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***
"Hell is other people."--Jean-Paul Sartre
***
Jack:
They call it 'solitary', which is bullshit. Oh, you don't
see anyone, you
don't get a radio, there's nothing to break the silence but the
sound of
your breathing. But you know--at least until your mind cracks,
anyway--that you're never alone. Someone's watching, waiting for
you to
talk in your sleep, beat off, whatever gives them a place to
stick the
lever and move your world.
And they tell you it's for your own good, which is also
bullshit, at least
in my case. They tell you that the bad boys can pick out a cop,
an agent,
with their eyes closed. And then it's a nasty accident in the
showers, or
a knife at dinner. Whatever.
Anyone who got a good look at my file would know that if
there was an
inmate stupid enough to start a fight, I would finish it. Finish
him.
So they stuck me in solitary and waited for something to
happen. They only
made one miscalculation--they didn't expect me to adapt to it.
The
solitary life and I turned out to be a good fit.
***
Will Tippin awoke with his head pounding and his eyelids
gummed shut. He
was in so much pain that the ache seemed to extend beyond his
body into the
air around him. When he finally managed to crack open his one
good
eye--the other stubbornly refused to focus on anything, which the
drugs
still partying through his body told him to worry about later--he
found
himself in what looked to be a deserted doctor's office. The
cupboards
along the walls stood open and empty, the doors halfway off their
hinges.
The slow staccato of dripping water thudded into the sink from a
leaky
faucet. Shadows crowded the room, and the only light came from a
single,
intense lamp that illuminated Jack Bristow's graying hair.
"Wha--where?" The questions for which he wanted answers slurred together.
"You're awake. Good." Jack set aside whatever he'd
been working on and
turned to face Will. "There's a transport plane leaving for
Honolulu in
two hours. You will be on that flight. Your name--the name on
this
passport--" he picked up the document he'd been working on
and flashed it
in Will's general direction--"is Wallace Reina. You're from
Sacramento,
California. You sell Hondas for a living. You were on vacation
here when
your new girlfriend's ex decided to win her back."
"Wait, wait, wait. Slow down."
"We do not have time to take this slow, Tippin. I've had
to pull strings
to get you out of here."
"Where's Sydney? You said she--"
"Focus, Tippin. Right now this is about getting you out
of Taiwan." Jack
flipped the passport onto the desk and stood.
"I'm all for that. But I want to know where Sydney
is." He sat up, teeth
gritted against the pain, and braced himself against the cracked
vinyl of
the table on which he'd been lying. "Last night--was it last
night?--whatever--you said we were waiting for her. You
said--"
"That was last night. The plan has changed."
Usually Jack Bristow's face had all the expressive quality of
a hunk of
cement, but Will thought he was learning to pick up the nuances.
Either
that, or the stuff the scary Chinese guy had given him was more
powerful
than he'd thought. He sucked in a breath, winced at the knifing
pain in
his ribs, and said, "You don't know where she is, do
you?"
"That's not your concern."
"The hell it isn't. She came here to help me. We have to
get her back.
We have to--" He tried to struggle to his feet, and Jack
pushed him down,
none too gently.
"I've read your work, and you're obviously not an
idiot." Jack's tone
conveyed an air of surprise. "So think this through. You can
barely walk.
You don't know the language--do you?"
Will shook his head.
"Then what good will you do me?"
"I want to help."
"You can help by getting out of here. I promised
Sydney--" His face
tightened, a brief show of anger or pain--"I gave my word
I'd make sure you
were safe. I will keep that promise."
Will slid off the table and groaned when the jolt of his feet
hitting the
floor resounded through every nerve in his body. "I guess
you'd better
keep a good eye on me, then."
"Mr. Tippin."
"You might as well call me Will. Given the circumstances.
So, Jack--can I
call you Jack? You're not shooting me, so I guess we can be on a
first-name basis--what's the plan?"
"There is no plan."
"That's not good. I thought you guys always had a plan.
Do you know where
she is?"
"We have to get you to the plane."
"No plane." Will tried to cross his arms, but
something pulled in his
shoulder so he lowered his hands to his sides again. "I'm
going with you."
