Chapter Twenty-One … in which Bryce shows his true colors, Zondra swallows her pride, Sarah takes a leap of faith, and Chuck bravely goes where no Chuck has gone before.

This chapter completes the Three Kings arc. Only one arc remains in season 1.5: Sarah vs the DNI. After that, we'll begin our foray into Season 2. May the Force be with us.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

Chapter 21: The Cadmean Victory

Being confined to the back of a sweltering, unventilated panel van was not at the top of Chuck's to-do list, long-term or short. Like sardines trapped in canned jelly, he, Sarah, and Bryce were hemmed in, covered with sweat—held captive by the luminous glow of the surveillance van's video feed. The night hadn't gone exactly how Chuck had planned, and nothing about his surroundings suggested it was about to improve.

Sarah'd been gone all day. Her protective detail with Jackson and Whittaker had eaten up most of her time lately, and Chuck had missed seeing her angelic, beautiful smile he'd come to depend on, as if it was some kind of daily elixir. He'd been looking forward to spending a little alone time with her when she got home … at least until they all had to head out again on surveillance duty for Zondra's pseudo-date with Mason. But that idea had imploded as soon as Zondra and Bryce started bickering like they'd been transported back to junior high. All of Bryce's pent-up frustration from earlier in the day—after Mason had asked Zondra out on said date—had come boiling over, and Zondra had responded with equal ire. Chuck'd been worried they might start slugging it out before Sarah intervened, dragging Zondra off to prep for tonight's mission.

While Sarah'd helped Zondra get ready, Bryce had paced the living room, arms folded across his chest, looking more agitated with every passing second. To give him credit, Chuck didn't believe he was the jealous, sanctimonious ass Zondra accused him of being. Something about Mason had rubbed Bryce the wrong way, but Zondra was so aggravated by what she perceived as possessive macho bullshit, she wouldn't give any of his concerns a second thought. Now Bryce had worked himself into what Chuck could only describe as a tizzy. He'd run his hands through his hair so many times, it looked like Edward Scissorhands was his stylist, and prior to their final test of the comm systems, he'd kept up a steady, disgruntled patter under his breath. Chuck couldn't make out most of what he was saying, but he did catch the occasional phrase, like "horrible idea," "don't trust him," and "up to something." Now that Zondra was actually with Mason, Bryce had—for the most part—curbed his asides, but he bristled with nervous energy, making it difficult for Chuck to concentrate on what was going on in the restaurant's courtyard.

So there they sat, in the back of the van, keeping their eyes and ears on Zondra's 'date' with Mason … but Chuck could still feel the apprehension rolling off Bryce in waves, like a definitive disturbance in the Force. The guy's drumming fingers and jiggling knees didn't help; they were a constant distraction, thrumming away in Chuck's peripheral vision.

Since Zondra's safety was at stake, Chuck forced his attention back to the screen with Herculean effort. They had a decent view of Refinery77's outdoor patio, thanks to the fact that he'd hacked the restaurant's security cameras. The tree in the middle of the courtyard posed a problem—it might create great ambiance, but it played havoc with getting a clear line of sight from certain angles.

Mason sat with his back to the camera, which was less than ideal. They did have an unobstructed view of Zondra's face—enough, at least, to pick up on any cues she might send their way. She and Mason were the only ones in the courtyard, which set Bryce to muttering again … and this time, Chuck could understand why. In the absence of other restaurant patrons' prying eyes, it was the perfect setup to stage an ambush … although right now, all Mason seemed to be trying to get away with was selecting the perfect scallops/wine pairing.

When the waiter came to take their order, his face was also obscured by the inconvenient tree. Nothing seemed amiss, though—Mason and Zondra ordered drinks and entrees; Zondra asked leading questions about his work; and the faceless waiter brought their food. Apparently, Zondra's dish lived up to the hype, because she guarded it like a ravenous creature as Mason tried to wheedle his way into getting a bite.

"Fine, I give," she said, rolling her eyes at Mason. "You can have one scallop. One. They're too good to part with any more."

Chuck sighed, cracking his knuckles. He was glad that Bryce had—thus far, anyway—been wrong about Mason's malicious intent, but sitting hunched over in the van for the second time that day was killing his lower back. With any luck, Zondra would get the information she needed, snag that second piece of Nutella cheesecake, and they'd all get to go home sooner rather than later.

As if he'd cursed himself, his computer screen suddenly cut out. They still had audio of the courtyard, but the video feed was gone.

"What the hell?" Chuck straightened and stared at the screen. He checked the power supply; everything looked normal. Surely his equipment hadn't chosen this very moment to go haywire. Bryce might start foaming at the mouth if they couldn't keep their eyes on Zondra.

"What's happening, Chuck?" Sarah said, sounding as distressed as he felt.

Bryce's leg started to jiggle again, the way it always did when he was anxious. He leaned forward, every muscle in his body taut.

"One it is," Mason continued cheerily. "And as promised, here's a bite of my salmon." Well, at least he was still narrating what was happening in the courtyard; that was helpful, all things considered.

Chuck stabbed the Ctrl+Alt+Del keys, an action that yielded zero results. "I don't know," he said to Sarah. "I can't do anything. It's just frozen."

Then, in capital, neon-green letters—a single word scrolled across the screen.

CHARLES …

"Look," Chuck said unnecessarily, since all three of them were riveted to the screen. "This is totally bizarre."

"If it's not you, then who's typing?" Bryce's voice was low, dangerous. His leg jiggled in triple-time.

The screen went blank. Then another message appeared.

GET AGENT RIZZO AWAY FROM TROY MASON. SHE'S IN GRAVE DANGER.

The words vanished, replaced by an image of Mason. Juliette Reeves sat on his lap, an arm slung around his neck, kissing his cheek.

"Oh, shit." Bryce leapt to his feet, barely avoiding a collision with the top of the van. "Zondra … get out of there!"

The waiter said something, but he must've been too far away from Zondra for the mic to pick it up clearly. Whatever it was, his tone sounded ominous.

Once more, the screen faded to black. Then the video feed returned, showing the waiter's face clearly as he leaned over Zondra, whispering in her ear.

As soon as Chuck got a full-on view of the waiter's face … he flashed. The guy was ex-CIA, obviously rogue, and in cahoots with Mason. Which meant that Bryce'd been right all along—Zondra was in terrible trouble.

