REMINDER: This story takes the place of all episodes AFTER 3.14 "Blowback." Everything up until then applies.
This Chapter: Shadow's first mission. Aw.
Suggested Soundtrack: "Before the Dawn" by Evanescence, "Everytime We Touch (Yanou's Candlelight Remix)" by Cascada, "Remedy" by Seether, and "Blurry" by Puddle of Mudd.
Author's Note: Translations in English follow the French text. As for the chapter title, it's Latin and I won't give you more than that. Yeah, yeah, I'm evil. Tell me something I don't know. Enjoy!
Chapter Two: Causus Belli
The dream.
She had it again.
The dream where everything was, in short, different.
She would slug around in a black-and-white world, working fourteen-hour days plus commuting time and trying to let go of her briefcase but somehow it actually became part of her hand and consuming coffee like air and trying not to remember what he whispered in her ear in the reoccurring nightmare-within-a-nightmare she called the five minutes of sleep she allotted herself. Black streets, black clothes, black eyes; white sheets, white paper, white skin; grey skies, grey houses, grey intentions. The overloaded mule always plodding next to her car in traffic looked positively ecstatic compared to the drawn face she saw in the rearview mirror.
And then . . . BAM.
Technicolor.
Not so much "Pleasantville"-style, but more like "The Wizard of Oz." White-skinned, black-eyed Dorothy stepped through Alice's looking-glass (yes, her unconsciousness mixed metaphors) into a land she thought no longer existed. Blunt blues, rambunctious reds, grand greens, poignant purples, outrageous oranges... Alliteration must have also been part of the package. The colors bled into every aspect of her life, like the warmth in Arizona or humidity of Florida. Eyes turned brown and green; skin fleshed out; and intentions became clear.
He came back to her.
She awoke one night after another five-minute nightmare-within-a-nightmare to find him bustling about in the kitchen fixing a midnight snack. He explained she had fallen asleep during a movie, and he felt too guilty to wake her. So he shut off the television and instead did the crossword puzzle they began earlier in the day. Instead of questioning, she went along with the story, taking a cup of steaming crimson blood from his outstretched hand and drinking deeply. She asked what she had missed, and he replied nothing of importance; just a continuous stream of contrivances and shameless product placement. He had no idea why they had rented the movie in the first place: It smelled funny.
Suddenly, they were at a lavish party in a ballroom strung with gold bunting and lively tapestries. Music floated above the chatter played by unseen musicians, and she danced a waltz with him. Black organdy wrapped tightly around her body and trailed behind her as they floated across the floor; he matched in a black tux and black shirt. They locked gazes through twin green masks.
She glanced around the room and saw red women dancing with blue men, green men drinking with white women. A maskless shadow lurked in the corner of the room, watching over them soundlessly, and as it nodded to her, he drew her close, enveloping her in his warm embrace. He smiled his infamous boyish grin and laughed blithely. Never had she felt so warm, so protected, so in love. He pulled her infinitely closer, and as he bent his head for a kiss, she closed her eyes and waited. . . .
For a kiss that would never come. Upon opening her eyes, she stared straight up at the unforgiving white stucco of her bedroom ceiling. Sheets snaked around her form, practically binding her to the mattress, as if she tried to dance in her sleep. Her face felt sticky, and when she reached up to wipe the sleep from her eyes, she realized she had been crying from the happiness welling inside her during that tantalizing, awful dream.
Or the sadness that came with the fallout.
6:02.
Oh well. So much for that extra hour to sleep in. She extracted herself from the tangled mass of her bed to start the day, turning on every radio in the apartment to chase away the emptiness.
One coffee.
One bagel.
One sugar.
One cream.
One napkin.
One shadow.
Just.
One.
In those few short hours she spent at home, the paperwork on her desk grew sizably, and she sighed as she draped her coat across the back of her chair. Sitting down, she grabbed a pen and steeled herself against the first paper she pulled towards her. Luckily, it only informed of a moved briefing. Tossing it in the silent shredder next to her desk, she glanced up again just in time to see Vaughn and Lauren stroll in together, his arm draped about her waist. They both laughed and drank their twin Starbucks coffees and walked in stride — but not exactly as they used to do. Her heart physically hurt with the remembrance of her happiness in the dream — much worse than when she rolled out of bed because now she was being confronted with the reason why she and Vaughn did not watch late-night movies or attend parties arm in arm.
