8. "Perfect place, out of face, a good day to make a mistake."
He has always enjoyed driving. There's the visceral appeal, of course, the physical feeling of being propelled forward (and backward, and sometimes in circles) through direct action, the simplicity of which is also attractive. Foot meets pedal, speed increases. Simple. Beyond that, there is the illusion of control afforded to him when he is in the driver's seat, although both he and his employer are well aware that he will not deviate from the expected course. This has been his favorite assigned duty since he was old enough to get behind the wheel--a little before then, actually.
He is not driving now.
He is, of course, quite aware of the severity of the situation, and yet it proves impossible to resist glancing at the speedometer, noting the way the wheel twitches uncertainly beneath her fingers. He can't help correcting her, mentally, making a list of the things he would do differently. It's clear that after all the years, the act of driving makes her nervous; this might just be the first time he's seen her lose her cool. Even in the beginning, she always had a driver.
This must be the first time she's cared enough about something to do the job herself.
He's not exactly sure how he feels about that.
With Jack Bristow out of the picture, there is the distinct possibility that she will be able to convince her daughter to join her, after she takes the opportunity to eliminate the man who killed Bristow. Not the one who actually killed him (that would be easy enough), but the one who first murdered the real Bristow. It seems unlikely, perhaps, considering the nature of their relationship and the sequence of recent events, but it has been his experience that Irina Derevko typically has little trouble persuading the once (twice, three times) betrayed to return to her side.
And so, accepting Sydney's eventual agreement as a foregone conclusion, once the two unite against the same cause, the consequences might be devastating. Not just for the world at large, or for those who would stand in their way, but for Sark himself. Her second in command, her favorite lieutenant, usurped by someone who doesn't even believe in the objectives Irina built his life around. On the other hand, with Sydney's assistance, those objectives might become considerably easier to achieve.
He resolves to stop thinking about things that haven't happened yet.
After all, there is always the chance that when they get where they are going, Sydney will kill him, thus mercifully ending his anxiety.
Aside from joining forces with her mother, which might prove too great a leap of faith for even Sydney to take, that's really the only way this could end.
The prospect doesn't bother him as much as it probably should.
* * *
The road seems to stretch on forever. It's dark now, and the weak headlights of the car he arranged at the last minute provide little illumination down the barely paved path. This is not the route he would have elected to take, had he been driving, which he is not. He glances over at her; it's nearly impossible to make out her features. She is oblivious, intent on reaching their destination, and she does not tell him to either stop staring or speak, so he does neither.
Therefore, he does not see it coming.
Later he will wonder about her excuse.
* * *
The tires lay flat in the center of the road, scattered like severed limbs on a battlefield. She is driving too fast to stop in time. Instead, she swerves. The car careens off the road, over the shoulder, headfirst into the groove paralleling the pathetic pavement. His instinct is to grab the wheel, take control of what is rightfully his, but it is too late. A vehicle rests in the ditch, three of four tires missing.
The windshield implodes, separating into larger pieces. Many of those on the driver's side shatter from the force of the impact. Instinctively, he closes his eyes. The dashboard is jarred forward, into his lap. The radio is ejected from its slot, suspended by a couple of slim wires.
When the debris settles, he opens his eyes slowly. No glass--that's a relief.
After ascertaining his own safety, he finally turns to her, dreading the sight.
She is not speaking; she is not unconscious. He extricates himself from the passenger seat and leans gingerly over her, careful not to touch, releasing her seat belt. No response.
Up close, it is easier to see. Her hair sparkles with shards of glass, and her eyes are half-open and unfocused.
"Are you going to be all right?" he whispers, as if someone might overhear.
She looks over at him--a good sign, he thinks--and says, "I'm sorry."
(It might be the first time she's ever said that to him.)
He nods curtly: now is not the time. "What about a hospital?" he asks, still poised above her. "I could--"
"No," she says.
"But you're--"
She begins to cough, and he involuntarily pictures the effect of bits of glass inside her throat. She stretches out a hand to touch the side of his face, lightly, and the surface of her palm glitters; he winces, either from the anticipation of her touch or from the idea of the glass scratching his own skin.
So this is goodbye; it can't be, but it is. He tries to retain his composure as he presses his mouth into her cheek, against her lips. She does not push him away.
Instead she allows his hands to wander, as if she is aware that he is attempting to burn this into his memory. Even in this vulnerable position, she holds all the authority. These thoughts float through his mind, but this is not something he can accept, because this is not real. Her story does not end on the side of the road, not unless she planned it that way. But this could not have been planned. (Could it? He almost hopes she is keeping her true intentions a secret.)
His exploration can only go so far before he must stop, afraid of embedding shards further into her skin, or his own.
"There's a kit in the glove box," she says. "It's for Sydney. Get it. Take it. Then go."
"I can't just leave you here. This is not how--"
"Go," she repeats, stronger this time, and he protests no further before beginning his journey as a hitchhiker.
A mile away, he would swear he can still hear her coughing, alone in the darkness.
He does not look back.
A pick-up truck slows and he climbs into the back, disregarding the layer of dirt inside the bed.
He presses his back against the back window of the cab and draws his knees to his chest.
