Chuck vs. the Ring of Fire, Chapter 10: "The Man Comes Around"

2:35 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time

Saturday, July 21st, 2012

Studio City, California

A Saturday afternoon in July. A high of 82 in the Valley. A group of good friends.

No better excuse for an afternoon barbecue.

The Bartowskis had decided to host it in their rather spacious backyard. Chuck had set up one of the televisions outside so that they could all watch the Dodgers and the Red Sox in interleague play down at Dodger Stadium. The Dodgers were pounding the Red Sox, much to the delight of everybody but Sarah, who was rather pissed at how poorly her Red Sox were playing that season.

But right at the moment, Sarah had peeled herself away from the debacle in Chavez Ravine to put Lisa and John down for their afternoon naps. When John had started tugging at his ear ten minutes before – his way of communicating that he was ready for a nap – and Lisa had gotten cranky, Sarah knew that it was time.

Sometimes she wished she could be a toddler. Toddlers had it so much easier. They could take naps and forget about the world.

Not so adults. Especially adults in her profession. Especially adults who had co-workers who were total sluts.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed as she remembered what had happened eight and a half days prior.

Chuck had just returned home from his surveillance mission in Redlands with Carina. Sarah had been curious about the damage to the Dodge, and Chuck had explained what had occurred – how the Slayers had accidentally been alerted to their presence, and then pursued them through downtown Redlands, and then Chuck took their two vehicles out.

However, the story had seemed somewhat patchy. Sarah had decided to just leave it alone, and write the patchiness off to stress and fatigue – for the moment.

Of course, that had lasted about ten minutes, right up until Chuck had started getting undressed, and Sarah had noticed that there was lipstick on him where there MOST DEFINITELY SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN LIPSTICK.

Needless to say, she had just about gone off the deep end. The screaming rant she went on for two minutes had woken the kids and actually caused one of their neighbors to call the police. It would’ve gone on for longer had Chuck not interrupted and told her everything that had happened.

Learning the truth had lessened Sarah’s anger toward Chuck somewhat. She still had a white hot rage that burned against Carina, but she didn’t fault Chuck for what had occurred. She was majorly pissed, however, that he hadn’t just told her about it in the first place, and she was even more pissed that he had been planning to withhold it from her.

The next day, Friday the 13th, every time she had seen Carina, she’d greeted her by calling her not by her name, but by “Slut”. “Hi, Slut,” Sarah had said. “You got those surveillance tapes for me yet, Slut?”

Of course, that hadn’t gone over very well with Carina. She and Sarah had ended up practically having a knock-down, drag-out brawl in Sarah’s office, which Ellie had ended up having to break up, because for some reason, Casey, Bryce, Chuck, Morgan, and Devin all seemed to be somewhat reluctant to break up the fight. In fact, it had seemed as though they were content to just stand around and watch.

Sarah and Carina had hardly spoken for the next week, but Chuck, being Chuck, had decided that if they were inviting the rest of the company to the barbecue, it wouldn’t be fair to tell Carina she wasn’t welcome. Sarah had reluctantly agreed to let Carina come, after getting Chuck to agree that Sarah didn’t have to be polite to or social with Carina.

Sarah sighed heavily. It hadn’t always been like that between her and Carina. There had been a time when she and Casey had, by themselves, gone into a terrorist training camp in Pakistan to rescue Carina. Sarah wasn’t sure if she’d be willing to do that for her old mentor now.

She leaned against the changing table and sighed again. The receiving blanket had long since been replaced, but she could still see a very, very faint blood stain on the side of the table that had just never washed out completely.

It was hard to believe it had only been five months since she had been shot by General Beckman. It seemed like it had been a lifetime.

Sarah didn’t know how long she stood there before she heard a voice in the doorway. “Something on your mind?”

It was a welcome voice, to be sure, but not necessarily the voice she most wanted to hear just then. “It’s no big deal, Bryce. Just the shooting, and what happened with Carina… you know how it is.”

Bryce nodded as he stepped into the room. “Believe me, I do,” he replied. “The pain, the confusion… I experienced that firsthand when I watched Chuck take you away.”

Okay, that was not what she had been expecting. “Say what now?”

Bryce’s face took on a very sincere and somewhat frightening expression. “I never got completely over you,” he told her. “When you didn’t pick up the phone in Los Angeles… when I heard that you and Chuck had started something… and worst of all, when I heard that you were getting married.”

He took a deep breath. “I just felt like something inside of me had died. And truth be told, I’ve never completely recovered.”

Sarah shook her head, incredulous. “Okay, look, I so cannot deal with this right now. And come on, Bryce, what about Rachel?”

Bryce narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean you can’t deal with this right now? I’ve been dealing with it for FOUR YEARS, Sarah.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “And yet you never once said anything? You can’t just drop this on me, Bryce –“

He grabbed her hands as they fell, and looked into her eyes. “Then you don’t have to deal with it, Sarah. Just help me.”

Sarah did not like this situation one bit. “Bryce, you’re starting to frighten me here,” she said softly, hoping he’d take the hint.

But he didn’t. Instead, he moved his hands to her shoulders. “Sarah Walker, I just can’t hold back any more. I still love you. You have to know that.”

And without warning, he leaned in and kissed her. Sarah’s eyes went wide in alarm, her body stiff. She froze for a moment in shock.

When she heard Lisa say, “Mama?” though, it snapped her out of it. Bringing her hands up, she pushed Bryce away, making him stagger backward. Then, winding up her left arm, she hauled off and backhanded him across the face, the stone on her engagement ring tearing into his cheek.

The slap staggered him again, and he brought a hand up to his face. Bringing it away, he saw the blood. “I guess you feel differently,” he said in a low voice.

“Get out,” Sarah hissed. “Get the hell out, right now.”

She stayed standing in the room as Bryce exited. She was still standing in the same spot two minutes later, when Chuck came into the room.

“Uh, is there a particular reason why Bryce just stormed out of here with his face bleeding?”

Sarah looked up at him, her expression guarded. “Well… in the interest of full disclosure…”

---

9:30 A.M., PDT

Tuesday, July 24th, 2012

Studio City, California

It was quiet in the SCCS building. It almost seemed TOO quiet.

Morgan sat at his usual spot – the reception desk in the lobby, where he had unfortunately spent far too little time as of late. The phones hadn’t rung at all that morning. Chuck and Sarah had been uncharacteristically quiet when they came in. Bryce hadn’t said a word, and he’d been sporting a rather nasty looking cut on his face. Rachel Harrison had stormed in looking incredibly angry, with red rimmed eyes that looked as though they had been that way for a couple of days.

John Casey, Will Williamson, Mitch Tucker, and Carina Hansen had all stood by Morgan’s desk for nearly twenty minutes as the five of them discussed in hushed voices the fact that none of them really had a clue what was going on. That had continued until Chuck had come out of his office and told them all in a very dangerous sounding voice to get the hell to work.

With all of the staff given a weekly reprieve on Tuesdays from hell at the Empire Plaza, everybody was in the office and dressed professionally. Chuck, however, was dressed in a much more somber fashion than Morgan could ever remember having seen him before.

A black Armani suit, a black Brooks Brothers shirt, a black silk tie, and black shoes. Chuck didn’t really look like somebody Morgan would particularly be in the mood for messing with.

At 10:30, something particularly bizarre happened. A tone sounded over the P.A., indicating that it had been turned on. Morgan looked up quizzically – that had not before happened in the SCCS building.

A moment later, though, the distinctive, gravelly voice of Johnny Cash began to sound from the speakers.

“And I heard, as it were, the voice of thunder. One of the four beasts saying, ‘Come and see,’ and I saw, and behold, a white horse.”