Bryce was shaking Chuck's arm, trying to get his attention. "Did you flash? What is it? What did you see?"

"He's ex-CIA," Chuck managed, pointing at the screen. "Rogue. Whoever hijacked our system's right—we've got to get Zondra out of there."

"I'm disappointed in you, Agent Rizzo," Mason said, his voice syrupy-sweet. "That was far too easy for an agent of your caliber. A little wine, a few seared scallops, and all your training went out the window. What is the CIA teaching people these days?"

"Zondra!" Bryce was yelling now, on the verge of leaping from the van.

Zondra's head lolled as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Her body sagged in the chair. "What … did you give me?"

"Oh, not to worry. It's a derivative of pancuronium bromide—a special cocktail of ours. It won't kill you, just paralyze you long enough for us to get you where we want you without your claws coming out." Mason reached over, spearing another scallop. "You were wrong, I see. There are plenty of these to go around after all."

"Goddamn it. We're going in there." Bryce grabbed his gun. "Zondra, we're coming. Just hold on."

"Are you frightened? Don't be." Mason stood, coming around to Zondra's side of the table. "Here … we've got you."

He grabbed one of her arms; the waiter took the other. Draping her arms over their shoulders, they carried her out of the courtyard and into the street. The video feed was useless, focused as it was on the empty courtyard, but now Chuck could see Zondra from their vantage point, a block away. Her body hung limp as a wet rag. She barely looked conscious.

Pulling the door open, Bryce jumped from the van, sprinting toward her—but there was no way he could make it in time … not from this distance. A black Audi RS4 sat idling at the curb; Mason yanked the door open and shoved Zondra inside. He and the waiter climbed in after her, and the car peeled away from the curb.

Sarah had moved into the driver's seat, cranking the engine as soon as Bryce leapt from the van. She tore off after the Audi, slowing just enough to scoop Bryce up along the way. As she pulled up next to him, he yanked the front door open so hard, Chuck feared he'd rip it from its hinges. "Go, go, go," he yelled before his butt even made contact with the passenger seat.

Sarah made a hard right turn onto Union Street as Chuck started plotting their course. Up ahead he could see the Audi braking, preparing to take a right onto Columbus Avenue. Sarah gunned the van, its engines roaring under the strain.

"Hold on!" she said, taking the turn on two wheels. The van thudded back down onto all four tires and then screeched, eating asphalt as Sarah straightened from the turn and hit the gas again—hard. Chuck hung onto the built-in desk with one hand and steadied his monitor with the other. Of all the things he'd anticipated happening tonight, a high-speed car chase wasn't one of them.

The driver of the Audi must've spotted the tail—or maybe he'd just heard their squealing tires. He sped up, weaving in and out of traffic, sporadically changing lanes, cutting off other cars … driving like a maniac. That was okay, Chuck thought as panic rose in his throat—they had their own maniacal motorist behind the wheel.

For once, he was grateful for Sarah's insane driving habits—which, at the moment, could've qualified her for the Grand Prix. Chuck would've wrecked eight times over by now … but she was a freakin' vehicular ninja. Even with a lumbering, bulky van at her disposal, she'd managed not only to keep up with the more maneuverable sedan through heavy traffic, but significantly close the distance as she veered left onto Broadway. Both vehicles tore through the red light as horns blew and rubber cried out for mercy.

Checking his map, Chuck thought he saw a pattern … though it was hard to keep track, given all the dodging and weaving. He checked again, to be sure. Yep … there it was.

"Hey guys … I hate to bring this up right now, but it looks like they're heading for the Bay Bridge. If they get there first, there's no tolls on this side that would slow them down and we'll have a much harder time keeping up on a three-lane highway in this underpowered rickety tin can," he said as the van gave an alarming wail of discontent.

"Go faster, Sarah." Bryce's leg moved as if pressing an invisible gas pedal. "We need to catch up."

Sarah wrenched the wheel, careening into the left lane to pass a slow-moving Accord. "I'm going as fast as this piece of shit will go! You wanna drive?"

"Sorry," Bryce mumbled, his eyes fixed on the road as if he could will the van to speed up. Three cars ahead, the black sedan accelerated yet again, zipping into a tiny spot between a Mini and a Camry. Horns blared as Sarah tried to follow suit, cutting off a red Jeep with a very angry driver. The guy rolled his window down to give her the finger, but Sarah had already left him far behind.

"Don't sweat it, Bryce," she said, her voice grim. "I know what you're going through … but trust me—I'm not letting them get away."

Up ahead, Chuck saw the signs for Battery Street, their last hope to stop Mason from doing who-knew-what with Zondra. Once the sedan made that turn, they'd only have about ten city blocks before their chances of saving her plummeted.

As soon as it was obvious that that was the path Mason's car was taking, instead of slowing for the turn, Sarah accelerated as she whipped the wheel hard to the right, causing the top-heavy van to drift through a hairpin turn. Incredibly, she was now right on Mason's ass.

Chuck tightened his seat belt and waited for the inevitable metal-on-metal collision between the two vehicles. By contrast, Bryce unbuckled his belt, drawing his gun, preparing to strike.

In what Chuck could only assume was one of those textbook PIT maneuvers he'd seen police use on TV, Sarah accelerated until the van's front bumper was even with the back right quarter-panel of the car. She veered left, making contact, pushing the ass-end of the car into an uncontrollable skid. The Audi did a three-quarter spin before coming to rest as the van slid sideways, doing the same.

Bryce leapt from the van a split second before a horn blared, growing alarmingly louder and higher pitched as it approached. Chuck sucked in breath, preparing to yell a warning—and then a pickup truck careened into Sarah's door, flinging them forward. The van lurched, then teetered. Even though Chuck had been braced for it, the noise was horrible—howling, rending metal followed by a bone-jarring crunch—and the impact hurled him hard to the left, then to the right again. His seat belt caught him, snapping him back, rubber-band-style, into his seat—but his computer and monitors slid sideways, veering toward the ground and fetching up against the sliding door as the van collided with the asphalt and stayed there.

In the aftermath, there was a wrenching, awful silence. Chuck blinked, trying to get his bearings, and realized the van had landed on its side, driver's door pointing skyward and its nose facing Mason's car. From what he could see, Sarah's window was shattered. She was moving, that much he could tell … but how badly was she hurt?

