Chapter Thirteen
Salvation
A body collided with his, carefully though, twisting his loose grip up and away so that if the gun misfired it would hit the ceiling--regardless of what would happen if the bullet ricocheted...But he didn't provide them a chance to see what would happen then, easily relinquishing his hold on the trigger; he didn't know how much ammo Irina had loaded into the weapon, and every bullet was precious, even if he only needed one. He fought back against his assailant, a sudden, violent, resentment flooding into his nerves. He had been so close, so close to victory, to being free, and in the final moment he had been robbed of his liberation. His resistance barely endured a few seconds though, as he realized that his attacks were only being blocked, that his opponent was being extremely heedful not to harm him. None of the agents would have afforded him such a courtesy, not even Weiss in the agitated mood that possessed him would have been that conscientious.
He stopped and opened his eyes.
He ended with his back to the nine men, acting as a sort of human shield for Sydney against their fire. Delicately, she pried the gun from his numb fingers, holding it away from her with her fingertips like someone who had never before touched a gun, instead of the expert she was, regarding it as if it was the most despicable object she had ever beheld. A brutal shiver usurped his own control of his muscles, his mind finally comprehending in her wide, liquid brown eyes what he had been so eager to do not a minute before. How could he ever have been ready to give this up? The radiance in her eyes, the texture of her hair, the feel of her skin, the taste of her breath, the cadence of her voice, the butterflies in her touch...as long as there was some fragment of a chance, he could never forfeit that.
"Is it all over?" he asked, pitching his voice so only she could hear.
She averted her eyes, something she did when she was ashamed or uncomfortable. "Sloane is..." she trailed to a halt, her gaze clouding over. There was none of the relief or triumph about her that you would expect, or if it was there, it was in the most infinitesimal of amounts. When you spend a large part of your life respecting a man and the rest plotting his demise, it's hard to let go of that; all the energy and all the anger has to go somewhere when it's over, and more often than not it gets turned inward against yourself, and the purposelessness and aimlessness rise up to engulf you. The new life you've been dreaming of is never as wonderful as you think, especially when it still has the same trappings of pain as the old one.
She let the statement lie, and tried to start again. "I was trying to destroy the Rambaldi device when I heard--I saw you..." She faltered once more, at a loss of words to describe what she had seen and what she had felt, and bit her lip in frustration. "I didn't finish the job, but I suppose that leaving the Rambaldi to the CIA is the lesser of two evils." Without warning, she flung her arms around his neck, and there was an answering ripple of alarm behind him at her sudden move. He tried to turn to face the ever-present threat, to place himself in front of her, but she refused to allow him to move. "What were you thinking?" she demanded vehemently. "Giving up--all that--for someone like me. Don't ever, ever scare me like that again."
He stroked her hair with one hand, relishing the solidity of her aligned with his chest, unable to stifle the sigh that bubbled in his throat. Over his shoulder he could feel the impatience churning and growing, and he knew their window of time was closing. "I didn't have any better plans." He angled his chin so he could look her in the eye, "We're not getting out of this one, are we?"
She started to shake her head in resignation, then broke off, peeling back from him as some design struck her. "I have an idea, but you have to promise to do exactly as I say, no arguing."
"What do you need me to do?"
"Promise first." That was never a good indication.
"I'm not doing anything until you tell me--"
"And I'm not saying anything until you promise."
"--what you're--you're scheming--that is so bad that it requires a promise."
"Vaughn--"
"Sydney--"
"You're wasting time."
Damn her for being right. "Fine. I'll promise as long as you promise you'll get yourself out safely as well."
The pause before she spoke told him all he needed to know: she was lying. But it no longer mattered; as long as he escaped unharmed, he could always come back for her, as long as one of them was out there, there was always a chance for the other.
"If you promise not to question me and not to look back. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
She abandoned his embrace, letting her own arms drop away from him also so that nothing bound them together, nothing tangible at least. He could feel her mouth hovering above his cheek, her breath's warmth tickling his ear, burning one lone word into his flesh, "Run."
He gathered his feet under him, and he ran. His heart hammered against his ribs, the air shuddered in his lungs, his muscles clamored in protest, and every jarring step transported him farther back into the nightmare of that one terrible year in high school he had spent on the track team. He had signed up because it was a no-cut sport and he had needed another activity that would look good on his college transcripts, but it quickly became a private battle: himself versus the pavement, every crushing impact of his foot on the track reverberating up his shin, quaking through his body, ringing and scornful in his head, laughing because regardless of how hard he tried he never seemed to get anywhere. It was one of the few things in his life he had failed to succeed in.
