9:55 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time
Wednesday, August 29th, 2012
The Beverly Center
The Grand Lux Café didn’t actually even open for another hour, but when George Clooney calls a restaurant manager and tells him that he needs to have a meeting at the restaurant, the manager doesn’t say no.
And so it was that Chuck Bartowski sat at a table by himself, nursing a very strong cup of coffee, waiting for Clooney and Katharine McPhee to arrive. However, his mind was anywhere but 131 North La Cienega Boulevard.
Chuck hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the events of Sunday. He knew that his decision to wipe out the Firestone Boulevard Slayers had been a knee-jerk, heat-of-the-moment reaction to the fact that Alberto Calijo had dared to touch his little girl. He also knew that he was responsible for the deaths of probably close to a hundred gang members, not to mention a six-man LAPD SWAT team.
To a man, everybody he knew insisted that the SWAT team wasn’t his fault. Casey, Bryce, Carina, Will, Mitch, Rachel, Morgan, Devin, Ellie, and most importantly, Sarah. It didn’t matter to Chuck, though. He couldn’t get the faces of those men off his conscience.
He had wanted to spend more time in Ensenada, where he had nothing to worry about except playing with his kids on the beach. But he had promised he’d be back for the meeting this morning.
Chuck sighed, and it was such a deep sigh that it nearly hurt his chest when he released it. This had been going on, nearly non-stop, for almost five years. Was his life better because of the Intersect? There was no question. No Intersect meant no Sarah, which was something he couldn’t even ponder.
But of all the times he had been out of Southern California since then, only one – their honeymoon – had been for something non-CIA related. Chuck needed a vacation. He needed a vacation badly.
However, right at the moment, he had a television pilot to worry about. A television pilot based on a movie based on a video game – the video game that had allowed Chuck to tell Buy More to “take this job and shove it”.
The problem with the pilot was the actress playing the character of Tara Pierce. Chuck had based Tara Pierce on Sarah. She had been voiced by Kristen Bell in the game, and then Bell had played her in the movie. Miley Cyrus had been lined up to play her in the pilot – something Chuck had been apprehensive about as it was. Then, she had backed out, and Kristen Bell hadn’t been available.
Clooney’s Section Eight production company had moved quickly, lining up Katharine McPhee to take over the role. Chuck was set to meet with her this morning to make sure she would work for the role.
And here they came through the restaurant. Clooney stuck out anywhere he went in Los Angeles – his instantly recognizable face, his height, the gray hair giving him a certain distinguished air. As far as Katharine McPhee went, she was incredibly attractive, and –
Good Lord, that shirt could cause a traffic accident, Chuck thought, trying not to stare at McPhee’s cleavage. He stood up as they approached the table.
10:01 AM
St. John of God Catholic Church
Norwalk, California
The church was packed. Every spot in every pew had a person in it, and there were more standing along the walls.
Maximillian Calijo looked on the proceedings with no small amusement. To think that his brother, the failure, could garner such a following – especially since more than ninety percent of his vaunted Firestone Boulevard Slayers were dead.
He rolled his eyes at what he considered to be the ridiculous pageantry of a Catholic funeral – the incense, the altar boys with their candle lighters, the priest in all his pompous vestments, the icons carried with such reverence. An avowed atheist, Max Calijo could barely tolerate the overly religious nature of the rest of his family and, indeed, of so many members of the Latino community.
Oh, sure, it brought them hope. They said it gave them strength. He found this preposterous. Max Calijo did not deny what he was – a murderer and a thief, just as every member of the Firestone Slayers were. How could they possibly for one minute think that a just “God” would forgive them of the crimes they had committed?
Calijo did not pretend that he would find himself in paradise. He didn’t believe that there was an afterlife. And so he figured why hold back while on Earth?
Nonetheless, as a public figure, he had to make the proper overtures. And so he rose with the rest of the congregation.
The priest raised his hands. “La gracia del Señor Jesucristo y el amor de Dios y la beca del Espiritu Santo sean con ustedes.”
The congregation spoke as one. “Amen.”
“En el agua de bautismo, Alberto Alejandro Calijo y Ortiz murió con Jesucristo y se levantó con el Señor a la nueva vida. Puede ahora compartir con la gloria eternal del Señor.”
