Author's Note:  This chapter is a bit longer, and I apologize in advance for all the exposition.  The next (also longer) chapter will be the last, and will serve as an epilogue.  Thanks to all who left feedback, you guys are great!

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Vaughn barely has the door shut before we're headed off, tearing back across the enormous lawn toward the nearest street.  I can hear our driver yelling into the radio up front.

"Alert the agency hospital, we're coming in with four patients from the Salencia estate.  Yes, four."  He looks back at us for confirmation.  Dad nods. 

I crawl over to Vaughn, who's leaning against the back door.  "Vaughn, your neck--"  Involuntarily, my hand reaches out to trace the bright line, to see how deep it runs.

He shakes his head and pushes my hand away.  "It's just a scratch.  I've done worse shaving."  He looks down in surprise at what he just pushed away. 

"Sydney, your arm--"

I look down, surprised to see the blood soaking through my suit coat.  The pain has finally started to register, a dull ache starting deep in my muscles and throbbing up toward my shoulder. 

"It's okay." 

Weiss groans from his position, slumped against the van's wall on the other side of Vaughn.

"What do I have to do to get some attention around here?  Get shot again?"

Vaughn reaches over and pats his hand.  "Poor Eric.  Does he need more sugar?"

"Not from you! And stop touching me." 

At least we know Weiss is going to be okay.

I wish I could say the same for the rest of us.  Vaughn is making light of it, but I know he's pretty banged up.  Weiss probably has a mild concussion.  As if he hasn't already used up his sick leave for the next two years.  My father is sitting up on one of the seats, stoic, watching the rest of us.  The gash on his cheek has stopped bleeding, but a bruise is forming below it, starting to radiate downward in a deepening shade of purple.

And I wish I could say I'm worried about my arm.  I'm not; the suit I'm wearing gave me some protection, but the truth is I could have lost the whole thing back there and I still wouldn't be able to concentrate on it right now.  The reality of what happened is starting to sink in, and as the adrenaline wears off, the truth about what kind of lie I've been living in begins to hit me.  Right in the stomach.  I think I'm going to be physically ill. 

Vaughn glances over at me, the Creases of Concern making one of their more notable appearances.  He reaches over and takes my uninjured hand, holding it in his the rest of the way to the hospital. 

We ride in silence. 

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I've remained silent, through five hours in the emergency room, through Weiss' wisecracks as he successively hits on every nurse, through Vaughn's palpable worry, through my father's taciturn questions.  My voice mirrors his, quick, spare sentences that convey information, but no emotion.  I wonder when I will be able to feel anything.  I wonder if it will be better or worse when I do. 

Twelve miserable hours pass before we return to LA and are transported immediately to Ops Center, trudging one by one into the conference room where Kendall sits at the head of a long table, eyes flashing almost as brightly as the light bulbs reflecting off his head.

We make a lovely picture.  Weiss weaves in first, a little unsteady, looking more drunk than anything else.  A little concussion and a lot of codeine will do that to you.  My father comes next, walking in confident strides, a small bandage covering the two stitches to his cheek, but not the now-blue bruise that runs from his cheekbone to just below his earlobe.  Vaughn follows, with a long strip of sterile adhesive poking out above his collar, and nothing to cover the yellowing bruise on his jaw. 

I trudge in last, for the second time today feeling like a child on her way to the principal's office, and for the second time today not giving a damn.  I've got my arm in a sling, which is more for comfort than necessity.  Only one laceration was deep enough for stitches, the shallow cuts that crisscross the rest of my forearm are sealed with liquid bandages and wrapped in guaze.

Kendall manages to keep quiet until we're all seated, which I'm sure is a Herculean feat for him.  He stands up, looks at each of us in turn, and bursts out.

"What is this, the Keystone Cops?  Do you have any idea what this blunder cost the agency?"

Dad's tone is ice.  "Looking at the state of your agents, I assure you we do."

Kendall barely pauses for breath. 

"I don't think I can begin to list the number of foul-ups and breaches of protocol which took place in the last few hours.  The cost to the CIA, in both tactical losses and endangered personnel…"

At this point, I tune out and start making a list of reasons why I should tune back in.  As soon as I get a good one, I'll start listening. 

Still waiting.

So, it's a well-known fact that Kendall's face turns red when he's angry, and we have now progressed from face to forehead to entire head, not to mention the two purple veins throbbing on his temple.  I could probably take his pulse from here.  I shift my good arm to get a look at my watch.  About 91 b.p.m.  Not good.

"Agent Bristow, is there some other commitment I'm keeping you from?"

Okay, one reason.

And, for the record, he asked for it.

"Yes, there is.  I'm here to ensure men like Sark and Salencia are stopped before they do real damage, and I'm pretty sure that's why the rest of us are here, as well.  So I'm trying to figure out why we've been called in here at seven in the morning for a lecture when there's actual work to be done."

