You Can Only Run So Far
9 NOVEMBER 2007CASTLE: SHOOTING RANGE
13:42 PST
"Rule number one," Casey said, his voice terse, "when we are in this room, your weapon, be it a tranq gun, a handgun, or an assault rifle, is pointed in that direction." He pointed at the wall to his left, where two targets—silhouettes, Chuck corrected himself. They were called silhouettes—were already set up. Neither silhouette had any holes in it. Chuck imagined that would quickly change with at least one of the silhouettes: Casey's.
"Rule number two—"
"Don't let my finger rest on the trigger unless I am actually squeezing said trigger," Chuck said.
The NSA agent glared. "And what was rule number three?"
"Don't interrupt you when you're talking."
Casey folded his arms over his chest.
"Which is what I was doing," Chuck said. "I'm sorry. Please continue."
"When you are in this room, you are always to assume that a weapon is loaded unless you have personally just checked the chamber. There will be absolutely no goofing off. And all orders are to be obeyed without question. Is that understood?"
"Crystal clear," Chuck said, adding a half-salute.
"Don't do that again. Ever."
"Yes, uh, sir."
Casey picked up a handgun from the small shelf that sat about waist height. The range had two booths, each with the shelf and a shooting window above it, with switches on either wall that would bring the silhouette nearer or farther, set a timer, or even adjust the lighting to fit different scenarios. Chuck ignored all of this to focus on what Casey held.
It was a Sig Sauer P229, Casey's gun of choice, as it was issued to quite a few government agents. Sarah preferred a sleeker Smith & Wesson that Chuck called the Silver Monster (never within her hearing, though), but why she liked it over the Sig, he didn't know. Maybe he'd ask after he went to the emergency room later for accidentally shooting himself in the foot.
"We've worked with this gun. You know how to clean it. You know how to field strip it. How to load it, unload it, and work the safety. You've satisfactorily passed the exam naming all of the different parts." Casey's dubious tone told Chuck the other man clearly thought he could have done better, though Chuck had aced that test, save for one typo. "Which is why, today, you'll finally get a chance to fire it."
He extended the gun, hilt first. Chuck furtively wiped his palm on his slacks before he took the gun. As always, it felt surprisingly heavy. He didn't know if it was his imagination or not.
"Face the silhouette," Casey ordered. The next few minutes were spent adjusting Chuck's stance and grip. When Casey was satisfied, Chuck pulled on ear protectors. "I'm going to let you shoot, just to get a feel for it. Remember what I taught you."
Casey could put drill sergeants to shame. Chuck figured he probably wouldn't ever forget the gun maintenance and shooting lessons, even if he wanted to.
When Casey gave him the okay, Chuck took a deep breath, set his stance, and squinted at the silhouette. It was just a circle; Casey had probably avoided using a person-shaped target on purpose. His finger shook as he slid it onto the trigger.
The first shot startled him. He flinched as the gun kicked back, the recoil shaking his arms all the way to the shoulders. The shot itself went wide, hitting just inside of the circle's edge. Dazed that he'd hit anything at all, Chuck lowered the gun and removed his finger from the trigger.
"Adjust your grip," Casey said. "See if you can't get closer to the middle. Try a couple of shots in a row."
Chuck did as ordered. This time, the kickback didn't surprise him as badly as he was prepared for it. He fired off three shots in semi-quick succession, trying not to wince.
"Not bad," Casey said, motioning for Chuck to flip the safety and set the gun down. He flipped the switch to bring the silhouette closer. "You're flinching, but that's to be expected. It may go away with practice, it may not. But don't worry—a lot of experienced gunmen flinch. They just learn to compensate for it. The fact that you grouped these three shots together actually shows a lot of promise."
Chuck stared. "C-Casey? Did you just compliment me?"
"Shut up, moron."
"Yeah, I must've been hallucinating, you're right."
"You're not completely incompetent," Casey said, studying the silhouette. "Now that you're familiar with the gun and how it shoots, I want you to try aiming, looking down the barrel sight like I showed you and—what is it, Walker?"
