Moah264of4

Author's notes at end of story.

Previously

"Medical Emergency in Laboratory 1 – Medical Emergency in Laboratory 1"

"Chuck, Chuck, Goddammit Chuck, don't do this…"

Charles Carmichael just wondered why life was so damned hard sometimes.

Delta Flight 1022 Reagan Int'l to LAX Friday

Jenny Burton was enjoying first class, even if the upgrade was at her own expense. She could have waited and flown out on the government flight with her analysts Sunday morning but the Agent in her wanted to arrive early and recon the site and old habits were hard to break. And, even though she had refused to admit it to herself, she wanted to return to the environs she considered "home" more than anywhere else.

She'd talked with her NSA shrink, a surprisingly insightful man who'd been an agent 'back in the day', about the sense of homelessness that deep-cover agents felt and he'd nodded and wisely said as little as possible. Her first marathon session had begun with her throwing a knife at him and ended when he'd thrown it back.

'Home was where the heart is' went the old saying. And her heart was wherever Chuck was. But she had no intention of looking for him when she got to L.A. Monday morning would be soon enough and she wasn't sure what kind of reception awaited her.

She did not expect banners or ticker tape but she hoped for more than a nod, grunt and frown from Casey. They'd been partners for more than 2 years. Surely that counted for something? But apparently his loyalty to the mission trumped his loyalty to his partner. After all, he had warned her, had served notice on her in no uncertain terms. She hadn't called his bluff. She hadn't even considered it. She had reacted to circumstances and his call had been a part of the ensuing cascade failure of her last days as a CIA agent.

For now, she got out her laptop and pulled up her TO-DO list. She didn't plan on staying in the government-selected hotel long. She wanted something less transient, less tentative, because regardless of the outcome, she was here to stay. This was a long-term investment in Jenny Burton by the NSA. She viewed it in exactly the same light. So number one on her list was an apartment, close to the facility; number two was a car, not a Porsche, nothing that flashy or ostentatious or expensive since she was paying for it herself. But still, something with some muscle, maybe a Mustang?

Updating her TO-DO list with notes and changes, she closed the file and pulled up the latest dailies from the Morning Summaries. It wasn't actually a morning report but a compilation of flash events, reports from foreign stations, anything not occurring between normal business hours, D.C. time. In the old days they were called the "overnights" because of the time differences between Washington and, say, Manila. They were received, decrypted and routed to the proper desks.

One item in particular attracted her attention. The NSA-W reported a medical emergency during a classified procedure with ensuing hospitalization involving a senior-level executive. The report was filed by Angelina Fuentes, AA, and endorsed by Major John Casey, Chief of Security. Even NSA had to report to OSHA. But normally the facility or station director endorsed the incident report not the head of station or facility security – unless it involved someone higher up the chain of command – like the director.

Chuck!?! Oh, crap. What trouble did he get into now?

One thing Jenny Burton had yet to learn was that Charles Carmichael was far different from the nerd, Chuck Bartowski, she once knew. He hadn't had an infusion of super powers but he'd won the loyalty and admiration of a group of hard-core agents and analysts during the High Sierra affair and also in the many operations planned and frequently executed by their Director. He led from the front, by example. He was The Carmichael.

Had Jenny Burton's thoughts been overheard by any of Chuck's people she would have been set straight immediately. That "What trouble did he get into now" comment and especially the derisive tone would have gotten her figurative ass in an equally figurative sling.

Chuck Bartowski was dead. Director Charles Carmichael was alive and respected. And that was something she'd have to realize immediately if she was going to be successful as Assistant Deputy Director, NSA-W and if she was to be successful in winning back the man she loved. She had to be sure she was targeting Charles Carmichael.

But she didn't know that.

When she arrived in L.A. she rented a car from Alamo. A blue Mustang convertible. Might as well see if she liked one. At government expense, too. That tickled her sense of propriety. Next she'd checked into the hotel, taken a quick shower and headed out for something she'd been missing since going to the East Coast. And the drive gave her the opportunity to flex the car's "muscle".

Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp.

Mrs. Angie Fuentes was silently planning the demise of one Jennifer Burton, Deputy Director for Analysis, NSA-W (formerly Agent Sarah Walker, CIA).

Last night she'd accompanied her boss to Devon Woodcombe's apartment. She only intended to drive her boss there and then camp out in the parking lot across the street to make sure he was all right. She took her protective detail responsibilities seriously. But, ever the gentleman, he'd invited – no, insisted- that she join them since she was an old friend of Devon's. She really didn't want to. Seeing Devon had made her realize how empty her non-work life was. But she couldn't resist that one brown eye and that puppy dog look. Even if the most devastating part was covered by his beard.

And so she found herself talking to Devon Woodcombe for long into the night. Chuck had fallen asleep about mid-way through his second beer. Devon said that was to be expected since the downloading process was really quite an ordeal. And he did it twice a week? The man was nuts. That was insane. Her respect and concern for her boss increased even more. She knew about sacrifice.

