Langley – Secure CIA Facility
Red alarms blared as Bryce Larkin sprinted down the steel corridor, SIG Sauer in one hand, keycard in the other. Guards shouted, boots pounding after him. He moved like a ghost, taking them down one by one until he reached the chamber.
The Intersect mainframe.
Bryce slid the drive into the console, pulling up the database — only to freeze.
The servers were empty.
"What? No… no, no, no…" He typed furiously, searching hidden directories. The vast intelligence web of the CIA and NSA was gone. Stripped clean.
Someone had already taken it.
Shouts grew louder behind him. Bryce cursed under his breath, yanked open his laptop, and launched a secure program.
"If anyone can handle this…" he muttered, typing the name into the field: Charles Irving Bartowski.
He hit send.
But the file never transferred — because there was nothing left to send. Bryce didn't know that. He didn't know the Intersect was already out of the system, already living in Chuck's head.
Burbank – Carmichael Industries
The hum of printers, the buzz of analysts debating over data models, the faint sound of Jeff and Lester's disastrous attempts at "parking attendant sing-alongs" outside.
From his glass-walled office, Chuck Bartowski watched it all with a small smile. To the world, he was Charles Carmichael, brilliant young director of a government-backed think tank. To his sister Ellie, he was still just Chuck, the goofy brother who made bad jokes at dinner. To the CIA and NSA? He was their most valuable asset — the Intersect.
The door opened without a knock.
"Bartowski," Casey grunted.
Chuck looked up from his desk. "Casey. Let me guess — more complaints about Jeff and Lester?"
Casey didn't even crack a smile. "Worse. CIA's sending backup."
Chuck frowned. "Backup? I already have you."
"Exactly," Casey said dryly. "Which means they think you still need a babysitter."
Echo Park Hotel – Lounge
The bar glowed with amber light. Chuck adjusted his cufflinks, the Carmichael persona slipping over him like a second skin. Casey leaned against the bar nearby, eyes on the door.
Then she entered.
Blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. Red dress that silenced the room. Calm, lethal grace in every step.
Sarah Walker.
She slid into the booth opposite him, smile polite, eyes sharp.
"Mr. Carmichael," she said smoothly.
Chuck smirked faintly. "Agent Walker. Long time since the Cat Squad fiasco."
Her lips curved, just slightly. "Beckman's orders. I'm your new partner. Cover's flexible — consultant for the think tank… or girlfriend."
Chuck raised an eyebrow. "You do realize I already have a girlfriend."
Sarah's gaze never wavered. "Then she's not part of this cover. To the outside world, I'm yours. That's the mission."
Casey muttered into his comm from across the room: "Told you. Complications."
Carmichael Industries – Briefing Room
General Beckman's face filled the monitor.
"Bartowski. Walker will operate as a consultant for Carmichael Industries. On paper, she handles corporate intelligence outreach. In reality, she's your new partner."
Chuck leaned back in his chair. "And Casey?"
"He remains in tactical support," Beckman replied crisply. "Tonight you have a priority op. A bomb threat targeting the gala downtown. Stop it."
Stephanie's text buzzed on Chuck's phone just then: Good luck at your 'conference.' Dinner tomorrow?
Chuck forced a smile. "Simple enough."
The Gala – Downtown Los Angeles
Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead. Waiters carried champagne. Chuck played Carmichael to perfection, weaving through the crowd in a sharp suit.
Sarah appeared at his side, hand slipping naturally into his. "Smile," she whispered. "People are watching."
Chuck muttered back, "Stephanie's never going to believe this cover."
"Good," Sarah said simply. "She's not supposed to."
They danced — smooth, practiced — as Sarah pointed toward their mark. A courier in a tuxedo, carrying a sleek black case.
The chase that followed was chaos. Casey barreled through security guards like a wrecking ball. Sarah fought with lethal precision, heels flashing like blades. Chuck ended up in the parking garage, staring at the case as the digital timer ticked down.
The Parking Garage
The bomb's display screamed: 3:00… 2:59… 2:58…
Chuck knelt, laptop out, heart hammering. The Intersect triggered, flashing schematics, manuals, and hundreds of failed disposal case files through his brain. Then one solution stood out.
"Irene Demova."
Chuck blinked. "You've got to be kidding me."
Sarah crouched beside him. "What? What do you see?"
Chuck winced. "A computer virus. Designed to crash digital detonators by overloading them with… uh… let's call it 'graphic material.'"
Sarah's eyes narrowed. "You're going to stop a bomb with porn?"
Chuck connected his laptop. "You got a better idea?"
Casey barked from behind cover, "Two minutes, Carmichael!"
Chuck's fingers flew. The screen erupted in a flood of adult videos and pop-ups, the system screaming as it overloaded. Sparks flew from the bomb's circuits. The timer froze at 00:01 before going dark.
Chuck sagged back against the wall, panting. "See? Easy."
Sarah stared, torn between disbelief and admiration. "You just defused a bomb with porn."
Casey holstered his gun. "If anyone asks, I did it."
Carmichael Industries – Debrief
Beckman's expression on the monitor was unreadable. "Good work, team. The gala was secured, the threat neutralized. Effective immediately, Agent Walker is permanently assigned to Carmichael Industries. Cover title: Senior Consultant."
Chuck exhaled slowly, nodding. "Understood."
Sarah glanced at him, her professional smile never slipping. "Looks like you're stuck with me, Carmichael."
Casey grunted. "This is going to be hell."
Chuck leaned back in his chair, adjusting his tie. "Complicated's what I do best."