The door to Chuck’s office flew open, and he slowly walked out, his posture stiff, his step almost military. Morgan was alarmed to see Chuck's Ruger .357 revolver strapped to his hip rather than in its usual shoulder holster.

“Chuck, what the hell is going on?”

There’s a man goin’ ‘round, takin’ names… he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won’t be treated all the same… there’ll be a golden ladder reachin’ down, when the man comes around.

“Not now, Morgan,” Chuck replied, his voice quiet but deadly. He strode past Morgan’s desk toward the door to the stairway.

“Chuck, buddy, listen, I don’t know exactly what you’re planning on doing, but maybe you should stop and breathe, think about this a minute?”

The hairs on your arm will stand up, at the terror in each sip and in each sup…will you partake of that last offered cup, or disappear into the potter’s ground? When the man comes around.

Morgan had interposed himself between Chuck and the stairwell door. “Chuck, seriously. I don’t like the look in your eyes.”

Chuck looked down at Morgan, and his expression softened a little. “Morgan, listen to me very carefully. What is about to happen is completely deserved. Somebody is probably going to get their ass kicked. But the gun… it’s just for show, okay?”

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers… one hundred million angels singin’… multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum…

Morgan still didn’t like what looked to be occurring, but he was willing to trust his oldest friend’s judgment. “Alright, Chuck. Just, try not to do too much damage, okay?’

Chuck nodded. “That I can assure you of. I’m still just a weenie civilian, remember?”

He opened the stairwell door and started up to the second floor, Morgan right behind him.

Voices callin’, voices cryin’, some are born and some are dyin’. It’s Alpha and Omega’s kingdom come.

Chuck took the stairs two at a time, with Morgan struggling to keep up. When he reached the top, he slammed the crash bar into the door. The door flew open, banging against the wall.

Chuck stood on the administration floor, looking across the cubicles. Every eye in the room had turned to him, and the door to Sarah’s office cracked open. She looked out, wondering what the hell was going on.

A grim smile appeared on Chuck’s face. “Oh, Bryce…”

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree, and the virgins are all trimming their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree… it’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks.

Bryce rose slowly from his desk. “Yes, Chuck?” he asked, his voice guarded.

“Come here a moment, would you?” Chuck replied. He began to walk toward Bryce’s cubicle. Bryce exited the cubicle and met Bryce halfway.

Chuck slowly raised his left hand to Bryce’s eye level, the back of his hand toward Bryce. “Take a good look at my hand,” he said. “Notice what’s on the ring finger?”

Till Armageddon, no shalam, no shalom. Then the father hen will call his chickens home. The wise men will bow down before the throne, and at his feet they’ll cast their golden crowns, when the man comes around.

Bryce gulped visibly. “Chuck, seriously, it wasn’t what you think it was…”

Chuck ignored him. “Do you know whose hand the matching ring is on?”

Bryce nodded. “I do, Chuck, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Spare me your platitudes, Bryce,” Chuck growled. “I made a vow to Sarah, and she made a vow to me. How DARE you try to tamper with that.”

Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still. Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still. Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still. Listen to the words long written down, when the man comes around.

“Chuck –“

Bryce had been so fixated on Chuck’s left hand that he didn’t even notice when Chuck’s right hand shot up, balled into a fist, and headed directly for Bryce’s face. It impacted Bryce’s left cheek at an alarming rate of speed. There was a sickening crack, and Bryce was knocked off his feet, drawing a gasp from Rachel Harrison.

Bryce rolled over, his face throbbing. He pushed himself up to his knees, and brought his hand to his mouth. It came away covered in blood. He slowly turned to face Chuck –

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers… one hundred million angels singin’… multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum…

- and Chuck’s left foot caught Bryce just under the ribcage, throwing him backwards to land on the floor. Bryce doubled over in pain, a cough involuntarily making its way up from his lungs. The cough was accompanied by a fresh burst of blood from the injury to his mouth.

Now Bryce was mad, but unfortunately for him, anger was not quite enough to overcome the pain he was in. “You know, Chuck,” he gasped as he struggled to his feet, “I was trained by the CIA. I know a very large number of ways to kill you.”

“Save it,” Chuck growled, unsnapping his holster and withdrawing the .357 revolver.

Voices callin’, voices cryin’, some are born and some are dyin’. It’s Alpha and Omega’s kingdom come. And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree, and the virgins are all trimming their wicks.

Bryce was experiencing a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Fear. “Uh, Chuck, what exactly do you plan to do with that?” he asked, his hands slowly rising into the air.

Sarah’s office door had come all the way open, and there was a look of shock on her face – but Bryce noticed that neither she nor anybody else was moving to intervene.

Chuck cocked the hammer on the revolver. “Sarah is my wife, Bryce,” he replied, ignoring Bryce’s question. “She moved on from you many years ago, and it’s time for you to do the same.”

The whirlwind is in the thorn tree, it’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks, in measured hundredweight and penny pound, when the man comes around.

Chuck slowly released the hammer, letting it back down. Bryce breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’ve been my friend for too long for me to do something really stupid,” Chuck told Bryce. “But you will never, ever touch Sarah again.”

Bryce nodded, as Chuck continued. “You are suspended for ten days, without pay,” Chuck said. “You are not to enter the SCCS building during that time. You are free to contact any SCCS staff, including Sarah. However, if you contact her, it is to be on a professional basis only.”

“Thank you, Chuck,” Bryce said quietly.

Chuck nodded. “You’re welcome, Bryce. But let me make something clear – if you ever, EVER even think about going anywhere near Sarah again, you will be terminated.”

He replaced the gun in its holster and snapped it shut. “And I don’t mean you’ll be fired.”

“And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts. And I looked, and behold, a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death, and hell followed with him.”

Chuck vs. the Ring of Fire, Chapter 9: "It Ain't Me, Babe"

10:04 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time

Thursday, July 12th, 2012

Redlands, California

Chuck Bartowski was not comfortable with his situation. In fact, he was VERY MUCH not comfortable with his situation.

It had been decided that Chuck and Sarah couldn’t both go on missions late at night – one of them had to stay home with the kids. Sarah had ordained Chuck as being more important to this particular mission, since there was a good chance he would flash on one if not more of the people expected to be seen.

She had assigned Casey and Bryce to accompany Chuck to San Bernardino County. However, Casey had then come down some sort of virus, and was swapped out with Carina. Then, right before they were supposed to leave, Bryce had gotten violently ill – Ellie suspected food poisoning.

And so, here Chuck was, sitting behind the wheel of his maroon Dodge station wagon, alone in the car with the last person he wanted to be alone in a car with – Carina Hansen. They were in the Dodge because he didn’t want to risk any of the Firestone Slayers recognizing Casey’s Suburban, Mitch Tucker’s Land Cruiser, or Bryce’s Jeep.

Carina had behaved completely professionally so far, but Chuck didn’t think there was any possible way that that was going to last. She was too wild, too much of a loose cannon – part of the reason why the DEA had been willing to part with her.

But for the entire drive out to Redlands, she had been mostly silent, not really making conversation, not really flirting with Chuck like she usually did. Now, as they sat on La Paloma Street, across the street from a house just south of downtown Redlands, she sat quietly, a high-powered parabolic microphone aimed at the house.

Chuck was meanwhile engrossed in Tom Clancy’s latest novel, Follies of War – a pretty good fictional account of 1986’s Operation El Dorado Canyon, the America airstrikes against Qadaffi’s forces in Libya. The book of course utilized Clancy’s old standby characters – Jack Ryan, John Clark, Robby Jackson – but it was pretty good, far better, in fact, than his last few had been.

