Chuck versus The Last Wish

Chapter 15 – Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael

The sirens in the distance were getting louder. Morgan rushed to the window.

“Chuck! Cops! They’re getting closer!”

Chuck was still holding Sarah. “Morgan… the woman.”

Morgan cuffed her hands behind her back, then roughly hauled her to her feet.

“You’ve done enough jumping around for one day.” He searched her pockets and found a folded sheet of paper. “Chuck, they’ve got pictures of us! From Moore’s party!”

Chuck carefully laid Sarah down on the couch. “Bring it with you. One minute, Sarah. Just… one minute.”

The living room was a complete wreck. Glass shards were everywhere. Knives were embedded in the wall. The laptop was hanging halfway off the edge of the desk. Chuck rushed over and grabbed it. Then he picked up the small metal case they had just recovered. For a moment, he stopped beside Sarah’s open suitcase. The photograph was lying on top.  Chuck picked it up without a word. He carefully slipped it beside the laptop.

Morgan stared at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Chuck lifted Sarah again.

“We have to go.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

A few minutes later, they slipped through the building’s heavy back door into the damp alleyway. The sirens were deafening now, echoing off the narrow stone walls. Morgan looked around frantically, his eyes darting back and forth across the street. “Car… car… car…”

Then his face lit up.

“Oh, no…” Chuck muttered, following his gaze.

Parked on the curb was an ancient, rusted white delivery van. A faded Turkish inscription was painted along the side, crowned by a massive, grinning tuna.

“Please tell me you’re not—”

Morgan was already sprinting. “Chuck! This is fate!”

“Based on the smell from here, I’d say it’s closer to hell!” said Chuck.

Morgan yanked open the driver’s-side door. “It’s unlocked!”

“Of course it’s unlocked!” Chuck ran over, keeping Sarah steady in his arms.

Morgan rounded the bumper and threw open the rear cargo doors. Both of them froze instantly.

“Whoa…”

The stench hit them like a physical wall—rot, salt water, and something aquatic that had been dead long before the current decade. Morgan grimaced, violently pulling his shirt up over his nose. “This… this is a biological weapon all by itself!”

Chuck gagged, coughing into his shoulder. “You know what? For the first time in my life, I actually miss Jeff’s van.”

“Jeff’s van?!”

“At least in that one, only the smell was dead!”

Morgan groaned, motioning inside. “Are we getting in, or are we doing a nostalgia tour?”

Chuck stepped up and carefully laid Sarah down against a dry corner of the cargo area. They dragged the handcuffed assassin inside next, sitting her unceremoniously on the corrugated floor beside her. Morgan slammed the doors shut with a heavy metallic clatter. “Hope you like seafood!”

He scrambled into the driver's seat. The engine coughed, sputtered violently, and roared to life. The rusty delivery van screeched its tires as it launched into the Istanbul traffic—just as a fleet of police cars screeched to a halt outside the wrecked apartment building behind them.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The old fish van rattled violently as it bounced toward the next intersection, its rusted chassis groaning over every pothole in the road. Morgan drummed his knuckles frantically against the worn steering wheel. “You do realize this smell is permanently seared into my brain cells, right? I’m going to smell like dead tuna for the rest of my life.”

Chuck paid him no mind, pressing two fingers against the side of Sarah’s neck. Her skin was growing clammy, her breathing shallow and dangerously thin. Across the cargo bed, the handcuffed assassin sat braced against the metal wall. She was eerily calm, her eyes locked onto Chuck with unblinking confidence.

Chuck stared her down, his voice tight with rising panic. “What was on that blade? What’s the toxin?”

The woman’s lip curled into a faint, cold smile. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters to me. Name it!”

“By the time you figure out how to neutralize it… it’ll already be over.”

Up ahead, the traffic light flipped to red. Morgan slammed his foot on the brake, bringing the van to a sudden, jerking halt behind a line of gridlocked cars.

“Oh, come on! Not now!” Morgan yelled, pounding the wheel.

