II. NO MAN'S WOMAN
The most ironic bit about it all was that CIA Agent Tony Rotter had never been what one might call a ladies man during his younger years. Unsightly acne, feet too large to place safely in front of the other, and teeth that didn't see braces until well into his young adult years made for rather a tough go in the women department. Joining the CIA the past several years had at least resulted in his discovery of concepts such as lifting and high intensity interval training but either way, hindsight would later chide him that no percentage of newly built muscle mass could have earned him access to the lovely enchantress before him now.
A set of lips staked their claim upon the skin beneath his jaw; it was all Rotter could do not to moan when the woman found an especially sensitive juncture at the hollow of his neck.
"Take this off," the woman's soft voice insisted into his ear and he felt a tug at his jacket.
She could have asked him to twirl like a ballerina and he would still scramble to please her. He wriggled from his jacket and flung it to the ground like a little boy happy to rid himself of a coat on a hot summer day.
No need for him to worry about the buttons on his shirt – the brunette beauty was undoing them just fine on her own. He slid one thumb beneath her chin and tilted her face upward to his. He clenched his other fist into the baby hair at the nape of her neck. "So beautiful," he murmured heavily, leaning in.
She slammed both palms unexpectedly into his bare chest and Rotter stumbled backward, the back of his knees catching the edge of the mattress. His back fell flush onto the bed, his feet still flat on the floor. The woman shrugged her outer satin robe from her shoulders, climbed atop the bed, and straddled him at the hips.
Rotter had just a few moments to appreciate how the black lace of her undergarments contrasted so wonderfully against her skin before she dipped low once more and went back to work at the sensitive skin beneath his jaw.
She ground her hips tantalizingly against his and he moaned appreciatively. "You want more?" she whispered huskily against his mouth. Deliberately, she splayed both palms across his stomach, then up his abdomen, then over his chest, then against his throat.
"Gee, lady, you're really aggressive."
"You'd be surprised what I know about you besides what turns you on."
So absorbed was he by this fantasy of her that at first, he couldn't process what she said. Nor could he understand the sudden cold steel of a blade cupped against his throat.
He flinched instinctively.
"Move again and you're dead."
Quick fingers, no longer warm and passionate, needlessly raked the insides of his pants pocket. Needless because the only gun he had was nestled uselessly in his jacket somewhere on the floor.
An index finger beneath his chin forced him to meet her gaze. "Well, Rotter," she said quietly, "this looks to be a permanent black mark on your record."
It was the registered use of his surname that snapped him back to reality. "Who are you? What do you want?" he managed through clenched teeth.
The beautiful face above his creased into a smile, the image somehow doing little to assuage his unease. "I need you to send a message back to the CIA," she said smoothly.
"Yeah? Why don't you send it yourself?" He winced imperceptibly as the blade dug a few centimeters deeper into his skin.
"I'm afraid I won't be nearly as effective as you," she cooed.
Agent Rotter couldn't help the sarcasm. "Then maybe I should get a pen and write this down?"
A silky curtain of dark brown hair fell across her eyes, shrouding her face. "Not that kind of message," she said softly.
She reared back her elbow and brought it sharply against the side of his temple.
Rotter passed into blackness.
Washington, D.C.
"She's in the country?" barked NSC Director Robert Lindsay into his phone.
"Heathrow security picked her up in Terminal C this morning. There were over a dozen flights leaving the south terminal within that timeframe, some bound for the United States."
"Where is she now?"
"We don't know…sir."
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"Airport security, ah, lost her."
Lindsay pounded a massive fist into the steering wheel, furious. "Incompetent!" he roared, his voice echoing inside the car. "What the hell have you got your people doing out there, Weiss!"
"Sir—"
"She's one woman, Agent Weiss! One woman!"
"All due respect, sir, but what would you have us do? She's a ghost, sir, one of the best—we're not going to find her until she wants to be found."
Lindsay shielded his eyes against a particularly strong set of headlights coming directly at him. "I don't want excuses, Agent Weiss, I want results!" he hollered, distracted, his hand clenched tight around the wheel. "I am holding your office personally responsible for the disposition of Sydney Bristow! If she is not in federal custody by the end of the week there is going to be hell to pay!"
"Sir—"
"Just find her!"
Without warning, the oncoming car veered directly into his lane.
Swearing, Lindsay dropped the phone and wrenched the wheel to the right. The offending car missed him by inches. Lindsay had barely caught his breath before his own headlights illuminated the thick trunk of a sturdy redwood tree blocking his path and this time, he wasn't able to swerve quick enough. The front of his car smashed into the tree at breakneck speed. His body flew forward the same instant the airbag deployed.
