Chapter 17
Just as he was about to curse Sydney in the 11 different languages he knew fluently, he saw both guards go down in front of him. Sydney dead-legged both from behind, then kicked in a smooth arch down on one's head. The other started to react, and Sydney didn't even blink.
She brought up her gun and fired once. The guard fell. Sark watched as she stepped over the guard, and fired again right over the heart, killing him.
Sark didn't move. He couldn't believe she actually killed him. Images of the guards he had killed long ago replayed in his mind. He saw them flying through the air, behind the heat of the explosion.
"Come on, Sark," she said, interrupting his shock. "More will be coming." She held out a hand, and helped him to his feet.
Sark tried not to clutch his open wound as they hobbled out of the Vatican together.
On the plane ride back, Sark was more quiet than usual.
As soon as the plane door shut, Sydney searched for a first aid kit. Sark just plopped down on a leather seat and watched her.
He still was stunned, but not as much from the injury as her behavior.
"Sark," he heard her say. He snapped his attention to her. "Where's the kit?" Her tone suggested that this wasn't the first time she asked him that.
He nodded toward an overhead bin. "Up there." She didn't hesitate to pull it out.
"Take your shirt off," she ordered. Sark couldn't help but smirk at that. But he complied.
He grimaced at the shooting pain as he pulled the shirt over his head. Sydney immediately started inspecting the wound.
"It's not deep, but we should clean it out," she said, as if reciting the weather report. "This may sting."
It always does, Sark thought. He braced himself for the antiseptic, not wanting to show any weakness in front of her.
Especially since she just saved his hide. Though in more of an extreme way than I ever expected.
She just killed that one guard. He was already down, shot once in the chest. But she stood over him, calm and poised. Sark shut his eyes as he saw her pull the trigger, and the guard's body jerk with the fatal shot. She murdered him.
Murder. Monster.
Sydney.
"Sark," he heard again. He looked at her. Oddly, she looked concerned.
"Yes, Sydney," he acknowledged.
"Are you all right?" she asked. Her concern seemed genuine, but Sark couldn't shake the image of her face when she pulled the trigger. It overlapped the present.
"Sark?" she pressed. He shook away the images.
"I'm fine," he said quietly. "Just thinking." He looked down at his side. The blood was already wiped away, and Sydney had already patched up the wound.
"Where did you get the other scars?" she asked. Sark looked down at his side again. She was right; there were old scars around the new wound. The tunnel.
"The London mission," he stated flatly. Sydney looked confused.
"I don't remember doing that." Sark shook his head.
"You didn't. The water," he said shortly. "I got pushed into the tunnel walls." She nodded knowingly.
"Of course," she added, as if she knew the whole time. Her hand lingered over the scars. Sark watched it, wondering what she was thinking.
And suddenly, he saw the guard's body twitch again.
Sark jerked back from her. He instantly realized how sudden that was, and quickly covered it up by putting on his shirt and standing up.
"Did you," he started, clearing his throat nervously, "did you see any pain killers in that kit?" Sydney's eyes studied him. Sark didn't face her, but pretended to inspect the bandages on him.
"Yes," she answered slowly. She reached for the kit, and tossed him a bottle of Tylenol. He caught it, though with his left hand. Pain went through his side, and Sark quickly put his right hand over the wound, as if to instantly stop the ripping he felt there.
She was watching him, he could tell, as he downed two pills and a bottle of water. Sark ignored her looks, and sat down again. Before she could start up again, he pulled out his cell phone.
Irina picked up immediately.
"We got it," he said.
"Any indications that she signaled the CIA?" Irina asked. Sark had already received reports from the other units.
"No." There was a long pause before Irina answered.
"Good. See you soon."
Sark hung up. Irina was pleased; she rarely said anything like a goodbye at the end of a phone conversation. Sark saw it as meaningless pleasantries, and knew Irina used her words as sparingly. But the success obviously had Irina happy.
And Sark knew it was because of Sydney.
Without looking at Sydney, Sark stretched out on a sofa, and pretended to sleep. When he heard Sydney get up and go to the kitchenette, he allowed himself to relax a bit.
Sydney's not so innocent. Sark knew she was defending him and herself, but something about the way she shot the man made Sark doubt.
It wasn't just shooting him. It was an execution. Since he met her, Sark had been beating himself up for being so terrible while she was so pure.
He had been wrong. And for some reason, that made everything worse.
It made him think. Her overly developed sense of justice made him hate himself not long ago. But was that an act for the CIA? Maybe she already knew about SD-6.
Sark abandoned that thought. He didn't suspect her of playing the spy field, infiltrating SD-6, CIA, and Irina's organization. But she obviously wasn't the woman he thought she was.
Irina was waiting for them when they got to the facility. She hugged her daughter, and for some reason it struck Sark as oddly normal. It was as if Sydney just got home from school.
"I'm glad things went well," she said, congratulating her daughter. Sark couldn't help but feel out of place. Usually this was something Irina would say to him.
He wasn't jealous, but it was different. Everything was different than he expected.
"You're hurt," he heard Irina say. Sark focused on her, putting his thoughts and doubts away for now.
"Just a scratch," Sark replied quickly. "Sydney has the code." Back to business. Business had always been his safety net, his way to cover up any emotion. Irina paused, as if analyzing him. Sark didn't flinch, but held her stare.
"Very good," she said finally. Sark nodded, and excused himself.
It was still relatively early in the evening. Sark knew Irina probably already ordered dinner—she often did after missions, to discuss what was next and as a reward of sorts. But Sark didn't plan to attend tonight.