As Alberto Calijo’s only surviving family member, it fell to Max to perform the familial duty of placing the pall on the coffin. Forcing a look of grief onto his face, Max rose from his seat in the front pew, advanced to the coffin, and unfolded the Mexican flag over the coffin with the proper reverence.
It was all he could do to keep from snorting in disgust as he sat back down. Mexican, indeed. Alberto had been born in Los Angeles. He grew up in Los Angeles. He had spent maybe a year, total, of his entire life in Mexico. This ceremony was making Max sick.
10:03 A.M.
The Beverly Center
After proper introductions had been made and a server had taken George and Katharine’s orders, they got to talking. “So, I wanted you to meet with Katharine to see if she’s a suitable replacement for the role,” Clooney said.
Chuck nodded. “I do appreciate that.”
He cocked his head slightly to the side and fixed Katharine with an appraising eye. “What do you know about the world of international espionage?” he asked her.
“Very little, to be honest,” she replied. “Most of what I know comes from the Bourne movies, and from the Valerie Plame scandal. Aside from that, I can’t say that I know much.”
Chuck nodded. “You and most people,” he replied. “Well… what I’m about to tell you, George doesn’t know. Very few people know. In fact, neither one of you will mention this again after walking out of this restaurant, because if you do, I’ll personally ensure that you’re black-listed by the Screen Actors’ Guild.”
Clooney’s eyebrows threatened to crawl off his forehead, and Katharine registered shock on her face. “I trust that it will never come to that,” Chuck continued. “However, that is how vitally important the secrecy of what I’m about to tell you is.”
They both nodded. “The character of Tara Pierce is based on my wife,” Chuck explained. “She was once one of the best deep-cover operatives in the Central Intelligence Agency, perhaps even THE best. She is, essentially, a legend in the international intelligence community.”
George Clooney was shocked speechless – something that Chuck knew was rare in Hollywood. Katharine McPhee, on the other hand, looked at him curiously. “So if Tara Pierce is based on your wife… that means… that Rick McCune is based on you, which means you have a massive database of government secrets in your head.”
Interestingly, she didn’t appear to be shocked by that. Chuck allowed himself just the barest hint of a smile. “I like you,” he said. “You’re obviously not a vapid bubblehead – not if you were able to draw that conclusion that quickly.”
She frowned. “Did you think I was a vapid bubblehead?”
“I don’t judge people I don’t know,” Chuck replied. “However, despite your exceptional talent, I’m pretty certain that a large part of what got you through American Idol was your looks and your, well, assets.”
He paused, collecting his thoughts. “The thing is, whoever plays the character based on my wife has to be smart. My wife’s a certifiable genius, and the character was played by Kristen Bell in the video game and the movie – and she’s no slouch in the intelligence department either. I just had to make sure you were up to filling the shoes.”
McPhee smiled deviously, and leaned forward. Chuck could see almost all of her… impressive assets. “Mr. Bartowski,” she said sweetly, “I have wrapped men far more powerful than you around my pinky finger with a smile, a suggestive wink… and as is quite evident with you, a low-cut blouse will also do the trick quite nicely.”
Chuck blushed bright red, but smiled. “It’s a pity the intelligence community didn’t get their hands on you, Ms. McPhee. I think you might’ve had a chance.”
He leaned back. “You’ll definitely do just fine.”
10:30 A.M.
St. John of God Catholic Church
Max Calijo had fled the sanctuary to the narthex, ostensibly in emotional distress, but truthfully desperately needing to escape from the pandering of the monsignor. He couldn’t take it – the platitudes, the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
As he stood in the narthex, he became conscious of a man coming up behind him. The man was a weasel, a leech. A former US Senator who had resigned without warning six months beforehand.
Max knew why Louis J. DeBlasio, the former Republican Senator from Utah had resigned. He, along with a group of seven others who formed the core of Fulcrum, had attempted to overthrow the President. Who had stopped them?
Why, the perpetual pain in the ass, Charles Irving Bartowski and his merry band of misfits. They had managed to uncover the plan and all its leaders. Bartowski’s wife had managed to curry international support for the President, and before Fulcrum even realized what had happened, they had been shot down like so many quail.