This changes everything.
He has always enjoyed driving. There's the visceral appeal, of course, the physical feeling of being propelled forward (and backward, and sometimes in circles) through direct action, the simplicity of which is also attractive. Foot meets pedal, speed increases. Simple. Beyond that, there is the illusion of control afforded to him when he is in the driver's seat, although both he and his employer are well aware that he will not deviate from the expected course. This has been his favorite assigned duty since he was old enough to get behind the wheel--a little before then, actually.
He is not driving now.
He is, of course, quite aware of the severity of the situation, and yet it proves impossible to resist glancing at the speedometer, noting the way the wheel twitches uncertainly beneath her fingers. He can't help correcting her, mentally, making a list of the things he would do differently. It's clear that after all the years, the act of driving makes her nervous; this might just be the first time he's seen her lose her cool. Even in the beginning, she always had a driver.
This must be the first time she's cared enough about something to do the job herself.
He's not exactly sure how he feels about that.
With Jack Bristow out of the picture, there is the distinct possibility that she will be able to convince her daughter to join her, after she takes the opportunity to eliminate the man who killed Bristow. Not the one who actually killed him (that would be easy enough), but the one who first murdered the real Bristow. It seems unlikely, perhaps, considering the nature of their relationship and the sequence of recent events, but it has been his experience that Irina Derevko typically has little trouble persuading the once (twice, three times) betrayed to return to her side.
And so, accepting Sydney's eventual agreement as a foregone conclusion, once the two unite against the same cause, the consequences might be devastating. Not just for the world at large, or for those who would stand in their way, but for Sark himself. Her second in command, her favorite lieutenant, usurped by someone who doesn't even believe in the objectives Irina built his life around. On the other hand, with Sydney's assistance, those objectives might become considerably easier to achieve.
He resolves to stop thinking about things that haven't happened yet.
After all, there is always the chance that when they get where they are going, Sydney will kill him, thus mercifully ending his anxiety.
Aside from joining forces with her mother, which might prove too great a leap of faith for even Sydney to take, that's really the only way this could end.
The prospect doesn't bother him as much as it probably should.
* * *
The road seems to stretch on forever. It's dark now, and the weak headlights of the car he arranged at the last minute provide little illumination down the barely paved path. This is not the route he would have elected to take, had he been driving, which he is not. He glances over at her; it's nearly impossible to make out her features. She is oblivious, intent on reaching their destination, and she does not tell him to either stop staring or speak, so he does neither.
Therefore, he does not see it coming.
Later he will wonder about her excuse.
* * *
The tires lay flat in the center of the road, scattered like severed limbs on a battlefield. She is driving too fast to stop in time. Instead, she swerves. The car careens off the road, over the shoulder, headfirst into the groove paralleling the pathetic pavement. His instinct is to grab the wheel, take control of what is rightfully his, but it is too late. A vehicle rests in the ditch, three of four tires missing.
The windshield implodes, separating into larger pieces. Many of those on the driver's side shatter from the force of the impact. Instinctively, he closes his eyes. The dashboard is jarred forward, into his lap. The radio is ejected from its slot, suspended by a couple of slim wires.
When the debris settles, he opens his eyes slowly. No glass--that's a relief.
After ascertaining his own safety, he finally turns to her, dreading the sight.
She is not speaking; she is not unconscious. He extricates himself from the passenger seat and leans gingerly over her, careful not to touch, releasing her seat belt. No response.
Up close, it is easier to see. Her hair sparkles with shards of glass, and her eyes are half-open and unfocused.
"Are you going to be all right?" he whispers, as if someone might overhear.
She looks over at him--a good sign, he thinks--and says, "I'm sorry."
(It might be the first time she's ever said that to him.)
He nods curtly: now is not the time. "What about a hospital?" he asks, still poised above her. "I could--"
"No," she says.
"But you're--"
She begins to cough, and he involuntarily pictures the effect of bits of glass inside her throat. She stretches out a hand to touch the side of his face, lightly, and the surface of her palm glitters; he winces, either from the anticipation of her touch or from the idea of the glass scratching his own skin.
So this is goodbye; it can't be, but it is. He tries to retain his composure as he presses his mouth into her cheek, against her lips. She does not push him away.
Instead she allows his hands to wander, as if she is aware that he is attempting to burn this into his memory. Even in this vulnerable position, she holds all the authority. These thoughts float through his mind, but this is not something he can accept, because this is not real. Her story does not end on the side of the road, not unless she planned it that way. But this could not have been planned. (Could it? He almost hopes she is keeping her true intentions a secret.)
His exploration can only go so far before he must stop, afraid of embedding shards further into her skin, or his own.
"There's a kit in the glove box," she says. "It's for Sydney. Get it. Take it. Then go."
"I can't just leave you here. This is not how--"
"Go," she repeats, stronger this time, and he protests no further before beginning his journey as a hitchhiker.
A mile away, he would swear he can still hear her coughing, alone in the darkness.
He does not look back.
A pick-up truck slows and he climbs into the back, disregarding the layer of dirt inside the bed.
He presses his back against the back window of the cab and draws his knees to his chest.
This changes everything.