SPOILERS: Through S2.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to J.J. Abrams, who has proved once again that despite his tenuous grasp on logic, he sure as hell can spin a suspenseful tale.
SUMMARY: Tell me why you're here, I came to disappear. Eighth in the Matrilineal series.
THANKS: To Em and Lu for the thoughtful beta.
Disappear
Macha
He's never been able to sleep well on planes.
Considering that he's spent the better part of the last day on airplanes and in airports, by the time he disembarks in Cozumel, the cumulative lack of sleep is getting to him.
Derevko had dictated her terms during their short conversation the day before, and Vaughn, who hadn't brought his Palm Pilot to the beach, committed them to memory. The situation was disconcerting, to say the least -- setting up a meet with the international fugitive from justice who'd killed his father while Donovan tugged impatiently at his leash, wanting to play in the surf.
Derevko's terms had, of course, left Vaughn little time to do anything but drop Donovan off, ask his neighbor to check on the dejected dog, toss some clothes and toiletries in a bag, and head for LAX. The 14 hour trip to Rio de Janeiro included -- since he'd had to take the first available flight -- a layover in Managua. Vaughn remained on the plane while it was on the ground in Nicaragua, fidgeting, hoping it wouldn't be late or he'd miss the appointed hour.
He'd made it, as it turned out, but Derevko hadn't. She'd sent someone, which he should've been able to predict, to make sure he was really acting alone. So he had swallowed his frustration, accepted the plane ticket and credentials handed to him by a plain-looking woman in a crowd of strangers, and trudged back to the airport to get on yet another plane.
As annoyed as he is that Derevko sent him winging all over South America, he's a little bit relieved. If she'd wanted him dead, she'd have had an operative do it in Rio, where he was unprotected. And, more importantly, while she was conspicuously elsewhere. So he'd boarded the plane to Cozumel -- this one with a stopover in Chiapas -- with a strange, hazy sense of optimism.
He feels sluggish as he emerges into the brutal, bright Mexican afternoon, and the oppressive heat doesn't help. He's sweating already.
Vaughn peels his leather jacket off, draping it over his arm, and slides on a pair of sunglasses. The small island is bustling with tourists, despite the time of year, and Vaughn does his best to blend in.
He hails a taxi and speaks French-accented Spanish to the cabbie, who nods and drives him down to the waterfront. Vaughn's a few hours early, but he still feels rushed. He prefers to arrive at potentially dangerous meetings early enough to surveil for a while; today, he's going to have to trust Derevko.
Trusting Derevko is not something he feels prepared to do. Especially since he's sure she sent him to Rio to make sure he didn't have the time to *get* prepared for the meet. She didn't get to the top of the espionage game by letting her opponents secure the location she'd chosen.
Vaughn tips the cabbie, shoulders his bag, and checks into the Hotel El Marqués, paying for two nights in Mexican pesos. It's a small, family-run place, notable more for its proximity to the Plaza del Sol than for any amenities it possesses. He heads immediately for the bathroom, dampening a washcloth with cold water and pressing it to the back of his neck. He studies his haggard reflection and considers shaving the well-past five o'clock shadow, but decides he doesn't have that kind of time.
He dumps the contents of his bag onto the rickety chair and digs through the pile, locating a pair of khaki shorts and a faded t-shirt advertising Samuel Adams beer that he won in a bar trivia concert years ago. He knows a pair of sandals would complete his aging frat boy look, but he can't dismiss the possibility that the day will end with him running for his life, and he doesn't relish the idea of doing that barefoot. He tugs on a fresh pair of socks and his running shoes, and heads for the door.
He pauses on his way out to push the window open as far as it will go, but he's pretty sure that won't do a thing to cool off the room.
Vaughn emerges onto the street, patting his pockets discreetly: wallet (with a license and library card from University of Texas that identify him as Michael Lockhart of Round Rock, Texas), room key, cellphone, Swiss army knife, SIG Sauer, and a small, color-copy of his picture of Jane.
