Sark used the elevator ride to savor his wife's latest assignment. While he usually liked to have her to himself when the children were gone, the idea of her being forced into such close proximity of her moronic ex-beau was oddly satisfying. Additionally, it didn't hurt that he would be busy. His financial group was in the process of buying out a smaller but prestigious group that currently was relying on their good name rather than actual quality. The structure of the organization would need to be changed, negligent employees let go, which translated into very little naked time with the missus. If she spent the time away from him miserable and reminded by stark contrast how fantastic he was, well, so much the better.
He stepped out of the lift and nodded briefly to his receptionist Marta. There was one meeting he did not relish, however, and it was scheduled for the next day. He wanted to have all the correct numbers in order long before they were needed. His prey was, as Sydney would put it "tricksey" and he had no intention of letting the deal slide through without a great deal of pain on his "partner's" part.
Sloane. What a F#ckwad. Whoever thought it was a good idea to give him access to a large sum of money and the power to trade internationally should be impaled publicly and fed their own tongue. Roasted.
The scent of soggy cheerios awoke Irina. This was not in itself too horrible. She was particularly resistant to most methods of torture, so the odd scent here or there was nothing compared to the stench of one's own bodily fluids.
It was four in the morning.
Two sets of dark brown eyes blinked back at her.
The twins had gotten out of their crib again.
No one in her organization had been able to design a crib that contained the toddlers for long. Well, none that were child safe. She had had a long talk with Iosif about his creation, which included flamethrowers, mousetraps, several guillotine-like blades, and oddly enough, lemon-lime jello. She sent him off as head of intelligence for her eastern European branch. Intelligence gathering became three times as efficient within two months. Unfortunately, she did not feel his method's appropriate for her grandchildren.
"Is it time for breakfast already?" she asked blearily.
The twins were silent. Irina's theory was that Sark and Sydney spent so much time talking that the twins couldn't get a word in. Several speech therapists had been recommended, none however who had passed Irina's, Sark's, Sydney's, or Jack's stringent background checks.
Irina scooped one toddler up in each arm. They were getting heavy, pretty soon, she'd need help. Not that she trusted many of her employees with her darlings. It had become an unspoken rule that when the boss was with her grandchildren, one should run away, and forget you ever heard her cooing about "this little piggy".
The phone rang just as Irina reached the kitchen. She groaned, setting the twins in their respective high chairs. She strode over to the telephone and waited a moment for her breathing to return to normal. It was Jack.
"Yes? Is something wrong?" Irina asked. Jack rarely called unless something was. Or he made up a problem. She was never quite sure which.
"Sydney's been taken." Jack said bluntly, seeing no reason to beat around the bush.
Irina was already in problem solving mode. It would do no good to fall apart in front of her grandchildren, with her husband on the line. Her daughter had been compromised. Someone out there didn't know what was good for them. It was an insult, honestly. A challenge. Who thought she would just take that lying down?
"When? Where?" she asked.
"I'm flying to you now. All pertinent information has been sent already. I just thought you should hear it from me first, not from the file."
"Thank you." Said Irina, her words tight.
"You think this is my fault."
"Did I say that Jack?"
"I was here, and you were looking after the children, so she was my responsibility. Is that what you think? You have a lot of nerve." He finished dangerously.
"I'll see you soon Jack." Said Irina almost pleasantly, ignoring his anger. He'd get over it. Blaming him wouldn't bring Sydney back any sooner.