Peregrine (Elizabeth Klisiewicz)
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Chapter Eleven: RequiemFour weeks later
Lambert is gone. Dead. No funeral with honors. He went out with disgrace. By now, everyone knows he was The Mole. Kind of like The Man, except in reverse. What a pair they made. But the rest of the details are lost to me. I've tried asking questions, but it's all classified.
Omega 17.
No one will talk to me. Even Weiss is playing deaf, dumb, and mute. And Paulie? Forget it. She's done with me too.
It's an ordinary Monday like all Mondays. I arrive late. Cap on backward. Kings t-shirt. Shorts. Nikes. I drop my backpack with its load of CDs and put my commuter mug in the corner. And then I see it. Sticking out of my bottom drawer. Yellow interoffice mailer with all its names crossed out. No routing information. I unwind the string and almost drop the mailer when I see what's inside.
A black journal with gold trim. Exactly like Dad's. I withdraw it gingerly, treating it like a mirage. But it's very real. No oasis in sight, not even the musical kind. Well-thumbed pages. I crack it open and see a bookplate with a smoking gun.
Sydney Laura Bristow.
Damn. She's even named after her mother. Two peas in a pod. Treacherous waters. Every time I think I'm past it, I backpedal.
Words fill every nook and cranny. Bottom and top. Spiraling around the edges. Crammed into a small space. Compressed, like her life.
It dates back to May. When it all started to unwind. The title of the first entry makes me smile.
Fractured fairy tales.
Like the old cartoons, except this is real life. Her life. And she can't seem to let it be. Can't seem to let me go.
May 16th, 2002
I started writing this when we got back home. Because it seemed like the right thing to do. Real words that I have to form with my hands. Hands that have killed in the name of justice. But whose justice? Who weighs the balance? Uncle Sam, or some other fictitious character? It's all a bit surreal. Like that day I thought I lost you. That's right. You, Vaughn. You're the lucky victim that I've chosen to catch the brass ring. I wish I could tell you why, but I'm fresh out of answers.
Why not Will? After all, he already knows way too much about me. But he's not you. He's not a good listener. You heard me. He's a journalist and he's used to grabbing facts out of the thin air. But when it comes to the personal stuff, forget it.
I can't even begin to understand what you've been through....because of me.
Because of you.
She underlined those three words with heavy pencil. Bearing down so hard that she tore through the paper.
You've underscored my importance, but I don't see it. Don't see how saving the world will make a difference in the end.
Because she's still out there. Gunning for us.
My cell phone rings. It's Aunt Trish. "Has the truth found you yet?"
This is like something out of the X-Files. "Maybe."
"I have seen this. Something about words....am I right?"
Downright eerie. "Yeah."
"And the rest of your dream....have you made sense of that?"
"Not all of it. But I think I am close...."
"Listen, I have a proposition for you. There is a local art gallery...." She coughs in the background and continues, "It needs a manager. And I think you'd be perfect."
Another talent that we share. A hidden passion. One of those dream jobs that never make any money. "Me? I'm...." Well, I'm not a spy anymore, but I still work in intelligence.
"I've told the owner that you'll meet him on Tuesday at 10. Trompe L'Oeil. W Street in DC." I hear the flare of a match and can imagine the smoke rising around her face.
"No way. I can't just take off at a moment's notice," I protest, knowing it's no use. When it comes to the battle of wills, Trish always wins.
"And what is so important? Shuffling files around? Batting your hockey stick about?" That's on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I won't tell her that.
"The timing isn't right."
"The timing has never been better. If you turn your back on this, I swear you will regret it," she says curtly before hanging up on me.
I stare at the phone and feel the goose bumps rise on my arms.
Still creepy after all these years.
Downright ominous. A warning if I ever heard one.
Paulie hovers at the fringes of my vision and I say, "I need to take a few days off. Is that OK?"
"No problem. Take all the time you need. You've earned it." She smiles and is off on another occupational tangent.
I tuck the journal under my arm and decide to take the rest of the day off.
*******
"I thought we were meeting for lunch," Weiss gripes.
"Sorry. Something came up....hey, could you feed Donovan for a few days?" He's licking my ankles and I'm hard pressed not to laugh out loud.
"Where you headed?"
"DC. To see Trish." It sounds so weird when I say it.
"You haven't seen her in what....ten years?" Eric asks.
"Something like that. So, can you do it?" No sense giving out too much information.
"No problem. Leave the keys in the usual place. Gotta go. Duty calls."