Before Chuck could react, the assassin exploded into motion. Driven by sheer fanaticism, she threw her entire body weight backward into the rear cargo doors, leading with her shoulders. The flimsy, rusted latch snapped with a sharp pop, and the doors swung wide open into the street.

“Morgan!” Chuck screamed, lunging across the floor, but his fingers only grazed her jacket.

The woman hurled herself backward out of the van, diving straight into the oncoming lane of traffic. An oncoming city bus slammed on its brakes, horn blaring as tires shrieked against the asphalt. A dull, sickening impact echoed down the block, instantly followed by the sound of shouting and panicked screams. Morgan stared wide-eyed into the side mirror, his face draining of color. “Oh, God… Chuck…”

Chuck glanced back through the open doors for a single fraction of a second. The woman lay completely motionless on the asphalt, broken and still, as a crowd began to swarm the street.

“Go,” Chuck said, his voice flat and resolute.

Morgan turned, horrified. “Are you sure? We can't just—”

“She did it so we couldn't make her give up the antidote,” Chuck said, his eyes dropping back to Sarah’s pale face. “Drive, Morgan. Go!”

Morgan swallowed hard, mashed the accelerator, and whipped the wheel to the right. The fish van lurked into a narrow side street, disappearing into the chaotic maze of Istanbul traffic.

XXXXXXXXXXX

For several long minutes, nobody spoke. The only sounds in the cargo bed were the clattering, un-muffled engine, the rhythmic groan of rusted metal, and the suffocating reek of dead fish. Morgan leaned his head back against the seat's headrest. His nose was still bleeding. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and pressed it into his nostrils with a tired grimace. Morgan glanced back into the rearview mirror, his knuckles white against the wheel. “Chuck… Sarah’s not doing well.”

Chuck nodded, his chest tightening as he held her closer. Sarah’s skin was turning a ghost-pale grey, cold sweat slicking her forehead. Her left arm hung entirely limp, her breathing growing alarmingly shallow.

“We need a pharmacy,” Chuck said, his voice straining against rising panic. “I need something—anything—to slow her metabolic absorption!”

Morgan peered through the scratched windshield into the night. “We’re in Istanbul, Chuck. There’s got to be one on every other block.”

“We need one that’s open. Right now.”

Morgan whipped the delivery van around a sharp corner, the tires screeching on wet cobblestones. Neon signs blurred past the windows in quick flashes—a late-night bakery, a cell phone repair kiosk, a hookah lounge. Chuck’s eyes locked onto the far curb. “There!”

At the end of the block, a bright green neon cross glowed above the entryway of a corner storefront: PHARMACY.

Morgan slammed on the brakes, the van skidding to a halt beside the curb with a loud squeal. “Hope they like the smell of rotten tuna.”

Chuck was already shifting Sarah into his arms, gathering her up from the metal floor. “Right now, I’m just praying there’s someone inside who won't ask why we look like we just crawled out of a bomb shelter.”

Morgan shoved his driver-side door open, adjusting his torn shirt sleeve. “Don't worry, I’ll handle the talking.”

Chuck stared at him in sheer disbelief. “Morgan…”

“Right. Terrible idea. I’ll hold the door.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Chuck threw the heavy glass door open, sending the brass bell overhead into a frantic jangle. Behind the counter, a middle-aged pharmacist jumped, nearly dropping a stack of pill bottles.

“Help!” Chuck blurted out, channeling every ounce of panic in his chest. “It’s my wife! She’s in anaphylactic shock—she can’t breathe!”

The man’s eyes widened in alarm. “Epinephrine—it’s in the back room! Stay there, I’ll get it!”

As soon as the pharmacist disappeared through the doorway, Chuck locked eyes with Morgan. “Now.”

Morgan moved like lightning, slamming the storage room door shut and throwing the heavy deadbolt with a sharp click.

Instantly, frantic pounding rattled the wood from the other side. “Hey! What are you doing out there?!”