His body went cold with fear. "Sarah?" He struggled to free himself, desperate to get to her. "Are you okay?"

She didn't answer for an eternal moment, but he could hear her groaning. "Yeah," she said after a second, sounding breathless. "Just covered in glass. My window's broken—by my head, if I had to guess. And my door's crushed in."

He got his seat belt undone and crawled up to the front, careful not to cut himself. There was a slice across Sarah's cheek, and her head had a lump on it that was starting to swell, doubtless from her collision with the window—but otherwise, miraculously, she seemed all right.

"Here," she said, wrapping her hand in her shirt and extracting pieces of glass that stuck, like jagged teeth, out of the window frame. "Help me so I can get to Bryce—and Zondra."

Through the windshield, Chuck could see Bryce approaching the sedan, his gun drawn. Somehow, despite the accident, the comm system was still active. As Chuck leaned forward to help Sarah free the remaining glass from the frame, he heard Bryce yell, "Hands where I can see them."

Chuck squinted. He could see Mason in the back seat, a gun pointed at Zondra's head. If she really couldn't move—God, she must be terrified … and furious.

The former waiter stepped out of the opposite side of the back seat, pointing his weapon across the top of the car at Bryce—who returned the favor.

"You must be her partner," the waiter said, unfazed. "We knew she wasn't working alone. Why don't you save us all some time and drop your gun before things get … messy."

"Let's all take a deep breath. We can work something out. Just don't hurt her," Bryce said, and Chuck wondered if anyone would've mistaken the emotion in his voice as simple concern for a partner. "I can give you something she never could, if you'll just let her go."

Mason spoke up from the back seat. "What's stopping us from taking you too? You're in no position to barter."

To Chuck's horror, Bryce shifted his feet, putting the barrel of his gun under his own chin. "I beg to differ. Maybe I should've introduced myself first. I'm Bryce Larkin, the only human Intersect in existence. I believe you've all been looking for me, but I swear … if you touch one hair on her head, I'll make sure your precious Intersect is lost forever." He stared them down, in a textbook example of his former arrogance. "If you contact your girlfriend, Agent Reeves, she'll confirm everything I'm telling you."

At that, glass or no, Sarah had had enough. She squeezed through the window, heedless of any shards that remained, admonishing Chuck to stay put. Dropping to the ground, she trained her gun on the waiter.

"What do you think you're doing, Bryce?"

"Whatever I have to, Sasha," he said, and Chuck took a moment to marvel at the fact that even now, in the midst of crisis, he had the ice-cold presence of mind to retain her former cover. "Just let her know it was real. It was always real … at least for me. I just wish I hadn't wasted so much time."

Could Zondra hear him? Chuck had no way of knowing. He felt a fissure crack its way through his heart.

What if he never saw Bryce again? What if this was goodbye?

"Okay," Mason said, skepticism clear in his voice, "let's assume I believe you. What now?"

"Simple. You let her go, I drop my gun and take her place. As you can see, my backup can no longer follow us once I'm in your car." Bryce pointed at the van, tipped over on its side. "Then you'll be home free."

"You can't do this, Bryce." Sarah sounded miserable, and Chuck wished he could do something—anything—to help.

"I don't have a choice," Bryce said, his eyes fixed on the waiter and the unwavering barrel of his gun.

Mason must have given some kind of signal, because the faux-waiter made his way around the car, gun still trained on Bryce. A moment later, the back door opened and Mason pushed Zondra out to flop on the pavement, his weapon still aimed at her head. As soon as she hit the ground, the waiter grabbed Bryce by the arm, pulling him to the opposite side of the car.

"Now that your partner's been released," Mason said, sounding cheerful, "drop your gun before I put a few rounds in her and we can all have some fun."

Bryce let his arm relax as his gun clattered to the pavement, his eyes fixed on Sarah's.

"Take care of her," he said.

Sarah opened her mouth, but no words escaped. His heart sinking, Chuck watched as the waiter pushed Bryce into the car and jumped in behind him. The driver revved the engine, then sped away, disappearing into the night.

OoOoOoOoO

It was a bittersweet pill to swallow. Sarah was torn between the exhilaration of knowing they'd managed to rescue Zondra from Mason's maleficent clutches and the foreboding sense of loss that accompanied surrendering Bryce over to Fulcrum … yet again … maybe forever this time.

She was seething—absolutely furious with her long-time partner. What the hell was he thinking?

Bryce had, in essence, pulled a Chuck, sacrificing himself in order to save Zondra's life—his very own Cadmean victory—and now that rat bastard Mason and his deviant, waiter-impersonating crony had taken him to God-only-knew-where. The van was totaled—lying on its fucking side, for Christ's sake—and there was no way for Sarah to go after him. All she could do was stand there, frozen in place, watching the Audi's taillights recede into the distance as she committed its license plate to memory.

She felt completely helpless. Inept. Impotent.

If only she'd had the foresight to place a tracker on Bryce before he'd leapt from the van. Better yet, if only she hadn't let them take him in the first place—or if she could've avoided being t-boned by that pickup truck … if … if … if. In the end, with the van wrecked, Bryce taken, and Zondra crumpled on the pavement, Sarah had somehow managed to fail them all.

Unbelievable.

Now, not only did she need to find out where they'd taken Bryce, but she'd also have to formulate some kind of plan to get him back. She had no idea how, but with Chuck still by her side, she believed anything was possible.

Nevertheless, the clock was ticking; they'd surely torture Bryce when they questioned him. And no matter how those James Bond and Jason Bourne movies Chuck liked to watch portrayed spies' resilience, everyone eventually talked. Once Fulcrum found out Bryce didn't have the Intersect, they'd hurt him … badly—maybe even kill him just to prove a point. She was sure they had only a brief period of time to retrieve him whole and intact. But first, they needed to get the hell off of this very public stage where both Chuck and Zondra were exposed. They were supposed to be dead, not players with starring roles in domestic espionage. Graham could find out the truth if they didn't act fast, and then everything was sure to crumble.

Behind her, she could hear rattling and swearing as Chuck forced his way through the frame of the broken window. At least he wasn't hurt—that was something. If he'd been injured again in the accident, Sarah would've never forgiven herself.

