Sark came home to his penthouse apartment, locking all three of the
deadbolts, and immediately flopped down on his black leather couch. It had
been one of those days.
He took time to close all the blinds. Out of habit, mostly-he wasn't in danger. Not at the present anyways, he thought pessimistically.
Wine, he thought. . . . . . . .I need wine.
Without thinking he took out a bottle of Cabernet from the cupboard and poured it out, preparing himself for the numbing sensations which would follow. Just holding the glass in his hand made his body relax.
He had bought an entire set of glasses, just for style's sake, though it wasn't needed. He would never entertain guests.
Sitting back down on the couch again with his glass of Cabernet, he tried to seek solace from the vintage French posters hanging on the white walls- from the red pillow on his black couch, a somewhat out-of-place bit of color in the myriad of black and white that was his home. If you could call it that. He looked down at the glass once more, swirling its contents around in smooth, rhythmic motions.
No, he had learned long ago that the only place he found solace was here.
It took him halfway through the bottle before he realized he was still wearing his black suit. It immediately discomforted him. It had been one of those days, and he wanted to shed his persona.
A shower should take care of it, he decided. As he let the hot water beat upon him and trickle down, images of the degradation that had been today reentered his mind.
**********
"The race is coming to an end." Irina had been talking to Sloane on the plane. Sark had been sitting on the side as usual, typing his intel into his laptop, waiting for them to jump.
"There are still some things that need taken care of before this race can end." Sloane sent Irina a furtive look, who briefly glanced at Sark before speaking again
"Will you excuse us for a moment?" She asked Sark, even though all parties were fully aware that it wasn't a question.
Seething inside for being treated like a mindless minion instead of an asset, Sark had obeyed. By the time he was allowed to reenter, they had already formulated their plans for "taking care of loose ends." And it involved him.
"--You want me to what??" he asked angrily.
"It's strategic planning, Mr. Sark. We're going to embed a satellite locator in your hip, disguising it as an appendix scar, and then from within the building, you'll be able to give us a full detail map of the CIA building, then we'll come in and steal the remaining Rambaldi pieces from them."
"It's suicide. I refuse." Sark said bluntly.
"They won't kill you; you know too much. You just have to make sure you don't play your entire hand before we extract you." Irina said diplomatically.
"Do you think I'm a fool? You won't extract me; you'll get what you want and leave me there to die. I refuse." Sark said, before feeling cold steel press against his temple.
"It wasn't an option, Sark." Irina's voice grew deadly and cold, and a sidelong glance showed Sloane was holding a gun to his head.
"I'm not just another mindless SD-6 agent, Sloane. I am an equal partner in this venture." Sark said, letting just a trace of anger infiltrate his cool demeanor.
"And as an equal partner, we're going to have you participate in our plans. Whether you like it or not." Irina added as a finality.
He knew he could easily take down Sloane, but Irina would be too much for him to handle. He was left with no options.
"What do you want me to do?" Sark's voice remained level, hands in the air, his only goal to stay alive for the moment.
"Simply cooperate with our plan, and I promise you, you'll be extracted after the mission is completed." Irina said. A trace of Russian accent was finding its way back into her voice, after living outside America and the Bristow family for so long.
It was uncanny how much her and her daughter were alike, minus the sadism and the accent. Sydney. I wonder where she is now, he had wondered fleetingly, in the midst of the turmoil. She had been so fun to toy with. It had been a good three months since he had seen her.
For a personal distraction from his situation, he entertained memories of her singing in Paris while Irina shot him with a tranquilizer. Black Corset top. Her hand flowing over his chest. . . . .
Then the drugs kicked in and his eyes closed.
If the conversation hadn't been about him, Sark might have laughed. Irina's word broke as easily as a wine glass.
********
Sark meandered back into the drab, lifeless living room after his shower, wearing a black cotton T-Shirt that hugged his form and black cotton pants. Though Armani was always a great fit, it had never been useful for lounging around. Putting some Chopin on the CD player and returning to the wine, he weighed his options. He was to wait for a period of two weeks before turning himself in, during which time he would be monitored to make sure he didn't decide to run from it.
They had already put the satellite feed in his hip. They could track him. He knew there was no way he could take it out without them getting to him first. There was no way out. He had officially become a pawn, when not more than a week ago he had been the devil's right hand man. How had he let this happen?
And for now, Sark did not want to think about it. He leaned back on the couch letting the Nocturne No. 9 No. 1 roll over his body, relaxing him, letting emotion rise in the pit of his stomach.
