Chapter 3
The tux looked amazing. Well, not to be cocky, but he looked amazing. Except for the tie thingy.
Sark folded and tucked and tied every which way, but the bow tie always ended up crooked or uneven. His reflection screwed him up too—that whole mirror image thing.
I don't need this right now, Sark thought. He had yet to come up with an idea for stealing the artifact.
He sighed and pulled on an end of the bow tie, giving up for the moment. Looking around the hotel room, Sark gathered his plastic key and invitation, and left the room.
The elevator left him at the lobby. As he stepped out, Sark ran smacked into a bellhop.
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," the pimply-faced bellhop said. Sark looked himself up and down, straightening his tuxedo.
"It's all right," he said with a slight air in his voice. He paused, his hands hovering over his bow tie. "Do you know how to tie one of these?"
The bellhop did a good job, Sark decided. Examining his reflection in the side view mirror of a limo, Sark was pleased to find the bow tie perfectly tied and positioned.
He felt his breathing quicken and his whole body tense as he approached the museum. The red carpet was out, and Sark felt slightly intimidated as he watched couples extravagantly dressed strut through the entrance.
Sark seemed more like a robot than a man as he walked in. With each step his breath released in short puffs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection. Sark turned to the mirror, lavishly framed and decorated. Suddenly, he felt a swirl of pride. He'd forgotten in the short time since his hotel that he looked good! Henry's words came back to him: You're above everyone else. Don't forget it.
Though he wasn't sure what Henry's intentions were in training him, nor was he sure about who he himself was, the words strengthened him. He stood up straighter and allowed himself to be cocky again.
That's when pieces of the plan started to fall into place.
It began with the facade. Complimenting his tuxedo was a firm smirk, pleasant enough for the stupid ones, and confident enough to make him seem annoyingly arrogant. His eyes turned icy, fixed straight ahead. The blonde hair seemed to stand with a little more spike. He looked like a spoiled bad boy. And everyone loves the bad guy.
Especially the red head in the silver satin dress. Sark noticed her admiring gaze shortly after snagging his first drink. He ignored it for now, and made a round through the museum lobby.
She kept glancing his way, coyly between sips of whatever glass she was on. She made a show of talking with some man, and, Sark noticed, she pretended to enjoy talking to the man a lot more when Sark saw it.
Sark maintained his cool, indifferent air. He stayed in one spot, admiring one painting while she made her way toward him.
When she said her opening line, Sark knew what he had to do. She was the perfect cover. He let her think she broke his facade with her subsequent comments. Their conversation was meaningless, but probably would be thought of often by her.
Sark barely caught her name, but instantly discarded it. He called her "love," covering up his Irish accent perfectly. They made their way around the museum, laughing at some of the art, and cuddling around others.
He had to admit, cuddling with a perfect stranger was a bit disconcerting. He hadn't been close to a girl since . . . Amy Reardon, when they were 15. She was the only one he'd ever kissed, and that had been a bit of a disaster.
Sark mentally shook that thought out of his head, but it popped back up as he considered what he had to do soon.
The young woman probably never realized it, but Sark guided her slowly towards the artifact. Once in the same room as it, Sark scoped out the guard. He was hardly any older than Sark, and looked at the girl eagerly.
That's when Sark cued himself. He started by wrapping his arms around her. She responded instantly with her hands feeling their way down his back.
Sark tried to hold back his alarm as her hands meandered further south. She was forward, he'd grant her that. His breath quickened, despite his mind's firm instructions to stay normal. She was reaching for him, his face, his lips. The inevitable kissing was looming, and Sark had to swallow his memories and remember his facade.
His first kiss, which was with Amy, had been enough to make him never want to confront the opposite sex again. They had been friends for awhile, and suddenly found themselves attracted to each other while at some friend's hangout. When their lips met, Sark found his jaw locking, and his mouth open like a fish's. His lips went cold and limp, and he later discovered, to his horror, that he had grape bubble gum in his mouth. Later she claimed she hadn't noticed anything, but her friends told him otherwise.
Now Sark faced what he hoped was redemption. He had to be cool, experienced. His whole persona for this suggested he had kissed hundreds of girls. But this girl was No. 2.
He kissed her hard, maybe too hard, but she came right back at him. From there, he sort of imitated whatever she did.
