(14 months post-The Telling)
Sloane slammed down the phone in anger. The third attempt on Irina's life in the past 2 months had just failed. In fact it had failed so spectacularly that he had just lost 5 of his best operatives - 2 dead; 3 currently being interrogated by the CIA. Intel reported that Irina had been slightly injured in the last attempt, but this gave Sloane little comfort.
What a monumental waste of effort and resources. Bristow had been right, and Sloane was nothing if not pragmatic. To hell with it. He'd just have to grit his teeth and ignore her.
**
Carefully Irina shifted her left leg from the floor to the footstool in front of her easy chair. Only a flesh wound, but it hurt like the blazes all the same. Damn Sloane. She wished he would give up already. She wasn't quite sure how much longer she had until her luck ran out.
The last attack, on a dacha in Russia that she would have sworn was known to no one, had shaken her more than she wished to admit. It was where she would have chosen to take Sydney, had Jack let her assume her care. Had she been pinned down trying to rescue Sydney, she never would have escaped alive. Nor would have Sydney. Damn Jack too for always being right.
Irina was now recuperating in her villa in the south of France, taking a break for the first time in a year. The CIA team was also taking a well-earned vacation. Her own staff, heavily armed, superbly trained, and recently augmented, would provide more than sufficient security while she was in residence.
She heard a step behind her. Armand must be back with her tea.
"Your tea, madam." Irina almost jumped out of her chair at the familiar voice with the faux French accent, and whirled around to see Jack standing holding a tray. With her tea.
"What the - ow!" she finished, as her leg slid off the footstool. Swiftly Jack put down the tray and moved over to her leg, gently moving it back into position.
Irina leaned back with a sigh of relief, then stiffened as Jack's fingers carefully unwound the bandage and explored the wound. Satisfied, he bound it back up.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked with asperity. "And where is your baby sitter?" And my crack staff, she muttered to herself.
"Checking on you," he answered easily. "My Security minder is, er, indisposed. Picked up a touch of Montezuma's revenge going through Mexico City. Can you imagine?" Jack gave her an innocent look.
Irina rolled her eyes. "Nice of you to check," she said sarcastically. "Was it your op that almost got me killed? If we hadn't gotten lucky..."
"No," said Jack. "The op was Sloane's. The luck," he finished enigmatically, "was mine." His eyes flickered darkly as he glanced at her leg. "Sorry about that. It was the best I could do."
Irina looked at him, puzzled. "You ran a counter-mission?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Jack, unwilling to go into details. "Sloane won't bother you again."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Irina gave a sigh of relief, then tensed, affronted. "So he's not taking me seriously?" she demanded. "I can fix that."
Jack smiled at the fierceness in her tone. "Take your best shot, Irina. Just remember -,"
"I know, I know," she grumbled. "I can't touch you or Sloane." She looked down and noticed that Jack still had her leg in his hands, and was gently stroking it. "Jack, how's Sydney?"
"No change," he said evenly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. "I brought you this."
Irina reached eagerly for the photo, then stilled as she absorbed it, her face whitening. It was a picture of Sydney, unconscious, hooked up to monitors and fluids in her hospital bed. Her eyes flew to Jack as she bit her lip. "It must be...difficult to actually see her like this."
Jack nodded, lips clenched. "She'll get better," he said with finality.
"I hope so too," Irina whispered.
"Irina, I can't stay." The regret in Jack's eyes was apparent. "But I wanted to thank you for what you did for me. Forceful as it was," he finished ruefully.
"As I recall," Irina said, eyes dancing, "you thanked me pretty thoroughly at the time."
Jack smiled teasingly. "Oh? I'd forgotten," he lied, ducking as Irina aimed her good leg at him. He stood up and bent over her, kissing her gently, his lips lingering on hers. "Until next time. Be careful," he said in a low voice.
"Until next time," Irina agreed softly, her eyes following him as he left.
Sloane slammed down the phone in anger. The third attempt on Irina's life in the past 2 months had just failed. In fact it had failed so spectacularly that he had just lost 5 of his best operatives - 2 dead; 3 currently being interrogated by the CIA. Intel reported that Irina had been slightly injured in the last attempt, but this gave Sloane little comfort.
What a monumental waste of effort and resources. Bristow had been right, and Sloane was nothing if not pragmatic. To hell with it. He'd just have to grit his teeth and ignore her.
**
Carefully Irina shifted her left leg from the floor to the footstool in front of her easy chair. Only a flesh wound, but it hurt like the blazes all the same. Damn Sloane. She wished he would give up already. She wasn't quite sure how much longer she had until her luck ran out.
The last attack, on a dacha in Russia that she would have sworn was known to no one, had shaken her more than she wished to admit. It was where she would have chosen to take Sydney, had Jack let her assume her care. Had she been pinned down trying to rescue Sydney, she never would have escaped alive. Nor would have Sydney. Damn Jack too for always being right.
Irina was now recuperating in her villa in the south of France, taking a break for the first time in a year. The CIA team was also taking a well-earned vacation. Her own staff, heavily armed, superbly trained, and recently augmented, would provide more than sufficient security while she was in residence.
She heard a step behind her. Armand must be back with her tea.
"Your tea, madam." Irina almost jumped out of her chair at the familiar voice with the faux French accent, and whirled around to see Jack standing holding a tray. With her tea.
"What the - ow!" she finished, as her leg slid off the footstool. Swiftly Jack put down the tray and moved over to her leg, gently moving it back into position.
Irina leaned back with a sigh of relief, then stiffened as Jack's fingers carefully unwound the bandage and explored the wound. Satisfied, he bound it back up.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked with asperity. "And where is your baby sitter?" And my crack staff, she muttered to herself.
"Checking on you," he answered easily. "My Security minder is, er, indisposed. Picked up a touch of Montezuma's revenge going through Mexico City. Can you imagine?" Jack gave her an innocent look.
Irina rolled her eyes. "Nice of you to check," she said sarcastically. "Was it your op that almost got me killed? If we hadn't gotten lucky..."
"No," said Jack. "The op was Sloane's. The luck," he finished enigmatically, "was mine." His eyes flickered darkly as he glanced at her leg. "Sorry about that. It was the best I could do."
Irina looked at him, puzzled. "You ran a counter-mission?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Jack, unwilling to go into details. "Sloane won't bother you again."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Irina gave a sigh of relief, then tensed, affronted. "So he's not taking me seriously?" she demanded. "I can fix that."
Jack smiled at the fierceness in her tone. "Take your best shot, Irina. Just remember -,"
"I know, I know," she grumbled. "I can't touch you or Sloane." She looked down and noticed that Jack still had her leg in his hands, and was gently stroking it. "Jack, how's Sydney?"
"No change," he said evenly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. "I brought you this."
Irina reached eagerly for the photo, then stilled as she absorbed it, her face whitening. It was a picture of Sydney, unconscious, hooked up to monitors and fluids in her hospital bed. Her eyes flew to Jack as she bit her lip. "It must be...difficult to actually see her like this."
Jack nodded, lips clenched. "She'll get better," he said with finality.
"I hope so too," Irina whispered.
"Irina, I can't stay." The regret in Jack's eyes was apparent. "But I wanted to thank you for what you did for me. Forceful as it was," he finished ruefully.
"As I recall," Irina said, eyes dancing, "you thanked me pretty thoroughly at the time."
Jack smiled teasingly. "Oh? I'd forgotten," he lied, ducking as Irina aimed her good leg at him. He stood up and bent over her, kissing her gently, his lips lingering on hers. "Until next time. Be careful," he said in a low voice.
"Until next time," Irina agreed softly, her eyes following him as he left.