She felt tears and bile well within her, but before she could look away, Vaughn caught her eye. His smile immediately faded, the laughter dying in his throat. He saw the tears; she just knew it. Somehow, it gave her a sadistic satisfaction to see the overt grief and pain etched into the worry lines on his façade. She conveyed her immense sadness with one expressionless glare.
And then she looked away.
"God, these papers keep multiplying. I wonder if they're related to bunnies."
Weiss. Safety. "Eric, paper comes from trees, and I'm pretty sure they're nowhere near bunnies in the grand scheme of things."
"Yeah, but if they fall in the forest, and no one's around to hear them, do they make a sound?"
"Huh? What does that have to do with anything?"
"Exactly." He grinned down at her supportively, reluctantly accepting the mask of happiness plastered onto her face. Patting the large stack of papers, Weiss said, "Okay. Seriously, now. That moved briefing starts in, oh, I'd say about two minutes, so I believe we have to haul some major ass." With that, he roused her and bustled towards the nearest doorway.
She hustled to keep up, tucking her empty mission file carrier under her arm as she fell into stride with a wry smile. "What's with the gallop, Eric?" she asked, eyes peeled for any sign of Vaughn and/or Lauren. "You've never worried about punctuality before. What's got you all hot and — Never mind. I get it." Through the clear glass walls, she saw Shadow standing next to the monitor and chatting to Dixon. This time she wore the baggiest black pants Sydney had ever seen coupled with the same clunky boots, a bone-ribbed black tank top edged with red lace, and fishnet sleeves that rose to mid-bicep. Sydney raised an eyebrow at her friend before tugging open the door and striding in.
The room filled quickly with the usual occupants, and Shadow stood to one side of the large monitor with her arms crossed stoically over her chest. Sydney smiled ruefully at her father's double-take as he hurried in and took a seat next to his daughter. As soon as Marshall bumbled through the door, nearly tripping over his own shoes, Dixon switched on the monitor, and they began.
"Mikhail Polhov." The Director clicked a button, and the picture of a middle-aged, greying man with a strong chin and beady eyes glared at them. "Former KGB, present French mafia. He is suspected to be dealing weapons to multiple Covenant cells including the North American cell. According to our intelligence, he's also tied closely with Julian Sark—" His picture flashed on the screen, and Sydney sneered "—they've been seen together on multiple occasions." Another picture. This time they lounged at a café and swapped a newspaper — an obvious covert device. "Rumour has it that the Covenant put in a shipment order recently. They won't be shipped tonight, but we want something different." The screen automatically shut off, and Dixon began handing out folder profiles. "We want the specs so we can intercept the shipment. Therefore . . ." He glanced over at Shadow, and she took one step forward.
"Everyone will be involved in this mission," she said, pointedly glancing around the circle and resting her eyes briefly on Lauren.
The NSC Agent made to raise her hand, thought better of it, and said instead, "But I'm not field rated."
Shadow merely glared. "Whoops. My bad." Sydney thought she saw a muscle twitch near her upper lip, but she dismissed it as a trick of the light. Shay looked to the room at large again and continued, "Jack and Marshall, you're on comms. You'll be in contact with Director Dixon at all times. Lauren and Weiss, you will patrol the perimeter—"
"What perimeter? Where're we going?" Weiss interjected eagerly.
She brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face and replied, "If we were anywhere but here, I'd cut your tongue out for interrupting me." Surprisingly, he did not seem fazed in the least. "You two will patrol the perimeter as back-up, looking for any signs of detection. Sydney and Vaughn: you're with me." Vaughn and Sydney shared a short glance across the room. "Sydney and I are going in as the daughters of a French arms dealer stationed in Gabon, Africa, Alice and Nicole Lambin. Nicole — that's you, Sydney — is married to the French physicist François Bourgier — Vaughn — who's looking to advance his wife's family's business by developing new weapons. Our objective is to reach Polhov's study and copy the shipment specs during his birthday party tomorrow night. Floor plans, profiles, and everything else are in your folders. Wheels up in four hours. That's all; you're dismissed." She slammed her own folder closed, swept it up, and breezed out of the room before anyone could even stand up.