The large Plaza is full of milling tourists gawking at the locals, drinking tequila, buying overpriced souvenirs, and generally getting in Vaughn's way. There's no way he can clear the square by himself; he can't even see to the other side for the large statues of Benito Juárez and Andréas Quintana Roo. He wanders over to Fat Tuesday and orders himself a drink, settling on a barstool next to the open window. He scans the crowd over and over, sipping slowly until the slushy drink turns entirely liquid.
It takes him only a moment to order another and hand over a wad of pesos, but when he turns back, Irina Derevko is standing in front of him, dressed in a calf-length indigo sundress, with that infuriating half-smile in place. "Hello."
Vaughn isn't sure what to say to her, so he nods.
"Michael, isn't it?" Derevko ventures.
"Michael Lockhart," Vaughn answers smoothly, offering his hand. "My girlfriend and I were both in your class at Texas. Abnormal Psychology."
"Yes," she answers. "How is your girlfriend?"
"I haven't seen her in a long time."
Derevko smiles and moves closer to the bar to order a drink. When the bartender moves away to pour it, she leans in and speaks softly. "Why did you contact me?"
"I need to find Sloane," he answers, matching her tone.
She doesn't reply, her gaze sliding past him to the bartender, who places Derevko's drink on the bar. She thanks him in Spanish, then turns back to Vaughn. "We should go somewhere," she says to Vaughn, playing the part of old acquaintance flawlessly. "Catch up on old times."
Vaughn hesitates. He's come this far, though, and she's probably the only person who can bring him to Sloane. And so he nods. "You've missed quite a few significant developments."
Derevko steps out into the sunlight, her deep blue sundress swirling around her legs. "Probably fewer than you think."
***
Vaughn follows Derevko from the Plaza, doing his best gawking tourist impression, which gives him the opportunity to scan the square for Derevko's operatives. He can't pinpoint anyone, though he doubts she'd come alone.
Derevko pauses at the curb and lifts one graceful arm into the air. A taxi slides smoothly to the curb. Derevko speaks to the cabbie through the open passenger window. "Buenos días. San Gervaso, por favor."
The cabbie looks pretty much like the driver who'd taken Vaughn from the airport from his hotel, and the car itself seems to be running by sheer willpower. In short, he looks like every other cabdriver on the island, but something about the way he studies Vaughn suggests he possesses talents surpassing that of a typical taxi driver.
Vaughn opens the door and holds it for Derevko. "After you," he says, and there's only a hit of sarcasm in his voice.
That half-smile is back, and she acquiesces, sliding into the car. Vaughn casts one glance around before joining her. He's not sure what San Gervaso is, but he assumes it's her hotel. The ride doesn't take that long, a few minutes on Avenue Juárez away from the only town on the island, and then a left turn onto a dirt road.
Fifteen or so jarring minutes later, it's clear she's not taking him to her hotel. He's wondering if he's laboring under serious misapprehensions and maybe she *is* going to kill him, but then the cabbie halts next to a small building offering refreshments and souvenirs. The sign reads "Temple of Ix Chel."
Derevko doesn't look at him, opening her door and asking the driver to wait. She stops at the ticket counter as Vaughn climbs out of the cab. She pays two admission fees and walks on, Vaughn following. The jungle closes around them, the sounds of birds and geckos and, if the hotel clerk is to be believed, monkeys moving around. Derevko emerges into the sun, and Vaughn quickens his pace, joining her in a small clearing. The temple is a crumbling grey stone structure with an incongruous thatched roof, its attendant signs written in Spanish, English, and what Vaughn assumes is Mayan. He notes with some irony that Ix Chel was the ancient Goddess of childbirth and medicine. He wonders just how much Derevko does know.
Vaughn pulls his sweat-soaked shirt away from his skin, squinting even behind his sunglasses, and trudges to her side. Derevko's stopped and is standing still, her arms crossed loosely in front of her, her head tilted slightly to one side, every line of her body suggesting that she's merely a tourist. You wouldn't know from looking at her right now that she's killed thirteen agents and who knows how many civilians, Vaughn thinks. An observer wouldn't guess that she killed my father.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" she asks, her voice soft but clear in the relative silence.
Vaughn casts a disinterested look over the crumbling rocks. "Sure," he answers. "Though you might mar the beauty a little if you kill me here."
Derevko actually chuckles at him. She glances at him and says, "I have no plans to kill you."
