Be still my heart; thou hast known worse than this.
- Homer
Be Still My Heart
28 SEPTEMBER 2007
DANCING ZORBA'S BAR
19:23 BST
Randy was late.
At any other point in time, Sarah would have been antsy, sitting on the edge of her barstool and constantly checking her watch. Right now, however, she was simply too exhausted to expend any amount of energy beyond what it took to keep an eye out for any CIA or NSA types around her, and to lift her drink to her lips. Her entire body felt like it had been made out of stone and then slagged in an explosion, and built back up into something vaguely Sarah Walker-shaped.
She'd left Chuck at the safe-house, which made her nervous as hell, but it couldn't be helped. He would be fine. Chances were, he would collapse from the same weariness that was even now making Sarah's world seem out of focus. There wasn't anybody else around him and the bungalow was fairly small, so there wasn't too much that could inspire a panic attack, and she didn't think the CIA had found out about her safe-house. She'd kept it buried about as deeply as the identity attached to her plane.
Still, Randy was late, and that was annoying. She needed to be with Chuck. There was a way she could still be with Chuck, a little voice pointed out, and she'd turned it down. He'd gotten all protective because he thought Randy might be a threat, and he'd wanted to come along. It was cute. If she'd said yes, she could be worrying for a whole different reason, Sarah told herself. She needed to suck it up.
She took another drink; the beer felt suspiciously good sliding down her throat. Great. On top of everything else, she likely had a cold coming on. Not all that surprising, given the hell she had put her body through, but annoying. She needed to stay healthy for another week, maybe a week and a half, until they could get back into the States and approach the agents she trusted.
Then she could have her breakdown or her body could shut down like some kind of sci-fi robot, but until then, until Chuck was safe and whole and healthy, she needed to keep it together.
"You know, people are usually happier than that to see me, but I get it," a voice said behind her. Sarah didn't tense. She'd seen Randy come in. She looked over her shoulder, lifting one eyebrow as he grinned at her. "I did, after all, crash your car when you were sixteen."
"My fault for ever letting you drive," Sarah said, rising to her feet. She hugged him and ruffled his hair as she pulled away. "What's this?"
"Hair gel, mostly." Randy moved a hand over the spikes tufting out from his head.
"You look like Billy Idol."
"Unfortunately, that's normal." Randy nodded at the bartender, obviously comfortable with the bar. Sarah could understand why: it was dark and the music wasn't blasting, perfect for any conman who might need to watch for people after him. She imagined he knew at least three egress routes off the top of his head. "The spikes are a lifestyle choice."
"Uh-huh." Lifestyle choice meant that Randy was on a grift. And perhaps the Billy Idol dig had been unfair, as Randy was an albino and therefore didn't have much of a choice. "Do I want to know?"
"Probably not, especially if you want to stay out of the life. Though I've got a friend that..."
Sarah wrinkled her nose. "I'm out, I'm out. No more."
"Your loss." Randy's beer appeared in front of him and he took a long swallow. "I was surprised to get your call."
"I was surprised to find you in Greece. Get tired of Toronto?"
"Vancouver." Randy's smile was quicksilver and charming, which had helped him score hundreds of deals of all types over the years, and even more so, had helped him gain—and lose—quite a few lovers. Sarah had told Chuck he was an ex-boyfriend in order to have to explain how she knew him. She wondered what Randy would think of that...or what Randy's current boyfriend, who had come into the bar with him and was sitting by the jukebox in the corner, would think of it. "I like having a lot of movie stars around, you know."
"I'm sure you do."
Randy took a long drink of beer and carefully set the glass down, his spindly fingers playing with the rim. "Was sorry to hear about your dad."
"Thanks."
"He'll be out soon?"
"Less than six months."
"Ah."
Sarah hoped he wouldn't say more; her father would never be a topic she wanted to discuss, even with somebody who understood. Randy's own father had been a conman just like Jack, though a heart attack had claimed his life before Rolf Kaiser could end up in prison. Randy had gone on to be a protégé of Jack's, and at eighteen, he and sixteen-year-old Sarah had gotten along pretty well. The ironic thing about it all, Sarah thought, was that they probably had more in common now that she had become a spy than they had back in the old days.
