Feedback: Yes, please.celli@fanfic101.com
Category: Action. Humor. AU after "Almost Thirty Years."
Rating: PG-13 for ass-kicking and swearing.
Spoilers: Season One.
Summary: "Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants,
monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..." No,
really. Well, maybe not the giants.
Archiving: Cover Me and our site (www.fanfic101.com).
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various
other people with lawyers. Not us. *sighs*
Notes: Two things. First, this follows the events of "Almost
Thirty Years" and was in fact written mostly between seasons
one and two. Second, it was originally intended to be the
first part of a longer story, but for various reasons we
won't be able to finish it. So try to think of it as a
standalone story with a very ambiguous ending. :)
***
How I Spent My Summer Vacation
By JenC and Celli
***
"Hell is other people."--Jean-Paul Sartre
***
Jack:
They call it 'solitary', which is bullshit. Oh, you don't
see anyone, you don't get a radio, there's nothing to break
the silence but the sound of your breathing. But you know--
at least until your mind cracks, anyway--that you're never
alone. Someone's watching, waiting for you to talk in your
sleep, beat off, whatever gives them a place to stick the
lever and move your world.
And they tell you it's for your own good, which is also
bullshit, at least in my case. They tell you that the bad
boys can pick out a cop, an agent, with their eyes closed.
And then it's a nasty accident in the showers, or a knife at
dinner. Whatever.
Anyone who got a good look at my file would know that if
there was an inmate stupid enough to start a fight, I would
finish it. Finish him.
So they stuck me in solitary and waited for something to
happen. They only made one miscalculation--they didn't
expect me to adapt to it. The solitary life and I turned out
to be a good fit.
***
Will Tippin awoke with his head pounding and his eyelids
gummed shut. He was in so much pain that the ache seemed to
extend beyond his body into the air around him. When he
finally managed to crack open his one good eye--the other
stubbornly refused to focus on anything, which the drugs
still partying through his body told him to worry about
later--he found himself in what looked to be a deserted
doctor's office. The cupboards along the walls stood open
and empty, the doors halfway off their hinges. The slow
staccato of dripping water thudded into the sink from a
leaky faucet. Shadows crowded the room, and the only light
came from a single, intense lamp that illuminated Jack
Bristow's graying hair.
"Wha--where?" The questions for which he wanted answers
slurred together.
"You're awake. Good." Jack set aside whatever he'd been
working on and turned to face Will. "There's a transport
plane leaving for Honolulu in two hours. You will be on that
flight. Your name--the name on this passport--" he picked up
the document he'd been working on and flashed it in Will's
general direction--"is Wallace Reina. You're from
Sacramento, California. You sell Hondas for a living. You
were on vacation here when your new girlfriend's ex decided
to win her back."
"Wait, wait, wait. Slow down."
"We do not have time to take this slow, Tippin. I've had to
pull strings to get you out of here."
"Where's Sydney? You said she--"
"Focus, Tippin. Right now this is about getting you out of
Taiwan." Jack flipped the passport onto the desk and stood.
"I'm all for that. But I want to know where Sydney is." He
sat up, teeth gritted against the pain, and braced himself
against the cracked vinyl of the table on which he'd been
lying. "Last night--was it last night?--whatever--you said
we were waiting for her. You said--"
"That was last night. The plan has changed."
Usually Jack Bristow's face had all the expressive quality
of a hunk of cement, but Will thought he was learning to
pick up the nuances. Either that, or the stuff the scary
Chinese guy had given him was more powerful than he'd
thought. He sucked in a breath, winced at the knifing pain
in his ribs, and said, "You don't know where she is, do
you?"
"That's not your concern."
"The hell it isn't. She came here to help me. We have to get
her back. We have to--" He tried to struggle to his feet,
and Jack pushed him down, none too gently.
"I've read your work, and you're obviously not an idiot."
Jack's tone conveyed an air of surprise. "So think this
through. You can barely walk. You don't know the language--
do you?"
Will shook his head.
"Then what good will you do me?"
"I want to help."
"You can help by getting out of here. I promised Sydney--"
His face tightened, a brief show of anger or pain--"I gave
my word I'd make sure you were safe. I will keep that
promise."
Will slid off the table and groaned when the jolt of his
feet hitting the floor resounded through every nerve in his
body. "I guess you'd better keep a good eye on me, then."
"Mr. Tippin."
"You might as well call me Will. Given the circumstances.
So, Jack--can I call you Jack? You're not shooting me, so I
guess we can be on a first-name basis--what's the plan?"
"There is no *plan*."
"That's not good. I thought you guys always had a plan. Do
you know where she is?"
"We have to get you to the plane."
"No plane." Will tried to cross his arms, but something
pulled in his shoulder so he lowered his hands to his sides
again. "I'm going with you."
"Got another cavity?"
"God." He fought down a wave of nausea. "How can you be such
a cold bastard?"
"I'm the bastard who's going to keep you alive."
Will bit his tongue, wishing he could call back the last
words he'd spoken. "I'm sorry."
"I know what I am." Jack pocketed the passport he'd been
working on, checked the clip on his 9-millimeter and
holstered it. "It doesn't matter. Last chance, Tippin--you
should catch that flight."
"I'm going with you."
Jack sighed, but he only answered, "Fine."
"You won't regret this."
"I doubt that. Listen carefully, because I will only say
this once. You will do exactly as I say. You will not argue.
You will not hesitate. If at any time I feel you are
endangering this mission, I will kill you. Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
"Wait here." He watched Jack sprint down a long hallway
painted a dingy shade of green. The air smelled of piss and
old medicine. At the end of the hall a barred door blocked
the way. A black box about the size of Will's palm hung on
the wall; Jack pushed a series of buttons, and the light at
the top switched from red to green.
"Motion detector," Jack said by way of explanation as he
gestured for Will to follow him. "I didn't want any visitors
to show up unannounced. From now on, keep silent. Don't even
sneeze."
Overwhelmed by the sudden urge to cough, Will nodded. The
door opened, surprisingly quietly given the rust around its
edges. Beyond was an alley, where light from the street
shimmered on the oily surfaces of puddles. Jack studied
both directions, then turned to the right and eased into the
shadows. Will followed, his hand over his mouth.
The alley kinked to the left, then broadened into a
courtyard. In it stood the SUV Jack had been driving when
he'd rescued Will.
"Get in," Jack said, his voice pitched so low Will could
barely hear it. "There's a change of clothes in the back,
and a first aid kit. Get cleaned up."
Will nodded and started to open the door when Jack hissed
and spun around, his hand slipping under his coat.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. A familiar figure,
holding a gun. "It's about bloody time you showed up. Do
you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you."
Sark, Will realized. His heart sank.
***
Ben Devlin upended the manila envelope over his desk, and
scowled at the note and tape that fell out. "What the hell
are you up to, Jack?"
The automated call that had reached him at his house an hour
earlier had sounded like a crude attempt at telemarketing at
first--so much so, he'd almost hung up before he noticed the
code words embedded in the message. When translated, they
conveyed the following: "Traitor within. Evidence obtained.
Friday drop."
He'd gone to the bookstore Jack had called the Friday drop,
for no particular reason that Ben could ever fathom. There,
he'd found this envelope, wedged behind a row of paperback
romances.
He turned the tape over in his hands, wishing he didn't have
to know what was on it, wishing he could just put it back
and pretend he'd never found it. As far as he'd risen in the
CIA hierarchy, he still relied on instinct, and right now
his gut screamed at him that he was holding career suicide
in his hands--Jack's at least, if not his own as well.
On the other hand, whatever squeamishness he'd felt as a
young agent had gone the way of moral scruples, and so after
a moment he dug a small tape player out of the chaos in his
desk and slipped in Jack's message. He heard a ragged voice
screaming curses; it took a moment to recognize that he was
listening to Haladki. Then Jack cut in, his questions
relentless. The sound of bones breaking.
Devlin swallowed the taste of bile in his mouth. He'd been
able to turn a blind eye to much of Jack's activity in the
past few years; he had realized that the life of a double
agent had twisted his old friend somehow, but the depth of
the madness hadn't dawned on him until that moment.