Both men looked over to where Sarah stood outside the room, by the intercom. "Teleconference, five minutes," she said, and hurried away to strip out of her exercise gear. Chuck exchanged a glance with Casey before they pulled off their goggles, stowing everything neatly in assigned slots by the door. Casey took the spare Sig Sauer with him, ordering Chuck to wait in front of the briefing screens.
Chuck tucked his hands in his pockets, scowling. He hated briefings, as they always spelled trouble for somebody on the team. Unfortunately, it was usually him, as Sarah and Casey had exemplary service records, whereas he only had a bunker, a few hostage situations, and a defused bomb to his name.
Casey joined him first, Sarah sprinting up at the last second, pulling her wet hair back into a ponytail as she ran. Chuck put a hand out to prevent her from sliding into the table; she grinned up at him before turning a somber expression to the screens.
All three screens clicked on. Chuck wondered why Director Graham always leaned over General Beckman—didn't that get uncomfortable? Why couldn't he just use a chair like the rest of civilization?
Graham nodded at each of them in turn. "I trust we aren't interrupting anything important?"
"No sir." Sarah had her company smile on. "In fact, Casey was helping Agent Bartowski pass his firearms certification."
"Excellent. I suppose we'll dive right in?" General Beckman phrased the question in such a way that it became an order. Chuck had to admire her for it. "We received a distress signal from a George Fleming, code name Glass—"
"Professor Fleming?" Chuck asked, praying that he had misheard. "Professor George Fleming?"
"Yes, Agent Bartowski."
Chuck's hands tightened into fists.
Sarah glanced between him and the screen, just a flicker of her eyes. "If I may, what exactly is the nature of Fleming's relationship with Agent Bartowski?"
"He recruited me." Chuck kept his voice even, his expression blank. He felt something sick, oily, and black begin to grow through his middle, poison eating him slowly from the inside out. He focused his eyes on a fixed point—over General Beckman's shoulder. "I took his Psychology and Symbolism class, back at Stanford. What happened to him?"
"We received a distress signal, but we are uncertain as to the actual situation. Here." General Beckman pushed a button and audio began to roll. Chuck slammed a lid down on his emotions so that he could listen to the message calmly, objectively. Without wanting to take the gun Casey had been teaching him how to use and to start shooting random things.
"This is Glass Castle reporting hostile contact. I made a mistake, Black Coat. I copied intel for myself onto a disk. They're after it. I knew I shouldn't have—"
Something on the audio slammed.
"General, when was this received?"
"Two days ago, but it was not brought to our attention until some…" Director Graham rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. "Idiot down in the Comm Office realized that the Black Coat he referred to was Bryce Larkin's old code name, which gives Prometheus jurisdiction."
Now it was Sarah's turn to tense. "Director? I partnered with Larkin, and I don't recall—"
"It was his Stanford name," Chuck said. "Professor Fleming had names for all of us. Code names."
His fists tightened all over again.
"A local office pulled the video from around Professor Fleming's classroom and was able to ascertain that this man was the hostile contact Fleming reported." A mug-shot of a bald, angry man ate up half of the screen, a small line of text naming him Magnus Ragnhildur. "Professor Fleming is a company scientist, not a field agent, and we believe he may have contacts in the LA area. Your job is to find him, extract him, and retrieve the location of the intel before Ragn—Ragunhi—Magnus can. You will use Agent Bartowski's connection in order to extract the asset—Dr. Fleming—safely."
It took a herculean effort for Chuck to keep his face blank. Inside, the blackness oozed another inch. He could feel it squeezing his lungs.
Sarah stepped forward, placing herself between Chuck and the screens. "General, Director, perhaps Major Casey and I can handle this on our own?"
Chuck glanced over, surprised. On screen, the two officials did the same. "Why do you ask, Agent Walker?" Graham asked.
Sarah paused. She'd always taken the demure approach to briefings, giving her reports concisely and asking questions only when necessary. Chuck could see lines of tension screaming through her shoulders now, but she didn't back down. "Permission to speak freely?"
"I don't think that's—"
"Granted," Beckman said, cutting Graham off. "Go on, Walker."
"Agent Bartowski has willingly given up a lot to serve his country, but while he continues to have an excellent record, contact with the man who recruited him and therefore led to Agent Bartowski's time in the bunker might be…unwise. I feel like it's better we don't delve into, ah, Agent Bartowski's past relationships."