Kendall actually stops speaking for about five seconds.  Five seconds in which I'm waiting for that little vein to explode.  When he begins again, it's with a startling change in tone.

"Agent Bristow, I do not undervalue your contributions to the CIA or to the progress we've made in the last week.  I am wondering how you could let Sark and his associates get away and how you managed to do so in full view of the guests at Salencia's party."

I'm about to fire back when my father steps in. 

"Perhaps it would be best if we discussed the questions remaining open from this mission."

Kendall looks pissed, but doesn't disagree.

"Fine."  He studies a file laying open before him.  "Sark was wearing the comm link for forty-three minutes before it was located and deactivated.  Unfortunately, for most of that period he was either unconscious or alone in some kind of transport, presumably the back of a van or the backseat of a car.  But we were able to record a conversation between himself and another asset, someone he referred to as 'Anna.'"

Everyone glances up when they hear me gasp.

"Anna?  You don't think Anna Espinosa--"

"No, we don't.  We're still waiting for analysis, but the voice on that tape sounds nothing like Espinosa."

"May we hear it?"  Vaughn asks.

"Yes."  Kendall picks up a remote and points it at a screen on the opposite wall.  The screen flashes blue, but there's no visual.  I can hear static and background noises over the speakers. 

The voices begin.

"Anna -- where's Salencia?"  It's a groggy-sounding Sark.

"He was shot by Jack Bristow.  Bled out." 

My blood freezes and I grip the edge of the table with my free hand.  I would recognize Francie's voice anywhere. 

"The Bristows -- where are they?"

"They got away after shooting Salencia.  As did Agent Vaughn and the fourth agent I disabled before the hand-off."

Everyone tenses at this, especially Weiss.

"Did you get the Rambaldi?"

"Yes.  I've arranged to meet with Mr. Slone tomorrow so we may begin the analysis."

Vaughn drops his pen.  It clatters to the floor with a noise that seems almost violent, given the silence of the room.  Kendall pauses the playback.  For a moment, no one speaks. 

This cannot be happening to me.  I know this absolutely cannot be happening. 

Dad is the first one to recover his voice.  Even I'm startled at the level of animosity in it. 

"Sloane has arranged this all along."

"His disappearance from the Alliance…" Vaughn starts, but doesn't finish.

"A week before the takedown.  He knew about this.  He probably planned this."  Dad stops, and no one has the heart to go on.  The Alliance.  Our takedown, the victory -- all of it, all of it, he knew about.  If he didn't set it up.  I am going to be physically ill.

"That son of a bitch.  He set this up…he knew.  He knew we would take down the Alliance.  Why didn't I see this?"  I bang my fist on the table with enough force to rattle the entire thing.

Vaughn's voice is calm.  "Sydney, no one could have known this.  None of us saw this coming."  He glances up for confirmation from the others, and on their faces I can see the same mixture of shock, anger and betrayal that must be on mine.  But we have to keep going -- we can't let this paralyze us.  I draw a shaky breath.

"That was Francie.  On the tape -- that was Francie."

"Agent Bristow, are you sure about that?"  Kendall asks.

"Positive.  I would know her voice--" I draw a breath to stop the tears before they have the chance to reach my eyes. 

Kendall doesn't wait for me to continue.

"What reasons would your roommate have for--"

"None!  There are none!  Francie would never do something like this."

"Agent Bristow, we don't have time for you to sort through your denial.  We need information on Francie Calfo and we need to move on that information now."

My father interrupts us with a wave of his hand.

"Wait.  Sydney, did you say Franice was the person he was referring to as Anna?"

"Yes -- yes.  That's what he called her on the tape."

"He called her that at the scene, too."  Everyone looks up at Vaughn.  "Right after she pulled off the mask.  Sark said, 'Anna, get the statue.'"

I shake my head.  "I didn't hear it -- I was probably in too much shock to notice."

"But why would he--" Dad looks up at us sharply.  "Marcovic's device.  It was used--"

We all speak at once.

"You don't think--"

"No."

"But why--"

Kendall bangs his hand down on the table.  "Would any of you care to complete a sentence?"

Dad clears his throat. "We have been trying to ascertain the identity of the second person to use the Helix device.  Anna Espinosa has not been seen in over a year.  If she were working with Sark underground, she would be an ideal mole.  Given their previous encounters, we have reason to believe she would take any opportunity to bring Sydney down."

It makes sense.  It really does.  Part of me wants to stand up and execute a cartwheel down the conference table, bad arm and all.  The possibility this is not Francie, that I really don't have to believe what I've seen, is enough to break through the numbness that's seeped through me in the last few hours.

But another part of me can't celebrate.  Just as bad as the numbness is a new sensation, the chilling fear that runs in my veins.  If that wasn't Francie, where is she?