Her head throbbed with a dull ache. Absently, she put a hand up to her face; it came away sticky with dried blood. Wincing, she wiped her fingers on her jeans and went to check on Zondra.

Z lay motionless on the pavement, tilted halfway on her side. The little black dress she'd worn was ripped, one strap pushed all the way off her shoulder. Gently, Sarah rolled her friend over, cradling Zondra's head so it didn't fall to the ground, doing even further damage. She kept her expression steady, but it was all she could do not to recoil at the insensate way Zondra's limp body reacted—like a fresh corpse. Her knees were bloodied from their collision with the pavement, there was an abrasion on her forehead, and her cheeks were streaked with mascara she hadn't had the ability to wipe away … but her eyes were the worst. They darted from side to side frantically, and in them Sarah saw everything Zondra couldn't voice: Fear, sadness, despair, longing, regret.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Sarah said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. "Don't worry—I know what drug they gave you. It'll wear off soon enough. You must be terrified, but I promise, it's just temporary. In the meantime, I'll get you someplace safe. Just hang in there."

Tears slipped down Zondra's cheeks, and Sarah wiped them away with the hem of her shirt. "We'll get him back, Z," she said, answering the question she was sure she saw reflected in her friend's eyes. "I swear we will. But first, I need to clean up the mess we've made."

She felt a hand on her shoulder, squeezing tight, offering support. "What can I do?" Chuck asked.

So many people would've fallen apart in this kind of scenario, become a gibbering mess—but not Chuck. He was always right by her side—her polished rock—his voice filled with concern, trying to help any way he could. Despite the grimness of the situation, Sarah couldn't help but feel grateful that she'd found him—that no matter how ugly things got, somehow, he'd never let her down.

Turning to take him in, she gave him a wan smile. "Could you please go check on the driver of that pickup truck? Remember, Chuck—he's a civilian."

He nodded and strode away. Propping Zondra's head on her lap, Sarah watched him go.

The truck was large, green, and old—and aside from the color, these descriptors also applied to its owner. A large, white-bearded man in faded jeans and a dingy Carhartt t-shirt who looked as if he could double as a mall Santa stood next to the crumpled hood, assessing the damage. As Chuck approached, he straightened, running his hands down the legs of his jeans.

Chuck stopped in front of him, a couple of feet away. "I'm so sorry about the accident, sir," Sarah heard him say. "Are you all right?"

Sarah braced herself for the guy to start swinging or swearing. In situations like these, it could go either way—the accident had been her fault, after all; the truck just hadn't been able to stop in time. But to her relief, the guy just looked bemused.

"I'm okay, I reckon," he said, with a heavy Southern drawl. "Just a bit shaken up, s'all. This old girl … she's built like a tank. But how about you, pardner? That was a one hell of a wreck. No offense, but the young lady was driving like a bat out of hell—and once I saw them guns come a-flyin' out, I figured I knew why. Y'all's undercover police or something, ain'tcha?"

"Something like that." Chuck's back was to Sarah, but she knew that tone, and was sure it came right along with a strained smile.

"You sure you're farin' all right, son? Got glass all over your britches, there." The guy gestured toward Chuck's pants.

"Oh … yeah. I had to climb through the broken window. Not a scratch on me, though—I got lucky."

"You don't say. Musta been kinda like riding the gravy train with biscuit wheels." The guy offered Chuck his hand. "I'm Earl, by the way—Earl Dixon. Not gonna ask any questions 'bout what went down here, if'n its police business and all … but maybe we should go ahead and swap insurance info. Faster we do that, the quicker we can get out of the middle of the damn road."

What they really needed to do was call a containment team, and fast. They'd remove all traces they'd been there—fingerprints, the van itself—deal with the truck driver, and cordon off the area. They'd also get in touch with local law enforcement and claim jurisdiction over the scene. Then she, Chuck, and Zondra could get back to doing what really mattered—finding Bryce before it was too late.

She tuned back in to the conversation with Earl in time to hear Chuck respond, "Insurance—yes, excellent idea," in his best customer-service voice. "Don't worry about calling the police—we'll take care of everything. Just hang tight … I'll be back in a minute."

He shook Earl's hand again and headed over to Sarah, shaking his pant legs to shed some more of the glass. When he reached her, he crouched down on the pavement. "Well, that went better than I expected. How's Zondra doing? Any change?"

Reaching down, Sarah stroked Z's hair back from her forehead. Zondra blinked at her slowly, giving thanks. "You did great, Chuck. And no … no change yet—but it shouldn't be long before the effects start wearing off."

"Good … good," Chuck said, looking like there were a thousand other things he'd like to say instead. Sarah appreciated his restraint. "So … what next? You need to call this in?"

Sarah had to raise her voice over the sound of a blaring horn as an approaching car swerved to avoid the wreck. "Yeah … right away. Do you mind staying with her while I do that? I don't want to leave her alone."

"Of course." He sat down next to Sarah and, gingerly, they managed the process of transferring Zondra's head into his lap. Sarah could see him talking quietly to her, running his hand through her hair, as she walked away to make her call. For once, she felt no jealousy whatsoever, just a deep, abiding sympathy.

Pulling out her cell, she got the ball rolling. "Yes," she said into the phone as soon as the field office answered. "This is Agent Walker. I need a containment team sent to my location. Make sure they have a wrecker with a flatbed."

Speaking as succinctly as possible, she explained the situation. The agent assured her that they'd have someone at the scene within ten minutes; she would have preferred five, but ten would have to do.

Disconnecting, she called Jackson next. He answered on the second ring, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Jackson, it's Williams. Listen up … Anderson's just been taken by someone working with Fulcrum and the van's totaled. Can you come get us? I'll explain everything when you get here. We're stranded with no way to try to pick up his trail."

She was sure Jackson had a thousand questions, but to his credit, he didn't ask any of them. "Absolutely. Where are you?"

"On the corner of Battery and Merchant Street."

"I'm not too far from there. I'm on my way." He hung up.

Hoping that Z had regained at least some control over her muscles in the intervening minutes, she went back to check on Zondra and Chuck. God, it must be like being entombed; Sarah could feel the claustrophobic echo within her own body.

Sarah knelt down and squeezed Zondra's hand. "It'll be over soon, Z. The containment team's coming, and Jackson's gonna get us out of here."