Click. Friendship lite. That's what I call my relationship with Weiss. Ever since that day at the safe house....I shake my head. Remembering the way I steam-rolled out of there. The end of a great friendship. Because Weiss is culpable. He knows what happened and he won't tell me.
Why are they doing this? Why the big mystery about Laura Bristow? Oh, I get that I don't have the clearance, but at a personal level I deserve to know why they put me out of action.
I throw some clothes and the journal into a duffel bag and head for my car. What the hell? I'll drive across country and see the sights. No planes, trains, or busses. Just me and the wind and the road under my wheels. No distractions. No worries. And no Sydney.
Say it three times fast.
Words on a page can't hurt me.
I didn't know how wrong I was.
******
My heart is drenched in wine
But you'll be on mind
Forever
Norah Jones, I Don't Know Why, lyrics by Jesse Harris
Vegas, baby. An easy cruise on Route 15. Desert breezes ruffling my already tousled hair into a permanent wave. Glittery neon lights and hookers beckoning at me as I find parking.
I feel lucky tonight.
Not get lucky. Feel lucky. So I blow the twenty dollars in my pocket and leave when I break even. Some gambler, huh?
I find some hole in the wall motel for thirty bucks a night. Empty parking lot. Night sky stretching as far as the eye can see. Fine bottle of wine in my hands. Sultry breezes and the spicy smell of Tex-Mex stir up my blood and reminds me of her. With a Norah Jones CD and Syd's journal for company, my night is complete.
June 5th
I finally tracked you down. It wasn't easy, but I followed you after work. Not much of a detective, am I?
Even when she's not with me, she's with me. In my heart. Always on my mind. Like I can ever escape her. I take another swig of wine and read on.
You looked so sad today. I wanted to make it better, but all I do is mess things up. The way you were standing there with that journal in your hands...cradling it like a baby....the same kind I bought. I remember what you said about your dad, and after what happened in Taipei, I thought you were lost for good. So I needed someone to talk to and got the journal.
Replacing me as her Father Confessor.
I want to tell you how much I miss you. And how much I've taken you for granted. My faithful handler. I didn't realize what I had until it was gone. Replaced by a man with no heart and golf balls for eyes. All that stuff I kept from you....Noah....and our attempt to save Will....I shouldn't have done that. I should have let you in right away. But with Noah....it was different. There were unresolved feelings and I didn't want to hurt you. And I could see how you cared....too much for your own good. So now you're angry and you don't want to see me. With good reason. You shouldn't trust me. Hell, I can't trust myself sometimes.
I know the feeling.
What I told you was the truth. I did it for you. And for Dad. Neither one of you should suffer....because of me. Because of the woman I call my mother. I look in the mirror every day and see more of her in me. The side that seems to grow when the sun recedes from the horizon. Eyes glittering. My heart of darkness.
You're holding this now because you deserve to know what happened. All of it. Uncensored by the agency's black pens. Not that they would tell you....if they even knew this journal existed they'd burn it. So get rid of it when you're done. Free yourself while you still can.
*******
When I saw the break of day
I wished that I could fly away
Instead of kneeling in the sand
Catching teardrops in my hand
Norah Jones, I Don't Know Why, lyrics by Jesse Harris
I interrupt the motel manager's beauty sleep and check out at 6 AM. Judging from the curlers and cold cream, she has a lot of sleep to catch up on. With a colorful string of curses following me out the door, I hop in the Jetta and hit the highway.
Route 15 across the tip of Arizona and northwest to Route 70. I reach Grand Junction by the early afternoon and decide to keep driving. When I finally collapse, I'm on the outskirts of Denver. Another fleabag motel off the main highway. Greasy spoon next door with the jukebox cranked up.
Dixie Chicks. Alison Krauss. Conway Twitty.
Not as bad as it could be. I actually own the Alison Krauss CD. But not what I want to hear at this hour. After seven hours of mindless sleep and the realization that I have to be in DC in a few days, I decide to fly the rest of the way.
Impulsive and totally unlike my usual self. But necessary. It's either that or two days worth of cornrows as I drive across Kansas. No thanks. No Smallville and no Clark Kent. Too bad about that. I could use the airlift.
I book a last minute ticket on a red-eye and wing my way out of Denver. It's a toss-up between the journal and the airline magazine. Sydney wins out.
June 15th
I miss you, Michael. It sounds funny to say that as I write. I mean, that's how I think of you, but I never say it. A first name is like a gift....a privilege I haven't earned yet.
They strung me up....and then Michael was there.
Uttered in the heat of the moment.