Then Haladki confessed to working for Khasinau.
Devlin lowered his head into his hands. This in and of
itself wouldn't clear Jack--his methods went well beyond
what the CIA sanctioned--but it would help, especially when
the agency brought in Haladki and--
A single gunshot, then silence.
"Damn it, Jack!"
"I'm sorry, Ben." Jack's voice, slightly distorted, came out
of the tape player, as if he'd heard Devlin. "I had to make
sure. I had to . . ." His words trailed off, as if he
realized that nothing he could say would fix this.
Devlin shut off the tape and sat with his hands folded,
pondering his next move. Finally he buzzed his assistant and
told her to find Agent Vaughn.
An hour later, he acknowledged the knock on his door, but to
his surprise it was Agent Weiss, not Vaughn, who appeared
when it opened.
"What's going on?"
Weiss was frowning. "Vaughn didn't show up this morning."
"What do you mean?" As if he had to ask. "Did he call in
sick?"
"No call. And when I went by his place, his dog hadn't been
fed. For a couple of days, at least, by the way the guy dug
in when I found him some kibble."
"God Almighty, would somebody tell me what the hell is going
on?"
"I think he's helping the Bristows."
Devlin closed his eyes and shook his head. "My wife wanted
to have a cookout this weekend."
"Sir?"
Devlin stood and made his way to the safe in his office. He
opened it and put the tape inside. "Jack Bristow has dumped
a whole shitload of trouble in our laps."
"So we bring him in." Weiss shifted from foot to foot. "I
know what he's done is valuable, but in the interests of the
agency . . ."
"In the interests of the agency, we're going to have to
clean this up."
"What exactly are we dealing with? Sir," Weiss added
belatedly.
"Before anything else, we need to find out what this
operation was Bristow kept talking about. He said he was
trying to save someone's life. I need to know that someone's
identity."
"Sydney's?"
"I'm guessing he would have told me if it was her."
"But Vaughn--"
"It's not outside the realm of possibility, I admit. Just
see what you can find. If you value Vaughn's life, work
alone. Fill me in as soon as you can." He tapped his watch.
"We're on the clock, Weiss. You don't want to know what
happens if we run out of time."
"Yes, sir." Weiss fled.
It was a risk, Devlin thought, as he watched the door close
behind Weiss. But he had a feeling that when faced with a
choice, the younger agent would do what he had done, would
choose friendship over company loyalties.
"He fed the dog," Devlin reminded himself. "That's a point
in his favor."
He went down to the file room and looked through everything
he could find on the Bristows' latest activities, hoping to
find a clue to their current whereabouts. Ordinarily he
would have checked out the mass of files, but he didn't want
anyone to know what he'd been doing. Paranoia, he told
himself, could be a handy survival trait.
***
Sydney:
When I was ten, I imagined that my mom would appear out of
nowhere. "It's all a mistake," she'd say. "I didn't really
die. I was sick, or lost, or kidnapped by pirates. But I'm
home now, sweetie." Then Daddy would laugh out loud again,
and everything would be perfect.
When I was fifteen, I imagined that someone who looked just
like my mom would appear out of nowhere. "It was all a
mistake," she'd say. "I'm your aunt, and your mom wanted you
to live with me, sweetie." Then Daddy would load my bags in
her car, and everything would be better.
Five months ago, I imagined that the CIA would capture my
mom. "It was all a mistake," she'd say. "I'm not really
evil. Your father framed me, and I never killed anyone,
sweetie." Then Daddy would go to jail, and everything would
make sense.
***
"Sweetie," Irina said for possibly the thousandth time.
Sydney gritted her teeth together.
It was bad enough that she'd let slip with the "Mom?" the
first time she had seen her. It was a bit of a shock,
that's all, but nothing to lose her training over. So for
the next twenty-some hours, Sydney had concentrated with all
her might on everything but her and the sick feeling Irina
caused in the pit of Sydney's stomach. This was a capture
and interrogation like any other. She'd simulated these a
thousand times back when she began at SD-6, and in the seven
years since she'd been on both sides of the table several
times. There were rules to be followed. Important rules.
"We can save your father. Daddy's here, isn't he, baby? We
can keep him safe."
Like not screaming in agony at the sound of her voice.
"And there's your friends back in Los Angeles. Francie, and
Dixon, and your handler. Michael, wasn't it?"
*Too late, you bitch. You've already killed him.*
Sydney had tried thinking of Vaughn at first, but once her
traitorous brain had connected his death with his father's,
she'd had to shut that down. So she thought of her father
instead. What had he said when she'd asked him to go after
Will...? "While I might look at scenarios more strategically
than emotionally, you could learn something from my
experience." She would go to him, after all this was over,
and say, "I did what you told me to, Daddy. I was
strategic. I was strong."
She'd built up quite an image as the hours wore on and the
persuasion turned to bribery turned to threats--thinly
disguised, but still threats. She pictured her Dad standing
next to her, smiling down at her--well, that wasn't
accurate--with that little not-quite-a-smile he'd worn only
a few times. Will was standing next to him, with his hands
in his pockets, rocking back on his heels and blinking
behind his glasses. And when she thought she could bear it,
Vaughn was behind the two of them, sitting on a box and
bouncing his heels off it just as he had when they would sit
at the warehouse and talk. (When had they done that? Not
very often. But she could remember with frightening detail
each time they had.) Irina was still there, somewhere. But
Sydney focused on the strange triumvirate in front of her
and closed her senses to everything else.
Finally Irina gave up. "Take her to the plane," Sydney
heard her say in Russian to someone outside the door. "I
can be more...effective...at our headquarters."
And although Sydney didn't so much as change her breathing,
the look in her eyes would have warned anyone who knew her.
*I can be effective too. Mom.*
***
Jack:
She makes me weak. Or perhaps I should say, the love of her
weakens me.
As long as she remained only a mouth to be fed, a back to be
clothed, a duty to fulfill, I could be strong. Ruthless.
As long as she hated me, I could keep her at a distance. I
could ignore who she was, who she was becoming. I could turn
a blind eye to the memories invoked by the curve of her
smile, by the rise and fall of her voice.
When Laura died--or as I have found out, when she left--and
all her secrets began oozing into the light, I cut her out
of my thoughts. Everything I could find that reminded me of
her, from the ring on my finger to the notes on the
refrigerator went into an incinerator. Only our child
remained.
I let Sydney blame me for her mother's death. I let her hate
me, let all the rage crash on the shell I'd built. It tested
my resolve, and my resolve was not found wanting.
And when she stopped trying to break through, I told myself
I felt nothing but relief. She would be safe. She would not
be part of my world, of the filth, of the lies. Safe.
Even when the truth began to emerge, when I discovered that
she had chosen (or been chosen for) the same darkness I had,
I told myself that we could walk our own paths. She couldn't
hate me any more for what I'd become than for what I'd been.
And then . . .
I no longer mock the stories about a parent's instincts.
There are some things more powerful than self-preservation,
a loyalty greater than any other. And because I could not
let her die, I find that we are once more in each other's
orbit, pulled by an emotional gravity for which neither of
us was prepared. Which, I suspect, she wanted as little as I
did at first.
When did it happen? I think back on the past few months, the
collision of her life and mine which some would call fate,
and I do not see where I crossed the line. I cannot find the
moment when I began to want what I'd rejected so long ago.
The man I was would never have risked so much for an
expendable. I have made this journey, I have abandoned my
old life, I have killed a man--and all for an individual who
is no longer necessary for my task, an individual who no
doubt will prove more a liability than an asset. Because
*she* cares for him. Because I have given my word to keep
him safe.
Because, God help me, what she thinks of me matters. And I
do not want to be the one to make my little girl cry.
***
"Hey! He shot me!" Will tried to step closer, but Jack
motioned him off. "What's going on here?"
"I told you to keep quiet." Jack turned to Sark. "He has a
point. What do you want?"
For a moment, there was silence in the courtyard. The
distant sound of sirens and honking horns drifted in. The
air smelled of rain. "Still babysitting, I see." Sark made a
show of putting up his gun.
