Chapter 19
One of the guns belonged to Jack Bristow, and another to some younger agent. That agent grabbed Sark by the back of his neck and slammed his head into the glass table.
He winced at the impact. His nose instantly went numb, but he was aware of warm blood trickling down his face.
"Hands," Jack ordered. Sark held them up as he breathed hard through the damaged nose. "Vaughn," Jack prompted.
Agent Vaughn. It was so fitting. The man was obviously very passionate about being here, as he quickly tightened cuffs around Sark's hands to the point of cutting off all circulation.
"Where is Sydney?" Vaughn asked impatiently. Sark smirked at him through the blood. The agent didn't hesitate; he smashed Sark's head into the table again.
"Was that necessary?" Sark said to no one in particular. He stared at Henry, who had adopted a look of complete innocence.
There is a test, Henry, Sark thought. But Sark never imagined that it would come through the CIA, no doubt by Irina's manipulations.
Henry was left behind, almost smiling at Sark as he was hauled out of the club. Sark cursed in his mind for not seeing something this extreme.
And then Agent Vaughn shoved him into a van, stared him in the eye, and shot him with a tranquilizer dart. Sark didn't even get to count to three before he was out.
He came to in a disturbingly public glass cell. His clothes had been replaced with blue-grey pants and shirt, much like scrubs. Sark tried not to dwell on who stripped him.
His hands were still cuffed, but at least in front of him. He used his hands the best he could to get up.
Sark swayed as he stood, and quickly grasped the nearest wall for support.
Where am I? As if on cue, some bald-headed man appeared.
"You're in a joint-task force facility of the CIA and FBI. I'm Assistant Director Kendall."
So nice of him to introduce himself.
"I'd like to know if you're willing to cooperate," he continued. "We have several questions for you."
Sark didn't hesitate to introduce Kendall to the smirk. He turned away from the glass and started to pace the width of his new cell.
He heard Kendall say something else, but he frankly didn't care what. When he turned around later, the Assistant Director was gone.
An hour passed, during which time Sark discovered a metal cot, a sink, an exposed shower and toilet, and nothing else.
What, no sheets at least? He went over to the faucet and cupped his hands to drink some water. He drank heavily; tranq darts often made one thirsty.
When he finished, he noticed he wasn't alone anymore.
Two guards started into his cell. Sark stood still, waiting for them. They grabbed him and half picked him up. Another guard, this one with a gun trained on him, accompanied his escort to wherever they were headed.
Sark found himself in a dark concrete room, with only a chair, a hanging light and a two-way mirror. The guards forced him to sit, then left him.
They wouldn't leave me alone, Sark thought. He noticed a shadow in the corner.
Jack Bristow emerged. Sark imitated Jack's own blank stare, but added his trademark smirk.
"Where is Sydney?" he began. Sark tilted his chin to the air.
"What makes you think I know?" he countered. Jack circled Sark and the chair.
"We know you were stalking her." The disdain in his voice when he said 'stalking' was filled with hate and emotion, but ever other word was measured. Sark rolled his eyes.
"Surveilling her, and someone like you should know the difference," Sark said. Jack kept his blank look on.
"Did you convince her to run?" was the next question. Sark feigned indifference.
"She didn't need any convincing. Your CIA drove her away," Sark answered.
"Drove her to you?"
Sark didn't answer.
"Is Irina Derevko alive?"
Nothing. Sark wondered how long Jack would stay calm.
"How long have you worked for Derevko?" A thought came to him.
"Why not call her Laura?" Sark suggested sarcastically. He heard Jack's circling falter.
"So you know the story," Jack replied. "Did you lure Sydney away with promises of answers about her mother?" Sark rolled his eyes again, though Jack didn't see.
He actually didn't care about giving the CIA answers. His loyalty to Irina was hardly in place, but he wasn't interested in exacting revenge either. To him, silence was a means of protecting himself too.
"Why did you go after Sydney?" Jack tried again.
Sydney. He didn't really want to think of her in any depth. As far as he was concerned, at least Irina set him up.
Jack suddenly grabbed Sark's chair, pushing it forward. Sark rolled to the floor, wincing as he hit the ground.
"I'd hate to have to inflict any pain on you, Mr. Sark," Jack said eerily. "I can do a much better job than has already been done on you." He pointed to Sark's bruise and torso. "What happened anyway? Irina get fed up with you?"
Sark started to get up, but Jack pushed him down with a shiny wingtip. Sark stayed down, on his back and looking up for whatever was next.