"You'll forgive me if I reserve the right to seriously doubt your word," Vaughn bites out. "At least until I walk out of here."
"We're here at your request," Derevko points out mildly.
"No, we're meeting at my request, but we're here because you brought us here."
She shrugs one shoulder, still seemingly unconcerned.
Vaughn grits his teeth and says, "The only reason I contacted you is that your associate is currently trying to kill your daughter." He pauses, waiting for a reaction. When Derevko just stares placidly back at him, he adds, "And your granddaughter."
For once, Derevko's famed control falters. Her eyes widen and she stands very, very still. Vaughn's not even sure if she's breathing. She shakes her head, just a little, and repeats, "My granddaughter."
Vaughn forces himself to ignore the note of wonder in her voice. "Sydney disappeared a year ago--"
"A move of which I thoroughly approved," Derevko interrupts smoothly, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"She was three months pregnant at the time."
Derevko turns away from him, her arms akimbo. The casual viewer would assume she's merely taking in the view, but Vaughn figures she's doing some sort of breathing exercise or whatever she'd called it. He is about to speak when she turns back suddenly, the hem of her dress swirling around her legs.
"My associate," she says, her voice soft and polite once more. "You mean Sloane."
"Are your other associates currently trying to kill your daughter?" Vaughn shoots back.
Derevko's mouth tightens for brief moment. "My associates," she answers, "understand certain boundaries that have been drawn."
Vaughn gives her a sour look. "Can you think of anyone besides Sloane who would do this?"
"No," she admits, stepping closer. Her eyes narrow as she studies him. "It is Sloane. But he wouldn't kill Sydney or my granddaughter." She stumbles a little over the word. "He wants to ransom her. If he has Sydney's daughter, he has Sydney under his control." Derevko's gaze is almost a physical pressure. "Did he find her?"
"She got away," Vaughn answered. "From the looks of her house, there was a fight and she made it out with Jane."
"Jane," Derevko echoes in a whisper.
Vaughn's jaw clenches. He's not sure how he feels about hearing that name from Derevko's lips. "I don't know where they are now."
"Why did you contact me?"
"I need to find Sloane."
Derevko tilts her head inquisitively. "Jack isn't looking for Sloane?"
Vaughn crosses his arms. "Jack isn't sharing information, and--"
"Jane is your daughter."
Vaughn recoils, just a little. "I don't know."
Derevko smiles again, that enigmatic curve of her lips. She walks past him, touching his arm for a moment. "Yes, you do."
Vaughn stays where he is, watching as she moves closer to the Temple of Ix Chel.
"The cab will take you anywhere you want to go," she says, not bothering to turn to face him. "I'll contact you in the morning."
"How will you know where--"
"The Hotel El Marqués," she interrupts, reaching the edge of the temple. "I'll contact you in the morning," she says, and disappears around the corner.
Vaughn considers going after her, but knows it won't gain him anything. So he glances once more at the ruins of the temple, then turns and heads for the cab.
***
Considering how tired he is, Vaughn thinks he'll sleep all night. He sets his travel alarm and requests a wake-up call as backup. He needn't have bothered.
The oppressive heat and the sound of rain spattering on his window and his racing thoughts make sleep a near impossibility. He probably managed to catch a cumulative hour or two, but he's up at dawn and in the shower, the water refreshingly cool. He considers going for something to eat, but doesn't want to leave the room.
It's 7:30 when the knock startles him. Gun in hand, he stands to the side of the door and calls, "Yes?"
"C'est Monique, l'émissaire de la Madamoiselle." The voice is that of a woman's, and her accent has the musical lilt of the Caribbean islands.
Vaughn opens the door cautiously to reveal an incongruously small woman in a Quintana Roo tank top and khaki shorts. "Où est-ce que--"
"La Mademoiselle?" she interrupts. "À l'hôtel." She wrinkles up her nose and continues with a shrug. "Je pense qu'il s'appelles 'El Cozumeleño.'"
"Allons-nous à l'hôtel maintenant?" Vaughn asked.
"Oui. Allons-y!"