"I have no interest in trading quips with you. Explain
yourself." Jack turned his back on Sark, which struck Will
as a dangerous move, but apparently the show of contempt had
an effect.
"I presume you do have an interest in your daughter's
current location?"
Jack froze. "I have no reason to do business with you. Get
in the car, Will."
"Wait! He says he knows where--"
"Get in the car. We have no reason to trust him. He has no
good reason to be here--he's chosen sides already." Jack
climbed in and started the SUV. Will hesitated.
Sark leaned in the open door, his voice raised over the
growl of the engine. "It seems I am privy to too much
information, Mr. Bristow. Khasinau's boss--"
Jack killed the engine. "What did you say?"
"I thought that would catch your attention. It certainly
gave me a start."
"Khasinau's . . . boss." Jack drummed his fingers on the
steering wheel. "Start talking."
"Until a few hours ago, I was sure that Khasinau was the one
known as 'The Man'." Sark's gaze roved the shadows, as if he
expected something to jump out at him any moment. "Can't we
talk about this while you drive?"
"Tell me what you know now, or you're on your own."
Will, who had climbed in the passenger seat, leaned over and
whispered, "We aren't going to help him, are we? He gave me
to the evil dentist guy."
Jack ignored him. "Time's running out, Sark."
"Faster than you know. All right, all right. I don't know
what the hell your people were up to, but they flooded the
lower levels of the lab."
"Flooded? That explosive device shouldn't have been powerful
enough to rupture the mains. And the Rambaldi device--" He
swore, an impressively inventive display. "How big was it?"
"I never saw it. But from the amount of equipment they took
in . . ." Sark shrugged. "Damn big."
"What's the situation now?"
"The Man has your daughter."
"Khasinau has Sydney?" Will shook Jack's arm. "We don't have
time for this. They could be killing her."
"We need to know what's going on. Keep talking," he told
Sark. "You said Sydney's a captive?" There was a note in his
voice, hope or amusement, that Will couldn't read.
"When news of the explosion reached me, I went to
headquarters. I saw something I wasn't supposed to see, and
they came after me. I need your help."
"What did you see?"
"Let me in." Sark tugged at the rear door of the car. In the
faint light, the pallor of his face gave him the look of a
ghost. A note of fear threaded his voice. "I saw Sydney with
The Man. But The Man wasn't Khasinau. The Man wasn't even a
man, if you follow me."
"Not really. Stop playing games, Sark." Jack started the car
again.
"She calls herself Irina Derevko. But your daughter called
her 'Mom'."
"Holy shit." Will collapsed into his seat. "He's joking,
right? Tell me he's joking."
Jack reached back and unlocked the rear door of the car.
"Get in and shut up," he told Sark.
Sark did as he was told, and the SUV squealed out of the
courtyard as Will struggled with his seatbelt.
***
Vaughn was on the ceiling.
He passed the time composing an explanation for Sydney.
*Well, there was this wave of water--oh, wait, you were
there for that. Anyway, I got up towards the surface and
grabbed the nearest, well, anything, which happened to be
this ceiling beam. I was going to drop down into the water
when it started receding*--he waved aside mental-Sydney's
Noah's Ark jokes--*but it just sort of vanished and there
wasn't time. So--here I am!*
It was a fairly lame explanation, considering the amount of
time he'd had to work on it. He'd managed to wiggle around
until he was squished into the space between the top of the
beam and the ceiling itself, but there was too much room
between it and the next beam; he couldn't move across
towards a wall. And he could drop down--which would
probably break several bones, plus take him straight into
camera range and get him captured. *Shit.* And he kept
falling asleep; add that to the lump on the back of his
head, and he was a little woozy.
He had a brief mental image of himself, treed like a damn
cat, then another image of Sydney beneath him, blue hair and
all, calling "Here, kitty kitty!" and nearly fell off
anyway, he was laughing so hard.
He sank his teeth into the leather of his jacket to muffle
his giggles and tried to calm down. Okay. He had to get
out of there. He needed to get to the rendezvous point and
find out if Sydney had made it. Otherwise he'd have to come
back in here and kick some ass. *Yeah, right.* He'd bring
Jack back with him. He'd never seen Agent Bristow, Senior
in action, but he had a feeling he would up the ass-kicking
quotient quite a bit.
Now he just had to get down. *Dammit. What would Sydney
do? She'd be out of here already. She'd pull a little rope
ladder out of her bra and be out of here. Plus, she'd never
have gotten caught by the giant Super Soaker to begin with.*
While he was still trying to figure a way out, plus update
the lame explanation (mental-Sydney was still snickering)
and come up with a better name for "The Circumference" (the
current winners were "Tiger Woods' wet dream of a golf ball"
and "The Big Red Dodge Ball of Doom"), he heard footsteps
from down the hall. He scrunched around to look down, and
saw a flash of blue hair.
Well, at least he knew where Sydney was. Although it looked
as though the ass-kicking was up to him. He took the time
to send a brief prayer skyward, then got ready to jump.
***
Weiss:
I don't want you to think I've changed my mind in the
slightest.
Mike may hate me for the rest of his life, but that doesn't
change the fact that I'm *right,* goddammit. Every person
that SD-6 kills while he's off chasing wildfowl is--well,
it's not his fault. But he should feel guilty about it.
And Bristow--if she hadn't tied his dick in a knot and cut
off all circulation to his brain--she's a good kid, you
know? I'm just tempted to wear a garlic chain and a cross
every time I go near her. Her effect on men is not to be
taken lightly. Even her father, the epitome of the Company
man, would do anything for her.
Which is why I'm standing at Bristow Junior's door when it's
the last place I want to be. With Tippin gone and our
double agents possibly exposed, there's only one person left
in LA who might know where I can find them before they
destroy everything.
***
"Syd? It's Francie. Um, are you on a work trip? You
didn't leave a note or a message or anything. Look, Will's
gone too, and when I called his office, they were-I dunno.
Weird. Syd? Just call me, okay? Even if you haven't heard
from Will. Leave me a message. Or an email. Smoke
signals? Singing telegram? Something. Damn, that's the
door. *Call me*, Sydney."
***
Weiss heard footsteps approaching the door. "Hello?" He
thumped on it again when it didn't open.
"Who is it?"
"Francine Calfo? This is Detective Wallace with the LAPD."
He held the badge up to the peephole. "This is concerning
Sydney Bristow and Will Tippin?"
She yanked the door open. "What about them?"
"Ah..."That had been easier than he'd planned. Weiss
discarded the long convoluted story and gestured towards his
car. "Could you come with me, please, Miss Calfo?"
She hesitated. "What's going on?"
He noticed movement to his left. Three men in suits were
getting out of a suspiciously bland car. Shit. No time for
the long story now. "I need you to identify a body."
He caught her as she stumbled forward. "Wha-who? A body?
Oh, God!" The suits were looking their way. Weiss half-
carried, half-hurried her to his car.
"Put your seatbelt on."
She just gaped at him.
Weiss shrugged and threw the car into reverse. The suits
were already running for their car.
"You're going kind of fast," she said as he took the first
corner at 35.
He shot into the left lane without even looking behind him.
"Seat belt, Miss Calfo. Now."
"What the hell is going on?" He could see her fingers
shaking on the belt before he turned his attention back to
his mirrors. "What happened to Will and Syd?"
Damn. There they were. He braked hard and screeched into a
U-turn.
"What the *hell*? Stop!"
"That would be a bad idea, ma'am." He pulled out his cell
phone and dialed. Where was that damn on-ramp? He was
headed in the wrong direction. "Tanya? It's Weiss. Get me
Devlin."
"You said your name was Wallace!"
"Shh. Hello, sir. I've got her. Just a few steps ahead of
their guys. No, sir, I think after what happened to Tippin-
" he gestured her quiet-"that a safe house is the last place
to go. I have a plan. Yes, sir. I'll call you back after
we ditch them."
Weiss closed the phone, gunned the car around a slow-moving
pickup, and broke the speed limit halfway up the ramp.
She grabbed his arm. She had long nails.
"Hey!"
"Not to distract you or anything, but who are you and what
the hell is going on?"