"Word is, you got religion," Randy went on.
"I got something," Sarah said, and she wasn't lying. She had a serious case of lust fever. Thankfully, it had dwindled with the advent of a little sleep on the ferry, but the strangest things could still set her off. It had kept the past day...interesting. "But don't worry, this isn't a sting or anything."
"That's what they all say. And then you end up in an orange jumpsuit with a guy named Big Mikey wanting to make friends."
"If you're in a jumpsuit, so am I," Sarah said.
Randy eyed her a moment longer, and Sarah stayed still. Old acquaintances or not, her time as a federal agent might have hit the old grapevines, which meant that she was lucky Randy had even taken her call. He was trained to read body language by his own upbringing, so right now was her trial by fire, as it were, to prove that she really wouldn't throw him in prison.
Apparently, she passed the test. Randy picked up his beer, but didn't drink. "Got what you wanted."
"Yeah?" It was a relief. She hadn't packed nearly enough weaponry for her taste, since going on plane flights with weaponry always raised red flags, no matter what sort of documentation she carried. "Any trouble?"
"Kid stuff." Randy waved a hand. "Also, I managed to get my hands on something you're going to love."
"Oh?" Interest had her perking up as Randy reached into his messenger bag and withdrew a flat black case about as long as his hand. "What's this? A pressure syringe?"
"Fits between the fingers, so you can hide it with a closed fist. Well, a loosely closed fist." Randy pulled a small silver device out, and Sarah saw that it held two rings to slip one's fingers through. Mounted between them was a short, thin needle. "My friend Monty's design. We use it on security guards when we can't carry tranq pistols. The juice inside is pretty effective—takes about a quarter of a second, and it lasts for most of an hour, so don't prick yourself by accident. Extra cartridges in the case, too."
"Wow," Sarah said as Randy replaced the syringe in the case and handed it over. "That's pretty handy. It's safe?"
"I'd use it on my own mother."
"You don't like your mother."
"I know. But it only leaves you with a headache, nothing harmful. Monty's a genius when it comes to inventing. Helps to have one on your crew."
"Yeah," Sarah said, taking a sip of her beer. "I've got one now, too. He's..." Extremely hot. "Pretty great. And the knives? You got the knives?"
"I did." Randy handed over a folded piece of cloth that felt rigid at certain points. Sarah didn't check, but she figured it was probably a cloth sleeve for the throwing knives she had requested, the same knives she had felt almost naked without over the past few days. "Still using them, I see. You any good with them?"
"I'm decent. How are the extraction plans? Which airports did you choose?"
"We'll go through Berlin. My contact is willing to help us avoid any scrapes. Your paperwork solid?"
"Got it from the best in the business."
"Awesome. I'll need copies of it." When Sarah gave him a "not happening" look, Randy shrugged. "We can do that at the last minute if you're more comfortable that way."
"I am."
"Understandable. You always were paranoid. It's just you and one other?" Randy pulled out a complicated-looking smart phone. Chuck, she thought, would drool. Whenever she and Bryce had had a new tech toy delivered to the bunker for a mission, they had usually heard about it in great detail, until Chuck of course disassembled the pieces and made it into something else. He'd spent two hours in Thessaloniki playing with the digital camera she'd purchased in order to blend in more as a tourist, uncovering features she would never have even thought to look for.
"It is," she said. "And it's imperative that I stay with him the whole time."
"Seats together, got it. Aisle or window?"
Sarah paused. Chuck's longer legs would mean he would probably prefer the aisle, but he would be more exposed. "Aisle, for me, with him next to me." That way, she thought, finishing off her beer, they would literally have to go through her to get to Chuck.
Randy made a note on his phone. "You're comfortable staying in Athens for a day or two?"
