***Memphis, Tennessee, February, 13th, 1976, 7:40 A.M.***

William reached the highway on his red, Harley Davidson motorcycle, in his black leather jacket. He wasn't wearing a helmet, and he let his brown hair whip back in the wind. His green eyes were clearly visible through his clear goggles. "Damn," he said. "I'm hott" (A/N: I just had to throw in some MV imagery into your head.). Carefully, he looked down at his watch; it was almost 8 o'clock, and the trade was to be made at 11 in Russia. To just anyone, getting there would be a problem. But for William; nothing was difficult anymore.

All of the sudden, he noticed that he was alone on the highway, there were no more cars in the lanes beside him, and nothing in front of him. "Screw the speed limits, they'll never catch me." If only he knew…

Just then, four, small, black sports cars entered from the ramp onto his golden path out to freedom. One pulled out in front of the others, going only a few miles per hour faster than William's 75. One stayed right beside him, keeping up with his speed. The other two dropped behind him, but one went to his left side, while the other stayed behind him. They were trying to box him in, trying to stop him from reaching his target. But who could it be?

***Los Angeles, California, February 13th, 1976, 7:45 A.M.***

A lone walkie-talkie came to life. "Sir, we've got him," the voice crackled through on the conference table.

"Take it, Mr. Kendall. You need to learn how to deal with this kind of situation."

So a seventeen-year-old Kendall picked up the walkie-talkie. "Move in on him," he said with a slightly pubertic voice. "Was that good, uncle?" he said, outside of the frequency.

"Excellent -- you're a fine intern."

***Memphis, Tennessee, February 13th, 1976, 7:45 A.M.***

"Acknowledged, HQ," a rather big thug from the car up front.

With a flash of his back blinkers, the four cars began to close in on the Harley Davidson. William began to get nervous: he recognized a colleague from the CIA in the car to his right, so he couldn't use what he needed to escape. But since when did they consider him disloyal?

Realizing it was a risky move, he pulled out his pistol. Carefully, so as not to create an explosion, he aimed his laser pointer at the car behind him, positioning it with his rear view mirror. With two shots, the rear car bumped and began to sink. With a terrible skidding sound and many sparks, the front wheels, tireless, scraped against the hard highway. Using the entrance opened up by the lack of a car behind him, he slammed on the brakes. The three remaining cars flew past him, until they realized their prey was gone. The car behind him had since given up trying to drive and instead opened its four doors and each man, in suits, ducked behind the doors and trained their pistols on him. The other three cars turned around in the middle of a deserted highway.

"Get off the vehicle, Mr. Vaughn, or we will force you to," came agent Debenedictis' voice from the back car.

"Can't do that, Kevin. Sorry!" and with that, he pulled out his modified M9, filled with tranquilizers, and knocked out the four agents. He turned, and noticed that the remainders were slowly closing the 200-yard gap. He, too, began to drive towards them. 20 mph, 50 mph, 60 mph and he was suddenly only 20 feet away. He pulled up on the handlebars and balanced on the back wheel. With the press of a button on the body of the bike, he activated a powerful blast out his exhaust pipes, and he launched up off the middle car. Instead of landing, he continued up, and up, and up…

"Thank you, Rambaldi. Zero-point energy… so brilliant!"

Navigating with another set of controls, he began his trip to Russia -- at 500 feet above the ground.

***Moscow, Russia, February 13th, 1976, 10:50 A.M.***

William hurriedly rushed into the alleyway that Irina and Alexei were to trade. He watched from the fire escape next to the hotel's wall that formed the alley. Breathing heavily, he pulled out his binoculars. His breathing calmed, and he scanned the horizon.

He stumbled for no reason. Out of the blue, there came a random image of himself, in New Delhi, scanning a marketplace setting.

He regained his composure, and assured himself he had never been to India, though he noticed in his mind, he was not as heavy set as he was now.

"Mikey!" he gasped, his breath catching up with him, realizing whom he saw.

Focusing back on the task at hand, he noticed Alexei entering the scene with a briefcase in his hand.

"I'll bet there's thousands of rubles in there…" he said to himself.

Irina entered from the other side, with a box in her arms.

A hooded figure, about 5 feet tall, came from behind Alexei and set up a table.

"My son. He never liked school like his friends did, he always liked my work more. But, what more can you ask from a 6-year-old with a Russian accent and a lisp? I call him Shark, but he can't quite pronounce it."

The hood came off, and frighteningly blonde hair stared William in the face.

"Fascinating," Irina said, not caring. "Let's see the money."

And the one called Shark opened Alexei's briefcase. William couldn't see it from his vantagepoint, but when Irina pulled out the bronze telescope, he could see it perfectly.

"I am satisfied, Irina said.

"Likewise," said Alexei. "Come, Shark." And the little boy put the telescope into a bag, and folded up the table.

"Now!" William said to himself. He jumped off the fire escape, landing on one foot, one knee, and his hand on the floor. Pulling out his pistol, he fired a quick shot into Alexei's shoulder. He couldn't afford to let either of the traders escape, but the boy could go. He took the unconscious body and the telescope and brought it to his hideaway. 15 minutes later, when the body was successfully hidden, William stumbled into the least likely of people. Irina Derevko sat in a pub, with the little boy.

"What was your name, again?"

"Thhhhark," he said, lisping over the "sh."

"Let's make it easy on you, how about Sark?"

A tap on his shoulder made Will turn around to see a muscular Arvin Sloane.

"Hello, Vaughn."

***Moscow, Russia, February 14th, 1976, 1:07 A.M.***

William regained consciousness in a hospital not very far away from the alleyway. He could feel the bandage on his head, and realized he must have been punched pretty hard. He opened his eyes, and saw a nurse in his room. "Excuse me, can I make a call?"

"Sure."

The nurse helped him out of his bed, and put him in a wheelchair. She wheeled him down to the end of the hall, where there was an old receptionist desk.

First, he called the master.

"Sir, I've hidden the telescope in…"

"I know, I found it already. My people are everywhere, I knew what you did."

"Good."

With a click, the short conversation ended.

Secondly, he called O'Quinn.

"Director O'Quinn's office, this is Kendall."

"Kendall?" William thought to himself. "Oh right, that bitch of an intern."

"This is William Vaughn for Director O'Quinn. Tell him Derevko got away, but I've got Alexei. She took the artifact I was after, too. I failed."

"What a surprise…" Kendall mumbled under his breath.

-Click-

***Moscow, Russia, February 14th, 1976, 10:45 P.M.***

He left the hospital with nothing more than a large bruise and some stitches. As he did, he headed over to his motorcycle, which he stashed in the parking lot of a supermarket. He went to start it, but it didn't catch. He examined it further, and found a note.

"Happy Valentines!

3, Irina"

"Dammit!", and he kicked the bike over, exposing the eye of Rambaldi he had engraved into the side of his Harley.