"Yeah," Vaughn says, following the cheerful French woman. The same driver is waiting at the curb to bring them to Irina's hotel, but this time he's driving a Volkswagen Beetle. They leave the small downtown area of San Miguel, driving out to Playa Santa Pilar. The large, multistory hotel is right on the beach and a good deal more luxurious than Vaughn's small room in town. He follows Monique through the lobby and out onto the small private beach. There's a patio with several tables shaded by brightly colored umbrellas.
Vaughn spots Derevko and Monique takes her leave, heading back inside. There's food on the table, a collection of fruits and vegetables, plus waffles and pancakes no doubt geared to American tourists. Derevko glances up as he approaches, gesturing to the free seat. "Good morning."
Vaughn can't think of an appropriate response. He can't classify breakfasting with his father's murderer as good, so he gives her a curt nod and drops into the empty seat.
"Do you have a picture of Jane?" she asks without preamble.
He answers without thinking. "No." He's not sure why he's lying, but he can't stand hearing his daughter's name from Irina Derevko's lips, can't stand the thought of her fingers tracing the lines of Jane's face in his photograph. His hand smoothes over his pocket, feeling the stiffness of the paper through the soft material.
Derevko stares at him in silence for so long, he's sure she knows he lied.
"That's too bad," she says finally. "I would've liked to have seen her."
"Where's Sloane?" Vaughn demands.
"I've contacted him," Derevko answers without missing a beat. "I've arranged for us to meet this evening."
"Where?" Vaughn demands, leaning forward. Finally, he thinks. Some progress. Contacting Derevko may have been unpleasant and possibly not his brightest idea, but she certainly gets results.
"Belize." Derevko holds his gaze. "Our plane will be ready in an hour."
"Belize," Vaughn repeats. "Do we have a plan?"
"I have a plan," Derevko answers.
"Listen--"
"Don't worry," she interrupts. "You play a part in my plan."
He crosses his arms and meets her gaze defiantly. "What part?"
She pushes her chair back from the table and rises, holding a glass of orange juice in one hand. Derevko smiles down at him. "Make sure you don't get in my way," she answers.
THE END
Feedback is appreciated at Macha - at - healthyinterest.net
The Sticky Wicket - Fanfic by Macha
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Healthy Interest - We're not obsessed. Really.
healthyinterest.net
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to J.J. Abrams, who has proved once again that despite his tenuous grasp on logic, he sure as hell can spin a suspenseful tale.
SUMMARY: Tell me why you're here, I came to disappear. Eighth in the Matrilineal series.
THANKS: To Em and Lu for the thoughtful beta.
Disappear
Macha
He's never been able to sleep well on planes.
Considering that he's spent the better part of the last day on airplanes and in airports, by the time he disembarks in Cozumel, the cumulative lack of sleep is getting to him.
Derevko had dictated her terms during their short conversation the day before, and Vaughn, who hadn't brought his Palm Pilot to the beach, committed them to memory. The situation was disconcerting, to say the least -- setting up a meet with the international fugitive from justice who'd killed his father while Donovan tugged impatiently at his leash, wanting to play in the surf.
Derevko's terms had, of course, left Vaughn little time to do anything but drop Donovan off, ask his neighbor to check on the dejected dog, toss some clothes and toiletries in a bag, and head for LAX. The 14 hour trip to Rio de Janeiro included -- since he'd had to take the first available flight -- a layover in Managua. Vaughn remained on the plane while it was on the ground in Nicaragua, fidgeting, hoping it wouldn't be late or he'd miss the appointed hour.
He'd made it, as it turned out, but Derevko hadn't. She'd sent someone, which he should've been able to predict, to make sure he was really acting alone. So he had swallowed his frustration, accepted the plane ticket and credentials handed to him by a plain-looking woman in a crowd of strangers, and trudged back to the airport to get on yet another plane.
As annoyed as he is that Derevko sent him winging all over South America, he's a little bit relieved. If she'd wanted him dead, she'd have had an operative do it in Rio, where he was unprotected. And, more importantly, while she was conspicuously elsewhere. So he'd boarded the plane to Cozumel -- this one with a stopover in Chiapas -- with a strange, hazy sense of optimism.
He feels sluggish as he emerges into the brutal, bright Mexican afternoon, and the oppressive heat doesn't help. He's sweating already.
