Title: Machinations
Author : Sarah
E-mail: sydney453@yahoo.com
Feedback: Is a very good thing.
Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with this show, that honor belongs to JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions. I do, however, own the computer that allowed me to create this story. It's not a production company, but it will do. For now.
Spoilers: Nope, this is mostly in flashbacks, but with Sloane ruminating on the events of his life. Anything that take's place in the present day is strictly spoiler free.
Summary: How did Sloane come to learn about Rambaldi? Why was he so captured by the man and his inventions? How did we get to where we are now? What happened to turn him into the man he is today? These are the things that I have always wondered about, I hope this story explains them. Flashes back and forth between the past and present.
AN: The flashbacks are done in the third person. The present day narrative is done in the first person by Sloane. I started this ages ago, way before the takedown of SD-6. I figured I'd make an attempt to continue it.
Machinations
The Motivating Factor
May 12, 1972
Allendale, New Jersey
Pine Brook Lane
CIA Agents Arvin Sloane and Nathaniel Davis sat attentively in the nondescript navy Buick they had parked under a Maple tree in a suburban housing development not far from Manhattan. Sloane picked up a pair of clunky black binoculars and raised them to his eyes. He let out a low whistle as he appraised the house under his watch. The large and rambling two story Colonial was set back at least an acre from the road. Everything about it was of the highest quality and brand new; from the shiny brass lighting fixtures that hung near the entrance way right down to the freshly mulched garden.
"The bastard lives better than the Sultan of Brunei," Sloane muttered bitterly under his breath as he set his binoculars back down on the dash board. He glanced at Davis when he heard him chuckle softly. "Do you find something amusing in what I've just said?" Sloane asked.
Davis smirked slightly at Sloane. "I agree that he does live well, but comparing him to a Sultan is a bit much, don't you think?" Davis reached for the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. "The house is nice and everything, but it's not a palace. And his wife is no appealing young concubine."
"Haven't you ever heard of the word hyperbole?" Sloane retorted, a slight grin appearing on his face. Nothing passed the time on stakeouts better than good-natured banter.
Sloane began to study the house without the aid of his binoculars. The most dominating features of the red brick structure were the large carport near the garages and the many, many windows. Those windows provided Sloane and Davis with a large amount of insight into the goings on in the life of Arnold Marchetta, a reputed mob boss whom Sloane and Davis were to apprehend later this morning.
The two men watched as Marchetta's wife of eighteen years, Ann Elise, strapped their youngest child into the back seat of her car and backed out of the drive way.
"The daughter is gone for the day. The wife should be gone for at least a few hours." Davis placed the binoculars back on the dashboard. "Once the son gets out of there we can grab him." Davis leaned back in the driver's side seat and shook his head. "I don't like this. It's too easy. The man is second in line to run the largest crime syndicate on the eastern seaboard and he has absolutely no security. Why?"
Sloane shrugged slightly. "This house has been under constant surveillance twenty four hours a day for the last month. Everyone who we've seen go in has also come out. I don't understand it either, but it makes our job a hell of a lot easier." Sloane glanced up as Marchetta's seventeen year old son made his way towards his car. "The kid's leaving. I say we give it ten minutes in case someone forgot something and has to come back. Then we grab him."
Davis nodded and pulled out the house plans. He spread the paper out over the steering wheel, glad that it looked like a map at that moment, since the Buick now being studied by a bathrobe clad neighbor retrieving her paper from the end of her driveway. He forced his gaze back to the paper, pretending to study it.
"Once hatchet face over there goes back inside we can get ready," Sloane muttered as he reviewed the paper in front of him. "How do you want to do this? You want to take the front door?"
Davis shook his head slightly, watching the woman push open the door to her house. "I'll take the back door, garage entrance. You take the front. The usual procedure applies. I'll go first and pick the lock to the garage entrance, you wait a few minutes, ring the doorbell and shove the gun in his face. By then I should be inside." The older man gave Sloane a small smile as he checked to make sure his gun was loaded. "Simple and fast. Nothing we haven't done a dozen times before."
Sloane nodded and managed a nervous chuckle as he glanced up at the house once again. "We've got criminal apprehension down to a science." Sloane took a deep breath, mentally admonishing himself for still getting nervous even after more than half a decade on the job.
Davis put his gun back in his shoulder holster and put a hand on the car door. "Are you ready?" he asked.
Sloane nodded and responded, "I'm good to go."
