Foreign and Domestic
"Choice" and "Ultimate Sacrifice" detail Sark's discovery that he wants out of the spy life, which he purposely chose. He discovers his family, and has to balance who they know him as and who Sark is, all while defending the ones he loves from ambitious organizations. In the end of "Ultimate Sacrifice," Sark and Sydney both want to make their complex relationship work. It'd be best to go back and read the previous two stories if you want to understand everything, but if not, this background should get you through. This story follows Sydney more than Sark, but there will be plenty of both to see.
Sydney works for the CIA, and so does Dixon, Marshall, etc. Sloane and Rambaldi have no place in this story, and neither does SD-6—not that they didn't happen, but let's face it: that stuff just complicates a story to hell and back.
Another Day, Another Crisis
Sydney could hardly hide her smile as she drove to work.
"I'm looking forward to it," she heard that incredibly smooth and sexy accent say. "Sure, it's just a day of his college classes, but it's different."
"I'm sure Calvin's excited," Sydney said, holding back a laugh. "You show off to him all the time, and now he can do the same."
"What do you mean?" Sark asked. His tone was defensive but playful. "I don't show off."
She laughed, rolling her eyes.
"Whatever—you know you do. Between sparring and your target practice, you show off daily," Sydney chided him. "And what's sad is that he eats it up."
She heard him chuckle as he acknowledged her accuracy. It was true—Calvin followed his older brother like an eager puppy. She knew Calvin admired the spy life and the skills. Luckily, Sark continually brought to light the negatives of such a life. It was entertaining to watch them squabble about it, especially since it was normally about Calvin wanting to see Sark show off. Sark's usual declines to that always struck Sydney as false—he wanted to show off as much as he could. She smiled at that thought.
"When are you coming out here?" he asked. Sydney sighed to herself, and turned her car right.
"Well, I'm about to go in for a briefing, so I assume this weekend's out," she started.
"Sydney—"
"Sark, please, let's not go through this again." She let go of the wheel to put a hand to her forehead, as if shielding herself from a headache.
"Every week you're out on some assignment because the CIA isn't willing to try something without you." She heard him huff over the phone. "Sydney, you're supposed to be on an emergency-only basis. They're clearly abusing that!"
"Sark, you know how this life is. I can't control what will pop up," she argued. She heard his voice almost leap, as he always did when she'd opened herself up for him to make his point. She cringed and prepared herself for it.
"Yes, you can. You can say 'no,' Sydney." The standard silence followed as he let his point sink in. "I realize you want to be patriotic and all, but—"
"It's not just patriotism, and I don't expect you to understand." She unleashed the words, knowing their meaning would hurt. She sighed to herself. Why does this always go wrong?
"I, being a terrorist, could hardly understand," Sark said predictably. He sighed again, and Sydney could almost hear his thoughts. She knew he was deciding whether to engage in her defensive baiting.
Sydney swallowed. "Look," she said. "I'm pulling into work. Have fun with Calvin." It came out half-hearted, but she knew Sark understood that at least she was backing off.
The past few months had been . . . stressful. The CIA kept her plenty busy, and she added to that with her getaways to Toronto. The relationship between her and Sark . . . she never had any complaints, but lately it just felt strained. She knew she loved him.
But was it all worth it? Were they dragging out something that would inevitably fail?
"Sydney," Dixon said as she walked in the Joint Task Force Center. "Sorry to bring you in again, especially so soon after the Congo op."
Sydney waved a hand at him. "Don't worry about it. What's up?" She joined Weiss and Vaughn in the briefing room, and plopped down in a chair next to Weiss.
"If you notice, the sparse numbers here in this briefing indicate more intel on our mole," Dixon began.
The three younger agents' faces instantly went grim. Just then, Jack Bristow joined the briefing.
"Sorry, I didn't know we were starting," he said insincerely. Jack took his spot around the table.
"The mole," Dixon continued, "as you know, is leaking intel to other nations' intelligence organizations, such as Britain, France and Russia."
Jack picked up Dixon's line of thought.
"The leaked information has been uniform to all the agencies," he said. "And it's not damaging to the United States. It's more sharing information about terrorists."