She checked in with Major Casey and let him know she was with the Boss. That he was asleep at Devon's and after he'd had a reasonably sound nap she would bring him back to the hotel. Casey fully agreed. He worried about the Boss' health like an old mother hen, an image she found most incongruous.

She and Devon exchanged "Do you remembers" and "What have you been doings" until the subject was exhausted. Naturally the subject of her Boss came up. She was amazed to find out that he was younger than she was! That the hair was dyed as was the beard but that the scars and eye patch were not part of the disguise. Devon knew she was cleared for all of this since she'd appeared on his "Roster of Treatable Government Operatives – Classified".

So Angie Fuentes learned of the epic love story of Chuck & Sarah. She learned about Chuck's unsuspected brain injury and his flight into paranoia. About the accident with the drunk and his injuries, the betrayal of the Praetorians, the Battle of the High Sierra Forest, and his rescue and about how he came to NSA-W. She began to hate Sarah Walker and cry for Jenny Burton. Until Jenny Burton left Chuck Bartowski alone in that hole in the ground. That was unforgivable.

And the bitch was coming here Monday to work as an assistant to the Boss? Unbelievable. Unforgivable.

She buttonholed Casey first thing Friday morning and talked about the whole affair after she'd told him what Devon had told her about the Ellie situation. Casey filled her in on some of the more gruesome details of the battle, and especially the mental state of her boss after the "big betrayal". He was up-front with her. He had called Beckman. He owed it to the kid. When she raised an eyebrow at his reference he'd blushed and said it was hard to ignore whom he'd been for so long. She let it slide.

But between them they'd formed a pact to protect The Carmichael from the destructive woman he so loved.

She planned on involving Devon in the planning since he knew the "Chuck & Sarah Cover Story" so well.

There was no mention of including Ellie. Even John Casey thought it would be a bad move.

"Ellie Bartowski's a loose cannon where her little brother is concerned. Doesn't matter that he's a hero, a man capable of turning a group of Chinese into Tsao Chicken, he's her little brother, all she's got left of her family. Keep her away from Jennifer Burton. It wouldn't be fair to her and by that I mean Sar…er… Jennifer. You've never seen Mama Grizzly protect her cub. Ain't pretty."

"Y'know, Angie, I didn't know Chuck was assigned an asset protection agent. Beckman didn't tell me and you didn't introduce yourself or state your true assignment. Hell, I vetted you for the position and didn't have high enough clearance to get access to a lot of your assignments. Why didn't you tell me you were a bodyguard for the Boss? I figured something like that when those two dumb asses from Fulcrum tried to infiltrate and he double-tapped them out. You were standing behind him with that mini-howitzer of yours covering his back. Definitely not the usual AA-hide-under-the-desk-screaming-behavior."

She just smiled at him sweetly. "Lean down here so I don't have to strain and I'll whisper it in your ear." So Casey leaned down and she whispered softly but saucily "It's a secret. Way above your pay grade, Major Casey, way, way above."

And it was above his pay grade. And hearing the intimate gory details put flesh on the bare-bones briefing she'd received when she'd been pulled off a U.S. Senator and been summoned to a very hush-hush meeting at the most exclusive address in the world.

Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp. – Director's Office

Chuck hated the weekends. He usually stayed late at the facility on Friday nights and then went to a shooting range downtown, slept as long as possible on Saturdays (meaning up at 7am when Casey banged on the suite door yelling "Daylight's burning, Chuck, up and at 'em) and spent hours on the nautilus machines in the hotel gym, and Sundays, well Sundays were either do nothing and hope Casey didn't notice or go into the facility and review plans for the SPIF* operation and make endless lists of improvements, changes and complaints. The NSA contractor liaison absolutely hated Monday morning briefings with the Boss.

*Special Projects Isolation Facility – an actual function at the CyberWarfare Command Center at Barksdale AFB in Bossier City, LA. It is a huge area, essentially a massive multi-storied Faraday Cage, and is virtually impervious to EMP. It is also a design area for programmers using next-generation computers to do modeling for various military functions. It houses labs, work areas and the CSCC of SAC.

Using lessons learned from the OKC & WTC bombings, the building uses hi-tensile blast-resistant extruded panels and is surrounded by earthen berms, concrete fencing and a frikkin' no shit MOAT.

Such a place will play a major role in the NSA-W story I've been conjuring up. And although a sequel of sorts, I think I like typing SARAH much better then Jeni er Jennif er well, you get the idea. A-P-R.

But this Friday night he was going out to dinner, alone, in San Pedro. There was a little place near FT Macarthur that he'd discovered and had taken… well, he'd gone there for a couple of cover dinners. No big thing but the ambiance was nice and the food was decent, very good actually, and it had been far away from Burbank and now the NSA-W.