Dad told me she got through Customs. I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I'm scared for all of us. No telling what she might do. Or how you might react. They're worried about that. That's one of the reasons they demoted you. They don't like rogue agents. Neither does SD-6. I haven't said much, but Dixon suspects me. He caught me coming out of the water when I stole the journal page. And they've been asking far too many questions. Lambert is useless as a handler. Have I said that I hate him? I hate the way he looks at me and I hate that note in his voice when he talks to me. No respect. Only this oily feeling I get on my skin when I'm around him.
My fists clench involuntarily.
He's dead. He can't hurt anyone now.
My traveling companion is slumped back against the seat, snoring over her yellowed Agatha Christie novel, pince nez glasses bobbing on her matronly breast as she sleeps. I turn back to the journal and read on.
You never made me feel that way. I always felt safe around you. Like a safe harbor. That time on the pier....I'll never forget what you said to me. I wish it was still true. I wish I could take back all the bad things. And wash away the distrust. But it's too late, isn't it?
I wish I could say she was wrong. I wish I could erase the past, but I can't. What I can do is start over. By myself. Away from her.
*****
Dulles International Airport. Unlovely name for an even uglier airport. Industrial haze hanging over the city on a late Sunday afternoon. Light traffic. No hazmats allowed. If you've driven along the Beltway, then you've seen the signs.
I park a block away from Trish's townhouse and discover that she's out. No problem. Key under the flower pot on the back stoop. No security system except her cat Max. I practically trip over him on my way into the kitchen.
A note is propped against a bowl full of apples.
I know you will make yourself at home. Out exorcising.
That's spook humor, and I don't mean spies. Trish is a bonafide ghost-hunter and has earned a name for herself in spectral circles.
I look around and discover that not much has changed since my last visit. Same country kitchen with its brick facings. Splashes of her artwork everywhere. Landscapes. Pointillism. Cubist sketches. Surreal and abstract. Brazenly talented and keeping it all to herself.
A tour through the lower half of the house reveals the same burnished wood floors and comfortable French furniture that she bought at an estate sale somewhere. Photos everywhere of her friends and family. A picture of me and my father, hands joined as we gaze out at the Pacific Ocean. The frosty façade of my mother Marie on her wedding day. Trish as a teenage groupie, waving from the back of the Jefferson Airplane's tour bus.
A quick scan of her music collection reveals her eclectic tastes. Everything from Rossini to Rasputina. I settle on an old Kinks album and skip forward to Big Sky. One of my favorite songs of all time. Then I find her recliner and put my feet up.
Next thing I know, I am waking up from a sound sleep with my aunt shaking my shoulder gently. "Come have some breakfast."
It's been ten years and she looks the same. Glowing and vibrant in an otherworldly way. A fitting description for an alien pixie. "Since when do you cook?"
Trish and I are like that. No traditional greetings or hugs. She's like one of those old friends that never changes. "I get by. Come now."
Getting by is a full course breakfast of Belgian waffles, sausage, and intricately shaved fruit. Strong French coffee and mimosas. "So this job," I say, pouring a second cup of coffee, "What makes you think I can do it?"
"You have the eye....and the passion needed to appreciate fine art. So I tell them that you'll come. And here you are, yes?" Trish lights up and offers me a Gitane. It brings back old memories of her sneaking me drinks and smokes. More to piss off my mother than anything else. And I'm tempted, but I hold up my hand and shake my head.
"No thanks."
She shakes her head with a smile. "You Americans are all the same. Going on about your health, and what happens? You get fatter and fatter. So you frown on tobacco and load up on fried food. Tell me, Michel, how much butter was in that pile of waffles you just ate?"
This is as close to a lecture as she gets. I help her clear the plates and she disappears when the last dish is dried. Leaving me to my own devices. And Sydney's diary.
June 20th
Dixon is this close to turning me in. And I can't stand it. The distrust whenever he looks at me. The smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The items he leaves out of his reports. So I've decided to tell him the truth. I know what you're thinking....I can almost see your brow furrowing as you read this, but this has been coming for a long time. He's my partner and I can't keep playing these games.
And maybe it's selfish, but I can't live this way anymore. And whether you approve or not, it's my choice to make. You're not my handler. As for Lambert.....I can't trust him with this. So I'll tell Dixon on Monday.
This was the Monday of the week when it all came undone. Lambert and his muscle car. Me and my spy camera. Pulling files. Snapping photos. Getting tranked. Syd slipping me a mickey. All the reasons I am here today.