The F-111s had just taken off from RAF Lakenheath to head for Libya when Carina interrupted the story.

“Chuck,” she said quietly.

He looked up from his book, and looked at her over the tops of his glasses. With only the reading lamp illuminating his side of the car, she didn’t seem to be much more than just a silhouette.

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s about time.”

Uh-oh, Chuck thought, his stomach beginning to churn. “Uh, time for what?”

Carina turned on the reading lamp on her side of the car. She had a seductive and purely evil smile on her face. “Time for me to collect, bucko.”

Chuck shook his head emphatically. “No.”

“Oh, but why, Chuck?”

Chuck looked at her disbelievingly. “Perhaps because I’m married, and I have two kids, and my wife could easily kill both of us.”

Carina mockingly pouted. “Spoilsport.” But then, the smile returned to her face. “The facts are these, Chuckles: I saved your ass. Now I want a piece of it. And I’m gonna get it.”

Chuck couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Why are you so bound and determined to go through with this?” he asked incredulously. “What makes ME so special?”

Carina cocked her head to the side. “Well, first of all, you’re cute. The glasses add a special touch. Secondly, I like taking what Sarah has. You know that.”

“I’m aware,” Chuck replied dryly. “But what exactly have you taken of hers?”

“Ha!” Carina laughed. “There was this mission, in Brazil… we were down there for a couple of months, and Sarah and Bryce were sort of on the rocks. Little does she know that Bryce and I were sleeping together almost the entire time.”

Chuck’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, believe it,” Carina replied. “I can give you very exact details…”

“And I’d prefer it if you didn’t!” Chuck interrupted forcefully. “And you’d be better off if Sarah never finds out about that. She probably will kill you.”

Carina made a face. “Over Bryce? Come on, Chuck, that’s been over for nearly five years. She’s moved on. She’s found something better.”

“Exactly,” Chuck replied. “So why would you want to take that away from her?”

“Oh, I don’t want to take it,” Carina said, smiling again. “Just borrow it.”

And before Chuck could react, Carina had set the microphone on the dashboard, pushed herself out of her seat, and swung herself over into Chuck’s, straddling his lap. “And something tells me you wouldn’t object to being borrowed.”

“No, no,” Chuck objected. “This is not happening. You have surveillance to conduct.”

“Whatever,” Carina replied, rolling her eyes. “I’ve gotten exactly nothing from them all night.”

And with that, she traced a fingernail behind Chuck’s left ear. He closed his eyes and bit his tongue. She had hit on one of his weak spots, and she seemed to be aware of that, doing the same thing behind his other ear.

No, no, NO! Chuck’s mind commanded the rest of his body, and for the moment, it seemed to be working. But then, Carina’s left hand found its way down to his crotch. She took hold, and he gasped, his eyes flying open.

“No,” he said weakly, but opening his mouth was a mistake, as Carina quickly sealed her mouth against his, her tongue snaking its way inside his mouth.

Chuck tried desperately to force his body to keep from reacting to what Carina was doing with her tongue and her hand, but he was failing rapidly. His body began to react in a very serious fashion.

Carina realized that very quickly. “You see,” she whispered in Chuck’s ear, her warm breath making him gasp again, “the mind says, ‘No,’ but the body says, ‘Oh yes!’”

Chuck squeezed his eyes shut again. He clamped his mouth closed and hunched his shoulders, hoping that his body would stop reacting, and that Carina would take the hint.

And he thought she did. She sighed. “Oh, Chuck,” she breathed. “You are just too tense. You need to learn to relax and have a little fun.”

He felt her slide off of his lap, and began to relax his shoulders a bit –

And then she took hold of the waistband of his pants and wrenched them violently downward, the boxers going with them. Chuck’s eyes flew open as he was completely exposed to Carina.

“What the hell?!” he gasped.

“My, my, no wonder Sarah’s been so happy these last couple years,” Carina said approvingly. Carina moved before Chuck could even get a grasp on the situation. He could feel her lips – her tongue – oh God –

His mind was beginning to lose the capacity for coherent thought. Chuck’s vision was going blurry – or maybe that was just the reading glasses screwing things up – he could see the red hair on Carina’s head slowly bobbing up and down – he slammed his hands on the steering wheel, and the reading lamp reflected off the gold band on his left hand –

And that was more than enough to return Chuck to reality. He flung open the driver’s door of the Dodge Magnum and practically dove out into the street, yanking his pants back up as he came to his feet. He slammed the door shut, and leaned against the side of the car, breathing heavily.

A moment later, the shotgun door opened, and Carina stepped out. “Really?”

Chuck looked up, locking eyes with her across the roof of the car, a mixture of disbelief and rage written on his face. “You’re fucking psychotic, you know that?!”

“Oh, come on, Chuck, no harm, no foul. Hell, you could’ve at least let me finish.”

“No harm no FOUL?!” Chuck felt like he was going crazy. “You tried to make me cheat on Sarah!”

“No,” Carina corrected him, “your body was doing that all on its own. I was just trying to encourage your mind.”

“Fuck you,” Chuck spat.

“That’s actually what I was going for,” Carina replied cheekily. “Back in the car?”

“No!” Chuck shouted. “Go to hell!”

Apparently they were a bit too loud, because at that moment, the door of the house across the street opened. “¡Odele, vato!” Chuck heard. “You wanna keep it the fuck down out here, eh?”

Chuck whirled around – and his eyes rolled back in his head.

The images came fast and furious. The pictures of him, the documentation. The videos of the things he’d done. The name – Alberto Calijo, El Anillo del Fuego.

As his vision returned to normal, he could hear Calijo still shouting at him from across the street. “Seriously, yo!” he heard. “You and your bitch got a problem, get back in the car and shout it out. There’s people tryin’ to sleep!”

Another man joined Calijo on the porch. “Yo, ‘Berto, what’s goin’ on?”

Then the man looked across the street, saw Carina – and his jaw dropped in disbelief. “¡Pinche puta!” he swore. “That bitch was with the group that attacked us in Norwalk!”

“Oh, SHIT,” Chuck uttered. He looked back over at Carina. “Get back in the fucking car!”

He wrenched open the driver’s door, and cranked the engine over, putting the station wagon in drive as soon as it had started. He punched the gas and the Hemi engine responded, rocketing the car away from the curb before Carina even had the chance to get her seatbelt on.

Behind him, Chuck could see men pour out of the house, scrambling to get into a Ford Ranger pickup and a Chevy Impala sedan. The lights on both came on, and they both took off like a shot after Chuck.

Chuck took a hard left onto Fern Avenue, and then blasted out into traffic on Redlands Boulevard. Wrenching up the handbrake as he shot out into the thoroughfare, he powerslid to the left into the westbound lanes of Redlands Boulevard. Releasing the handbrake, he punched the gas again and flew toward downtown, the two Slayers vehicles still hot on his tail.

He shot down the street at nearly seventy miles an hour, scattering cars and pedestrians as he flew. Chuck heard the occasional shot come from the cars behind him, but nothing came close to hitting his car.

At this point, Chuck had no idea where he was going, but he knew he had to get the hell away from those two cars behind him. As he was passing the Redlands Mall, he took a hard right at the stoplight for the mall entrance. Putting the mall behind him, he accelerated down Third Street –

To find that it ended at a parking lot. “Oh, hell,” he breathed, gunning the engine as the two gang cars followed him up the street. He took the driveway into the parking lot hard enough to scrape the bottom of the car, and spun the steering wheel to the left, the Ranger and the Impala on his rear bumper like white on rice.

It was at that moment that Chuck realized he was in the parking lot of a Krikorian theatre. A BIG one. And there were a LOT of people. “Oh dear God,” he muttered, leaning on the horn.

