Title: Silent Teardrops

Chapter 10: The Other Side of Daybreak

Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment purposes only. The characters herein are the property of J.J. Abrams, Touchstone Television, and Bad Robot.

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

"They're right behind us!" called Sark above the deafening roar of gunfire, straining to see out the backseat of their vehicle.

"Yes, thank you, I can see that," snapped Sydney through clenched teeth, jerking the steering wheel to the left to avoid running up a curb.

An earsplitting blast and he managed to duck just in time as the rear window exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. With the glass gone from the back of the vehicle, the pop! pop! pop! of gunfire roared louder than ever.

"Give me a gun!" he shouted. "I can help!"

"Stay down and shut up," she retorted, appearing to wince as a bullet whizzed dangerously close past her head.

As if their situation wasn't precarious enough already, two sets of headlights—side-by-side and covering both lanes of the road—were now heading directly toward their car. But rather than slow down, Sydney pressed the accelerator to the floor.

"Have you gone mad?" yelped Sark.

"I thought you liked risks."

"I also like my body!"

"Have you heard the phrase 'playing chicken'?"

"Yes, but don't you agree we have more to lose in this situation than they do?"

"We're about to find out."

One of the agents in the oncoming car leaned out the window, gun raised. The first few bullets merely tore a pattern of holes through the windshield, but at the next round of gunshots he heard Sydney cry out in pain. She gave no indication of slowing or swerving, however, and continued to head directly for the two sets of headlights.

The two government-issued vehicles were closing in fast and Sark grit his teeth, bracing his hand against the dashboard. At the last instant, he closed his eyes, fully expecting a massive collision.

But when he opened his eyes, the road was clear. He looked first one way then the other behind him. Both cars had gone off the road, one of them rolling. The original pursuit car was still behind them, and Sark heard more gunfire.

"Take the wheel!"

He did as he was told, lunging for the wheel. At the same time, Sydney clambered from the driver's seat, half hanging out the window as she withdrew a .9mm Beretta from her holster and braced her wrist on the hood of the car.

With the brunt of his concentration focused on his driving, he couldn't actually look to see the mayhem she was causing, but he could most definitely hear it: a steady round of gunfire, then tires squealing, then metal crashing into metal, then an earsplitting explosion that rocked their car.

She climbed back behind the wheel and Sark spun to look out the rear window one last time. The last of the CIA vehicles now lay upside down on the pavement, a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke encircling high above it in the air.

The thrill of adrenaline continued to pump through his veins and Sark felt elated, high. Behind the steering wheel, however, Sydney appeared winded. In fact, as she continued to drive, she seemed to be fighting to merely keep her eyes open. He shot her a double take, watching as her eyelids briefly fluttered shut. At the same time, the car slowly began to drift off the road until she jerked back to attention and hastily corrected the wheel.

It was then that he noticed the steady stream of blood trickling from a wound in her shoulder down to thick pools in her lap. "All right," he said quietly. "Stop the car."

She ignored him.

"Stop the car, now!" He reached for the steering wheel, but Sydney knocked him away.

"Back off!" she barked, leveling her gun at his face.

"Okay," he conceded quietly. "Okay, all right. But you've lost a lot of blood," he continued, warily eyeing her shoulder. "If you don't stop the car right now, you're going to get us both killed."

She remained as she was. Sark shifted forward, but the gun cocked in his ear and suddenly, he was angry.

"Damn it, Sydney, I'm not screwing around!" he snarled.

"Neither am I!" she snapped. "Now sit back and shut up. I'll be fine."

He ground his teeth together in silent fury. But then, Sydney slumped unconscious against the wheel and the car veered off the road entirely. He swore and lunged for the wheel, but it was too late.

There was a deafening crunch as their car blasted through a road barrier and suddenly, they were airborne. But only for a few seconds. The next moment, the entire vehicle had crashed into the water and was sinking fast through the depths of the Chesapeake Bay.

At the first paralyzing onset of freezing cold water, it felt like his very skin was being carved anew by a thousand, razor-sharp knives. Beside him, Sydney was unconscious, locks of her long brown hair floating eerily in the water like slimy strings of seaweed. Her complexion was also alarmingly pale; she'd lost far too much blood already, but he could worry about that later. For now, he hooked an arm around her chest and kicked his way to the surface.

By the time he collapsed wearily on the sand, Sark felt drained, fatigued. After all, it wasn't every day he was chased at, rammed, shot at, and nearly killed. Occupational hazard, he supposed. He had to start reading the fine print better on these job descriptions…

His muddy fingers left behind filthy trails of grit and sand as he brushed the hair from Sydney's face, plugged her nose, and clamped his mouth over hers. In the middle of his second set of chest compressions, she suddenly jerked onto her side, choking and gasping and wheezing and coughing.

"Sydney, can you hear me?" he called, ripping back her jacket at the shoulder. The wound was swimming in blood again. "If you can hear me," he continued, tearing the sleeve of his own shirt and wrapping it around her shoulder like a makeshift tourniquet, "you're going to be fine."

But Sydney's eyes were already fluttering shut. "Vaughn?" she murmured sluggishly before slipping into unconsciousness once more.

It was deep into the blackest part of night before Sydney finally began to break consciousness. The first thing she became aware of upon coming to was a dull pain resonating near her left shoulder. The next thing she felt was a pair of bright, keen eyes watching her intently in the low lighting.

She bolted awake, reflexively tugging the bed sheets up to her neck.

"Re-lax, Sydney," rumbled a soft chuckle. "If I had in mind what you were thinking, I would have done it already." The voice came from across the room, from a hidden silhouette that her bleary eyes couldn't quite make out at the moment. But there was no mistaking that voice.