June 26th
So I chickened out. Are you surprised? Maybe not. Sanity returned in the nick of time. At the eleventh hour, I heard that all our Rambaldi artifacts were missing. And I have to act surprised. Because I know who did this.
They say that the artifacts are possibly stolen. Definitely misplaced. And all of us are under suspicion. Dixon hasn't said a word about it, but you think he would. Because he has good reason to distrust me. Look what I did in Taipei. Some spy I am, giving in to sentiment. There's no place for emotions in this business. It tears you from the inside out.
I should know. Harboring these feelings is dangerous. Dreaming of the life that was stolen from me. The life I can never have. With you or anyone else.
Something drips on my hand and I realize my eyes are leaking again. Staining the page. Making the words run together. I finish my coffee and tuck the journal in my knapsack with my art supplies.
Ten steps to the front door and the inviting summer air. Soft and rain-washed. Cerulean sky unmarred by clouds. The perfect day to meander and dream. I stick a note to the front door and my feet take me down the sidewalk and out to the street and miles go by without notice.
Terrain changes and I find myself at the Reflecting Pool. The slim tower of the Washington Monument rises like a giant fuck you to the world. Tourists throng its edges, but I find a quieter space near the trees. And that's where I set myself down, an unsuspecting player in the final act of my adventure.
*****
June 27th
When my father came to me, he said you needed my help. And of course I came, because I figured you'd do the same for me. But maybe not. After all, you tried turning away in Taipei and Dad wouldn't let you.
Sydney is the better person, because if I were in her shoes, I wouldn't have helped out.
I know he forced you. Dad is good at persuading people.
Do I sense a joke in the middle of all this angst?
In any case, I never hesitated, because I am completely responsible for how things have turned out.
No, not completely responsible.
It was great to see you again. You look different. Relaxed. I've never seen you like that before. And seeing that video....well Dad said he gave it to you, but it was still a shock to see my face on the screen.
I know you didn't want me along. You try to turn your back on me, but it's not in your nature to shun people. Try as you might, it's not what you're about. Maybe I've always known that at some level and have taken advantage of you. No longer. And I'm sorry if I've done that.
But us. Together. We're good. We fight like cats and dogs, but under the sarcasm is something I can't define. And I think....I hope you feel it too.
That time in the car. So close to moving forward. Interrupted by her mother's arrival. Not meant to be. As for feelings, I can't deny those.
Sending this journal is selfish, but you aren't speaking to me. And I know of no other way to get through to you....to tell you what transpired.....and to let you know what you mean to me.
I draw in a shaky breath and watch the parade of life passing me by. Two grandparents chasing after their grandchild. Young couples entwined in the first blush of love. Tourists snapping pictures. And a lone woman with a baby carriage. She stops to face the monument and I decide to sketch her.
Bold strokes of charcoal that gradually form into something coherent. And disturbingly familiar. I examine my work and wonder what is tickling my senses. When I look up, my subject is gone and I decide to return to the journal.
It happened in the blink of an eye. One minute we were spying on them and the next....I saw Sark aim his gun. Silenced. You falling. I thought you were dead, and I reacted. He never saw me coming and one shot killed him. Then I saw the dart.....and I saw her. Racing across the parking lot. Yelling in Russian.
Edward. You killed my son.
And then our backup arrived. Weiss and my Dad. Davenport. Even Devlin. And she stopped cold and looked me in the eye.
You will pay for this. I will hunt you down.
And she got away by dashing into the trees. We rounded up the rest of them.
And I found out....Lambert was Sark's father.
I had a brother. And now I've killed him. Another person dead because of me. And I was determined that you wouldn't meet that fate.
The journal drops from my hands and I see that I've ruined my sketch. But the subject has returned. I see her on the other side of the water. Staring directly at me....I refocus my eyes and see that's she attending to her baby, not looking at me. Paranoia will do that to you.
So they told me to drug you when you woke up. Because she and her forces attacked several of our safe houses and they were afraid that you might....go berserk. Or as Dad put it, act like a berserker. But she's too valuable to them and they couldn't let you compromise our operation, so that's why I did what I did. And you can hate me, but at least you know the reason. We moved you from Dad's apartment because she showed up. We almost didn't get out of that one, but we made it across town to a little known hideout. And she never found us. But then you walked out, and you wouldn't let me talk. So now you know what happened.
I could never hate you, Sydney. But what I can't do is escape you. Even here, 3000 miles away, sitting on the bank of the Reflecting Pool, sun beating down on my head. Your journal at my feet.
