plans. NATO summit just became our top priority. Andric's in town."

Carina raised a brow. "So… full-on terror plot? Explosives? Political assassination?"

"Welcome to Tuesday," Casey muttered, already turned to HRT's team leader, "Can you stay here and oversee the cleanup process till we come back?"

The HRT team leader—a square-jawed veteran named Russo, face streaked with soot and sweat, helmet under one arm—nodded sharply without missing a beat. His tactical vest bore the weight of two extra mags, a flashbang, and a cracked comm unit that had clearly seen better days.

"We've got this," Russo said, eyes sweeping the ruined apartment. His tone was clipped, matter-of-fact. "Already blocked off the street under DHS jurisdiction. LAPD's on standby to redirect civilian traffic. My guys will finish the sweep, secure any trace evidence, and make sure no one so much as sneezes near this place without clearance."

"Make it fast, make it clean," Casey ordered. "I don't want this tied to any federal agency. You find anything Peyman left behind—intel, devices, tracking tech—you flag it red. I'll have NSA retro-sweep the metadata when I'm back."

"You got it," Russo said, signaling two of his operators with a raised hand. "We're already pulling surveillance from nearby buildings. Thermal's in play. If anyone so much as blinked in this direction during the shootout, we'll know."

Carina gave Russo a once-over, then looked at Casey with a wry smirk. "Almost makes me want to stick around. I do love a good cleanup montage."

Casey ignored the jab, checking his watch. "We're burning daylight. Let's move."

As he and Carina jogged toward the stairwell—taking the steps two at a time—Casey muttered under his breath, "Andric picks today of all days to show up. Damn psycho's got a flair for timing."

"Hey, if you're gonna commit mass murder," Carina quipped, voice echoing up the stairwell, "might as well do it with an audience."

Casey shot her a side glance. "Remind me again why I ever worked with you?"

"Because I'm fun," she replied with a wink, drawing her sidearm and cocking it with a flourish. "And because I shoot better than anyone in your address book."

He grunted in reply, all business now as they reached the parking level.

Outside, sirens were already wailing faintly in the distance—neighborhood emergency calls finally trickling in. The sky over L.A. had shifted into that golden dusk that made everything feel cinematic… and on the verge of chaos.

Casey climbed into his good old crown vic, slamming the door as he grabbed the radio. "This is Agent Casey. Patch me into Homeland, and get me a secure line to Joint Task Force CENTCOM. I want full satellite coverage over downtown—airspace, rooftops, everything. We're going to find that bastard before he can light the fuse."

Carina slid into the passenger seat, buckling in with a theatrical sigh. "Road trip to save the world again. Think we'll be home in time for drinks?"

"Only if we're drinking at the morgue," Casey growled, gunning the engine and peeling out toward the heart of Los Angeles—toward a NATO summit, a potential mass-casualty event, a ghost from their darkest intel files with explosives on his hands and a target in his sights, and the man with a supercomputer inside his head who unravelled it all.

God! He really should have retired while he could.

He was getting too old for dealing with such troublesome affairs.

…..xxxxxx….xxxxxx…..

As Sarah pulled the silver Porsche 911 into the valet loop of Le Solstice, Chuck let out a low whistle under his breath. The place looked like it had been airlifted straight out of Monte Carlo. The building's sleek lines, reflective glass façade, and minimalist landscaping screamed elite—like the kind of restaurant where the maitre d' judged your wristwatch before letting you in. Even the air smelled expensive, tinged with the scent of freshly baked croissants and imported citrus trees lining the entrance.

Chuck leaned forward, peering through the windshield. "Of course. Because nothing says casual breakfast like a restaurant with a private sommelier and a dress code that includes cufflinks."

Sarah slid off her sunglasses with a practiced ease and smirked. "Come on, Chuck. You've been out of Roark for what—Two years? Time to stop hiding in nerd caves and start eating real food again."

He shot her a look as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "What's wrong with coffee and a muffin from the corner shop? At least the barista doesn't look like he moonlights as Bond's tailor."

She was already out of the car and tossing the keys to the valet. "Because, sweetie, this place doesn't serve muffins that come pre-wrapped in plastic."

Chuck followed, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he fell into step beside her. "You know, it's hard to tell if you're being condescending or if that's just your rich-people breakfast voice."

Sarah didn't respond. She just smiled coyly, as if that alone was answer enough.

Inside, the restaurant was the kind of place where silence was golden and every whisper of jazz from the grand piano seemed handpicked to massage your soul. The walls were a mix of ivory and dark walnut, adorned with abstract art that probably cost more than Chuck's old car. Tables were spaced far apart for "privacy," and the chandeliers sparkled like someone had polished every crystal by hand.

Chuck adjusted the collar of his button-down self-consciously, already feeling out of place. "Jesus. Even the napkins have monograms."

"They're embroidered, actually," Sarah corrected as she led him through the room.

"Of course they are."

The hostess—an elegant woman with a French twist and posture that could shame royalty—escorted them to a private window-side table with a breathtaking view of downtown Los Angeles. Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling glass, catching the shimmer of the silverware and turning the cityscape into a glittering mosaic below.

Chuck exhaled softly. "Okay… yeah. This is nice."

"Glad you approve," Sarah replied as she took her seat with graceful precision.

No sooner had they settled in than a waiter appeared—tall, immaculately dressed in black, and moving with silent efficiency. Chuck reached for the menu, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle exchange—Sarah slipping her black titanium credit card into the waiter's hand with a smoothness that made it look like part of the service.

She didn't think he'd noticed. But he had.

His mood soured instantly.

Chuck set the menu down without opening it, his expression tightening. "Really?"

Sarah glanced up, blinking innocently. "Really what?"

"I saw that," he said, voice low but pointed. "You just covered the whole thing without even asking me."

Her eyes flicked to the waiter—already retreating—then back to Chuck. "And?"

"And I'm not a damn charity case, Sarah." His tone was sharp, but not raised. Still, it had a weight behind it. "I can afford breakfast. Even at a super spy's favorite overpriced brunch spot."

She smiled then—softly—and before Chuck could formulate a proper retort, she leaned over the table and kissed him. It wasn't a grand, sweeping gesture. It was brief, unhurried, but full of intent. Just enough to shut him up.

When she pulled back, she grinned, eyes twinkling. "I did it… because I can, cutie pie."

Chuck blinked once. Then again. His brain, already reeling from the posh restaurant, the surprise kiss, and the extravagant Rolex on the table, now froze on one very specific detail.

"You kissed me?" he repeated, his voice rising an octave, like his brain hadn't yet cleared it through customs.

Sarah's smile was a calculated thing—sharp at the corners, yet warm enough to disarm. She leaned in ever so slightly, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something else—something slower, more dangerous.

"Oh, sweet Chuck…" Her voice dropped, velvet-smooth and dipped in subtle flirtation. "I can do much more than kissing… if you want me to."

Her foot, clad in a gleaming black stiletto, brushed ever so lightly against his calf beneath the table. Not a misstep. Not a flirt. A promise. Teasing. Deliberate. Deadly.

Chuck's eyes widened like saucers. "Uh… wow. That's… uh… a lot of… information," he stammered, doing his best impression of someone not being short-circuited by a spy who flirted like it was part of her weapons training. "Is this breakfast or a Bond movie?"

Sarah chuckled, smooth and unhurried. "Would it help if I told you I left the poison lipstick at home?"

"That… that actually raises more questions."

Her laugh deepened—silken, genuine. But then, like a curtain drawn mid-scene, her demeanor shifted. She leaned back in her seat, the flirtatious glint in her eyes retreating just a step. Her body remained relaxed, but her tone was all business now—serious, grounded.

"But before we get to dessert before breakfast," she said, folding her hands over the linen tablecloth, "we need to talk. For real this time."

