Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn

Peregrine

Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

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Chapter Three: Tinderbox

White light, White light goin' messin' up my mind

White light, and don't you know its gonna make me go blind

Lyrics by the Velvet Underground

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I remember the train station and what I said to her about my dad. It tore me up to talk about him after all these years, but I had to do it. Had to make her see what this had cost my family. Lives lost, torn asunder by grief. A boy without his father, forever wishing for what could have been. Following in his footsteps, vowing to get the people who did this. Of course, at the moment when I signed on the dotted line and committed myself to the CIA, I didn't have revenge in mind. Back then, I believed that justice would be done. How naïve of me.

March 13, 1976

There's a highly placed mole in the Agency. Too many missions have crashed and burned, too many secrets have ended up on the other side. Devlin hears me out, but says we can't move without evidence.

This was the beginning of the end for my father. His writing became frantic and he practically tore holes in the page with his pen. Angry black lines. Thickened letters with huge underscores. A perfect candidate for the ulcer that came to roost in his stomach. Maalox mouthwashes and Tums for breakfast.

March 15, 1976

They have their list of suspects, but a name is missing from that roster. Jack Bristow. He is behaving oddly. Evasive. Missing information in his reports. Events that don't add up. I hope I am wrong. We've been friends for a long time.

And the last entry before he died:

March 20, 1976

Langley knows about Bristow and they've warned me off the case. Told me they were taking care of it. That's corporate spy-speak for a case file in someone's in-box. Low priority. That's OK, because I think I was wrong about him. I think his wife is the spy. Call me crazy, but something is off about her. The perfect way she pronounces her words. Exact diction, like she is trying to hide an accent. And her mannerisms….seem copied from Emily Post. I know where she teaches and decided to follow her home. Only problem is, she met someone in a park. Someone familiar. A known Soviet sympathizer on the Agency's watch list. I have to call it in. It's my duty.

It got him killed. Duty, honor, and love of country. Isn't that why we go out and fight the good fight every day?

All this winds through my head as I stalk behind the Soviet bitch and her body guards. Three men in black. Beefy no-necks whose arms lie at strange angles, rippling with steroid-induced muscle that pumps them full of hot air. Buzz cut hair and tiny pig's eyes. Cold and mean as a snake. Compared to them, I am the 98 pound weakling, but that won't stop me from doing whatever it is I'm meant to do.

I peer around a corner, gun at the ready, and my heart practically stops in my chest. The harsh light of interrogation. Two Bristows trussed up like lambs to the slaughter. Hands and feet bound to boards. Sydney hanging upside down. Blood dripping from her mouth. Raccoon eyes glaring in defiance at a small Chinese man with needles protruding from his hands like spikes. Edward Scissorhands. He jabs her in the arm with something nasty and she starts flopping like a fish on the deck of a boat. I wince at the agony on her lovely face and deep inside, the part that still feels stabs me with empathy pains.

She's the only reason you're here. Forget about revenge.

How can I forget, when it's taken my whole life to come to this one moment? When I offered to help her, there was no ulterior motive. Now there is. What are the chances of us all converging like this? Slim and none. I was meant to do this, to take down the woman who's ruined so many lives. Because they won't do it…..can't do it. They're too close to get the job done. So I'll step in, and take the fall.

Blindly following orders. It got him killed.

None of them notice me slip into the room. Two steps brings me to a comfortable haven behind a bulkhead. When I peer around the corner, I see a younger man standing slightly apart from the others. Blue eyes vacant. Having no stomach for torture. Sark. He raises his fingers and two henchmen emerge from the far side of the room and start in on Jack Bristow. They nail him to the wall in a classic crucifixion pose. But that's not enough, so they beat him to a bloody pulp. Not once does he flinch. His lips are permanently sealed and his blood-encrusted eyes stare at Sark without the slightest flicker of emotion.