"I'm Eric Weiss. CIA. And we-" he cut between two buses
and jumped into the HOV lane-"are outrunning the bad guys.
Cool, huh?"
"Where's Sydney and Will?"
"We're working on it."
"The CIA."
"Yeah."
"Oh, God." Suddenly her fingers tightened on his arm.
"Hey!"
"What? Ow! I'm in a chase scene here, do you mind?"
"You showed me a fake badge!"
"What? No, it was a real badge." Weiss smirked and started
looking for an off-ramp with a car dealership nearby. "It
just wasn't *my* badge."
***
When the guards came into view, Vaughn almost laughed. Only
three? Yes, they had guns, and yes, Sydney's hands were
shackled behind her back, but still.
He waited until the last possible second before dropping
down on them. He smushed one pretty solidly and caught the
second with the edge of his boot.
Fortunately, Syd took out the third guy with her usual
finesse (spin, kick, jump, kick again...owww), because
Vaughn was busy trying to stand. Every muscle in his body
was kinked the wrong way from lying on that beam. And his
head...yeow.
"Vaughn!" Sydney was staring at him. "I thought--but the
wat--"
"Yeah, I thought too," Vaughn said grimly. "I'll tell you
later. Does one of these guys have the keys to your cuffs?"
"Maybe--" Sydney turned back to the one she'd knocked out.
Vaughn caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He
turned just as the second guard charged Sydney. Vaughn
didn't even think about it; as soon as the guy's back was to
him he kicked *hard* between his legs.
The guard made one small squeak and dropped like a rock.
Vaughn and Sydney stared at him, then at each other.
Vaughn leaned his head onto one hand. "I know that was a
girly move," he said faintly, "but you have to admit that
I'm the chick in this pairing."
Sydney just stared at him some more. "Vaughn, are you
okay?"
Vaughn leaned forward and vomited onto the man he'd just
kicked.
"Uh...let's go," Sydney said finally.
***
Sydney and Vaughn came tearing out of the back of the
building as Jack's SUV squealed to a halt. The back popped
open.
"Hurry!" a jumble of male voices said from inside the car.
Sydney and Vaughn blinked at each other and jumped in. The
car was moving again before they even closed the door.
"Daddy?" Sydney said, trying to get her legs under herself
and not bounce too hard off Vaughn. "Did you get Will?"
"Yes."
"Is he okay?"
The figure in the passenger seat shifted, but didn't turn
around. "Yes," Jack said again. "We'll talk soon, Sydney."
She caught the implied "shut up" and subsided, biting the
corner of her mouth that wasn't abraded and raw. Vaughn's
hand fumbled out and settled on her ankle.
After a few minutes of trying to pull her brain back
together, Sydney finally noticed the extra person in the
back seat. "Uh..." she said in their ear.
Sark turned around and smirked at her.
Sydney sucked in a breath. Vaughn tensed beside her.
"Jack?" he asked in a higher than usual voice. "Is it my
concussion, or is that son of a bitch Sark in this car with
us?"
"You have a concussion?" Jack asked dryly.
Sark smirked some more. Sydney glared at him. "Daddy? Can
I kill him, please?"
"We'll talk about it later, honey."
***
It was very loud outside the dingy motel room, and very
quiet inside. Will was half-lying on one of the double
beds; Sydney sat next to him, staring at him with a stricken
expression on her face. Sark was lounging near the other
bed, examining the cracked lamp on the wall and making a
production of ignoring the gun Vaughn was pointing at him.
All four came to attention when Jack re-entered the room.
He dropped his cell phone on the table and put one hand
briefly to his forehead.
"That bad?" Sydney said.
"Immeasurably worse. The only person in this room not
considered a fugitive by the CIA was Tippin."
"Was? What did I do?"
"Your insurance policy was published."
"My--oh, shit." Will sagged back onto the bed, wincing at
even that soft impact.
"What's he talking about?" Sydney asked him.
"My SD-6 article."
"Your *what*?" Sydney, Vaughn, and Sark shouted at the same
time.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You don't have to," Jack said. "I can read about it in
today's paper."
"Oh, God," Sydney said.
Sark shook his head. "She pulled it off. I don't believe
it. Derevko actually pulled it off."
"Shut up." Vaughn shoved him. "Just--just don't talk."
Sydney reached over and grabbed her father's hand.
"Francie! They'll go after--"
"She's fine. Agent Weiss has her in protective custody.
Other trusted agents have been dispatched to move your
parents and sister, Will."
"Thank you," Will said faintly.
"What about us?" Vaughn asked.
"That's still under review," Jack said. "There's the matter
of my cover and Sydney's, but in some cases charges will
likely be filed." He carefully avoided Sydney's eyes.
"Devlin's consulting with Langley--"
His phone rang. Jack let out a breath and picked it up.
"Bristow." Then he stiffened. "Arvin?"
Everyone in the room stilled. Vaughn and Will were actually
holding their breath.
"Tippin? I don't know where he is. We've discussed
this...his article?" A long pause. "Dear God. Well, how
much damage? That's good. No. No, I don't know. I'll ask
Sydney. I'm picking her up..." He consulted his watch.
"...for lunch in a few minutes. Yes. Tell her what?
Arvin, are you sure? Yes, of course you are. Good luck."
He pushed the "end" button and stared at the phone in his
hands.
"Jack?" Vaughn asked.
He held up a hand. "Wait." Then he dialed another number.
"Devlin? It's Bristow. Arvin Sloane just called me. The
Alliance has ordered SD-6 into a blind shutdown. Yes. Yes.
I don't know how long. Do you want us to come in...? All
right. I'll tell them. Yes." He hung up.
A short, hoarse laugh broke the silence. Everyone gaped at
Jack. He was shaking his head ruefully. "I'll be damned.
I will be damned."
"That's what I hear," Sark said.
Will looked at Sydney. "What's a blind shutdown?"
"It's, um, a last-ditch resort if the security of SD-6 were
to ever be compromised. The lower floors of Credit Dauphine
are locked down. All current missions are terminated. The
agents take up their cover jobs full-time, and absolutely
nothing suspicious takes place while the Security sections
of the other SD-6 branches attempt to neutralize the
threat."
"SD-6 *shuts down*?" Vaughn shook his head.
"It's never been anything but a theory," Jack said. "The
equivalent of that C-4 in the columns. To stop all
operations like this will cost untold millions."
"So that's it?" Will asked. "We go back to LA and you two
play banker while the CIA tries to arrest you and SD-6 tries
to kill me?"
"Not quite. The Devlin and Sloane both agree that Sydney
and I are too close to you and your article. They want us
out of sight until this blows over."
"Hiding?" said Vaughn.
"In Taipei?" said Will.
"What about me?" said Sark.
Sydney just stared.
Jack laughed again--everyone flinched--then rubbed his
forehead again. "All right. Let's get started. Sydney,
where's the bag I brought in from the car?"
She dug it out from beneath the bed and passed it to him.
"Vaughn--Vaughn, put the gun down. Thank you. Take these."
Vaughn looked at the passport and tickets. "New York?"
"Yes, you and Sydney will travel together. Sydney, once you
reach New York, take this key to the 47th Street YMCA.
Ditch these IDs entirely; the new ones are untraceable by
either SD-6 or the CIA."
"Where do we go from there?" Sydney asked.
"You'll find out in New York. There's a Hotmail account in
with the other information; I'll contact you when it's safe
to return to Los Angeles.
"Where will you be?" Sydney moved closer to Will. "Daddy--
"
"We'll be fine. Sydney." Jack leaned forward. "I'll keep
Will safe. I promise."
Sydney blinked away tears. "Keep yourself safe, too."
Jack nodded.
"What about me?" Sark demanded.
"Oh, there will be a team waiting at the airport to escort
you to Langley."
"You can't be serious."
"Oh, but I am," Jack said.
"I am not walking willingly into your headquarters. You'll
kill me."
"Maybe." The corners of Jack's mouth turned up slightly.
"But if you'd like, I can handcuff you to the bed and use
the phone here before we leave. Do you think 'The Man'
would take a call from her ex-husband?"
They stared at each other for a long moment before Sark
cleared his throat. "So, when do we leave?"