Chuck sat up, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He knew that tone. The one where the room got quieter without actually getting quieter. His stomach tightened.

"My bosses," Sarah continued, eyes locked on his, "have made a decision. As of this morning, I'm officially assigned to you as your... handler."

Chuck tilted his head. "Handler?" The word tasted strange on his tongue. "Like... dog-training handler? Or more of a 'Hannibal Lecter behind the glass' kind of thing?"

"Neither, hopefully," she said with a half-smile. "But in public…" She paused, then smiled, softer now. "I'm your girlfriend."

Chuck's brain made a noise not dissimilar to the Windows 'fatal error' alert. "Wait—like, fake girlfriend?"

"Exactly," she said, lifting her water glass to her lips, her gaze never leaving his. "Romantic cover. You and me—couple stuff. Holding hands. Flirty banter. Dinners. The occasional kiss. Maybe a fight or two to keep it believable."

Chuck's mouth opened—then closed—then opened again. He looked like a fish trying to reboot mid-bowl.

"So," he started, pointing vaguely at his lips, "the kiss was…?"

Sarah's smile curved like a blade. "Oh, that was real," she said, her voice rich with amusement. "That was just a little… preview."

Chuck blinked furiously. "Right. Okay. That's great. Totally normal. Yep. This is just a regular Wednesday now, huh?"

Sarah laughed again, but there was steel beneath the warmth now. "Chuck," she said, gently, but firmly. "You've got the Intersect in your head. You're not just some civilian techie anymore. You're classified intel on legs. That makes you a national security priority."

She reached into her clutch and produced a small, black velvet box—sleek, unassuming. She slid it across the table, flipping it open with a soft click.

Chuck leaned forward, expecting cufflinks or maybe some kind of spy-laced breath mint. What he saw instead made his eyebrows rise to orbital levels.

A Rolex.

Sleek. Matte steel and obsidian. Elegant without being flashy. The kind of thing James Bond would wear to a gala, or maybe diffuse a nuke with.

Chuck stared. "Let me guess—it tells time and shoots darts?"

"No darts," Sarah said, smirking. "Yet. But it has an embedded GPS tracker, a secure uplink to Langley, and a panic button hidden in the crown. If you're ever in trouble—real trouble—you push it. We'll come running."

He looked up, his voice slightly dry. "So I'm being tracked. Like a dog with a chip."

Sarah's eyes held his. "Twenty-four seven. No exceptions. Wherever you go, I go. Or at the very least, I'll be watching from a safe distance with a high-powered lens."

Chuck picked up the watch and turned it over in his hands, the weight of it surprisingly grounding. "This is really my life now? Spy Rolexes, government trackers, fake relationships with women who flirt like they're licensed in psychological warfare?"

Sarah tilted her head, lips twitching. "Afraid so."

She reached across the table again—slowly—and touched his cheek with the barest brush of her fingers. It was a gentle gesture, not staged, not practiced. Not fake.

"You're not alone in this, Chuck," she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. "I take care of my partners. Especially the special ones."

His breath caught slightly, her touch burning in a way that had nothing to do with the Intersect.

Chuck managed to summon a chuckle, gripping the watch like it was a flotation device. "Can we… maybe define a few things before my brain implodes from all this sexy espionage meets vague consent clause situation?"

Sarah grinned—a wicked, knowing grin—and leaned back just enough to reclaim her composure. "Sure, sweetie. Anything you want."

Her fingers slid down to his sleeve, toying idly with the cuff. A movement so casual it might've been overlooked by anyone else. But not Chuck. Never Chuck. He'd learned enough about Sarah Walker in the short time they'd known each other to understand that nothing she did was ever just casual.

"Technically," she continued, her voice lilting with amusement, "I'm not your 'handler.' That implies a leash. I'm your overseer. Bureaucratically, anyway."

Chuck raised a brow. "You're seriously telling me there's a distinction?"

Sarah made a face. "Oh, there's always a distinction. The Intersect—you—are classified as 'intellectual property of high strategic value.' It's the government's way of saying you're important… and also not entirely human anymore."

Chuck stared at her. "I'm property now? Like a talking Roomba with anxiety?"

She tried—and failed—not to laugh. "Not exactly. More like a contractor. A very expensive, very fragile one."

Chuck narrowed his eyes. "So I'm basically an asset… with benefits?"

Sarah's smile turned feline. "Very good benefits. If you behave."

Chuck blinked. "Define 'behave.'"

"You follow orders. You don't go off-grid. You keep your brain clean—no more downloads, no hacking the Pentagon for fun, no reading conspiracy forums at 2am. And above all…" She leaned in again, her voice a whisper now, just for him. "You trust me."

Chuck swallowed. The air between them had grown heavier, charged, humming with something electric and uncertain.

"And if I don't?" he asked, voice low.

She smiled—but this time, there was no humor in it. Just the glint of the operative beneath the charm. "Then you disappear, Bartowski. Because the people who want what's in your head? They don't send birthday cards."

Chuck looked down at the Rolex, then back up at her. "Great. So breakfast comes with a side of existential dread and soft jazz."

Sarah tilted her head, voice teasing again. "And cheesecake. Don't forget the cheesecake."

Chuck cracked a grin, and despite the chaos rising in his gut, something warm settled there too. She was terrifying. Gorgeous. Brilliant. And maybe—just maybe—not completely pretending.

Chuck's fingers drummed against the edge of the table, the Rolex still resting in its velvet cradle before him. He didn't reach for it again. Not yet. His mind was too busy trying to reconcile the spy-tech gift with the very non-spy-like flutter in his chest.

He lifted his gaze to Sarah, brow furrowing slightly, voice cautious but tinged with dry amusement.

"So let me get this straight," he said slowly. "You're what now? My... affectionate handler with benefits?"

Sarah arched one perfectly shaped brow, tilting her head as she rested her chin lightly on the back of her hand. "More like an open-minded friend," she said smoothly, her voice calm and composed, "who also happens to be your CIA-designated overseer."

Chuck blinked. Once. Twice. "Ah," he muttered. "The friend zone. But with tactical surveillance and kissing."

Sarah's smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Chuck," she said, her tone soft but steady, "let's not pretend this situation is anything close to normal. The CIA's officially embedded in your life now. Your location, habits, comms, bathroom breaks—everything. Trying to date someone outside that world?" She shook her head gently. "It's a logistical nightmare. And a security breach."

Chuck exhaled slowly, running a hand through his already tousled hair. "So, in summary: I'm emotionally radioactive. Romantic no-fly zone."

Sarah leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to catch the intimate space between them. "Not to everyone."

He glanced up.

"If you're interested," she continued, her voice now coated in that rich, sultry confidence that made him forget how to breathe, "we can… enjoy each other's company. Here and there. No strings. No drama. Just two adults who get what this life demands."

Chuck laughed nervously, eyes flicking from her lips to the Rolex and back. "Right. And this has nothing to do with the part where you're pretending to be my girlfriend in public?"

Sarah gave him a look—playful, amused, a little dangerous. "Call it… added realism."

Chuck cleared his throat, tugged at his collar. "Umm… Sarah. Not that I don't trust you," he said carefully, "but shouldn't I… maybe consult Gertrude first? Y'know. My old friend. Former NSA. Head of a top-level private military company. The one who introduced you to me literally yesterday at my birthday party?"

Sarah blinked once. Then slowly, a shrug lifted one shoulder, effortless. "Well, hon," she said sweetly, "my resignation from the CIA was rejected last night."

Chuck's eyebrows shot up. "Rejected?"