He toyed with the idea of asking Mrs. Fuentes if she had dinner plans but didn't want to run the risk of upsetting any apple carts Devon might have lined up. He agreed with Devon, he and Ellie would probably never marry. A real downer because he actually considered Devon a brother. But he knew his sister. He thought he knew his sister. She really took the betrayal thing hard. She'd felt about … her as Chuck did about Devon. Except he could still talk with Devon. Ellie had no one. And the fact that Devon sided against her and with the NSA, well, she took that as a betrayal of trust and of her brother. Collateral damage.

Morgan and Ellie. Victims. Collateral damage. An innocuous term with such sharp consequences for peoples lives.

What he'd do is duck out on Casey and Mrs. Fuentes. Of course he'd take his cell phone and wear that damned watch, but he figured that as long as they knew where he was they wouldn't be as likely to assume something untoward and follow him.

But before dinner he had to perform the Ritual. Every Friday night he went down to a gun shop on Pico that had a range in the back for handgun owners to practice. He practiced religiously every Friday and sometimes the occasional Sunday if he could escape the incessant surveillance of Major John Casey. Casey was doing his job but he sometimes wished he were less diligent. He needed space like everyone else.

He parked his NSA-issue sedan in the parking lot of the converted Sears building and entered through the employee entrance. He was considered a 'VIP' and had been given the access code so that he could practice anytime he wanted but he didn't like to abuse their graciousness and trust. He had a hard enough time getting them to accept his AMEX card for his two boxes of .45 caliber hollow points he shot through every visit.

He waved to the clerk and went behind the counter and took out a single box not his normal 2. He laid his AMEX on the counter and told the clerk that if he didn't charge him for the cartridges and the practice time this time, he'd kneecap him. The guy took his card and ran the charges. The owner would kill him if he knew but he wasn't sure if the guy with the eye patch and cane was kidding or not. He looked meaner than shit some nights. He didn't want to take a chance. So he ran the card.

Chuck went back through the door to the practice range. Rarely was anyone there on a Friday night and that was why he practiced the Ritual on Fridays. He opened the box and dumped the rounds on the shooting table. Each lane was like a library carrel with high sides and a tabletop. It also had ear protectors that he always used. He already had slight hearing loss in his right ear and he didn't want to make it any worse. He also wore protective goggles. He only had one functional eye and the intersect was too important a function to be sloppy and risk a ricochet.

He took out 3 magazines and hung a silhouette and sent it down range. When he got to 50 feet he stopped the target. He charged his pistol, assumed his comfortable stance and slid off the safety. Now for the Ritual. It was almost a liturgical chant.

BLAM Thank you Bryce for the gift that just keeps on giving.

BLAM Thank you Jill for being true to your colors. Bitch.

BLAM Thank you General Beckman for making her leave.

BLAM Thank you nameless drunk for failing to kill me.

BLAM Thank you 24 for keeping me company in my dreams.

BLAM Thank you Colonel Wu for turning me into a killer, a murderer.

Then he would clear the weapon, eject the magazine, reload and bring back the target. First shot was always in the face. Second was always in the heart. Third was almost always in the gut. The rest were distributed throughout the torso. Almost all were kill shots.

He put up a new target, a smaller target and sent it out and fired through the magazine but no names this time, just the original 6. They would be his opening shots for the foreseeable future.

Each time he'd use a smaller target. So far he'd always run out of bullets before targets.

The final part of the ritual was also by rote. Reload the magazines and put them back on his belt. Reload the pistol and set the safety. Police up his brass and put it in the reload bin. Throw away the targets. Put away the ear protectors, take down his cane and hang up the goggles. And leave the way he came. All this in 60 minutes or less. Ritual.

Forgiveness ritual with names, each time fewer names. Each time, forgiveness for some.

The first time Casey had followed him. He didn't like the idea of Chuck being around town on his own. And it was his job. He'd seen the red Miata also. He bugged Chuck's lane and tapped into the CCTV feed in the shooting range. He waved at Mrs. Fuentes and pointed to his passenger seat. They watched and listened together.

The first six names were no surprise. The major players who were responsible for his current state of affairs. The reasons for each were clear and succinct. He could understand each of the reasons and given the sarcastic stress on the drunk, the Boss was pissed that he hadn't been killed and that worried Casey.

Then came the second magazine, a full standing silhouette and a second group of names.

Stupid Fulcrum operative #1 (Head) and #2 (Head), Dr. Jennifer Dupree (Torso), Jennifer Burton (Heart), Sarah Walker (Heart), Major John Casey (Gasp), Ellie Bartowski (Miss). He understood everyone but Ellie. His adoring sister. Why her? And why did he miss?

Casey knew he'd seen a new side of Chuck – the Chuck who kept "score", who counted coup but offered forgiveness.