"You should know, Jack," Sark said, "that this line of work is dangerous."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "And your injuries are just results of the hazards?"
"I've had my share of run-ins with opposition," Sark said smoothly, still laying on the floor.
Jack stood over him, and nudged his left side. Sark suppressed a groan, but Jack pressed harder until Sark cried out.
"You know," Sark said between painful breaths, "it'll never heal if people keep kicking it open." Jack gave Sark his own smirk.
"So I'm not the first? Pity," Jack said. He lunged forward, picking Sark up by the shirt, and threw him into the wall.
Sark heard something crack as his body hit the concrete wall, then floor. He slowly sat up, leaning against the wall. His chest heaved as he tried to get air back in him. Jack's not in bad shape for his age.
Daddy Bristow leaned over Sark. His pupils were small and angry.
"Where is my daughter?" he demanded with a menacing tone. Sark rested his head against the wall, allowing him to look Jack directly in those beady eyes.
"I'm sorry you've lost track of your daughter. But I am not in a position to help." Sark's voice was as polite and honest as he could make it.
Jack obviously wasn't very pleased with that. He grabbed Sark by the shirt again, lifting him to his feet and slamming him into the wall.
Sark groaned and lost any breath in his lungs.
"You'll have to do better," Jack said, seething. With that, he socked Sark in the stomach, hard. The hit clipped his diaphragm, and Sark couldn't breathe. He felt a black cloud come over him and weakness take over.
He passed out.
Coming to a second time, Sark found himself on that metal cot. His body ached worse than it had in days, and his breathing felt abnormally shallow.
Jack knew his vulnerabilities, physically, and Sark knew Jack would continue to exploit them.
Sark shifted his body to lay flat on his back. His back cried out in protest, and so he tried lying on his right side. It was better. He rested a few minutes before getting up.
Sark started pacing in his cell. There was no mirror to examine his appearance, but Sark noticed his reflection in the glass. With a quick check of the empty hall, Sark pull up his shirt and looked at his reflection.
His back was a giant red mark. At least it's not bruised. He couldn't say the same about his stomach. He examined his knife wound next.
The bandages had been changed since his arrival, but even so he could see blood seeping through the gauze. Courtesy of Jack, Sark thought. He dropped the ends of his shirt and continued pacing.
Sydney. Did she know about her mother's setup for him? She seemed so genuine and caring in his room. But was it an act to throw you off? Was she just screwing with his mind? The idea that Sark fell for that didn't sit well with him.
He wanted to believe she wasn't the monster he was seeing glimpses of. But she seemed more and more like her mother. Irina had played Jack. Now, it seemed, Sydney had played Sark.
Two hours later, Agent Vaughn stood before the glass. Awaiting an audience from me already.
Sark paced in front of the glass, as if circling his new visitor. In doing so he noticed the man's appearance. His eyes were droopy, and the man had enough wrinkles on his forehead to make a Chinese Sharpe jealous.
"Where is Sydney?" he asked. Sark sighed and rolled his eyes at the agent.
"I believe we've covered this before, unsuccessfully, if I recall correctly," he answered.
"Tell me what you know, Sark." The way his named was spat out of Vaughn's mouth made him almost laugh.
"Why, Agent Vaughn?" Sark noticed a few prominent veins on the wrinkled forehead stand out. And then he was positive that Vaughn had more than professional interest in Sydney.
"Miss your girlfriend?" Sark taunted him.
"I'll ask the questions. Have you seen her?" Vaughn asked, the strain of the situation in his voice. Sark smirked freely.
"I've kissed her. I think my eyes were closed for part of it, but I do recall seeing her in the process." He said it nonchalantly, and that just irked Vaughn even more.
Vaughn shifted his weight back and forth, which showed off his lack of control. Sark smirked harder.
"I doubt Sydney would kiss a monster like you," Vaughn responded weakly.
"Really? She even initiated it," Sark said, "both times." The agent blanched at that, and Sark barely suppressed a laugh.
"Are you through?" Vaughn asked, trying to hold it together.
"She's seen me with my shirt off too," Sark added. He knew he was bordering on immature, but frankly it was more than worth it to see Vaughn squirm.
"One day," the agent said lowly, "I will have the opportunity to kill you. And I won't hesitate to take advantage of that." With that, he turned and started to retreat down the hallway.
Sark called after him.
"Didn't you have that opportunity when you captured me?" Vaughn didn't look back.
Score one for the prisoner.
Sark knew he gave up some info about Sydney, like knowing her and admitting he'd seen her. But he hadn't released anything critical.