"Got another cavity?"
"God." He fought down a wave of nausea. "How
can you be such a cold
bastard?"
"I'm the bastard who's going to keep you alive."
Will bit his tongue, wishing he could call back the last words
he'd spoken.
"I'm sorry."
"I know what I am." Jack pocketed the passport he'd
been working on,
checked the clip on his 9-millimeter and holstered it. "It
doesn't matter.
Last chance, Tippin--you should catch that flight."
"I'm going with you."
Jack sighed, but he only answered, "Fine."
"You won't regret this."
"I doubt that. Listen carefully, because I will only say
this once. You
will do exactly as I say. You will not argue. You will not
hesitate. If
at any time I feel you are endangering this mission, I will kill
you. Is
that clear?"
"Crystal."
"Wait here." He watched Jack sprint down a long
hallway painted a dingy
shade of green. The air smelled of piss and old medicine. At the
end of
the hall a barred door blocked the way. A black box about the
size of
Will's palm hung on the wall; Jack pushed a series of buttons,
and the
light at the top switched from red to green.
"Motion detector," Jack said by way of explanation
as he gestured for Will
to follow him. "I didn't want any visitors to show up
unannounced. From
now on, keep silent. Don't even sneeze."
Overwhelmed by the sudden urge to cough, Will nodded. The door
opened,
surprisingly quietly given the rust around its edges. Beyond was
an alley,
where light from the street shimmered on the oily surfaces of
puddles.
Jack studied both directions, then turned to the right and eased
into the
shadows. Will followed, his hand over his mouth.
The alley kinked to the left, then broadened into a courtyard.
In it stood
the SUV Jack had been driving when he'd rescued Will.
"Get in," Jack said, his voice pitched so low Will
could barely hear it.
"There's a change of clothes in the back, and a first aid
kit. Get cleaned
up."
Will nodded and started to open the door when Jack hissed and
spun around,
his hand slipping under his coat.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. A familiar figure,
holding a gun.
"It's about bloody time you showed up. Do you have any idea
how long I've
been waiting for you."
Sark, Will realized. His heart sank.
***
Ben Devlin upended the manila envelope over his desk, and
scowled at the
note and tape that fell out. "What the hell are you up to,
Jack?"
The automated call that had reached him at his house an hour
earlier had
sounded like a crude attempt at telemarketing at first--so much
so, he'd
almost hung up before he noticed the code words embedded in the
message.
When translated, they conveyed the following: "Traitor
within. Evidence
obtained. Friday drop."
He'd gone to the bookstore Jack had called the Friday drop,
for no
particular reason that Ben could ever fathom. There, he'd found
this
envelope, wedged behind a row of paperback romances.
He turned the tape over in his hands, wishing he didn't have
to know what
was on it, wishing he could just put it back and pretend he'd
never found
it. As far as he'd risen in the CIA hierarchy, he still relied on
instinct, and right now his gut screamed at him that he was
holding career
suicide in his hands--Jack's at least, if not his own as well.
On the other hand, whatever squeamishness he'd felt as a young
agent had
gone the way of moral scruples, and so after a moment he dug a
small tape
player out of the chaos in his desk and slipped in Jack's
message. He
heard a ragged voice screaming curses; it took a moment to
recognize that
he was listening to Haladki. Then Jack cut in, his questions
relentless.
The sound of bones breaking.
Devlin swallowed the taste of bile in his mouth. He'd been
able to turn a
blind eye to much of Jack's activity in the past few years; he
had realized
that the life of a double agent had twisted his old friend
somehow, but the
depth of the madness hadn't dawned on him until that moment.
Then Haladki confessed to working for Khasinau.
Devlin lowered his head into his hands. This in and of itself
wouldn't
clear Jack--his methods went well beyond what the CIA
sanctioned--but it
would help, especially when the agency brought in Haladki and--
A single gunshot, then silence.
"Damn it, Jack!"
"I'm sorry, Ben." Jack's voice, slightly distorted,
came out of the tape
player, as if he'd heard Devlin. "I had to make sure. I had
to . . ."
