b)ii)1 Sacrifices
Catherine is four by the time they're called into Kendall's office one morning after dropping her off at preschool near the JTTF headquarters, and every bit as bouncy and overly energetic as ever. She's recently starting reading, even without any formal instruction, much to their surprise and pride. Sydney's convinced that she's going to be an English major just like she was, but he knows that they'll both be proud of her for the rest of her life, no matter what career path she chooses.
"Good morning, Bristow, Vaughn," says Kendall, nodding to them both in turn with a slight smile.
He knows from the smile on his face that whatever they've been called in here for must be good, or at very least big, if even Kendall's smiling. For this reason, he's really not all that surprised that the next person through the door is his father-in-law, even given Jack Bristow's semi-retirement, which Vaughn's still finding hard to come to terms with, because an idle Jack Bristow is really quite a daunting prospect. But 'semi-retirement' for Jack Bristow means, oh, only about as much work as Vaughn's typical workload, so it's not quite so daunting a concept as it would be if Jack had opted out of the Company altogether, and taken up some sort of harmless hobby like, oh, golf. The mental image of Jack Bristow in par fours is quite an amusing one, really, and he struggles to stifle a grin at the thought as Jack kisses Sydney on the cheek and sits down in a chair next to the couch where the Vaughns have seated themselves.
"Well, you're probably wondering what we've called you in for today, so I'd best get straight to the point," starts Kendall. "As you very well know, Arvin Sloane is currently #1 on both ours and Interpol's most wanted list - and has been for nearly five years now. Despite this and other measures taken to locate and detain him, we have, up until this point, been unsuccessful in our efforts to obtain any information relating to his location."
He senses his wife's body tense up next to his at the mere mention of Arvin Sloane, the man who has cost her so much, taken from her so much that she deserved to have.
"Until this point, sir?" he asks cautiously.
"The highest level - and only the highest levels, of US intelligence, which is why I've had to keep you, Agent Vaughn, out of the loop on this one," he says, nodding in Vaughn's direction, "have recently received information regarding Sloane's information from a source high up within his organization."
"A double?" asks Sydney, sitting up even more ramrod straight than usual in his chair.
"We believe so. Jack," Kendall says, inclining his head towards Vaughn's father in law, "has been working as the handler for this agent, due to the sensitivity of the case. He's the only other agent in the LA branch with a high enough security clearance."
"Are you sure it's not a triple, someone planted by Sloane to give us false information that might lead us into a trap?" That was Sydney again, and Vaughn could almost see the wheels working even faster than usual in her head.
"All the information we have indicates otherwise."
There's a creeping suspicion niggling in the back of his head, and he voices it so he can get rid of it, because it really is a ridiculous idea anyway. "You- you haven't turned Sark, have you?"
The quick look that Kendall exchanges with Jack is enough to confirm his worst fears.
"No! I refuse to believe that that lapdog Sark would ever turn on his master." That was his wife again, nearly about to burst out of her seat next to him. Age certainly hadn't mellowed her much, and at the age of forty she was still every bit as passionate as she was at twenty-eight, and in as physically fit as she ever had been, or so he thinks.
"Agent Bristow, I'd appreciate it if for once you could restrain your personal bias on this issue!" shoots back Kendall rapidly, as he feels his heckles rise at the sight of a bureaucratic jackass like Kendall taking potshots at his wife.
"If you wanted objectiveness, you wouldn't have brought us in!" he replies for his wife. "You know what Arvin Sloane cost us."
Yes, he thinks to himself, he knows what Arvin Sloane cost him - two years with Sydney, two years wasted trying to forget her, two years spent thinking that he could ever truly be happy without her...... Arvin Sloane cost him the most precious yet intangible thing in the world, he thinks; Arvin Sloane cost him time.
And as he looks at his wife's face, he knows that she's thinking the same thing, although there's still pain in her eyes, the guilt and pain and anger she felt twelve years ago with Danny Hecht's death, and again two years later with Francie's death.
Kendall has to, however grudgingly, acknowledge his point. "While you both may be highly biased in this matter, you're still the best we've got," he admits.
"So where does Sark say Sloane is?" he asks cautiously, knowing how much it would mean to Sydney and Jack...and himself, he admits, to see Sloane behind bars.