"Mm-hmm." She nodded, sipping her water like she wasn't casually dismantling his sense of reality. "They pulled me back into active operations the moment your Intersect status was confirmed. Tried calling Gertrude, but she's gone dark—off-grid on a deep undercover assignment with Interpol. She won't be reachable for a while."

Chuck leaned back, processing. "So... the woman who introduced you, the one I trusted, is gone, and I'm left with you and your agency pals playing musical chairs in my life?"

"Temporarily," Sarah assured him. "Gertrude isn't officially government anymore, remember? She's a PMC now. The CIA doesn't want outside interference—especially from someone that powerful and unregulated. This op is critical, and there's no room for ambiguity."

Chuck tried to keep his expression neutral, but his heart was thundering like someone had wired a snare drum to his ribcage.

"But hey," she added lightly, with a casual grin, "in her absence, you can rely on my guidance and support. I've got your back, Chuck. You'll be safe with me."

She leaned across the table, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. A gesture that, somehow, managed to be both disarmingly sweet and deeply unsettling.

Chuck swallowed hard, still not entirely sure if his pulse was racing because of fear, excitement… or sheer hormonal confusion. "Right. Just a totally casual Tuesday. Flirting with CIA agents, being declared intellectual property, and discussing global security protocols between bites of breakfast."

As if on cue, their food arrived.

The waiter—tall, lean, with the vibe of someone who split time between hacking forums and CrossFit classes—glided over with two immaculate plates.

"Egg white omelet with avocado and chili flakes for the lady," he said, placing Sarah's dish down with elegant precision. "And the gentleman's full breakfast stack. Bacon. Extra syrup. Side of hash browns."

Chuck stared at the food, then at the man. "I—uh—I didn't even order yet."

The waiter gave a polite smile. "You didn't have to."

He turned to leave, but Chuck caught the subtle flick of his wrist. The way he adjusted the syrup pitcher ever-so-perfectly on the tray—measured, efficient, rehearsed.

Chuck's eyes narrowed. That wasn't waiter behavior. That was… operative behavior.

As the man disappeared back into the shadows of the restaurant, Chuck leaned across the table. "He's not a real waiter, is he?"

Sarah didn't even glance back. "That one?" she said casually, forking into her omelet. "Fresh out of the farm. Still learning the ropes."

Chuck shook his head. "This is nuts."

"But delicious," Sarah offered with a wink. "Come on, you have to admit they nailed your breakfast order."

Chuck laughed weakly, poking at the mountain of hash browns. "Yeah. Sure. Nothing suspicious about surveillance professionals doubling as culinary psychics."

Sarah tilted her head, studying him. "So…" she said sweetly, "we good now?"

Chuck hesitated, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Totally. I mean… completely."

His tone was light, but internally, he was already filing contingencies. He didn't trust Sarah like he trusted Gertrude. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But right now? He had to play along. Smile. Nod. Be the cooperative, docile asset they thought he was.

No one suspects the nerd.

Sarah beamed at his response. "Good boy," she said warmly, reaching across the table to ruffle his hair like he was a well-behaved puppy rather than a man trying not to have an existential meltdown.

Chuck sat back in his chair for a long beat, watching Sarah slice neatly into her omelet like she hadn't just flipped his world upside down in under ten minutes. She was calm. Effortlessly poised. As if declaring herself his government-assigned fake girlfriend-slash-handler was just another item on her morning checklist, somewhere between "burn a spy cover" and "murder someone with a paperclip."

He, on the other hand, was somewhere between mental whiplash and heart palpitations. But if there was one thing Chuck Bartowski had learned since Stanford and Roark, it was that humor and charm—along with the occasional smart-ass comment—were his best defense mechanisms.

So, he decided to push the envelope.

He reached across the linen-draped table, fingers tentative at first but steadying as they came to rest gently over hers. Her hand was warm, elegant, yet calloused in places he wouldn't have expected—a subtle reminder of the world she came from.

Sarah glanced down at the contact, then back up at him. She didn't pull away. Her expression didn't change much either, but there was a slight pause in her breath. A flicker behind her eyes that told him she'd felt it, too—the weight of a gesture more intimate than playful.

"If you're going to be my fake girlfriend," Chuck began, his voice soft but teasing, "I figure we should probably... you know, learn each other's fake couple trivia. For realism's sake."

Her lips curled just slightly at the edges, a hint of challenge in her eyes. "Are you asking for a dossier?"

"No, I'm asking for something far more dangerous." Chuck smiled, fingers still resting over hers. "A conversation."

Sarah leaned in, her fork setting down with a delicate clink against the plate. "Alright, Romeo. Fire away."

Chuck exhaled, then lifted his brow playfully. "Favorite band. Go."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly as if to see whether this was some kind of trap. "In general, or by mood?"

"That's a suspiciously complex answer to a very straightforward question," he mused.

Sarah's smirk deepened. "Fine. Florence and the Machine. Especially when I'm in a mood."

Chuck blinked. "Did not see that coming."

"You expected Russian techno, didn't you?"

"A little," he admitted, chuckling. "Or like... adrenaline-fueled battle music. Not angsty indie vocals and poetic heartbreak."

Sarah's eyes danced. "You'd be amazed how well Florence pairs with a silenced Glock and a moonlit rooftop."

Chuck opened his mouth to respond to that mental image and wisely closed it again. He cleared his throat. "Okay. Important follow-up—any allergies? You know, in case I ever bring you coffee or chocolate that isn't booby-trapped."

"Peanuts," Sarah said without hesitation, her voice as steady as if she were listing mission objectives. "Not deadly, just annoying."

She paused for a beat, then added with a faint grimace that barely tugged at the corner of her mouth, "And olives. Can't stand them."

Chuck's eyebrows rose. "Olives?" he echoed, clearly more shocked by that than the peanut revelation. "Wait, you can take down a man twice your size using only a shoelace and a bar napkin, but olives are your personal kryptonite?"

Sarah gave a quiet, almost sheepish laugh—the rare kind that slipped out when she wasn't fully in control of her polished exterior. "They taste like regret and saltwater. It's not a battle I feel the need to win."

Chuck grinned, delighted. "Wow. I just learned something genuinely terrifying about you."

She raised an amused brow. "That I hate olives?"

"No," he said, his eyes gleaming with mock seriousness. "That you have food preferences. Like an actual human being. That's the real shocker."

Sarah rolled her eyes, but she didn't pull her hand away. In fact, her fingers tightened slightly around his, grounding herself in the moment. "I am human, Chuck. Just one with very specific tolerances."

"Right," he said, nodding sagely. "Bullets: tolerable. Torture: walk in the park. Olives: absolutely not."

She smirked, that dimple appearing just faintly in her cheek. "We all have our limits."

Chuck's voice softened, his expression growing more thoughtful as he looked at her. "I know you probably hate this part—talking about yourself, being vulnerable—but thanks for telling me. Seriously."

Sarah met his eyes, the glint of humor still lingering but tempered now by something more sincere. "You asked," she said simply. "And if I'm going to play the part of your girlfriend—fake or not—you deserve to know a few things about me that aren't in the Agency files."

"That's fair," Chuck replied, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Just for the record, if you ever want to eat around the olives, I will heroically take them off your plate. Like, no hesitation. It's one of my few marketable skills."

She gave a quiet chuckle, her thumb brushing against his in a rare show of absent affection. "Duly noted. That's exactly the kind of loyalty I expect in a pretend partner."

Chuck continued, tone warm with amusement. "Well, I gotta say—you're surprisingly open-minded for a spy. I mean, I just got more personal information out of you in ten minutes than I managed from Gertrude in, like… three years."

"It was like trying to interrogate a particularly sarcastic stone wall," Chuck said, grinning. "But I wore her down. Eventually."

"What was it?" Sarah asked, genuinely curious.