Between the horn and the roaring of the engine, everybody thankfully got out of the way. Chuck reached the other end of the parking lot and bounced out of the driveway, flying out onto Eureka Street. He turned right and headed north – and it looked like he was headed toward the I-10 freeway.

Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. If he could get to the 10, he could get away… but as he came to the freeway, he came to the sickening realization that there were no onramps from Eureka Street onto the freeway. “No, no, NO!” he whined in despair as he rocketed under the freeway – and a shot blew out the back window.

Chuck ducked, and realized that Carina had been silent since they left their surveillance position. “You!” he shouted as he took a right onto Colton Avenue. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d kept your hands off of what isn’t yours!”

“ME?!” she responded in disbelief. “If you hadn’t jumped out of the car and started yelling like a maniac, we would’ve been fine!”

“For God’s sake!” Chuck shot back. “I’m a married man, and you were trying to blow me!”

Carina rolled her eyes as the speedometer hit 100. “What, and you think Sarah never did that with a married man?”

Chuck stomped on the brakes, yanked up the handbrake, and spun the wheel left. The Magnum screeched to a halt, spinning around one hundred eighty degrees as it did so. The Ranger and the Impala both swerved to miss the car, the Ranger sliding to a halt perpendicular to the road and stalling, with the Impala stopping right in front of it.

“Not recently, though,” Chuck growled at Carina. “Not since we’ve been together.”

“Well… no,” she admitted. “But she did go through training at a place called the Sparrow School. And she was good. I know – I was her instructor.”

Chuck looked in his rearview mirror. The driver of the Ranger was trying to get the truck started again. “I really don’t care what she did before I knew her,” Chuck said darkly. “All I care about is the fact that she’s been faithful to me since we’ve been together.”

Carina blew out her breath in frustration. “Yeah, she has been.”

“Good,” Chuck replied. “Now hold on, because I’ve only ever seen this work in GTA Vice City.”

He popped the Magnum’s transmission into reverse, and hit the gas. The distance between his rear end and the rear end of the Impala rapidly decreased. Just before impact, he saw the Impala’s backup lights illuminate – but it was far too late.

The big Dodge station wagon’s rear bumper impacted the Impala’s tailgate at nearly forty miles per hour. Chuck winced as his body was pressed backward against the seat. The whine of distressed metal on the Magnum’s rear end was nearly ear-splitting –

But it was completely worth it to watch the Impala rocket forward into the side of the Ranger. The Ranger slowly tipped over, and as Chuck watched, a geyser of coolant shot skyward from the Impala’s front end.

With a grim smile, Chuck shifted the transmission into drive, and pressed the Magnum’s accelerator to the floor, praying that it would still go forward.

And go forward it did, the rear tires spinning, and then shooting the Dodge station wagon forward again. The Firestone Slayers were left far behind, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Fifteen minutes later, as the damaged station wagon entered the city of Fontana, Chuck looked over at Carina. “Against my better judgment, I’m not going to tell Sarah about this,” he said quietly. “But if you ever do something like that again, I WILL tell her, and then may God have mercy on your soul.”

Carina said nothing. She just looked ahead, silently staring forward as the Dodge drove into the night.

---

12:05 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time

Friday, July 13th, 2012

Studio City, California

The station wagon rolled into the garage just after midnight. Chuck cursed how loud the garage door was as it closed.

And clearly, it was loud enough to wake Sarah, as the door from the laundry room opened and she stepped into the garage. Turning on the lights, her left eyebrow raised as she took in the damage to the car.

“Trouble?” she asked sardonically as Chuck stepped out of the car.

Chuck said nothing at first, just stepped to his wife and embraced her tightly. She returned the embrace, and then he pulled back and kissed her on the forehead.

He looked down at her and smiled tiredly. “You have no idea.”

Chuck vs. the Ring of Fire, Chapter 8: "Folsom Prison Blues"

10:00 AM, Pacific Daylight Time

Thursday, July 5th, 2012

Studio City, California

Chuck Bartowski sat in his office in the SCCS building, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Ellie had convinced him three days before that it was time when he started squinting to read the scores of baseball games on his sixty-inch television.

He didn’t like them, not at all. They were an annoyance, and they made his vision fuzzy when he looked elsewhere. To make matters worse, Sarah had told him that they made him look “dignified”, which John Casey had immediately decided meant “old”.

Chuck didn’t want to look old. He was only thirty-one. But here he was, reading glasses, and God help him, he had actually found a gray hair that morning.

“It is so time for a haircut,” he had muttered immediately after finding the gray hair.

But right at the moment, he was reading over a contract. George Clooney’s Section Eight production company had taken Chuck’s first video game – Mindnode – and turned it into a movie two years before. A story about an average Joe who gets a database full of government secrets stuck in his head, it had starred Lee Pace, Kristen Bell, and Gareth David-Lloyd, and had been a moderately successful summer movie, grossing just over 170 million.

Now, Section Eight and Warner Brothers wanted to turn it into a TV show, for a mid-season pilot launch. Apparently, they had lined up Josh Schwartz, the guy who had come up with “The O.C.”, to produce it, and Joseph “McG” Nichol to direct the pilot. George Clooney himself was overseeing it, and had Anton Yelchin, Miley Cyrus, and Sean Maher onboard to play the three main roles.

And of course, it involved eighty pages of legal bullcrap that Chuck had to read over himself because he refused to hire an assistant other than Morgan.

Chuck wasn’t sure about Anton Yelchin or Miley Cyrus. Sure, Yelchin had been okay as Chekov in the Star Trek movie back in 2009, but then again, Chuck would probably never be entirely okay with whoever played the character based on him. And for that matter, Hannah freakin’ Montana as Sarah’s character?! Come on. The only acting choice he was completely behind was Sean “Simon Tam” Maher for the character based on Casey.

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back from his desk. He just couldn’t concentrate on this right now. He was impatiently waiting for Sarah and Casey to come up with a worthwhile plan of attack on the Firestone Slayers that didn’t involve mayhem and destruction – something that was less than simple for them, since mayhem and destruction was a specialty for them both.

That’s when Chuck’s secure phone rang.

It never rang. He almost didn’t recognize the warble at first, and then looked at it like it was a snake. Gingerly, he reached out, lifted the receiver, and held it to his ear.

“Bartowski, uh, secure?”

“Bartowski, this is Director Tyler.”

Sam Tyler on the phone. The Wisconsin-born, Manchester-raised CIA director with the accent that made him sound like he belonged on something produced by Russell T. Davies.

“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got some backdoor intelligence for you from the DEA regarding the Firestone Slayers,” Tyler replied. “Interested?”

Chuck sat bolt upright in his chair. “Absolutely!” he said sharply. “Do continue…”

Tyler chuckled. “Alright. So it seems that the Slayers tend to spend a lot of time a LONG way from their namesake street, at a little place called the Empire Center in Burbank. You know of it?”

Chuck groaned. “You could say that…”

Sam Tyler paused a moment, but didn’t press the issue. “They have a car audio store there – Hermosa Audio – and that seems to be a front for their operations. The DEA seems to think they launder a lot of money through there.”

Chuck sighed. “Well, thanks… is there anything else?”

“No, that’s all. You have an idea on how you’re going to proceed with this?”

“Unfortunately,” Chuck replied wryly.

Tyler chuckled again. “That’s kind of what I figured. Keep me posted.”

And he hung up the phone. Chuck sighed, much more deeply this time, as he replaced the handset for the STU-8 in its cradle.

Reaching over to the standard phone, he picked it up and dialed a number he knew by heart, and when the automated system at the other end picked up, he dialed extension 111.