Sarah had to think about it. She'd set up the bungalow, and she had one emergency location since Athens had been an original stopping point on the egress plan for Chuck and Bryce. Both locations were set up for three people—there was a sleeper cot tucked in the closet at the bungalow, and rations and food for three in each one of the refrigerators—though Bryce didn't know about them. Hopefully, neither did the CIA or NSA. Besides, changing her plans right now would be costly. The bungalow and the backup plan would have to do.
"Yes," she said. "But not for longer than that."
Randy's fingers stilled over the screen and he looked over at her, watching her through the corner of his eye. "Are you in trouble?"
Though she could pull it off, she knew better than to lie to him. Too many things rested on the wrong flick of an eye or shrug of a shoulder. "It's complicated."
"So it's your companion that's in trouble?"
"Randy, you know I'm not going to tell you what's going on. The situation is messy, and it's only going to get worse unless we get to D.C., and quickly." Why was it that the men in her life were suddenly becoming overprotective? Randy, she could understand—the last time she had seen him, she'd been an awkward and shy teen—but Chuck? He'd seen her storm multiple compounds with only an MP-5 and her wits. He knew she could take care of herself. She gave Randy a grateful look, even if his over-protectiveness wasn't wanted. "I really do appreciate the help."
"It'll be nice to work with you again," Randy said. "Just like old times."
"Definitely," Sarah said, and she meant it. "How can I get in touch?"
Randy handed over a burn phone. "No way to trace it. If anybody but me calls you, dump it and run. I'll leave you a note, usual way of contact."
"Where?"
"Acropolis. They've got a really nice ladies' bathroom, I just love the soap they use."
Sarah smiled, though her muscles were so weary it felt as though her face might crack. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a Euro note that would cover both of their drinks, and the beer Randy's boyfriend in the corner had been nursing. "Got it. I'd better get back. Thanks again, Randy."
"No problem."
She got a few steps before curiosity made her turn. "Okay, I give. What's the con?"
"No con. Well, mostly no con."
Sarah's eyebrow went up.
"Hey, maybe you aren't the only one that got religion." Randy's grin came back full force. "I have a day job now. EMT."
"You're kidding."
"God's honest truth. I save lives."
Sarah was quiet for a moment while she processed this. Then she nodded. "Good for you. I'm proud. And I look forward to your call."
It really was strange, she thought as she slipped into the warm Athens night, how much people could change, and how much they seemed to never change at all. How many years had it been since she had seen Randy? A decade? More? Seeing him again was like it had been just yesterday, whereas it had only been two years since the last time she had seen Chuck, before three days before, and it seemed like everything had changed.
It took her an hour to get back, though the bungalow wasn't far. She used a convoluted route, different Metro lines and bus routes, keeping her face down in a French novel she'd bought at a stand earlier so that it wouldn't be tagged on the cameras. Once she was sure she wasn't being followed, she approached the bungalow. The lights were on, which made her draw up short. How could Chuck be awake? The only way she was upright now was due to the fact that she had kept moving, and she knew that Chuck had had less sleep than she had since the cuddling incident—which still made her feel a bit warm to think about—in the hayloft in Poland, as he hadn't catnapped in the car or on the ferry. Cautious now, she moved forward to where she could peek through the window.
He was asleep, she saw, bundled beneath the covers so that she could see only the back of his head and his neck. She started to smile to herself, but stopped short. Was that...yes, it was. He had set his little perimeter alarm; she could see the receiver dangling from the lampshade, where it would be in easy reach.
Well, damn it. She didn't want to wake him if he was finally getting some much needed rest, and she especially didn't want to wake him that way if that alarm was as shrill as she suspected it might be. She sighed to herself and pulled out the sensor alarm panel. She'd had the place wired to alert her whenever somebody forced entry. One of the perks was that she could lock the doors and windows remotely. She hit the unlock switch and, trying to be quiet, forced the glass up. After the day she'd had, crawling in through her own window like a teenager sneaking in really just capped it.