He had the decency to blush when he heard "Major John Casey" and the reason. He looked at Mrs. Fuentes who just shrugged. "Hey, at least he's sublimating. He could have shot your nuts off for real."

LA Harbor Fwy - Southbound

Chuck enjoyed driving down to San Pedro. He'd had a craving for seafood paella and he knew he could satisfy it in San Pedro. He watched for the exit constantly checking his side mirror because his depth perception wasn't up to normal, and never would be. Even being as attentive as he was, he didn't see the red Miata following him 4 car lengths behind. He just never noticed those things.

Angie Fuentes didn't mind her job. In fact she loved her job. Her boss who really had no clue it was her job to protect him treated her with deference and respect. And she liked him. But right now she didn't like him. She was a little pissed off at Director Charles Carmichael.

He'd slipped off the grid as nicely as could be. He caught her unawares and it was only his Friday habit that enabled her to catch up with him. She knew he didn't do it deliberately. He probably figured she and Devon Woodcombe might have plans for the evening. Well, Devon had plans. She had The Carmichael.

Chuck took the next exit for San Pedro. He drove like a little old lady sometimes but he still didn't feel comfortable with his vision loss. So he compensated – big time – by always trying to avoid busy roads, taking side streets whenever possible. He still was not 100% comfortable with driving fast in traffic.

"Director, my grandmother can drive better than you! And she's 88 next winter." Angie Fuentes yelled at Chuck in the privacy of her car knowing he couldn't hear her. Anyone seeing her would justifiably think "road rage" and ignore her. It wasn't rage, it was humor. A guy younger than her driving like an old fart just tickled her to no end.

Jenny Burton had her "spidey senses crawling", as Chuck used to say. She noticed a sedan with NSA issue plates being tailed by a red Miata. Something wasn't right with this picture but she knew a tail when she saw one, she'd done enough of them. Four car-lengths back, follow the mark, don't be too obvious, well, a red Miata was obvious, change pursuit vehicle positions constantly. She hadn't changed position so maybe it was a single tail. She'd know in a few seconds.

He maneuvered the big government land yacht into the restaurant parking lot. He was hungry and already contemplating dinner. He debated not using his cane but figured he'd better. No sense embarrassing himself by falling on his fanny in a room full of people. He fumbled with the cane, the seatbelt and the door. 'Klutz' he thought. Clumsy. Graceful he was not. It was worse near the end of the day and it had been a long day.

Angie Fuentes pulled into the restaurant parking lot and parked directly behind Chuck and two rows back. She'd taken two parking spots but an unrestricted view of the Director entering and leaving was critical. She took no chances with her charge.

Jennifer Burton pulled the Mustang in behind the Miata, two rows back. She got out of her car and approached the Miata from the blind spot in the rear. She didn't have to be stealthy; her target was fixated on the older man getting out of the vehicle fumbling with a cane.

She pulled a knife from a thigh sheaf under her short skirt and pressed it firmly against the woman's throat. "What are you doing following that man? He's an employee of a government agency, let's see some ID…"

Shit. She'd been so focused on making sure the Director didn't fall that she'd been made. But by whom? No cop would have used a knife. Nope, she'd be staring down the barrel of a SPPD Smith & Wesson if it were. She decided to take the high road.

"I'm going to reach into my purse on the passenger seat and remove my ID" and reached with her right hand to remove her ID wallet and badge.

"Stop. Anything but an ID comes out of that purse and the interior of this car will match the paint job." Not an idle threat. She was keyed up. Something about this did not seem kosher.

Angie pulled out her wallet and flipped it open with practiced ease. "Angelina Fuentes, US Secret Service." Oh shit oh dear.

"So who's the mark?" Jennifer asked too casually.

"He's not a mark. He's my boss and I'm his protective detail. He's no one's mark. He's my Direc…" and stopped. She'd said too much already but something about this bitch just put her off. Calling him a mark!

The other shoe dropped. Angelina Fuentes had submitted the incident report on the summary… Administrative Assistant to the Deputy Director of NSA-W…

From the look on the woman's face something had made a loud "click" in her mind. She could practically see the wheels turning in her head. There was something familiar about the way she looked. Honey-brown hair in a short bob, artic blue eyes. She knew this woman from someplace.

"And just who are you? You seem to know a lot about… a lot." She finished lamely.

She heard the zoned-out woman say "Chuck" and turn around and start walking towards the Director. Oh, shit. It was her. It was her. Angelina Fuentes was 8 inches shorter than Jennifer Burton but appeared much larger as she ran past and whirled and stood fast facing her.

"Out of my way, please. I have to see him."

"Why? Want to see what you've done to him up close and personal? Want to see what's become of the wreck you left behind in that fucking hole in Utah? Well, that's so not going to happen. I know all about you, Sarah Walker, Jenny Burton, whoever you are. I talked to Devon, I talked to Casey, and I've heard what you did to him. I've seen what you did to him. A kind, decent, loving man and you threw him on the dung heap and kept on going. Never looked back. Didn't try to contact him, didn't even care what happened to him. Just switched teams and moved up the management ladder."