--the end--
Category: Action. Humor. AU after "Almost Thirty Years."
Rating: PG-13 for ass-kicking and swearing.
Spoilers: Season One.
Summary: "Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants,
monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..." No,
really. Well, maybe not the giants.
Archiving: Cover Me and our site (www.fanfic101.com).
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various
other people with lawyers. Not us. *sighs*
Notes: Two things. First, this follows the events of "Almost
Thirty Years" and was in fact written mostly between seasons
one and two. Second, it was originally intended to be the
first part of a longer story, but for various reasons we
won't be able to finish it. So try to think of it as a
standalone story with a very ambiguous ending. :)
***
How I Spent My Summer Vacation
By JenC and Celli
***
"Hell is other people."--Jean-Paul Sartre
***
Jack:
They call it 'solitary', which is bullshit. Oh, you don't
see anyone, you don't get a radio, there's nothing to break
the silence but the sound of your breathing. But you know--
at least until your mind cracks, anyway--that you're never
alone. Someone's watching, waiting for you to talk in your
sleep, beat off, whatever gives them a place to stick the
lever and move your world.
And they tell you it's for your own good, which is also
bullshit, at least in my case. They tell you that the bad
boys can pick out a cop, an agent, with their eyes closed.
And then it's a nasty accident in the showers, or a knife at
dinner. Whatever.
Anyone who got a good look at my file would know that if
there was an inmate stupid enough to start a fight, I would
finish it. Finish him.
So they stuck me in solitary and waited for something to
happen. They only made one miscalculation--they didn't
expect me to adapt to it. The solitary life and I turned out
to be a good fit.
***
Will Tippin awoke with his head pounding and his eyelids
gummed shut. He was in so much pain that the ache seemed to
extend beyond his body into the air around him. When he
finally managed to crack open his one good eye--the other
stubbornly refused to focus on anything, which the drugs
still partying through his body told him to worry about
later--he found himself in what looked to be a deserted
doctor's office. The cupboards along the walls stood open
and empty, the doors halfway off their hinges. The slow
staccato of dripping water thudded into the sink from a
leaky faucet. Shadows crowded the room, and the only light
came from a single, intense lamp that illuminated Jack
Bristow's graying hair.
"Wha--where?" The questions for which he wanted answers
slurred together.
"You're awake. Good." Jack set aside whatever he'd been
working on and turned to face Will. "There's a transport
plane leaving for Honolulu in two hours. You will be on that
flight. Your name--the name on this passport--" he picked up
the document he'd been working on and flashed it in Will's
general direction--"is Wallace Reina. You're from
Sacramento, California. You sell Hondas for a living. You
were on vacation here when your new girlfriend's ex decided
to win her back."
"Wait, wait, wait. Slow down."
"We do not have time to take this slow, Tippin. I've had to
pull strings to get you out of here."
"Where's Sydney? You said she--"
"Focus, Tippin. Right now this is about getting you out of
Taiwan." Jack flipped the passport onto the desk and stood.
"I'm all for that. But I want to know where Sydney is." He
sat up, teeth gritted against the pain, and braced himself
against the cracked vinyl of the table on which he'd been
lying. "Last night--was it last night?--whatever--you said
we were waiting for her. You said--"
"That was last night. The plan has changed."
Usually Jack Bristow's face had all the expressive quality
of a hunk of cement, but Will thought he was learning to
pick up the nuances. Either that, or the stuff the scary
Chinese guy had given him was more powerful than he'd
thought. He sucked in a breath, winced at the knifing pain
in his ribs, and said, "You don't know where she is, do
you?"
"That's not your concern."
"The hell it isn't. She came here to help me. We have to get
her back. We have to--" He tried to struggle to his feet,
and Jack pushed him down, none too gently.
"I've read your work, and you're obviously not an idiot."
Jack's tone conveyed an air of surprise. "So think this
through. You can barely walk. You don't know the language--
do you?"
Will shook his head.
"Then what good will you do me?"
"I want to help."
"You can help by getting out of here. I promised Sydney--"
His face tightened, a brief show of anger or pain--"I gave
my word I'd make sure you were safe. I will keep that
promise."
Will slid off the table and groaned when the jolt of his
feet hitting the floor resounded through every nerve in his
body. "I guess you'd better keep a good eye on me, then."
"Mr. Tippin."
"You might as well call me Will. Given the circumstances.
So, Jack--can I call you Jack? You're not shooting me, so I
guess we can be on a first-name basis--what's the plan?"
"There is no *plan*."
"That's not good. I thought you guys always had a plan. Do
you know where she is?"
"We have to get you to the plane."
"No plane." Will tried to cross his arms, but something
pulled in his shoulder so he lowered his hands to his sides
again. "I'm going with you."
"Got another cavity?"
"God." He fought down a wave of nausea. "How can you be such
a cold bastard?"
"I'm the bastard who's going to keep you alive."
Will bit his tongue, wishing he could call back the last
words he'd spoken. "I'm sorry."
"I know what I am." Jack pocketed the passport he'd been
working on, checked the clip on his 9-millimeter and
holstered it. "It doesn't matter. Last chance, Tippin--you
should catch that flight."
"I'm going with you."
Jack sighed, but he only answered, "Fine."
"You won't regret this."
"I doubt that. Listen carefully, because I will only say
this once. You will do exactly as I say. You will not argue.
You will not hesitate. If at any time I feel you are
endangering this mission, I will kill you. Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
"Wait here." He watched Jack sprint down a long hallway
painted a dingy shade of green. The air smelled of piss and
old medicine. At the end of the hall a barred door blocked
the way. A black box about the size of Will's palm hung on
the wall; Jack pushed a series of buttons, and the light at
the top switched from red to green.
"Motion detector," Jack said by way of explanation as he
gestured for Will to follow him. "I didn't want any visitors
to show up unannounced. From now on, keep silent. Don't even
sneeze."
Overwhelmed by the sudden urge to cough, Will nodded. The
door opened, surprisingly quietly given the rust around its
edges. Beyond was an alley, where light from the street
shimmered on the oily surfaces of puddles. Jack studied
both directions, then turned to the right and eased into the
shadows. Will followed, his hand over his mouth.
The alley kinked to the left, then broadened into a
courtyard. In it stood the SUV Jack had been driving when
he'd rescued Will.
"Get in," Jack said, his voice pitched so low Will could
barely hear it. "There's a change of clothes in the back,
and a first aid kit. Get cleaned up."
Will nodded and started to open the door when Jack hissed
and spun around, his hand slipping under his coat.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. A familiar figure,
holding a gun. "It's about bloody time you showed up. Do
you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you."
Sark, Will realized. His heart sank.
***
Ben Devlin upended the manila envelope over his desk, and
scowled at the note and tape that fell out. "What the hell
are you up to, Jack?"
The automated call that had reached him at his house an hour
earlier had sounded like a crude attempt at telemarketing at
first--so much so, he'd almost hung up before he noticed the
code words embedded in the message. When translated, they
conveyed the following: "Traitor within. Evidence obtained.
Friday drop."
He'd gone to the bookstore Jack had called the Friday drop,
for no particular reason that Ben could ever fathom. There,
he'd found this envelope, wedged behind a row of paperback
romances.
He turned the tape over in his hands, wishing he didn't have
to know what was on it, wishing he could just put it back
and pretend he'd never found it. As far as he'd risen in the
CIA hierarchy, he still relied on instinct, and right now
his gut screamed at him that he was holding career suicide
in his hands--Jack's at least, if not his own as well.
On the other hand, whatever squeamishness he'd felt as a
young agent had gone the way of moral scruples, and so after
a moment he dug a small tape player out of the chaos in his
desk and slipped in Jack's message. He heard a ragged voice
screaming curses; it took a moment to recognize that he was
listening to Haladki. Then Jack cut in, his questions
relentless. The sound of bones breaking.
Devlin swallowed the taste of bile in his mouth. He'd been
able to turn a blind eye to much of Jack's activity in the
past few years; he had realized that the life of a double
agent had twisted his old friend somehow, but the depth of
the madness hadn't dawned on him until that moment.