"We believe the mole is basically a self-righteous middle-level agent," Dixon said bluntly. Weiss snorted at that. "The mole seems to think he's doing good by leaking this intel, so other intelligence agencies can apprehend the terrorists."
From the corner of her eye, Sydney saw Marshall teetering as he came tearing around a corner, running for the briefing room.
He entered breathless and stammering.
"Dix—Director Dixon," he said, heaving. "I-I just intercepted a transmission from the mole!"
The others stared at him, waiting for Marshall to continue to the point. He turned around and made sure the door was shut.
"It was about Mr. Sark!" His exasperated declaration made Sydney sit up straight in her chair.
"What?" she asked. Marshall waved his hands in the air, as if wafting more to him so he could speak.
"A transmission—the message—" Suddenly he stopped and started digging through his pockets. "I printed it."
Jack snatched the paper out of Marshall's hands and turned to his daughter. He put the message in front of all the agents. They read it quickly in silence.
International terrorist 'Mr. Sark' alive. Suspected residence in Toronto.
Sydney could hear thundering blood rush to her head. She placed both her hands out in front of her, trying to steady herself. She didn't even read the rest of the transmission.
"How could anyone know?" she whispered.
"You knew?" Marshall asked, perplexed. Weiss stood up immediately to educate Marshall on past events.
"Sydney," Jack said, "Marshall intercepted it, so Sark's safe."
"Um, that's not exactly true."
Jack turned slowly to glare at Marshall. The tech wiz cringed.
"The message was sent three times. I stopped the ones to France and Russia, but . . . MI6 has it," he said gloomily.
"Marshall,"
Sydney started, her voice eerily
cold, "who sent the transmission?"
Vaughn interfered with her attempts to pummel the mole, which Sydney
figured was lucky for the glory-seeking twerp. Dixon
was already getting charges ready, while Sydney
felt ready to forgo the jury and join the firing squad.
Jack pulled her aside amidst her fury.
"Sydney," he said, getting her to focus on him.
"Dad, we have to warn Sark. The transmission didn't detail his exact location, but MI6 will—"
"Sydney, before you do anything, you have to understand something." She didn't miss the gravity in her father's voice.
"What?" she asked softly. Jack shifted his gaze to the side, as he often did before launching into potentially ill news.
"The CIA can't step in to protect Sark," he said. "While Dixon and I both know Sark is alive, there is no official pardon."
Of course, Sydney thought. Everyone thinks Sark is dead. "Does that mean the CIA will go after him?"
Jack shifted his gaze again. "I don't know. But Dixon, Weiss, Vaughn and now Marshall all know Sark is alive. The real concern is MI6."
Sydney felt a wave of tingles prickle her skin. "I have to warn him." She grabbed her cell phone, dialing the number as fast as her fingers would allow her. Jack watched, and Sydney noted his concern. At least he's not so opposed to Sark anymore.
The line rang twice, and then forwarded to an automated voicemail that Sydney knew Sark didn't check. "How many former terrorists have voicemail?" he had complained. "Besides, I get too many wrong numbers as it is."
Sark rarely missed her calls. Worry rose up through Sydney like bile. Am I too late?
"He's not answering," she said to Jack, looking for reassurance. "There's no way they could get to him so quickly, right?" And then it hit her. Sydney shut her eyes. No. Could he?
"What is it, Sydney?"
She opened her eyes, taking in Jack's stern face. "We . . . had a disagreement this morning. He may not be answering for a reason." Her shoulders sagged for a moment, and then she called Sark again.
No answer.
"Dad . . ."
"Go,
quickly," he said. Jack flashed her a tight smile and Sydney
left with a dozen thoughts and feelings flowing through her.
Sark swallowed a yawn as he
and Calvin emerged from a supernaturally boring class.
"So what did you think?" Calvin asked without hiding his eagerness. Sark gave his brother a sarcastic grin.
"There's a reason I never went to college."
Calvin's face went to his insta-pout, but he eventually laughed it off. "Yeah, well, look where that got you."
Sark smiled tightly and nodded. None of them will ever forget it. Not that he expected his family or Sydney to forget what he used to be, but he did imagine some forgiveness to level off the snide remarks every now and then.