Chuck lifted a brow. "Sea salt caramel with dark chocolate swirl. Very specific. Very intimidating. Just like her."

Sarah laughed again, more freely this time, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sounds about right."

Chuck leaned back, the amusement still on his face but now joined by something softer—something closer to appreciation. "She used to say that a spy should never reveal their preferences. That the more people know about what you love, the more they can use it against you."

"She's not wrong," Sarah said finally, her voice low but resolute. "Loving something—or someone—gives people leverage. You don't survive in this job by giving others the tools to undo you."

Her tone was cool, even, like she'd said those words to herself a hundred times before. But the flicker in her eyes betrayed her. Beneath the well-rehearsed steel was something vulnerable. Something tired.

Chuck studied her in silence for a long beat, his fingers still lightly tangled with hers across the table. The woman sitting before him could break necks with her bare hands, outthink tactical teams, and disappear into half a dozen aliases without blinking. But now, in this quiet moment between fake breakfast and fake romance, she was just a person who'd been taught that emotions were liabilities.

He gave a soft nod. "That sounds exhausting."

Sarah looked at him, surprised by the understatement.

"But I guess…" he added, with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "it's good for me that you still want to be my friend, right?"

His thumb brushed gently over the side of her hand—a motion that was equal parts reassurance and affection. Familiar. Safe. It made her pause.

"I mean," Chuck went on, tone lightening just enough to let in a bit of his signature charm, "you've basically memorized every classified detail about my life, probably know how I like my coffee, what shampoo I use, and how many times I've seen Tron—but still. If there's anything you want to ask, anything you actually don't know…" He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into something warm and inviting. "I'm here. The real me, not the agency file."

He smiled, not smug, not performative—just real. "This whole fake relationship thing works better if we can talk like people, not just roles. So go ahead. Ask."

Sarah looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, she pulled her hand from his—not to withdraw, but to reposition it, laying it flat on the table between them, palm up. She wasn't just opening a channel. She was offering trust, on her terms.

She took a breath. "Okay," she said, voice softer now. "Let's start simple."

Chuck perked up, eyebrows raised with faux anticipation. "Hit me."

She hesitated—just a flicker—before asking, "What's something you've never told anyone? Something that isn't in the CIA file?"

Chuck blinked. "Whoa. Jumping straight to the deep end, huh?"

Sarah tilted her head, the faintest smirk curving her lips. "You offered."

He chuckled nervously, glancing down at her hand—still open, waiting—then back up at her.

"Alright," he said, exhaling slowly. "Um… I still have the last birthday card my dad gave me. The one before he disappeared. It's stupid—just some silly pun about robots and a note scribbled inside. But it's the only thing he wrote me that felt… real. Like he actually saw me for once, not just whatever project he was obsessing over."

Chuck shrugged, the smile he wore now more fragile. "I keep it in my sock drawer. Middle-back. Beneath the NASA boxers."

Sarah laughed softly. Not to mock—but because she understood. The blend of sentiment and awkwardness. Of grief and humor.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Chuck looked at her for a moment—her face softer, eyes less guarded—and smiled again, this time with a little more ease. "Eh," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, "it's not a big deal."

He gave her hand a final squeeze before releasing it, then rested his elbows lightly on the table. "You still have a much tougher test ahead of you."

Sarah tilted her head, intrigued. "Oh?"

Chuck gave her a faux-serious look. "Surviving my sister."

Sarah blinked. "Ellie?"

He nodded gravely. "Yes. And her boyfriend. Captain Awesome."

Sarah's lips parted in confusion. "Wait… that's his actual name?"

"No," Chuck said quickly, shaking his head. "His real name's Devon. But everyone calls him Captain Awesome. Because, well… he is. Annoyingly so."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Define 'annoyingly so.'"

Chuck grinned. "Imagine the perfect human. Abs of steel. Hair that defies humidity. He runs marathons, saves lives for fun, and probably folds hospital corners in his sleep. He drinks green smoothies. Smells like eucalyptus. Does yoga. Voluntarily."

Sarah leaned back, folding her arms, amused.

"So," she said slowly, her tone as casual as the glint in her smile was not, "Captain Awesome's the one who kept you in shape after Roark?"

Chuck blinked. "Huh?"

"You know," she added, giving him a deliberately slow once-over, her eyes dragging over him with just enough exaggeration to make him squirm. "Because for someone who claims he spent years in a Buy More after getting fired from a tech firm, you're... surprisingly fit."

Chuck's eyes widened. "Wait—are you saying I look good?"

Sarah smirked, tilting her head like she was considering it. "I'm saying you don't look like someone who eats cheese balls for dinner and sleeps in code-themed pajamas."

Chuck raised a finger. "First of all, those pajamas are vintage, and second—are you flirting with me again, or trying to recruit me for the CIA's fitness program?"

Sarah shrugged, letting her arms rest lightly on the table now. "Just making an observation."

Chuck shook his head with a rueful chuckle, reaching up to rub the back of his neck in that classic nervous-Bartowski way, like the memory still gave him low-grade trauma.

"No, but yeah—Devon. Captain Perfect himself. He kind of made it his personal mission to 'whip me into shape' after I left Roark."

Sarah raised an eyebrow, amused. "That sounds vaguely heroic. Or at least… obnoxiously wholesome."

"Oh, trust me," Chuck said, leaning in conspiratorially, "it was both. The man is like a motivational poster that somehow grew muscles and a medical license. He's all about morning runs—at sunrise, mind you—protein shakes that taste like lawn clippings, and this terrifying brand of CrossFit that he insists on calling 'life sculpting.'"

Chuck nodded grimly. "Yeah. Picture this: it's six-thirty in the morning, I haven't even seen coffee yet, and I'm doing burpees on a yoga mat while Devon's shouting, 'Crush your limits, bro!' like he's storming the beaches of Normandy."

"I would pay good money to see that," Sarah said, clearly delighted.

Chuck pointed a dramatic finger at her. "I was sweating in places I didn't know had sweat glands. I pulled a muscle in my ear, Sarah. My ear."

She covered her mouth with one hand, trying to stifle the laugh, but her eyes gave her away.

"Oh, and don't even get me started on the weekend yoga sessions," Chuck continued, waving a hand. "Because apparently being tortured during the week wasn't enough—Saturdays and Sundays were for 'detoxing the soul.'"

Sarah tilted her head. "Let me guess. He led the classes?"

"Oh, absolutely," Chuck deadpanned. "He had a whole playlist. Ambient spa music, birdsong, waterfalls… the works. Meanwhile, I'm in the back row trying not to snap my spine during downward dog while Devon's in the front casually doing a one-armed plank and reminding everyone to 'breathe from their diaphragm.'"

Sarah was laughing now, openly and freely. "Chuck, you're full of surprises."

Chuck leaned back, feigning indignation. "Hey, I made it through. I may not have achieved full Zen warrior status, but I can now do a semi-decent tree pose without falling into a ficus."

She grinned. "I'm impressed. For a guy who once tripped over a Roomba mid-presentation of Roark's biggest tech expo till date , that's growth."

"Thank you," Chuck said with mock solemnity. "I owe it all to Devon's absurdly symmetrical face and his relentless belief that physical suffering builds character."

Sarah leaned forward again, her elbow resting on the table as she watched him with genuine affection now behind her teasing smirk. "So he's the reason you look deceptively non-nerdy under that flannel?"

Chuck raised his brows. "You think I look good under the flannel?"

"I'm a trained observer," she said smoothly, her eyes sparkling. "I notice details."

Chuck grinned, his heart doing that annoying stutter thing again. "Well… just for you, I'll keep working on my form. Maybe throw in a few bonus planks."

Sarah leaned in a bit more, her tone dipping into something playful and low. "Careful, Bartowski. Keep that up, and I might start thinking this fake boyfriend thing comes with real perks."

