It was lucky that Sydney Bristow was so patient. After three hours
picking at the lock to her handcuffs, she finally heard the expected click,
as the lock disengaged. Rubbing her wrists to try and get some feeling in
her hands again, Sydney sat up a second before untying her feet. She looked
at the clock again. 2:00 AM.
Silently tiptoeing across the floor, she listened at the closed door, hearing no noise. Was Sark really stupid enough to not keep guards outside her door? Hmmm . . . . . . . . They could be really quiet guards . . . .
She looked hopefully out the window, but noticed behind the curtains that it was barred shut. Damn. Looking around the room, her eyes fell on the wooden chair Sark had been sitting in. Pulling on one of the legs as quietly as possible, it popped out of place rather easily. Luck seemed to be on her side again, finally. Holding the dismembered Chair leg in front of her as a makeshift weapon, she silently opened the door. No guards. Absolutely nothing but dead silence. Sydney got a shiver up her spine telling her something wasn't right. All she could think of to do was keep a sharp lookout, and try to find a way out as soon as possible.
Eyes adjusting to the light, she started to make her way down the long, dark hallway in front of her, one hand holding the chair leg at ready, the other feeling along the wall. Nearing fifty paces -how big was this house, anyway?- she finally felt what she had been looking for-a doorknob. Before she had a chance to grasp it, it began turning in her hand. Someone was on the other side.
Quickly, Sydney ducked to the side of the doorframe, just as she heard it creak open. Luckily, it was too dark for the person to see Sydney standing there, inches away from them, lifting her weapon up to bring it down on their head, should she be discovered.
Eyes accustomed to the darkness, Sydney could just see the shape of the guard's head, standing only a breath away from her. She couldn't risk being discovered. Quickly, she brought her club down on the guard's head, sending him crashing to the ground.
At least, that's what she had intended to do. Sensing movement, he dodged just in time, and quickly grasped Sydney by the wrist, dragging them both to the floor. Sydney groaned at his weight on top of hers.
Using as much strength as possible, considering she still had a nasty hangover, Sydney rolled over on top of him, pinning him beneath her, club raised. He had hit his head on something when they were on the ground, and he seemed to be down for the count. Waiting a few more seconds, Syd finally lowered her weapon, and began searching his pockets for a gun, or knife, or . . . something. Anything but this clumsy chair leg.
Score! She thought . . .In his pocket she found not only a knife, but a flashlight as well. Sydney took a breath. This would make things much easier. She flicked on the flashlight, shining it on her enemy's face for a moment. Instantly she recognized Sark's boyish features. The flashlight cast shadowy silhouettes over half of his face, giving him a dramatic appearance. Syd gasped and stared at a moment in disbelief.
In that moment, Sark's eyes shot open, revealing all their icy coldness. Before Sydney had a chance to react, he was on top of her again, holding her throat with one hand, searching for the gun in his back pocket with the other.
Not to be outdone, Sydney took advantage of his momentary distractedness, kneeing him in the groin and knocking him to the floor. Looking at him now, she realized it was the second time she'd seen him like this, doubled over in pain on the floor. She smiled a second, then in an instant she was behind him, holding his own knife to his throat.
"Good morning Ms. Bristow." she heard him say. Running high on adrenaline and lack of sleep, his voice sounded far off, distant.
"Don't you ever sleep Sark?"
"No." he said simply. He flinched a moment as Syd's hand slid along the back of his trousers, reaching into his back pocket.
"What exactly are you doing, Ms. Bristow?" he asked now, his voice ever so slightly tense. Maybe it was just late at night, but he seemed to be losing his usual smoothness.
"Grabbing this," she said, trading the knife for the gun she had just located, pressing it hard against his temple. She was so close to him she could smell him now, a sweet mix of cologne, wine, and sweat. He smells good, she thought, but then shook her head. Never mind-back to business.
"How large is this house Sark?"
"Too large for you to navigate your way through alone."
"Gimme a break-this is L.A. The house can't be that big or else it would have been shown on TV by now."
"Who says you're still in L.A., Ms. Bristow?"
"What???" It hadn't occurred to her that she might have been asleep for that long. Damn alcohol. It took her a second to realize that Sark was beginning to shake with suppressed laughter. Sydney smacked him upside the head with his own gun. That shut him up.
"May I ask where we are then, Sark?" she said in a quiet, warning tone.
"Paris." there was a light tone in his voice, almost daring her to recall the last time they were in Paris together, when she had been singing love songs to him and Khasinau in a nightclub. Sydney sighed. She had to think this over, and she couldn't do that holding Sark in one hand and a gun in the other. Shoving him in the direction she had come, she led him back into her bedroom and handcuffed him to the bed, much like he had done to her. Convinced that Sark wouldn't be able to bother her too easily now, she sat down on the floor, running all of her Paris contacts through her head. Problem being: they were all connected to SD-6. If Sloane found out she were here, it would undoubtedly blow her cover. And she had no passport. This was perfect.
I'll never drink again . . .
