Chuck versus The Last Wish

Chapter 24 – A familiar face

Alex was surprised when the door swung open, revealing Chuck and Morgan carrying an unconscious woman in a park ranger uniform into the apartment.

“Hi—” The word died in her throat. “Morgan, what the hell are you doing?”

“Sorry, Alex,” Chuck said, maneuvering her through the doorway. “We don't have anywhere else to put her.”

Morgan offered an apologetic cringe as they lowered Mariana into the armchair. The moment they let go, her head lolled forward, dark brown hair spilling across her chest. Morgan tried three separate times to prop her head upright before finally giving up.

“Long story,” Morgan began.

Chuck cut in quickly. “She's Mariana. She's a spy.”

Alex’s breath caught.

“But that's not the main problem,” Chuck added. “Someone wiped her personality and implanted Sarah's in its place. She acts, thinks, and talks just like Sarah.”

Alex stared between Chuck and the unconscious woman in utter bewilderment.

Morgan slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Don't worry. It gets weirder. Sometimes she hits on Chuck.”

“Thanks, Morgan,” Chuck grunted, heading straight for the door. “That's really helping. I need to get home to Sarah. Keep an eye on her.”

Alex took a deep, steadying breath. “Morgan Guillermo Grimes…”

Morgan squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes?”

“You're going to tell me everything. Starting right now.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Chuck closed the door behind him.

Sarah stood in the kitchen, staring silently at an unlit kettle.

Chuck stopped behind her. “Are you mad?”

Sarah didn't turn around. “No.”

Chuck smiled faintly. “Is that no as in no, or no as in—”

Sarah finally turned to face him. “Which one?”

“The one where the husband sleeps on the couch for three days,” said Chuck.

The corner of Sarah's mouth twitched before fading. “You're not sleeping on the couch.”

“Good start,” Chuck said, swallowing.

They stood in silence before Chuck stepped closer. “I'm sorry.”

Sarah nodded. “I know.” She paused, looking down. “I don't like it.”

Chuck didn't ask what she meant—he knew. “Me neither.”

Sarah closed her eyes, her voice trembling slightly. “Someone looks at you the same way. Smiles the same way. Touches you the same way… a completely different person.”

Sarah looked at him, brushing away a stray tear with a quick, practiced motion.

“When she touched me…” Chuck began, searching for the words before meeting her eyes. “It felt wrong.”

Sarah looked up. “Why?”

Chuck smiled softly. “Because it wasn't you.”

Sarah looked at him, then stepped in close and took his hand. “This?”

Chuck intertwined their fingers without hesitation. “This is you.”

He gently brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now.” Sarah shook her head. “Just hold me…”

They walked back into the bedroom, pulling the door shut against the long day.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mariana slowly opened her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling and living room. Video games lined a shelf, and a half-assembled LEGO X-Wing sat on the coffee table.

She blinked. “…Chuck?”

Morgan, dozing on the couch, jolted awake. “Thank God. I was worried it was me.”

Mariana sat up. “Where am I?”

“Good question. Technically, Burbank. Practically, the world's weirdest Airbnb.”

“Morgan…” said Alex.

“Okay, our apartment. Long story.”

Mariana looked around. “Sarah?”

“She's home with Chuck,” Morgan said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

Mariana nodded silently.

Alex stepped out of the kitchen holding two mugs, pausing as she saw Mariana awake. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Mariana replied with a polite smile.

Alex offered a mug. “Coffee?”

Mariana took it automatically, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before taking a sip.

Morgan and Alex exchanged a quick look—it was the exact, subconscious gesture Sarah made every single morning.

Mariana caught them staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” Morgan said quickly.

Alex smoothly cut in. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you like for breakfast?”

Mariana opened her mouth to answer, then hesitated. Seconds ticked past in heavy silence before she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“…I don't know.”

Alex stepped closer, her expression softening. “Then let's start with toast or pancakes.”

Mariana smiled gratefully. “Okay.”

Watching her, Morgan finally understood. The woman sitting in their living room wasn't just a copy of Sarah Walker—she was someone who had been stripped so completely clean she didn't even know her own favorite food.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Chuck was pouring coffee into his mug when his phone rang. Unknown number.

“Hello?”

Sarah watched the toaster, listening with half an ear.

“Good morning, Mr. Bartowski. I'm calling from Sterling & Myers Wealth Management. We'd like to schedule an appointment with you—”

Chuck grimaced. “Thanks, but I'm not interested.”

“Sir, this is regarding your—”

“I'm not interested in investing in anything.”

“But this isn't a sales—”

“Goodbye.” He hung up and set the phone back down on the table.

Sarah looked up. “Who was that?”

“Some financial advisory firm,” Chuck shrugged.

“What did they want?”

“Probably the same thing everyone else wants—to take my money.”