"And why do you feel that way?"
Casey and Sarah exchanged a glance. Chuck waited, as curious as the people onscreen. Had Casey and Sarah been discussing him? It was likely—after all, what did they have to talk about whenever they left him in the car? He doubted Sarah bothered with the FOX News Network. He wasn't sure how he felt about being a topic of conversation, though.
"The Intersect functions best when Chu—Agent Bartowski's emotions are in balance. As lead CIA operative on the Prometheus team, it is my opinion that exposing Agent Bartowski to Fleming at this stage in the game would be deleterious to his mental state, especially as it's unnecessary. Major Casey and I can handle any problems." Sarah kept her hands behind her back and her eyes forward. "Given the results the team has produced in less than a month, our record speaks for itself."
General Beckman was frowning, but Chuck had hardly ever seen her do otherwise. "Your record reads like a comic book, so I'd hardly brag about that, Agent Walker."
"General, if I may, I believe Walker may be right." Casey kept his thumb tucked in his waistband, hand gripping his other wrist. "If this Fleming relies upon code names, giving him Bartowski's code name should be sufficient."
"And if not?"
Casey's shrug said what his personality never missed the opportunity to say: I'll shoot him.
Beckman and Graham exchanged a look. Graham gave in first. "Fine. Agent Walker, Major Casey, bring Fleming in. Alive. Preferably unharmed. Agent Bartowski, remain inside Castle until your teammates have returned."
Chuck, not sure if he could speak, just nodded.
"Report in once you have secured the asset," Beckman ordered, and the screen cut off.
The instant they were alone, Chuck felt his shoulders sag. He dropped his gaze to the floor, not wanting to meet Sarah or Casey's eye. He could feel cracks splintering throughout the lid he'd slammed over all of the ugliness, building up pressure behind his sternum and threatening to explode. Without saying a word, he simply turned and left the room.
"I'll get the gear," he heard Casey say. Sarah murmured something to acknowledge it; a few seconds later, Chuck heard the slap of her bare feet on the tiles. He wandered blindly, not even caring when he ended up in the dojo, with Sarah trailing him. When he finally stopped and just stared at the wall, trying to contain everything, she touched him hesitantly, just above the elbow. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
Chuck shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it."
Sarah said nothing.
Women, Chuck had always figured, took some secret class somewhere between birth and the age of three, a class that taught them the most effective use of silence. Ellie had always been able to frost him out without a single word or comfort him with nothing more than a hug. Sarah's expressions could write novels. He knew he had a marginally better chance of keeping the sickness and poison inside, instead of letting them spew out all over her and everything he knew, if he didn't meet her eye.
So he turned and stared hard at Frank, and deliberately tried not to think. If he thought about anything, anything at all, the anger and helplessness making his hands spasm would rise up and swallow him whole.
"Chuck?" Sarah ventured when Chuck sucked in a deep breath.
He pushed the blackness back by sheer force of will. "Yeah?" Amazingly, his voice sounded completely normal.
"I wish you'd talk to me."
"Worried about me?" He attempted self-deprecating. See how normal Chuck can be, he wanted to say. See what a screw-up he isn't?
Sarah moved into his line of sight and met his gaze. "Yes."
"Why? Poor, broken Chuck, can't even handle the thought of his recruiter?" He gave a hollow laugh. It came out slightly hysterical.
"You're not broken."
"Oh, give me a break, Sarah. I'm a failure. I'm so bad that instead of sending me home like the other spy failures, they dumped me in a bunker and forgot about me. The only value I provide right now is a damned computer in my skull, and even that wasn't up to me. No, Bryce Larkin did that."
"You're not broken," Sarah repeated, her voice absolutely calm. Her eyes dared him to look away, but he knew she'd just step into his line of sight again. "I don't know where you're getting this idea that you are—"
"Oh yeah? Why else would they throw me in a bunker, then?"
Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but Casey rapped hard on the dojo door frame, drawing their attention over to him. He had a backpack over one shoulder and held a second, which he tossed to Sarah. Shoes followed. "Ours is not to question why, Bartowski. Ready to go, Walker?"
"Just one moment."