It rang twice, and then picked up. “Thank you for calling Buy More Burbank, you’ve reached the office of Lester Amanpoor, General Manager, how can I help you?”

“Lester, it’s Chuck. I need your help.”

---

12:30 PM

The team had assembled in the conference room at Chuck’s request – minus Carina, who was in Juarez running down a lead on a drug-trafficking ring. Chuck wanted desperately to not have to put this plan into action, and was as such hoping that Casey and Sarah had come up with something good.

“Alright,” Chuck began. “Good afternoon, everybody. Let’s make this simple. Morgan, what have you got?”

“Can’t get any phone records on any of these guys, Chuck,” Morgan replied. “These guys are too smart. It would seem that they buy those prepaid phones from places like 7-Eleven, cash only, and toss them before they can be traced.”

He turned a page in front of him. “All their other bills – utilities, rent, everything – are paid through a company called –“

“Hermosa Audio,” Chuck interrupted him.

“Yeah,” Morgan said quizzically. “It’s completely legit – we’ve got nothing there.”

“Lovely,” Chuck muttered. “Bryce?”

The ex-CIA agent shook his head. “I can’t get an exact trace on how they’re getting their weapons,” Bryce replied. “There are rumors, that they bring them in over the borders, mostly through North Dakota and Arizona, where there’s pretty much nobody watching, but then there are rumors that they pick the weapons up at gun shows that are completely unregulated – well, it’s just a mess.”

“What about the rumors I’ve heard about them having military grade weaponry?” Chuck asked. “Any leads on that?”

Bryce shook his head again. “As much as I’m sure none of you want to hear this, military weapons go missing all the time. A misplaced shipment here, a Hummer that loses its payload there – and way too much of it can end up in south central for me to keep track of.”

Chuck rubbed a hand against his forehead. “That’s just fantastic,” he grumbled sarcastically. “Ellie?”

His sister didn’t have any better news. “According to my colleagues, they see Slayers at the L.A. Medical Center down in Hawthorne on a fairly regular basis, but there are absolutely no records – none – for any of them. They must have somebody on their payroll, somebody who can make sure that no permanent records exist for any of them.”

Chuck was astonished. “How is it that a group of street thugs from south central Los Angeles can be better organized than the freakin’ Mafia?!” he exclaimed. “This is ridiculous!”

He turned a pleading gaze on John Casey and Sarah. “Please tell me you have something. Please. Please. Please.”

“You’re sounding desperate,” Casey cracked. “Must be the… uh… dignity from those glasses wearing off on you.”

Chuck gave Casey the evil eye. “Just tell me your plan of action.”

“Uh…” Sarah sighed. “In short, we don’t have one.”

Chuck couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t HAVE ONE?!”

Casey shook his head. “You told us that declaring war and deporting them were out of the question, and that REALLY limits our options,” the former NSA agent said. “You heard Morgan and Bryce and Ellie – we have no way of tracking their phones, their weapons, their hospital visits. Their bank accounts – all in the name of Hermosa Audio. How exactly are we supposed to go after these guys?”

Chuck buried his face in his hands. “There’s one more option,” he muttered.

“Really?” Sarah asked. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

Chuck took his hands back away from his face and shook his head. “I just got a call from Director Tyler a couple of hours ago,” he replied. “He had some intelligence from the DEA for me. Apparently, the Slayers spend a LOT of time at the shopping center that Hermosa Audio is in.”

He sighed. He was doing that a lot today. “That shopping center happens to be the Empire Plaza in Burbank. I figure that the easiest way for us to keep track of their movements is, well, an undercover operation.”

As soon as he said that, the faces of John Casey, Morgan Grimes, and worst of all, Sarah Walker, turned to stone. “You have got to be kidding me,” Casey growled.

Chuck shook his head. “I REALLY didn’t want to do this,” he replied. “But it sounds like we have no choice.”

“I swore to God Almighty that I was done with that place,” Sarah said, her eyes narrowed. “You are REALLY pushing the boundaries of ‘to have and to hold’ with this one, bucko.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Chuck sighed. “But we all start Monday. And yeah, we’re all back at square one – Sarah, you’re back on the line at the Wienerlicious. Morgan, Casey, you guys are back on the sales floor at the Buy More, and guess what – I’m right there with you guys.”

He closed his eyes. “Back at the goddamn Nerd Herd desk.”

---

12:00 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time

Monday, July 9th, 2012

Burbank, California

Chuck Bartowski had never before seriously contemplated killing himself.

Never before, that was, until now.

He was a multi-millionaire. He owned a wildly successful video game company, not to mention a consulting firm with a 20 million per year government contract. He was married to a beautiful woman and had two amazing kids.

And yet, here he was, standing behind the unholy of unholies – the Nerd Herd desk of the Empire Plaza Buy More in Burbank, California. The place he had spent seven unfortunate years of his life, one of those years as the assistant manager of the store.

Three years had passed since he had told Big Mike to take his job and shove it. Three years. In that time, John Casey had risen to general manager of the store and then departed. And now, somehow, Lester – LESTER! – had made his way to the top of the dog pile.

He had greeted Chuck with a smirk that morning, and introduced him to his team. A rather unfortunate looking eighteen year old Hawaiian kid named Albert. A far-too-perky co-ed from Occidental College who dressed in as little as possible. And Jeff.

If there was anything that astonished Chuck about the Nerd Herd, it was that Jeff was still part of it. He had been part of it long before Chuck had come onboard, and God willing, Chuck wouldn’t be there long enough for Jeff to quit or get fired.

But Chuck had spent the last two hours fielding inane questions from some truly unintelligent people, and it was driving him crazy. He had seen Morgan and Casey a couple of times – Morgan looked like he was going to cry, and Casey looked like he wanted nothing more than to burn the Buy More to its foundations.

And then, just after noon, it happened.

The part of Chuck’s day that he had always looked forward to several years before. The moment when the doors slid open, and in walked a pig-tailed, blue-eyed blonde in a German beer wench outfit with a little Wienerlicious nametag.

The difference now, of course, was that he was married to said blonde. And he had to admit, Sarah still looked DAMN good in the outfit, even after having been pregnant with twins and having been shot by a psychotic ex-NSA director.

“Why, hello,” he said sarcastically as she walked up to the counter. “Welcome to hell – uh, Buy More. How may I assist you?”

Sarah smiled. “Oh, come on, Chuck, it’s not that bad. You’re not running the Superfry Death Machine!”

Chuck couldn’t help it. He smiled and shook his head. “I remember when you refused to call it that.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, gotta have something to get me through the day.”

She moved in closer to him. “I came over here because a group of the Slayers were in the Wienerlicious for lunch. I overheard them talking about a drugs-for-weapons swap they’re doing out in San Bernardino on Thursday night. We might want to have a couple of people, you know, check that out.”

Chuck nodded and smiled. “I knew I could count on you to get me what I needed.”

Sarah leaned back and smiled as well. “You wait a few hours, I’ll give you whatever else you need.”

Chuck raised an eyebrow. “You know, I do believe I’m going to hold you to that.”

---

Author's Note: the reason I picked "Folsom Prison Blues" as the title for this chapter is simply because of how I figure Chuck, Casey, Sarah, and Morgan would all feel about their old jobs after having escaped them for so long.

Chuck vs. the Ring of Fire, Chapter 7: "Papa Was a Good Man"

9:30 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time

Friday, June 29th, 2012

SCCS Building, Studio City, California

After the incident in Norwalk, Chuck had told everybody to take a couple of days off. He wanted everybody to sort of cool down from confronting the Firestone Slayers on their own turf and getting away with it.

