Sloane leaned back in his over-priced chair as he sat alone in his
office. He had almost every luxury in life: a beautiful home, personally
tailored suits, a car for every day of the week, among other things. Sloane
lived a very comfortable life but since Emily's unexpected death, all
physical materials had seemed like nothing. His home was empty without the
laughter of his wife, her garden of flowers seemed to wither away before
him, and his job became his purpose in life. The only thing that kept him
away from his home with so many of his memories locked away. Sloane sighed
as he stared out his window at the busy Paris nightlife. The friends that
swarmed in herds like sheep with no master, the laughter that seemed to
swell up but then fade away before him He began to think about the people
with their boyfriends and girlfriends, wives or husbands.
He wanted to kill them all.
No one deserved to be happy while he was wrapped in such misery. He had gone through so much in his life: watching friends die before him, heading into mission after mission where his life could be threatened but having to swallow that fear. There was no justice in the world according to Sloane. Sure, he had betrayed and killed many men, some his employees, but he needed to. Only the strongest will survive and Sloane would do anything possible to make sure he would come out on top. Yet, taking away the love of his life, he took that as hitting below the belt. Yes, he did kill Sydney's fiancé and he did kill Dixon's wife. It was Sloane's duty to take their lives; Sydney had revealed to her fiancé her true occupation. Dixon killed Emily, whether he meant to or not he. He was still the one who was holding the gun; he was the one who pulled the trigger. That was enough evidence for Sloane's actions.
Irina silently stepped into the small office and cleared her throat. Awakening Sloane from his deep thinking, he turned around in the sly way he always did. Irina's facial expressions told the story by themselves.
"Sir, I just received news from the guards," Irina spoke, her voice shaky.
"Is she dead?" Sloane asked, his voice stone cold.
"Not exactly sir, you see-"
"What do you mean not exactly? Is she dead or not?"
"She escaped sir, and Sark is missing," She blurted out. Anger grew inside Sloane, but he contained it. Going off on a female employer would not look good on his reputation.
"Get a search team together and find her," he muttered harshly. Irina noticed the red that grew on his cheeks and slowly backed towards the door. "Now!" he yelled, Irina jumped and quickly left the office. Sloane turned his chair again and faced the busy streets of Paris again. He seemed Placid, his jaw clenched and his eyes focused.
Appearances can be very deceiving.
-
Sark pulled up to the house, turned off the ignition, and sat there. The house that stood before him was two stories high and completely made of wood. The normal occupants had taken a trip to somewhere unknown to him and loaned the house to him out of a favor, stocked with food to last a month. Sark stepped out into the frozen wind and opened Sydney's door where she remained asleep. It had been a two-hour drive from the airport and any kind of civilization. It was now 1:00 in the afternoon, nearly 9 hours since the escape. Sark still had the no idea what he was going to do but one objective stood clear in his mind: keep Sydney away from Sloane.
What was Sark going to tell her?
Sark slowly picked her up, so not to wake up, and carried her up the walk away. The concrete below him was lightly dusted with snow. Sark softly chuckled to himself, thinking of how ironic this must have looked. Sydney, the one woman who wanted him dead was in his arms. He held her like a groom carrying his blushing bride to their honeymoon suit. She groaned as he walked up the steps but soon stopped and snuggled her nose into the crook of his neck. He slyly opened the door and softly kicked it open. The house had a very large living room; it's ceiling standing almost 20 feet tall. The kitchen was a good size and all the bedrooms were upstairs. Anybody could easily live here. Sark carefully walked up the stairs and entered the first bedroom he came upon.
The walls of the room were painted a soft pink, the balcony had soft silk curtains, and the bed had floral print and yellow and orange flower print were scattered all over it.
Definitely a girl's bedroom
He laid her down softly on the bed and watched her shift into a comfortable position on top of the comforter. He stood next to her bed, just watching her. The possible reason Sark was attracted to Sydney was because he saw her as an equal, someone who could kick his ass and probably someone a lot bigger then him. It was never because she needed someone to protect her. It was because of her independence. Yet, Sark noticed an emptiness, an almost loneliness surrounding her whenever they encountered eachother. Her friends, father, Sloane, and Vaughn; some things didn't fit in the right spot. Sark could tell.
He quietly left the room and made his way downstairs. He poured himself a glass of white wine and proceeded to pick a CD. Once he had selected one, he put it in the oversized entertainment system, made himself comfortable on the brown leather sofa, and let the sounds of Beethoven relax him. Swishing the wine remaining in his glass, he looked vacantly out the window as the snow came cascading to the ground against the pale blue sky. The first time in a long time, Sark felt completely content at where he was and whom he was with.
