....1... With a sudden roar, the vault rocked and filled with deafening sound, knocking Irina off her feet. The air was filled with dust - pulverized artifacts, she exulted, struggling to stand. Her relief at surviving the blast was short-lived. Sloane was already on his feet, gun drawn.
Sloane shook with rage, his normal icy exterior evaporated by the sight of the artifact room in ruins. It was obvious she had planted a bomb. "You bitch!" he shouted, white with fury. "Do you know what you've done? You've destroyed a priceless treasure. My life's work!" He struggled to get himself back under control.
Irina held perfectly still. There was a manic gleam in Sloane's eye. "Irina, stall him! I'm almost there," shouted Jack in her ear. Great idea, thought Irina.
"That wasn't your life's work, Arvin. It was Rambaldi's. It should have died with him."
"You...don't...understand," said Sloane through gritted teeth.
"Arvin, I understand better than you think." She could hear the sounds of gunfire through her earpiece, and Jack breathing heavily.
"I think," said Sloane malevolently, "that I'll give you some time to reconsider." He shifted his aim and fired. Irina screamed as her left leg buckled underneath her, hit by Sloane's bullet. "You'll stay here in this vault. As you slowly suffocate, you'll have the opportunity to reflect on the attractions of immortality."
"Irina! Hold on!" shouted Jack, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
Irina watched Sloane through a haze of pain as he gathered the manuscripts and headed through the vault door. The manuscripts. She would have wept, had she the strength. He would be able to recreate almost everything from the manuscripts.
Sloane exited the vault door and hesitated. His guards were gone and he could hear gunfire from the stairwell. Rapidly he engaged the vault door mechanism and watched as it slowly began to creak down into place. He sprinted past the stairwell towards the elevator.
Jack burst out of the stairwell door. To his left was the vault, the door continuing its slow progression downwards. Through the door he could see Irina, crumpled on the ground, not moving. To his right, down the long hallway, he could see Sloane about to enter the elevator.
"Bristow?" snarled Sloane. Damn the man. He was supposed to be dead.
Jack heard Irina whisper through his headset, "He has the manuscripts. You...must...stop...him." She gasped imploringly. "Promise me."
"Your choice Bristow - it's me or Irina," Sloane smiled triumphantly, as the vault continued to close. He had known Jack Bristow for 30 years. Bristow wouldn't sacrifice his queen. Check, thought Sloane.
"Jack," he heard faintly. "Forget me. Don't...let...him...escape. Please," begged Irina.
Without hesitation, Jack turned and hurtled towards her. He could hear the elevator door closing behind him, Sloane's mocking laughter as he escaped. Jack scooped Irina into his arms and sprinted out of the vault, diving under the door as it closed with a loud clang.
Gently he put her down on the ground, his jaw clenched. She had lost a lot of blood from her leg, and her face was creased with pain. But her eyes, when she opened them, were dark with anguish and reproach.
"How could you?" she whispered. "You could have ended it. Sloane. Rambaldi. Forever. For you. For Sydney."
Jack bent over her, struggling to get his emotions under control as he tried to slow the bleeding. "Without you, it would have been meaningless," he said quietly, finally able to speak. "Besides," he said with a trace of a smile, "it's not over yet."
**
Sloane emerged from the exit of the underground chamber, gloating over yet another victory over Bristow. The loss of the artifacts was a monumental blow, but with the manuscripts he would be able to recreate the information he had lost. He tenderly patted the portfolio he was carrying.
He hurried to his car and climbed in. It would be a short ride to the private airport he patronized. He would call the pilots while enroute; they would depart as soon as he arrived. He would be untraceable in another 30 minutes.
Jack Bristow. His protégé. His friend. His conscience. His tool. His enemy. At what point had Jack turned against him? When had Jack lost the vision, the grasp of the greater purpose they both could have had?
Sloane sneered. Jack would never be his equal. Always crippled by his love for Irina Derevko. He had been confident that Jack would choose to save Irina rather than come after him. What a waste of a mind, one of the best in the business. No one had been better than Jack at evaluating strategies and options, covering all the contingencies. Sloane felt a niggling of doubt in the back of his mind as he turned the key in the ignition. Something bothered him, something he could not put his finger on. The engine caught, and the car exploded.