Sydney and Vaughn locked eyes again, and with a quick nod of her head, they both hastily followed her, Lauren's shrill objections to Dixon and Jack echoing in the background. They quickly found Shadow at her sparsely furnished desk, and each occupied an end. Neglecting any and all pretense, Sydney began, "We don't think this is such a good idea—"
"We?" Shay interrupted, an eyebrow straining towards her hairline. "Really? Well that's interesting."
Vaughn sighed shortly and tried, "It's obvious you know our delicate, uh, situation, and neither of us would like to—"
"Put yourselves in a spot where you could jeopardize that delicate, uh, situation?" Sydney got the distinct impression that the woman mocked them, and her eyes blazed in anger as she straightened up for a retort. But Shay merely crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. "Suck it up. We all do things we don't want to do. And if you want to take down the Covenant, and you want to find the mole . . . Well, get used to doing things my way. Got it?"
They shared an anxious glance, but neither agent said anything.
Shay smiled triumphantly as she took a purse out of a desk drawer. "Good. Now, I'll see you at the airport in a few hours."
She began striding away, but Sydney called after her, "Where are you going?"
Not stopping, the strange agent called, "The Apple Store. I need music for the plane ride. Tootles!"
Sydney and Vaughn stared after her retreating form in an increasingly uneasy silence. They both straightened and refused to glance at one another, eagerly looking for any excuse to bolt; Sydney desperately wished Weiss would barge in with a cup of too-strong coffee and whisk her away to his desk where they could talk freely. Instead, Vaughn's dress shoe toed a crack in the granite and, to her horror, began to apologize for the previous night. "Syd, I'm sorry about the way I acted on the mission—"
"Vaughn, don't," she interrupted, surprisingly stable despite the fact her insides quivered at the remembrance of his touch. Subtext: 'Don't apologize for something you might (possibly?) want and I definitely want and we both know we can't have. Don't apologize for something that can't leave your system. Just don't apologize. 'Cause if you do, it makes what we have — had — have — had that much cheaper.'
He read this in the expanse of her brown irises and nodded his head to himself. His hands balled to fists in his pants' pockets, and he set his jaw as he looked up and away, almost as if he was trying to swallow the words on the tip of his tongue. At last he said, "You're right, but Syd—"
"God, I hate your father, Syd!" Weiss exclaimed to half the Ops Centre as he slogged over to the two agents. He stuffed his hands into his own pockets and grinned ruefully, completely ignoring the tension and conversation he interrupted. "He nearly filleted me in there over some stupid . . . little . . . thing. . . . All right, I probably deserved it, but I totally wasn't listening, so I have no idea what he said."
Sydney snorted quietly and Vaughn rolled his eyes as they desperately avoided the other's eyes. Finally extracting his hands, Vaughn announced, "I've got to get back to work. I'll see you later." His gaze flickered to Sydney's, and her heart leapt despite herself.
Weiss noticed this sudden change in demeanor and quickly steered her over to his desk under the guise of rearranging papers. "So this mission, huh?" He began, sorting folders without even glancing at their contents. "Don't you think it's a little—"
"Look, Vaughn and I, we're mature adults," she reasoned, slightly overzealous. "I'm sure we can handle posing as husband and wife for a few hours at a dinner party."
He paused and glared at her under his eyebrows. "Thank you, Miss I Need a Life Outside the Great Los Angeles Triangle," Eric deadpanned, plopping down in his chair. "No, I wasn't going to comment on the freakishly ironic situation. Don't you think this mission's kind . . . overpopulated?" Sydney narrowed her eyes in confusion, and he expanded, "There's too many freaking people going! How the hell is she going to keep her eye on, like, twenty people at once while only seeing two of them and maintaining her cover?!"