They huddled together on the ground until the team pulled up, with Jackson right behind them. Sarah got to her feet, ignoring the lingering soreness from the accident, and went to give the team their orders while Jackson helped Chuck with Zondra. As she walked away, she could hear Jackson introducing himself—and Chuck's response, which made her grin despite the circumstances: "Hey, I'm Charles Carmichael. You might know me better as Red Two. But please, call me Chuck. It's great to finally meet you."

By the time she'd finished with the containment team, Jackson and Chuck had Zondra settled in the van. "Do you mind driving, Sasha?" Jackson said from the back. "Chuck and I can put our heads together and see if we can come up with a way to locate Bruce."

A lump rose in Sarah's throat. "Thanks, Jackson. And no, I don't mind driving. I memorized the plate of Mason's car—at least it's a place to start."

She was about to rattle off the license plate number when Chuck's cell phone chirped. He looked down at the screen—and then his eyes widened in shock as he slid into the front passenger seat.

"Holy shit," he said. "Look."

Written in the same capital, neon-green letters was a new message from their mysterious marauder.

REMEMBER CHARLES, THERE ARE EYES EVERYWHERE ... EVEN IN THE SKIES.

The text disappeared, replaced with a picture of their van tipped on its side as the black Audi left the scene. Then, like some kind of voyeuristic carousel, still images of the Audi from different angles and locations started flipping across the screen. If Sarah had to guess, most were from traffic cams throughout city and surrounding areas. Some might've even been from private places of business, as they were lower and actually showed the occupants' faces, Bryce's included.

Chuck's phone blanked again; then a video played. The vantage point was obviously from space. It showed the entirety of the West Coast. Satellite footage? As the video progressed, it zoomed in until they were looking down at themselves in the standoff with Mason. Sarah gesticulated; Bryce shook his head; Zondra's body spilled, boneless, onto the pavement. It froze on an image of Z's face, then fast-forwarded, following the Audi as it sped away. The camera zoomed out, overlaying a street grid as the black car took the Bay Bridge toward Oakland, turning left and right until it reached its final destination—some kind of …

"Where the hell is that?" Sarah said, peering closer. The tan building that the Audi had pulled up in front of was massive, with three recessed arches framing huge windows, what looked like hand-crafted masonry, and a green awning with intricate scrollwork sheltering a wide doorway. It had what her father would have called 'good bones'—as if it had once been dignified, even sophisticated—but now it projected an air of unmistakable neglect. The bottoms of the old-fashioned windows were boarded up, and weeds sprouted all along the base of its exterior. When Mason and the waiter yanked Bryce out of the car and into the building, the front door yawned open on an expanse of darkness … as if he'd been swallowed up by an abyss. Sarah couldn't help but repress a shiver as the door slammed shut behind them and the screen went black.

Jackson leaned forward, excitement clear in his voice. "I know that building. It's Oakland's 16th Street Station. There was an earthquake back in the '90s that shut it down. It's abandoned—hasn't been used in years. No wonder they took Bruce there—no way someone's gonna stumble across them by accident."

"Jesus." Sarah's heart started to pound. It was more than she could have hoped for—their anonymous friend had drawn a giant green arrow straight to where Bryce was being held. Whoever it was had given them a fighting chance at saving Bryce's life. But who was helping them—and why?

Next to her, Chuck cleared his throat. When she glanced over at him, he was staring down at the screen, a determined look on his face. "I assume you can hear me," he said, and it took Sarah a second to realize that he was talking to the phone.

It took a second; then a single word popped up on the screen.

YES.

"Is this Orion?" Chuck said, and Sarah saw his left hand clench into a fist around the phone as he waited for the answer.

YES.

"But how—"

The typewritten words came in a flurry. Sarah leaned over so she could see.

I KNOW YOU'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR ME, CHARLES. YOU NEED TO STOP. IT'S TOO DANGEROUS FOR US TO BE IN CONTACT RIGHT NOW—THE GOVERNMENT IS HUNTING BOTH OF US. I PROMISE TO KEEP WATCHING OUT FOR YOU. I'LL BE IN TOUCH ONCE IT'S SAFE. AND I'M SENDING SOMETHING THAT WILL HELP YOU. I WISH I COULD DO MORE.

"Who are you?" Chuck asked, but there was no answer. The screen went blank again. Orion was gone.

Chuck let out a long, resigned breath. "I don't even know what to say. That was incredibly helpful—and yet, incredibly frustrating. Right now, I'd say let's just focus on the helpful part. Now we know where Bryce is being held. Let's go get him back."

"Already on it," Jackson said as Sarah pulled out of the parking spot and headed toward the entrance to the Bay Bridge, the GPS reciting instructions as she drove. "Sasha, what did you say those bastards gave your friend?"

"A derivative of pancuronium bromide," Sarah said as the van merged onto the bridge and the dark waters of the bay appeared beneath them, jostled into whitecaps by the evening's breeze.

"That's what I thought it looked like. The good news is I've got Neostigmine in a kit back here somewhere." She heard him rummaging around. "It'll counteract the effects of what they dosed her with. Just a second—ah, here we go. Sorry about this, ma'am. I'll be as gentle as I can."

She glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see him steady Zondra with one hand and plunge a needle into her upper arm with the other. "Just a few more minutes and you'll be okay," he told her, his voice soothing.

"Thank you," Sarah said with heartfelt appreciation. Having to leave Zondra in the van while she went in after Bryce would have been a waste of precious talent. Even if she was far from her best by the time they got to the abandoned railway station, Zondra would be a force to be reckoned with—especially against someone who'd just drugged her and stolen her possible future.

The night wasn't over yet, and the outcome was far from certain. But for the first time since Mason and his co-conspirator had shoved an unresisting Zondra into the Audi, Sarah began to feel a most welcome emotion.

Hope.

OoOoOoOoO

"Just let her know it was real. It was always real … at least for me. I just wish I hadn't wasted so much time." Oh, God. What had she done?

Bryce's words were tormenting her, clawing their way through Zondra's heart. Immobilized and miserable, she was in both physical and psychological agony. One, she had plenty of experience with. Her body would rebound as it always had. The other, she was but a babe in the woods.

