Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

AN: I apologize for the very short chapter, but my time has been very tight this week and I wanted to at least offer a short update.

12

Convergence. Isn't that what they call it? It's the kind of thing that always happens to someone else. Forces on a collision course with danger, or Sydney's life in a nutshell. You see it all the time on TV, where impossible coincidences happen with amazing regularity. But in this life, or what passes for real, it's utterly impossible.

I blink my eyes and she's gone. "Syd…"

"I'm on it." She sprints away, pumps crashing against the wall as she loses them.

We aren't completely lost at sea. Kendall sent two extra men and I warn them about Ana. "Sweep the area. Make sure no one gets out."

The phone goes back in my pocket and I turn to see Trish. She smiles, even offers a hand, but I keep my distance. "We have to find her."

"Yes." She starts down the hall and stops. "Are you coming?"

My mind is a spinning vortex, but I follow along. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Trish shrugs as we reach the lower level, peering into various galleries for our elusive subjects. "Your CIA wants to cut deals."

"Yes." Better not to lie when she already reads me like a book.

She stops in front of a tapestry. "This will not end well."

Of course not. Happy endings are for romantic fools. "Why is…Elise here?"

Trish finds the door to the outside and beckons with one hand. "Alex insisted. They're joined at the hip…did you know?"

I shake my head and shiver involuntarily. "We have to get there first."

The wind cuts like a knife, and she offers a grateful nod when I wrap my jacket around her. "This way," she intones mournfully, pointing to several sets (three) of footprints in the snow.

Where can they be? Why would they go off like this, leaving the relative safety of the museum behind? Is it paranoia that drives him, or something more intrinsic? And why drag my grandmother into it? If his life was in danger, then so was hers. I say the very thing that I most dread. "Ana always gets her man."

Trish hums eerily and bends down to trace the outline of a slippered foot. "Yes."

She straightens and stares at some shrubbery. "There."

"What is…" The words die in my throat when I spot the trail of red. Moving closer, I nearly choke at the sight of a lifeless face, soulless eyes staring up at the night sky, hair permanently parted by the bullet that slammed into his brain.

Markarov's chauffeur.

"We are close," Trish says, and that's when I hear the cough of a silencer.