He also didn’t want anybody even REMOTELY connected with the Slayers to see a bunch of black vehicles together and be able to pinpoint where they were. He figured that after a few days, they’d move on to bigger and better things, but until then, he wanted SCCS to fly under the radar.

On Friday morning, though, he asked everybody to come in. He wanted to look at the mission, figure out a plan of attack, figure out what exactly they were going to do.

“Alright,” Chuck said, looking around the conference room. “So. Our objective is to neutralize the Firestone Boulevard Slayers as a criminal force in Los Angeles County, and if possible, apprehend Alberto Calijo. Ideas?”

Not surprisingly, John Casey opened his mouth and let loose with gusto: “Kill ‘em all!”

Chuck rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Not an option, Casey. Other ideas?”

“Deport ‘em all!”

“Casey, come on. Let’s be serious.”

Casey looked back at Chuck. “I AM serious,” he replied. “Round them up, and drop them on the other side of the border. We give a heads up to ICE, none of them will EVER get back in the country.”

Chuck shook his head. “We can’t do that, Casey. It’s against the law, and it’s unconstitutional.”

“I seem to recall you have a ‘We are the law’ warrant stashed somewhere, Bartowski.”

Now Chuck was getting mad. “We are not going to ABUSE the law, Casey. What makes you think that rounding them up and tossing them out of the country will solve the problem anyway?”

“Sure take care of a bunch of illegals,” Casey grumbled.

“What about the legal residents and the citizens?” Chuck protested. “And for that matter, what do you have against illegal immigrants? They leave, California falls apart.”

Casey gave him a sideways glare. “They leave, they stop being a drain on the system. They stop causing crime. They stop being a pain in my ass.”

Chuck’s blood was starting to boil. He couldn’t believe he was hearing this.

Sarah saw that Chuck was getting angry, and moved to intervene. “Casey, I think that’s enough. We need to think –“

“No, Sarah,” Chuck grated. “If Casey wants to have his opinion, he can have it. But let me tell you a little something about illegal immigrants, bucko.”

He paused and breathed deeply, collecting his thoughts. “In 1943, a pair of twelve year old children were smuggled out of the Warsaw Ghetto, shortly before the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Their parents knew that the Uprising was coming, and knew that they had to get the children out of there so that they would be safe.

“Their names were Ladislaw Bzechewski, a boy from a Jewish Polish family, and Irina Kuznetsova, a girl from a Jewish Russian family that had settled in Warsaw after the pogroms that accompanied the 1917 revolution. They had been friends since they were toddlers, and their families were desperate to get them as far away from the Nazi empire as possible.

“A Catholic priest had contacts across Europe and in the United States, and was able to get them out of Warsaw to Gdańsk. There, they were placed onboard a container vessel which dropped them overboard in a rubber dinghy off the coast of Ireland.

“An Irish Catholic priest who was friends with his Polish counterpart arranged for Ladislaw and Irina to be placed onboard a ship that was going to the United States. It miraculously made it across the Atlantic unharmed, and they were smuggled ashore near Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

“Ladislaw and Irina were taken in by different families, but in those days, the process for getting legal status for a Jew – especially a Jewish child with absolutely no paperwork – was a nightmare. So, the Catholic Church provided them with false paperwork, because they believed that that was the Christian thing to do, and because it was easy to get away with in 1943.

“As they grew older, they became more Americanized, and adopted Americanized versions of their names. Ladislaw became Sid, Irina became Irene. Their friendship grew into something far greater, and in 1950, when they were both 19, they were married.

“Shortly thereafter, Sid, feeling a sense of duty to his adopted country, joined the United States Army. When he enlisted, his last name was also Americanized – he was told to make it easier for his comrades in arms to pronounce it.

“Sid served three years in Korea, and then returned home. He remained in the Army. He and Irene were shuffled all over the United States, and had their first child – a son – in 1957. They named him Irving – after, of all people, Irving Berlin.

“In 1963, they had a second child – a daughter. They named her Marilyn – yes, after Marilyn Monroe. Then, in 1967, Sid was sent to Vietnam.

“He was a Sergeant First Class when he was shipped out, and received a battlefield promotion to Master Sergeant in 1968. However, in 1969, he was shot and killed – at the age of 38. He didn’t live to see his own grandchildren.

“Irene, however, did. Irving had two children, but Marilyn didn’t have any. Irving’s first child – a girl, named Eleanor, was born in 1979. His second, a boy, named Charles, was born in 1981. So Irene lived to see two grandchildren, AND she lived to see a Polish man become Pope – a Polish man by the name of Karol Wojtyla, who years before had risked his life as a 23 year-old deacon to drive her and her future husband out of Warsaw.

“In 1987, she had a massive heart attack and died, at the age of 56. And so, both Sid and Irene Bartowski, both of who had been good, upstanding citizens, Sid giving his life for the United States – both of them died, still technically illegal immigrants.”

Chuck crossed his arms and stared long and hard at John Casey. “Do you kind of understand why I resent your comments about illegal immigrants, Casey?”

Casey shrugged weakly. “It was a different situation,” he offered.

“I don’t care,” Chuck replied. “If you’re going to work here, Casey – and this goes for all of you – you will remember that you are no better than any other human being. I figured this group of people would be able to handle that, but if that’s not the case, please leave now.”

The room was quiet. Everybody just stared at Chuck. Nobody – not even Ellie or Morgan, the people who had known him longest – could remember ever seeing him like this.

“Uh,” Sarah said softly, breaking the silence, “I think we should take a break. Resume back here in, say, fifteen minutes?”

A murmur of acquiescence rippled around the room, and everybody left the conference room except for Chuck and Sarah. She stood up, and crossed to Chuck, who was looking out the window, his back to her.

Placing her left hand on the back of his neck, she began to gently rub it. “Are you okay?” she asked, the note of concern in her voice fairly evident.

He blew out his breath in frustration. “Yeah, I guess so,” he sighed. “I just didn’t figure that this would be how things were going to go.”

“Chuck, you knew when Director Tyler and Senator Graham asked you to start this that we were going to be performing operations that the United States government couldn’t afford to be involved with. That’s why we started this.”

Chuck turned to face Sarah. “I didn’t expect to be going after a gang in Los Angeles, Sarah!” he exclaimed. “This is not what I thought I was signing up to do!”

“Chuck,” Sarah said soothingly, “we’re going after this gang because their leader has ties to Al Qaida and Fulcrum. I think that’s a pretty good reason, especially considering that one of those two groups has, on more than one occasion, tried to kidnap or kill you.”

Chuck shook his head. “Believe me, if I was going after him simply because of the Fulcrum connection, there would be nothing that could stop me. They deserve to pay after what General Beckman did to you. But we’re not. I assure you that the LAPD has asked us to take on this mission because they want the Slayers gone.”

“Is that such a bad thing, Chuck?” Sarah asked. “This is a gang that operates along the I-5 freeway, from Norwalk all the way up to Burbank. That’s just a few miles from our house. Wouldn’t you rather see John and Lisa grow up not having to ever worry about this gang coming into the neighborhood?”

Chuck huffed and ran his hands through his hair, but a hint of a smile began to form on his face. “That’s just dirty, using the kids to support your argument.”

“No,” Sarah replied, “that’s parenting. You want dirty…”

She stopped and smiled.

Chuck shrugged. “I could go for dirty.”

Without warning, he grabbed Sarah and pulled her close to him, kissing her hard, and managing to snake a hand up under the back of her blouse. Resisting the urge to give in to him, she instead pushed him away.

“Not NOW, you pervert!” she scolded him, the smile on her face nonetheless getting bigger. “Everybody will be back in a few minutes.”

“Aw, come on, Sarah, I’m a guy, I can make it quick…”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “LATER.”