Jennifer Burton froze in horror. If this is what Fuentes thought, what Devon and Casey thought, what must Chuck think.

"No, no, you've got it all wrong, I was ordered back to Langley, given no choice. I was fired. I had no way of knowing what happened. No way of getting in touch with any of them. Then I went to work for General Beckman, went into mandatory therapy, became an analyst, lost my field status, then I read a report that Charles Bartowski had died of complications during surgery. He was dead and he never knew… I even called Ellie, his sister, she said she'd buried Chuck that very morning."

"I went months not knowing the truth. I finally finished therapy and was assigned to classified analyses. I found out about NSA-W, Casey's assignment but never the name of the Director. It was always redacted or not mentioned. Then I read about a medical emergency at NSA-W and it started to make sense. I called the last doctor to operate on him in Moab and she said he survived, that he would never regain full sight in his left eye due to nerve damage but he was alive!"

"Then I confronted General Beckman. She said Chuck didn't know I was coming. That my assignment was predicated on finishing therapy. That he was ill and not recovering and that she was worried and that was why she let me believe he was dead. But then after therapy she said it was up to me to 'fix' him."

Angelina Fuentes was ashamed. Listening to the increasingly distraught woman describe her ordeal was heartbreaking. She had made assumptions without full information. She put her arm on the woman's forearm.

"But Jenny, he's alive and he has no idea you're the Deputy Director coming on Monday. Yes, he's still wobbly and has his vertigo spells but he's alive." And she laughed at the pure joy of it. "And he's doing an incredible job and making such a difference." And she told her about the Rinaldi party and how they'd wrapped up an entire network of sleeper cells without any risk of exposing NSA-W, about how he'd put down the two Fulcrum agents who'd tried to infiltrate the facility with a pair of "double taps". "But he's incomplete, so unhappy. He hasn't seen his family since Moab. He's just… a working stiff with no life."

"And he's got this Friday night ritual he goes through. It creeps me out but Casey says it's good for him. Says it's his path to forgiveness. And I do know one thing for sure." And she told her about the how Casey had bugged him for audio and video and they had watched him 'thank' all the people in his life who'd done something to bring him to that point.

"Jenny, you, Casey, Ellie, even Dr. Dupree and the two Fulcrum infiltrators… you were all missing from tonight's 'Thank You' list. You've been forgiven."

"It doesn't matter, because he'll never believe me. He'll never know what I went through to get here. I'm broken and he's broken and we're a pair. But we can heal each other, I know it. If he'll just give us a chance."

Chuck had forgotten something. But he didn't know what. Just that nagging in the back of his mind that said 'hey, dumbass, forget something?' He did the usual male thing, patted his pockets checking for his wallet, his keys, the usual.

Maybe he left the lights on in the car. He didn't know what it was but he knew it would bug the crap out of him if he didn't check.

He opened the door of the restaurant with its faux-wharf look and stepped out onto the planking deck leading to the stairs. This was still tricky for him. He wasn't totally uncoordinated but he was tired and so he held the railing and stepped down the steps to the graveled walkway one at a time. 'Just like some old grandpa. Hell, I'm not even 30 yet. This is so not awesome.' Awesome. He wondered if he would give it another try with Ellie or admit defeat and get back in the game. Reminded him of the clerk at the motel, the "player".

Yep, he'd left the damned lights on. Lame. These Government Issue cars lacked even the basics of civilized life – like lights that automatically turned off when the ignition key was removed. Or a decent radio. Hell, why not wish for a CD player while he was at it.

Now that he'd gotten back in the car he discovered he'd left his appetite in the restaurant. 'To hell with it, I'll grab a burger back in L.A. I'm too tired to go through all that again.' Lazy too.

He fumbled for the keys and started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. He headed back the way he'd come. Well, at least he had 2 hours less to fiddle away.

He didn't notice the red Miata tear out of the parking lot after him. Or the dark blue Mustang that followed. Or the 3 black Chevy Suburbans with limousine-tinted windows that caravanned out 5 minutes later.

LA Harbor Fwy – Northbound

There was no need for Angie Fuentes to be surreptitious about her surveillance of the Director. This was one time she wanted him to make her. And stop and chew her out for wasting her time on him. And send her home. She had a plan. A deviously female plan. Complete with happy ending – she hoped.

She felt guilty about showing Jenny Burton her ID. It was legitimate but now she'd expanded the handful of people who knew that Director Carmichael enjoyed Secret Service protection. And she was just the obvious one on the job. Of course there were others. The President's instructions had been clear: nothing whatsoever could or would happen to the Director. He'd been brevetted to the level of National Treasure and didn't even know it. Charles Carmichael's well being was of such paramount concern that Sarah Walker had been terminated by the CIA and transferred to the NSA because it was perceived to be important to the Director. Even if he didn't know it.