Shrugging, Sydney cocked an eyebrow and replied, "She's the Shadow. I bet she can do anything. Hell, I bet she could fly if she tried hard enough."
"Oh, here comes another mental picture. . . . Ah, there it is! Damn, that's great stuff!"
* * *
A curl slung down to bounce in front of Sydney's face. She huffed at the stubborn lock of hair and attacked it yet again with a barrage of bobby pins. Beside her, Weiss sat at a table loaded with armament, holsters, and bulletproof vests. He catalogued them carefully and slipped extra clips into pockets in his vest. Vaughn and Lauren conversed softly in the next room, and no one knew where Shadow was. Only Jack's sharp rebukes through their earpieces removed Weiss from the case.
As soon as they landed on a remote runway just outside Paris, Jack hurried the entire team to a safe house halfway between the capital and Marseille, where Mikhail Polhov was staging his grand birthday party. There they found clothing, ammunition, and a fully-equipped surveillance van for Jack and Marshall. Ever since, everyone had been doing their own thing, trying not to step on any toes in the process.
Just when Sydney fastened the final pin, Vaughn and Lauren strolled in, still speaking in hushed tones. A basic black tuxedo clung to his form, complemented by a slightly askew bow-tie. She frowned into the mirror but turned around all the same. Their gazes locked for a moment before his eyes briefly trailed over her body, taking in the form-fitting, knee-length white cocktail dress and strappy heels in the process.
But Lauren did not notice; instead, she peered cautiously at the weapons display before Weiss. She tip-toed over and handled the weapons with almost practiced clumsiness. Shadow chose that moment to breeze into the room. Weiss's eyes nearly popped out of his head. If she had not seen the dress in a closet earlier, Sydney would have sworn some giant had colored the agent's skin with a gigantic red crayon. A large rhinestone broach nestled between her breasts, and a slit sliced all the way up to just past her knees. Shadow had spent a majority of the plane ride toying with her hair, weaving it into an intricate net with a tight bun on top of her head. The bright eyeliner from their first meeting made an encore appearance.
Her heels clicked a staccato beat as she made her way towards Weiss, Lauren, and the guns. Sydney felt Vaughn start towards his wife, think better of it, and stay where he stood. Shadow took in Lauren awkwardly handling the gun and smiled sadistically. "Do you know what that is, dearie?" she asked, tone condescending. Not waiting for the indignant agent to reply, she picked up an empty M-9, a half-full clip, and a single bullet. Pointing to each in turn, she explained, "Bullet — clip — trigger — shoot."
With the fully-loaded weapon pointed at her face, Lauren blanched and gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles.
Shadow laughed wryly, breaking her stoic façade, and spun the locked gun around her trigger finger, handing the butt of the gun to Lauren. "Don't wet your panties, Agent Reed. Strap on a vest, grab a gun, and try to find some courage. Maybe you have some hidden in that gigantic head of hair." Ignoring Lauren's mumbled protestations, Shadow lifted the hem of her dress and tucked a weapon in a hidden holster strapped around her upper thigh. Sydney caught a peek of its twin around the other leg, and she nodded in approval as Shay slipped a switchblade into the bust of her dress.
Reaching up into an overhead cabinet, she extracted two black clutches and handed one to Sydney. "Standard issue crap," she explained, referring to its contents. "Fingerprinting powder, a knife in the eye shadow, pepper spray lipstick. So don't think about going to the bathroom to really freshen up."
Sydney nodded just as headlights turned into the driveway, sweeping the room through the window. Lauren's hand immediately shot to her gun, and Shadow laughed in pure amusement. "Dear God! It's just the limo!" She scoffed. "It's time. Yo Adrian! Ouvre la porte, s'il te plaît."
The car ride seemed eternal, what with her close proximity to Vaughn. They sat side by side in the back with Shadow sprawling out along the side, flipping through TV channels. They sat where the seats encouraged them to, creating a cradle with both stitching and stuffing — not to extreme sides of the bench, where they would hug the plastic siding and kiss the windows. They sat with their arms and knees practically touching, yet the expanse between them seemed as lengthy as the car ride. She recrossed her legs in an attempt to bridge that gap.