"Face it, Ms. Bristow, you're stuck here," Sark said, reading her mind. Sydney ignored his question. She had begun pacing. If she left Sark tied up here unsupervised, how long would it take him to get out of the handcuffs? How much time would she have? How much time would it take her to get to a phone? She couldn't leave Sark tied up here. As soon as she was far enough away that she couldn't shoot him, he'd call in his guards to track her down. She would make it a mile at most before they caught up with her. But what was she going to do with Sark? Sydney looked down at the gun reluctantly. There was a silencer already screwed on. She could just . . .
No. She couldn't. She would never be able to go through with it, as much as she wanted to. Sydney didn't know why, but for some reason Sark was different.
But why?? To keep conflicting thoughts from entering her head, Sydney told herself that she wasn't shooting him because she wasn't a monster . . . not like him . . .
Sydney looked down at the gun again. What was that writing on the side?
Wait . . . she thought, This is a Tranq gun. Why would Sark carry tranquilizers instead of real bullets?
This opened up her options considerably. Now, she had no qualms about shooting him.
"Ms. Bristow, I believe we can help each other. I am your only ticket out of Paris, and you are my only ticket to Irina Derevko. But in order to get anything accomplished, you're going to have to untie me eventually-"
Bang. Right in the leg. Sark had a surprised look on his face, looking down at the dart now lodged in his thigh, right before he slumped over, out cold. It was obvious he had forgotten about the gun . . . so unlike him. Sydney smiled in spite of herself, then went to go search Sark's room for a phone. She was back in the game.
____________________________
Vaughn had been everywhere and in between all night, chasing leads as to the whereabouts of Sydney Bristow. But all he had were the drunken witnesses at the bar, who were of no use to him except the Bartender-the only sober one in the whole house. And all he could tell was that a young, good-looking guy had picked her up -literally- and left. Vaughn was astounded at this.
"-And you just let the guy pick her up and cart her off?? He could have been a rapist for all you knew-" Vaughn was shouting, out of stress and disbelief.
"Hey, hey . . . Wait a second here . . ." said the Bartender, getting defensive, "I didn't just let him 'cart her off'-I was watching her, and she seemed to recognize the guy. From the way he was holding her, I thought maybe he was her boyfriend or something . . ."
That got Vaughn even more riled up.
"Well, could you at least tell me what he looked like . . ." His cell phone rang.
"Joey's Pizza?" Vaughn immediately forgot all about the bartender.
"Sydney!" he said, grinning from ear to ear, "Where the hell are you?? Me and Will have been looking everywhere . . ."
"I got picked up by an old friend . . . Say-- how soon can you get a plane out to Paris? I don't know how long these tranquilizers last, and I've got a nice surprise for Devlin . . ."
Paris?? Vaughn did a double take . . . What had Sydney been up to?
Silently tiptoeing across the floor, she listened at the closed door, hearing no noise. Was Sark really stupid enough to not keep guards outside her door? Hmmm . . . . . . . . They could be really quiet guards . . . .
She looked hopefully out the window, but noticed behind the curtains that it was barred shut. Damn. Looking around the room, her eyes fell on the wooden chair Sark had been sitting in. Pulling on one of the legs as quietly as possible, it popped out of place rather easily. Luck seemed to be on her side again, finally. Holding the dismembered Chair leg in front of her as a makeshift weapon, she silently opened the door. No guards. Absolutely nothing but dead silence. Sydney got a shiver up her spine telling her something wasn't right. All she could think of to do was keep a sharp lookout, and try to find a way out as soon as possible.
Eyes adjusting to the light, she started to make her way down the long, dark hallway in front of her, one hand holding the chair leg at ready, the other feeling along the wall. Nearing fifty paces -how big was this house, anyway?- she finally felt what she had been looking for-a doorknob. Before she had a chance to grasp it, it began turning in her hand. Someone was on the other side.
Quickly, Sydney ducked to the side of the doorframe, just as she heard it creak open. Luckily, it was too dark for the person to see Sydney standing there, inches away from them, lifting her weapon up to bring it down on their head, should she be discovered.
Eyes accustomed to the darkness, Sydney could just see the shape of the guard's head, standing only a breath away from her. She couldn't risk being discovered. Quickly, she brought her club down on the guard's head, sending him crashing to the ground.
At least, that's what she had intended to do. Sensing movement, he dodged just in time, and quickly grasped Sydney by the wrist, dragging them both to the floor. Sydney groaned at his weight on top of hers.
Using as much strength as possible, considering she still had a nasty hangover, Sydney rolled over on top of him, pinning him beneath her, club raised. He had hit his head on something when they were on the ground, and he seemed to be down for the count. Waiting a few more seconds, Syd finally lowered her weapon, and began searching his pockets for a gun, or knife, or . . . something. Anything but this clumsy chair leg.
Score! She thought . . .In his pocket she found not only a knife, but a flashlight as well. Sydney took a breath. This would make things much easier. She flicked on the flashlight, shining it on her enemy's face for a moment. Instantly she recognized Sark's boyish features. The flashlight cast shadowy silhouettes over half of his face, giving him a dramatic appearance. Syd gasped and stared at a moment in disbelief.