I'm not sure what to call the emotion that percolates beneath the surface tension whenever our worlds collide. It's "not-quite love". Is that valid? They say there's a thin line between love and hate, but I've never been remotely close to hating her, so what do I call it? How do I categorize it?
And you can tell how lucid I am by this constant monologue going on in my head. I'm surprised it's not accompanied by killer effects and a supporting cast of characters. The only seat in the house is filled by me. An audience of one.
So where was I? Oh yeah, the last entry. How could anything top that last one? A brother, killed by her own hand. And her mother on the war path. Drugging me. To protect me or to protect her mother? I understand why they did what they did, but I'm on the outside now, and from where I'm standing, it feels pretty personal.
******
July 25th
It's been almost a month since he died. I know how this will sound, but sometimes I think I see him. Lurking at the fringes of my peripheral vision. Mocking me. But the mind can play tricks....and mine's been working overtime lately. They've put a watch on me. You know, in case she shows up.
I know she's out there. Watching me and waiting for her chance. But you have to wonder, why does she want to kill her own daughter? I mean, beyond the usual SD-6 connection. Yeah, I killed my brother. Her son. But she wants to kill me. Her daughter. So what the fuck? What makes him so special? And then I got this letter:
Dear Sydney,
I expect you are wondering why I've vowed to avenge my son's death. I don't expect you to understand. You were doing your job and had no way of knowing his connection to you. And I want to excuse you, but I cannot find it in my heart to forgive you.
You see, Edward was everything to me. The center of my universe. My world turned on his every desire, and he loved me back. Unconditionally. No judgments about my past actions. Seeing me for who I really am. My empty life was suddenly filled with light and happiness when he came along so unexpectedly.
You must wonder what is wrong with me. How can a mother want to kill her own daughter? There is something fundamentally wrong with that notion, but then, I am not a typical woman. I was bred for this life, hand-raised by two KGB agents for the specific purpose of infiltrating the US. With no other thought than becoming what they wanted me to be. A model citizen with perfect credentials. The perfect actress, fully trained to complete her mission.
When I met your father, he was convenient. And connected to the highest levels of intelligence. And perfect for my purposes. You weren't supposed to happen. I took every precaution to prevent your conception, but when I found myself pregnant, I couldn't bring myself to abort you. I went against my controller's wishes and had you. In that, I made a mistake. Because you deserved better than the mother you got. I tried so hard not to love you and mostly succeeded. An unfortunate error on an otherwise flawless record.
So you see, I cannot let this go unpunished. The one person who has meant the most to me is gone. Because of you.
Oh, there is one more thing. Peter Lambert had to die. The father of my child. A man I never loved. A man who was mostly in love with himself. Vain and arrogant to be sure, but up until recently, a significant asset in our organization. Until he bought that damned car. We had warned him repeatedly that he must lie low and not call attention to himself. And he mostly listened....but there was the Bel Air mansion and the expensive vacations and the last straw was the car. Hard on the heels of a major op. I could not tolerate this any further, so I took appropriate action. As I will do against you when the time comes.
You are so very careful, but your heart will betray you. Be warned. I am watching and when you least expect it, I will strike.
Irina Derevko
I haven't mentioned this to anyone except Dad. Because what can they do? Tap my phone? Monitor my mail? Chain me to this job forever?
God, she sounded just like me.
Not the way I want to live.
I'm with you there, Syd.
Will...well, I know he's a sore subject, but he loves me. And he knows part of the truth. And you'd think I'd be grateful that someone other than you knows about me. You'd think I'd be happy to move on. To let Danny go. To let you go. But I can't.
Forever bound by emotional chains?
Not the way I want to love.
So I've decided. I'm coming for you, Michael. Wherever you are is where I want to be. Damn the consequences.
And like I'm waking from a dream, I look up and see her. Ten yards away. Solid and well-formed. Skipping stones off the surface of the water with the breeze lifting her hair off her neck. A small smile on her face as she looks over her shoulder. Meeting my eyes. Waiting for me.
******
AN: Lyric fragments in this section are derived from I'll Stand by You by Pretenders
Let me see you through
'Cause I've seen the dark side too
"You draw?" Syd spots my sketch pad and lifts it reverently. "This is really....wow, I had no idea.....who is this supposed to be?"
I'm a bit flustered by her flattery and I'm sure my ears are turning red. "Umm...there was this woman.....she's gone now."
She's impossibly close to me. Sensory overload. All I can smell is her perfume and the smell of her shampoo. And the light in her eyes....like the sun breaking through the clouds of a rain-washed day.
