Chapter 9
It had been awhile since he'd woken up from being knocked out. Last time was when he was first recruited into Irina's organization.
But she did not wait for him when he woke. In her place was her daughter.
His head throbbed, but he tried not to let it show. He seemed to be in a cargo plane. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.
"Miss Bristow, may I ask where we are going?" he said as politely as he could.
She hid her surprise well.
"I only gave you my first name. You've been reading up on me, Sark?" she asked. "Oddly enough, we don't have a file on you."
"Hence my capture, and probable interrogation," Sark filled in. He didn't know why he was having this banter with her, but it made his situation more bearable.
"Probable, yes. We're going to my agency," Sydney said. Sark was a bit surprised by how straightforward she was being.
"What, Los Angeles? Come on, Sydney, just give me the formula and I'll be out of your gorgeous hair," Sark said. Gorgeous hair? What was that?!
Whatever it was, it was working. Sydney almost blushed at that. Must be my good looks, Sark thought to himself. He looked himself over; he was leaned up against a wall of the plane. His hands were bound behind his back, and his feet were chained. Two guards stood nearby, with the guns ready and drawn. His clothes were mostly dry, indicating he'd been out awhile. His burgundy ripped shirt was stained darker with his blood around his injuries. Those injuries were still exposed. Okay, maybe not my looks.
"You're crazy if you think I'll just hand you the formula and let you go," Sydney replied sternly. Her eyes were hard, but her jaw was clenched just a bit too tight. Sark smiled inwardly at his growing success in getting under her skin.
"You owe me the formula. You've ruined my suit and shirt. Because of you, I came close to drowning, got cut up, and all this even after I saved your life," Sark said confidently.
"Saved my life? You only held onto me because 'I don't trust you,'" she said. She even imitated his accent.
"Who says it wasn't because I thought you were beautiful?" He couldn't believe he said that. Trouble, Sark. Shut up now before she plays you.
She hesitated, obviously thrown by his words. Suddenly she closed the distance between them and hit him hard with a left hook.
Sark's head snapped back, and he stumbled to not fall on the floor. He fell anyway on his left and injured side.
The impact made him wince as the pain vibrated through his wounds. His head just throbbed harder.
"Thank you," Sark said between groans. "My head feels so much better."
"Sydney." Someone in a different part of the plane called her. Sark looked for the voice. It was a black man, with a very stately jaw line and stern determination in his eyes.
He must have had some rank over her. Sark watched as Sydney followed the man away. As soon as she was out of sight, Sark tried to sit up. The guards around him tightened their grips on the guns aimed at him. Sark sighed.
"I'm just trying to sit up, gentlemen. No need to get trigger-happy," he said. With more than a bit of effort, Sark settled on sitting on the floor and leaning against his previous spot.
He started to think. Sloppy. I'm letting my pressure to succeed make me sloppy.
Or is it Sydney? Sark hated it when the brutally-honest side of his brain woke up. Sure, Sydney was beautiful. But she was not getting in the way of him doing his job.
Which is why you have the formula now, and she doesn't.
Shut up! he told himself. Yes, Sydney was a challenge, but he did save them in that tunnel.
Until you dropped yourself in the water again.
Dang it!! It was the rat's fault.
Sark closed his eyes, trying to shut up his mind.
Forget it. What now? He had to get out of SD-6's control. The CIA would be less worrisome, but Sark doubted the Alliance was hospitable to those it captured.
Not that he minded torture. Not like you like it either. But he could survive it. Even better, he could thrive in any situation.
Then the idea came to him.
The guards thought he was crazy or stupid to ask for Sydney (or anything for that matter), but after his persistence, Sydney faced Sark.
"What do you want?" she asked testily. Sark admired that fire in her eyes already lighting up.
Sark gently rubbed the side of his face against his shoulder. It was where she hit him, and Sark noticed the slightly guilt-laden look she let show from his movement.
"Can we speak in private?" he asked, nodding at the guards. Sydney bit her lip.
"They can hear whatever you have to say," she replied. She was already considering it favorably, and Sark pressed on.
He leaned toward her as if to whisper.
"They keep eyeing me in a disturbing manner. I'll leave it at that, and spare you details." Sark leaned back and watched as she nodded for the guards to give them space. They moved within sight of Sark, but out of earshot.
"Thank you," Sark said. "Now, what would your agency want from me?" he asked in an overly polite tone. It bordered on sarcasm, but only if she really analyzed it.
Her response was quick and automatic. "Justice–you're a terrorist." Sark chuckled at that while carefully monitoring her reaction.
"True. But who says your agency is any better?"
Her forehead wrinkled in anger.
"The US government is hardly composed of terrorist-material." She said it, but there was no conviction behind it.
"Sydney, you have to put your back into it if you want me to believe you," Sark said softly. "Every agency acts questionably, all in the name of their country and freedom."
"At least I have a country. I haven't betrayed it, unlike some terrorists-for-hire," she shot back. That fury was starting to bubble, and Sark loved it.
"Yes you have," Sark said, waiting for the punch his words would give her.
