Chapter Eleven

Stars

He didn't know where he was. They had blindfolded him as soon as he got into the car, and he had not struggled; there was no gain in fighting back, he needed to be in his best condition if he had any prospect of surviving this situation. The only time he had resisted was when the car had finally stopped, when he had recognized his last point of escape and the dread had bubbled up inside him to the juncture of erupting. He had lashed out sightlessly, his foot connecting solidly with yielding flesh, and he dove in the direction he sensed the door to be. Sark had quickly subdued his rampage, though, with a single, affective blow to the head. Sydney never raised a hand to help him.

Now, slitting open his eyes with a painful effort as he emerged from the abyss of unconsciousness, he knew only what he saw: four rough gray walls, a formidable steel door, a dirty floor whose focal point was a drain in its center, something almost like a modified version of a dentist's chair beneath him, and restraints on his wrists and ankles.

And Sloane. Seated in a metal folding chair in front of him, leaning forward with his hands tucked long-sufferingly between his knees and his gaze pinning him as if he might vanish if he blinked. He shifted as he saw his most recent prize awake, settling against the back of his chair with a satisfied smirk as if he himself had brought about the event. "Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Vaughn."

Sloane was not remotely frustrated by the lack of answer he got from his uncompromising victim; in fact, it would make the experience all the more agreeable. The ones who resisted the most were always the most amusing to break.

"I'm sorry," he continued like he didn't notice the one-sided nature of the conversation, "to have interrupted you earlier, but this has gone on longer than I thought it would. You see, no matter how much I love Sydney, I can no longer trust her, and you have been a source of dissension between us before. I let her have her fun, but the time has come for it to end. Besides, I have a more imperative need for you here."

It took Vaughn's eyes only a split second to dart apprehensively to the tray of instruments by his side and resolutely back to Sloane's face, but the older man still caught the course of his thoughts and his smile broadened. "You don't have to worry about those, you won't have to say a word if you don't want to. I need you whole for what I intend. You, Mr. Vaughn, are to be my hostage. From what I understand, you have been privy to valuable information, and the CIA cannot afford to leave you in hands such as mine long enough for you to talk, even if the only other option is to kill you. Thankfully, there is a team of nine agents in the area available to come to your rescue, and walk right into my trap. Nine agents in one swoop. All the information or bargaining tools I'll ever require. And it's all thanks to you."

Abruptly, all of the defiance flowed out of him, even though the sudden loss wasn't revealed on the face he showed the world. Vaughn couldn't breath, couldn't have moved if he had been able to; his vision was filling up with stars, nine stars on the wall, and he knew every name.

* * * * * * * * * *

The young agent scrambled to her feet as she caught a glimpse of Kendall approaching, nearly knocking her chair over in her rush. She dug through the numerous piles of papers on her desk until she finally recovered the right ones, panting a little after the panicked hunt, just in time to hand to Kendall as he pulled up next to her. He accepted them with an impatient nod, and underneath she seethed some that she was not even graced with a 'thank you.'

She watched him skim the words with his usual static, uninterested expression, nothing giving away the emotion she had expected to be forthcoming, and she suspected that he might not appreciate the importance of the document she had given him. She leaned forward and spoke up helpfully, "It's the latest report from Agent Weiss. It appears that Vaughn has been missing for nearly seventy-two hours now."

Kendall favored her with a dismissive glance only long enough to snap, "I do know how to read" before returning to his absorbed study. Still, instead of recognizing the thinly disguised dismissal and returning to her work, she loitered by his side, rocking nervously back and forth on her heels.

This time he turned the full strength of his glare on the already daunted woman, "Is that all, Patterson?"

She shook her head in a negative, her short-cropped brown curls bouncing on her forehead, and squeaked through the block in her throat, "N-no, sir. Actually, there is something else."