Vaughn peels his leather jacket off, draping it over his arm, and slides on a pair of sunglasses. The small island is bustling with tourists, despite the time of year, and Vaughn does his best to blend in.
He hails a taxi and speaks French-accented Spanish to the cabbie, who nods and drives him down to the waterfront. Vaughn's a few hours early, but he still feels rushed. He prefers to arrive at potentially dangerous meetings early enough to surveil for a while; today, he's going to have to trust Derevko.
Trusting Derevko is not something he feels prepared to do. Especially since he's sure she sent him to Rio to make sure he didn't have the time to *get* prepared for the meet. She didn't get to the top of the espionage game by letting her opponents secure the location she'd chosen.
Vaughn tips the cabbie, shoulders his bag, and checks into the Hotel El Marqués, paying for two nights in Mexican pesos. It's a small, family-run place, notable more for its proximity to the Plaza del Sol than for any amenities it possesses. He heads immediately for the bathroom, dampening a washcloth with cold water and pressing it to the back of his neck. He studies his haggard reflection and considers shaving the well-past five o'clock shadow, but decides he doesn't have that kind of time.
He dumps the contents of his bag onto the rickety chair and digs through the pile, locating a pair of khaki shorts and a faded t-shirt advertising Samuel Adams beer that he won in a bar trivia concert years ago. He knows a pair of sandals would complete his aging frat boy look, but he can't dismiss the possibility that the day will end with him running for his life, and he doesn't relish the idea of doing that barefoot. He tugs on a fresh pair of socks and his running shoes, and heads for the door.
He pauses on his way out to push the window open as far as it will go, but he's pretty sure that won't do a thing to cool off the room.
Vaughn emerges onto the street, patting his pockets discreetly: wallet (with a license and library card from University of Texas that identify him as Michael Lockhart of Round Rock, Texas), room key, cellphone, Swiss army knife, SIG Sauer, and a small, color-copy of his picture of Jane.
The large Plaza is full of milling tourists gawking at the locals, drinking tequila, buying overpriced souvenirs, and generally getting in Vaughn's way. There's no way he can clear the square by himself; he can't even see to the other side for the large statues of Benito Juárez and Andréas Quintana Roo. He wanders over to Fat Tuesday and orders himself a drink, settling on a barstool next to the open window. He scans the crowd over and over, sipping slowly until the slushy drink turns entirely liquid.
It takes him only a moment to order another and hand over a wad of pesos, but when he turns back, Irina Derevko is standing in front of him, dressed in a calf-length indigo sundress, with that infuriating half-smile in place. "Hello."
Vaughn isn't sure what to say to her, so he nods.
"Michael, isn't it?" Derevko ventures.
"Michael Lockhart," Vaughn answers smoothly, offering his hand. "My girlfriend and I were both in your class at Texas. Abnormal Psychology."
"Yes," she answers. "How is your girlfriend?"
"I haven't seen her in a long time."
Derevko smiles and moves closer to the bar to order a drink. When the bartender moves away to pour it, she leans in and speaks softly. "Why did you contact me?"
"I need to find Sloane," he answers, matching her tone.
She doesn't reply, her gaze sliding past him to the bartender, who places Derevko's drink on the bar. She thanks him in Spanish, then turns back to Vaughn. "We should go somewhere," she says to Vaughn, playing the part of old acquaintance flawlessly. "Catch up on old times."
Vaughn hesitates. He's come this far, though, and she's probably the only person who can bring him to Sloane. And so he nods. "You've missed quite a few significant developments."
Derevko steps out into the sunlight, her deep blue sundress swirling around her legs. "Probably fewer than you think."
***
Vaughn follows Derevko from the Plaza, doing his best gawking tourist impression, which gives him the opportunity to scan the square for Derevko's operatives. He can't pinpoint anyone, though he doubts she'd come alone.
Derevko pauses at the curb and lifts one graceful arm into the air. A taxi slides smoothly to the curb. Derevko speaks to the cabbie through the open passenger window. "Buenos días. San Gervaso, por favor."
The cabbie looks pretty much like the driver who'd taken Vaughn from the airport from his hotel, and the car itself seems to be running by sheer willpower. In short, he looks like every other cabdriver on the island, but something about the way he studies Vaughn suggests he possesses talents surpassing that of a typical taxi driver.