And all of this because one woman happened to run into another at a reception in Washington. Incredible as it sounded, many things got decided at cocktail parties.

So she pulled up beside his clunker land yacht and waved gaily and wasn't surprised when he immediately signaled and pulled over to the shoulder of the road. She'd been expecting that and had pulled in behind him. She got out of the car and walked up to his. She didn't want him getting out of the car and falling or something. If she'd said, "stay in the car" the reaction might have surprised her.

"Hey, Director, wasting taxpayers' gas?" and she laughed.

"Why don't you go do whatever it is that beautiful young women do on a Friday night and let me have some quiet time alone? I'm just heading to the hotel to change into some grungy clothes and go sit on the beach and think. No risk of being swallowed like Jonah or anything you might need to protect me from. Take off, Mrs. Fuentes. You're not getting your way tonight."

'Beautiful woman?' She blushed and spun on her heel. If Jenny doesn't make a move on you, Chuck, I just might have to. Why did he have to be so damned nice all the time? 'Well, it's Showtime.' She took out her cell and punched in a number she seldom had to use.

"HARDDRIVE is going to the beach. To think. If GODDESS makes an appearance, do not, I say again, do not intervene. I will be in a 2009 blue Ford Mustang convertible and will be monitoring. My Miata will also be on-site." She listened to the man on the other end of the call for about 30 seconds before interrupting him with a belly laugh. "No, I'm not going to get my jollies off. At least nowhere you'll be able to surveil. Now make nice or I'll tell FLOTUS on ya." Another laugh and she disconnected the call.

Chuck drove to his hotel. He slipped into his room and changed into what he called comfortable clothes and then slid back out. He wore a windbreaker to cover his .45 in a skeleton rig. No sense freaking out anyone walking along the beach. He also made sure he had his 'NSA Get out of Jail Free' card – a seldom-used Photo ID with his name and rank. In point of fact, he didn't think he'd ever used it. Well, there was always a first time. And he wouldn't have Mrs. Fuentes covering his ass tonight. He'd watched her turn off toward Westwood. Probably going to Devon's. Ugh, mixed feelings there. He really needed to go see his sister. He just didn't want to listen to her bitch about that woman. He got enough of that from Casey all day every day, at every opportunity.

He walked to his car, limped actually, it had been a really long day and he'd been on his feet most of it. He popped the trunk and checked to make sure his war bag was still secure and then got in the car and drove west, avoiding the freeways and just poking along on the surface streets. He was headed for the beach and the sunset.

He checked his mirrors periodically and was pleased to see that Mrs. Fuentes had taken his advice and gone to be with the beautiful people.

Angie Fuentes pushed the envelope on the freeway with the big Ford's engine roaring and the wind whipping through the car. This was a lot more fun than she thought she'd have on Friday night. She headed towards the PCH and the beach.

Chuck pulled into the parking lot down from the Santa Monica Pier. Given the time, it wasn't hard to find a free spot or eighty or so. He put his keys in his pocket, scooped up his cane and got out and locked the car. No sense asking for trouble. Or the embarrassment of calling Casey. "Casey, someone stole my car, can you pick me up?" Would give Casey fodder for jokes for weeks. Nope, not feeding that maw. He got enough material just watching Chuck do everyday things.

Chuck had been to the beach many times since becoming Director of NSA-W, in fact some of his most intriguing ideas came while he just vegged out looking and listening to the surf. His favorite time was when a storm off shore pushed the wave into huge combers crashing against the pier pilings. It made him realize just how short and violent life could be. Wave after wave crashing down on him. Made him feel insignificant and that helped him deal with his problems. He was insignificant and thus, so were they.

He had about 30 minutes of daylight left. One of the things on his bucket list was seeing the green flash when the sun dipped just below the surface of the horizon and the prismatic lens of the ocean caused the final rays to flash emerald green. He couldn't begin to count the number of evenings he'd sat on this spot on the beach hoping to catch the flash. So far, no flash.

He heard a big block engine revving up in the parking lot. Probably drag racers congregating for a couple of quick races before the CHP got wind of it and shut them down. He twisted around to look and 'Damn her. I told her to take the night off!' There was that damned red Miata. Mrs. Fuentes needed time off just like everyone else did. And he'd given her strict instructions. Well, maybe a spanking was in order. If she wanted to behave like a child…

He walked carefully but slowly over the 50 yards of sand to the car. No one was in it. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn't hers. He checked the tags. Yep, her car. But where the hell was she?