She shut the window behind her. All she wanted was a shower and to eat most of whatever was in the fridge. And to sleep as long as her body would allow. She decided to eat first, and so killed two birds with one stone, stuffing feta cheese and olive bread in her mouth as she turned the water on in the shower. Thankfully, a call to the maid service she kept in Greece had stocked up the fridge prior to their arrival, which was one less thing that she had to worry about for now. She headed back into the kitchenette to grab yet another hunk of olive bread, and pulled up short.
Oh, my God, she thought, not for the first time that day. Is he serious?
Not only had Chuck cleaned up the two days of travel grime, but from this angle, it looked like he slept in the nude. He had rolled over, perhaps hearing the noise from the pipes, so that the blanket fell across his abdomen rather than his shoulders. With the lamp still on, Sarah could see every bit of definition in his shoulders, chest, and abdomen in nice, clear detail, including the sprinkling of chest hair that tapered down into—without a word, she pivoted on her heel, stalked to the bathroom, and twisted the hot water knob to "off."
This was ridiculous. Sarah stripped out of her clothes, ripe thanks to the fact that she'd worn them through seven or eight different countries, and jumped into the cold stream of water, hoping it would do something about the inferno the bungalow had become. The cold bit into her system, but she welcomed it. And even though it would probably wake Chuck, she indulged herself: she pounded her head into the tiles. Repeatedly.
This really, really had to stop. It's exhaustion, she told herself. She was tired, and edgy, and stressed, and her mind did strange things to her whenever that happened. Past experience was more than proof enough: during a botched mission in Nigeria, she had hallucinated sitting down to the Last Supper with a bunch of Fraggles, a TV show she had watched as a young girl in crappy motel rooms while her dad stole from people. It hadn't even seemed strange, and it had nothing on the image of a shirtless Chuck now permanently and happily burned into her brain. Would she see that every time she closed her eyes for the rest of her life? It seemed likely, and problematic. In addition to negating the shower she was currently freezing through, it would probably get them both killed. Either the CIA would find them based on her dazed look alone, or she was going to mindlessly into traffic, and Chuck would follow because he trusted her.
Pull it together, Walker.
"He really is trying to kill me," she muttered to herself, and reached for the shampoo. The rest of the shower was an experiment in self-control and willpower as she tried not to imagine what it would be like just to run her hands over his—she gave up and rested her forehead against the cold tiles. It was going to be hell to climb into bed, knowing that Chuck was wearing either nothing or very little under the sheets. She wasn't sure the Farm had ever taught anything that could possibly counteract this sort of torture.
Eventually, she dragged herself to shut off the water and towel-dried her hair. She stuck with brushing her teeth and using the moisturizer Jean-Claude had packed, a shortened version of her nightly routine. And, wearing the shorts and a tank top that would have to suffice for sleep gear, she took a deep breath and wandered out. Chuck had both helped and hurt the situation by pulling the blanket up around his shoulders again. It deprived her of the view, but it did wonders for her self-control.
She turned out his lamp before she crossed to her side of the bed. The smarter, more prudent thing to do would be to drag out the spare cot, but she didn't have the energy and it might wake Chuck. So she took a deep breath and crawled into bed alongside Chuck, careful to keep her movements slow so as not to wake him. He stirred, but mumbled something and turned his back to her.
"If I didn't like you so much, I'd probably hate you," Sarah said, giving him a dirty look as she tucked one of her new throwing knives under her pillow, well out of his reach. She made sure to keep a foot of space between them when she curled up, all but melting into the mattress thanks to her tiredness. Nearly two years without sex on top of her exhaustion, and now she was sharing a bed with the guy she'd had multiple sex dreams about in a safe-house on the run from the US government and a rogue spy. If this had been a romance novel, she had no doubt that they would have defiled every flat surface in the place by now—not that she would mind—but since it was real life and real life sucked sometimes, she reached up and shut off her lamp and fell asleep.
29 SEPTEMBER 2007
ATHENS, GREECE
6:19 BST
"Oh, God."