Davis pushed the car door open and then turned to face Sloane. "Wait two minutes and then ring the doorbell. Good luck." Davis grinned at him and slammed the door shut.
Sloane glanced down at the clock on the dashboard and then looked up to watch as Davis disappeared into a clump of forsythia bushes at the edge of the property. Sloane waited, holding his breath as he listened for the sounds of someone who had been alerted to Davis's presence on the property. Sloane fiddled with his wedding ring, thinking about his new wife Emily in order to calm himself.
"One month on Friday," Sloane muttered to himself and smiled as he thought of Emily in her wedding dress walking down the church aisle.
Sloane snapped back to reality as he heard the numbers on the clock click over. It was time for him to ring the doorbell of one of New Jersey's most well known organized crime figures.
"Ring the doorbell, shove a gun in his face," Sloane muttered as he made his way up Marchetta's front walk. Sloane took a deep breath and reached out to push the doorbell. He forced a smile to his face as Marchetta slowly pulled the heavy oak door open.
"Arnold Marchetta?" Sloane asked.
The man nodded warily.
Sloane saw Davis's shadow approaching from the back of the house.
Sloane pulled his gun out from his holster. "Get down on you knees and put your hands behind your head."
Marchetta's eyes widened and he took a few steps away from Sloane. Marchetta swung around and reached into his sport coat pocket as he heard the creak of Davis's shoe on the hardwood floor.
"Davis!" Sloane called as soon as he saw the glint of metal in Marchetta's hand, "He's armed!"
Sloane watched from his place outside the door as Marchetta turned his gun on Davis. Sloane's index finger was poised to pull the trigger but he was too frozen in horror to move. Sloane glanced around in a panic as everything around him seemed to move in slow motion.
Davis took a shot to his shoulder and fired off a round into Marchetta's abdomen.
Sloane couldn't process what happened next, he felt a rush of hot air and then felt his body lift up from the brick steps as he flew backwards onto the grass and landed with a heavy thud. Gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him when he landed, Sloane glanced up at the front of the house.
All those magnificent windows had been blown out and the charred door was hanging on by one hinge. Sloane scrambled to his feet, wincing as he realized his shoulder was dislocated. Sloane ran up the front stairs, looking for his partner.
"Davis! Davis where are you!" he called as he approached the door.
Sloane froze when he saw what lay in front of him on the foyer floor. Two bodies. Marchetta and Davis. Sloane stared at his partner in shock, willing the man to stand up and brush himself off. "No, please not Davis," he muttered in a daze as he moved closer to the bodies. The sound of an approaching siren snapped Sloane out of his trance. He carefully picked his way down the ruined steps as two young police officers threw open the doors to their car and quickly made their way towards the house.
"Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?" one of the officers asked.
Sloane couldn't answer as he turned back to stare at what was left of his closest friend and mentor.
Present day
Cape Town, South Africa
I pull at the tight knot in my black and white striped tie as I feel a familiar tightness in my chest. This feeling has plagued me for so many years, I barely register it anymore. Today it's different though. I can feel it change. Although the memory of Nathaniel Davis's untimely demise has wrestled its way back to the forefront of my mind, it is not the source of today's tightness. Not even the memory of my sweet Emily's last seconds, however seared in my brain, is causing this feeling. Today I'm haunted by a new feeling. I can sense it welling up inside my chest, just nearly bubbling over before I calm myself. I don't really know what it is. Some would call it anger, but I have felt that many times and it is a feeling even more powerful than that. It's not even hate at this point, though God knows I feel that.
This is strange. I've never felt this before and I'm not sure what to do about it. I've always prided myself in being a very patent man. I've kept my calm as I've watched countless coworkers fight off the pull of their impatience. I've always looked down on them and their inability to control themselves. And now here I am, practically rocking back and forth in anticipation. I feel a knot forming inside of me, I'm twisted with the desire to know. I yearn to see them all, to watch them recoil in horror or hide the shock on their faces. I've worked so hard to cultivate this moment. Two years of my life have been spent lovingly bringing my most grand gesture to fruition. And now it is almost here and I find myself counting down to its climax.
I sit here, alone in my office, staring at the clock and waiting for the phone call telling me she's there. Oh, this will be magnificent. I smile to myself as I watch a fly batter itself against a storm window. Anything to get away. It will be interesting to see how people respond to my gift. Perhaps they will be like the fly, frantically pushing their way away from my truth. I pick up a magazine and take aim at the fly. Perhaps they will just allow me to squash them.
Just a few more days. I can wait. Everyone always said I was a patient man.