Chuck's breath hitched—just for a second—but he played it off with a crooked smile, the kind that split across his face like mischief made manifest. "Well," he said, doing his best to sound casual despite the warm flush creeping up the back of his neck, "guess I'd better keep up the yoga, then."

Sarah quirked an eyebrow, sensing something was coming.

Chuck leaned in slightly, dropping his voice into something that sat right between teasing and earnest. "And I expect you'll be joining me eventually. You are my pretend girlfriend, after all." He paused, then added with exaggerated flair, "Slash affectionate overseer."

Chuck gave her a solemn nod. "That's the role, isn't it? Breakfasts, cover stories, the occasional mission… and now, yoga on the weekends. It's all part of the full fake-romance experience."

Sarah gave a thoughtful hum, tapping her nail lightly against her water glass. "Hmm. That depends."

Chuck tilted his head. "On what?"

"On whether you're flexible enough to keep up."

Chuck blinked. "Is… is that a challenge?"

She leaned in across the table, her voice low, her smile a touch wicked. "That's a fact, Chuck."

He grinned. "Okay. I'll have you know I'm surprisingly limber for a guy who once threw out his back lifting a PlayStation."

Sarah laughed—a soft, unrestrained sound that drew the attention of the couple at the next table. She didn't notice. Or didn't care. Her eyes were still locked on his.

"Fine," she said, playfully resigned. "But if I show up to one of these 'Captain Awesome' yoga sessions, I expect a full briefing beforehand. I want to know the playlist, the stretches, the scent of the essential oils. I'm not walking into a surprise lavender-mist ambush unprepared."

Chuck held up both hands like a scout. "You have my word. Total intel transparency."

She eyed him for a beat longer, then smirked. "Deal."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment after that, their food slowly cooling on the plates between them. But neither made a move to eat just yet. The air between them had shifted—still light, still playful, but threaded now with something quieter. Familiar. Maybe even intimate.

Sarah eventually reached for her fork again, but her gaze remained on him, softer now. "You know… this is nice."

Chuck blinked. "What, the waffles or the banter?"

"Both," she said. "But mostly the part where you don't treat this whole thing like it's a transaction."

Chuck opened his mouth, heart tugging toward something real to say—something honest and probably embarrassing—when a sudden flicker of movement caught his eye. His gaze drifted past Sarah's shoulder to the wall-mounted LCD television silently playing across the room above the bar.

It had been running background chatter all morning—stock tickers, weather scrolls, the usual—until now.

A bold red banner slid across the bottom of the screen: LIVE: High-Security NATO Event Begins in Downtown L.A. Keynote by General Arthur Stanfield.

The screen cut to footage of armored convoys arriving outside a luxury convention center draped in flags. Security detail bristling with earpieces and sunglasses. General Stanfield, silver-haired and composed, was shaking hands with diplomats.

Chuck's breath caught.

Then his vision fractured.

His pupils dilated. The ambient noise of the restaurant dulled into a thick, underwater hum. Sarah's voice faded into background static. And then—

FLASH.

A black-and-white profile.

Vuc Andric.
Yugoslavian-born. Serbian demolitions expert. Multiple Interpol red notices. Croatian passport under the alias "Ivan Plekovic." Height: 6'3". Scar on left brow.

FLASH.
Blueprints. Complex schematics of cutting-edge plastic explosives—military grade, cold-trigger tech. Pressure-sensitive mercury-based detonators.

FLASH.
A crowded conference hall. A satchel. Thermal readouts. Explosion radius spiraling across a digital model. Hundreds of casualties. The stage—obliterated.

Chuck jerked back in his seat, gasping as though he'd just breached the surface of a dark ocean. The restaurant returned to him in pieces—the clink of silverware, the hum of jazz, Sarah's fork mid-air. She froze, eyes narrowing.

"Chuck?" she asked, instantly alert, the shift in her tone so subtle only someone trained would catch it. "What just happened?"

He was pale now, his hands trembling slightly as he pressed his fingers to his temple. "I—I just flashed."

Sarah's demeanor changed in an instant. She straightened in her seat, every trace of playfulness gone. "What did you see?"

Chuck swallowed, trying to gather his thoughts through the haze of images still echoing in his brain. "A name. Vuc Andric. Serbian—no, Yugoslavian-born. Demolitions expert. He's got a Croatian passport, but it's fake. He's in the system under like four aliases."

Sarah's expression darkened. "He's on Langley's terrorist watchlist. I've seen the name once. Eastern European freelance contractor—big, unstable, and loyal to no one."

Chuck nodded quickly. "I saw blueprints. The explosives—sophisticated stuff. New-gen plastique with mercury-triggered detonation. There was a satchel in the crowd at the NATO event."

Sarah's eyes flicked to the television behind her without turning her head. "You think he's planning to hit it?"

She was already moving—one hand reaching for her phone, the other discreetly pressing a small button on the underside of her watch. "This changes everything. We need to move. Now."

Chuck blinked, still trying to shake the afterimage of smoke and fire. "Wait—we're not even done with breakfast."

Sarah stood up, sliding a credit card across the table with one fluid motion. Her voice dropped into something cold and precise—the operative taking the reins. "Congratulations, Chuck. You just intercepted a potential assassination plot on a top NATO official."

"Yay me," Chuck muttered, scrambling to follow. "I really wanted to finish those hash browns."

Sarah grabbed his arm—not harshly, but with the kind of firm, practiced grip that came from years of dragging VIPs and fellow agents out of danger. It was the grip of someone who had seen disaster begin in moments exactly like this—over coffee, under chandeliers, when the world still looked deceptively calm.

"You can eat later," she said, her voice low but razor-sharp. "Right now, we've got a war criminal to stop."

Chuck barely had time to throw a crumpled twenty on the table before she was pulling him past startled waitstaff and oblivious brunch-goers. The air around them seemed to thicken, every sound sharper now. The clink of glass. The scrape of a chair. The echo of a single name still ricocheting through Chuck's mind like a gunshot.

Vuc Andric.

Outside, the morning sun was blinding against the restaurant's polished glass doors. Sarah didn't flinch. She was already in motion, her hand sliding into her jacket and pulling out a slim black phone.

Chuck watched her face change as she moved—her expression narrowing, posture coiling with professional tension. The woman he'd just been joking with over hash browns was gone. In her place was the CIA's finest. A predator in heels.

She brought the phone to her ear and dialed with speed that suggested muscle memory. One ring. Two. Then—

"Casey," she snapped. "We've got a problem."

A gruff voice answered on the other end, all gravel and suppressed irritation. "Walker? I was in the middle of something."

"You can go back to polishing your guns later," she replied, already weaving Chuck through the parking lot toward the car. "We just had a flash. Chuck saw Vuc Andric."

Silence. Then: "Say that name again."

"Andric," she repeated. "Yugoslavian-born Serbian demolitions expert. Operating under a Croatian alias. He's in Los Angeles. Chuck saw blueprints—high-level plastique. Target is the NATO event downtown. Keynote speaker is General Arthur Stanfield."

There was a pause—just a heartbeat—and then Casey's voice returned, all business. "Are you moving?"

"We're en route now," Sarah said, throwing open the Porsche's passenger door and gesturing for Chuck to get in. He obeyed without protest, though his face was still pale.

"I'm ten minutes out," Casey said. "I'll coordinate with FBI and Homeland. If Andric's here, there's a kill order already on file."

Sarah's jaw tightened. "Let's not jump straight to bullets. We don't even know what he looks like now."

"You think he's here for sightseeing?" Casey growled.

"I think he's here to kill a general in front of a global press corps," she shot back, sliding into the driver's seat and firing the engine to life. "Which is why we need intel first. Eyes on target before we blow his head off."