-
Sydney squinted at the brightness of the light reflecting off the snow. She groaned as she turned her head and smothered her face into her pillow. She suddenly lifted her head, where did she get a pillow? She looked around and saw the pink walls and the pink, silk curtains. She defiantly wasn't on a plane anymore but in a bedroom; a rather girlish looking room she had to admit. She slowly sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She shivered as a small, cold draft blew against Sydney's face. She glanced at the end of the bed and saw a forest green sweater. Without hesitation, or realizing that the sweater belonged to someone else, she slipped it on and tightly wrapped it around her. She then got up and made her way to the glass sliding doors that led out to the balcony. She opened the doors and stepped out, feeling the icy wind against her. She glanced over the edge and saw a car parked in front. Presuming it was the car Sark and she drove in, she shrugged it off and looked up and saw the thousands upon thousands of trees before her. She searched for any sign of somebody living by, possibly seeing smoke coming up from a chimney or a rooftop. She saw nothing.
Sydney sighed and made her way back inside. She was stuck in the same house as Sark, the man who tried killing her and some of her associates multiple of times was somewhere in this house. That brought Sydney to another question, why had Sark saved her. She should have been dead yet she was living because Sark risked his life for her. She quietly made her way downstairs where she heard the soft sounds of Mozart coming from the kitchen. She gave the clock a quick glance and realized it was nearly 6:00 in the evening. Sydney had no idea how long she slept but knew she slept soundly.
She softly pushed the door opened and saw Sark cooking something over the oven. The music was too loud for Sark to hear Sydney enter. You couldn't imagine the startled look on his face and how quickly he grabbed the nearest knife once he had noticed her presence.
"Miss Bristow," he gasped as he put the knife down. He took a noticeable deep breath and recomposed himself before he turned once again to the oven, "I trust you slept well?"
"Where am I, Sark?" Sydney asked. She wanted to get straight to the point. She needed answers, and she wanted them now.
"You are in the Swiss alps, miles away from another human being." He spoke as steam began to rise from the pot before him, "So if you plan to escape, I suggest you take a coat and a good pair of shoes. It would be a very long walk."
"The Swiss alps? When did I get here?" she asked. It felt so childish asking questions like these. Though she was seemingly unconscious, she should have guessed from the snowy hills and trees that she saw earlier.
"A few hours ago," Sark told her, not facing her.
"Why did you steal me away from Sloane back in France?" Her tone was serious. Sark sighed, this question was going to come up sooner or later whether Sark liked it or not. He neglected not preparing an answer or at least a good lie for her but would tell her as much of the truth as he presumed she could handle.
He just hoped he could handle saying it.
He wanted to kill them all.
No one deserved to be happy while he was wrapped in such misery. He had gone through so much in his life: watching friends die before him, heading into mission after mission where his life could be threatened but having to swallow that fear. There was no justice in the world according to Sloane. Sure, he had betrayed and killed many men, some his employees, but he needed to. Only the strongest will survive and Sloane would do anything possible to make sure he would come out on top. Yet, taking away the love of his life, he took that as hitting below the belt. Yes, he did kill Sydney's fiancé and he did kill Dixon's wife. It was Sloane's duty to take their lives; Sydney had revealed to her fiancé her true occupation. Dixon killed Emily, whether he meant to or not he. He was still the one who was holding the gun; he was the one who pulled the trigger. That was enough evidence for Sloane's actions.
Irina silently stepped into the small office and cleared her throat. Awakening Sloane from his deep thinking, he turned around in the sly way he always did. Irina's facial expressions told the story by themselves.
"Sir, I just received news from the guards," Irina spoke, her voice shaky.
"Is she dead?" Sloane asked, his voice stone cold.
"Not exactly sir, you see-"
"What do you mean not exactly? Is she dead or not?"
"She escaped sir, and Sark is missing," She blurted out. Anger grew inside Sloane, but he contained it. Going off on a female employer would not look good on his reputation.
"Get a search team together and find her," he muttered harshly. Irina noticed the red that grew on his cheeks and slowly backed towards the door. "Now!" he yelled, Irina jumped and quickly left the office. Sloane turned his chair again and faced the busy streets of Paris again. He seemed Placid, his jaw clenched and his eyes focused.
Appearances can be very deceiving.
-
Sark pulled up to the house, turned off the ignition, and sat there. The house that stood before him was two stories high and completely made of wood. The normal occupants had taken a trip to somewhere unknown to him and loaned the house to him out of a favor, stocked with food to last a month. Sark stepped out into the frozen wind and opened Sydney's door where she remained asleep. It had been a two-hour drive from the airport and any kind of civilization. It was now 1:00 in the afternoon, nearly 9 hours since the escape. Sark still had the no idea what he was going to do but one objective stood clear in his mind: keep Sydney away from Sloane.