"Now here's the interesting thing. Apparently he's gone and based himself here in LA again, in a downtown building not far from where Credit Dauphine was based."
"It actually makes a surprising amount of sense when you think about it, especially given Sloane's rather sizeable ego," adds Jack. "He believes that he's unbeatable - and after all, where better to hide than in clear sight?"
"You still haven't given me an answer to my question, Kendall," says his wife, a dangerous tone creeping into her voice. "How do we know Sark's legit?"
"To be perfectly honest, Agent Bristow, we don't. But all the other info he's given to us has been verified and established as legit. We suspect that he's motivated primarily by ego, as well as money, and is therefore unlikely to be swayed. He appears to have tired of working Sloane's lackey," Kendall answers.
"Took him long enough," mutters Sydney, nearly but not quite under her breath.
"He's apparently looking to either retire from the business comfortably or branch into more legit business," continues Jack, choosing to ignore Sydney's interruption.
"I'll believe that when I see it," snarks Sydney again, and this time he really has to struggle to keep a straight face. Time certainly hasn't diminished her contempt for the cocky British assassin, he reflects with a small snort of laughter that is quickly stifled into a cough at the sight of his wife's patented 'You think this is funny?' glare.
"To be perfectly honest, Agent Bristow, it doesn't matter if you - either of you," Kendall adds, indicating Vaughn and Sydney, "believe any of this. The go-order on this mission came from the highest levels of this agency. We're going to take down Sloane whether you're a part of this mission or not. Professional and personal courtesy, however, insists that I extend an offer of involvement to both of you."
She tenses again sitting next to him, and he squeezes her hand. It's up to her, he knows, to decide whether or not they'll be involved and in what way, although he has a suspicion that she'll want to be in the field for this mission, however much he hates the idea. He'd given up trying to prevent her from going into the field long ago, and knows that trying to keep her out of the field for this particular mission would be especially futile.
"Yes," she breathes quietly. "Yes, we'll help you bring him down."
And he knows what it will mean to her, to have finally achieved some sort of final closure on such a horrific part of her life, to finally avenge her all dead - and so he doesn't try to stop her.
"Thank you, Agent Bristow." Kendall says, and for a moment Vaughn thinks he might even look sincere.
*
It's a week later when the operation finally goes ahead, and almost everybody they know from the agency is involved - Eric, Marshall, Carrie, Dixon and Will, with Jack as the agent in overall control of the operation given his close involvement with the case. It's just like old times, really, he thinks with an almost nostalgic smile.
He's decided he'll work in the field, next to his wife, as he did the day they brought down SD-6 nearly ten years before.
But he thinks that this might just be his last field-op, because he really is getting too old for this kind of thing, and there's really no need for him to work in the field anymore, given his seniority.
They embrace quickly before they go into the building, an outwardly ramshackle old warehouse similar to the one in which they met for so long.
He whispers "I love you," into her ear, and she just nods, her face taut with emotion. She's been waiting for this day for far too long, he knows.
He traces gently the shape of the gold crucifix that hangs at her neck with one finger and then quickly slips it underneath her black Kevlar vest, and they pray quietly together, her head resting on his shoulder.
He had gone to church that Sunday, just over a year ago, and so had she, and nearly every Sunday after that.
It had taken him a little while to remember what he had been taught as a child, but the other members of the church had welcomed them both with open arms, and hadn't been long before they'd both come to understand the message of Christ. It had taken them a little longer to fully welcome God into their lives, but they had...and they've both been happier, more complete than ever been before since then.
"It's time to go," announces Eric from the front of the van their team had traveled in, and he's both happy but surprised to see that there's not a hint of a smirk on his face after watching their embrace.
*
The mission goes perfectly, almost too perfectly.
They encounter only piecemeal resistance as they enter the building, working through the side corridors into the central atrium, where Sark had told them they would find Sloane and his vault of Rambaldi artefacts.
But as they enter the large, airy room, they see.....nothing.
He's on his comm immediately, radioing back to base what they've found. "Base Camp, this is Boyscout. Target is empty, I repeat, empty."