"Sark?"

First, an unintelligible snort of amusement. Then, Sark stepped slowly into view, his arms folded casually across his chest. "Welcome back."

"Where are we?" croaked Sydney, her voice hoarse.

"Nowhere," answered Sark, following her gaze around the unfamiliar cabin, "and that's the truth. Just a nice place for a chat. You've been in and out of consciousness for nearly six hours. I took the liberty of removing the bullet from your shoulder as well as dressing the wound."

"What happened? Where's Bogdan?" She sat up a little straighter, fully expecting to see the man crouched half-hidden in a dark corner of the room.

"Laszlo Bogdan? I wouldn't expect a call from him anytime soon. Captured by the CIA, I'm afraid. I suspect he's occupying my former cell in federal custody even as we speak. It appears he wasn't quite so lucky as you were in our getaway."

Judging by the deliberate formality in his remarks, Sark had clearly decided to hold her and her brazen recklessness responsible for Bogdan's capture. And judging by the shrewd, piercing scrutiny of his gaze, he clearly not only expected her to accept that blame, but also to acknowledge his role in her rescue. Well. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

Determined to regain the upper hand—and her pride—she planted her feet solidly to the floor and teetered gingerly to her feet. "With Laszlo Bogdan out of the picture, we'll need a new team to hire for the job—" she began with steely resolve, but he was quick to cut her off.

"I've already taken the liberty of contacting one of my sources. He's something of an old friend of mine, and he's agreed to a meet at his estate tomorrow in Sevilla."

Sydney stiffened, bristling at his easy nonchalance. "When did you arrange this?"

Sark appeared to be fighting back some sort of self-satisfied smile. "While you were unconscious. After I pulled the bullet from your shoulder."

So much for regaining the upper hand. Or her pride. "Did you get through to the extraction team?" she asked quickly, trying to redirect the subject.

"It's almost impossible to get a signal here but yes, our extraction is secured at 0700," he answered knowingly.

"That's in what, four hours?"

He nodded. "I suggest you rest while you can."

"Surveillance is activated?"

"Motion sensors around the perimeter."

"We should prepare in case the CIA shows up—"

But Sark only shook his head, placating her with an oily superiority like a parent addressing a small child. "The floorboards in the corner lift up. You needn't worry, Sydney," he cajoled soothingly in what he clearly considered to be a reassuring tone. "This safehouse has already saved my life quite a few times. I'm very familiar with it by now. You're safe with me."

But Sydney was far from feeling reassured. She was no fool; she knew when she was being mocked.

"You're welcome, by the way," he added pointedly.

"For what?"

"For saving your life."

Pasting a thin and rather strained smile on her face, she swiveled deliberately on her heel, unsurprised to find Sark standing directly behind her with a maddening expression of supreme satisfaction. "You didn't save my life," she said coolly, lifting her chin a defiant fraction of an inch.

Sark crossed his arms over his chest once more, regaling her with a lazy up-and-down. "Oh?"

"I was fine."

"You didn't seem that way."

"I would've been fine."

"Unconscious at the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay?"

"I don't die that easy."

"You were blue in the face."

"It's a good color on me."

His sudden laughter surprised her. "How I admire your spirit," he chuckled appreciatively. Sydney smirked, coy, but her smile clouded over instantly when Sark dragged the back of his hand patronizingly down her cheek, adding, "But here's some advice from me to you, love: be careful. I might not be there to save you next time."

Somehow, he must have anticipated she would knock his hand away because quick fingers latched themselves around her wrist instead, securing her in a surprisingly strong grip. She tried to shake him off, but his grip held fast. "It infuriates you, doesn't it? Knowing you're indebted to me," he taunted smugly, his keen blue eyes gloating mere inches from hers.

"Here's some advice from me to you," she cooed, boldly holding his gaze. "Never underestimate your opponent."

If possible, Sark only grinned wider, sensing the challenge. "You think you can overpower me?"

"I think you better back the hell away from me unless you want to lose that arm."

"I'll take my chances. Besides—" Sark tugged sharply on her wrist, pulling her almost flush against his chest, "—I'm bigger than you."

"Maybe so…" she whispered, not missing the way his eyes darted imperceptibly to her lips. She tilted her chin up ever so slightly, the seemingly innocent maneuver making him freeze.

That brief moment of distraction was all she needed. In one blurred movement, Sydney wrenched his arm mercilessly behind his back, using increasing pressure on his twisted elbow to force him on his knees. "…but I'm faster," she finished triumphantly.

But instead of resisting her hold, Sark jerked his entire body into it, somehow managing to avoid dislocating his shoulder. Sydney's leverage slipped unexpectedly from her grasp and the next thing she knew, he had flipped her onto the ground with enough force to slam the breath from her lungs.

He rolled immediately on top of her, pinning her to the ground with the weight of his body. "I'm stronger," he panted heavily, his muscled chest rising and falling over hers with perfect synchronization.

She knew by the way that Sark anchored her hands above her head that he thought he'd won. By all rights and means, he had. He clearly held the upper hand. From his steely grip around her wrists to the heavy weight of his hips pressing against hers, he had her pinned. But he underestimated her, just like he always did.

So she drove her knee upward, catching him directly in the groin.

Sark let out a horrific grunt, releasing her instantly. Scrambling out from underneath him, Sydney struggled to her feet and cradled her wounded shoulder tenderly in her hand, gasping for breath. Despite her own pain and discomfort, however, watching Sark groan pitifully on the ground—temporarily immobilized—brought about a thrilling rush of adrenaline that would fuel her self-esteem and provide an outlet of satisfaction that would last for days.

Sydney smirked one last time. "I'm smarter."

Scene credit: Underworld