Part 3
NANTES
Dixon and I entered the Hilaire Art Gallery. It was a lovely building, the walls of a raven black marble and a golden roof, which sparkled, catching the light of the bright sun.
I was somewhat relaxed, contrary to most missions. I was wearing a dress a bit more comfortable than the usual hooch look. Midnight blue, it came down to my knees. A matching purse holding the pen Marshall had given me and a long, wavy auburn wig finished off the look.
Searching the echoing halls of the gallery, I spotted a man in a horrible royal purple suit and a thick brown mustache. His name tag read "Pascal Hilaire."
"Dixon," I whispered, clenching my teeth so no one would no I was talking. "There's the owner."
We made our way towards him and I smiled, extending my hand to offer a shake. "Bonjour. Mon nom est Michelle Cortez et c'est mon associé Maurice Holden. Nous sommes ici pour l'agence d'art de Paradis et nous voudrions discuter s'occuper de quelques travaux particular (1)," I greeted in French.
"Le Pascal Hilaire, mon grand-père était le fondateur de cette galerie. Plaisir de vous rencontrer. Svp, montrez-moi vos intérêts. (2)" Pascal returned the smile and gave me a quizzical look. "Um, Mme. Cortez, vous parlez Anglais (3)?"
Relieved, I answered, "Yes, yes I do."
"Monsieur Hilaire, we are looking specifically for a painting by a Jacques Loring. Garden of Hope, I believe is the English translation," Dixon prompted.
"Ahh, lovely work. Follow me, please."
He led us down several luxuriously decorated hallways and stopped in front of the painting Sloane had shown us on the screen. Its beauty was even more captivating up close.
"Yes, beautiful piece. Le Jardin de L'espoir. The Garden of Hope. He 47th work in the Loring collection. So, you are interested in buying this work?" Pascal asked, just a brief second before Dixon put on his famous seizure routine.
"Oh my! Madame, your partner is having a seizure!" Pascal exclaimed.
"He's epileptic, it's happened before but he needs help! I'll stay here with him, please call a doctor!" I pleaded. The hall was empty except for us; obviously it wasn't a busy day. Pascal raced down the hallway leaving Dixon and I alone.
We checked to be sure no one was coming before I helped Dixon up and yanked open my purse.
"Do your thing," Dixon whispered as I clutched the pen tightly and pulled out the ink tube.
Examining the painting, I discovered a tiny blinking red light behind it. I noted the small green wire attached to it.
"Found the alarm," I said quietly, and carefully let the ink of the pen drip onto the wire.
For a moment, the dark blue liquid ran down against the red wire, and then began to sizzle. Only a second later, the wire was completely melted away and the red light stopped blinking. Reaching up, I grabbed the painting off the wall and tucked it carefully under my arm. Dixon opened the briefcase he was carrying and pulled out a duplicate of the painting. He handed it to me and I placed it in the empty spot where the original one had hung.
"Let's go," I said to Dixon, and we exited quickly out the fire escape just before Hilaire came rushing back.
Once safe in a van and on the road, I said to Dixon, "Isn't this dangerous? He'll know it was us."
"Yeah. But by the time they realize that painting is a fake, we'll be long gone," Dixon answered.
"Ha. Right."
Mission accomplished
I told myself, and we turned sharply onto the freeway towards the airport.
****************************************************************** Sydney got out of the car and walked towards the CIA safehouse. The sky was like a canvas, filled with shades of crimson, violet, pink, and orange that painted it with grace. Despite its beauty Sydney felt it again. That whisper in time that seemed to tell her something was wrong, that danger was ahead. She tried to ignore it.
Softly, she knocked on the door. Nobody answered. The warning seemed to ring in her ears. She tried to push it aside and put her hand to the doorknob, turning it gently. To her surprise, it opened. Sydney walked inside.
"Will?" Nobody answered. She looked around, paced the entire safehouse quickly. She searched behind every door, in every room, in every corridor, but Will was nowhere to be found. She found herself in front of the door through which she had entered.
The feeling had stayed with her this whole time. It seemed to pulse through her body, to flow through her veins, but it's presence was largest in her head, where it warned her that something was wrong, that something was not the way it should be.
She walked to the door, the door that led to the other side of the mirror, where the agents watched everything; surely they would know what was going on.
She knocked on the door.
"Hello?" Her voice was faint, barely above a whisper.
She turned the doorknob and was surprised to find once again that the door gave way to the room without a fight.
Sydney pushed the door open slightly and closed her eyes. She was afraid of what she might find. The feeling flooded her mind, it rang in her ears. She felt sick.
She opened the door fully and gasped. A silent scream. The scream would not come. Her mouth hung open and she closed her eyes. The tears stung her eyelids, but she would not open them.
The agents inside the room, they were dead. She had found them, lying on the ground, covered in blood. She closed the door and pressed herself to the wall. She kept her eyes closed, but the tears seeped through. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number.
She called the one person, the one man that she knew she could trust. She could trust him with her life. The one man that she could confide in, the one man who would always be there for her, despite the situation. Her Guardian Angel. She heard his voice and finally opened her eyes. A single tear streamed down her cheek.
"Vaughn here"
"Vaughn, its Sydney," She spoke, her voice small, barely audible, "can we meet?"