Vaughn opens the door and holds it for Derevko. "After you," he says, and there's only a hit of sarcasm in his voice.
That half-smile is back, and she acquiesces, sliding into the car. Vaughn casts one glance around before joining her. He's not sure what San Gervaso is, but he assumes it's her hotel. The ride doesn't take that long, a few minutes on Avenue Juárez away from the only town on the island, and then a left turn onto a dirt road.
Fifteen or so jarring minutes later, it's clear she's not taking him to her hotel. He's wondering if he's laboring under serious misapprehensions and maybe she *is* going to kill him, but then the cabbie halts next to a small building offering refreshments and souvenirs. The sign reads "Temple of Ix Chel."
Derevko doesn't look at him, opening her door and asking the driver to wait. She stops at the ticket counter as Vaughn climbs out of the cab. She pays two admission fees and walks on, Vaughn following. The jungle closes around them, the sounds of birds and geckos and, if the hotel clerk is to be believed, monkeys moving around. Derevko emerges into the sun, and Vaughn quickens his pace, joining her in a small clearing. The temple is a crumbling grey stone structure with an incongruous thatched roof, its attendant signs written in Spanish, English, and what Vaughn assumes is Mayan. He notes with some irony that Ix Chel was the ancient Goddess of childbirth and medicine. He wonders just how much Derevko does know.
Vaughn pulls his sweat-soaked shirt away from his skin, squinting even behind his sunglasses, and trudges to her side. Derevko's stopped and is standing still, her arms crossed loosely in front of her, her head tilted slightly to one side, every line of her body suggesting that she's merely a tourist. You wouldn't know from looking at her right now that she's killed thirteen agents and who knows how many civilians, Vaughn thinks. An observer wouldn't guess that she killed my father.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" she asks, her voice soft but clear in the relative silence.
Vaughn casts a disinterested look over the crumbling rocks. "Sure," he answers. "Though you might mar the beauty a little if you kill me here."
Derevko actually chuckles at him. She glances at him and says, "I have no plans to kill you."
"You'll forgive me if I reserve the right to seriously doubt your word," Vaughn bites out. "At least until I walk out of here."
"We're here at your request," Derevko points out mildly.
"No, we're meeting at my request, but we're here because you brought us here."
She shrugs one shoulder, still seemingly unconcerned.
Vaughn grits his teeth and says, "The only reason I contacted you is that your associate is currently trying to kill your daughter." He pauses, waiting for a reaction. When Derevko just stares placidly back at him, he adds, "And your granddaughter."
For once, Derevko's famed control falters. Her eyes widen and she stands very, very still. Vaughn's not even sure if she's breathing. She shakes her head, just a little, and repeats, "My granddaughter."
Vaughn forces himself to ignore the note of wonder in her voice. "Sydney disappeared a year ago--"
"A move of which I thoroughly approved," Derevko interrupts smoothly, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"She was three months pregnant at the time."
Derevko turns away from him, her arms akimbo. The casual viewer would assume she's merely taking in the view, but Vaughn figures she's doing some sort of breathing exercise or whatever she'd called it. He is about to speak when she turns back suddenly, the hem of her dress swirling around her legs.
"My associate," she says, her voice soft and polite once more. "You mean Sloane."
"Are your other associates currently trying to kill your daughter?" Vaughn shoots back.
Derevko's mouth tightens for brief moment. "My associates," she answers, "understand certain boundaries that have been drawn."
Vaughn gives her a sour look. "Can you think of anyone besides Sloane who would do this?"
"No," she admits, stepping closer. Her eyes narrow as she studies him. "It is Sloane. But he wouldn't kill Sydney or my granddaughter." She stumbles a little over the word. "He wants to ransom her. If he has Sydney's daughter, he has Sydney under his control." Derevko's gaze is almost a physical pressure. "Did he find her?"
"She got away," Vaughn answered. "From the looks of her house, there was a fight and she made it out with Jane."
"Jane," Derevko echoes in a whisper.
Vaughn's jaw clenches. He's not sure how he feels about hearing that name from Derevko's lips. "I don't know where they are now."