The moan cut through the nothingness, and in that instant, Sarah was awake. She was sitting up before she knew it, searching the bungalow for any sign of intruders or an attack. "What is it? What?" Then seeing only Chuck lying next to her with his face in a pillow, she added, "What?"
Chuck mumbled something. Oh, God, Sarah thought. Was he hurt? Had something happened? She grabbed his shoulder and turned him over. "What is it?"
"Uncle! Uncle!"
In her panic she'd pulled too hard. But Chuck didn't seem to be hurt—save the damage she'd just done—and there wasn't a tac team inside the room, waiting to take them by force. She put the knife she hadn't realized she'd been holding back into its sheath underneath the pillow. Early morning gloom filled the room, which told her they had been asleep for awhile. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"Just a flash," Chuck said, rubbing his shoulder. He reached over to pick something up off of the floor on his side of the bed. As he did so, Sarah noticed something she hadn't the night before: he was definitely wearing boxers. And his back muscles were just as well-defined as the rest of him. It just kept getting better. She managed to yank her gaze up to his face just in time when he turned and handed her something. A menu of some type for Gio Pete's, done in bright red and green. "Something on this incited a flash about Project Omaha. You ever heard of it?"
"No, but..." Project Omaha? She had run an off-the-books mission in Omaha with Bryce three years before, their first mission together. But it had been called Project Headland, not Project Omaha and—holy hell. She hadn't been anywhere near a place like Gio Pete's, and this menu definitely hadn't been in the bungalow when she'd done her sweep the night before. Ice colder than her shower flooded through her. She rolled to her feet, automatically adopting an attack stance. "Where did you get this?"
"It was—it was on the nightstand."
Sarah swore, and realized she'd spoken aloud when Chuck practically fell out of the bed, asking, "What is it?"
"Get dressed." Stupid, Sarah, stupid, not to wake up and do routine sweeps of the room to make sure they were safe. Had she even checked last night when she'd come in? God, she was an idiot. She'd let her guard down. She had no idea what game their mysterious visitor was trying to play, and right now, she didn't give a damn. They needed to go while they could.
"What?"
"Get dressed!" Ignoring modesty, she stripped out of her shorts, grabbing up the first pair of pants in the suitcase Jean-Claude had packed. She ignored the need for a bra and instead yanked on a long-sleeved tee over the sleep tank. "The room's been breached, we need to move!"
She stuffed her clothes back into her suitcase and raced around, yanking the bedclothes taut, sweeping up the crumbs. She tossed a cloth to Chuck to handle fingerprints while she checked out the windows, searching for snipers or anybody that might want to snatch them. How had she managed to forget that they had not only the government, but Bryce Larkin, who knew her every reaction like his life depended on it (and had, several times), and who could always beat her at chess, after them? She should have done better. She needed to do better. For whatever reason, they had a brief reprieve, but they needed to get somewhere crowded, where they could get lost, and regroup.
"C'mon," she told Chuck as they grabbed their bags and ran for the sedan she'd had the housing service rent for her use. She took the driver's seat.
"Where are we going?" Chuck had his hands already clenched on the dashboard.
"Somewhere public. Hold on." Sarah didn't peel out of the parking lot, though it was a close thing.
29 SEPTEMBER 2007
THE ACROPOLIS
08:20 BST
Perhaps it was a subconscious answer to Randy's preferred message stop the night before, but after driving around for an hour and picking them up some breakfast, Sarah chose the Acropolis to gather her bearings and to figure out if they were being watched. There was already a crowd, perfect for her needs and perfectly horrible for Chuck. She could see it getting to him in the way his hands twitched, and he inched closer to her with every minute, but it couldn't be helped. The first chance she got, she promised herself, they would go somewhere dark and quiet, and let Chuck regain his equilibrium, but until she knew if they were being followed or not, he would just have to tough it out. And he was doing well: he'd even joked around with her about their cover identities, at least putting on the front of a tourist indulging his wife. They were Pete and Diana Rogers again, on a second honeymoon throughout Europe, rather than Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker, on the run from everybody and everything.
He'd called her sweetheart. It had sounded unnatural.
