Chapter 5
"I thought Henry was my boss," Sark said. He didn't know what to think. Why was she here? Sark thought back to what she said after they sparred. It's worthwhile to continue. Had she been calling the shots from the beginning?
"He was. But you can go further now, which is why you're here." Her long dark hair cascaded around her shoulders, and Sark was alarmed with how dangerous she looked then.
"Did Henry set me up for this?" His voice wavered as he asked that. It was a question that could confirm his doubts and make him never fully trust anyone again.
She must have heard the weakness in his voice. It set her off the wrong way.
"Henry sold you to me. He took you in, trained you. Our fight and your progress showed me that you had potential to go forward. If you hadn't, Henry would have stopped training you," she said. Sark knew she was implying his elimination. It sent a shudder through him, and the hardness of the truth made him cower with hurt and instinctual disbelief.
"Why?" It was the only thing Sark could think to say, and it was the perfect question to the many issues swirling in his mind.
The woman smiled tightly.
"It's what he does. Your trip to London was his last test for you, to see if you were ready."
Sark's head ached as it seemed to spin. He shook it clear.
"Why the interrogation, the torture?" He couldn't mask indifference with that question. His whole body demanded anger and some sort of justice.
"That was my test for you," she replied without hesitation. She walked to him again, bending down behind his field of vision.
Sark felt his hands being freed. He gingerly rotated his wrists, examining them as he did. There were deep paths in the wrists where the binding had been, but that would heal.
He felt her eyes on him, watching him as he tried to stand.
"There's a bed in the corner. Get some rest," she said, moving for the door. "We'll speak more tomorrow."
With that, she left, leaving Sark alone and battered with a million questions, injuries and emotions running through him. He stumbled to the bed in the dim light. He groaned as he fell on it, hard. The last thing he remembered was that indescribably painful feeling of betrayal.
The surprising aroma of pastries woke Sark the next morning. Biting his lip to suppress the aches and pains, he turned to the source.
Orange juice, fresh pastries, half a grape fruit . . . What in Hades is going on? Sark thought. Yesterday was an unpleasant beating, and now it's all peachy.
By the tray with his breakfast was a change of clothes. Sark started to stand, but choked on a gasp of pain and sat back down. He breathed in slowly, and released the air as he surveyed his surroundings.
Is this the same room as last night? That cold floor was actually marble. The pole was quite the handsome column, faux finished to imitate the marble. Sark very tentatively stood up, and started to walk around the room.
It was more lavish than Henry's mansion. Sark knew he wasn't the best in considering people's wealth, but based on this exquisite room, his new employer really shouldn't need to work.
That thought drew his attention to the questions. What gave her the right to capture him, test him, torture him? As much as Sark wanted to be angry, he let that question go. The woman cared nothing about rights; all that mattered now was survival. Thinking about what he was entitled to would only get him killed.
He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He couldn't push aside the irony. Last time he saw himself in a mirror he had been the lady killer, stud and all. Now his tuxedo was splattered with drops of blood, dirt, and rips. His hair was the worst version of bed-head he'd ever seen, and his face––well, no need to get himself down.
Sark downed the glass of orange juice. He looked around, noticing an open door to a large bathroom. After a quick bite of a pastry, he grabbed the change of clothes and headed for the shower.
He was instantly grateful he changed in the bathroom, because when he opened the door he found the woman sitting on his bed.
"How did you sleep?" she asked. Sark froze, a little surprised by her sudden appearance in the room, and by her seemingly random question.
"Well, thank you," Sark managed to say at the last moment. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but something told him that now was not the time. He waited for her to make the next move.
"I see the clothes fit you well. Your clothes from the hotel and from Henry's will arrive today," she stated. "Do you have any questions for me?"
He wanted to ask why Henry "sold" him. The man could have been Sark's father, even in appearance. But Sark held to his resolve not to ask about the past.
"What do I do now, and what is your name?" Sark asked. His restraint and yet forwardness made her smile. It reinforced his suspicion that he was winning her confidence, maybe even affection. If nothing else, Sark just knew that she didn't meet all her "new hires" personally.
"Come with me."
Sark started with stepped-up training, under the supervision and direction of Mr. Khasinau. It was different than at Henry's. It was more pointed, more daring, more . . . spy-like. Sark always thought being a thief was his calling in life, but now he wasn't so sure. The woman, who he could call Ms. Derevko, seemed to have a wider role for him.
He was supposedly under Khasinau's command, but Sark knew the man took his orders from Derevko. Though Khasinau was far less dangerous, he felt safer with Derevko. Sure, she was a viper, but Sark was taken with her, in a strictly non-romantic way.
No, in reality, Derevko was now the closest thing he had to a mother. Yeah, she was twisted enough to beat her employees in order to get them to work for her, but there was something in her that he saw every now and then in half moments. It was almost a sadness, a faint caring. He knew such emotions weren't directed to him, but sometimes he knew she cared.
For example, one night after a rough training operation, Sark slipped on a roof and managed to impale his side with a television antenna. Though he walked tall and straight, and tried to conceal the wound, Derevko found out. She was in town that night, and came to Sark's room at "the facility," as they called it. Sark had clumsily bandaged himself, but Derevko redid it, making it tight and straight. She talked with him; it wasn't about his foolish fall, but about meaningless things like music and favorite memories.
It wasn't all like that, especially when Khasinau or others were around. Sark was improving in his abilities, and he knew, as the others around him did, that he was gaining Derevko's favor more and more. Sometimes he thought others envied that–even Khasinau.