He hears Jack Bristow reply almost immediately, his normally calm tones frantic and hurried, "Boyscout, get out! Mission is a trap, I repeat, a trap. Evacuate now."
But it's too late.
Arvin Sloane steps out from behind a door, Sark following him. Instantly, the weapons of nearly eighty CIA, FBI and ATF agents shoot up, Vaughn's included, but Sloane merely chuckles.
"Please do put down your weapons." Sloane's voice is calm, controlled, and he sounds every inch in control of his environment.
And he is, he realises with a shock, seeing numerous 'ports' for weapons open in the walls of the room, transforming it into a makeshift shooting gallery. Not even the bulletproof vests they're all wearing can possibly protect them from the kind of firepower Sloane has ready to use on them.
"I don't want to kill you all, so please, do put down your weapons," Sloane repeats.
"Drop them!" he orders, from the front of the pack of agents, seeing no other way out of the ambush they've walked into, and knowing that every moment spent negotiating with Sloane is another moment he'll think that he's in control of the situation – meaning another moment that he'll be off his guard. "Drop them, everyone."
The agents follow his orders warily, but they do follow them, and that's the only thing that really matters.
He steps out in front of Sloane, pushing Sydney behind him as he goes.
"How?"
Sark steps forward from Sloane's side, and answers. "Ah, Mr. Vaughn. So nice to see you again!"
"Go to hell, you son of a bitch," he replies, not really caring very much for manners right now.
"I have no doubt that that is where I'm headed, actually," Sark replies, smirking.
"Answer the question, Sark," snarls Sydney from behind him.
"Once a traitor, always a traitor," Sark says calmly, Sloane standing motionless behind him.
"I should have known," she mutters calmly, all trace of humour gone from her voice.
Sloane steps forward then, a small smile appearing on his face. "Mr. Vaughn, it's a pleasure to meet you at last."
"It's a pleasure I could have lived without," he replies coldly.
"I presume that you're the agent in charge of this little operation?"
He nods, wondering exactly what Sloane's up to. But whatever it is, he's pretty sure that it's not something he particularly wants to see.
"Then I have a deal for you."
"I don't do deals with traitors," he replies grimly.
"Oh, I think you do. Or don't you remember Irina Derevko?"
He flinches at the mention of his mother-in-law's name as he remembers the deal he did with her all those years ago for the cure to the virus that nearly killed him.
"Quite the mother-in-law from hell, isn't she?" asks Sloane, a broad smirk on his face.
"What do you want, Sloane?" he growls.
"I'm prepared to let you all go - in exchange for one trivial little thing."
"What?" he asks warily.
"Your wife," Sloane replies quite calmly. "You give me Sydney, and I'll let you all go."
"No way in hell am I letting-" he starts to say, before he's interrupted by another voice from behind him.
"Done," he hears his wife say distantly.
He spins around rapidly, unable to understand what he's hearing her say. "Sydney, no!"
"Vaughn, it makes sense. Think about it! One life for eighty. It's worth it."
"Not your life, it's not!"
Her voice is quieter, calmer now, as if she is resigned to her fate. "Vaughn, I'm not afraid." She reaches up to her neck, and pulls out the small gold cross hanging around her neck.
She moves to hug him, and he never wants to let her go, but he knows he can't stop her. There's a part inside of him, the CIA officer in him, that tells him that it's the best way to get his agents out of this killing chamber, but he can't bring himself to consciously think of sacrificing his wife.
"Syd-" She puts a finger to his lips, before removing it to kiss him quickly.
"I love you. And I'm not afraid. Just- just look after Kate, won't you?" The tremor in her voice is the only outward sign of her pain, but he can only imagine the emotions rushing through her at that moment.
He's still too numb to understand it fully, but he knows he can't let her go. An idea comes to his mind, and he knows it's the best way, the only way, because he swore an oath to protect her, and he's not about to let her go with that sick son-of-a-bitch. "No," he says faintly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Vaughn?"
"No. No deal. You're not taking her. Take me instead," he replies, his voice strengthening as he becomes even surer of what he will do.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Vaughn, but I want your wife, not you."
He hadn't been prepared for this. Nothing in the CIA Handbook had ever told him that someday he'd have to give his wife to some sick bastard just to save the lives of his agents.