A moment later, the door to the conference room swung open and John Casey stepped back in. He stopped short when he realized it was just Chuck and Sarah in the conference room.

Awkwardly looking down at the carpet, Casey made his way back to his chair and sat. He was quiet for a moment, but finally spoke up.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was an ass. It doesn’t change how I feel about illegal immigration, but I shouldn’t have been a dick about it.”

Chuck sighed. “Thank you, Casey. I probably could’ve afforded to be a little less heavy-handed.”

Casey nodded. “I think that you and I should perhaps never talk politics, Bartowski. We might end up going ten paces and draw.”

Chuck smiled. “I think I’d prefer to avoid that, because I think I’d lose.”

“Aw, give yourself some credit, Bartowski. After all, you did have a pretty good instructor.”

Chuck shook his head. “Yeah, an instructor who set up a cardboard target that managed to get us almost blown out of a field by the NSA.”

“But we’re VERY THANKFUL that you taught Chuck how to shoot, Casey,” Sarah interjected, “because if it hadn’t been for him, I don’t know what General Beckman might have gotten away with.”

Chuck nodded somberly. “Okay, you’re right on that one… but this conversation is rapidly getting depressing. Can we talk about something else?”

Casey smiled. “We can talk about how the Red Sox have booted nine in a row and are sinking to the bottom of the AL East faster than a submarine with a screen door.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes at the disparaging mention of the Red Sox. “I will end you both.”

Chuck vs. the Ring of Fire, Chapter 6: "Ring of Fire"

11:42 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time

Tuesday, June 26th, 2012

SCCS, Studio City, California

The phone on Morgan’s desk rang. He sighed. It was going to be another boring call. All of them were. Every single call he’d received since they’d opened twelve days beforehand had either been for Ventura Medical or for Nerd Cave Video Games. The troops were getting restless, and Chuck was making noises like he was getting ready to send Bryce back out into the field for more Fulcrum-hunting.

“Good morning, thank you for calling the SCCS Building, my name is Morgan, how may I assist you?” he spat out rapid-fire.

“Yes, may I be connected to Studio City Consulting Services, please?”

Morgan’s eyes widened. A real call?! No way. Finally!

“Uh, may I ask who’s calling please?”

“Yes, my name is Commander Rick Pope. I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Uh, could you please hold a minute?”

“Not a problem.”

Morgan pressed the hold button with a trembling finger, then put the phone in its cradle. He shot out of his chair and dashed across the lobby, wrenching open the Nerd Cave door.

“Chuck!” he gasped breathlessly. “I’ve got an honest-to-God call for SCCS on the phone! It’s some dude with the LAPD!”

Chuck looked up from the code he was working on for his next game. “No shit,” he said, standing up quickly. He followed Morgan out the door to the reception desk, where he picked up the phone.

“Thank you for holding,” he said. “My name is Chuck Bartowski, I’m the president of SCCS. How can I help you?”

“Mr. Bartowski, my name is Commander Rick Pope. I’m with the LAPD Gang Squad. I understand that your company specializes in operations that otherwise reputable organizations may not necessarily want on the books?”

Chuck frowned. That wasn’t exactly how he would have described SCCS. “Actually, sir, we’re an organization that was begun as an adjunct to the United States government to provide security services for sensitive situations.”

Commander Pope laughed. “So in other words, yes.”

Chuck sighed. “I suppose we could be described that way, by less than charitable individuals.”

“Mr. Bartowski, I’m not looking to be charitable,” Pope replied. “I’ve got a task force that encompasses seven Southland police agencies, the California Highway Patrol, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’ve got this gang that we’ve been trying to shut down for almost a year now, but because one of their number managed to get himself elected to the State Assembly, we’re finding roadblocks every time we turn a corner.”

Pope paused. “I’ve spoken with Senator Arthur Graham,” he continued. “He assures me that your organization can take care of things, with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of federal support.”

Chuck sighed again. “Commander Pope, this sounds like a very serious mission. I would need to meet with you in order to discuss specifics before committing a single moment of my company’s time. There would also be a rather substantial fee involved.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Bartowski. How quickly can you get to Parker Center?”

“Forty-five minutes?” Chuck replied. “An hour, maybe?”

“How about 1:00?” Pope asked. “Can you be here with your top people at 1:00?”

“Yeah, we can do that,” Chuck said.

“We’ll see you then.”

And the phone went dead.

Chuck shook his head and replaced the handset in its cradle. “Morgan, can you get Sam Tyler on the phone?” he said. “And call Bryce… tell him he’s not going anywhere.”

Before Morgan could respond, Chuck had crossed the lobby to the stairs, and was headed up to the second floor. When he burst out into the SCCS offices, the only desk occupied was John Casey’s.

“Casey,” Chuck said, and pointed toward Sarah’s office. Casey said nothing; he simply rose from his desk and followed Chuck toward the office of the chief operating officer of Studio City Consulting Services.

Chuck knocked on the door and pushed it open. Sarah was sitting at her desk, staring intently at her screen and making the occasional sharp movement on the keyboard.

Curious, Chuck walked around her desk. Sarah was sitting there playing Call of Duty V.

“Seriously, you’re the COO of the company, and here you sit, playing Call of Duty,” Chuck said, no small amusement in his voice.

“I… have been… on one serious op in the last… three years,” Sarah replied, her concentration clearly on the screen. “I have to… get my aggression… out somewhere.”

“That may all be about to change,” Chuck said, and THAT got Sarah’s attention quickly. Casey’s interest was piqued as well, his eyes brightening and his posture getting a little straighter.

“I just got off the phone with Commander Rick Pope of the LAPD’s Gang Squad,” Chuck told them. “He’s apparently running an interagency task force that’s trying to take down a gang; however, it would seem that a former member of that gang somehow got himself elected to the state Assembly, and is now being a royal pain in the ass. Commander Pope has spoken with Senator Graham, and the three of us have an appointment to speak with him at Parker Center in a little over an hour.”

“Wait,” Casey said, “I’m confused. What exactly does he expect us to do?”

“Take down a gang, I think,” Chuck replied. “I really don’t know for sure. That’s why we’re going downtown – he’ll tell us there, I imagine.”

Fifty-two minutes later, John Casey’s Crown Vic pulled into the parking garage at Parker Center. Casey pulled directly up to the front of the building and parked in a spot marked “Police Vehicles Only”.

“Uh, Casey,” Chuck said from the backseat – how he had ended up there, he still wasn’t sure, but it annoyed him – “that sign says Police Vehicles Only.”

“Your powers of observation are astonishing, Bartowski,” Casey wisecracked. “Do you REALLY think they’re gonna tow a black Crown Vic in a police parking garage? There’s probably a handful of cars just like this in this garage.”

Chuck couldn’t argue with Casey’s logic, and so just grumbled and followed the two former federal agents into the building. They both removed their guns – and in Sarah’s case, her usual veritable arsenal of other weapons – as they entered, and it was a good thing they had gone before Chuck – if he hadn’t seen them remove their weapons, he would’ve completely forgotten about the Ruger .357 that Sarah had insisted he start carrying in a shoulder holster.

He sighed and reached under his jacket, removing the six-shot revolver and placing it on the table next to the metal detector, along with his permit to carry concealed. He turned and walked through the metal detector. Once declared clean, he was told that his weapon and his permit would be returned to him when he left the building.

“You know, I have had to fire a gun exactly once in my entire life,” he remarked as they headed toward the elevators. “And that was YOUR gun.”

“I believe remember the incident fairly well,” Sarah deadpanned. “And I think it’s proof of why you need to have the gun. If I had had my gun, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Actually, if General Beckman hadn’t been a psychotic traitor, it wouldn’t have happened,” Casey said as they stepped into the elevator.