Chuck blinked at her from the passenger seat. "Y'know, I liked you better when you were pretending to be my girlfriend."

Sarah glanced at him, her expression unreadable—but her eyes softened just slightly. "I can multitask."

Then she snapped back to the phone. "We'll recon the perimeter. Text me as soon as you get confirmation on Andric's last known."

"You got it," Casey said, already hanging up.

The call dropped. The engine revved.

Sarah yanked the gearshift into drive and peeled out of the lot with surgical speed, tires chirping against the pavement. Beside her, Chuck gripped the seatbelt with both hands like it might be a flotation device.

"Indefinitely," Sarah said, her eyes scanning the road. "You okay?"

Chuck exhaled shakily. "Define 'okay.' I just had a psychic vision of a terrorist, and now I'm riding shotgun with a woman who has lipstick and Glock clips in the same purse."

Sarah glanced at him sideways, lips twitching ever so slightly. "Welcome to the spy life, cutie pie."

Chuck groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Please stop saying that before I have a heart attack."

And just like that, the Porsche surged into the L.A. traffic—headed straight for the epicenter of what could become a global catastrophe.

…xxxxx….xxxxx…xxxxxxx…

Elsewhere — Downtown L.A.
T-minus 1 hour until the NATO Summit

Beneath the gleaming marble and security cordons of the Vanguard International Conference Center, where the flags of thirty nations fluttered beneath glass atriums and camera crews rehearsed wide-angle pans, a different kind of precision unfolded in the shadows.

Hidden within a crawlspace between two foundational concrete slabs—accessible only through an unmarked maintenance shaft near the sub-basement—Vuc Andric worked in reverent silence.

The air was stale and humid, thick with the scent of mineral dust, copper wiring, and insulation foam. Every breath tasted faintly metallic. But Andric was unmoved. He crouched on a folded foam mat to protect his joints, knees square, spine perfectly aligned. There was a military elegance to his posture, a ritualistic care in every movement.

A single LED headlamp illuminated his work—a stark, circular beam cutting across the darkness, casting monstrous shadows against the slabbed walls. His face, carved in hard Balkan lines, was lined and weathered, but nothing in it betrayed fatigue. A jagged scar traced just above his left eyebrow, a pale ridge earned in Sarajevo during a bombing that claimed the rest of his squad. It had never healed properly. He didn't let it.

He didn't sweat.
He didn't shake.
This wasn't adrenaline.
This was devotion.

Before him, laid out on a black nylon mat like the altar of a silent god, were the tools of devastation:

Explosive cores, shaped like soda cans but engineered with meta-stable RDX polymer sheaths—unstable under kinetic pressure, devastating once armed.

Coiled filaments of det cord, fine as fishing line, snaking through the toolkit like veins ready to surge.

A modified cold-pack detonator, camouflaged as a hydration unit but laced with a pressure-sensitive mercury switch and two failsafes.

And the crown jewel: a remote-activation module, disguised flawlessly as a matte-black vape pen—harmless in appearance, untraceable in transmission.

He hummed softly as he worked. The tune was a half-forgotten march from his childhood, taught to him by a father who had worn too many uniforms under too many flags. It was martial and melancholic—music meant for ghosts.

He placed the primary charge into a false-bottomed rolling suitcase lined with signal-dampening mesh and snapped the locks shut with quiet finality. Then came the secondary—already prepared, to be stashed near the media tower as a failsafe.

Andric reached into a worn side pouch and pulled out a burner phone. Its screen lit up with a message received at dawn, encrypted twice through dark-net relays and scrambled dead-drop protocols.

[STANFIELD. 1100 SHARP. VISUAL CONFIRM. MAXIMUM IMPACT.]

He replied with a short message, his fingers moving with the precision of a pianist:

"Package will speak for itself."

He believed in nothing but the end result. No manifestos. No martyrdom. Terrorism was theater—but he had always preferred a performance that left no survivors and no curtain calls.

Then—

A knock.

Soft. Three deliberate taps against the vent panel three feet behind him.

He stilled.

Not with panic. But calculation.

The SIG Sauer P229 was in his hand a moment later, smooth from hours of wear. He flicked the safety with a familiar motion, rose to a crouch, and approached the source of the sound. His headlamp clicked off with a thumb-tap, plunging the space into near-darkness save for the cold glow of his burner phone.

He unscrewed the panel with slow, measured care. It fell away with a soft clink.

A boy stared back at him.

Seventeen, maybe. Dressed in janitor greens, a security lanyard hanging awkwardly around his neck. Baby-faced. Acne still clinging to his cheeks. His eyes widened at the sight of the equipment behind Andric—the matte casing, the wiring, the unmistakable glint of a suppressed barrel.

"What the—what the hell—" the boy started.

Andric moved.

Thfft.

The silenced shot barely made a whisper.

The boy's body jerked, eyes rolling back as the bullet punched clean through his skull. Andric caught him before he fell. Not out of mercy—but to minimize noise. He cradled the weight with the efficiency of a man who had lifted more corpses than suitcases.

No anger.
No remorse.
Only necessity.

He dragged the body to the back corner of the crawlspace, rolled it into the insulation foam, and sealed the vent behind him. A few strands of dust floated lazily through the flashlight beam.

Then he smoothed his charcoal-gray blazer. Adjusted the conservative navy tie. Checked his reflection in the mirrored panel embedded in the server rack beside him. A well-groomed technician stared back—slim, salt-and-pepper hair neatly parted, wire-frame glasses perched on a nose engineered for anonymity.

The forged badge clipped to his belt bore the name Marko Kraljevic, sound engineer, assigned to the rear sound stage near the press exit.

He pulled the suitcase upright, adjusted the handle, and stepped out into the corridor beyond.

Footsteps echoed down the sterile hallway. Event crew bustled past with headsets and coffee cups. No one looked twice.

Forty-seven minutes until General Arthur Stanfield would step onstage.

Forty-eight minutes until the blast.

And when the fire faded and the screaming stopped, the world would remember the name Vuc Andric—whether they knew it or not.

He smiled faintly.

Then he vanished into the crowd.

….xxxxx…xxxxx…..xxxxx….

Downtown L.A. – 10:22 AM

NATO Security Perimeter – Vanguard International Conference Center

The black Porsche cut through mid-morning traffic like a scalpel, the engine growling as Sarah weaved between motorcades and barricades. Helicopters circled overhead, their shadows skating across the glass towers like vultures waiting for something to fall.

Dozens of uniformed officers, military liaisons, and private security teams crowded the approach to the venue, each checkpoint ringed with concrete blocks and portable scanners. Spectators and press gathered behind barriers, waving miniature flags of various NATO nations, cameras flashing, voices murmuring with the low-level hum of anticipation.

Chuck pressed his hand to the dash, the pit in his stomach deepening with every passing second.

"Okay," he muttered, adjusting his seatbelt as if that might help, "there are a lot of people here. Like… a lot."

"More than a soft target," Sarah said, eyes scanning the crowd, her voice clipped. "This is theater. The kind of stage a guy like Andric dreams about."

Chuck exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to a line of suited staffers and contractors filing into the side entrance. "You think he's already inside?"

"If he's good," Sarah replied, "he's been inside. Maybe since dawn."

She slammed the car into park along a restricted curb, flashing a forged Department of Homeland Security placard across the dash. In one fluid movement, she popped the trunk and stepped out, already sliding her credentials onto a lanyard as she headed for the rear of the vehicle.

Chuck followed, nerves rattling, heart thundering as he grabbed the compact tablet scanner Sarah tossed him from the gear case. "Tell me we have a plan."