Sydney turns back to him, and there's a look on her face that he'll see every day for the rest of his life. On her face there's the most incredible mix of love and longing and pain - but there's strength there, and courage, and he knows that she's telling the truth when she says that she's not afraid of death.
This moment will haunt him for the rest of his life, the moment when his heart, his everything tells him that she's not afraid, that she'll see him soon enough, that it's what she was meant to do.
"I'm not afraid, Vaughn," she repeats, her voice still strong, "This is what I was meant to do. Besides," she whispers, now, "I've always wanted to be a hero." She even grins slightly, at this last comment, and he can't believe she's this strong, strong enough to make a joke when inside he is breaking and in so much pain he can barely breathe.
He would have willingly died for her, but it's not enough to save her and the eighty-odd agents under his command.
He holds her tightly, never wanting to let her go, wanting to go in her place - but he can't.
"Look after Kate. Do you hear me?" she says, "You are not allowed to fall apart! You are not allowed to feel guilty about this, Vaughn! Live for me, live for Kate. Be strong. And never forget that I love you."
"Never," he breathes, tears running down his face.
"I'll see you again, one way or another, okay?" she says softly.
He just nods mutely, unable to speak for all the overwhelming emotions wracking his body.
She breaks out of his embrace then, and he can see tears welling in her eyes as she tries to blink them back before she walks over to Sloane. "You tell your men to stand down," she orders, "And you let them leave. I don't hand over my weapons until then. And before you get any ideas - if they're harmed in any way whatsoever, then I will blow your head off." Her voice is icy cold, but he can tell that she's hurting inside same as he is.
Sloane presses a combination of buttons on a small keypad on the door he had originally entered the room in, and the weapons 'ports' disappear, sliding back behind the walls once again.
"You and your men are free to go, Mr. Vaughn," he says coolly. "Oh, and I must ask you to not interfere with anything that might happen in this building in the next few minutes? Otherwise - well," he says, chuckling slightly, "I think you know what the consequences might be."
He nods mutely, turning to leave as if in a dream, unable to fully understand what he's about to do.
His brain's frantically trying to find some way to save the day, but it can't think of anything, it's so clouded with the mass of emotions are racing through his head.
But as it turns out, he's not the one who comes up with the way to save her, not this time around.
It's Dixon.
The man who had partnered her for two years not knowing her true allegiance, the man who had worked for Sloane for over ten years without ever suspecting who he was really working for, the man who had lost his wife at the hands of Sloane and Allison Doren.
He watches, stunned, as Dixon draws his weapon and shoots Sloane quickly in the head, and turns his gun to Sark.
Dixon's shot hits Sark – but it's not good enough to kill him, only wound him enough.
He'll probably die of his wounds, Vaughn assesses remotely, as detached from the events happening in front of his eyes as if they had been appearing on a television screen in front of him.
Sark has enough time to get off two shots before collapsing.
One hits Dixon in the throat, and he crumples instantly.
The other hits his wife, the woman who had been prepared to sacrifice herself for her friends and colleagues not so long before.
It hits her in the shoulder, and she falls back.
As he watches her fall, it is as if a video stopped mid-frame has suddenly been fast forwarded.
He rushes forward, and where he couldn't feel anything a few moments before, he's suddenly almost bent over double at her side, shaking with all the emotions he's feeling.
"Syd," he manages to choke out, fearing the worst as he sees the dark blossom of blood across her shoulder – no, he realises, as a stab of fear hits him and turns his stomach to ice, the shot didn't hit her in the shoulder. It's hit at the base of her neck, just off to the left hand side towards her shoulder.
"Vaughn…don't worry. Not afraid," he hears her choke out, still sticking to that one line, without a doubt the bravest person he's ever met.
He thinks to himself almost blankly…she's dying.
She can't move anymore, and her face is going as white as a sheet, and his stomach is like ice and he can't move either and, ohgodohgodohgodshe'sdead.
*
She's dead.
It's three weeks later, twentyonedays since she died, and he's still numb.
He keeps it together during the day, not letting himself go back to the bottles which he relied upon so much the first time around – he catches himself and nearly laughs. How many men can say that their wives died twice?