Emotional pain had a biological purpose, she'd always believed; to steer her clear of unhealthy patterns and relationships. Zondra'd been pushing back against that pain for so long, medicating it with close friendships and romantic dalliances. But tonight seemed different, somehow. She welcomed the pain she felt at losing Bryce, invited it in as a teacher and a goad. She'd never hurt this much in her life—and it was true what they said: Pain could be a powerful motivator. Never again would she be so foolish and shortsighted. Never again would she try to suppress what Bryce truly meant to her.

She would do whatever it took to get him back. Make any sacrifice, step over any line. She'd always heard that only the strongest of warriors chose their battles. This would be hers. She'd earn her name.

But first, she needed to stop feeling like a freakin' Raggedy Ann doll … trapped and alone without her Andy.

Her body slumped against the seat belt as Sarah hung a left, leaving the bridge far behind—then jolted back again, her skull bumping against the headrest. The impact made her teeth rattle. They closed on the tip of her tongue, and the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, trickling down her throat in a slow, steady stream.

Great. She could add her tongue to the growing list of things that she'd hurt tonight: Her skinned knees. Her forehead, which was somewhat the worse for wear after colliding with the pavement. And her pride.

All of this was her fault. If she hadn't been so stubborn, so fixated on the past—if she'd just listened to Bryce—she wouldn't be paralyzed and helpless in the back of Jackson's surveillance van, and Bryce wouldn't have been taken.

She'd told Sarah that she wanted the kind of love where someone would be willing to throw themselves in front of a speeding bullet to save her life. But where it'd been in Chuck's nature to make that kind of sacrifice for her, it had been in Bryce's heart to do the same. It wasn't some gut reaction to a precarious situation. It was a conscious decision where he'd had plenty of time to weigh all the repercussions and fully understood his actions … and she felt only the deepest, darkest regret for putting him in a situation where such a choice had been necessary. Mason was right … all of her training had flown out the window. She'd been arrogant and over-confident, and now they were all paying the price.

Her body sagged to the right as Sarah took another turn, and she felt Jackson's steady hands on her arm, pulling her upright again. He'd said it would just be a few minutes until she felt better … and was it her imagination, or had the tips of her fingers begun to tingle? For the thousandth time, she tried to wiggle them, but nothing happened. She felt marooned in her own flesh, like a shipwrecked survivor who stood on a desolate shore, seeing vessel after vessel pass her by with no way to hail them.

Frustrated, her mind wandered back to the endless loop of her own thoughts. All those years spent without a word, when she assumed he'd forgotten she so much as existed—and all that time Bryce had really loved her, longed for her in wistful silence. God, the man was so infuriating. She wanted to kill him … right after she kissed him senseless. But most of all, she wanted to apologize to him for being so hard-headed when she'd refused to listen. She wanted to get him back, and she would do whatever it took to make that happen. If only that damn shot would go ahead and work its magic.

She wasn't imagining it now—her fingertips were definitely tingling. So were her toes. Once again, she tried to move them—and this time, although she felt as if she was pushing through a thick, viscous liquid, her fingers obeyed, flexing ever so slightly. Encouraged, she did it again.

"That's it," Jackson said, his voice edged with excitement. "Try it again."

Chuck twisted around in his seat to look at her. "She moved?" he asked Jackson, his eyes flicking over Zondra's face.

"Just her fingers, but it's a start. Here, look." He gestured at Zondra's hand where it rested on the seat's armrest.

Summoning all of her concentration, Zondra focused on moving her fingers again. They twitched, and Chuck smiled. "She's coming out of it," he said, twisting back around to talk to Sarah. "I think she's gonna be okay."

The tingling had intensified into a pins-and-needles sensation which was spreading throughout her limbs—as if her entire body had fallen asleep and was waking up all at once. It was painful, but she welcomed the change. She'd once read about a medical condition like this—locked-in syndrome, in which patients were alert and aware but could only move their eyes—and had thought that it sounded like an exquisite form of torture. How right she'd been. When she got ahold of Troy Mason, he was going to pay for doing this to her.

Sarah changed lanes and the car shifted again—but this time, Zondra was able to hold herself upright. She worked her jaw, and was able to open her mouth, then shut it again. With effort, she sucked in a harsh breath, then spoke. Her voice was creaky, with gaps between each word, but it was recognizably her voice, which was far more than she'd been capable of before.

"I'm … so … sorry," she said to everyone in the van. "Thank you … for coming … after me."

Sarah and Chuck had been engaged in a tense conversation about what their plan would be when they got to the station. At Zondra's words, though, they fell silent, and Sarah caught her gaze in the rearview mirror.

"No need to apologize," she told Zondra. "I'm just glad you're all right. How much mobility do you have?"

Gingerly, Zondra tried to lift her legs. They alternated between numbness and a pervasive prickling sensation—but they obeyed, albeit clumsily. "It's not … great. But it's getting … better … all the time. A few more minutes … and I think I'll be … all right."

"Don't push yourself," Jackson cautioned her, but she ignored him. Pushing herself was exactly what she intended to do. There was no way she was going to let her team go in after Bryce without her help. He'd put his life on the line for her; she was going to return the favor, paralysis be damned.

She slowly extended her arms above her head, stretching, then reached left and right. Her limbs trembled, but did as they were told. "I'll be fine. I just need to change—and I need a weapon."

"Change?" Jackson said, looking confused.

"Into some BDUs. Whatever we have. If she's going in there, then so am I." She pitched her voice loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Sasha, don't you even think of leaving me behind."

Sarah's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, full of a rueful amusement. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"But—" Jackson protested.

"I just need five more minutes and I'll be in fighting shape." She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. "Clothes?"

Mumbling to himself, Jackson unhooked his seat belt and went to poke around in the back of the van. He came back with an armful of black gear, which he presented to her with a distinctly dubious air. "Here … these fit Agent Williams. They should do."

"Thanks." She accepted the clothes, trying to disguise the fact that their weight had nearly caused them to tumble straight through her hands onto the floorboards. "Um—could you please turn around?"

In the dim light of the van, she could see Jackson's face blush bright red. "Of course," he said, and spun in his seat without another word.

Slowly, so as not to betray the fact that her fingers were still less than reliable, Zondra pulled her tattered black dress over her head and dropped it onto the seat. She took hold of the pants Jackson had given her, gripping the waistband for all she was worth, and, inch by awkward inch, managed to slide them on. Putting on the rest of her gear was an equally slow and painful process, but she managed—though by the end of it, her limbs felt as drained and shaky as if she'd just completed a Spartan race.