"We do," she said, strapping a secure comm to her wrist. "You stay close. We look for signs—staffers out of place, suspicious bags, thermal anomalies. If you flash again, we move now, not later."

"Got it," Chuck said, even though his mouth was dry.

Just as Chuck and Sarah rounded the corner near the auxiliary staff entrance of the Vanguard Conference Center, the screech of tires snapped their attention toward the street.

A Crown Vic—old-school, government-issued, and still growling like a barely restrained beast—cut across two lanes of restricted traffic and skidded to a controlled halt at the curb. The suspension barely had time to settle before the back door swung open, not so much with hesitation as with practiced force.

John Casey stepped out first.

Dark tactical gear, compressed bulk beneath a civilian blazer, and that permanent scowl that seemed less like a facial expression and more like a threat carved in stone. His eyes scanned the area like twin targeting systems, already calculating entry angles, risk ratios, and potential exits before he'd even fully straightened.

Beside him, a second figure emerged—sleek, fluid, and very much not regulation.

Carina Miller.

Red leather jacket over combat-grade leggings, mirrored shades perched perfectly on her nose like she'd walked off the set of Spy Thriller: The Fashion Edition. Her gait was slow, languid, the kind of stride that oozed confidence and dared anyone to underestimate her. Her smile—lazy, half-lidded—was the kind that promised mischief before noon and mayhem by sunset.

Her high ponytail bounced slightly as she stopped beside Casey, tossing her hair like she was being filmed in slow motion. Even in the middle of a looming terrorist threat, Carina Miller looked like she was having the time of her life.

Chuck blinked hard. "Wait. Carina? What is she doing here?"

Sarah's eyes narrowed with that sharpness Chuck had learned not to take personally—but definitely not to ignore. "Casey."

Casey grunted, looking about as thrilled to be the messenger as he ever did. "Don't start. I just got off the phone with her superiors at the DEA. She's officially here on 'liaison observation.' Unofficially?"

He shot a look at Carina that could've peeled paint. "She's a favor I can't return and a bomb I'd rather not disarm. But she'll behave."

Carina gave him an innocent shrug, sliding her shades up to rest atop her head. "Aw, Johnny. That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It wasn't."

Chuck tilted his head. "Behave? Really? Her?"

Casey sighed. "She'll keep her nose where it belongs. DEA swears she's pulling out of L.A. by midnight. And considering I found her rummaging through Chuck's expensive liquor collection from his Roark days, —I figured dragging her along was safer than letting her loose."

"You could've tranq'd her," Sarah muttered under her breath, her tone so dry it could've cracked concrete. "Worked fine this morning."

Carina gave Sarah a pointed look and grinned. "What can I say? I was bored. Bartowski's place had some fine wine. And a surprisingly tasteful candle in the bathroom."

Chuck raised both hands. "Okay, let's not make this weird."

"Oh, it's already weird," Sarah replied, casting Carina a side-eye that could've melted Kevlar.

Casey cleared his throat, cutting through the tension like a dull blade. "We don't have time for your spy soap opera. There's a war criminal prepping a bomb, and Stanfield's got a bullseye on his chest. Focus up."

Carina raised a manicured brow. "Relax, big guy. I'm on my best behavior. I even brought my own handcuffs this time."

Sarah shook her head. "That's somehow less reassuring."

Carina smiled wide, flashing perfect teeth. "Come on, Walker. You know you missed working with me."

Sarah didn't respond. She didn't have to. The look she gave Carina—cool, sharp, restrained—said everything.

Chuck stepped cautiously between them like he was entering a lion enclosure. "Okay, great. Everyone's here. We've got the tension, the banter, and the backhanded compliments. Can we all agree not to kill each other before the bomb goes off?"

Carina slid her shades back down, gaze playful. "Don't worry, Doctor Chuckles. I'm a team player."

Casey rolled his eyes. "Only when the team's on fire."

Sarah snapped her earpiece into place with a precise click, her tone turning cold and professional as her eyes swept across the small team assembled near the conference center's staff entrance. "We split up," she said. "Casey and Carina, take the service corridor. AV hub should give you access to surveillance feeds and internal comms. Chuck and I will move through logistics and backstage—check staff credentials, utility rooms, and any potential access points."

She looked at each of them in turn. "Eyes open. No assumptions. We find Andric before he gets near that stage."

Casey gave a short grunt and checked the mag on his sidearm.

But before anyone could move, Carina let out a deliberately overplayed sigh, her expression a dramatic mix of mock disappointment and playful pout. "Aww," she purred, stepping forward in a slow, swaying glide. "But I really wanted to stay with my Chuckles."

And then—without warning—she slid up next to Chuck and looped both arms around one of his, latching on like an affectionate boa constrictor. She pressed close—too close—resting her head lightly against his shoulder with an almost innocent smile that was anything but.

Chuck blinked, momentarily locking up like an overloaded processor caught mid-glitch. His arms stiffened, his shoulders hunched, and he let out a tiny, undignified squeak.

"Uhh…" he croaked, his voice cracking like a teenager at a homecoming dance. "Carina, hi—uh, personal space is still a thing, right? Kinda sacred in most cultures. Definitely one of mine."

But Carina just grinned, purring the words against his ear like a line from a Bond parody. "Not in our world," she whispered, squeezing his bicep as if evaluating him like a car she might steal. "Besides… if this whole thing goes sideways and we're all vaporized in a high-profile, internationally televised kaboom…" she tilted her head, faux-thoughtfully, "I want my last minutes to be spent with someone fun. Preferably someone soft and nerdy."

Chuck's eyes widened as he turned helplessly toward Sarah, the universal expression of a man silently begging for extraction from a dangerous mission—just not the one he'd trained for.

Sarah Walker's eyes found Carina with sniper precision.

Not wide. Not loud. Just… narrow. A glint of cool steel slid into those ice-blue irises. The faintest narrowing. And yet, in that minute shift was an entire silent threat—surgical, lethal, and entirely unamused.

She didn't reach for her weapon. She didn't raise her voice.

She didn't need to.

"Carina," Sarah said with the unsettling calm of a glacier shifting toward impact, "this isn't spring break in Malta. We're on a live op. Let. Go. Of. Chuck."

Carina turned, her eyes wide and innocent as sin, her expression the human equivalent of a cat knocking over a priceless vase. "What?" she said sweetly. "He doesn't seem to mind."

Her lashes fluttered like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial, and she looked up at Chuck again with weaponized flirtation. "Do you, sweetie?"

Chuck's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "Well—I mean—uh—it's not that I mind, exactly, but I think I should—uh—focus. Yeah. Definitely. Laser focus."

With the awkwardness of someone disentangling themselves from cling wrap, Chuck squirmed free of her hold, smoothing his sleeves like he'd just escaped from a boa constrictor wearing perfume. He inched closer to Sarah, who gave him the faintest nod of approval—barely perceptible, but a gesture that somehow anchored him.

Carina rolled her eyes, her pout theatrical. "Killjoys. Honestly, how do you people have any fun?"

Before Sarah could reply with what was surely a razor-edged retort, heavy boots pounded the concrete as Casey stepped forward like an incoming storm cloud. His eyes were flint, and his patience had already been set ablaze.

"Move it, Miller," he growled, all grit and gunpowder. "You've had your fun. This is a live perimeter. You're burning time."

Carina spun on her heel with a flick of her red leather jacket, which flared behind her like a devil's cape. "Relax, Johnny. I was just doing a morale check." She shot Chuck one last wink. "Results: surprisingly squeezable."

Sarah turned, already moving, her voice clipped. "Chuck, with me. Now."

Chuck followed like a duckling sprinting for cover.

Behind them, Carina smirked and called after them, "Have fun, lovebirds! Try not to let the tension turn into frustration!"

