(26 months post-The Telling)
Irina paced back and forth. What had gone wrong? Why had Jack not escaped in the time she had given him? Had he become inadvertently trapped? And why, in God's name, when he had heard her voice telling him to surrender had he come out firing? Surely he had known what the CIA trained response would be. She'd go crazy not knowing whether he had survived or not.
She stopped her pacing as one of her team handed her a phone. Kendall.
"What is it, Kendall?" she snapped. She was not in the mood.
"What the hell happened in there? You had Bristow and then you lost him?"
Irina's eyes took in her team, all conscientiously appearing to ignore her conversation but avidly following it just the same. "He took what appeared to be a fatal round to the chest. We moved on to mop up; we returned no more than 10 minutes later and his body was gone. We don't know if he's alive or dead." Had her gamble been right? What if he had died because she hadn't gotten him medical attention right away? Would he have been better off in a CIA cell? The hand holding the phone shook imperceptibly.
"Well find out, dammit. Your immunity agreement requires production of a body. I don't much care if it's alive or dead, but I want Sloane and Bristow." Click.
B*stard, thought Irina.
**
Jack woke a few days later and cautiously looked around. After watching unobserved for several minutes he revised his opinion. Despite his earlier assessment, he appeared to be indisputably alive. Nurses and doctors bustled about a room that seemed eerily familiar. Looking to his left, he could see why - Sydney lay motionless on the bed 10 feet to his left. Unconscious. Jack closed his eyes, overwhelmed by bitterness. It had all been for nothing? Had Il Dire been fallible on this, the one future that Jack had cared about?
Dully he contemplated his options. Stay with Sloane in what now appeared to be an exercise in futility. Turn himself into the CIA and spend the rest of his life in prison. Escape from both and live on the run. Defeat settled like a lead weight on his heart. Exhausted, he passed out again.
**
Jack regained consciousness the next day, feeling slightly stronger. He looked over at Sydney, but there was no change. Of course not. Nothing would make a difference now. He tried to sit up, but fell back immediately, groaning, as a stabbing pain shot through his chest. One of the nurses hurried over.
"Mr. Bristow, don't do that!"
Jack glared at her. "How long have I been here?"
"Four days," she smiled. "And up until now you've been a model patient."
"When can I leave?" Jack said curtly. He found her cheerful manner annoying.
"The doctor thinks you should be able to start walking in another 2 weeks." It was clear from the nurse's expression that she thought this was much too soon.
"Two weeks!" Jack exploded angrily, then grimaced again in pain. He needed to get out, get away from the bed next to his, the silent and reproachful reminder of his failures.
The nurse looked at him worriedly. "I think perhaps you should rest some more," she said carefully. Helpless, Jack watched as she reached over and adjusted his medication. He promptly dropped off back to sleep.
**
When Jack awoke again it was morning. He did not make the mistake of sitting up, but instead felt around carefully for a buzzer that he was sure must be in his bed. Finding it at last, he leaned on it. He saw with grim satisfaction that several figures were moving in his direction. One appeared to be a doctor, and Jack wanted some answers.
"What the hell did you do to me?" he demanded, as the doctor moved into range.
"Saved your life," said the doctor matter-of-factly, not at all intimidated "Gun shots to the chest usually don't have happy outcomes. I'm pleased to say, however, that your case may be an exception. If you don't do something stupid to screw it up." He gave Jack a meaningful look. "Like try to sit up, elevate your blood pressure, that sort of thing."
"I'm supposed to just lay here? For two weeks?'
"That about sums it up. And since your happiness is not my primary concern, I've instructed the nursing staff to sedate you if they believe that you are finding those instructions too difficult."
Jack glowered at him, but did not attempt to move or shout.
"Very good, Mr. Bristow. I'm pleased to see that you're a quick learner."
**
Sloane materialized sometime later. Jack had been unhappily contemplating his enforced idleness; when he realized he was in the same room as Sloane and helpless, the monitors surrounding his bed started pinging. A nurse rushed over and gave him a suspicious glance, which Jack returned threateningly. She backed off, but made a show of writing a note on his chart.
"Hello, Jack. Feeling better?"
"Great," replied Jack shortly. Sloane's feigned concern only made him nauseous. "Get me out of here."
Sloane's eyes flickered over Jack, pale against the pillow, wires and tubes attached to every part of his body. "Nice try, but it looks like your ex-wife had other plans."
"What happened?"
Sloane scowled. "Irina happened. Again. Her team infiltrated Finance section, but accidentally tripped the silent alarm. There should have been enough time to extract you." Sloane looked at Jack questioningly.
"My fault," said Jack evenly. "I underestimated the strength of attack."
Sloane raised an eyebrow, but continued. "Anyway, her team penetrated the building rapidly. Security section was busy shredding documents and caught by surprise. We lost a number of operatives. If it hadn't been for Grenis, you'd have been one of them."
"Grenis?" asked Jack, startled.
"We found him on top of you. He had apparently just stopped the bleeding when he was shot; the CIA left you both for dead. Fortunately Security section did one thing right that day and they were able to evacuate you without being caught in the mop-up."
Jack made a non-committal reply while his mind worked furiously. Irina. She must have dragged Grenis over after bandaging him up. Il Dire had not seen it. What a surprise, he thought resentfully. Damn her for interfering. If he had died - his eyes flicked over to Sydney - would she be awake now? Would he ever know?
"When you get out, we need to do something about Irina."
Good luck, thought Jack bitterly.