******************************************************************
Mission written by Dani Safehouse scene written by Val
NANTES
Dixon and I entered the Hilaire Art Gallery. It was a lovely building, the walls of a raven black marble and a golden roof, which sparkled, catching the light of the bright sun.
I was somewhat relaxed, contrary to most missions. I was wearing a dress a bit more comfortable than the usual hooch look. Midnight blue, it came down to my knees. A matching purse holding the pen Marshall had given me and a long, wavy auburn wig finished off the look.
Searching the echoing halls of the gallery, I spotted a man in a horrible royal purple suit and a thick brown mustache. His name tag read "Pascal Hilaire."
"Dixon," I whispered, clenching my teeth so no one would no I was talking. "There's the owner."
We made our way towards him and I smiled, extending my hand to offer a shake. "Bonjour. Mon nom est Michelle Cortez et c'est mon associé Maurice Holden. Nous sommes ici pour l'agence d'art de Paradis et nous voudrions discuter s'occuper de quelques travaux particular (1)," I greeted in French.
"Le Pascal Hilaire, mon grand-père était le fondateur de cette galerie. Plaisir de vous rencontrer. Svp, montrez-moi vos intérêts. (2)" Pascal returned the smile and gave me a quizzical look. "Um, Mme. Cortez, vous parlez Anglais (3)?"
Relieved, I answered, "Yes, yes I do."
"Monsieur Hilaire, we are looking specifically for a painting by a Jacques Loring. Garden of Hope, I believe is the English translation," Dixon prompted.
"Ahh, lovely work. Follow me, please."
He led us down several luxuriously decorated hallways and stopped in front of the painting Sloane had shown us on the screen. Its beauty was even more captivating up close.
"Yes, beautiful piece. Le Jardin de L'espoir. The Garden of Hope. He 47th work in the Loring collection. So, you are interested in buying this work?" Pascal asked, just a brief second before Dixon put on his famous seizure routine.
"Oh my! Madame, your partner is having a seizure!" Pascal exclaimed.
"He's epileptic, it's happened before but he needs help! I'll stay here with him, please call a doctor!" I pleaded. The hall was empty except for us; obviously it wasn't a busy day. Pascal raced down the hallway leaving Dixon and I alone.
We checked to be sure no one was coming before I helped Dixon up and yanked open my purse.
"Do your thing," Dixon whispered as I clutched the pen tightly and pulled out the ink tube.
Examining the painting, I discovered a tiny blinking red light behind it. I noted the small green wire attached to it.
"Found the alarm," I said quietly, and carefully let the ink of the pen drip onto the wire.
For a moment, the dark blue liquid ran down against the red wire, and then began to sizzle. Only a second later, the wire was completely melted away and the red light stopped blinking. Reaching up, I grabbed the painting off the wall and tucked it carefully under my arm. Dixon opened the briefcase he was carrying and pulled out a duplicate of the painting. He handed it to me and I placed it in the empty spot where the original one had hung.
"Let's go," I said to Dixon, and we exited quickly out the fire escape just before Hilaire came rushing back.
Once safe in a van and on the road, I said to Dixon, "Isn't this dangerous? He'll know it was us."
"Yeah. But by the time they realize that painting is a fake, we'll be long gone," Dixon answered.
"Ha. Right."
Mission accomplished
I told myself, and we turned sharply onto the freeway towards the airport.
****************************************************************** Sydney got out of the car and walked towards the CIA safehouse. The sky was like a canvas, filled with shades of crimson, violet, pink, and orange that painted it with grace. Despite its beauty Sydney felt it again. That whisper in time that seemed to tell her something was wrong, that danger was ahead. She tried to ignore it.
Softly, she knocked on the door. Nobody answered. The warning seemed to ring in her ears. She tried to push it aside and put her hand to the doorknob, turning it gently. To her surprise, it opened. Sydney walked inside.
"Will?" Nobody answered. She looked around, paced the entire safehouse quickly. She searched behind every door, in every room, in every corridor, but Will was nowhere to be found. She found herself in front of the door through which she had entered.
The feeling had stayed with her this whole time. It seemed to pulse through her body, to flow through her veins, but it's presence was largest in her head, where it warned her that something was wrong, that something was not the way it should be.
She walked to the door, the door that led to the other side of the mirror, where the agents watched everything; surely they would know what was going on.
She knocked on the door.
"Hello?" Her voice was faint, barely above a whisper.
She turned the doorknob and was surprised to find once again that the door gave way to the room without a fight.
Sydney pushed the door open slightly and closed her eyes. She was afraid of what she might find. The feeling flooded her mind, it rang in her ears. She felt sick.
She opened the door fully and gasped. A silent scream. The scream would not come. Her mouth hung open and she closed her eyes. The tears stung her eyelids, but she would not open them.
The agents inside the room, they were dead. She had found them, lying on the ground, covered in blood. She closed the door and pressed herself to the wall. She kept her eyes closed, but the tears seeped through. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number.
She called the one person, the one man that she knew she could trust. She could trust him with her life. The one man that she could confide in, the one man who would always be there for her, despite the situation. Her Guardian Angel. She heard his voice and finally opened her eyes. A single tear streamed down her cheek.
"Vaughn here"
"Vaughn, its Sydney," She spoke, her voice small, barely audible, "can we meet?"
******************************************************************
Mission written by Dani Safehouse scene written by Val