Shadow finally relented and sat upright, facing the two other agents. She stared at them critically, and Sydney knew what was coming. "You're too good at this," she murmured, more to herself than either of them. "At being married. It's like you could be Nicole Lambin and François Bourgier if only it were another time and place, and you chose not to — No," she corrected herself, "Fate intervened. Yes, the Fates. 'Fortune has given us this adversity,/ Some wicked planetary dispensation,/ Some Saturn's trick or evil constellation.' But They didn't cut your thread. No. You're too good at being married. 'We must endure it, that's the long and short.' But if They didn't . . . who did?" She cocked an eyebrow in interest, then glanced at the digital clock next to the television set.
"I'm going to have a word with the driver about our getaway. Adrian probably has no idea where we're supposed to meet after the mission." With that, she scooted closer to the distant privacy partition and lowered it, talking in hushed French to their limo chauffeur/undercover CIA agent.
Vaughn and Sydney leaned closer to one another, neither really sure who initiated the movement. Barely moving her lips, she began, "Does she—"
"—Disturb you?" he finished, eyes wide with incredulity. "Yeah, just a bit. Weiss thinks they're a perfect match, and I'm beginning to agree."
She nodded and let their paltry conversation stand. 'This,' she thought, 'is one step away from romantic comedy nervous laughter.' They could never fathom broaching the deep issues Shadow so deftly dredged up. It just was not in their nature: symbolism, guesswork, silent conversations, and avoidance conquered all. So instead of tackling the issue, they allowed it to pass by the wayside and buried it in their dust, letting it fester like every other unspoken cataclysm along the way.
In other words, they stared off silently in different directions for the remainder of the journey.
They also refrained from commenting on how right it felt to walk into that lavish party arm in arm as husband and wife. Shadow was right: they were too good at being married.
Shadow entered first, heels clacking on the sparkling marble floor, and she introduced herself and her companions to the host, who waited by a set of metal detectors. "Bonsoir, Monsieur Polhov," she crooned, offering her hand and an uncharacteristic smile. "Je m'appelle Alice Lambin, et je vous présente ma sœur Nicole et son mari François Bourgier." ["My name is Alice Lambin, and this is my sister Nicole and her husband Francois Bourgier."]
Sydney also offered her hand, which the surprisingly large man kissed. He glanced up at her companion, and his eyes lit up in recognition. "Ah, Monsieur Bourgier!" he exclaimed in Russian-tinged French. "Est-ce que vous êtes l'homme de Gabon? Qui vendez le . . . Vous savez. D'accord! Entrez, entrez. Il faut que nous parlions, Bourgier. Ecoutez — vous avez une belle femme, hien?" ["Are you the man from Gabon? Who sells the . . . you know. Okay! Come in, come in. We must talk, Bourgier. Listen — you have a beautiful wife, yes?"] Vaughn tightened his grip around Sydney's waist and planted a peck on her temple before assuring the man he knew of his wife's beauty.
All three agents heard a small gagging noise through their earpieces.
As soon as they left earshot, Shadow pretended to whisper to Sydney, but instead spoke into her comm. "Je suis choqué. Tu comprends le français. Frankly, I'm surprised you understand English." Vaughn shot her an annoyed look, but she ignored him, instead flagging down a waiter for champagne flutes. Taking two and handing one to each agent, she threw a brief look over her shoulder before muttering through tight lips, "I'm gonna get some food and spec out the place. You two . . . be married."
The square ballroom shot straight up into a cathedral ceiling strung with gold bunting. Landscapes mingled with portraits and impressionist ponds on the walls. The entire room burned with a muted gold glow, bronzing white skin and lightening dark. A string quintet consisting of two violins, a viola, cello, and bass began strumming from their modest corner, churning out a Strauss waltz. Couples set down their dainty plates and glasses on every available surface and began gravitating towards the centralized dance floor.