I used to trust these two with my life, and I feel a sliver of doubt at Jack's predicament. If he meant to betray me, then why get himself captured? Part of me wants to believe him, but I never get the chance to complete that thought.

Irina chooses that moment to step from the shadows and my gun hand rises up without me noticing it. My index finger squeezes the trigger, waiting for the recoil and hearing nothing but a click.

Jammed firing pin. Trust is a tricky thing.

The gun that Jack gave me. Conveniently broken.

Batting zero right now. Two goons with Heckler and Koch assault rifles fly across the room and corner me, ready to cut me down.

Nice hardware. MP5A3.

Langley frowns upon this state-of-the-art gear. We are a shadow agency with technology and furniture that dates back to the Cold War. Desk jockeys in a paper jungle. Stolen tech ripens the larder but not much else.

Countless training simulations pass in front of my eyes, but none of them prepares me for what I do next. I draw my hand back and lob the Glock at the closest grunt with my best strikeout pitch. It crunches bone and the rifle falls from his fingers. With a dive, I roll on the floor and snatch up the gun. Grunt #2 starts firing and the bullets punch into the wall behind me. I kick out my feet and knock him on his ass. Two down. Ten or so to go. Using the gun like a bat, I swing it at them and connect with bone and tissue.

Batting .1000.

Syd and Jack. Gone from sight. Three guns are trained on me, waiting for me to make the next move. Derevko is clenching one of them. Her Walther PPK 9mm fits perfectly in her gloved hands.

How James Bond of her.

The eyes of a stone cold killer. Sydney's eyes. Trained on me with full intent to kill. Sparkling with amusement. I blink a few times, remembering the same look in Syd's eyes when I'd cracked a bad joke during our trip to Denpasar.

"So, you are William's son. Foolish, just like he always was." The heavy Russian accent surprises me. After all this time, I expect her to sound American. They trained her for this, the least she can do is keep up the illusion.

"You know you are outnumbered." Sark takes that moment to remind me of the obvious, sounding perfectly reasonable as he takes a step toward me.

I might be outnumbered, but I have them outgunned. Grunts #1 and 2 haven't moved, and Grunt #3 looks far less sure of himself without the added testosterone of his two buddies. His trigger finger wavers slightly as he hides behind the long shadow of his boss.

"Let them go." The alien that inhabits my body speaks in the bold, confident tones of someone with nothing to lose. "Take me in their place."

A rich chuckle bubbles from her throat and the sound revives some feelings I thought were dead. Sydney giggling on the other end of the phone when I contact her to arrange a meeting.

The same damned laugh as her mother.

"You are worth nothing to me. Alive or dead, it makes no difference to me. The choice is yours." Irina waves the gun and that's when I see the silencer.

"Did you use that on my father?" I snarl, not relaxing my guard for a moment.

She shakes her head and I see that she's trying to remember something. "No, that was a 7.65 mm pistol."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever. This is the deal. You either let them go or I start shooting."

"I don't have time for this." Irina motions to Sark with her free hand. One quick snap and I feel the pierce of a dart in my leg. That's all it takes to set me off.

With carbines blazing like the strafing run of a plane, I launch into action and take out the grunt as he inhales his last breath. Shooting lower, I shoot out Sark's kneecaps and ignore the way the room has started to pitch as the trank kicks in. Fuzzy vision and all, I whirl around on Irina and have a clear shot at her.

Take your best shot.

The voice of my training instructor at the Farm. Kicking my ass on the best of days.

Dad, this is the right thing to do.

Two adversaries facing off. One slipping into the sunset, the other with the merciless patience of an assassin. Kicking off the safety, finger holding steady on the trigger, waiting for me to drop. I still have a chance, and I have to take it.

Have to do this. Can't let her win.

At the exact moment that my fingers clench to finish her off, something slams into me with the force and velocity of a bullet. Before unconsciousness takes me, I see Sydney's blue hair and heavily kohled eyes hovering over me.

Guardian angel.

Her fingers cradle my face and I am lost to the darkness.

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