His words trailed off, as if he realized that nothing he could
say would
fix this.
Devlin shut off the tape and sat with his hands folded,
pondering his next
move. Finally he buzzed his assistant and told her to find Agent
Vaughn.
An hour later, he acknowledged the knock on his door, but to
his surprise
it was Agent Weiss, not Vaughn, who appeared when it opened.
"What's going on?"
Weiss was frowning. "Vaughn didn't show up this morning."
"What do you mean?" As if he had to ask. "Did he call in sick?"
"No call. And when I went by his place, his dog hadn't
been fed. For a
couple of days, at least, by the way the guy dug in when I found
him some
kibble."
"God Almighty, would somebody tell me what the hell is going on?"
"I think he's helping the Bristows."
Devlin closed his eyes and shook his head. "My wife
wanted to have a
cookout this weekend."
"Sir?"
Devlin stood and made his way to the safe in his office. He
opened it and
put the tape inside. "Jack Bristow has dumped a whole
shitload of trouble
in our laps."
"So we bring him in." Weiss shifted from foot to
foot. "I know what he's
done is valuable, but in the interests of the agency . . ."
"In the interests of the agency, we're going to have to clean this up."
"What exactly are we dealing with? Sir," Weiss added belatedly.
"Before anything else, we need to find out what this
operation was Bristow
kept talking about. He said he was trying to save someone's life.
I need
to know that someone's identity."
"Sydney's?"
"I'm guessing he would have told me if it was her."
"But Vaughn--"
"It's not outside the realm of possibility, I admit. Just
see what you can
find. If you value Vaughn's life, work alone. Fill me in as soon
as you
can." He tapped his watch. "We're on the clock, Weiss.
You don't want to
know what happens if we run out of time."
"Yes, sir." Weiss fled.
It was a risk, Devlin thought, as he watched the door close
behind Weiss.
But he had a feeling that when faced with a choice, the younger
agent would
do what he had done, would choose friendship over company
loyalties.
"He fed the dog," Devlin reminded himself. "That's a point in his favor."
He went down to the file room and looked through everything he
could find
on the Bristows' latest activities, hoping to find a clue to
their current
whereabouts. Ordinarily he would have checked out the mass of
files, but
he didn't want anyone to know what he'd been doing. Paranoia, he
told
himself, could be a handy survival trait.
***
Sydney:
When I was ten, I imagined that my mom would appear out of
nowhere. "It's all
a mistake," she'd say. "I didn't really die. I was
sick, or lost, or kidnapped by
pirates. But I'm home now, sweetie." Then Daddy would laugh
out loud again,
and everything would be perfect.
When I was fifteen, I imagined that someone who looked
just like my mom
would appear out of nowhere. "It was all a mistake,"
she'd say. "I'm your aunt,
and your mom wanted you to live with me, sweetie." Then
Daddy would load
my bags in her car, and everything would be better.
Five months ago, I imagined that the CIA would capture my
mom. "It was all a
mistake," she'd say. "I'm not really evil. Your father
framed me, and I never
killed anyone, sweetie." Then Daddy would go to jail, and
everything would make sense.
***
"Sweetie," Irina said for possibly the thousandth time. Sydney gritted her teeth together.
It was bad enough that she'd let slip with the
"Mom?" the first time she had seen her. It
was a bit of a shock, that's all, but nothing to lose her
training over. So for the next
twenty-some hours, Sydney had concentrated with all her might on
everything but her and
the sick feeling Irina caused in the pit of Sydney's stomach.
This was a capture and
interrogation like any other. She'd simulated these a thousand
times back when she began
at SD-6, and in the seven years since she'd been on both sides of
the table several times.
There were rules to be followed. Important rules.
We can save your father. Daddy's here, isn't he, baby? We can keep him safe."
Like not screaming in agony at the sound of her voice.
"And there's your friends back in Los Angeles. Francie,
and Dixon, and your handler.
Michael, wasn't it?"
Too late, you bitch. You've already killed him.