She was speechless for a moment; then that fury started to show again. She took a firm step toward him, her arms at her sides with her fists clenched.
"You have no idea what I do or what my agency does, you sick—"
"No need to get so testy, Miss Bristow," Sark soothed with his creamy accent. Definitely more passionate than Irina, or less controlled at least. "I do know what you do. It's you who is in the dark."
He watched her as she calmed for a moment, practically willing herself to be under control. A part of her analyzed what he said, but he could see the blind eagerness push any doubts aside.
"And just what is that supposed to mean?" she asked. Her tone was somewhat curious but she tried masking that with attitude.
They were interrupted.
"Sydney, we're about to land," the same agent said.
"I'm coming, Dixon," she replied. But she didn't turn away. She waited for an answer from Sark.
"I'll tell you later, Miss Bristow," Sark said with a seductive grin and a wink. Her eyes narrowed at him, and with a slight huff she left him.
Sark knew she wouldn't do anything about what he had said other than think he was crazy. But he knew he made a connection with her. Even if that connection was annoyance, it was enough to make her think about him.
As a potential source of information, of course.
The landing was a bit rough, but maybe that's because Sark was the only passenger without a seatbelt. No one really seemed to care if he was bumped around like a rag doll. The guards even smiled at his plight.
They won't smile for long, Sark thought.
From the cargo plane, Sark was pushed into a dark SUV. Sydney and the other man, Dixon, rode ahead of him in another car. Escorting him were his favorite guards.
Perfect.
Sark waited until they were in the middle of Los Angeles. He'd already got his hands free from the cuffs. As a result, his thumb was out of place, but that was minimal.
He couldn't do much about his feet without the guards noticing. One guard was to his right and the other in the front passenger seat. The driver wasn't armed, from what Sark could tell.
Sydney and Dixon went through a yellow light while his escort remained behind. Sark waited until the car started going again with the green light.
He jabbed his right elbow into the guard's side, and lunged forward to the other guard. His left arm wrapped around the man's neck until he heard the throat being crushed. Meanwhile, Sark used his right hand to deliver a chop to the first guard's throat.
Both guards were dead in less than 10 seconds. The driver swerved to the side to stop, but in the panic of the moment, crashed into a parked car.
Though slightly dazed by the impact, Sark managed to grab one of the guards' guns. He shot the driver through the back of the seat.
Sark dug through pockets. Keys, keys. He found them at last, and quickly undid the chains around his feet.
Bystanders started to peer in.
"Are you all right?" someone asked, while another asked if the others were alive. Sark slipped into a role.
"Yes, thank you. I think they're unconscious." Someone opened a door and helped him out. He thanked them, then started back away from the scene.
He heard shrieks as he ran away. Probably figured it out, he thought. It didn't matter now. He was free again.
Irina was sitting patiently in an arm chair in his room when he came in. He wore new clothing, but hadn't showered or fixed himself up since the botched-up mission.
"Are you all right?" she asked. Sark walked past her into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
"Yes. Do you mind if I get cleaned up," he said. It was more of a courtesy, telling her what he was doing, but he knew she wouldn't mind.
"Do you mind if I stay and chat," she replied. He took off his shirt in answer. She noticed his wounds.
"I'll call for some bandages." With that, she turned away from him as Sark undressed in the bathroom and stepped in the shower. Though he knew she wouldn't ogle him, he had never felt more grateful for the frosted glass shower door.
The hot water seared his wounds, but he welcomed the pain in the cleansing. The stench of the tunnels, the river, and his blood washed away.
"I didn't get the formula," Sark called out. He winced when the shampoo lather spilled into his eyes. He knew that Irina knew about his failure, but he suspected that information on her daughter was what she really wanted now.
"How did she do?" she asked. Sark rinsed out his blond hair, more dirty than it'd ever been.
"You mean beyond getting the formula?" Sark said. "She was remarkable. She fooled me for a bit at the meeting point. And obviously, she whipped me pretty well."
"Your injuries?" Irina asked. Sark shook off the water as he grabbed a towel.
"No, that was something else. But she did well. A formidable adversary," Sark said. He stepped out of the shower, wrapped in his towel.
Irina eyed his side and arm. "Come here." She held up some antiseptic and a bandage. Sark sat by her on the arm of the chair.
"You told her about SD-6?" Irina asked as she dabbed his side and arm with the alcohol. Sark flinched.
"No, but I planted the seed, so to speak." Irina nodded approvingly. She pulled the edge of the towel down a bit, dabbing him more where the wound extended on his hip. The towel had spots of red on it now.
As she applied bandages over his arm and side, Sark could tell she was strategizing about Sydney. She finished up, and watched as Sark walked to his closet.
He picked out another dark suit, but stopped when she spoke.
"You should rest today. We'll speak later on," she said, getting up. "Sydney needs to know the truth about SD-6. When she does, she'll work with us."
Sark stared after his boss, but doubted her words. He knew Sydney couldn't fathom working for the enemy. And because of that, he knew he'd be caught in a crossfire sometime soon.