"Guess I'll warm up the car." Casey rolled his eyes, but left them without comment. In some distant corner of his mind that wasn't drowning in despair, Chuck couldn't help but be grateful. He wasn't sure he could handle a sardonic Casey, much less a sarcastic one.
Sarah changed the touch on his arm to a grip. "Chuck, listen to me," she said, stepping closer. "You're not a failure, and you're not a screw-up. You may think you're worthless, but you're not. You're one of the strongest people I know. They stuck you in a godforsaken bunker for three years and they left you there, and despite all of that, despite everything they've heaped on you, you still get out of bed every morning, you still come into work, and you still do things like defuse bombs and stop Triad gangs, even if Casey and I wish you would just stay in the damn car. That is not the sign of any failure, screw-up, whatever pissant label you want to throw on it, so just shut up. Got it?"
"Five years," Chuck said when he found his voice.
Sarah blinked and took a step back. "What?"
"Five years, they had me in the bunker five years." Chuck turned, slightly. Sarah didn't talk much as a rule, but when she did, the woman could pack a verbal punch. "I guess it doesn't matter, as what's done is done, but what really gets me is that I wasn't supposed to take Fleming's class. I was a last minute addition because the other psychology course I wanted to take was full. And like the good little student I was, I aced the thing. Now look at me."
He sagged back against the wall, his energy sapped. "Either way, I guess I should thank you," he said in a tired voice.
"For what?" Sarah stooped to pull on her shoes.
"For standing up for me, to the general and the director. You didn't have to do that. I would've manned up eventually."
Sarah pulled her gun out of the bag's front pocket and checked the chamber before she holstered it in her waistband. "Stop being so hard on yourself. You're a member of my team, and you're a member of Casey's team. If that means going to the wall for you, so be it. To the wall, then."
"Well, still. Thank you."
"You're welcome." Feet shod, gun holstered, and bearing the backpack, Sarah straightened. She touched Chuck's shoulder, gently, so that he met her gaze. "Now, I have to go, but will you be okay?"
"Yeah, I'll be fine." It was a lie, but Sarah Walker had a world to save, and she didn't need Chuck Bartowski holding her back. So he gave her a smile he didn't feel. "Go on, save Fleming. Feel free to rough him up. I only got an A minus on my final exam."
"Will do." Sarah gave him a real smile, brushed her hand over his shoulder, and turned to leave. She paused by the door. "Oh, right. What was your code name, so that we can prove to Fleming we know you?"
Chuck shrugged. "White Hat."
The last thing he expected was for Sarah's grin to flash, but it did. "Appropriate," she said, and vanished around the corner.
The instant Chuck saw the door close behind her, he rose to his full height. The sickening anger swelled up so fast and hard that his hands began to shake all over again. Why had he taken that damned class? Why had fate maneuvered him away from the class he'd wanted to take, and into the CIA, where they'd thrown him away to rot?
He couldn't think about this. Refused to think about this. Down this path, there was only fury, an unstoppable tidal wave of it, all that rage and raw despair with nowhere to go. It could knock him flat, it would hollow him and leave nothing but an empty carapace. A shell that Sarah would have to clean up, just one more thing she would have to do for Chuck the Pathetic Failure of a Spy.
You're not a failure.
Yeah, right, Chuck thought. Sarah could coddle and reassure until blue in the face, but it wouldn't change a thing. He was a failure, and he wasn't supposed to be here. Casey should be in DC, Sarah in Beirut or some place equally sinister—two more lives ruined by Chuck's time in Fleming's class. Just like, had Chuck not disappeared, Ellie would still be the trusting and open woman he loved, probably married to Awesome and having awesome babies, and Morgan wouldn't have a shrine to a missing best friend in an electronics superstore.
And what would he be doing? Chuck rarely let himself think about it, but now it seeped through the Swiss cheese that had been his defenses. Would he be where he'd hoped? Semi-retired, successful software firm owner? Maybe he'd be married. To Jill? Or maybe she would have dumped him either way and he'd still be a bachelor, waiting for Ms. Right to come along. Maybe he had already found Ms. Right.
One thing was for certain: he sure as hell wouldn't need a shower every time he went into a large room, he wouldn't have to tuck himself into a corner at night to get any sleep, and he wouldn't spend his evenings eating Chinese food in his car, too petrified to approach the woman who'd broken his heart.