Sydney had tried thinking of Vaughn at first, but once her
traitorous brain had
connected his death with his father's, she'd had to shut that
down. So she
thought of her father instead. What had he said when she'd asked
him to go
after Will...? "While I might look at scenarios more
strategically than emotionally, you
could learn something from my experience." She would go to
him, after all this was over,
and say, "I did what you told me to, Daddy. I was strategic.
I was strong."
She'd built up quite an image as the hours wore on and the
persuasion turned to bribery
turned to threats--thinly disguised, but still threats. She
pictured her Dad standing next to
her, smiling down at her--well, that wasn't accurate--with that
little not-quite-a-smile he'd
worn only a few times. Will was standing next to him, with his
hands in his pockets,
rocking back on his heels and blinking behind his glasses. And
when she thought she
could bear it, Vaughn was behind the two of them, sitting on a
box and bouncing his heels
off it just as he had when they would sit at the warehouse and
talk. (When had they done
that? Not very often. But she could remember with frightening
detail each time they had.)
Irina was still there, somewhere. But Sydney focused on the
strange triumvirate in front of
her and closed her senses to everything else.
Finally Irina gave up. "Take her to the plane,"
Sydney heard her say in Russian
to someone outside the door. "I can be more...effective...at
our headquarters."
And although Sydney didn't so much as change her breathing,
the look in her eyes
would have warned anyone who knew her. I can be effective
too. Mom.
***
Jack:
She makes me weak. Or perhaps I should say, the love of her weakens me.
As long as she remained only a mouth to be fed, a back to
be clothed, a
duty to fulfill, I could be strong. Ruthless.
As long as she hated me, I could keep her at a distance. I
could ignore
who she was, who she was becoming. I could turn a blind eye to
the
memories invoked by the curve of her smile, by the rise and fall
of her
voice.
When Laura died--or as I have found out, when she
left--and all her secrets
began oozing into the light, I cut her out of my thoughts.
Everything I
could find that reminded me of her, from the ring on my finger to
the notes
on the refrigerator went into an incinerator. Only our child
remained.
I let Sydney blame me for her mother's death. I let her
hate me, let all
the rage crash on the shell I'd built. It tested my resolve, and
my
resolve was not found wanting.
And when she stopped trying to break through, I told
myself I felt nothing
but relief. She would be safe. She would not be part of my world,
of the
filth, of the lies. Safe.
Even when the truth began to emerge, when I discovered
that she had chosen
(or been chosen for) the same darkness I had, I told myself that
we could
walk our own paths. She couldn't hate me any more for what I'd
become than
for what I'd been. And then . . .
I no longer mock the stories about a parent's instincts.
There are some
things more powerful than self-preservation, a loyalty greater
than any
other. And because I could not let her die, I find that we are
once more
in each other's orbit, pulled by an emotional gravity for which
neither of
us was prepared. Which, I suspect, she wanted as little as I did
at first.
When did it happen? I think back on the past few months,
the collision of
her life and mine which some would call fate, and I do not see
where I
crossed the line. I cannot find the moment when I began to want
what I'd
rejected so long ago.
The man I was would never have risked so much for an
expendable. I have
made this journey, I have abandoned my old life, I have killed a
man--and
all for an individual who is no longer necessary for my task, an
individual
who no doubt will prove more a liability than an asset. Because she
cares for him. Because I have given my word to keep him safe.
Because, God help me, what she thinks of me matters. And I
do not want to
be the one to make my little girl cry.
***
"Hey! He shot me!" Will tried to step closer, but
Jack motioned him off.
"What's going on here?"
"I told you to keep quiet." Jack turned to Sark.
"He has a point. What
do you want?"
For a moment, there was silence in the courtyard. The distant
sound of
sirens and honking horns drifted in. The air smelled of rain.
"Still
babysitting, I see." Sark made a show of putting up his gun.
"I have no interest in trading quips with you. Explain
yourself." Jack
turned his back on Sark, which struck Will as a dangerous move,
but
apparently the show of contempt had an effect.
"I presume you do have an interest in your daughter's current location?"
Jack froze. "I have no reason to do business with you.
Get in the car,
Will."