Her hesitation in admitting to the second part of delivery wasn't entirely due to her fear of her superior or the fear of disappointing him, but more to the fact that she was loath to be the bearer of bad news against one her colleagues. She had seen Vaughn and his agent once or twice in her short time with agency, but what she had seen made a striking impression on her, giving them the status of almost instant heroes to her; young and intelligent and well positioned within the hierarchy of the department, while nevertheless retaining the least possible hint of rebellious air that made them alluring, they were everything she aspired to become. And even after the incident in Mexico City she had hung on to a wisp of hope that it was only some elaborate plan for the good of them all, but now, with the evidence she possessed, it was all too apparent that the downfall of not one but both of her idols was imminent, and it was devastating to be a powerless witness in it all.

Slowly, reluctantly she reached behind her, blindly searching for the object she required. Her fingers brushed against it, then brought the heavy, significant-looking parcel up for Kendall's inspection. His eyebrows drawing together and wrinkles forming, her took it from her, quickly adjusting his grip to the unexpected weight. Juggling it in one hand, he judged it for a moment before a gradual revelation came over him, the truth at last revealing itself to him. Shocked, he looked up and met her gaze, as if to ask if this was really happening, tragedy and gloom simmering between the two spectators to this adversity.

"What has he gotten himself into this time?"

* * * * * * * * * *

Soft, gentle hands framed his face, and he opened his eyes, forgetting for a moment where he was. Sydney mustered a half-heated smile as she pressed a glass to his lips with a soothingly murmured, "Drink." He swallowed the mouthful he managed only because he was thirsty, curbing the urge he had to spit the water back in her face. When he finished what she had brought, she wiped up that which had escaped, and on sudden inspiration undid the straps at his wrists, which he wiggled feebly. With nothing left to do, she sat back dejectedly and dropped her eyes, no longer able to pretend she was oblivious to the looks he was sending her.

"You're wondering how I was allowed in here with you," she began bluntly. "Wondering why I did what I did. The first is easy to explain: Sloane and Sark have gone to handle some their accounts and left me under the supervision of my mother. It's probably some sort of test, to see if you're still here when they come back, to see if they can rely on me. The second...well, I don't expect forgiveness. Sloane found out that I was secretly meeting with you, and--and I just couldn't give it up, give you up. So I lied and said I was using you to get CIA intel like," she paused, shame and old anger both stirring at the same time, "like my mother did to my father.

"I should have been more careful, when I made that phone call--Vaughn, I wasn't thinking anymore. It didn't even cross my mind that he would trace it, that he would follow me. And when he showed up in the alley...if there had been any other choice I would have taken it, but if we had fought back, if we had somehow escaped alive, where would we have gone? You were right; the CIA doesn't want me back. And the Rambaldi only days from being finished, all this would have been for nothing, and he would have gotten away with it again. I can't even imagine the consequences, the repercussions this it would have had this time..."

She shuddered, wrapped in her apocalyptic vision, before drawing herself up straight. She laid a reassuring hand on his arm, adding pressure with her fingertips as she tried to convey comfort she certainly did not feel, "I did the best I could for us, and I swear to you that nothing's going to happen to you, we'll get out of this one piece. Only a few more days, just hold out a little longer..." And then as she had said so many times before, though there seemed to be less conviction in her waning voice, "It'll all be over soon. Soon."

He enveloped her hand weakly with his, squeezing it more to restore her fraying confidence, than because he believed her words; oh, he wanted to believe, but he had no leap of faith to give her, no hope to put in her. He was hollowed out, empty, with nothing left to give, not even forgiveness.

* * * * * * * * * *

He was shaken out of his troubled sleep by the sound of the door swinging open, moaning on its hinges. He blinked fuzzily at the feminine figure silhouetted in the sudden barrage of light, and as she stepped forward, closing the entrance behind her, he could tell by her walk that whoever it was, it was not Sydney. Her heels clicked on the uneven surface of the floor, announcing out every stride in excruciatingly thunderous tones, and her face swam into his field of vision in the swinging circle of light produced by the lamp he had been graciously left to battle off the darkness. The face of his father's killer swam into view.

Irina Derevko smiled. "Hello, Michael."

Coming in the next chapter (yes, another teaser, because I like to keep you in suspense): What does Irina really want? What happens when Weiss and the others show up? And what last, desperate move will Vaughn resort to?