His movements eerily calm, Chuck turned and studied Frank. His hands didn't shake as he undid his shirt cuffs and buttons, peeling the garment off and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. He ignored the two sets of gloves set off to the side—he didn't want to use Sarah's, and Casey would murder him, Intersect or no—and drove his fist into Frank's brutish face.
It hurt. It hurt a whole hell of a lot, actually.
He did the same thing with the other fist. It hurt even more.
Good. Pain forced his consciousness into a single point. It widened the gap between him and that darkness making him want to scream. With every fist he drove into Frank's torso, he felt something release just a little bit inside him. He hit harder, grunting, puffing when that wasn't enough, gasping when even that couldn't do it. He wanted to destroy, he wanted the cathartic, cleansing burn that would make everything just go away.
He continued to pummel onward and outward to a tempo only something deep inside him understood. Harder. Faster. Each strike breaking through the cloud until there was nothing left.
Nothing left but Chuck Bartowski, spy failure.
His hands throbbing, Chuck sank to the floor, resting his spine against Frank's mount. He stared at the mirror opposite him, at the reflection of a skinny, sweating man with disheveled hair and bloody hands.
In the silent dojo, away from the thrum and hum of everyday life, his breath rasped even louder than usual.
9 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: UPSTAIRS
18:12 PST
He knew Casey and Sarah would take Fleming to a safe-house, which meant they'd be coming back alone—or rather, one would come back while the other waited to transfer Fleming into custody of the CIA. When the front door opened, Chuck glanced up, surprised to hear two sets of footsteps. Sarah came in first. Casey followed.
Immediately, Chuck swiveled a monitor aside to get a better look. "Uh, Casey?"
"What?" Casey said between his teeth.
"Are you limping?"
Casey glared. Why on earth that would make Sarah suppress one of her lightning quick smiles, Chuck didn't know. "No," the NSA agent grunted. Swinging the Scooby door open, he disappeared downstairs.
Chuck glanced over at Sarah. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine. Any problems while we were gone?"
"Nothing I couldn't call in a local task force for." Chuck nodded at the reports he'd shipped off to local ATF and FBI units. He kept his hands in his lap and watched her strip out of her jacket and toss it on the guest chair. As he didn't really have guests, the chair had become Sarah's when she wanted to avoid her desk and all the paperwork. She collapsed into it and immediately yanked the leg of her jeans up, pulling off her knife holster.
Chuck cleared his throat. "Professor Fleming get to the safe-house all right?"
"No." Sarah pulled her gun out, shoving it and the knives in her backpack. She seemed annoyed. "He's in the emergency room."
"Wh-what?"
"Magnus startled us before we could get the location of the intel, and Fleming's not exactly in any condition to talk. He won't be for hours, if he makes it at all." Sarah looked troubled. "Chuck, would he have written it down anywhere? The location?"
Though it made him nervous to give Fleming any thought, given the severity of his earlier attack, Chuck forced himself to remember all of the interactions he'd had with the psychology professor. He'd made the spy life seem glamorous and fulfilling, and his group of Stanford spies had probably had a much different recruitment process than those from other schools had.
"He probably did," Chuck said. "After all, he copied the intel onto a disk for himself, and didn't destroy it before word could get out."
"That's what I was afraid of." Sarah rubbed her hands over her face. "Magnus searched the place. We think Fleming's briefcase is gone. We've got a team looking over everything, but we had to get Fleming and Casey to the hospital—"
"What!" Chuck jolted to his feet.
"Casey's fine. No need to worry."
"Why did he need to go to the hospital? Was that why—was that why he was limping?"
Sarah didn't answer. Her gaze cut straight to the slipshod bandages covering his knuckles. This time, her silence was a question.
Chuck stuffed his aching hands into his pockets, but the damage was done. "I got mad at Frank."
"What?"
"After you and Casey left, I wanted to hit things, so…I hit Frank." Chuck sat down and leaned back, away from danger, as Sarah rounded the desk. "It's no big deal, I already bandaged it all up and I used Neosporin, so I doubt anything will scar—"
"Let me see." Sarah sat on the edge of his desk, intentionally invading his space so that he had nowhere to look but at her. Grudgingly, he took his hands out of his pockets and offered them. She kept her voice cool as she began to peel the bandages away, but he could see the way her eyes cut toward him often. "You were angry?"