Khasinau was tall and thin, gangly man. He had sunken cheeks and more wrinkles than a Sharpei dog. His instruction was to the point, with sparing praise in the form of meaningless stares. Sark instinctively knew some inner turmoil plagued the man, and that had bearing on Sark's fate. As much as he was wary about Khasinau, Sark did admire the man's controlled coldness. It reminded him of his own facade that he had put up at the museum. Sark knew he had to adopt and maintain such a facade, even as extreme as Khasinau's, to not just survive his new environment, but to thrive in it.
"Mr. Sark." Khasinau and the whole organization seemed hell-bent on using such forced pleasantries as courtesy titles, but Sark abided by it.
"Yes sir," he responded automatically. Sark wore one of his suits that Henry bought him. The new wardrobe had confirmed to Sark that Henry planned to send him away. Sark shook his head, and focused on Khasinau. Henry was the past, for at least a month now.
"Tonight we'll have a training mission," Khasinau said. He handed Sark a folder. "There's your mission specs and profile. Be ready at 7 o'clock."
"Yes, Mr. Khasinau," Sark responded. He didn't look at the folder until Khasinau left.
He was to infiltrate a warehouse and download data on a weapons system. Eight perimeter guards and 4 interior ones; he'd go solo, and take care of himself for extraction.
Sark studied and memorized the layout of the building and the guard schedule. As 7 p.m. approached, Sark changed into black cargo pants and longsleeve shirt. Black boots and gloves added to his invisibility. He slipped into what he called mission mode; he spoke to no one and remained focus on the goal ahead.
He went to the supply closet at the facility and loaded up: knife, gun, 4 clips of blanks, a smoke bomb, cables and discs. He left for the warehouse at 6 p.m.
He never knew who he would face in these training exercises. Sure, Sark had seen others at the facility, but he always had solo missions. Guess I'm not a team player, he thought.
The warehouse was patrolled just as the file said. Two guards were on the roof, and the other six circled the warehouse. Sark watched from the roof of the adjacent building. The two guards on the roof were bored. The six on the ground were a little more lively. They all looked like uniformed police, off-duty perhaps. Sark noted their positions, and left.
Sewers were not pleasant, but Sark found their access quite helpful. While the guards looked for nothing above him, Sark slithered through tunnels. He flashed a MagLite on his compass, noting the direction he took. He turned down one way.
If he was right, and he liked to think that he was, Sark was beneath a drain in the warehouse. The only trouble was that he didn't know where the drain was in relation to the interior guards.
Sark stood beneath the drain, and just listened. Footsteps resonated throughout the warehouse, but nothing right next to him. He gently tried to push the drain covering up. It was heavy, but it gave. Every noise he made with the covering had Sark looking in every direction. Nothing.
Quickly, he lifted himself out of the large drain hole, and replaced the cover. Crates the size of Mercedes surrounded him, and he half-dove for cover between them.
He listened. Nothing. No alarm, at least. Sark took a moment to figure out where he was. From his maps, the access terminal for the information was in the south west corner. Sark started that way.
The room was unguarded, but he could hear voices not far away. Sark slipped inside the room, and immediately began working on a computer.
The voices didn't come any closer, but Sark kept his guard up. His fingers tapped quickly and lightly, directing the computer to the information he needed. He found the password in keystrokes, and quickly logged in.
Come on, download! The information was burning to a disc. Sark looked at the room's door, hoping it wouldn't open. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, impatient and nervous. So far things were good, but something wasn't right. Sark didn't want to find out what it was.
"Hey! Stop where you are!" The guard held his gun steady at Sark, but Sark didn't hesitate. He grabbed the nearest item and threw it at the man's head. The item, a stapler, hit the target, throwing the man off. Sark launched himself at the man, grabbing the gun and twisting it from the guard's hands. Sark followed that with a hard kick to the man's legs, and kneeing him in the head. The guard slumped to the ground.
Sark heard a call outside the room. The others were coming. He dove for the computer. The disc was done; he threw it in a case and hid it on him.
His breathing started to speed up, but Sark fought down the panic. He readied his gun, ready to fire his useless blanks as warning shots at his opponents. He dove out of the room, sliding past some crates and hidden from the guards. They saw him leave though, and shots rang out around him.
Was it just him or did they seem like live rounds? Treat this as if it were real, he commanded. He returned fire, and pushed himself to focus on the now.
The exterior guards were filing in, and Sark knew his chances were dwindling with each second. He pulled out the smoke bomb, removing the pin and flinging it away. He picked the heaviest concentration of the guards and chucked the bomb their way and started running.
He never expected the bang. The heat and force were huge. It sent him plowing into the ground. The screams—Sark couldn't register them for a moment.
The smoke bomb was more than that. It was a grenade. This was real!
Sark pushed away the shock threatening to come over him and ran. He ran hard and fast, and never looked back. He left from the opposite end of the warehouse, the guards nowhere to be seen but probably behind him if still alive.
He ran to the trees, away from all the warehouses. His extraction route was all that mattered; he reacted like a robot for now, until he was safe. He slowed when he came to a road. A car was there, waiting for him where he left it. He jumped in and drove.
Slowly, the harshness of reality started to hit him. It hadn't been a training mission; it was all real. The supplies that previous were all blanks and harmless had been switched. The guards were . . . real. And dead.
He'd just killed.