Down the infinitely extensive hallway, across the treacherous kitchen floor...His feeble, treacherous legs collapsed underneath him, reducing him to his knees. With his palms pressed to the tile, his shoulders curled in on themselves awaiting the certain onslaught in his vulnerability, the shots raining down on him, the agony of metal piercing his skin, but it never came. Then he knew what Weiss had meant--"But I can only give you this one chance. You have to decide right now."--he hadn't meant to choose his loyalties, Weiss already knew those, he meant choose surrender or flight, admit defeat now or have a second chance tomorrow. The men were undoubtedly under orders not to fire on him under any circumstances, and Weiss would have hell to pay for that command when he returned home, but this was his final gift, one last offering from one friend to another to make amends for all the transgressions of the past.
He had promised Sydney, but he couldn't help himself; he looked back. He knew he would never forget what he saw as long as lived, the image of that one shadow against so many others would be forever engrained in his memory. She had never looked so small or so helpless as that moment, her back straight and her head high as any conquered queen, her hands spread in supplication to those she has once called allies. He suppressed the compulsion to dash back and carry her off, comforting his conscious with the fact that he would be coming back for her soon enough. He climbed to his feet, forcing them back into motion, because he'd promised, he'd promised, he'd promised...
The kitchen door slammed against the wall, but he barely noticed as he sprinted out onto the back lawn. A black SUV jolted over the end of the driveway and onto the grass, and he had to tumble back several steps to avoid being in its path. He almost smiled, watching the door swing open for him; it constantly seemed that whenever things were at their lowest, something would happen and the thinnest thread of salvation would present itself.
Right then salvation was yelling, "Get in!"
Once he was securely inside, he turned to Jack Bristow, his curiosity overriding his better judgment. "How did you know where to find me?"
Jack didn't deign to answer, anything that could have been said was contained in his superior glare, telling Vaughn quite plainly without a word, "I have my ways." Jack had always and would always have his secrets and his lies, most of which he enjoyed hiding from the world, but despite all of the deceit retained by this one man, Vaughn trusted him completely.
Jack guided the car across the back yard, and the neighbor's too, before rolling down the neighbor's driveway, slowing as he eased them on the street. The best place to conceal something was, after all, in plain view.
As they passed the house he had been held in, Vaughn craned his neck around to see the melee spreading out of the towering front entrance, but only two of the ten there noticed the dark car passing by. Both Weiss and Sydney connected with his gaze, but Weiss slid his eyes the other way so, if asked, he could claim he had never seen him. Sydney smiled as their eyes melded, raising her shackled hands to her face, and pressing her palms to her lips, she blew him a kiss.
Jack's hand, rigid and stern, placed itself between his shoulders, forcing him forward in his seat. "The trick," he said, his voice matching his hands, "is to never look back. It's harder to leave when you do."
"Too late," he whispered, but Jack pretended not to hear.
Salvation
A body collided with his, carefully though, twisting his loose grip up and away so that if the gun misfired it would hit the ceiling--regardless of what would happen if the bullet ricocheted...But he didn't provide them a chance to see what would happen then, easily relinquishing his hold on the trigger; he didn't know how much ammo Irina had loaded into the weapon, and every bullet was precious, even if he only needed one. He fought back against his assailant, a sudden, violent, resentment flooding into his nerves. He had been so close, so close to victory, to being free, and in the final moment he had been robbed of his liberation. His resistance barely endured a few seconds though, as he realized that his attacks were only being blocked, that his opponent was being extremely heedful not to harm him. None of the agents would have afforded him such a courtesy, not even Weiss in the agitated mood that possessed him would have been that conscientious.
He stopped and opened his eyes.
He ended with his back to the nine men, acting as a sort of human shield for Sydney against their fire. Delicately, she pried the gun from his numb fingers, holding it away from her with her fingertips like someone who had never before touched a gun, instead of the expert she was, regarding it as if it was the most despicable object she had ever beheld. A brutal shiver usurped his own control of his muscles, his mind finally comprehending in her wide, liquid brown eyes what he had been so eager to do not a minute before. How could he ever have been ready to give this up? The radiance in her eyes, the texture of her hair, the feel of her skin, the taste of her breath, the cadence of her voice, the butterflies in her touch...as long as there was some fragment of a chance, he could never forfeit that.
"Is it all over?" he asked, pitching his voice so only she could hear.
She averted her eyes, something she did when she was ashamed or uncomfortable. "Sloane is..." she trailed to a halt, her gaze clouding over. There was none of the relief or triumph about her that you would expect, or if it was there, it was in the most infinitesimal of amounts. When you spend a large part of your life respecting a man and the rest plotting his demise, it's hard to let go of that; all the energy and all the anger has to go somewhere when it's over, and more often than not it gets turned inward against yourself, and the purposelessness and aimlessness rise up to engulf you. The new life you've been dreaming of is never as wonderful as you think, especially when it still has the same trappings of pain as the old one.
She let the statement lie, and tried to start again. "I was trying to destroy the Rambaldi device when I heard--I saw you..." She faltered once more, at a loss of words to describe what she had seen and what she had felt, and bit her lip in frustration. "I didn't finish the job, but I suppose that leaving the Rambaldi to the CIA is the lesser of two evils." Without warning, she flung her arms around his neck, and there was an answering ripple of alarm behind him at her sudden move. He tried to turn to face the ever-present threat, to place himself in front of her, but she refused to allow him to move. "What were you thinking?" she demanded vehemently. "Giving up--all that--for someone like me. Don't ever, ever scare me like that again."