Then Haladki confessed to working for Khasinau.
Devlin lowered his head into his hands. This in and of
itself wouldn't clear Jack--his methods went well beyond
what the CIA sanctioned--but it would help, especially when
the agency brought in Haladki and--
A single gunshot, then silence.
"Damn it, Jack!"
"I'm sorry, Ben." Jack's voice, slightly distorted, came out
of the tape player, as if he'd heard Devlin. "I had to make
sure. I had to . . ." His words trailed off, as if he
realized that nothing he could say would fix this.
Devlin shut off the tape and sat with his hands folded,
pondering his next move. Finally he buzzed his assistant and
told her to find Agent Vaughn.
An hour later, he acknowledged the knock on his door, but to
his surprise it was Agent Weiss, not Vaughn, who appeared
when it opened.
"What's going on?"
Weiss was frowning. "Vaughn didn't show up this morning."
"What do you mean?" As if he had to ask. "Did he call in
sick?"
"No call. And when I went by his place, his dog hadn't been
fed. For a couple of days, at least, by the way the guy dug
in when I found him some kibble."
"God Almighty, would somebody tell me what the hell is going
on?"
"I think he's helping the Bristows."
Devlin closed his eyes and shook his head. "My wife wanted
to have a cookout this weekend."
"Sir?"
Devlin stood and made his way to the safe in his office. He
opened it and put the tape inside. "Jack Bristow has dumped
a whole shitload of trouble in our laps."
"So we bring him in." Weiss shifted from foot to foot. "I
know what he's done is valuable, but in the interests of the
agency . . ."
"In the interests of the agency, we're going to have to
clean this up."
"What exactly are we dealing with? Sir," Weiss added
belatedly.
"Before anything else, we need to find out what this
operation was Bristow kept talking about. He said he was
trying to save someone's life. I need to know that someone's
identity."
"Sydney's?"
"I'm guessing he would have told me if it was her."
"But Vaughn--"
"It's not outside the realm of possibility, I admit. Just
see what you can find. If you value Vaughn's life, work
alone. Fill me in as soon as you can." He tapped his watch.
"We're on the clock, Weiss. You don't want to know what
happens if we run out of time."
"Yes, sir." Weiss fled.
It was a risk, Devlin thought, as he watched the door close
behind Weiss. But he had a feeling that when faced with a
choice, the younger agent would do what he had done, would
choose friendship over company loyalties.
"He fed the dog," Devlin reminded himself. "That's a point
in his favor."
He went down to the file room and looked through everything
he could find on the Bristows' latest activities, hoping to
find a clue to their current whereabouts. Ordinarily he
would have checked out the mass of files, but he didn't want
anyone to know what he'd been doing. Paranoia, he told
himself, could be a handy survival trait.
***
Sydney:
When I was ten, I imagined that my mom would appear out of
nowhere. "It's all a mistake," she'd say. "I didn't really
die. I was sick, or lost, or kidnapped by pirates. But I'm
home now, sweetie." Then Daddy would laugh out loud again,
and everything would be perfect.
When I was fifteen, I imagined that someone who looked just
like my mom would appear out of nowhere. "It was all a
mistake," she'd say. "I'm your aunt, and your mom wanted you
to live with me, sweetie." Then Daddy would load my bags in
her car, and everything would be better.
Five months ago, I imagined that the CIA would capture my
mom. "It was all a mistake," she'd say. "I'm not really
evil. Your father framed me, and I never killed anyone,
sweetie." Then Daddy would go to jail, and everything would
make sense.
***
"Sweetie," Irina said for possibly the thousandth time.
Sydney gritted her teeth together.
It was bad enough that she'd let slip with the "Mom?" the
first time she had seen her. It was a bit of a shock,
that's all, but nothing to lose her training over. So for
the next twenty-some hours, Sydney had concentrated with all
her might on everything but her and the sick feeling Irina
caused in the pit of Sydney's stomach. This was a capture
and interrogation like any other. She'd simulated these a
thousand times back when she began at SD-6, and in the seven
years since she'd been on both sides of the table several
times. There were rules to be followed. Important rules.
"We can save your father. Daddy's here, isn't he, baby? We
can keep him safe."
Like not screaming in agony at the sound of her voice.
"And there's your friends back in Los Angeles. Francie, and
Dixon, and your handler. Michael, wasn't it?"
*Too late, you bitch. You've already killed him.*
Sydney had tried thinking of Vaughn at first, but once her
traitorous brain had connected his death with his father's,
she'd had to shut that down. So she thought of her father
instead. What had he said when she'd asked him to go after
Will...? "While I might look at scenarios more strategically
than emotionally, you could learn something from my
experience." She would go to him, after all this was over,
and say, "I did what you told me to, Daddy. I was
strategic. I was strong."
She'd built up quite an image as the hours wore on and the
persuasion turned to bribery turned to threats--thinly
disguised, but still threats. She pictured her Dad standing
next to her, smiling down at her--well, that wasn't
accurate--with that little not-quite-a-smile he'd worn only
a few times. Will was standing next to him, with his hands
in his pockets, rocking back on his heels and blinking
behind his glasses. And when she thought she could bear it,
Vaughn was behind the two of them, sitting on a box and
bouncing his heels off it just as he had when they would sit
at the warehouse and talk. (When had they done that? Not
very often. But she could remember with frightening detail
each time they had.) Irina was still there, somewhere. But
Sydney focused on the strange triumvirate in front of her
and closed her senses to everything else.
Finally Irina gave up. "Take her to the plane," Sydney
heard her say in Russian to someone outside the door. "I
can be more...effective...at our headquarters."
And although Sydney didn't so much as change her breathing,
the look in her eyes would have warned anyone who knew her.
*I can be effective too. Mom.*
***
Jack:
She makes me weak. Or perhaps I should say, the love of her
weakens me.
As long as she remained only a mouth to be fed, a back to be
clothed, a duty to fulfill, I could be strong. Ruthless.
As long as she hated me, I could keep her at a distance. I
could ignore who she was, who she was becoming. I could turn
a blind eye to the memories invoked by the curve of her
smile, by the rise and fall of her voice.
When Laura died--or as I have found out, when she left--and
all her secrets began oozing into the light, I cut her out
of my thoughts. Everything I could find that reminded me of
her, from the ring on my finger to the notes on the
refrigerator went into an incinerator. Only our child
remained.
I let Sydney blame me for her mother's death. I let her hate
me, let all the rage crash on the shell I'd built. It tested
my resolve, and my resolve was not found wanting.
And when she stopped trying to break through, I told myself
I felt nothing but relief. She would be safe. She would not
be part of my world, of the filth, of the lies. Safe.
Even when the truth began to emerge, when I discovered that
she had chosen (or been chosen for) the same darkness I had,
I told myself that we could walk our own paths. She couldn't
hate me any more for what I'd become than for what I'd been.
And then . . .
I no longer mock the stories about a parent's instincts.
There are some things more powerful than self-preservation,
a loyalty greater than any other. And because I could not
let her die, I find that we are once more in each other's
orbit, pulled by an emotional gravity for which neither of
us was prepared. Which, I suspect, she wanted as little as I
did at first.
When did it happen? I think back on the past few months, the
collision of her life and mine which some would call fate,
and I do not see where I crossed the line. I cannot find the
moment when I began to want what I'd rejected so long ago.
The man I was would never have risked so much for an
expendable. I have made this journey, I have abandoned my
old life, I have killed a man--and all for an individual who
is no longer necessary for my task, an individual who no
doubt will prove more a liability than an asset. Because
*she* cares for him. Because I have given my word to keep
him safe.
Because, God help me, what she thinks of me matters. And I
do not want to be the one to make my little girl cry.
***
"Hey! He shot me!" Will tried to step closer, but Jack
motioned him off. "What's going on here?"
"I told you to keep quiet." Jack turned to Sark. "He has a
point. What do you want?"
For a moment, there was silence in the courtyard. The
distant sound of sirens and honking horns drifted in. The
air smelled of rain. "Still babysitting, I see." Sark made a
show of putting up his gun.