A combination of the piano and the wine eventually sank him into a dreamless sleep.
He took time to close all the blinds. Out of habit, mostly-he wasn't in danger. Not at the present anyways, he thought pessimistically.
Wine, he thought. . . . . . . .I need wine.
Without thinking he took out a bottle of Cabernet from the cupboard and poured it out, preparing himself for the numbing sensations which would follow. Just holding the glass in his hand made his body relax.
He had bought an entire set of glasses, just for style's sake, though it wasn't needed. He would never entertain guests.
Sitting back down on the couch again with his glass of Cabernet, he tried to seek solace from the vintage French posters hanging on the white walls- from the red pillow on his black couch, a somewhat out-of-place bit of color in the myriad of black and white that was his home. If you could call it that. He looked down at the glass once more, swirling its contents around in smooth, rhythmic motions.
No, he had learned long ago that the only place he found solace was here.
It took him halfway through the bottle before he realized he was still wearing his black suit. It immediately discomforted him. It had been one of those days, and he wanted to shed his persona.
A shower should take care of it, he decided. As he let the hot water beat upon him and trickle down, images of the degradation that had been today reentered his mind.
**********
"The race is coming to an end." Irina had been talking to Sloane on the plane. Sark had been sitting on the side as usual, typing his intel into his laptop, waiting for them to jump.
"There are still some things that need taken care of before this race can end." Sloane sent Irina a furtive look, who briefly glanced at Sark before speaking again
"Will you excuse us for a moment?" She asked Sark, even though all parties were fully aware that it wasn't a question.
Seething inside for being treated like a mindless minion instead of an asset, Sark had obeyed. By the time he was allowed to reenter, they had already formulated their plans for "taking care of loose ends." And it involved him.
"--You want me to what??" he asked angrily.
"It's strategic planning, Mr. Sark. We're going to embed a satellite locator in your hip, disguising it as an appendix scar, and then from within the building, you'll be able to give us a full detail map of the CIA building, then we'll come in and steal the remaining Rambaldi pieces from them."
"It's suicide. I refuse." Sark said bluntly.
"They won't kill you; you know too much. You just have to make sure you don't play your entire hand before we extract you." Irina said diplomatically.
"Do you think I'm a fool? You won't extract me; you'll get what you want and leave me there to die. I refuse." Sark said, before feeling cold steel press against his temple.
"It wasn't an option, Sark." Irina's voice grew deadly and cold, and a sidelong glance showed Sloane was holding a gun to his head.
"I'm not just another mindless SD-6 agent, Sloane. I am an equal partner in this venture." Sark said, letting just a trace of anger infiltrate his cool demeanor.
"And as an equal partner, we're going to have you participate in our plans. Whether you like it or not." Irina added as a finality.
He knew he could easily take down Sloane, but Irina would be too much for him to handle. He was left with no options.
"What do you want me to do?" Sark's voice remained level, hands in the air, his only goal to stay alive for the moment.
"Simply cooperate with our plan, and I promise you, you'll be extracted after the mission is completed." Irina said. A trace of Russian accent was finding its way back into her voice, after living outside America and the Bristow family for so long.
It was uncanny how much her and her daughter were alike, minus the sadism and the accent. Sydney. I wonder where she is now, he had wondered fleetingly, in the midst of the turmoil. She had been so fun to toy with. It had been a good three months since he had seen her.
For a personal distraction from his situation, he entertained memories of her singing in Paris while Irina shot him with a tranquilizer. Black Corset top. Her hand flowing over his chest. . . . .
Then the drugs kicked in and his eyes closed.
If the conversation hadn't been about him, Sark might have laughed. Irina's word broke as easily as a wine glass.
********
Sark meandered back into the drab, lifeless living room after his shower, wearing a black cotton T-Shirt that hugged his form and black cotton pants. Though Armani was always a great fit, it had never been useful for lounging around. Putting some Chopin on the CD player and returning to the wine, he weighed his options. He was to wait for a period of two weeks before turning himself in, during which time he would be monitored to make sure he didn't decide to run from it.
They had already put the satellite feed in his hip. They could track him. He knew there was no way he could take it out without them getting to him first. There was no way out. He had officially become a pawn, when not more than a week ago he had been the devil's right hand man. How had he let this happen?
And for now, Sark did not want to think about it. He leaned back on the couch letting the Nocturne No. 9 No. 1 roll over his body, relaxing him, letting emotion rise in the pit of his stomach.
A combination of the piano and the wine eventually sank him into a dreamless sleep.