Sarah gave him a faint smile. “How much money do you have?”

Chuck laughed. “That's what makes it funny. Now they're trying to scam me over the phone, too.”

Sarah took a sip of her coffee, her faint smile slowly fading. “What are we going to do with her?”

Chuck didn't need to ask who she meant. “I don't know.”

“She can't stay with Morgan forever,” Sarah said, staring at the counter.

“I know.”

“But we can't leave her on her own, either.”

“I know.” Chuck nodded.

Sarah sighed softly. “Strange.”

“What?”

“Yesterday I thought I was the most complicated thing in your life.”

Chuck chuckled. “You still are.”

Sarah offered a genuine smile. “Sure?”

“Technically, Mariana is Sarah too, so…”

Sarah lowered her head and laughed softly, though the lightness lasted only a moment before her expression turned serious again. “I feel sorry for her.”

Chuck looked at her. “Me too.”

“It's not her fault.”

“No.”

“And yet…” She trailed off.

“It hurts,” Chuck finished softly.

Sarah simply nodded.

Chuck reached across the table and took her hand. “We'll figure it out.”

Sarah intertwined their fingers. “I know.” She looked up after a brief silence. “But first, let's go get her.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan puttered in the kitchen as the pan sizzled. “Five more minutes,” he called out. “The pancakes are entering the strategic phase—meaning I'm hoping they're edible.” Chuck smiled.

Sarah sat on the couch while the muted television played in the background. A red news ticker scrolled across the bottom: TRAGIC ACCIDENT AT YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK, accompanied by a photo of Ranger Ben. The caption reported he had died when a fire destroyed a service cabin.

Morgan stepped out carrying two plates and immediately clicked off the TV. “ We won’t watch more of this before breakfast,” he muttered. “Pancakes?”

Chuck eyed the food. “Definitely.”

Sarah stared at the dark screen a moment longer, while Mariana glanced briefly at Chuck before looking away.

Once breakfast was finished and Alex gathered the dishes, Sarah turned to Mariana. “Yesterday you said they conducted the experiments at the lab—the MARS lab. That's where we're going.”

Mariana shook her head immediately. “No.” Her knuckles whitened around her fork. “I don't want to go back there. You don't want to know what they did to me… I saw the recordings.” Her voice broke.

Sarah kept her gaze fixed on her. Chuck knew the horror Mariana meant—they had seen those files, too. The MARS project hadn't just reprogrammed her; they had systematically stripped away her identity piece by piece until only raw instinct remained.

Sarah's tone softened. “I know you're afraid to go back.”

Mariana offered a bitter smile. “I'm not afraid. I remember those recordings, Sarah.”

“That's exactly why we have to go,” Sarah insisted.

“Sarah…” Chuck cut in gently. “What happened to her there… was inhuman.”

Sarah looked at Chuck briefly, then met Mariana's eyes. “If there's even one piece of data left—one server, one corrupted file—that could give you any of your memories back, we have to look.”

“And if there isn't?”

“Then at least we'll know we tried everything.”

Mariana closed her eyes for a long moment before nodding softly. “Okay.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Chuck turned the key, and the engine rumbled back to life, cutting through the heavy quiet of the vacant lot. Mariana recited an address nestled in the hills of Pasadena—a location she couldn't remember ever choosing, yet one her instincts recalled with unsettling precision.

The drive south toward Los Angeles passed in tense silence. In the passenger seat, Sarah kept her eyes glued to the side mirror, tracking the subtle shifts in Mariana’s reflection. Mariana sat in the back with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, staring out at the blurred ribbon of asphalt. Every few miles, her fingers twitched—a faint, nervous habit Sarah recognized as her own former micro-tell.

Two hours later, Chuck pulled the car onto a quiet, tree-lined street tucked against the hillside.

The house was a monster. Built in brutalist fashion, raw concrete and straight lines were its primary features, with big glass surfaces. It looked as if it would govern the neighborhood within its own right.

“This is it?” Morgan whispered from the back seat, leaning between the headrests. “Looks like the kind of place where a retired assassin grows orchids.”

“Or hides evidence,” Sarah murmured, unbuckling her seatbelt.

They approached the front steps with practiced, quiet caution. Sarah took the lead, her hand resting near her waistband, while Chuck flanked her right side. Mariana walked between them, her steps growing slower and heavier as they reached the porch.

Sarah reached out to test the front door handle. Locked. Without missing a beat, her hand reached up toward the top of the doorframe, sweeping her fingers along the dusty wooden ledge. They brushed against a small, flat piece of metal. A key.

Behind them, Mariana exhaled softly. “I put it there.”

Sarah froze for a split second, holding the cool brass key in her palm. It wasn't just a standard Agency hide-a-key location—it was her location. Both of them had known precisely where to search without exchanging a single word.