Sarah parked the van a few blocks away from the station and killed the lights. After taking a few minutes to review the blueprints of the train station Jackson had called up on his computer, she and Sarah formulated a plan to infiltrate the building, keeping in mind all of the points of entry and the exits, should they need to make a hasty retreat. They also conferred with each other on the most probable places within the building Bryce might be held as Chuck and Jackson listened in.

Finding Bryce would be complicated. The space was freaking huge, with the tracks and platforms, a baggage wing, a massive entrance hall, and a series of small rooms laced throughout the building. He was most likely in one of those. She just hoped they could get to him in time.

"All right," she said at last. "We're as ready as we're going to be. Let's get moving."

As she and Sarah stepped out of the van to make their way towards the station, Chuck spoke up, anxiety coloring his tone. "Hold on," he said, undoing his seatbelt. "Wait for me. I just need a second to gear up. I'm coming with you."

Sarah froze, looking horrified. "No, Chuck. Absolutely not. It's too dangerous. I need you to stay here, in the van, where it's safe."

He shook his head, a determined expression marking his features. "Look, I know how you feel about this kind of thing, but Bryce is my friend too and I want to help. Who knows what you're gonna run into? There might be something technical I can do that could make the difference in getting him back." He edged toward the back of the van and started sorting through the pile of gear. "Plus … haven't I been training for just this type of scenario?"

"I'm sorry, but the answer's still no," Sarah said, looking every bit as determined. "You're not ready for something like this and I need to know you'll be safe if I'm going to stay focused and keep my head in the game."

"Oh, come on, Sasha." Chuck rolled his eyes. "Since when has me staying in the van ever been the safe play? That's usually when I get into the most trouble."

Putting her hands on her hips, Sarah glared at him. "Only because you've always refused to stay in the van, Chuck."

"Because I've always felt safest when I was by your side … you know … us? … together? Don't you see? That's when we've always made the biggest difference—when we work as a team."

Zondra watched in amazement as Sarah's resolve shattered in the face of Chuck's plea. Even a blind man could see the love in her eyes as she placed her hand on his cheek. For once, Zondra didn't feel envy at witnessing their affection for each other. Something had shifted within her, making it all the more important she follow her heart and let go of the past.

"Okay, Chuck," Sarah said, sounding resigned. "You win. Grab your gear. And Jackson…"

"Yes?" The guy looked nonplussed at the realization that Red Two and Agent Williams were obviously an item—but it was too late to take that back now. At least Chuck had managed to call Sarah by her cover name.

"Give him a tranq gun," Sarah said, to Zondra's surprise.

"You got it." Standing, Jackson made his hunched-over way to the weapons locker and searched until he'd found what Sarah'd asked for.

Chuck cradled the weapon in his hand, looking as surprised as Zondra felt. "A tranq gun? Are you sure?"

She gave him a nod and a rueful smile. "Just try not to shoot me or Zondra … or yourself, for that matter. And stay right beside me. Above all else, we'll need to move as silently as possible. Stealth will be a huge factor. The longer whoever's in that station is unaware of our presence, the better."

After one final check of their comms, they were off. With Sarah in the lead, they hopped the perimeter fence that surrounded the complex and made their way along the abandoned railroad tracks. Passing the lookout tower, they reached the bottom of the stairs that allowed them access to the upper platform at the back of the building. Zondra fought the urge to race up the steps. Instead, she paused to catch her breath and listen for movement. Next to her, Sarah and Chuck were doing the same.

No one was there. They were still alone.

Guns drawn, Sarah motioned for Zondra to take point, keeping Chuck in the wings as they made their way up the stairs, careful to stay as low as possible. Once they made it to the upper platform, they were able to find exactly what they'd hoped for—a way in through an open window over the baggage wing. This would give them a vantage point from which they could assess the situation inside before committing themselves to a course of action. Slipping on night-vision goggles, they climbed through the window.

As soon as Zondra's feet hit the floor, she could hear wailing cries echoing from below. The sounds weren't immediately recognizable as Bryce's voice—but then again, she'd never heard him scream like that before. She froze, crippled with guilt and fear. Somewhere in the recesses of the station's basement, if she had to guess, Bryce was most likely being tortured.

Her gaze met Sarah's, and found horror stamped all over her friend's face. Grimly, Sarah gestured toward a narrow walkway that connected the baggage wing to the top of the main hall's grand staircase, which would take them down into the belly of the beast. One by one, she, Sarah, and Chuck made their way across the walkway to the stairs.

Sarah came even with her at the top of the staircase. They were about to take the first step down—and then Chuck grabbed them both by the backs of their vests. Before Zondra could ask, he silently pointed to the edge of the first step. Squinting, she made out a faint red laser beam that stretched all the way across, hitting a reflective receiver on the other side.

"Tripwire alarm," Chuck whispered, letting them go. "Just step over it … but we might want to keep a sharp eye out for more."

Damn. Two minutes in, and he'd already managed to save their collective asses. Sarah leaned over and gave him a quick kiss, thanking him, before they resumed the trek downwards.

The main hall turned out to be empty, but now Zondra could hear voices coming from the direction of the basement—the entrance to which was at the far end of the wide, expansive granite floor. At another time, she would have stopped to marvel at the crumbling grandeur of this forgotten place, with its monumental arches, impossibly high ceilings, and impressive period details … but now, all she could think about was how huge the entryway was and how every foot separated her from rescuing the man who'd been willing to sacrifice himself to save her.

As she edged around the corner that would lead them further down, she spotted two men with rifles slung across their shoulder at the base of the stairs. It looked—and smelled—like they were sharing a joint.

Seriously? A man was being tortured within earshot and they were … what? Listening to his screams as the soundtrack to their high? Fury coursed through her. She lifted her silenced pistol, preparing to fire, only to be stopped by Chuck once again. He shook his head, raised his tranq gun, and fired twice in quick succession. Fulcrum's excuse for Jay and Silent Bob both crumpled to the ground in a heaping pile of limbs.

Chuck turned back to her, grinning from ear to ear … and like the lovable goofball he was, blew the nonexistent smoke from the top of his tranq gun. For just a moment, she smiled back at him … and then the grins faded from their faces as they stepped over the unconscious bodies on the landing at the bottom of the stairs and headed toward the distant sound of muffled voices.