The well-trained agent melts into a pile of goo.
"She looks familiar." Her fingers are tracing the smudged lines of my drawing.....softening the sharpened angles of that damned profile....and that's when it hits me.
"Oh, God...." No, it can't be. What I am thinking can't be true. But it comes back to me...the confident stride....the dark hair brushing her shoulders.....the same way she looked at Griffith Park....the same way she looked today....prowling about with her fake baby carriage.
Be warned. I am watching and when you least expect it, I will strike.
"What is it?" Sydney touches my arm and I look beyond her to the other side. Searching in vain. She's vanished....taken up position somewhere. Angling for a shot.
When the night falls on you
You don't know what to do
"That woman....I think it's your mother." Hair sticking up in spikes as I crash my hands into its unruly mass. Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens. Then closes as she contemplates my words.
"Are you sure...because..." Then she grabs the sketch and looks at it more closely. "Oh, God, you're right."
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less
"We have to take cover." When she hesitates, I grab her arm. "Now."
We start walking quickly and join a group of tourists on their way to the Washington Monument. Syd's shoulders are set in a rigid line and the tension hisses out of her. "I should never have come. She's after me, and now you're a target too."
The crowd breaks off and we head past the entrance. Race walking toward the black wall where nearly 60,000 names are inscribed. I call out, "Maybe. Doesn't matter. You're here.... and I'm glad you came."
She slows down and I match her pace. Fluidic motion as she turns so gracefully, flipping her hair with one hand. Nervous habits die hard. Long tapered fingers find mine and I squeeze her hand.
When you're standing at the crossroads
And don't know which path to choose
Let me come along
'Cause even if you're wrong
I'll stand by you
"Really?" A vivid contrast of uncertainty and bold assertiveness. Physically strong but emotionally frail. Part of me wants to help her. Desperately. But the part that nearly drowned in Taipei is flailing for its life. Screaming for retreat.
The moment is at hand. I have to choose. Her way or the highway. Because if I choose love, her needs will swallow mine. Immolating any sense of self I have left. "Why did you come, Syd?"
Her grip tightens and she jerks my hand to the left. A wide expanse of grass and a lone woman in black. "This way."
We start running at top speed with the war memorial to our right. Another throng of tourists at the Lincoln Memorial as they descend from a bus. We push our way through them and ignore the cries of outrage and muttered swears from an old codger with a cane that hits my shoulder as I pass. I ignore the pain as we tear up the steps and encounter another group.
My cell phone chirps away in my pocket. Nothing that can't wait. "So why did you come?" I ask quietly as we scout the area and see another exit.
She pulls me to the side of Lincoln's statue and her fingers are everywhere. Tangling in my hair. Caressing the sides of my face. Soft like the touch of a flower petal. "I did it for love."
Hot washes of emotion are stopped by the barrier in my throat. Growing and filling with the outpouring of angst that I've dammed inside me.
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I'll never desert you
I'll stand by you
How can I stand against love? When it matches what I've always felt and forever denied. My mouth opens, ready to say the right words, and she snatches my breath from me. Kissing me in a way that no one's ever touched me. Iron and fire as she presses her suit, tracing her way along my lips, opening them against the pressure of her delectable mouth. I finally relent and open myself to her. Heart and soul pouring into her waiting vessel. Telling her what she's always known at some level. That one perfect moment when we connect. I break off the kiss and draw in lungfuls of air that quickly rush out when I spot Irina. At the back of the crowd. Hands concealed by her coat. "Back there."
"We can't get past her," Sydney whispers as we start walking slowly. Her hand in mine. Maybe for the last time.
"We have to try." I spot a gap in the crowd. "Now."
Neither of us have a chance. I know it and she knows it. Neither of us are armed and we have no jurisdiction in this city. But we can't stand there like sitting ducks, so we take off at a hard run. Our paces perfectly matched until my foot catches on the top step. It throws her off balance and we both smash down on the concrete. Stunned for the instant that it takes her to catch us. I jump up and hear the muffled bark of a silencer at close range. A bullet slams into my chest and I spin around from the impact. Hitting my head against the steps. Biting down hard on my tongue as the last remnants of my dream sear themselves into my brain.
The gun coughs again and Syd collapses on top of me. Eyes wide with pain and shock. Mouth moving as she tries to speak. "I love you too, Syd." Her tired smile as the life drains out of her and she dies in my arms. The stir of wind on my cheek as someone rushes past me. And I lie there helpless, forever bound by the woman I can never have.