Sark shook off the comment. Calvin meant no harm.
"Do you mind if I skip your next class?" he asked. It wasn't really a question. There was no way he was sitting through another butt-numbing lecture.
"Fine," Calvin said, sighing his mock disappointment. "Where are you going?"
Sark started off towards his car. "Mom and Dad's. I'll see you later back at the apartment."
He drove, taking solace in the quiet hum of his Honda Accord. It wasn't the most luxurious car, but it was less conspicuous than the normal Mercedes. Besides, it beats a Ford Focus.
Sydney had called, twice. Sark was well-aware of the phone vibrating during Calvin's classes. But he couldn't bring himself to answer it.
Over the last few months, he couldn't help but feel unimportant. Not that he wanted to be the focus of everything—been there, done that, had the scars to prove it—but he felt discarded by Sydney. Her determination to constantly be the American hero drove Sark mad. Between that and her stubbornness to stay with the CIA and a life she used to openly hate, Sark wondered why they were even together.
That's the problem. We're hardly ever together.
And that's what hurt the most. Sark didn't know what else to do to make up for his past or to draw Sydney to a normal life. He was essentially helpless in the matter.
Sark sighed. He picked up his cell phone, ready to call Sydney as he pulled up to his parents' home.
And when he saw the busted front door, he dropped the phone in his lap. He stopped the car with a screech, and grabbed the gun under his seat.
His heart hammered to escape his chest. Who could be here now? And why his parents?
Splinters of the doorway littered the hall. The house was dark, though the vague Canadian sun was still out. Sark flicked off the safety, and held the gun ahead of him. He held his breath and listened.
Water. He moved towards it, toward the kitchen. The water sounded like it was running, not full force, but not dripping either. Sark peeked around the corner, and advanced.
His eyes darted to each side, around every possible ambush in the kitchen. But he saw no one.
The faucet was running. Sark moved to it, his eyes still swiveling for the unseen. The water spilled into a mixing bowl, and then overflowed into the sink.
His foot kicked something, and Sark almost shot it. It was a knife, just a standard kitchen knife. He bent down to examine it. The blade was clean, not wet or used or anything.
Mom must have grabbed it to scare them off. But where was she now?
Sark searched each room. Upstairs was untouched, but the living room was not. The coffee table was shattered, and books were strewn across the floor. Sark's feet crunched on top of glass, not from the coffee table, but a picture frame.
He picked it up. It was a photo of his family, just after they'd moved to Canada. The photo had been ripped. Sark was missing from the photo, no doubt taken by the intruders.
Which means it's me they're after.
Not again.
Sark was speeding back to the
city as he called Ilene.
"Come on, pick up," he muttered as the phone rang. It just kept ringing, until Sark got a message.
He tossed his phone aside and floored the Honda for all it was worth.
Her apartment had been invaded as well. Sark quickly ran through it, double-checking just in case there was something.
He found it on the stove. Ilene must have been cooking when she was taken. An egg was bubbling in a frying pan. Sark turned the stove off.
He stared at the egg.
It's not burnt. He'd just missed Ilene.
Calvin.
"Hey," his brother answered without a care in the world.
"Don't go to the apartment," Sark commanded. He was back in his car.
"What's wrong?"
Sark almost screamed. "Don't question me, just don't go home."
"Julian, I'm headed up the stairs right now."
Crap!
"Hide in Dan's apartment. Don't leave there until I come get you, understand?" Sark's fingers were cold and sweaty, and they clutched his phone so tight that it was starting to slip out of his grasp.
"Okay, but what's going on?" Calvin asked, confused as ever.
"Mom, Dad, and Ilene are all gone—taken," he said grimly. There was silence on the other end. "I'm a block away, Cal. Stay at Dan's."
"Okay."
The makings of a trap were all present outside his building. Sark saw the tactical van, no windows, and no
doubt full of surveillance equipment. A tall blonde man with a large nose stood
outside the entrance, reading a paper.
Brilliant cover, moron. But they were here. What about Mom and Dad? Could they be here? He shook his head as he drove past his building and turned into a parking garage across the street. Any remotely smart person wouldn't bring them to the next target.