“My condolences, Max,” DeBlasio said quietly.
“Heh,” Calijo grunted. “I could care less that he’s dead. He was careless. He was sloppy. He allowed a civilian – an amateur – to get the jump on him, and in so doing, allowed the gang, the infrastructure he spent ten years building, to be destroyed.”
“I know how he feels,” DeBlasio grumbled. “An amateur took me down, too.”
“Same amateur,” Calijo said flippantly. DeBlasio’s jaw nearly hit the floor.
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.”
“That little bastard Bartowski was responsible for this?”
“Oh yeah,” Calijo replied, turning to face DeBlasio. “You up for a little revenge?”
“Am I up for – of course I’m up for a little revenge!”
“Good,” Calijo said softly. “It’ll be a few months, Lou. I need to build up resources, rebuild the legend of El Anillo del Fuego… but when I give the word, will you be ready?”
“You bet your ass I will.”
11:30 A.M.
The Bartowski home
Studio City, California
Chuck had collected the 911 from the valet at the Beverly Center a mere fifteen minutes earlier. He had sped up Laurel Canyon Boulevard like a madman.
He hit the button to open the garage door and gunned the 911 inside. Sarah hated it when he drove her car that way, but he couldn’t resist.
Chuck swung the Porsche’s door open – right into the shotgun door of his station wagon. He flinched at the scraping sound of metal on metal. Getting out, he closed the Porsche’s door, then looked at the Magnum – yep, there was a nice little black scrape in the middle of the maroon door. “Crap.”
He went through the door into the kitchen – and was immediately jumped on by his wife. Sarah wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his midsection, kissing him passionately.
“I could get used to that,” he gasped when she came up for air. “What’s the cause?”
She smiled from ear to ear as she let go and slid back to the floor. Reaching over to the counter, Sarah held up two envelopes. “This,” she said.
Chuck took the envelopes. One had the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency on it, the other had the seal of the Los Angeles Police Department. He looked at Sarah, raised an eyebrow, and opened the CIA envelope. “Damn,” he breathed with a whistle.
The CIA envelope contained a check, payable to Studio City Consulting Services, for five million dollars. The LAPD envelope contained a check to SCCS for three million dollars. “Wow,” Chuck said quietly. “We REALLY cleaned up on this first mission, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we certainly did,” Sarah replied. “So, what’s next?”
Chuck looked her in the eye. “What’s next is that you and me and the kids take a vacation.”
She cocked an eyebrow and looked at him. “REA-lly. Where to?”
Chuck smiled. “I was thinking… we just get in the Dodge and go where it takes us.”
“When?”
Chuck’s smile got even bigger. “Now.”
12:00 P.M.
Norwalk, California
Maximillian Calijo sat at his brother’s desk in his brother’s house. He held Alberto’s ring. It was made of platinum, and held a ruby that under the proper light, looked like it was ablaze.
“The Ring of Fire,” he mused, looking at the ring. Slowly, he slipped it onto his own hand.
“I am the Ring of Fire.”
12:30 P.M.
Studio City, California
The maroon Dodge Magnum backed out of the driveway as the garage door rolled shut. Two adults up front, two toddlers in the back seat, and a cargo area full of suitcases.
Casey had been left in charge of SCCS until further notice, and Nerd Cave was turned over to Morgan for the time being. Ellie would swing by the house every day to check on things, and Bryce would be sure to send Chuck e-mail updates daily.
Chuck put the Dodge in drive and headed up the street. When he reached Moorpark, he turned right, then left onto Laurel Canyon a couple blocks later. A moment later, he turned again – a right turn onto the Ventura Freeway eastbound.
As the Dodge came up to speed, a smile grew on Chuck’s face. “Well, Sarah, where to?” he asked.
She looked over at him and smiled. “Take me away, Chuck. Second star to the right… and straight on till morning.”
Author's note: despite the fact that this chapter views the Church and its rituals in a somewhat negative light, I will say that I myself am a fairly devout Christian. However, given the views I have decided to establish for Max Calijo, I decided to look at the funeral from his point of view.
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