Casey turned to her with a dry glare. "If you keep pushing Walker, I will let her hit you."

Carina winked. "Promises, promises." She then whispered to Casey, "You still haven't told him about the incident? You know how his apartment is practically a disaster zone now, thanks to Peyman Allahi and his goons? "

Casey's glare deepened, like he could crush granite with the sheer force of his disapproval. He leaned in close to Carina, his voice low and sharp as a scalpel.

"You wanna broadcast classified messes to the whole damn block, Miller?" he growled. "Because the last thing I need is Bartowski spiraling into panic mode when we've got a real-time terror threat about to detonate A high profile military event downtown."

Carina's smile didn't fade—if anything, it curled wider, more wicked. "Relax, Casey. I'm just saying… maybe tell the guy that his living room now has more holes than your alibi during that mission in Marrakesh."

She pivoted away, smooth and serpentine, her ponytail flicking his chest as she sauntered toward the service corridor. "Secrets always have a way of crawling out," she called back over her shoulder, "especially the ones we leave lying around in the wreckage."

Casey's jaw worked silently for a beat. Then he exhaled hard, muttering to himself, "I should've tranqued her in the car."

He adjusted his earpiece and followed after her, tension coiled tight in his shoulders. Because Carina wasn't wrong—not completely. Chuck's apartment was a wreck, courtesy of Peyman Allahi's mercs, and Chuck didn't know the half of it yet. That particular truth bomb was still ticking too.

And somewhere ahead, so was the real one

…xxxxxxx…..xxxxxx….xxxxx…..

INT. LOS ANGELES GENERAL HOSPITAL – NEUROLOGY WING

The sterile white of the hospital room did little to calm Ellie Bartowski's racing heart. She sat upright in the recliner, her fingers nervously tapping against the plastic cup of now-cold coffee, eyes glued to the television mounted in the upper corner. Devon "Captain Awesome" Woodcomb paced behind her, jaw clenched, scrolling through the news on his phone, stopping now and then to frown at ominous headlines.

NEWS ANCHOR (ON TV)
"...multiple reports of a localized explosion in Echo Park earlier today. Witnesses claim SWAT units were seen responding to a residential apartment complex—details remain unclear, but law enforcement has not ruled out gang-related violence…"

Ellie muttered under her breath, "Echo Park? That's two blocks from Chuck's place."

Devon stopped pacing.

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "I know."

Ellie's breath hitched. She immediately stood and snatched her phone from the end table, her hands already dialing.

"Still not picking up," she muttered anxiously, phone pressed tightly to her ear. "He always answers. Always."

Devon moved to her side, wrapping a reassuring arm around her, even as his own worry twisted behind his composed expression. "Babe, relax. Chuck probably left his phone on silent. Or… or maybe it got lost. You know how he is—always misplacing tech."

Before Ellie could respond, the door to the hospital room swung open.

A man in a dark tailored suit stepped inside. Late 30s, clean-cut, professional. His FBI credentials flashed briefly as he slipped them back into his coat.

"Dr. Bartowski?" he asked evenly. "And Dr. Woodcomb?"

Ellie blinked, confused. "Yes? That's us."

"I'm Special Agent Ryan Dempsey, FBI Domestic Operations Division. I'm here on behalf of Homeland Security and the Office of National Coordination. May I?"

He gestured toward the nearby chairs.

Devon's protective instincts immediately flared. "Wait—what's going on? Is this about the Echo Park explosion? Is Chuck okay?"

Agent Dempsey held up a hand—measured, calm. "Your brother is fine. He's safe. That's why I'm here. To deliver that message before you hear something inaccurate from the media or—God forbid—a nosy neighbor."

Ellie's knees almost buckled as she sank into the chair. "Oh my God. What happened?"

"There was an attempted break-in at your brother's apartment building this morning," Dempsey said carefully. "We believe it was an isolated event tied to a cybercriminal group operating out of Macau—some lingering vendetta from Chuck's time with Roark Instruments."

Devon's brow furrowed. "Roark? That was years ago."

"We believe this group has remained active underground. One of their operatives managed to trace a past digital signature—nothing Chuck did recently. It was likely a scare tactic. Chuck wasn't harmed. In fact, he wasn't even inside when it happened."

Ellie gave a shaky exhale, rubbing her temple. "God, this is insane. Is he under protection? Why didn't he call me?"

Agent Dempsey's expression didn't shift. "Mister Bartowski is currently on a date with his new girlfriend."

Ellie stared at the agent, her mouth slightly open in disbelief.

"A… date?" she repeated, her voice almost shrill with the spike of outrage and confusion.

Agent Dempsey nodded with clinical detachment. "Yes, ma'am. Your brother is currently safe, and in the company of someone he trusts. They're under observation, and I've been assured he'll reach out after the conclusion of his… plans."

He gave a polite, meaningless smile.

"Movies and all that," he added blandly. "Have a nice day."

Without another word, he turned and exited the room with crisp military efficiency, the door clicking shut behind him like a final insult.

For a moment, the hospital room was dead silent—except for the soft hum of the ceiling vent and the distant beeping of a heart monitor in the hallway.

Then Ellie's nostrils flared, and she launched to her feet like a rocket fueled by betrayal.

"That little shit!" she hissed, fists clenching so tightly her knuckles blanched white. "He's out there playing footsie in a movie theater while his apartment exploded and I'm in a hospital trying not to have a full-blown panic attack!"

Devon blinked, caught somewhere between alarm and awe.

"Chuck has a girlfriend now?" he asked, bewildered, like someone discovering an exotic species in the wild. "When the hell did that happen?"

Ellie paced furiously, running both hands through her hair in a tangled blur of emotions—relief, fury, protectiveness, and something close to disbelief.

Devon held up his hands. "Okay, okay—babe, breathe. Let's take this one moment at a time."

"I am very calm," Ellie declared, storming back toward her phone and stabbing at the screen. "I just want to talk to my baby brother and ask him why the hell the government is casually informing me that he's too busy making out in a theater somewhere to let me know he's not dead!"

She paused, eyes scanning her screen. Still no texts. No calls. No voicemail. Nothing.

"And that smug fed didn't even blink when he said it. Like it's completely normal for my emotionally stunted, anxiety-prone, Diet Coke-addicted brother to suddenly have a love life and not die in the process!"

Devon held up his hands, trying not to laugh. "Hey, babe, you gotta admit… kind of awesome?"

She turned to glare at him.

He raised his hands higher. "I mean, not the timing, obviously. Just… you know. Chuck. With a girlfriend. Kinda rad."

Ellie narrowed her eyes. "You're taking his side now?"

"No! No sides," Devon said quickly. "Just saying, maybe this is a good sign. Maybe he's okay. Really okay. Like, emotionally. Maybe that's why he didn't call."

Ellie sighed heavily and slumped into the chair, her energy finally crashing. Her voice was quieter now, the fury slowly draining into exhaustion.

"He better be. Because if he's not bleeding, and he's not in mortal danger, and he chose to go on a date instead of answering my calls—"

She paused, leaned forward, and glared at nothing in particular.

"—I swear, I will cancel every single streaming service he uses and block his PlayStation from our Wi-Fi."

Devon sat beside her, chuckling softly despite the tension. "Oof. Ruthless."

She didn't answer, just rubbed her temple again, muttering under her breath.

"…Charles Irving Bartowski, just wait till I get my hands on you. You 're a dead man walking."

And somewhere far away, a very innocent Chuck Bartowski who was apparently busy stopping a psychopath from blowing up a high profile NATO event, had no idea what kind of hell his sister was going to unleash the moment she saw him.

….xxxx…xxxxx….xxxxx…

So this is it.

Sorry I took my time but I am finally done with it XD

Thank you all for your love and support for this story so far.

See ya next week :)