He looked around but couldn't see anyone in the lot. He checked out the pier but couldn't focus well enough to recognize more than blurs. His eye was tired this late in the day. Screw it. He headed back for his spot. He was deep in thought and wasn't looking ahead but rather down and so he was surprised to see the fuzzy outline of a woman sitting in 'his' space, arms wrapped around drawn up legs watching the waves.

Well, there went his privacy, his thinking time. He turned and started for the car when he heard "Chuck, please don't go. Don't leave me when I've just found you again" and he froze, unable to move, unable to breathe, able to do little more than maintain his balance. But he was very tired and he felt the first swirling signs of vertigo coming on. A cane was useless in sand and he carried it more out of habit than need tonight. But he instinctively planted the cane and leaned on it…

And promptly fell on his face, sprawling gracelessly on the sand.

Angie Fuentes saw her boss fall. Oh, crap, sand, fatigue and stress did not make for a graceful Carmichael.

She was about to alert her team to be prepared for a possible emergency medical transport but the circuit was stepped on by "HARDDRIVE IS DOWN, REPEAT, HARDDRIVE IS DOWN" and "SIERRA ONE HAS A SHOT" and "SIERRA THREE HAS A SHOT".

"NO, no, he just fell, ABORT, ABORT, ABORT!"

Jenny Burton scooted over to Chuck on her hands and tried to roll him over on his back. She was terrified he'd had a stroke or a recurrence of whatever the "medical emergency" last week had been. From the time it registered in her mind that he was falling until she rolled him over she was repeating a mantra of "Oh, Chuck, no, no, no, no, not now". His entire body was shaking and she thought he was having a seizure or gone into convulsions. She carefully rolled him over and pulled him up onto her lap, cradling his head and shoulders in her arms. She almost dropped him.

Charles Carmichael, Deputy Director of the NSA, Director of NSA-W, was enjoying the first real laugh he'd had in weeks if not months.

"Smooth move, Bartowski, way to make a suave and debonair impression on a lady" he said, looking up into artic blue eyes that had filled his dreams and nightmares for months. Eyes filled with desperate concern and what? Something he couldn't identify. But it was there.

"So, got plans for the weekend, Assistant Deputy Director Burton?" he asked, suddenly serious. She didn't know what to make of this sudden change in mood. Her joy at seeing him alive and joking evaporated, leaving her with a sense of dread.

"No, I just got into town, I don't report to the NSA-W until Monday, sir." Best keep it professional.

"Good. Want to go to Vegas and get married?" No joking tone. Serious. Direct. No shifting of the eye, nothing to indicate an ulterior motive.

"Yes."

And they did. But not right away.

Angie Fuentes had heard enough. "All HARDDRIVE detail withdraw and prepare for a road trip. They're not going anywhere for a bit. And we need to prepare for a road trip. We're going to a wedding, guys!" She then checked the time, almost midnight East Coast time, and dialed a number she'd been instructed to use immediately when the situation resolved itself favorably, and not until.

"Agent Fuentes in Los Angeles, ma'am. Situation resolved most satisfactorily. We're relocating to Las Vegas, probably by air."

"Yes, ma'am, Las Vegas. Yes, ma'am, I'm sure. I heard it myself. Well, as best I recall he said "got plans for the weekend, Assistant Deputy Director Burton?" and she answered "No, I just got into town, I don't report to the NSA-W until Monday, sir." Yes, ma'am, she said "sir". Um, let me finish my report before you do that, ma'am, he's going to need them. He said "Good. Want to go to Vegas and get married?"

Angie Fuentes could not imagine FLOTUS giggling delightedly like a schoolgirl.

"Of course she said 'Yes". The woman's not nuts, y'know?"

Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas NV

"Director Charles Carmichael, are you sleeping?"

"No, Assistant Deputy Director Jennifer Carmichael, I'm just resting."

"Chuck, the name 'Jennifer', y'know it's not really my name. I mean not my birth name. It's just the identity you learned about in San Diego. Like all the others, my Dad had a new name for a new game. Con artists can barely remember their own names."

Chuck turned on his side and faced his wife of 4 hours. "Where is this going? What are you saying? We're not married?" He had a worried look on his face. She could see that the approach was wrong. OK, start over.

She traced the scars on his face from forehead to eyebrow, from the corner of his eye down until it disappeared into his beard below his left eye. So close. She'd come so close to losing him. She shuddered and he drew the sheet up over her nakedness thinking she was cold.

"No, we're married. Why, bored with me already? Ready to cast me aside now that you've had me and move on to another? Mrs. Fuentes perhaps?" She was teasing. And just to prove it and because she'd always wanted to do it, she reached under the sheet and took him in hand, gently stroking him.

"You expect an honest answer when you're doing that?" He could barely summon the words.

"Well, I see that the statistics are wrong. You're ready for round 4 already?" She was utterly delighted that she could provoke such a response in him. Utterly.