"Wait! He says he knows where--"
"Get in the car. We have no reason to trust him. He has
no good reason to
be here--he's chosen sides already." Jack climbed in and
started the SUV.
Will hesitated.
Sark leaned in the open door, his voice raised over the growl
of the
engine. "It seems I am privy to too much information, Mr.
Bristow.
Khasinau's boss--"
Jack killed the engine. "What did you say?"
"I thought that would catch your attention. It certainly gave me a start."
"Khasinau's . . . boss." Jack drummed his fingers on
the steering wheel.
"Start talking."
"Until a few hours ago, I was sure that Khasinau was the
one known as 'The
Man'." Sark's gaze roved the shadows, as if he expected
something to jump
out at him any moment. "Can't we talk about this while you
drive?"
"Tell me what you know now, or you're on your own."
Will, who had climbed in the passenger seat, leaned over and
whispered, "We
aren't going to help him, are we? He gave me to the evil dentist
guy."
Jack ignored him. "Time's running out, Sark."
"Faster than you know. All right, all right. I don't know
what the hell
your people were up to, but they flooded the lower levels of the
lab."
"Flooded? That explosive device shouldn't have been
powerful enough to
rupture the mains. And the Rambaldi device--" He swore, an
impressively
inventive display. "How big was it?"
"I never saw it. But from the amount of equipment they
took in . . ."
Sark shrugged. "Damn big."
"What's the situation now?"
"The Man has your daughter."
"Khasinau has Sydney?" Will shook Jack's arm.
"We don't have time for
this. They could be killing her."
"We need to know what's going on. Keep talking," he
told Sark. "You said
Sydney's a captive?" There was a note in his voice, hope or
amusement,
that Will couldn't read.
"When news of the explosion reached me, I went to
headquarters. I saw
something I wasn't supposed to see, and they came after me. I
need your
help."
"What did you see?"
"Let me in." Sark tugged at the rear door of the
car. In the faint light,
the pallor of his face gave him the look of a ghost. A note of
fear
threaded his voice. "I saw Sydney with The Man. But The Man
wasn't
Khasinau. The Man wasn't even a man, if you follow me."
"Not really. Stop playing games, Sark." Jack started the car again.
"She calls herself Irina Derevko. But your daughter called her 'Mom'."
"Holy shit." Will collapsed into his seat.
"He's joking, right? Tell me
he's joking."
Jack reached back and unlocked the rear door of the car.
"Get in and shut
up," he told Sark.
Sark did as he was told, and the SUV squealed out of the
courtyard as Will
struggled with his seatbelt.
***
Vaughn was on the ceiling.
He passed the time composing an explanation for Sydney.
Well, there was this wave of water--oh, wait, you were
there for that. Anyway,
I got up towards the surface and grabbed the nearest, well,
anything, which
happened to be this ceiling beam. I was going to drop down into
the water when
it started receding*--he waved aside mental-Sydney's Noah's Ark
jokes--*but it
just sort of vanished and there wasn't time. So--here I am!
It was a fairly lame explanation, considering the amount of
time he'd had to
work on it. He'd managed to wiggle around until he was squished
into the space
between the top of the beam and the ceiling itself, but there was
too much room
between it and the next beam; he couldn't move across towards a
wall. And he
could drop down--which would probably break several bones, plus
take him
straight into camera range and get him captured. Shit.
And he kept falling
asleep; add that to the lump on the back of his head, and he was
a little woozy.
He had a brief mental image of himself, treed like a damn cat,
then another
image of Sydney beneath him, blue hair and all, calling
"Here, kitty kitty!" and
nearly fell off anyway, he was laughing so hard.
He sank his teeth into the leather of his jacket to muffle his
giggles and tried to
calm down. Okay. He had to get out of there. He needed to get to
the
rendezvous point and find out if Sydney had made it. Otherwise
he'd have to
come back in here and kick some ass. Yeah, right. He'd
bring Jack back with
him. He'd never seen Agent Bristow, Senior in action, but he had
a feeling he
would up the ass-kicking quotient quite a bit.
Now he just had to get down. Dammit. What would Sydney do?