Chuck met Sarah's gaze, sharing a silent look of concern before Sarah slid the key into the tumbler. The deadbolt gave way with a heavy metallic click, and she gently pushed the door open into the dark, waiting house.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The car climbed the winding road through the Hollywood Hills as LA's evening lights flickered to life below.

The steel gate opened silently, revealing a sprawling villa of raw concrete and glass cantilevered over the hillside.

Morgan whistled. “This isn't a house—it's a Bond villain's headquarters. All we're missing is a missile silo under the infinity pool.”

“Too much glass,” Sarah noted, her eyes sweeping the roofline and approach lines. “Good sniper positions, very little garden cover. It's a fortress.”

Mariana stood before the entrance, the key cold in her palm. “Two years ago, all I wanted was to get away. Now it feels like I'm about to walk into someone else's house.”

Sarah touched her arm gently in silent understanding. Mariana turned the key; the lock clicked, and the door swung open into a vast, three-story space overlooking the glowing grid of Los Angeles.

Inside, polished stone, floating staircases, and sharp modern lines felt more like a high-end hotel than a living space—devoid of family photographs, half-read books, or clutter.

“The study,” Mariana said softly. “That's where I kept everything important.”

Upstairs, a walnut desk stood beside the glass wall. Sarah approached the desk, noticing a subtle line in the thin dust. She pulled open a drawer.

A rectangular, dust-free impression sat in the center of the velvet lining.

“Something was taken from here,” Sarah said. “And recently.”

Across the room, Chuck scanned the military-precise rows of the bookshelf. One spine protruded a few millimeters. He pulled out Ashcroft's The Measure of Patriotism and read the back cover: “Patriotism sometimes means silence… the silence of those who quietly do the work so others can live in peace.”

Chuck froze, realization slamming into him. “Harrison had this exact book… Decker warned me about the Yellow Shadow. It wasn't a coincidence, Sarah. Everything is connected.”

“Chuck…” Morgan interrupted, pointing to the empty shelf space.

Behind where the book had rested sat a heavy, recessed black steel safe door.

Mariana stared at the keypad, her hand hovering in midair. “What if… what if I don't remember the code?”

Chuck stepped up beside her, pulling a small electronic bypass device from his pocket and attaching it to the housing. Red digital numbers began rapidly spinning across its display.

“Then we find another way in,” Chuck said with a soft smile. “In our line of work, nothing ever goes according to the original plan anyway.”

Morgan grinned. “Disturbingly true.”

Mariana offered a faint, genuine smile as the safe lock chimed green, the heavy steel door clicking open.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mariana had just entered the first digit, the safe’s display emitting a soft, high-pitched beep that seemed to echo through the quiet study.

Sarah turned abruptly toward the door, her spine stiffening instantly. Her combat instincts flared—a sudden, subtle shift in the air pressure, the faint scraping of boots against concrete outside.

Then came the sound.

Knock. Knock.

Morgan nearly yelped, clutching his chest. “Damn it…”

Everyone spun toward the massive glass wall at once.

A mustached man stood on the twilight-lit terrace outside, framed against the distant, shimmering grid of Los Angeles. He was clad in sand-colored tactical gear and a heavy bulletproof vest, a thin wire curling behind his ear to a concealed earpiece. An assault rifle hung casually across his chest from a two-point sling.

He gently tapped the thick glass with two fingers, smiling with eerie, quiet confidence. Like a perfectly polite visitor dropping by for an evening call, he slowly nodded toward Chuck.

Good evening, Bartowski. Took a little longer than I expected.

His muffled voice carried through the bulletproof glass, and Chuck read the words off his lips with terrifying clarity.

Morgan stared in cold shock. Chuck’s stomach tightened into a hard knot.

“Johnson!” Chuck breathed.

Johnson’s dark, calculating gaze swept deliberately across the room—first to Sarah, whose hand was already gliding down toward her holster; then to Morgan, frozen by the bookshelf; and finally settling on Mariana. Seeing her, his smile widened just a fraction, a chilling flicker of recognition touching his eyes.

He raised one gloved hand and gave them a small, friendly wave.

Then, with meticulous grace, he pointed one finger down toward the foyer below.

The world shattered.

A deafening blast tore through the ground floor, sending a violent shockwave shuddering up through the polished stone walls. The heavy front doors blew inward in a spray of splintered wood, steel, and blinding white plaster dust. A concussive roar echoed through the three-story atrium, instantly replacing the peaceful silence with the acrid stench of cordite and burning drywall.

Before the echoes even died, thick grey smoke began rolling up the floating staircase, illuminated by the flashing tactical strobes of a heavy breach team moving into the house.

Instinct replaced shock in a fraction of a second. Sarah moved like lightning, grabbing Chuck by the collar and shoving him flat behind the solid oak desk just as the first suppressing bursts of automatic fire began chewing through the lower level.