They were in a long, graffiti-covered corridor. The walls seemed to lean toward each other, pointing their way toward a room at the end of the hall from which light spilled. The door stood open, and all three of them removed their night-vision goggles, blinking as their eyes adjusted. Zondra took a lightning-quick peek around the doorframe and saw Mason, his arms folded across his chest; the waiter, a controller in his hand; two other men she didn't recognize who both had rifles; and Bryce, cuffed to a chair, electrodes attached to all of his extremities. Anguish coursed through her at the sight of the generator she could hear humming away in the corner of the tiny room, lending the electrodes the power they needed to loosen his tongue.

When Mason spoke, his voice was a snarl. "Rest assured, Larkin … you will tell us who the real Intersect is. You're only prolonging the pain. There's no reason to stay loyal to them. The CIA doesn't care what happens to you. Never has. You've always been expendable in their eyes."

There was a pause, and then Bryce spoke, sounding weak and out of breath. "Please," he begged. "Just … kill me."

Mason gave a mirthless laugh. "Crank it up—all the way, this time. We'll scorch the answers out of him … or leave him a stuttering, drooling invalid."

A voice that Zondra recognized as belonging to the waiter at Refinery77 said, "Okay. Whatever you say, Troy. But if he shits his pants … you're cleaning it up."

The beginning of a scream reverberated through her bones as the lights flickered … then faded into silence when the electricity coursing through Bryce's body must've locked up all of his muscles. Rage tore through her heart. She couldn't listen to this for another second. Showing Sarah and Chuck the flashbang she was about to throw into the tiny room so they all had time to cover their ears, she pulled the pin, tossing it, counting as she waited.

The resulting explosion shook the hallway as Zondra rushed into the room, Sarah close on her heels. Still in a haze from the close-quartered blast, Zondra took out the guy closest to the door with a shot to the head—then shifted her aim, putting two into the chest of his counterpart. Mason and his goatee-wearing lackey lunged at both women, completely caught off guard.

Much to Zondra's chagrin, instead of shooting him as she'd expected, Sarah used a roundhouse kick to the side of Mason's head to put him down for the count. It wasn't the permanent solution that Zondra had hoped for—but at least Mason was down. Van-the-Man-With-a-Man-Bun collapsed to the ground with a dart sticking out of his neck, and Zondra spun to see Chuck leaning against the door frame to steady his aim.

With Mason and his men neutralized, Zondra raced to Bryce's side. His head was wrenched backward, his mouth wide open in a silent scream as electricity continued to snake its way through his body. Frantically, she yanked on each electrode wire until the final one came free and Bryce's head fell forward once again, blood and drool dripping from his busted lip. She allowed herself a moment of relief as she watched his chest expand and contract with deep breaths.

She had two priorities now—making sure Bryce would be okay and snuffing out Mason's miserable life like a candle, in that order. Once she'd rechecked Bryce's pulse and breathing to assure herself the bastards hadn't done him any permanent harm, she stalked over to Mason and stood over him, gun drawn. She'd prefer to look the asshole in the eye when she executed him, but dead was dead, and this would have to do. She drew a deep breath, her finger whitening on the trigger.

"No!" Chuck's voice came from beside her, so close it startled her. "You can't kill him—not like this."

"Why not?" Her voice was so filled with venom, she barely recognized it as her own.

"Because," Chuck said, as cautiously as if he were addressing a wild animal, "we still need answers. Like, who's he working with? How did they know who you were at the restaurant? And who's their contact in L.A. … this enigmatic guy or gal only known to us as V.H. who will now, most likely, take Mason's place? But most of all … Bryce wouldn't want you to do this. Killing in the name of self-defense is one thing, but this would just be murder, Z."

Zondra gave a long, frustrated sigh. Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. "Fine," she said, backing off. "But I get to question him. And whatever he did to Bryce, I'll take great pleasure in returning the favor tenfold."

"Fair enough," Chuck said, stepping aside so that Sarah could zip-tie Mason's hands behind his back. She tossed a couple of zip-ties to Zondra, who took care of Van while Chuck secured the stoner twins down the hallway.

"All right," Sarah said at last, surveying their handiwork. "Let me call in the cleaners to bring everyone in for questioning, and we'll get the hell out of here. Jackson, go ahead and bring the van around."

"10-4," the analyst said through their comms. "I'll give you a heads-up when the cleaners are here."

Zondra waited for the cleaning crew next to Bryce, holding his hand, talking to him soothingly. There was no indication he could hear her, but she didn't care. If in some recess of his brain he could process his surroundings, she wanted him to know that he wasn't alone.

After the crew had arrived and begun processing the scene, one of them helped Chuck carry Bryce to the van. They put him down on the floor behind the seats, and Zondra sat with him, his head in her lap, stroking his hair. She sat like that all the way through Oakland and over the Bay Bridge, through the streets of San Francisco, until they pulled up in front of the safe house and Chuck and Jackson carried Bryce inside. And when they placed him carefully on the bed, in the room he'd relinquished for Zondra, she sat down next to him, his hand in hers, holding vigil long into the night.

There would be time enough later to thank him. Time to say what was in her heart. But for now, she was content just to sit on the edge of the mattress, his hand in hers, watching him sleep, and know that he was safe …

… And loved.

A/N: We sincerely apologize for the delay in sending out our latest installment. Our generous son decided it would be in everyone's best interest to share his nasty cold. It swept through our household and took us with it, slowing our writing process to a crawl. Just as we surfaced from the nose-blowing extravaganza, the page proofs for Emily's YA novel arrived in her inbox, requiring her attention … a welcome distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. All of which is to say—we're sorry, and we hope you found our latest chapter worth the wait.

A/N #2: This chapter required a fair amount of research. The car chase and the final scene at 16th Street Station took place in true-to-life locations. We found the history behind the Station to be fascinating and wanted to portray its setting as accurately as possible. For those of you who are into that kind of thing, feel free to look it up and see how our story aligned with reality.

A/N #3: Finally, special thanks go out to michaelfmx, DannyBoy, and Mike B for taking the time to read and review so many chapters of our story. Neither Mike nor DannyBoy are currently registered on the site, so we wanted to use this forum to express our gratitude for their thoughtful feedback, as we do with all the members who can be contacted through regular means.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.