**
The sound of the car bomb reverberated down the stairwell, into the hallway where Jack tended to Irina. Checkmate, he thought.
Sloane shook with rage, his normal icy exterior evaporated by the sight of the artifact room in ruins. It was obvious she had planted a bomb. "You bitch!" he shouted, white with fury. "Do you know what you've done? You've destroyed a priceless treasure. My life's work!" He struggled to get himself back under control.
Irina held perfectly still. There was a manic gleam in Sloane's eye. "Irina, stall him! I'm almost there," shouted Jack in her ear. Great idea, thought Irina.
"That wasn't your life's work, Arvin. It was Rambaldi's. It should have died with him."
"You...don't...understand," said Sloane through gritted teeth.
"Arvin, I understand better than you think." She could hear the sounds of gunfire through her earpiece, and Jack breathing heavily.
"I think," said Sloane malevolently, "that I'll give you some time to reconsider." He shifted his aim and fired. Irina screamed as her left leg buckled underneath her, hit by Sloane's bullet. "You'll stay here in this vault. As you slowly suffocate, you'll have the opportunity to reflect on the attractions of immortality."
"Irina! Hold on!" shouted Jack, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
Irina watched Sloane through a haze of pain as he gathered the manuscripts and headed through the vault door. The manuscripts. She would have wept, had she the strength. He would be able to recreate almost everything from the manuscripts.
Sloane exited the vault door and hesitated. His guards were gone and he could hear gunfire from the stairwell. Rapidly he engaged the vault door mechanism and watched as it slowly began to creak down into place. He sprinted past the stairwell towards the elevator.
Jack burst out of the stairwell door. To his left was the vault, the door continuing its slow progression downwards. Through the door he could see Irina, crumpled on the ground, not moving. To his right, down the long hallway, he could see Sloane about to enter the elevator.
"Bristow?" snarled Sloane. Damn the man. He was supposed to be dead.
Jack heard Irina whisper through his headset, "He has the manuscripts. You...must...stop...him." She gasped imploringly. "Promise me."
"Your choice Bristow - it's me or Irina," Sloane smiled triumphantly, as the vault continued to close. He had known Jack Bristow for 30 years. Bristow wouldn't sacrifice his queen. Check, thought Sloane.
"Jack," he heard faintly. "Forget me. Don't...let...him...escape. Please," begged Irina.
Without hesitation, Jack turned and hurtled towards her. He could hear the elevator door closing behind him, Sloane's mocking laughter as he escaped. Jack scooped Irina into his arms and sprinted out of the vault, diving under the door as it closed with a loud clang.
Gently he put her down on the ground, his jaw clenched. She had lost a lot of blood from her leg, and her face was creased with pain. But her eyes, when she opened them, were dark with anguish and reproach.
"How could you?" she whispered. "You could have ended it. Sloane. Rambaldi. Forever. For you. For Sydney."
Jack bent over her, struggling to get his emotions under control as he tried to slow the bleeding. "Without you, it would have been meaningless," he said quietly, finally able to speak. "Besides," he said with a trace of a smile, "it's not over yet."
**
Sloane emerged from the exit of the underground chamber, gloating over yet another victory over Bristow. The loss of the artifacts was a monumental blow, but with the manuscripts he would be able to recreate the information he had lost. He tenderly patted the portfolio he was carrying.
He hurried to his car and climbed in. It would be a short ride to the private airport he patronized. He would call the pilots while enroute; they would depart as soon as he arrived. He would be untraceable in another 30 minutes.
Jack Bristow. His protégé. His friend. His conscience. His tool. His enemy. At what point had Jack turned against him? When had Jack lost the vision, the grasp of the greater purpose they both could have had?
Sloane sneered. Jack would never be his equal. Always crippled by his love for Irina Derevko. He had been confident that Jack would choose to save Irina rather than come after him. What a waste of a mind, one of the best in the business. No one had been better than Jack at evaluating strategies and options, covering all the contingencies. Sloane felt a niggling of doubt in the back of his mind as he turned the key in the ignition. Something bothered him, something he could not put his finger on. The engine caught, and the car exploded.
**
The sound of the car bomb reverberated down the stairwell, into the hallway where Jack tended to Irina. Checkmate, he thought.
