Soon the retrieval team arrived to take Sydney's unconscious body to
the plane. Sark followed cautiously behind the workers as they took her to
a retraining cell. It was quite lavish actually. More then a prisoner
deserves, Sark thought to himself. A large queen sized bed lay in the
middle while a working desk with a small lamp sat on the opposite side.
Paper and pencils (dulled, of course) were at her reach. The only thing
that made this a restraining cell the steal bars only half an inch apart.
Not even a hand could fit through this small space.
Sark sat on the luxurious couch and placed his laptop on his knee and began typing the debrief. He was completely alone in the presidential cabin of the plane. The soft clicking of his keys began to irritate him; he stopped momentarily and looked around. A stereo and large t.v. sat were hidden in the small cubbored across from him. The walls of the plane we're outlined with caramel colored couches. He shifted his gaze to the window and stared out it. It was a horrible morning; the plane briefly flew through some clouds and towards the night sky. It was nearing 3:30 now. Nearly 3 and a half-hours since Sydney and Sark fought.
It wasn't the first time. Sydney was what Sark liked to think of as a feisty thing. No matter if she's 30 or 60 she'll always have this flame inside of her, this passion that became so clear when she fought. It amazed him.
To Sark, passion was one of the sexiest traits of a woman, other than appearance. He could look past eyes, the smile, even look past her breasts. If she showed passion in what she was doing, whether it was writing a poem or saving the world, Sark would melt at her fingertips.
A small, frail moan made its way through the empty cabin.
The hostage had woken up.
Sark smiled smugly to himself as he got up, straightened his suit, and walked in long strides towards the restraining cell. He immediately wiped the smile off as he walked in front of the doorframe. He slyly leaned against the wall opposite the room.
Sydney laid there, her hand holding her forehead. Her eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the light in the room. Once her eyes were fully opened she shot up straight in her bed, only to keel over once more in pain.
"Don't hurt yourself sunshine," Sark said in a cocky tone. A noticeable scowl made its way across her face, this only made Sark want to grin more. But no, he must restrain himself. He was a professional. A Professional assassin.
"Where am I?" she asked, laying back down on the bed, now both her hands covering her face. She was obviously in pain but was no way near to confessing in.
"You're in my custody, Mrs. Bristow. That's all you'll need to know for now," Sark informed her.
"What do you want from me? You have the information already, don't you? You don't need me anymore," she said, resistant clear in her voice.
"Now, now Mrs. Bristow. You know its no fun if you don't take any prisoners." Sark told her, he now stood in front of the cell, watching her completely. Sydney turned over, her back now facing Sark. 'Oh, your no fun,' he wanted to whine but he withheld it. There would be plenty of playtime later, he reassured himself. "Breakfast will be in 20 minutes. I suggest you get comfortable, you'll be held here for the time being.' He sternly walked away without allowing her a chance to make some snide comment in return.
Sark loved being in control.
He sat down and continued typing his debrief in a much more pleasant mood.
- - - - France - - - - -
The plane arrived in France at 9 in the morning. Sark had fallen asleep sitting up with his laptop still sitting on his lap. The sudden jolt of the plane skidding onto the runway jerked him awake. In sudden defense mode he stood up and was prepared to fight whatever was there. With this action, his laptop fell to the ground and slammed shut. Sark cursed himself, picked it up, and opened it. He tried to turn it on with no luck what so ever. He shrugged it off though; he could easily fix it. Technology was his forte among many other subjects.
He suddenly remembers the reason why he was on the plane holding the broken laptop. He walked down the hall and stopped in front of Sydney's restraining cell. There she was, curled in the fetile position, most certainly not in a comfortable sleep. Soon a guard with a gun holstered to his side came up to him.
"Je serai obligé à prendre ici le prisonnier au M Sloane. Est-elle prête?" he asked curtly. Sark gave him a slight shrug of his sholders.
"S'il vous plaît l'attente hors de. Elle sera prête dans quelques moments." He asked him, the guard nodded and walked out of the cabin. Sark reached inside his pocket and pulled out the same medication he had administrated into her a few hours before. He quietly slide the bars opened and stepped inside.
He walked too her quietly as he prepared the needle. He reached down to grab her arm when suddenly she was awake. She kicked his side sending him to the ground. He sputtered as he watched her make her way to the door. He quickly pulled himself up and before she could reach the door to the outside, he grabbed her arm tightly and pushed the needle into her neck. She let out short gasp.