“Well, there is that.”

The elevator let them out on the vice investigation floor, where a corner had been dedicated to the gang squad. A small office that looked like it might’ve been a broom closet at one point had a sign on the door that indicated it was the office of Commander Richard Pope.

Chuck led the way to the office and knocked on the door. “Come in!”

He opened the door and stepped into a cramped, stuffy office that smelled of coffee and cordite. “Ah, the smells of home,” John Casey breathed as he stepped inside.

“Law enforcement?” the police commander asked, looking up at Casey.

“Air Force, and other… activities,” Casey replied. “Can’t really talk about ‘em that much.”

“Fair enough,” Commander Pope replied, indicating that they should take a seat.

“So, Mr. Bartowski,” Pope began, “you seemed to have reservations about this when we spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Yes, sir,” Chuck replied. “I’m not exactly comfortable with the idea of my company being used for the LAPD’s dirty work because of a political hangup.”

Pope nodded. “Understandable,” he said. “But, you see, I spoke with Senator Graham again after speaking with you. He faxed me a picture, and suggested I have you take a look at it.”

Chuck narrowed his eyes, and reached out to take the picture from Pope. He looked at it, and saw a man in a three piece suit, with a teardrop tattooed below his eye –

And Chuck’s eyes rolled back in his head. He saw a barrage of images – the first flash he’d had in months. And this one was painful. Incredibly painful.

He blinked his eyes and shook his head. “Alberto Calijo,” he said quietly. “Also known as El Anillo del Fuego – the Ring of Fire. Known associate of Al Qaida, FARC, and our good friends, Fulcrum. Also a big cheese for the Mexican mafia, and gang leader of…”

Chuck sighed. “The Firestone Slayers.”

Casey rolled his eyes. “Oh, joy,” Sarah said dryly.

“You’ve had an encounter with the Slayers?” Pope asked.

“About four and a half months ago,” Casey replied. “We got stuck at a stoplight at Pioneer and Firestone, some of them approached our van, and informed Agent Walker here that she looked like she could, and I quote, ‘suck a good dick’. Agent Walker then disembarked from the van and blew the windshield out of one of their cars. The two of us informed a group of about twenty of them that they could depart or die. They chose to depart, but I’m guessing we’re on their shitlist.”

Pope looked at Sarah. “I thought your name was Sarah Bartowski,” he said, looking down at a sheet on his desk. “Why is Mr. Casey calling you Agent Walker?”

She shook her head. “I really can’t talk about that.”

Pope’s eyes widened as his brain connected the dots. “Wait, you’re… you’re Sarah Walker! Legend in the CIA!”

“Oh, here we go,” Chuck muttered.

“Commander Pope, I cannot talk about that,” Sarah said tightly. “If you know anything about the intelligence community, then you know exactly why.”

He held up his hands. “Alright, fair enough. Anyway. The Firestone Boulevard Slayers are a real menace. They’ve managed to start, if not gang wars, then conflicts with the Crips, the Bloods, and MS-13. They’re causing all sorts of trouble in South Central. LA County Sheriff’s has had to start putting uniforms on all Blue and Green Line trains for the protection of the passengers.

“Anyway, Calijo’s cousin got himself elected to the Assembly, and he’s blocking everything we’re trying to do to take down the Slayers. That’s where you come in.”

Chuck shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re expecting us to – excuse me.”

His phone had begun to ring in his pocket. The “Bohemian Rhapsody” ringtone told him immediately who it was – Director Sam Tyler. “’bout damn time,” he grumbled as he dug the phone out. “This is Bartowski.”

“Chuck, Sam Tyler. Listen – you are to cooperate with LAPD on this thing in whatever way possible. We believe that Calijo is tied in with Fulcrum –“

“I’m aware of that, sir.”

“And we want him gone. His gang, too. By ANY MEANS POSSIBLE.”

Chuck threw up his free hand in exasperation. “Sir, you’re talking about an illegal operation here!”

Sam Tyler was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low, his tone foreboding. “Chuck, I have here in my hand what is essentially a get out of jail card and hunting license all rolled into one. It’s signed by the President himself – he still owes you and yours a debt of gratitude for what happened back in February.”

Chuck had been backed into a corner. There would be no getting out of this one. “Alright, sir. But I want a copy of that faxed to my office immediately.”

“Consider it done.”

---

3:30 P.M., PDT

Norwalk, California

The black Jeep Wrangler exited the I-5 freeway onto Pioneer Boulevard, followed by a black Toyota Land Cruiser and a black Chevrolet Suburban. The Wrangler looked odd indeed – a machine gun turret on top, with what appeared to be TOW missile launchers deployed from both of the front fenders.

The three car convoy rolled south on Pioneer Boulevard, half a mile to Firestone Boulevard. In the backseat of the Suburban, Chuck leaned over to Sarah.

“You really think this is a good idea?” he asked worriedly.

“If the first thing we do is announce our intention to completely destroy them, there’s a chance that they’ll pack it in and go home,” Sarah replied confidently.

“Yeah, a CHANCE,” Chuck said. “This is not just our company’s reputation we’re putting on the line here – this is my life, your life, everybody else’s lives. After all we’ve been through the last few months, what the HELL do we think we’re doing here?”

Sarah sighed and looked Chuck in the eyes. “We will be fine,” she replied. “You and me – think of everything we’ve been through. You were abducted, I rescued you. I was shot, you rescued me. We saved the country together. After all that, do you think a few gang members are going to stop us.”

That brought a small smile to Chuck’s face. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Sarah smiled, and kissed him lightly. “It’s gonna be fine.”

The three SUVs rolled to a stop in the middle of the intersection of Firestone and Pioneer. Bryce Larkin opened the shotgun door of the Jeep and stepped out. He looked strange dressed in full body armor and a riot helmet, but it was for his own protection.

He flipped up the visor on the riot helmet, and brought a bullhorn to his lips. “Attention Firestone Boulevard Slayers!” he called.

That got the attention of the twenty or so men standing on the street corners. Chuck recognized a few of them as the men who had accosted Sarah back in February when they were fleeing the NSA. He was glad that the Suburban had limo tint in its windows.

“You are hereby on notice!” Bryce continued. “You have been marked for removal by the United States of America! You have a choice – you can either turn Alberto Calijo over to us and disband immediately, or you can be destroyed. The choice is yours.”

Almost before he stopped speaking, a shot rang out, and Bryce was knocked on his ass. The shot spurred Casey, at the wheel of the Suburban, and Mitch Tucker, at the wheel of the Land Cruiser into action. The two larger SUVs pulled up on either side of Bryce.

Carina Hansen threw open the back door of the Land Cruiser, laying down covering fire with an MP-5, while Chuck opened the back door of the Suburban and dragged Bryce inside. Rachel Harrison, at the wheel of the Jeep, brought it around in a circle, while Will Williamson stood up in the machine gun turret and fired a burst into the sky.

The Slayers recognized immediately that they were outgunned and backed off. The Jeep sped off down Firestone Boulevard, with the Land Cruiser and the Suburban hot on its tail. Chuck winced as he heard a bullet ping off the rear bumper of the Suburban.

“Well,” Bryce croaked, sitting up and still trying to regain his breath, “I guess they made their choice.”

“You think?” Chuck asked sarcastically.

Sarah shook her head at Chuck’s sarcasm. “It was a successful mission, Chuck,” she said. “That’s something you’re going to have to learn if you’re going to be in this business as a professional.”

Chuck rolled his eyes and shook his head. “If this was a successful mission,” he cracked, “I’d HATE to see a failure.”