It was rather difficult but he managed to keep an eye on the guard. The poor bloke was completely into their makeout session.
As they kissed, Sark gently led the girl and himself to the corded off section in the room. Among the priceless items sat the artifact. The museum curators probably thought it the least valuable of the bunch, but then again, they were foolish enough to leave it out in the open.
The kissing continued, along with her hands feeling him just a little too much for his comfort. They kept rocking back and forth, closer and closer until—
They bumped into the cord, startling the girl. Sark used her movement to fall believably into the exhibit.
The guard snapped out of his daze and quickly approached them. Various art items teetered back and forth, one even falling. Somehow it didn't break, much to Sark's relief.
He and the girl were on the floor, looking up at the guard. Both started to laugh.
"Forgive us," Sark started. "We, uh, got a little carried away." The guard's eyes darted around the room, waiting for those watching from the cameras.
"Please stand up, sir, miss," the guard said. He stooped over to the fallen object, some vase that had to be plastic for not breaking. Sark got up quickly, stepping backwards to the artifact. His hand darted behind him, snatching the artifact. Sark's hand dipped the back of his cummerbund, securing the artifact in it.
"Pardon us. Perhaps we should take this elsewhere," Sark said, with a mischievous grin to the woman. The guard held up a hand.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I need to have you wait for security," the guard cut in weakly. Sark faked a horrified gasp.
"Look, I can't be associated with such a mistake. Do you know who I am?" Sark asked. "My father is an ambassador; besides, I doubt the lady here wants to be embarrassed." Sark held out his hand to her, and she took it with a pouty smile.
"You really should wait," the guard persisted, though half-heartedly as he stared at the woman. Her dress accented her body in all the right places, and the guard noticed appreciatively.
Perfect, Sark thought. He approached the guard, dipping one hand into his inside jacket pocket.
"Listen, I don't want to disappoint her. Do you? Let us be moving, and I'll make it up to you," Sark said. With that he pulled out ten crisp bills from his wallet.
He could hardly believed that last-minute scheme worked, but everything was perfect. The girl, who he escorted home and left there, had been a believable decoy. The guard was weak, and more interested in the girl than Sark was.
That cocky persona stayed with him: He was good!
Sark strutted back through the hotel lobby, subconsciously patting the artifact hidden on his tux.
Having completed the task, Sark's thoughts wandered back to Henry and Ireland. What was next now? Henry would be proud, Sark assumed, but then the doubts surfaced.
Did Henry really even care? He sent him with no plan to obtain the artifact. Yeah, it was a test of sorts, Sark knew. But if Sark had failed, what would have happened? Would Henry come for him, or leave him to whatever fate?
Sark approached his room, key in hand. He stopped just short of the door.
The do-not-disturb sign was backwards. Someone had touched it.
He listened, his senses suddenly alert. He heard feet shuffle inside. He started to back away, when the door was flung open, and a masked figure grabbed him.
Sark struggled against the assailant, but was dragged inside the room.
He managed to wriggle free, and quickly launched a kick to the figure. But two more came on Sark. He fought, valiantly, he thought. The punches and kicks could only do so much. Sark knew it was only a matter of time.
He fell to the ground, the result of a hard blow to his face. Two of them grabbed him from either side, holding his arms and forcing them behind him.
"What do you want!" Sark shouted. He felt someone pat him down, and stop at the artifact. They took it, and panic went through Sark. Now what? he thought.
Hard plastic bit into his wrists as they bound them with a strong plastic tie. Sark still struggled against them, trying to make it as hard as possible for them. They taped his mouth shut and placed a ski mask on him backwards. They started shoving him toward the windows.
Blinded, he tried to stop the movement with his feet. His assailants ended up picking him up. Think, think! He had to find a way out of this.
Someone was tying something to Sark. A rope, Sark hoped, as they lifted him out the window. One of them grabbed him right before Sark swore he was going to fall.
Instead, he felt that he was being repelled down outside the hotel. Why would they take me?
The descent was quite disconcerting for his tastes, not being able to see and all, but he felt a bit of relief when his feet touched the ground.
He immediately started to struggle again, and managed to make someone yelp in pain. Another one grabbed him as he heard a vehicle's engine start. He fell hard as he was shoved inside. Before he could decide what type of vehicle he was in, something hit him viciously over the head. He felt woozy, light, until he was pretty sure he was unconscious.