"Why did you contact me?"
"I need to find Sloane."
Derevko tilts her head inquisitively. "Jack isn't looking for Sloane?"
Vaughn crosses his arms. "Jack isn't sharing information, and--"
"Jane is your daughter."
Vaughn recoils, just a little. "I don't know."
Derevko smiles again, that enigmatic curve of her lips. She walks past him, touching his arm for a moment. "Yes, you do."
Vaughn stays where he is, watching as she moves closer to the Temple of Ix Chel.
"The cab will take you anywhere you want to go," she says, not bothering to turn to face him. "I'll contact you in the morning."
"How will you know where--"
"The Hotel El Marqués," she interrupts, reaching the edge of the temple. "I'll contact you in the morning," she says, and disappears around the corner.
Vaughn considers going after her, but knows it won't gain him anything. So he glances once more at the ruins of the temple, then turns and heads for the cab.
***
Considering how tired he is, Vaughn thinks he'll sleep all night. He sets his travel alarm and requests a wake-up call as backup. He needn't have bothered.
The oppressive heat and the sound of rain spattering on his window and his racing thoughts make sleep a near impossibility. He probably managed to catch a cumulative hour or two, but he's up at dawn and in the shower, the water refreshingly cool. He considers going for something to eat, but doesn't want to leave the room.
It's 7:30 when the knock startles him. Gun in hand, he stands to the side of the door and calls, "Yes?"
"C'est Monique, l'émissaire de la Madamoiselle." The voice is that of a woman's, and her accent has the musical lilt of the Caribbean islands.
Vaughn opens the door cautiously to reveal an incongruously small woman in a Quintana Roo tank top and khaki shorts. "Où est-ce que--"
"La Mademoiselle?" she interrupts. "À l'hôtel." She wrinkles up her nose and continues with a shrug. "Je pense qu'il s'appelles 'El Cozumeleño.'"
"Allons-nous à l'hôtel maintenant?" Vaughn asked.
"Oui. Allons-y!"
"Yeah," Vaughn says, following the cheerful French woman. The same driver is waiting at the curb to bring them to Irina's hotel, but this time he's driving a Volkswagen Beetle. They leave the small downtown area of San Miguel, driving out to Playa Santa Pilar. The large, multistory hotel is right on the beach and a good deal more luxurious than Vaughn's small room in town. He follows Monique through the lobby and out onto the small private beach. There's a patio with several tables shaded by brightly colored umbrellas.
Vaughn spots Derevko and Monique takes her leave, heading back inside. There's food on the table, a collection of fruits and vegetables, plus waffles and pancakes no doubt geared to American tourists. Derevko glances up as he approaches, gesturing to the free seat. "Good morning."
Vaughn can't think of an appropriate response. He can't classify breakfasting with his father's murderer as good, so he gives her a curt nod and drops into the empty seat.
"Do you have a picture of Jane?" she asks without preamble.
He answers without thinking. "No." He's not sure why he's lying, but he can't stand hearing his daughter's name from Irina Derevko's lips, can't stand the thought of her fingers tracing the lines of Jane's face in his photograph. His hand smoothes over his pocket, feeling the stiffness of the paper through the soft material.
Derevko stares at him in silence for so long, he's sure she knows he lied.
"That's too bad," she says finally. "I would've liked to have seen her."
"Where's Sloane?" Vaughn demands.
"I've contacted him," Derevko answers without missing a beat. "I've arranged for us to meet this evening."
"Where?" Vaughn demands, leaning forward. Finally, he thinks. Some progress. Contacting Derevko may have been unpleasant and possibly not his brightest idea, but she certainly gets results.
"Belize." Derevko holds his gaze. "Our plane will be ready in an hour."
"Belize," Vaughn repeats. "Do we have a plan?"
"I have a plan," Derevko answers.
"Listen--"
"Don't worry," she interrupts. "You play a part in my plan."
He crosses his arms and meets her gaze defiantly. "What part?"
She pushes her chair back from the table and rises, holding a glass of orange juice in one hand. Derevko smiles down at him. "Make sure you don't get in my way," she answers.
THE END
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The Sticky Wicket - Fanfic by Macha
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