She'd be out
of here already. She'd pull a little rope ladder out of her bra
and be out of here.
Plus, she'd never have gotten caught by the giant Super Soaker to
begin with.
While he was still trying to figure a way out, plus update the
lame explanation
(mental-Sydney was still snickering) and come up with a better
name for "The
Circumference" (the current winners were "Tiger Woods'
wet dream of a golf
ball" and "The Big Red Dodge Ball of Doom"), he
heard footsteps from down
the hall. He scrunched around to look down, and saw a flash of
blue hair.
Well, at least he knew where Sydney was. Although it looked as
though the ass-
kicking was up to him. He took the time to send a brief prayer
skyward, then
got ready to jump.
***
Weiss:
I don't want you to think I've changed my mind in the slightest.
Mike may hate me for the rest of his life, but that
doesn't change the fact that I'm right,
goddammit. Every person that SD-6 kills while he's off chasing
wildfowl is--well, it's not
his fault. But he should feel guilty about it.
And Bristow--if she hadn't tied his dick in a knot and cut
off all circulation to his brain--
she's a good kid, you know? I'm just tempted to wear a garlic
chain and a cross every time
I go near her. Her effect on men is not to be taken lightly. Even
her father, the epitome of
the Company man, would do anything for her.
Which is why I'm standing at Bristow Junior's door when
it's the last place I want to be.
With Tippin gone and our double agents possibly exposed, there's
only one person left in
LA who might know where I can find them before they destroy
everything.
***
"Syd? It's Francie. Um, are you on a work trip? You
didn't leave a note or a message or anything. Look, Will's
gone too, and when I called his office, they were-I dunno.
Weird. Syd? Just call me, okay? Even if you haven't
heard from Will. Leave me a message. Or an email. Smoke
signals? Singing telegram? Something. Damn, that's the
door. Call me, Sydney."
***
Weiss heard footsteps approaching the door. "Hello?"
He
thumped on it again when it didn't open.
"Who is it?"
"Francine Calfo? This is Detective Wallace with the
LAPD."
He held the badge up to the peephole. "This is concerning
Sydney Bristow and Will Tippin?"
She yanked the door open. "What about them?"
"Ah..."That had been easier than he'd planned. Weiss
discarded the long convoluted story and gestured towards
his car. "Could you come with me, please, Miss Calfo?"
She hesitated. "What's going on?"
He noticed movement to his left. Three men in suits were
getting out of a suspiciously bland car. Shit. No time
for the long story now. "I need you to identify a
body."
He caught her as she stumbled forward. "Wha-who? A body?
Oh, God!" The suits were looking their way. Weiss half-
carried, half-hurried her to his car.
"Put your seatbelt on."
She just gaped at him.
Weiss shrugged and threw the car into reverse. The suits
were already running for their car.
"You're going kind of fast," she said as he took the
first
corner at 35.
He shot into the left lane without even looking behind him.
"Seat belt, Miss Calfo. Now."
"What the hell is going on?" He could see her
fingers
shaking on the belt before he turned his attention back to
his mirrors. "What happened to Will and Syd?"
Damn. There they were. He braked hard and screeched into
a U-turn.
"What the hell? Stop!"
"That would be a bad idea, ma'am." He pulled out his
cell
phone and dialed. Where was that damn on-ramp? He was
headed in the wrong direction. "Tanya? It's Weiss. Get
me Devlin."
"You said your name was Wallace!"
"Shh. Hello, sir. I've got her. Just a few steps ahead
of their guys. No, sir, I think after what happened to
Tippin-" he gestured her quiet-"that a safe house is
the
last place to go. I have a plan. Yes, sir. I'll call you
back after we ditch them."
Weiss closed the phone, gunned the car around a slow-moving
pickup, and broke the speed limit halfway up the ramp.
She grabbed his arm. She had long nails.
"Hey!"
"Not to distract you or anything, but who are you and
what
the hell is going on?"
"I'm Eric Weiss. CIA. And we-" he cut between two
buses
and jumped into the HOV lane-"are outrunning the bad guys.
Cool, huh?"
"Where's Sydney and Will?"
"We're working on it."