She scanned the crowd around them as they moved along, heading toward the Erectheion, but nobody seemed like they were overly interested in either her or avoiding her gaze. Still, the menu from Chuck's nightstand made her jittery. It was just strange. Why would somebody leave that? What the hell was Project Omaha and what did it matter? And if this person had the capability to sneak into the bungalow, why hadn't they simply snatched Chuck at that point?
Unless they didn't want to do that. But why? What the hell was the endgame?
You know who left the message, Sarah, her brain chided. If Bryce knows enough to steal and destroy the Intersect, he knows how it works. He knows what to do to trigger a flash, and you've never understood his endgame anyway.
No, Sarah told herself, rebelling against even the thought. It just wasn't fair. She had made all of these plans, and she had done her damndest to keep them from Bryce, and he had still followed them all the way to freaking Athens, and it just wasn't fair. Her plan wasn't supposed to fall apart like tissue paper in the rain.
She tightened her grip on Chuck's arm, and Chuck glanced over. He'd picked up some sun the day before, but the pallor of the bunker still clung to him, making him look ghost-like. There was also a sheen of panic sweat on his forehead, due to all of the people around. But he still gave her a reassuring smile, which made her heart contract tighter than usual. She was the one that was supposed to be comfortinghim, not the other way around.
Why did Bryce want him to know about Project Omaha? Why was that important, and why hadn't Bryce simply taken Chuck while Sarah was away? It scared Sarah on some elemental level that she didn't want to acknowledge, more than that initial spurt of fear she'd suffered when Dave had first told her that Chuck had been involved with the Intersect theft, that Bryce was able to slip in under her nose and could take Chuck away at any second, knowing that the other agent was in Athens with them, and knowing that Sarah could probably do very little to stop him.
And it pissed her off. Bryce was supposed to be her partner, and she was supposed to trust her partner. She wasn't supposed to fear what he was capable of.
"You remember what we talked about," she told Chuck, keeping a grip on his arm, "about if we get split up at any point today."
Relax, she told herself. She'd gone over it five times in the car.
But Chuck didn't roll his eyes, like she might have. He looked puzzled, and lost. "I still don't understand. Why do you want me to go to an Air Force Base rather than wait somewhere for you to find me?"
Should she lie? With every day she was off-grid, the target on her head grew larger, and Bryce being here meant he could second-guess her every move. He'd have some trouble with the Air Force or an embassy if Chuck could get there, Sarah knew. She decided that Chuck deserved some version of the truth.
"Because I might not be able to make it to a meet-up and what you have in your head is a valuable piece of government property. Your protection isn't worth the risk of waiting for a meet-up."
She saw Chuck jolt. "Sarah," he started to say.
She didn't let him finish. "Diana."
"Are you in more danger than me right now? Like they'll shoot you on sight?"
It wouldn't be on sight. They'd follow her for a little while, separate her from Chuck somehow, and her death would be a quiet one, somewhere in a back alley. She didn't really fear death as much as she suspected others did, but now that she had something to live for, the thought spread a greasy film throughout her midsection. She looked away. "Just enjoy the architecture."
Chuck didn't move. He had that look on his face again. She'd seen it the day before when he had tried to insist on going with her to Randy. It was a stubborn, heels-dug-in expression that told her that mountains would move before Chuck would. And it was...pretty damn effective. Her heart started pounding. The man would be an excellent interrogator if he ever chose to be; it was impossible to face down that expression and lie. "Answer the question," he said, turning toward her.
She couldn't.
"They think you're rogue," Chuck went on, his voice different. Deeper. He'd pulled his shoulders back, too, so that he seemed taller than ever. "They can't kill me because I've got the only copy of the Intersect in my head, but you, they'll see you as expendable."
More than expendable. A liability. "I'm off the grid. My partner stole a valuable piece of government property, and three days later, I'm off the grid with the only remaining copy. Right now, by all appearance, I'm guilty of high treason."