Then, blackness.
When Robert Lindsay next came to it was with a dull pounding in his head. He pressed a tentative hand to his temple and liquid seeped over his fingertips. Blood.
The sound of distant footsteps making their way to him prompted him to call out, "Help!" His voice was no more than a guttural croak. "Help!" he tried again, stronger this time.
The footsteps were louder now. Quicker, more certain.
"Thank God," he coughed as the blurred outline of a slender figure approached his driver side window. "Listen, I need—" But he stopped short. Something halfway between fear and fury surged within his chest. "Y-you!" he spewed through a hacking cough.
"You know who I am, Mr. Lindsay." A woman's voice. "I'm flattered."
"Are you out of your mind?" he rasped through great gasps of pain, straining to scramble from the car. "You—how dare you—! Do you have any idea—"
But the moment Lindsay put weight on his right leg he toppled to the ground, his hands and knees catching bits of broken glass. Pressing his back against the side of his ruined car, he pushed himself upright and hopped unsteadily on his left leg. Even his left leg shook and quivered beneath him and it was only by slumping heavily against the trunk of the car that he was able to remain standing.
Once steady, he turned to glower darkly at his opponent. "Sydney Bristow," he sneered through the pain with as much contempt as he could muster. "We meet at last."
Sydney picked idly at an invisible lint on her jacket. "You know who I am, Director," she said quietly. "I'm flattered."
She was tall and athletic with wavy brown hair grazing her lower back. Her hazel eyes were cold as stone and her strong, angular jaw bore such a strong resemblance to her father's infamous pokerface that Lindsay half expected to see Jack Bristow himself glaring at him through those eyes.
Fresh heaves of anger surged within his chest, making him brave. "You've got a lot of nerve, you know that?" he spat, limping forward. "You're dirt, Bristow. An international fugitive and a traitor to your country—I could put a bullet between your eyes right now and still sleep soundly tonight!"
Her expression remained impassive. "I welcome you to try, Director," she said, sounding bored.
"You don't think I'll do it?" he roared. "I'll do it, Bristow, I swear to God I will!" He clawed at the insides of his jacket until his fingers gripped the handle of his Beretta.
"No, you won't," she said quietly.
Lindsay withdrew the weapon and leveled it steadily at her chest. "Give me one good reason why I wouldn't!"
Her hand shot up and gripped the gun, holding the barrel flush against her collarbone. "Because you need me," she said, her words flowing harder this time. "Because whether or not you want to admit it, in four years I'm still the best lead you have on the Covenant. Kill me and you have nothing."
Lindsay hesitated and in that fraction of a second, Sydney had wrenched the gun from his hands with startling speed.
"Relax," she said softly, catching him wince as she tucked the weapon inside the waistband of her jeans. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
"Then what is it you want?" he spat, bravado overtaking fear. "Or is McKenas Cole sending his lapdogs to do his dirty work for him now?"
If Sydney felt unsettled that he knew about McKenas Cole's association with the Covenant, she did a masterful job at hiding it. "I have a message for you." She brandished something at him, making him flinch, but she only held a manila envelope.
"What's that?" he shot.
"Photographs."
"Of what?"
"Tony Rotter and Peter Klein. Two of the CIA's undercover agents at Laszig Aerospace, as I understand it."
A fresh spout of anger flamed in his chest. "You—if you've harmed them in any way, I swear to—"
"On the back you'll find coordinates to a designated location. Go there. Retrieve the package. Follow our demands."
Lindsay bristled as defensively as if she'd brandished a weapon at him. "Excuse me, are you threatening me?" he sputtered.
A curious smile creased the corners of her mouth. "I am."
"And do you really think I'm the kind of man you can bully into doing whatever you want?"
"Why yes, Director, I do."
"I will not be blackmailed by a common criminal!" raged Lindsay, beyond mad now. "Oh, ho-ho," he chortled, pointing a thick finger at her, "you stand there so smug, so arrogant, so sure of yourself! You think you have nothing to lose, nothing to live for, but don't forget the access I have to those you still care about! You have your father, your spineless friends at the Agency! Don't think for a second that they are out of reach of the full power of the White House National Security Council!"
Sydney's expression contorted into a terrible snarl and for the first time, her dark eyes flashed dangerously as she advanced on him. "Do it. Give me an example in the abuse of power. Show me how it's done."
Lindsay dropped his gaze, his budding courage quelled at last. Still, he couldn't resist maintaining defiantly to the ground, "You don't frighten me."
Sydney moved closer, the cold dislike etched into every line on her face. "Then clearly, you're an idiot."