He keeps it together during the day for his daughter, the only part of his wife he has left, apart from a closet full of her clothes, a closet he can barely bear to open for fear of crying again, apart from the house full of her that he has, the house which is just bursting to the seams full of her and her life with him…
He keeps it together during the day for the brown haired little girl who looks so much like her mother it makes him want to break down in tears again.
Weiss hadn't let him drive himself home that day, for fear of him driving the car off a bridge, by accident or intent, he doesn't know.
He had driven him to Katie's preschool, where the owner, a young woman with innocent looking eyes and a friendly smile, had waited with her until her father had arrived to pick her up.
Weiss had spoken to her quietly, taken her aside, and they had spoken words he hadn't been able to hear. But he could hear her loud gasps, and seen how her eyes had instantly flashed to him, wondering, questioning, asking…..it's the look he gets now, everywhere he goes where people know the story. They're thinking about her, and about her death, and feeling sorry for him, oh, look, there's Michael Vaughn, oh, didn't you hear? His wife died recently, such a tragedy, and it's moments like that when he just wants to scream, because they didn't know her, didn't know that this was the second time he'd bury her…..they just didn't know.
He had scooped up Katie in his arms, and she'd burrowed into his embrace, her two little brown braids stroking the side of his face. And then she'd looked at him, those big green eyes staring into his face, and she'd asked him the question that he'd been waiting for.
"Daddy, where's Mommy?"
There had been tears rolling down his face, but he'd tried to blink them back for her sake, because she had told him to be strong for their daughter, and she didn't need him going to pieces on her at that moment.
"Mommy's gone to be an angel, sweetheart. She's gone to be with God."
Those words are etched into the hard drive of his brain, and he will hear them every day for the rest of his life.
He doesn't know if they were the right words to say, but they were all he could say.
"I want Mommy," she had cried, and he would have given up everything he owned only to make her stop crying.
"I know, sweetheart, I know," he had cried himself, "I want her too."
They're burying her today, but he won't speak at her funeral. Couldn't speak.
The job will go to her father, who spoke last time, and he perversely wonders whether or not Jack will reuse his speech.
They buried Dixon yesterday, and his kids had been there as well, nearly all grown up, with their aunt and uncle, whom they're going to be living with.
To an outside observer, to someone who'd never known death, they looked like they were fine.
They looked like they were strong, like they'd cope.
He looked at their eyes, because a person's eyes never lie, and he could see the pain that only comes from losing both your parents within ten years of one another. They'd cope, he knew, because there was no alternative. Nothing else to do but to keep on living, day in and day out until gradually you could eat and breathe and sleep again without seeing ghosts imprinted on the back of your retinas.
They'd cope.
Just as he's coping, by living each day as it came, by praying, almost constantly when he's not with Katie, seeking the hope and faith and peace that comes only from his prayers. His faith is almost stronger than before, because he needs to know that she's somewhere better, somewhere where she's waiting for him.
Days are all right for him. Days are days with Katie, spent trying to make her happy, trying to stop her from crying for her Mommy, even when there are times sometimes [there are always times] when he just wants to let it all go and join her in her tears. He'd never thought that she wouldn't understand it, because she's too smart a little girl, even at her age, to not understand the concept of death. She understands it too well, he thinks sometimes, but then he thinks about how close he's come to death in his life, and about the dance that her mother had played with death, and he thinks that maybe a close understanding of death is hereditary.
Days are all right for him.
Nights – nights are harder. Nights are spent listening to Katie cry out for her mother as she lies in the bed next to him because she's too scared to sleep in her own room, spent lying awake staring at the ceiling, craving her presence, missing her warmth in the bed that they shared so long. Nights are spent with Katie, cradling her as she wakes from nightmares, every night, night in night out, kissing her tears away and telling her that her mother was a hero, died a hero, died protecting her friends and the people she loved, and desperately trying not to look into her eyes because he knows he'll see the question, Daddy why couldn't you protect Mommy? Because he doesn't have an answer for her, probably never will. But it's not so much guilt he feels as gut-wrenching pain and grief and anguish and…achinglongingpainneedwant.
He misses her more at night.
But he'll cope.
He has to.
He's done this once before.
He'll survive.
He has to.
He'll live.
He has to.
She told him to.