Sydney's palms began to sweat as she and Vaughn became increasingly exposed. Would he ask her to dance? It would most certainly fit their characters, but Lauren listened on the comms and what would she think if her husband asked his old girlfriend to dance at a birthday party where the wife was not present and Sydney dressed as she was and he handsome as he was and both as tipsy as they were—
Vaughn suddenly slipped the flute from her grasp and set both down on a nearby table, knowing they would never return to it. Taking her right hand in his left, he smiled cordially with just a hint of slyness in his eyes. "Est-ce que tu veux danser avec moi? Je veux signer tout sa carte." ["Do you want to dance with me? I want to sign all of your card."]
"Bien sûr, mon chéri. Ma carte est réservée pour toi." ["Of course, my dear. My card is reserved for you."] Of course it was what Nicole Lambin would say to her loving husband, but just a corner of that statement shined with pure Sydney Bristow. She allowed him to lead her onto the floor, and they began to dance, laughing and smiling at each other like absolutely no time had passed.
Too good at being married.
Something crackled in her ear, and their conversation slowly trailed off as they concentrated on their comms. "Floor plans are correct," Shay whispered, obviously covering her mouth with an object. "Polhov's library is down C Hallway, left at O Hallway, and right at M Hallway. That's Charlie-Omega-Mary. Seventeenth door on the left. No, don't stop dancing, you two." The minuscule hitch in their steps was only felt by the other person. "I'll be there in a moment. Beta team, how's the perimeter?"
"Kinda cold," Weiss answered matter-of-factly. "And really lonely. You know, they say blondes are supposed to be fun, but this one ain't talking much. Ouch! What! She asked how it was going!"
"Wrong," Shay muttered, annoyance edging her voice. The lady in red moved back into the room near the snack table. Standing next to the giant tiered cake, she reclasped her clutch and scanned the room, seeming to look for a dance partner. Through closed lips, she ground out, "I asked how the perimeter is, not the status of your sorry ass."
The knowing smirk shared between Sydney and Vaughn hinted of real amusement outside of their covers.
Shay plucked a champagne glass from a passing waiter and began elbowing her way across the dance floor towards the couple, not really watching where she stepped. When she reached them, she tripped over someone's outstretched leg and pitched forward, spilling her liquid down Sydney's front and staining her white dress. Sydney gasped in genuine surprise as the liquid seeped through the thin material and into her skin, and she tried to brush it away with her hand. Shay slapped her forehead and exclaimed, "Mon Dieu! Désolée, Nicole! Il faut que je fasse attention." ["Oh God! Sorry, Nicole! I need to pay closer attention."] As she steadied Sydney in her arms, she tapped 'G-O' on the inside of her elbow.
Sydney received the message. "C'est rien. Mais je dois laver ma robe. Euh, lave un peu. François, est-ce que tu peux m'aider?" ["It's nothing. But I need to wash my dress. Well, wash a little bit. Francois, could you help me?"] Her suggestive glance fit not only Nicole's train of thought.
Vaughn returned it and, arm in arm, they strode towards the bathroom down B Hallway. They picked that bathroom in particular because of its second door — onto C Hallway. They entered, locking the door behind them, and began organizing their equipment. He hurriedly extracted a photocopying pen from a hidden pocket in the lining of his coat and replaced it into the lining of his sleeve. Patting his breast pocket, he affirmed the presence of the quarter-sized transmitting device. She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a lock-picking kit and the standard can of pepper spray, which she hid in the strap of her dress. They nodded silently at one another, confirming their readiness, and scuttled out of the room, locking the door again with Sydney's kit.
They followed Shay's instructions and avoided human contact carefully — especially Polhov's security guards: They seemed to be everywhere — and found M Hallway with little trouble. The long corridor stretched out for at least a block, furnished only with expensive-looking oil paintings and many, many doors. They paused before entering the hallway, peering each direction to check for guards — the lack of furniture would disallow cover of any kind — and listening for any sign of life other than themselves — the muted faraway talking and music from the party counted, but they were...far away. After nodding to each other yet again, the partners stepped out onto the thin carpeting and began advancing towards the seventeenth door with their backs against the wall.
But before they reached the fourth door, Sydney heard raised voices coming from the opposite end of the hall — angry voices that approached noticeably. She sighed in exasperation, grabbed Vaughn's arm, and sprinted full tilt to the seventeenth door. After nearly breaking the doorknob, they stole into the room and began their search.