Thirty minutes later a thoroughly sated woman lay in the arms of her husband. "So, are you going to answer my question?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember the question. Right now I'm having trouble remembering my name. Is this all leading up to you wanting to keep your own name for professional reasons? If so, that's ok. I mean really. After all, Carmichael wasn't my first choice. Not after all the trouble I went through to learn how to spell Bartowski when I was four."

"No, husband mine, I don't wish to keep my last name. I left it behind at the altar. I love being Mrs. Chuck Carmichael. Really. I do."

She traced another web of scars covering his left shoulder and chest. Shrapnel for the ambulance? A grenade? She shuddered again and burrowed deeper into his arms.

"Cold?" He reached for the sheet. How could she possibly be cold after that incredible…

"No. Just remembered how you looked on the helicopter. All bloody and broken. I was so afraid."

"I don't remember much after the… Mercedes thing. That was a dumb thing to do."

"No, it was a brave and selfless act. You knew you couldn't fall into enemy hands. But if you ever do anything like that again…"

"Ouch, Jesus, woman, that's attached, y'know? And you seem to have taken a liking to it and…"

She smothered his words with a kiss, deep and almost desperate. "I mean it, Chuck, never again. I don't think I'd survive more than a few minutes afterwards. I will not live without you in my life. So, unless you want to be the cause of my death, dear husband, don't ever put yourself in that position."

"Now about my name. I want to go back to my birth name, at least the first name. It will help settle a lot of unresolved issues according to my shrink. Think you could live with that? I mean, not calling me Jenny?"

"So what is your first name, your birth name? Griselda? Irmgaard? Lemme think. Annunziata? Annabella? Beulah? Calysta? Dudgedemona? Fiona? Helga? Pearl? Lulu?"

Realizing that he could go on and on, she whispered it in his ear.

"SARAH!?!"

"Are you upset? I mean I don't have to change. I can go by Jenny… please don't be angry."

"I fell in love with Sarah. How could I be angry? I love you by any name, but I loved you first as Sarah. Go ahead. Now I won't have to change that tattoo on my…"

He awoke the next morning to an empty bed. For a brief moment, just a fleeting instance in time, he wondered if it had all been a dream.

Then he heard the shower. He heard her singing. 'Don't quit your day job, Sarah Carmichael'. And he slipped out of bed to see if Sarah Carmichael liked shower sex.

She did. A lot.

Los Angeles, CA Office of Argent Security Corp

She stepped off the elevator precisely at 8:26am and went to the Director's office suite to check in. She'd definitely have to start getting up earlier. Shower sex was becoming her addiction. They'd spent Sunday in her hotel room, eating room service, reading the newpaper, working up to page 11 of the Kama Sutra and ducking Casey with Mrs. Fuentes's help. If anyone had seen her last evening they would have seen a woman who'd just been thoroughly ravished and had thoroughly enjoyed it.

"Good morning." Angie Fuentes noted the changes in Sarah Carmichael, most obviously the 2-pound hunk hanging on her finger but mostly it was the sense of peace and contentment that she fairly radiated.

"Good morning, Mrs. Fuentes. I have an appointment with Director Carmichael. Reporting in from FT Meade with a group of analysts. I'm Assistant Deputy Director Jennifer Burton." She hadn't yet informed General Beckman of the 'change' in status. Not that "Auntie Diane" was likely to object. She just didn't know yet.

"I've already coded you in, Director. I have your key cards and badge all ready. You've been cleared for "All Eyes" as well as "All Levels". And I've made the changes to update your status, Director Carmichael." Angie grinned at her boss' new wife. She wondered if she'd been surprised by the changes. Probably not.

"The Director isn't here. He's down in the SPIF hassling the contractor Liaison and the construction foreman. It's become his Monday morning ritual." Much better than the Friday 'Ritual' to be sure.

Sarah Carmichael took the proffered ID badge and started to affix it to her jacket when the solitaire diamond caught her eye. Who knew that her husband could be so… forceful and resourceful?

"Sarah, my wife will wear a diamond. A big one. One that shouts to the world 'TAKEN' and that's all there is to it. I will not yield on this so take your hands out of my pants and…"

Three hours later the manager of an exclusive jewelry store on Rodeo Drive was locking up his store A Sunday sale. Black AMEX. A beautiful woman and a dangerous-looking man. Cane, eye patch, scars. He couldn't wait to tell his wife. She was a romantic at heart. And she'd always liked that European cut diamond. The big one.

Mentally shaking her head at the memory she made a mental note. She'd need a new… when she noticed the name. SARAH CARMICHAEL.

Her 100-megawatt smile showed her surprise and appreciation. "Thanks for everything, Angie."

A/N: Before y'all start screaming like mashed ducks re the abundance of loose ends, I've decided to use the tying up process as the introduction to a sequel as yet not totally mapped out. This quotation will provide an undercurrent in the sequel flow of minor story threads: "Friendship into love may change, but love to friendship – Never." A-P-R