What was Sark going to tell her?
Sark slowly picked her up, so not to wake up, and carried her up the walk away. The concrete below him was lightly dusted with snow. Sark softly chuckled to himself, thinking of how ironic this must have looked. Sydney, the one woman who wanted him dead was in his arms. He held her like a groom carrying his blushing bride to their honeymoon suit. She groaned as he walked up the steps but soon stopped and snuggled her nose into the crook of his neck. He slyly opened the door and softly kicked it open. The house had a very large living room; it's ceiling standing almost 20 feet tall. The kitchen was a good size and all the bedrooms were upstairs. Anybody could easily live here. Sark carefully walked up the stairs and entered the first bedroom he came upon.
The walls of the room were painted a soft pink, the balcony had soft silk curtains, and the bed had floral print and yellow and orange flower print were scattered all over it.
Definitely a girl's bedroom
He laid her down softly on the bed and watched her shift into a comfortable position on top of the comforter. He stood next to her bed, just watching her. The possible reason Sark was attracted to Sydney was because he saw her as an equal, someone who could kick his ass and probably someone a lot bigger then him. It was never because she needed someone to protect her. It was because of her independence. Yet, Sark noticed an emptiness, an almost loneliness surrounding her whenever they encountered eachother. Her friends, father, Sloane, and Vaughn; some things didn't fit in the right spot. Sark could tell.
He quietly left the room and made his way downstairs. He poured himself a glass of white wine and proceeded to pick a CD. Once he had selected one, he put it in the oversized entertainment system, made himself comfortable on the brown leather sofa, and let the sounds of Beethoven relax him. Swishing the wine remaining in his glass, he looked vacantly out the window as the snow came cascading to the ground against the pale blue sky. The first time in a long time, Sark felt completely content at where he was and whom he was with.
-
Sydney squinted at the brightness of the light reflecting off the snow. She groaned as she turned her head and smothered her face into her pillow. She suddenly lifted her head, where did she get a pillow? She looked around and saw the pink walls and the pink, silk curtains. She defiantly wasn't on a plane anymore but in a bedroom; a rather girlish looking room she had to admit. She slowly sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She shivered as a small, cold draft blew against Sydney's face. She glanced at the end of the bed and saw a forest green sweater. Without hesitation, or realizing that the sweater belonged to someone else, she slipped it on and tightly wrapped it around her. She then got up and made her way to the glass sliding doors that led out to the balcony. She opened the doors and stepped out, feeling the icy wind against her. She glanced over the edge and saw a car parked in front. Presuming it was the car Sark and she drove in, she shrugged it off and looked up and saw the thousands upon thousands of trees before her. She searched for any sign of somebody living by, possibly seeing smoke coming up from a chimney or a rooftop. She saw nothing.
Sydney sighed and made her way back inside. She was stuck in the same house as Sark, the man who tried killing her and some of her associates multiple of times was somewhere in this house. That brought Sydney to another question, why had Sark saved her. She should have been dead yet she was living because Sark risked his life for her. She quietly made her way downstairs where she heard the soft sounds of Mozart coming from the kitchen. She gave the clock a quick glance and realized it was nearly 6:00 in the evening. Sydney had no idea how long she slept but knew she slept soundly.
She softly pushed the door opened and saw Sark cooking something over the oven. The music was too loud for Sark to hear Sydney enter. You couldn't imagine the startled look on his face and how quickly he grabbed the nearest knife once he had noticed her presence.
"Miss Bristow," he gasped as he put the knife down. He took a noticeable deep breath and recomposed himself before he turned once again to the oven, "I trust you slept well?"
"Where am I, Sark?" Sydney asked. She wanted to get straight to the point. She needed answers, and she wanted them now.
"You are in the Swiss alps, miles away from another human being." He spoke as steam began to rise from the pot before him, "So if you plan to escape, I suggest you take a coat and a good pair of shoes. It would be a very long walk."
"The Swiss alps? When did I get here?" she asked. It felt so childish asking questions like these. Though she was seemingly unconscious, she should have guessed from the snowy hills and trees that she saw earlier.
"A few hours ago," Sark told her, not facing her.
"Why did you steal me away from Sloane back in France?" Her tone was serious. Sark sighed, this question was going to come up sooner or later whether Sark liked it or not. He neglected not preparing an answer or at least a good lie for her but would tell her as much of the truth as he presumed she could handle.
He just hoped he could handle saying it.