Chapter Twenty-seven: Gone
Irina held the metal plate that contained Jack Bristow's meal, smiling as she anticipated delivering it to him. There weren't a lot of things that brought her pleasure in her life. Torturing her former husband did.
She'd told him that she imagined that Michael would be locating Sydney at any moment. In truth, she'd been sure of no such thing. Part of her had believed that Brooke really would work her magic, that she'd have Michael sampling her favors by the end of the night. But she'd taken a perverse thrill in letting Jack believe that Sydney had even more power over Michael than she'd once had over him. The power to keep him coming back for more, even after unspeakable actions and misdeeds.
As it turned out, Irina had been right, though it seemed that Michael had more power over Sydney than she'd suspected. More brains, too. Part of her had thought that he would actually believe that she'd let him believe Sydney was dead for his own good. Certainly, she hadn't thought he'd convince Sydney to leave her again. She almost admired the boy-- he was good. Too bad he was as good as dead, now.
Brooke Banning had come to her the morning after she'd gone to seduce Michael, reporting that she'd been unsuccessful and that she suspected that Michael might be going after Sydney and his children. She'd been right. Irina had sent agents out looking for her daughter and son-in-law, though she wasn't wasting a lot of manpower or effort on the search. When she wanted to find the two of them, she would. There was no doubt in her mind.
For now, though, she had bigger fish to fry. Jack Bristow, for one. The thought that he'd nearly succeeded in getting Sydney and Michael to betray her made her blood boil. Had he really thought that he would beat her? After the ten years she'd spent convincing him she was a loving wife and mother? After the way Sydney had come to her for help, for a job eleven years ago?
Well, Jack Bristow was a fool, and she was never going to let him forget it. For as much as she'd enjoyed putting the screws to Sydney and Michael during the past year, half of her pleasure had come from the fact that by doing so, she was also putting the screws to Jack. She was ruining his precious Sydney, making her miserable. Because she could. Because she wanted to.
And so now she turned the corner to Jack's cell, metal plate in hand, wicked smile on her face. "Jack," she called.
As soon as his cell was in view, though, the smile disappeared from her face. No. This wasn't supposed to happen. How could this have happened?
Jack Bristow was gone.