He didn't bother with a shower, but quickly changed into something comfortable and fell onto his bed.
The mission replayed in his dreams that night. He knew he tossed around in his bed. He woke up twice, each time checking the clock. The last time it was only 1 a.m. By the third time, Sark gave up.
It was 3:30 a.m. Sark sat up.
He couldn't stop thinking about Sydney.
She really is a Derevko.
He sighed loudly to the silence in his room. He was too awake and troubled to try sleeping again. He got out of bed, still dressed in the grey pants and black t-shirt he fell asleep in.
Sydney's door was closed, and the rest of the estate was relatively quiet. Just the guards were awake, as well as a few scientists who had no lives.
Sark's bare feet padded quietly down to the training room. It was empty, as expected.
The first punch he threw at a bag sent a wave of pain up and down his left side. Sark sighed. He kicked with his right foot, then his left—the pain was still there, but not as prevalent.
He started kickboxing the bag. He steadied himself on one leg, then did a two-kick high and low on the bag with the other leg. He spun around, swinging a leg so that it slammed hard into the bag.
Once he started feeling comfortable, he got creative. He bounced around, throwing light kicks here and there. Every now and then he kicked up high, then slammed his leg down at the top of the bag.
He held himself steady, then kicked the same spot repeatedly without stepping down.
It felt good. It allowed him to think, but without the anguish.
Sydney was changing everything—what he thought of her, and his relationship with Irina. Seeing them together—it was only a matter of time before Irina switched the balance of power in the organization.
And that shift would be away from him. It was already away from Khasinau—where was he lately? Sark wondered.
Not that he cared too much. For himself, maybe it was a good time to start putting in motion a disappearance from the industry.
He would check on that as soon as the Swiss banks opened.
There was nothing left for him to care about anymore.
Sark suddenly stopped, and held the bag he'd been beating mercilessly. Someone was watching him.
He spun around, trying to catch whoever it was—but no one was in the training room with him. He speed-walked to the door and quickly checked the surrounding rooms.
No one. Sark slowly returned to the training room.
Irina leaned against the wall, waiting for him. Sark was hardly surprised and showed as much.
"Working out too?" Sark asked, though he knew she wasn't there for exercise. She stood up straight, and started to circle him.
He hated it when she did that. Sometimes it made him feel like just a piece of meat to be devoured. And that look she always had when she analyzed him—it was half seduction and half concern.
"You're upset." Why does she state the obvious? Sark thought, somewhat miffed at this encounter. But he quickly masked any irritation. Irina always had a purpose, and given the new circumstances, he had to figure out what it was.
"A little," he admitted honestly. He started stretching his legs, which he noticed she watched appreciatively.
"About Sydney," Irina pressed. Sark didn't know how much Irina suspected, so he let her lead the way. "She saved you, didn't she?"
Sark almost laughed. She thinks I'm beating myself up about being saved by a woman.
"Yes," he said. "I don't know why, but I was caught off guard." This could be quite easy to play off, he thought.
"And you got hurt," Irina added. "That's been happening a lot lately."
Sark's mind screeched to a stop. Is she questioning my capabilities? Irina continued
"Ever since Sydney surfaced, you've been . . . distracted."
Sark quickly thought about ways to respond. He dismissed denial or defensiveness. Charm.
"Can you blame me? She is . . . distracting," he responded carefully. Irina smiled widely at that.
"You like her." Sark almost agreed, except that he was more distracted lately by how evil she seemed to be.
"I thought you said we'd make a good match," Sark said. "At any rate, it's irrelevant how I feel."
Irina cocked her head to one side. "It's quite relevant when it affects your performance in the field." She stared at him hard, and that froze Sark mid-stretch.
He breathed in deeply.
"I actually meant that it is irrelevant if she doesn't feel the same way," he said quietly. Irina smiled.
"I think she does, though," she said. "She hasn't admitted it, but I can tell." Sark almost laughed at that.
"From what? Maternal instinct over a daughter you abandoned for ideology more than a decade ago?" He knew that would make her upset, but needed anything to move this conversation away from him.
In response, Irina took two quick steps toward him and swung a right hook into his left jaw.
Sark dropped to the floor, grasping his jaw, which felt renewed in pain. When he looked up at Irina, she smiled.
"Do you know," Sark started, rolling onto his back, "that Sydney hit me there twice yesterday?"
"Like mother, like daughter," Irina answered back. He nodded, and rolled onto his uninjured side. As he was on all fours, getting up, Irina swung her foot hard into his stomach. The kick made Sark feel like he swallowed a barrel, and sent him back on his side. Pain went through his stomach, making him heave and almost throw up. The wound from the Vatican guards stung.
Sark took a moment to steel himself, then looked blankly up at Irina. She smiled again, in that trademark motherly, yet "I-can-kill-you-anytime" way.
"You're forgetting your place, Sark," she said soothingly. It didn't comfort him at all, and he knew that was her intention. She leaned over him.
"Where is my place?" he asked, maybe just a touch too quickly to seem passive. But he pressed on. "Next to Khasinau?"
Irina grinned openly. "You've noticed he's gone. No, your place isn't next to him. But it could be." With that, she stood up straight and left the room.
Sark stayed on the floor mats, thinking and plotting. Khasinau's dead. Irina thinks I'm incompetent and that I'm rebelling. And Sydney is off the charts.
It definitely was time to put some plan in motion. Sark glanced at a wall clock. One more hour, and the Swiss banks would be open.
He gingerly pulled himself up off the floor, wincing as he did. He had to shower and get ready for the day. And he had one main goal for the day.
Stop getting beat up.