"I have no interest in trading quips with you. Explain
yourself." Jack turned his back on Sark, which struck Will
as a dangerous move, but apparently the show of contempt had
an effect.
"I presume you do have an interest in your daughter's
current location?"
Jack froze. "I have no reason to do business with you. Get
in the car, Will."
"Wait! He says he knows where--"
"Get in the car. We have no reason to trust him. He has no
good reason to be here--he's chosen sides already." Jack
climbed in and started the SUV. Will hesitated.
Sark leaned in the open door, his voice raised over the
growl of the engine. "It seems I am privy to too much
information, Mr. Bristow. Khasinau's boss--"
Jack killed the engine. "What did you say?"
"I thought that would catch your attention. It certainly
gave me a start."
"Khasinau's . . . boss." Jack drummed his fingers on the
steering wheel. "Start talking."
"Until a few hours ago, I was sure that Khasinau was the one
known as 'The Man'." Sark's gaze roved the shadows, as if he
expected something to jump out at him any moment. "Can't we
talk about this while you drive?"
"Tell me what you know now, or you're on your own."
Will, who had climbed in the passenger seat, leaned over and
whispered, "We aren't going to help him, are we? He gave me
to the evil dentist guy."
Jack ignored him. "Time's running out, Sark."
"Faster than you know. All right, all right. I don't know
what the hell your people were up to, but they flooded the
lower levels of the lab."
"Flooded? That explosive device shouldn't have been powerful
enough to rupture the mains. And the Rambaldi device--" He
swore, an impressively inventive display. "How big was it?"
"I never saw it. But from the amount of equipment they took
in . . ." Sark shrugged. "Damn big."
"What's the situation now?"
"The Man has your daughter."
"Khasinau has Sydney?" Will shook Jack's arm. "We don't have
time for this. They could be killing her."
"We need to know what's going on. Keep talking," he told
Sark. "You said Sydney's a captive?" There was a note in his
voice, hope or amusement, that Will couldn't read.
"When news of the explosion reached me, I went to
headquarters. I saw something I wasn't supposed to see, and
they came after me. I need your help."
"What did you see?"
"Let me in." Sark tugged at the rear door of the car. In the
faint light, the pallor of his face gave him the look of a
ghost. A note of fear threaded his voice. "I saw Sydney with
The Man. But The Man wasn't Khasinau. The Man wasn't even a
man, if you follow me."
"Not really. Stop playing games, Sark." Jack started the car
again.
"She calls herself Irina Derevko. But your daughter called
her 'Mom'."
"Holy shit." Will collapsed into his seat. "He's joking,
right? Tell me he's joking."
Jack reached back and unlocked the rear door of the car.
"Get in and shut up," he told Sark.
Sark did as he was told, and the SUV squealed out of the
courtyard as Will struggled with his seatbelt.
***
Vaughn was on the ceiling.
He passed the time composing an explanation for Sydney.
*Well, there was this wave of water--oh, wait, you were
there for that. Anyway, I got up towards the surface and
grabbed the nearest, well, anything, which happened to be
this ceiling beam. I was going to drop down into the water
when it started receding*--he waved aside mental-Sydney's
Noah's Ark jokes--*but it just sort of vanished and there
wasn't time. So--here I am!*
It was a fairly lame explanation, considering the amount of
time he'd had to work on it. He'd managed to wiggle around
until he was squished into the space between the top of the
beam and the ceiling itself, but there was too much room
between it and the next beam; he couldn't move across
towards a wall. And he could drop down--which would
probably break several bones, plus take him straight into
camera range and get him captured. *Shit.* And he kept
falling asleep; add that to the lump on the back of his
head, and he was a little woozy.
He had a brief mental image of himself, treed like a damn
cat, then another image of Sydney beneath him, blue hair and
all, calling "Here, kitty kitty!" and nearly fell off
anyway, he was laughing so hard.
He sank his teeth into the leather of his jacket to muffle
his giggles and tried to calm down. Okay. He had to get
out of there. He needed to get to the rendezvous point and
find out if Sydney had made it. Otherwise he'd have to come
back in here and kick some ass. *Yeah, right.* He'd bring
Jack back with him. He'd never seen Agent Bristow, Senior
in action, but he had a feeling he would up the ass-kicking
quotient quite a bit.
Now he just had to get down. *Dammit. What would Sydney
do? She'd be out of here already. She'd pull a little rope
ladder out of her bra and be out of here. Plus, she'd never
have gotten caught by the giant Super Soaker to begin with.*
While he was still trying to figure a way out, plus update
the lame explanation (mental-Sydney was still snickering)
and come up with a better name for "The Circumference" (the
current winners were "Tiger Woods' wet dream of a golf ball"
and "The Big Red Dodge Ball of Doom"), he heard footsteps
from down the hall. He scrunched around to look down, and
saw a flash of blue hair.
Well, at least he knew where Sydney was. Although it looked
as though the ass-kicking was up to him. He took the time
to send a brief prayer skyward, then got ready to jump.
***
Weiss:
I don't want you to think I've changed my mind in the
slightest.
Mike may hate me for the rest of his life, but that doesn't
change the fact that I'm *right,* goddammit. Every person
that SD-6 kills while he's off chasing wildfowl is--well,
it's not his fault. But he should feel guilty about it.
And Bristow--if she hadn't tied his dick in a knot and cut
off all circulation to his brain--she's a good kid, you
know? I'm just tempted to wear a garlic chain and a cross
every time I go near her. Her effect on men is not to be
taken lightly. Even her father, the epitome of the Company
man, would do anything for her.
Which is why I'm standing at Bristow Junior's door when it's
the last place I want to be. With Tippin gone and our
double agents possibly exposed, there's only one person left
in LA who might know where I can find them before they
destroy everything.
***
"Syd? It's Francie. Um, are you on a work trip? You
didn't leave a note or a message or anything. Look, Will's
gone too, and when I called his office, they were-I dunno.
Weird. Syd? Just call me, okay? Even if you haven't heard
from Will. Leave me a message. Or an email. Smoke
signals? Singing telegram? Something. Damn, that's the
door. *Call me*, Sydney."
***
Weiss heard footsteps approaching the door. "Hello?" He
thumped on it again when it didn't open.
"Who is it?"
"Francine Calfo? This is Detective Wallace with the LAPD."
He held the badge up to the peephole. "This is concerning
Sydney Bristow and Will Tippin?"
She yanked the door open. "What about them?"
"Ah..."That had been easier than he'd planned. Weiss
discarded the long convoluted story and gestured towards his
car. "Could you come with me, please, Miss Calfo?"
She hesitated. "What's going on?"
He noticed movement to his left. Three men in suits were
getting out of a suspiciously bland car. Shit. No time for
the long story now. "I need you to identify a body."
He caught her as she stumbled forward. "Wha-who? A body?
Oh, God!" The suits were looking their way. Weiss half-
carried, half-hurried her to his car.
"Put your seatbelt on."
She just gaped at him.
Weiss shrugged and threw the car into reverse. The suits
were already running for their car.
"You're going kind of fast," she said as he took the first
corner at 35.
He shot into the left lane without even looking behind him.
"Seat belt, Miss Calfo. Now."
"What the hell is going on?" He could see her fingers
shaking on the belt before he turned his attention back to
his mirrors. "What happened to Will and Syd?"
Damn. There they were. He braked hard and screeched into a
U-turn.
"What the *hell*? Stop!"
"That would be a bad idea, ma'am." He pulled out his cell
phone and dialed. Where was that damn on-ramp? He was
headed in the wrong direction. "Tanya? It's Weiss. Get me
Devlin."
"You said your name was Wallace!"
"Shh. Hello, sir. I've got her. Just a few steps ahead of
their guys. No, sir, I think after what happened to Tippin-
" he gestured her quiet-"that a safe house is the last place
to go. I have a plan. Yes, sir. I'll call you back after
we ditch them."
Weiss closed the phone, gunned the car around a slow-moving
pickup, and broke the speed limit halfway up the ramp.
She grabbed his arm. She had long nails.
"Hey!"
"Not to distract you or anything, but who are you and what
the hell is going on?"
"I'm Eric Weiss. CIA. And we-" he cut between two buses
and jumped into the HOV lane-"are outrunning the bad guys.