In that moment, Sark's eyes shot open, revealing all their icy coldness. Before Sydney had a chance to react, he was on top of her again, holding her throat with one hand, searching for the gun in his back pocket with the other.
Not to be outdone, Sydney took advantage of his momentary distractedness, kneeing him in the groin and knocking him to the floor. Looking at him now, she realized it was the second time she'd seen him like this, doubled over in pain on the floor. She smiled a second, then in an instant she was behind him, holding his own knife to his throat.
"Good morning Ms. Bristow." she heard him say. Running high on adrenaline and lack of sleep, his voice sounded far off, distant.
"Don't you ever sleep Sark?"
"No." he said simply. He flinched a moment as Syd's hand slid along the back of his trousers, reaching into his back pocket.
"What exactly are you doing, Ms. Bristow?" he asked now, his voice ever so slightly tense. Maybe it was just late at night, but he seemed to be losing his usual smoothness.
"Grabbing this," she said, trading the knife for the gun she had just located, pressing it hard against his temple. She was so close to him she could smell him now, a sweet mix of cologne, wine, and sweat. He smells good, she thought, but then shook her head. Never mind-back to business.
"How large is this house Sark?"
"Too large for you to navigate your way through alone."
"Gimme a break-this is L.A. The house can't be that big or else it would have been shown on TV by now."
"Who says you're still in L.A., Ms. Bristow?"
"What???" It hadn't occurred to her that she might have been asleep for that long. Damn alcohol. It took her a second to realize that Sark was beginning to shake with suppressed laughter. Sydney smacked him upside the head with his own gun. That shut him up.
"May I ask where we are then, Sark?" she said in a quiet, warning tone.
"Paris." there was a light tone in his voice, almost daring her to recall the last time they were in Paris together, when she had been singing love songs to him and Khasinau in a nightclub. Sydney sighed. She had to think this over, and she couldn't do that holding Sark in one hand and a gun in the other. Shoving him in the direction she had come, she led him back into her bedroom and handcuffed him to the bed, much like he had done to her. Convinced that Sark wouldn't be able to bother her too easily now, she sat down on the floor, running all of her Paris contacts through her head. Problem being: they were all connected to SD-6. If Sloane found out she were here, it would undoubtedly blow her cover. And she had no passport. This was perfect.
I'll never drink again . . .
"Face it, Ms. Bristow, you're stuck here," Sark said, reading her mind. Sydney ignored his question. She had begun pacing. If she left Sark tied up here unsupervised, how long would it take him to get out of the handcuffs? How much time would she have? How much time would it take her to get to a phone? She couldn't leave Sark tied up here. As soon as she was far enough away that she couldn't shoot him, he'd call in his guards to track her down. She would make it a mile at most before they caught up with her. But what was she going to do with Sark? Sydney looked down at the gun reluctantly. There was a silencer already screwed on. She could just . . .
No. She couldn't. She would never be able to go through with it, as much as she wanted to. Sydney didn't know why, but for some reason Sark was different.
But why?? To keep conflicting thoughts from entering her head, Sydney told herself that she wasn't shooting him because she wasn't a monster . . . not like him . . .
Sydney looked down at the gun again. What was that writing on the side?
Wait . . . she thought, This is a Tranq gun. Why would Sark carry tranquilizers instead of real bullets?
This opened up her options considerably. Now, she had no qualms about shooting him.
"Ms. Bristow, I believe we can help each other. I am your only ticket out of Paris, and you are my only ticket to Irina Derevko. But in order to get anything accomplished, you're going to have to untie me eventually-"
Bang. Right in the leg. Sark had a surprised look on his face, looking down at the dart now lodged in his thigh, right before he slumped over, out cold. It was obvious he had forgotten about the gun . . . so unlike him. Sydney smiled in spite of herself, then went to go search Sark's room for a phone. She was back in the game.
____________________________
Vaughn had been everywhere and in between all night, chasing leads as to the whereabouts of Sydney Bristow. But all he had were the drunken witnesses at the bar, who were of no use to him except the Bartender-the only sober one in the whole house. And all he could tell was that a young, good-looking guy had picked her up -literally- and left. Vaughn was astounded at this.
"-And you just let the guy pick her up and cart her off?? He could have been a rapist for all you knew-" Vaughn was shouting, out of stress and disbelief.
"Hey, hey . . . Wait a second here . . ." said the Bartender, getting defensive, "I didn't just let him 'cart her off'-I was watching her, and she seemed to recognize the guy. From the way he was holding her, I thought maybe he was her boyfriend or something . . ."
That got Vaughn even more riled up.
"Well, could you at least tell me what he looked like . . ." His cell phone rang.
"Joey's Pizza?" Vaughn immediately forgot all about the bartender.
"Sydney!" he said, grinning from ear to ear, "Where the hell are you?? Me and Will have been looking everywhere . . ."
"I got picked up by an old friend . . . Say-- how soon can you get a plane out to Paris? I don't know how long these tranquilizers last, and I've got a nice surprise for Devlin . . ."
Paris?? Vaughn did a double take . . . What had Sydney been up to?