Irina paced back and forth. What had gone wrong? Why had Jack not escaped in the time she had given him? Had he become inadvertently trapped? And why, in God's name, when he had heard her voice telling him to surrender had he come out firing? Surely he had known what the CIA trained response would be. She'd go crazy not knowing whether he had survived or not.
She stopped her pacing as one of her team handed her a phone. Kendall.
"What is it, Kendall?" she snapped. She was not in the mood.
"What the hell happened in there? You had Bristow and then you lost him?"
Irina's eyes took in her team, all conscientiously appearing to ignore her conversation but avidly following it just the same. "He took what appeared to be a fatal round to the chest. We moved on to mop up; we returned no more than 10 minutes later and his body was gone. We don't know if he's alive or dead." Had her gamble been right? What if he had died because she hadn't gotten him medical attention right away? Would he have been better off in a CIA cell? The hand holding the phone shook imperceptibly.
"Well find out, dammit. Your immunity agreement requires production of a body. I don't much care if it's alive or dead, but I want Sloane and Bristow." Click.
B*stard, thought Irina.
**
Jack woke a few days later and cautiously looked around. After watching unobserved for several minutes he revised his opinion. Despite his earlier assessment, he appeared to be indisputably alive. Nurses and doctors bustled about a room that seemed eerily familiar. Looking to his left, he could see why - Sydney lay motionless on the bed 10 feet to his left. Unconscious. Jack closed his eyes, overwhelmed by bitterness. It had all been for nothing? Had Il Dire been fallible on this, the one future that Jack had cared about?
Dully he contemplated his options. Stay with Sloane in what now appeared to be an exercise in futility. Turn himself into the CIA and spend the rest of his life in prison. Escape from both and live on the run. Defeat settled like a lead weight on his heart. Exhausted, he passed out again.
**
Jack regained consciousness the next day, feeling slightly stronger. He looked over at Sydney, but there was no change. Of course not. Nothing would make a difference now. He tried to sit up, but fell back immediately, groaning, as a stabbing pain shot through his chest. One of the nurses hurried over.
"Mr. Bristow, don't do that!"
Jack glared at her. "How long have I been here?"
"Four days," she smiled. "And up until now you've been a model patient."
"When can I leave?" Jack said curtly. He found her cheerful manner annoying.
"The doctor thinks you should be able to start walking in another 2 weeks." It was clear from the nurse's expression that she thought this was much too soon.
"Two weeks!" Jack exploded angrily, then grimaced again in pain. He needed to get out, get away from the bed next to his, the silent and reproachful reminder of his failures.
The nurse looked at him worriedly. "I think perhaps you should rest some more," she said carefully. Helpless, Jack watched as she reached over and adjusted his medication. He promptly dropped off back to sleep.
**
When Jack awoke again it was morning. He did not make the mistake of sitting up, but instead felt around carefully for a buzzer that he was sure must be in his bed. Finding it at last, he leaned on it. He saw with grim satisfaction that several figures were moving in his direction. One appeared to be a doctor, and Jack wanted some answers.
"What the hell did you do to me?" he demanded, as the doctor moved into range.
"Saved your life," said the doctor matter-of-factly, not at all intimidated "Gun shots to the chest usually don't have happy outcomes. I'm pleased to say, however, that your case may be an exception. If you don't do something stupid to screw it up." He gave Jack a meaningful look. "Like try to sit up, elevate your blood pressure, that sort of thing."
"I'm supposed to just lay here? For two weeks?'
"That about sums it up. And since your happiness is not my primary concern, I've instructed the nursing staff to sedate you if they believe that you are finding those instructions too difficult."
Jack glowered at him, but did not attempt to move or shout.
"Very good, Mr. Bristow. I'm pleased to see that you're a quick learner."
**
Sloane materialized sometime later. Jack had been unhappily contemplating his enforced idleness; when he realized he was in the same room as Sloane and helpless, the monitors surrounding his bed started pinging. A nurse rushed over and gave him a suspicious glance, which Jack returned threateningly. She backed off, but made a show of writing a note on his chart.
"Hello, Jack. Feeling better?"
"Great," replied Jack shortly. Sloane's feigned concern only made him nauseous. "Get me out of here."
Sloane's eyes flickered over Jack, pale against the pillow, wires and tubes attached to every part of his body. "Nice try, but it looks like your ex-wife had other plans."
"What happened?"
Sloane scowled. "Irina happened. Again. Her team infiltrated Finance section, but accidentally tripped the silent alarm. There should have been enough time to extract you." Sloane looked at Jack questioningly.
"My fault," said Jack evenly. "I underestimated the strength of attack."
Sloane raised an eyebrow, but continued. "Anyway, her team penetrated the building rapidly. Security section was busy shredding documents and caught by surprise. We lost a number of operatives. If it hadn't been for Grenis, you'd have been one of them."
"Grenis?" asked Jack, startled.
"We found him on top of you. He had apparently just stopped the bleeding when he was shot; the CIA left you both for dead. Fortunately Security section did one thing right that day and they were able to evacuate you without being caught in the mop-up."
Jack made a non-committal reply while his mind worked furiously. Irina. She must have dragged Grenis over after bandaging him up. Il Dire had not seen it. What a surprise, he thought resentfully. Damn her for interfering. If he had died - his eyes flicked over to Sydney - would she be awake now? Would he ever know?
"When you get out, we need to do something about Irina."
Good luck, thought Jack bitterly.