Cool, huh?"
"Where's Sydney and Will?"
"We're working on it."
"The CIA."
"Yeah."
"Oh, God." Suddenly her fingers tightened on his arm.
"Hey!"
"What? Ow! I'm in a chase scene here, do you mind?"
"You showed me a fake badge!"
"What? No, it was a real badge." Weiss smirked and started
looking for an off-ramp with a car dealership nearby. "It
just wasn't *my* badge."
***
When the guards came into view, Vaughn almost laughed. Only
three? Yes, they had guns, and yes, Sydney's hands were
shackled behind her back, but still.
He waited until the last possible second before dropping
down on them. He smushed one pretty solidly and caught the
second with the edge of his boot.
Fortunately, Syd took out the third guy with her usual
finesse (spin, kick, jump, kick again...owww), because
Vaughn was busy trying to stand. Every muscle in his body
was kinked the wrong way from lying on that beam. And his
head...yeow.
"Vaughn!" Sydney was staring at him. "I thought--but the
wat--"
"Yeah, I thought too," Vaughn said grimly. "I'll tell you
later. Does one of these guys have the keys to your cuffs?"
"Maybe--" Sydney turned back to the one she'd knocked out.
Vaughn caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He
turned just as the second guard charged Sydney. Vaughn
didn't even think about it; as soon as the guy's back was to
him he kicked *hard* between his legs.
The guard made one small squeak and dropped like a rock.
Vaughn and Sydney stared at him, then at each other.
Vaughn leaned his head onto one hand. "I know that was a
girly move," he said faintly, "but you have to admit that
I'm the chick in this pairing."
Sydney just stared at him some more. "Vaughn, are you
okay?"
Vaughn leaned forward and vomited onto the man he'd just
kicked.
"Uh...let's go," Sydney said finally.
***
Sydney and Vaughn came tearing out of the back of the
building as Jack's SUV squealed to a halt. The back popped
open.
"Hurry!" a jumble of male voices said from inside the car.
Sydney and Vaughn blinked at each other and jumped in. The
car was moving again before they even closed the door.
"Daddy?" Sydney said, trying to get her legs under herself
and not bounce too hard off Vaughn. "Did you get Will?"
"Yes."
"Is he okay?"
The figure in the passenger seat shifted, but didn't turn
around. "Yes," Jack said again. "We'll talk soon, Sydney."
She caught the implied "shut up" and subsided, biting the
corner of her mouth that wasn't abraded and raw. Vaughn's
hand fumbled out and settled on her ankle.
After a few minutes of trying to pull her brain back
together, Sydney finally noticed the extra person in the
back seat. "Uh..." she said in their ear.
Sark turned around and smirked at her.
Sydney sucked in a breath. Vaughn tensed beside her.
"Jack?" he asked in a higher than usual voice. "Is it my
concussion, or is that son of a bitch Sark in this car with
us?"
"You have a concussion?" Jack asked dryly.
Sark smirked some more. Sydney glared at him. "Daddy? Can
I kill him, please?"
"We'll talk about it later, honey."
***
It was very loud outside the dingy motel room, and very
quiet inside. Will was half-lying on one of the double
beds; Sydney sat next to him, staring at him with a stricken
expression on her face. Sark was lounging near the other
bed, examining the cracked lamp on the wall and making a
production of ignoring the gun Vaughn was pointing at him.
All four came to attention when Jack re-entered the room.
He dropped his cell phone on the table and put one hand
briefly to his forehead.
"That bad?" Sydney said.
"Immeasurably worse. The only person in this room not
considered a fugitive by the CIA was Tippin."
"Was? What did I do?"
"Your insurance policy was published."
"My--oh, shit." Will sagged back onto the bed, wincing at
even that soft impact.
"What's he talking about?" Sydney asked him.
"My SD-6 article."
"Your *what*?" Sydney, Vaughn, and Sark shouted at the same
time.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You don't have to," Jack said. "I can read about it in
today's paper."
"Oh, God," Sydney said.
Sark shook his head. "She pulled it off. I don't believe
it. Derevko actually pulled it off."
"Shut up." Vaughn shoved him. "Just--just don't talk."
Sydney reached over and grabbed her father's hand.
"Francie! They'll go after--"
"She's fine. Agent Weiss has her in protective custody.
Other trusted agents have been dispatched to move your
parents and sister, Will."
"Thank you," Will said faintly.
"What about us?" Vaughn asked.
"That's still under review," Jack said. "There's the matter
of my cover and Sydney's, but in some cases charges will
likely be filed." He carefully avoided Sydney's eyes.
"Devlin's consulting with Langley--"
His phone rang. Jack let out a breath and picked it up.
"Bristow." Then he stiffened. "Arvin?"
Everyone in the room stilled. Vaughn and Will were actually
holding their breath.
"Tippin? I don't know where he is. We've discussed
this...his article?" A long pause. "Dear God. Well, how
much damage? That's good. No. No, I don't know. I'll ask
Sydney. I'm picking her up..." He consulted his watch.
"...for lunch in a few minutes. Yes. Tell her what?
Arvin, are you sure? Yes, of course you are. Good luck."
He pushed the "end" button and stared at the phone in his
hands.
"Jack?" Vaughn asked.
He held up a hand. "Wait." Then he dialed another number.
"Devlin? It's Bristow. Arvin Sloane just called me. The
Alliance has ordered SD-6 into a blind shutdown. Yes. Yes.
I don't know how long. Do you want us to come in...? All
right. I'll tell them. Yes." He hung up.
A short, hoarse laugh broke the silence. Everyone gaped at
Jack. He was shaking his head ruefully. "I'll be damned.
I will be damned."
"That's what I hear," Sark said.
Will looked at Sydney. "What's a blind shutdown?"
"It's, um, a last-ditch resort if the security of SD-6 were
to ever be compromised. The lower floors of Credit Dauphine
are locked down. All current missions are terminated. The
agents take up their cover jobs full-time, and absolutely
nothing suspicious takes place while the Security sections
of the other SD-6 branches attempt to neutralize the
threat."
"SD-6 *shuts down*?" Vaughn shook his head.
"It's never been anything but a theory," Jack said. "The
equivalent of that C-4 in the columns. To stop all
operations like this will cost untold millions."
"So that's it?" Will asked. "We go back to LA and you two
play banker while the CIA tries to arrest you and SD-6 tries
to kill me?"
"Not quite. The Devlin and Sloane both agree that Sydney
and I are too close to you and your article. They want us
out of sight until this blows over."
"Hiding?" said Vaughn.
"In Taipei?" said Will.
"What about me?" said Sark.
Sydney just stared.
Jack laughed again--everyone flinched--then rubbed his
forehead again. "All right. Let's get started. Sydney,
where's the bag I brought in from the car?"
She dug it out from beneath the bed and passed it to him.
"Vaughn--Vaughn, put the gun down. Thank you. Take these."
Vaughn looked at the passport and tickets. "New York?"
"Yes, you and Sydney will travel together. Sydney, once you
reach New York, take this key to the 47th Street YMCA.
Ditch these IDs entirely; the new ones are untraceable by
either SD-6 or the CIA."
"Where do we go from there?" Sydney asked.
"You'll find out in New York. There's a Hotmail account in
with the other information; I'll contact you when it's safe
to return to Los Angeles.
"Where will you be?" Sydney moved closer to Will. "Daddy--
"
"We'll be fine. Sydney." Jack leaned forward. "I'll keep
Will safe. I promise."
Sydney blinked away tears. "Keep yourself safe, too."
Jack nodded.
"What about me?" Sark demanded.
"Oh, there will be a team waiting at the airport to escort
you to Langley."
"You can't be serious."
"Oh, but I am," Jack said.
"I am not walking willingly into your headquarters. You'll
kill me."
"Maybe." The corners of Jack's mouth turned up slightly.
"But if you'd like, I can handcuff you to the bed and use
the phone here before we leave. Do you think 'The Man'
would take a call from her ex-husband?"
They stared at each other for a long moment before Sark
cleared his throat. "So, when do we leave?"
--the end--