Morgan leaned his back against the door, wincing with a deeply guilty grimace. “I’m sorry! I’m really, really sorry! I promise this wasn’t part of the original itinerary!”

He sprinted to the front entrance, flipped the sign to CLOSED, threw the latch, and yanked the heavy metal security shutter down over the glass with a deafening rattle.

Meanwhile, Chuck dragged a vinyl chair against the counter, carefully lowering Sarah into it. Her head drooped forward, her chin resting weakly against her collarbone.

“Stay with me,” Chuck whispered, gently cupping her jaw to lift her head. “Hey… look at me, Sarah.”

Her eyelashes fluttered, her unfocused blue eyes opening just a sliver. “I’m… here…”

Chuck nodded, but before he could answer, a dizzying torrent of chemical formulas, neurotransmitters, competitive antagonists, and molecular structures flooded his consciousness. Shelves of medication blurred into illuminated drug classifications. His eyes snapped open, darting frantically across the display cases. “Morgan! Left side, second shelf—atropine!”

“What?!”

“Atropine! Go!”

Morgan began tearing boxes off the shelves while Chuck raided the medical supplies—syringes, IV tubing, saline bags, and glass ampoules. Within seconds, the pharmacy counter transformed into an improvised tactical trauma station. Chuck snapped the neck of an ampoule, drew the fluid, and carefully injected the stabilizer directly into Sarah’s vein. He held his breath, watching the steady flutter of her pulse against her wrist. Her breathing slowly evened out, the terrifying rattle fading from her chest.

Chuck exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “It won’t cure her.”

“But it’s buying us time, right?” Morgan asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“A little,” Chuck said grimly. “When it wears off, the toxin comes back twice as hard.”

He pulled out his phone and dialed. General Beckman answered on the second ring. “Bartowski.”

“General, our position in Istanbul is completely burned,” Chuck said, keeping his voice low. “Two hostile operatives neutralized—one dead, one committed suicide to avoid capture. Sarah’s been infected with an unidentified neuromuscular agent.”

A heavy pause stretched across the line. “Her status?”

“I managed to administer a temporary antagonist, but she needs high-level medical intervention immediately. I can’t risk taking her to a local hospital.”

“Stay mobile,” Beckman ordered, her tone clipped. “I’m dispatching an emergency field medical unit to a secure CIA rendezvous near the harbor. From the exterior, it appears as an abandoned warehouse.”

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes. And Chuck…” Beckman’s voice softened just a fraction. “…keep her awake.”

The line went dead. Chuck slid the phone into his pocket as Morgan fired up the delivery van outside. “Where to, Chuck?”

Chuck glanced at the glowing GPS coordinates on his screen. “An abandoned warehouse down by the docks.”

Morgan sighed, putting the van into gear. “You know, none of our accommodations today are getting a four-star rating on TripAdvisor.”

The rusted fish van screeched away from the curb, its foul engine roaring as it plunged back into the dark maze of Istanbul, racing toward what might be Sarah’s only chance at survival.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The heavy sliding door opened with a deep, metallic screech. From the street, the warehouse appeared completely derelict. Inside, however, stark halogen work lights cut through the cavernous gloom, illuminating a fully deployed mobile trauma station—collapsible surgical tables, telemetry monitors, and IV stands. Two CIA field doctors were already snapping on nitrile gloves as Morgan rolled the fish van into the bay.

“Over here! Quickly!”

Chuck carried Sarah in his arms, stepping carefully across the concrete floor before laying her down on a narrow field cot. One doctor immediately hooked up a heart monitor and prepped an IV line, while the second carefully retrieved the poisoned blade Chuck had brought in the dish towel.

“This is the weapon that cut her?” the doctor asked.

Chuck nodded tightly. “Yes.”

“Good. Then we have something to work with.”

The doctor placed the blade on a portable lab bench fitted with reagents, test tubes, and a high-speed chemical analyzer. The unit hummed to life, a digital display cycling through molecular scans. “How long?” Chuck demanded, his voice strained.