"The CIA."
"Yeah."
"Oh, God." Suddenly her fingers tightened on his
arm.
"Hey!"
"What? Ow! I'm in a chase scene here, do you mind?"
"You showed me a fake badge!"
"What? No, it was a real badge." Weiss smirked and
started looking for an off-ramp with a car dealership
nearby. "It just wasn't my badge."
***
When the guards came into view, Vaughn almost laughed. Only
three? Yes,
they had guns, and yes, Sydney's hands were shackled behind her
back, but still.
He waited until the last possible second before dropping down
on them. He
smushed one pretty solidly and caught the second with the edge of
his boot.
Fortunately, Syd took out the third guy with her usual finesse
(spin, kick, jump,
kick again...owww), because Vaughn was busy trying to stand.
Every muscle in
his body was kinked the wrong way from lying on that beam. And
his
head...yeow.
"Vaughn!" Sydney was staring at him. "I thought--but the wat--"
"Yeah, I thought too," Vaughn said grimly.
"I'll tell you later. Does one of
these guys have the keys to your cuffs?"
"Maybe--" Sydney turned back to the one she'd knocked out.
Vaughn caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned
just as the
second guard charged Sydney. Vaughn didn't even think about it;
as soon as the
guy's back was to him he kicked hard between his legs.
The guard made one small squeak and dropped like a rock.
Vaughn and Sydney
stared at him, then at each other.
Vaughn leaned his head onto one hand. "I know that was a
girly move," he said
faintly, "but you have to admit that I'm the chick in this
pairing."
Sydney just stared at him some more. "Vaughn, are you okay?"
Vaughn leaned forward and vomited onto the man he'd just kicked.
"Uh...let's go," Sydney said finally.
***
Sydney and Vaughn came tearing out of the back of the
building as Jack's SUV squealed to a halt. The back popped
open.
"Hurry!" a jumble of male voices said from inside
the car.
Sydney and Vaughn blinked at each other and jumped in. The
car was moving again before they even closed the door.
"Daddy?" Sydney said, trying to get her legs under
herself
and not bounce too hard off Vaughn. "Did you get Will?"
"Yes."
"Is he okay?"
The figure in the passenger seat shifted, but didn't turn
around. "Yes," Jack said again. "We'll talk soon,
Sydney."
She caught the implied "shut up" and subsided,
biting the
corner of her mouth that wasn't abraded and raw. Vaughn's
hand fumbled out and settled on her ankle.
After a few minutes of trying to pull her brain back
together, Sydney finally noticed the extra person in the
back seat. "Uh..." she said in their ear.
Sark turned around and smirked at her.
Sydney sucked in a breath. Vaughn tensed beside her.
"Jack?" he asked in a higher than usual voice. "Is
it my
concussion, or is that son of a bitch Sark in this car with
us?"
"You have a concussion?" Jack asked dryly.
Sark smirked some more. Sydney glared at him. "Daddy?
Can I kill him, please?"
"We'll talk about it later, honey."
***
It was very loud outside the dingy motel room, and very
quiet inside. Will was half-lying on one of the double
beds; Sydney sat next to him, staring at him with a
stricken expression on her face. Sark was lounging near
the other bed, examining the cracked lamp on the wall and
making a production of ignoring the gun Vaughn was pointing
at him.
All four came to attention when Jack re-entered the room.
He dropped his cell phone on the table and put one hand
briefly to his forehead.
"That bad?" Sydney said.
"Immeasurably worse. The only person in this room not
considered a fugitive by the CIA was Tippin."
"Was? What did I do?"
"Your insurance policy was published."
"My--oh, shit." Will sagged back onto the bed,
wincing at
even that soft impact.
"What's he talking about?" Sydney asked him.
"My SD-6 article."
"Your what?" Sydney, Vaughn, and Sark
shouted at the same
time.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You don't have to," Jack said. "I can read
about it in
today's paper."
"Oh, God," Sydney said.
Sark shook his head. "She pulled it off. I don't believe
it. Derevko actually pulled it off."
"Shut up." Vaughn shoved him. "Just--just don't talk."