"Try that again and it will hurt 10 times worse." He hissed into her ear before she passed out once again in his arms.
Woman. Can't live with them, can't live without them.
Sark sat on the luxurious couch and placed his laptop on his knee and began typing the debrief. He was completely alone in the presidential cabin of the plane. The soft clicking of his keys began to irritate him; he stopped momentarily and looked around. A stereo and large t.v. sat were hidden in the small cubbored across from him. The walls of the plane we're outlined with caramel colored couches. He shifted his gaze to the window and stared out it. It was a horrible morning; the plane briefly flew through some clouds and towards the night sky. It was nearing 3:30 now. Nearly 3 and a half-hours since Sydney and Sark fought.
It wasn't the first time. Sydney was what Sark liked to think of as a feisty thing. No matter if she's 30 or 60 she'll always have this flame inside of her, this passion that became so clear when she fought. It amazed him.
To Sark, passion was one of the sexiest traits of a woman, other than appearance. He could look past eyes, the smile, even look past her breasts. If she showed passion in what she was doing, whether it was writing a poem or saving the world, Sark would melt at her fingertips.
A small, frail moan made its way through the empty cabin.
The hostage had woken up.
Sark smiled smugly to himself as he got up, straightened his suit, and walked in long strides towards the restraining cell. He immediately wiped the smile off as he walked in front of the doorframe. He slyly leaned against the wall opposite the room.
Sydney laid there, her hand holding her forehead. Her eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the light in the room. Once her eyes were fully opened she shot up straight in her bed, only to keel over once more in pain.
"Don't hurt yourself sunshine," Sark said in a cocky tone. A noticeable scowl made its way across her face, this only made Sark want to grin more. But no, he must restrain himself. He was a professional. A Professional assassin.
"Where am I?" she asked, laying back down on the bed, now both her hands covering her face. She was obviously in pain but was no way near to confessing in.
"You're in my custody, Mrs. Bristow. That's all you'll need to know for now," Sark informed her.
"What do you want from me? You have the information already, don't you? You don't need me anymore," she said, resistant clear in her voice.
"Now, now Mrs. Bristow. You know its no fun if you don't take any prisoners." Sark told her, he now stood in front of the cell, watching her completely. Sydney turned over, her back now facing Sark. 'Oh, your no fun,' he wanted to whine but he withheld it. There would be plenty of playtime later, he reassured himself. "Breakfast will be in 20 minutes. I suggest you get comfortable, you'll be held here for the time being.' He sternly walked away without allowing her a chance to make some snide comment in return.
Sark loved being in control.
He sat down and continued typing his debrief in a much more pleasant mood.
- - - - France - - - - -
The plane arrived in France at 9 in the morning. Sark had fallen asleep sitting up with his laptop still sitting on his lap. The sudden jolt of the plane skidding onto the runway jerked him awake. In sudden defense mode he stood up and was prepared to fight whatever was there. With this action, his laptop fell to the ground and slammed shut. Sark cursed himself, picked it up, and opened it. He tried to turn it on with no luck what so ever. He shrugged it off though; he could easily fix it. Technology was his forte among many other subjects.
He suddenly remembers the reason why he was on the plane holding the broken laptop. He walked down the hall and stopped in front of Sydney's restraining cell. There she was, curled in the fetile position, most certainly not in a comfortable sleep. Soon a guard with a gun holstered to his side came up to him.
"Je serai obligé à prendre ici le prisonnier au M Sloane. Est-elle prête?" he asked curtly. Sark gave him a slight shrug of his sholders.
"S'il vous plaît l'attente hors de. Elle sera prête dans quelques moments." He asked him, the guard nodded and walked out of the cabin. Sark reached inside his pocket and pulled out the same medication he had administrated into her a few hours before. He quietly slide the bars opened and stepped inside.
He walked too her quietly as he prepared the needle. He reached down to grab her arm when suddenly she was awake. She kicked his side sending him to the ground. He sputtered as he watched her make her way to the door. He quickly pulled himself up and before she could reach the door to the outside, he grabbed her arm tightly and pushed the needle into her neck. She let out short gasp.
"Try that again and it will hurt 10 times worse." He hissed into her ear before she passed out once again in his arms.
Woman. Can't live with them, can't live without them.