Apparently, the Chuck that freaked out at the thought of gunplay and danger was long-gone. This version of him standing in front of her now seemed more experienced, colder. Definitely more determined, from the way he stared at her, his look unreadable. Finally, he spoke. "Okay." He moved around her.
She grabbed his arm and yanked. He obviously didn't like that, given the way his jaw firmed, but she didn't care. "Okay, what?"
"I'm going to the Air Force Base, I'm giving them the phrase you told me, and I'm turning myself in. And I'll tell them you had nothing to do with it, and that you were innocent. I appreciate the help, but there's no way I'm letting you get killed trying to keep me from getting thrown back in a bunker." Chuck's eyes seemed to say what the rest of him wouldn't: try to stop me. I dare you. "I'd rather die alone in a bunker than let you get shot protecting me?"
Sarah's heart started to pound for an entirely new reason, and she swallowed. No, was all she could think. He couldn't do this, not after everything she'd done to get him out of Siberia. She straightened her shoulders, planting herself in his way. "Chuck, it's my job to protect you."
"No way, Sarah. No way are you getting killed because of something Bryce or I did."
"I've been a field agent for years. I can take care of myself."
"I don't doubt that. I'm just not willing to risk it." Chuck broke free and tried to move around her, but Sarah hadn't aced the footwork part of her boxing course for naught. She side-stepped into his path, eyebrows lowering when Chuck's eyes flashed. "Get out of my way."
"I know fourteen ways to knock you unconscious without either of us moving right now. And I'll do it," Sarah said, digging into her pocket with her free hand for one of those ways. She couldn't let Chuck turn himself in; she'd made him a promise, and she would keep it come hell, high water, or stupidly misplaced nobility. "I swear I will."
Instead of backing down, however, Chuck scoffed and looked around at the crowd around them. Sarah felt her blood begin to boil. Why the hell didn't he understand? "Here? Try it."
She could think of things she wanted to do less, but it was a very short list. And Chuck, she saw, was not going to budge on this stance. It normally would have been heartwarming and made her feel fluttery, but not right now. Not when Chuck was in danger, too. So she gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Chuck got the question out before Sarah lashed out with one hand, stabbing the pressure syringe Randy had given her at the bar the night before into the side of his neck. He flinched, his look going from stubborn to confused, and then finally slack as the drug hit his system. Sarah nearly let out a curse as he toppled like a building, thankfully toward her. She let his weight crash into her, and hoped it looked natural. A deep breath, all that she required, and she switched to her Southern Belle accent. "Oh, mah gawd! Pete? Pete! Are you okay?"
He looked so rough, lying there unconscious on the asphalt outside the ruins, black bags under his eyes and face slack. She didn't have to fake most of her worry as she played to the crowd, freaking out and pretending that "Pete" had low blood sugar. She insisted on being the one to call the EMTs herself.
When Randy and his boyfriend finally arrived, she was kneeling by the still-out Chuck, being comforted by the Greek authorities who worked at the Acropolis. "Didn't think you'd use the syringe this soon," Randy muttered after she'd tearfully thanked her supporters and was trotting alongside the men in EMT uniforms pushing the stretcher and Chuck to the ambulance. "Eager much?"
"Had a situation."
"Who is he?"
"My traveling partner. We had a disagreement."
"Oh. He got off easy, then. Our disagreements used to end with a right hook."
"They did not!"
They reached the ambulance. "Where am I taking him?"
It hurt to give up secrets, but she didn't have much of a choice, so Sarah listed off the address to her second safe-house. "Take the long way," she said. "I've got to check my car for trackers and maybe lose a tail, but I'll be there. Circle the block until I get there?"
"Got it."
"And Randy?"
"Yes?" Randy, in the process of climbing up into the back of the ambulance, looked down at her.
"When he wakes up, tell him I'll see him soon. And be nice. He's...he's had it rough." And he's all I've got right now, Sarah added.
"Will do." Randy closed the door, and the ambulance pulled away. Though it was wasting time she didn't have, Sarah watched it go.
I'm sorry, Chuck.
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