Sydney reached over and grabbed her father's hand.
"Francie! They'll go after--"
"She's fine. Agent Weiss has her in protective custody.
Other trusted agents have been dispatched to move your
parents and sister, Will."
"Thank you," Will said faintly.
"What about us?" Vaughn asked.
"That's still under review," Jack said.
"There's the
matter of my cover and Sydney's, but in some cases charges
will likely be filed." He carefully avoided Sydney's eyes.
"Devlin's consulting with Langley--"
His phone rang. Jack let out a breath and picked it up.
"Bristow." Then he stiffened. "Arvin?"
Everyone in the room stilled. Vaughn and Will were
actually holding their breath.
"Tippin? I don't know where he is. We've discussed
this...his article?" A long pause. "Dear God. Well, how
much damage? That's good. No. No, I don't know. I'll
ask Sydney. I'm picking her up..." He consulted his
watch. "...for lunch in a few minutes. Yes. Tell her
what? Arvin, are you sure? Yes, of course you are. Good
luck."
He pushed the "end" button and stared at the phone
in his
hands.
"Jack?" Vaughn asked.
He held up a hand. "Wait." Then he dialed another
number.
"Devlin? It's Bristow. Arvin Sloane just called me. The
Alliance has ordered SD-6 into a blind shutdown. Yes.
Yes. I don't know how long. Do you want us to come in...?
All right. I'll tell them. Yes." He hung up.
A short, hoarse laugh broke the silence. Everyone gaped at
Jack. He was shaking his head ruefully. "I'll be damned.
I will be damned."
"That's what I hear," Sark said.
Will looked at Sydney. "What's a blind shutdown?"
"It's, um, a last-ditch resort if the security of SD-6
were
to ever be compromised. The lower floors of Credit
Dauphine are locked down. All current missions are
terminated. The agents take up their cover jobs full-time,
and absolutely nothing suspicious takes place while the
Security sections of the other SD-6 branches attempt to
neutralize the threat."
"SD-6 shuts down?" Vaughn shook his head.
"It's never been anything but a theory," Jack said.
"The
equivalent of that C-4 in the columns. To stop all
operations like this will cost untold millions."
"So that's it?" Will asked. "We go back to LA
and you two
play banker while the CIA tries to arrest you and SD-6
tries to kill me?"
"Not quite. The Devlin and Sloane both agree that Sydney
and I are too close to you and your article. They want us
out of sight until this blows over."
"Hiding?" said Vaughn.
"In Taipei?" said Will.
"What about me?" said Sark.
Sydney just stared.
Jack laughed again--everyone flinched--then rubbed his
forehead again. "All right. Let's get started. Sydney,
where's the bag I brought in from the car?"
She dug it out from beneath the bed and passed it to him.
"Vaughn--Vaughn, put the gun down. Thank you. Take these."
Vaughn looked at the passport and tickets. "New York?"
"Yes, you and Sydney will travel together. Sydney, once
you reach New York, take this key to the 47th Street YMCA.
Ditch these IDs entirely; the new ones are untraceable by
either SD-6 or the CIA."
"Where do we go from there?" Sydney asked.
"You'll find out in New York. There's a Hotmail account
in
with the other information; I'll contact you when it's safe
to return to Los Angeles.
"Where will you be?" Sydney moved closer to Will. "Daddy--"
"We'll be fine. Sydney." Jack leaned forward.
"I'll keep
Will safe. I promise."
Sydney blinked away tears. "Keep yourself safe, too."
Jack nodded.
"What about me?" Sark demanded.
"Oh, there will be a team waiting at the airport to
escort
you to Langley."
"You can't be serious."
"Oh, but I am," Jack said.
"I am not walking willingly into your headquarters.
You'll
kill me."
"Maybe." The corners of Jack's mouth turned up
slightly.
"But if you'd like, I can handcuff you to the bed and use
the phone here before we leave. Do you think 'The Man'
would take a call from her ex-husband?"
They stared at each other for a long moment before Sark
cleared his throat. "So, when do we leave?"
--the end--
Photo from Alias Media. Thanks, Gertie!