“As long as it takes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

The doctor glanced at him, his face unreadable. “No. But it’s the only one I can give you right now.”

Chuck let out a long, shaky breath. He pulled a metal folding chair up beside the cot, sat down, and took Sarah’s hand in both of his. It felt icy cold.

Sarah turned her head weakly toward him, her breathing slow and shallow. “Chuck…”

“I’m right here. I’m… going to fall asleep.”

“I know,” Chuck whispered, his thumb softly tracing her knuckles. “Don’t let yourself go under. Stay with me.”

“Don’t let me,” she murmured.

Chuck gently squeezed her hand. “I won’t. How about… how about I tell you about our wedding?”

A faint, tired breath escaped her lips. “Sounds good.”

For a few long seconds, the only sound in the cavernous warehouse was the steady, rhythmic beep of her cardiac monitor. Chuck forced a small, soft smile. “Almost everything was set up. You looked unbelievable. I was completely terrified, obviously. Morgan was even more nervous than I was, and Ellie was already crying before the ceremony even started. Devon tried to pretend he wasn't, but he was totally misting up.”

The ghost of a smile touched Sarah’s pale face. “And then…?”

“And then Vivian Volkoff poisoned you,” Chuck said softly, the smile fading from his eyes. “She used a Norseman device during the rehearsal dinner. You got sick within minutes. I thought…”

He paused, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he slowly stroked the back of her hand. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

Sarah watched him quietly, her unfocused gaze locked onto his. “You fought for me?”

“Of course I did. I ran off to track down the antidote myself, because apparently, I’m the guy who rushes into impossible missions without a plan.”

A faint, genuine smile curved Sarah’s lips. “Typical.”

“Yeah. Extremely typical,” Chuck chuckled softly, though his eyes were shining with unshed tears. “In the end, it worked. I made it back in time. You got the antidote. And you know what happened after that?”

Sarah slowly shook her head.

“We got married anyway. We didn’t postpone it. We didn’t cancel it. We just… kept moving forward.”

Sarah held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes soft despite her exhaustion. “Is that why I was… so happy?”

A single tear slipped down Chuck’s cheek. “Yeah. Not because everything went according to plan…”

“…but because we almost lost each other,” Sarah whispered weakly, finishing the thought. “And we were still standing there together.”

Her fingers gently tightened around his—barely a flicker of strength, but Chuck felt every ounce of it. He smiled, squeezing her hand right back. In the background, the chemical analyzer emitted a sharp double chime. One of the doctors straightened up immediately.

“We’ve got a match.”

The second doctor hurried over, reading the readout on the digital monitor before giving a firm nod. “Neurotoxin synthesized from an organic peptide base. We have the competitive antagonist in stock. Preparing the dose now.”

Chuck closed his eyes as a wave of absolute relief washed over him, draining the crushing tension from his shoulders. He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against Sarah’s hand.

“You hear that?” he whispered.

Sarah gave the faintest nod. “I told you… I’m not going anywhere.”

A minute later, the doctor stepped over with a syringe, cleansing a port on her IV line. “Administering the counter-agent now.”

As the clear fluid entered her vein, the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor remained constant. The field medics kept monitoring her vitals, but Chuck never moved from his chair. He just sat beside her, holding her hand, watching her color slowly return. In the meantime the wounds of Morgan were cared for. The medics reassured him that they won’t be lasting.

He glanced toward Chuck and Sarah. They were still holding hands. Morgan looked down at the blood soaking into the tissue.

“Totally worth the shirt,” he muttered.

Outside, the distant hum of Istanbul traffic gradually picked up as dawn approached. But inside the quiet warehouse, for the first time all day, nobody had to run.

Several days later, the quiet hum of jet engines filled the cabin of a sleek CIA transport plane flying high above the Atlantic, leaving Istanbul far behind as it charted a course back toward Burbank.