Intel indicated that the specs would be in some sort of traveling container or on his desk; he recently journeyed from Moscow, where the CIA suspected he picked up the papers. They both began furiously searching throughout the entire room, each keeping one ear on those voices, now considerably more muted due to the filled bookcases lining every wall. Sydney rifled through documents on the desk with furious fingers, scattering pens and a letter opener or two. A ball of dread began congealing in her stomach, rapidly growing to a lead-sized weight. Hitting the top of the desk at the bottom of the last stack, she pounded it in rage.
"Base Ops!" she cried into her comm piece. "It's not here! The specs aren't here! Someone tricked us."
"WHAT!" four male voices exclaimed.
Just then, someone pounded on the study door and demanded in French for them to open up. Both agents glanced up in alarm. Vaughn instinctively shoved the desk chair under the doorknob to give them time to think of an escape route. The bookcases reached all the way to the ceiling, so they could not hide at the top. The space under the desk could only hide one person, and Sydney therefore refused to even consider it. There was no other door out. Vaughn began whispering to Shadow, demanding she find the study and help them, or at least start searching for another possible place the specs might be.
The pounding became more insistent, and they each drew their guns and picked a side of the doorway, ready for whatever or whoever burst through the door. Finally the chair shattered, and the door banged open, nearly knocking Sydney to the ground. Vaughn flew at the attackers as she regained her footing, and bullets splintered shelves and burrowed into the desk. She broke one guy's wrist to rid him of his gun and proceeded to knock him out with a swift elbow to the temple. The other guards went down similarly, and Sydney poked her head out of the door to make sure their getaway was clear. But when she peered in the direction from which they came, a bullet whizzed past her ear, decapitating a woman in the portrait next to her. She recoiled slightly but shot back, also striking the wall near the attacker. Vaughn soon joined her in the frame, and, with an exchanged look, gathered a plan.
At the same instant, they struck out from the doorway and zig-zagged down the hall, Vaughn providing cover fire as Sydney tried every single door they passed. They fell into the first open one they stumbled upon.
This one offered a hiding place.
It was yet another library, but it connected with another room and featured a small coat closet — one large enough to fit two people. Sydney opened the door an inch to provoke the idea that they were in the other room, and she then crammed herself against one wall of the coat closet and Vaughn. Each held their breath.
The door onto the corridor slammed open, and along with it sounded numerous barks. Sydney sighed in her mind. They brought dogs to sniff them out. Thank God she elected not to wear perfume that night. But all the same...
She heard the raspy noise of a dog sniffing near the foot of their closet door. Sydney willed her breathing and heart to slow and quiet, but as soon as she thought the dog had passed them by, it began barking knowingly, alerting the pursuers to their presence. Sydney looked down. Even in the minimal light, she could see the pinkish stain from where Shay had spilled the champagne earlier. 'Damn it! They smelled the alcohol!'
Not waiting to consult with Vaughn, she kicked open the closet door to face her attackers, and her forehead ran directly into the butt of a gun, effectively knocking her out cold.
Her senses returned slowly. The first to come back was that of pain. Besides the throbbing lump of her forehead, her ribs screamed every time she breathed, and her wrists felt raw and bloody as they scraped against some form of metal — possibly manacles. Her lower lip protruded greatly, and she knew they had beat her while she was unconscious. Her already injured ankle merely felt numb with pain as it struggled against its own set of manacles. Her skin prickled with goosepimples as a draft skittered across her exposed arms and legs.
Then taste. Iron tinted her saliva and ran red across her tongue as she swept it over her swollen lip.
Smell next. Blood, death, damp soil, and water. She never thought water really had a smell, but . . .whatever.
Her hearing proved her right. Liquid dripped from what she supposed was the ceiling and dropped into a fairly deep puddle. Her chains clanked against the metal chair on which she sat. Her own raged breathing met her ears mingled with that of another — Vaughn. She would know that sound anywhere. Suddenly that puddle did not seem as deep.