Irina's test now was whether or not he'd betray her. Sark could care less about the test portion of it. However, he wasn't one for revenge.
Well, he sort of was. But he didn't want to take anyone on from a glass cell. With Sydney, he wouldn't put anything in motion anyway, not until he knew for certain if she had set him up.
His instincts told him she was totally on Irina's side, but Sark held onto a glimmer of hope that maybe she cared for him.
Maybe.
Sark rested for a couple more hours, though uncomfortably. Then he got up and started stretching out his sore and bruised body.
He laid on the floor and tried to do some sit-ups without gasping. His side still screamed in protest, but he pushed himself to relish the pain and overcome it.
Pushups were next; those required more effort than usual also, but he was pleased the pain wasn't too bad.
He did two sets of fifty of each exercise. It wasn't an exorbitant amount, but given his physical condition, it would do. Besides, he still had quite a few hours in the cell, and he imagined sculpting his body would become a favorite pastime.
Jack Bristow showed up again, though after two days of solitary. Sark was actually pleased to have some time alone, to think and heal. But Jack's arrival also presented a challenge that Sark was excited about.
He planned to come out on top and show these bureaucratic idiots who had the power.
"Mr. Bristow," Sark greeted with a sarcastic smile. "A pleasure to see you again." Jack never cracked his stony mask. Instead, he motioned and two guards came into Sark's cell and escorted him to another interrogation room.
This one was much like the first, though with a reclining chair that had chains on it.
"Mmmhhhm," Sark started. "Imagine all the fun that could be had in here." Jack just maintained that stony face while the two guards ordered Sark around.
"Remove your shirt," one said. Sark gave him an incredulous look.
"If that's really what you want." The cuffs were removed so Sark could comply, but a gun was always trained on him.
The guards roughly shoved Sark against the chair, which with its position held Sark up as if standing. He watched passively as his wrists were chained down and his legs as well. A large belt wrapped his waist to the chair. When he was secure, the guards left him to Jack.
"I must admit I didn't expect this sort of action by the CIA," Sark said with indifference. "SD-6, of course, but not the paragon of virtue American government."
Jack grabbed a regular chair and sat in front of Sark.
"How did you know about SD-6?"
Sark knew Jack wanted him to give something away about Irina in his answer, but thought the attempt was stupid.
"I have files, like everyone else," he answered.
"There are many other agencies fooled by SD-6," Jack countered. Sark didn't respond. "How long have you worked for your employer?"
Sark immediately noticed that he didn't name Irina this time.
"I work for my best interests, Mr. Bristow."
"And how often do those interests align with Irina Derevko's?"
Sark smirked at Jack's obvious attempt.
"Mr. Bristow, we're both intelligent men," he said calmly, even though the cool and damp air of the room was getting to him. "Don't insult me or waste my time with questions we both know I won't answer."
Jack almost smiled at that, and it made Sark flinch. He hadn't expected any break in the facade.
"Mr. Sark, you'll eventually answer my questions, and I'm not concerned with time. I anticipate you'll be in our custody for a long portion of your life." With that, Jack turned to leave.
He left and for a moment, Sark wondered why he'd been left alone.
Then the door opened again, and two men in dark suits and identical black ties entered.
"Mr. Sark. We're from the NSA. We have some questions about Irina Derevko."
Sark wasn't sure who actually spoke, but it didn't matter. He was about to be interrogated.
He told them nothing. But they didn't give up trying. The interrogations came daily. Sark used the time in between to rest and recover.
After a week, he gave up on sit-ups. Pushups were still possible, but they hurt like Hades.
He started to wonder how long until he found a way out.
He wondered how much longer he would last.
It wasn't terrible; well, it wasn't a spring picnic either, but Sark knew he could last. However, he was starting to get bored, with the questions, the pain, and the routine.
About 2 p.m. every day, the guards would come for him. After an hour or three, he was escorted back and dropped onto the cell floor. He would normally be passed out or resting until 8 p.m. Then he'd drag himself up and take a shower, washing away the sweat and blood.
After that, he'd sleep until 4 a.m. The exercises he could still do were done then. He followed that with meditation and ate what little they gave him. He wouldn't ever eat lunch; the interrogations normally made lunch revisit him, so he stopped eating it immediately.
But suddenly one day, 2 o'clock rolled around and no one came. Odd, he thought. He almost banged on the windows to remind them, but thought better of it.
The next day, no one came again. Not until later.
It was roughly 9 p.m. when he realized what happened. Sark heard someone approaching his cell, and looked up from his cot.
There, looking beautiful yet deadly, was Sydney.