Three separate teams? Sark shook his head again. It didn't matter how they planned the attacks. It just mattered that his brother was trapped inside the building, and that whoever these enemy were, they waited inside his apartment.
The parking garage connected to his building's garage. Both buildings were constructed by the same development company, and for whatever reason, the garages connected beneath the street. That worked to his favor, but he knew the enemy could know just as well.
Sark grabbed a baseball cap from the back seat, and pulled it tightly over his hair. He drove through, circling the garage near the stairs to the apartments. No one guarded the access but Sark did spot someone reading another blatant newspaper by the elevators. Sark smirked at that.
There was a reason why he taught his family not to use the elevators.
Sark parked by the stairs and ducked into the stairwell without drawing Newspaper Boy's attention.
He took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the third floor, he tightened his jacket around him, concealing his gun a bit better. For now, though this wasn't his floor, he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention.
He knocked on the door, waiting for Dan to answer.
The unkempt 20-year-old did, his face tired and scruffy.
"Cal, your brother's here," he said over his shoulder. Dan turned and walked off, completely unaware of the urgency.
Sark shut the door behind him as Calvin appeared. Calvin sighed loudly and hugged his brother.
"Do you think someone's looking for you?" Cal asked quietly. Dan was involved in a video game.
Sark's icy eyes stared into his brother. "I know they are. They're in the building, waiting up in our apartment."
Calvin's eyes widened and his lower jaw dropped. "Serious?"
Sark didn't grace that with an answer. He considered going up to confront the enemies, but his odds weren't favorable. Plus, he knew his parents and Ilene weren't up there. And Calvin would be left here, potentially in danger. He nodded to himself.
"Let's go."
Sark turned and opened the door. He looked down the hallway, both ways, and pulled Calvin out behind him.
"Quickly," he muttered to Calvin. They moved down the hall. Sark kept his head tilted to the ground. The security in the building wasn't state-of-the-art, but there were cameras, and he bet someone had tapped into that feed now.
He was right.
As they reached the stairwell, Sark heard thundering footsteps above.
"Move in, now! East stairwell!!"
Sark grabbed Calvin and shoved him toward the stairs. He whipped out his gun, ready to return fire if necessary.
They ran down the stairs, Calvin more falling than running. The men were closing in.
Sark glanced over the railing as they neared the parking garage. Two men were coming up. He'd be trapped, with Calvin too. Sark glanced up and back down at the threats. Without another thought, he flicked off the safety.
"Stay close behind me, Cal," Sark ordered, jumping ahead of his brother. There was only one switchback in the staircase separating Sark from the men below. He grabbed the railing and leapt over it.
His feet landed squarely on a stair, and Sark fired. Two shots, in quick succession, each finding their mark. The two men fell. Sark turned and grabbed his brother, who was predictably stunned.
They ran to the Accord, and Sark floored the gas before he even shifted into drive. The tires squealed as they tore through the parking lot.
A variety of men seemed to appear at every turn. They fired, short bursts of light and bullets. Calvin ducked in his seat as Sark turned hard for another route.
He headed for the nearest exit. He could see daylight, just within—
A black SUV sped in his way, turning to block the exit completely. Sark was only seconds away from impact, but he yanked up on the emergency brake and pulled the wheel to the left.
He floored it again and moved for the way he came in. A window shattered. Calvin yelped.
"Keep your head down!" Sark yelled. The SUV was chasing them now. It moved out of view of his rear-view mirror, and Sark saw it try to pull along side his car.
He hit a button, and his side window rolled down. Sark studied the side-view mirror as he stuck his arm and gun out the window. He aimed using the reflection.
He fired four shots, two of which actually hit the front right tire of the SUV. The black vehicle cut left and hit some parked cars.
Sark smirked, a momentary victory, and sped up for the exit. He heard shots behind him, but he knew it was useless.
The car leapt over the dips of the garage as he left it and joined traffic on the roads. Several horns honked at him as he cut off more than one vehicle, but it didn't matter.
He made it, with Calvin intact.
He expected his brother to swear, cry, or yell. Maybe even silence as shock set in. Calvin, though, had a tendency to surprise Sark every now and then.
"How come you haven't taught me how to drive like that?"