Then she could open her eyes. Well, mostly. One was pretty swollen. She lifted her head and nearly screamed. Vaughn stood against the wall facing her with his arms and legs bound to the dripping brick surface. He gasped as he noticed her movement.
"Syd? God, are you okay?" he asked, straining futilely against his restraints. She nodded, though it was painful to do so; speaking would have been worse. He saw through her thinly-veiled lie and struggled to reach her. "Anything broken? Can you talk? Can you breathe?"
"Vaughn, stop. You're going to hurt yourself," she whispered, wincing slightly. She twisted her wrists slightly in an attempt to relieve the pressure, but only succeeded in sending a new trickle of blood to pool in her palms. Vaughn watched its progress, and she avoided his eyes as she breathed shallowly.
"They made me watch," he stated, emotion withheld but still blatantly obvious. Sydney glanced up quickly but regretted the moment the room began to spin. Their gazes locked. The tears welled in his eyes, and for the first time, she saw the tracks traversing his dirty and bloody cheeks. She could not stop him from continuing. "They made me watch as they tortured you. They held my eyes open so I could see as they kicked and punched you—"
"Vaughn . . ." she whimpered, moisture wetting her own cheeks.
He barreled on as if he could not stop. "They knew who you were, Sydney. They knew you were Julia Thorne. Polhov knew you were Julia Thorne. We were too good at being married: that's why he let us in without a fight. He thought you still worked for the Covenant and they sent you in to renig on their agreement." Pausing for a moment, he added, "You screamed even though you were almost unconscious. . . ."
Silence reigned for a time as Sydney desperately grappled with her emotions. She needed to regain control of this situation. Without knowing how long she had been out, she had no way of knowing whether there had been a rescue attempt — or even if there would be a rescue attempt. And Shadow. What happened to her? Did they capture her, too, and they were holding her somewhere else, or did she manage to escape?
And then a third option occurred to her, slightly more cynical than the other two. Had Shadow been involved in the kidnapping? She first thought back to the SD-6 mole hunt and Ariana Kane. Was the hunter the quarry herself? "What about Shadow?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the dripping water.
His shoulders slumped noticeably as he answered. "Right before they swept us for bugs, she said over the comms that she was on her way but..." he trailed off. She could tell their misgivings about the strange agent matched. "For now, we're on our own. Okay, I've been planning, and here's what I've come up with—"
But Vaughn was cut off by a barrage of gunfire that erupted down the hall from where they were being held. Sydney's hope immediately rose, and she began yanking at her bonds with renewed vigor. All too suddenly the bullets ceased, and keys jingled hastily at their door's lock. At last it slammed open, and in fell Shadow in the same red (albeit stained) dress and carrying a weapon.
"Next time," she heaved, "pick a cell closer to the house." With that, she holstered her firearm and extracted a three-inch-long metal tube from the bust of her dress. "Real laser pen," she explained as she pressed a button and began searing through Sydney's chains. "Never leave home without it."
In a matter of seconds, she had both agents free and ready to flee. Vaughn nearly carried Sydney (the pain from her ankle and ribs upon standing nearly made her pass out again) as they clambered awkwardly down the cinderbloock corridor.
"Now, here's the thing," Shadow called back to the lumbering pair. "We kinda have to hurry: they're in lockdown mode. Seems they don't like it when you kill about ten security guards."
"Who's waiting for us on the outside?" Vaughn asked, nearly grunting with effort as he helped Sydney over a body.
Shay offered a small shrug. "No idea. But I hope it's someone who knows how to drive really, really fast." They came upon a staircase that led to an armor-reinforced steel door, mostly likely opening up onto the outside. She stopped them short and ascended the staircase by herself. Unfastening the broach from her dress, she stuck it near the top of the door and twisted the central jewel before running down again. "You might want to duck."
The broach blasted away the door, and she recovered the piece of unharmed jewelry as they escaped into an awaiting van. Despite his injuries, Vaughn helped Shadow patch Sydney up as best they could as Jack drove them to the nearest French hospital.
Vaughn's hands never left Sydney. Not for a moment.
TBC . . . * Both quotations are from The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer Well then. Feedback and constructive criticism are encouraged. Hope you enjoyed! :D Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life