"It's a pretty common human emotion. I'm not a robot."
"Nobody ever said you were. That's all that happened, though? You were mad, and you hit Frank?"
"A bunch of times," Chuck admitted. "It was a pity party. I feel better now."
Sarah let out a breath as the final bit of cloth fell away, revealing the full damage. Chuck knew it wasn't the prettiest sight. The knuckles had swelled to twice their size, and cuts and cracks ran throughout, some edged with dried blood. She didn't even flinch as she prodded each knuckle.
"Ow—ooh—you're quiet. Is this, ah, an angry quiet? I promise you, it's not a big deal, Sarah. Frank and I, we're going through a rough patch now, but we'll—ow! Quit that!"
"Nothing broken," Sarah confirmed. "You'll just be sore, and I guarantee you, you'll regret it tomorrow. I'm going to get you some ice."
Chuck blinked at her as she rose. "You're not mad that I hurt myself? Usually when I do something stupid, you get pissed."
She paused with her back to him; he had no idea what her expression might be, but her voice sounded completely calm as she said, "No, Chuck, I'm not mad. Not at you. Why don't you log off? You probably shouldn't be typing with your hands like that."
"Guess that means no video games, too," Chuck muttered as Sarah headed downstairs for the ice packs. He followed, since he was done for the day anyway. "So you think this Magnus guy has the location? Well, if he does, you've probably got time to wait for Fleming to wake up. The guy was nuts about codes. He used to send us all of our messages in code, which could be a real pain, let me tell—wait a second."
He stopped halfway down the stairs.
"Chuck?" Sarah, sensing something, turned. "What is it?"
"Why would Fleming contact Bryce? Why Bryce specifically? Wasn't he just an ex-student?"
Casey stood at the conference table, going through manila folders. "Chances are, Bryce became Fleming's main CIA contact," he said, shrugging as the other two joined him. "He was probably never told Larkin was rogue."
"And there's no way Bryce could have intercepted the message?"
Sarah and Casey exchanged a glance. "It's unlikely," Sarah said. "Why?"
"Fleming insisted every single one of us 'Stanford spies' have a dumpsite, somewhere we could leave essential items if we ever needed, or a message for him. He knew where everybody kept theirs, even if all Bryce and I ever used ours for were to stash things like extra darts." He remembered their dart gun wars in the library, and how it used to drive him nuts that Bryce would mysteriously come up with extra ammunition.
Casey rolled his eyes. "A dumpsite should be used for emergency items like cash—"
"We were scholarship students, Casey." Chuck rolled his own eyes. "Bryce kept a dumpsite in the library on campus—I did, too, but mine was in the Auxiliary Library. If Fleming was going to leave something for Bryce, it'd be in Green Library."
"Where?" Sarah asked.
"Uh, I don't remember exactly. It's in the South Stacks, you go to the third floor and you make the first left and…" Chuck trailed off. The visual map he carried of the "Scary Stacks" had evidently eroded, just one more screw-up on his part. He gave Sarah and Casey a helpless look. "I honestly think I'd have to be there. I'd have to…go back."
Sarah looked wary. "Can you handle it?"
"Honestly? I don't—" Chuck frowned as a thought took hold. "The big Stanford-UCLA game is tomorrow. It'll be good cover, plenty of people wandering around campus."
All those people, all that open air. Football.
But if Professor Fleming had intel important enough that a cold-faced killer like Magnus Ragnhildur was after it, Chuck's phobias would just have to deal. With a shaking hand, he drew his phone out of his pocket. "I've got an idea."
"Chuck, what are you—"
Chuck had already dialed. "Ellie?" he asked once his sister had picked up. "You don't happen to know if Awes—ah, Devon still has those game tickets for Sarah and me, do you? We got the day off, and I kind of want to show my office manager my alma mater. Oh, he does? That's fantastic!"
He hung up a minute later. "Well, gang, we're going to Stanford. I never thought I'd say this, but wear a red shirt."
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