He stroked her hair with one hand, relishing the solidity of her aligned with his chest, unable to stifle the sigh that bubbled in his throat. Over his shoulder he could feel the impatience churning and growing, and he knew their window of time was closing. "I didn't have any better plans." He angled his chin so he could look her in the eye, "We're not getting out of this one, are we?"
She started to shake her head in resignation, then broke off, peeling back from him as some design struck her. "I have an idea, but you have to promise to do exactly as I say, no arguing."
"What do you need me to do?"
"Promise first." That was never a good indication.
"I'm not doing anything until you tell me--"
"And I'm not saying anything until you promise."
"--what you're--you're scheming--that is so bad that it requires a promise."
"Vaughn--"
"Sydney--"
"You're wasting time."
Damn her for being right. "Fine. I'll promise as long as you promise you'll get yourself out safely as well."
The pause before she spoke told him all he needed to know: she was lying. But it no longer mattered; as long as he escaped unharmed, he could always come back for her, as long as one of them was out there, there was always a chance for the other.
"If you promise not to question me and not to look back. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
She abandoned his embrace, letting her own arms drop away from him also so that nothing bound them together, nothing tangible at least. He could feel her mouth hovering above his cheek, her breath's warmth tickling his ear, burning one lone word into his flesh, "Run."
He gathered his feet under him, and he ran. His heart hammered against his ribs, the air shuddered in his lungs, his muscles clamored in protest, and every jarring step transported him farther back into the nightmare of that one terrible year in high school he had spent on the track team. He had signed up because it was a no-cut sport and he had needed another activity that would look good on his college transcripts, but it quickly became a private battle: himself versus the pavement, every crushing impact of his foot on the track reverberating up his shin, quaking through his body, ringing and scornful in his head, laughing because regardless of how hard he tried he never seemed to get anywhere. It was one of the few things in his life he had failed to succeed in.
Down the infinitely extensive hallway, across the treacherous kitchen floor...His feeble, treacherous legs collapsed underneath him, reducing him to his knees. With his palms pressed to the tile, his shoulders curled in on themselves awaiting the certain onslaught in his vulnerability, the shots raining down on him, the agony of metal piercing his skin, but it never came. Then he knew what Weiss had meant--"But I can only give you this one chance. You have to decide right now."--he hadn't meant to choose his loyalties, Weiss already knew those, he meant choose surrender or flight, admit defeat now or have a second chance tomorrow. The men were undoubtedly under orders not to fire on him under any circumstances, and Weiss would have hell to pay for that command when he returned home, but this was his final gift, one last offering from one friend to another to make amends for all the transgressions of the past.
He had promised Sydney, but he couldn't help himself; he looked back. He knew he would never forget what he saw as long as lived, the image of that one shadow against so many others would be forever engrained in his memory. She had never looked so small or so helpless as that moment, her back straight and her head high as any conquered queen, her hands spread in supplication to those she has once called allies. He suppressed the compulsion to dash back and carry her off, comforting his conscious with the fact that he would be coming back for her soon enough. He climbed to his feet, forcing them back into motion, because he'd promised, he'd promised, he'd promised...
The kitchen door slammed against the wall, but he barely noticed as he sprinted out onto the back lawn. A black SUV jolted over the end of the driveway and onto the grass, and he had to tumble back several steps to avoid being in its path. He almost smiled, watching the door swing open for him; it constantly seemed that whenever things were at their lowest, something would happen and the thinnest thread of salvation would present itself.
Right then salvation was yelling, "Get in!"
Once he was securely inside, he turned to Jack Bristow, his curiosity overriding his better judgment. "How did you know where to find me?"
Jack didn't deign to answer, anything that could have been said was contained in his superior glare, telling Vaughn quite plainly without a word, "I have my ways." Jack had always and would always have his secrets and his lies, most of which he enjoyed hiding from the world, but despite all of the deceit retained by this one man, Vaughn trusted him completely.
Jack guided the car across the back yard, and the neighbor's too, before rolling down the neighbor's driveway, slowing as he eased them on the street. The best place to conceal something was, after all, in plain view.
As they passed the house he had been held in, Vaughn craned his neck around to see the melee spreading out of the towering front entrance, but only two of the ten there noticed the dark car passing by. Both Weiss and Sydney connected with his gaze, but Weiss slid his eyes the other way so, if asked, he could claim he had never seen him. Sydney smiled as their eyes melded, raising her shackled hands to her face, and pressing her palms to her lips, she blew him a kiss.
Jack's hand, rigid and stern, placed itself between his shoulders, forcing him forward in his seat. "The trick," he said, his voice matching his hands, "is to never look back. It's harder to leave when you do."
"Too late," he whispered, but Jack pretended not to hear.
