Chapter 22
Sark made sure he was somewhat far away from the CIA and the building before he shocked himself. The jolt of electricity was hardly pleasant, especially considering the gunshot wound. But he survived, even without passing out.
He stole some clothes and hair dye, changing his appearance for the journey. After the light jeans, golf shirt, jacket, and black hair, he figured he could make an appearance in public.
He grabbed a train to a major city, then took a flight to Poland. Once in Poland he allowed himself to stop at a hospital and get his shoulder taken care of.
He went on to Moscow, then St. Petersburg, to Germany and Switzerland, to Paris and Lisbon, and finally felt comfortable landing in London.
In London, he started consolidating his assets. He transferred a significant amount of money to a bank in Australia, and headed for Sydney.
Of course, being in that city held his thoughts hostage on one woman. Sydney had fooled him to the end. He thought about what Irina had said. Sark has done what he was trained to. And yet you can forgive him . . . Could Sydney forgive him? Had she?
Could he forgive her?
Sark chewed on that thought for a bit. He thought about her, how much her existence even had changed him since that first encounter in Jerusalem.
Yes. He could forgive her. He admired her; not just because he was intoxicated by her beauty, or recognized her skills as an agent—but he admired her as a woman. And that told him he really already had forgiven her.
She really ran him in circles, trying to figure her out and understand her. But part of what he loved about her was her spontaneity.
Love.
Did I just think that? He did, and now he wondered what that meant.
It means I need her. Sark felt refreshed as that realization surfaced. He needed Sydney.
Sark used his money transfer to buy a nice, secluded estate in New Zealand. It was a twenty minute drive from any center of town, and calling them towns was generous. But that's what Sark needed to keep under anyone's radar.
It was a quaint town. Nice and lush greenery filled the land, and the people were nice enough. Sark didn't try to form any friendships. He hadn't in years, so why start now? That, and the CIA and Irina both had it in for him.
His estate was a nice sized house on three acres of land. The house was covered in a stone facade, and Sark liked to think that was somewhat symbolic.
Eight bedrooms, only one of which he ever used, a study, a library, a formal dining hall, a kitchen, and even a recreational room were included. The grounds were nicely landscaped, and Sark hired a local teenager to come and tend to it all. Sark figured he was helping the boy earn an honest living, something he never had done.
Life was quiet, and it stayed that way for the first month that Sark lived there. By the end of that month, he realized (with the help of various contacts) that no one had any idea where he was.
Sark left the solitude of his estate and hopped on a series of flights. His final destination: Los Angeles.
Sydney seemed back to normal, and Sark used that term loosely. SD-6 seemed too pleased to have her back to question her whereabouts and loyalties, and the CIA was too busy with its search for Derevko to question how Sark got away.
Sark appreciated that.
He watched her from afar, making sure she was accessible without the knowledge of any real or fake government agency. He also wanted to make sure she wouldn't suddenly turn him in. Pretending to be a college student and blending with the masses became the perfect solution.
He'd kept his hair black, but the blond roots were starting to show. Sark didn't mind—it seemed to look 'cool' and oddly natural given his fellow students.
Today he chose drab-colored cargo pants and a white intramural t-shirt that he swiped from some student activities table. Sunglasses were a must, and for added effect, Sark kept his nose in a book.
He waited outside classrooms, sometimes in classrooms, and sometimes watched her from across the library. She looked . . . good. Happy. But when she was alone, away from Francie or Will, he could see a touch of sadness.
He hoped it was because of him.
The L.A. Flower House had nice selection of flowers, but New Zealand's national flower was severely overpriced. Sark had hundreds of them outside his estate there, but the supply here was far less. But it would be worth it, assuming Sydney figured out what it meant.
She would just be finishing up her last class of the day, and Sark knew, being Friday, she would probably come home right after.
There was a car outside her apartment; Sark recognized it as Francie's. That was okay. He could handle Francie.
He knocked on the door, waiting for the roommate to answer. But instead, it was the scraggly-looking reporter friend.
"Can I help you?"
Sark instantly hated him. What was the boy doing in Sydney's apartment?
"Yes," Sark said smoothly, not even attempting to hide his accent. "I wanted to leave these for Sydney Bristow. Is this her residence?"
Not like he needed to even say that much, but his suspicions were confirmed by Will's reaction. There was that awkward, competitive tension that clouded Will's face. He reluctantly took the flower arrangement.
"Uh," he stuttered, "yeah, sure. Can I tell her your name?"
Wouldn't you like to know, you incompetent fool, Sark thought. It was obvious Will was on edge and potentially jealous. He likes her. If he got in the way, Sark had several plans for the reporter. A severe beating and yanking out teeth, Sark thought, among other torturous ideas.
"It's on the card," Sark answered finally, though he knew it wasn't. "Thank you." With that, Sark turned and got back in his car.
He headed back to New Zealand, quite pleased with his little plan. The whole idea was to give her friend a visual of who he was. He wasn't going to spell it out for her by writing his name on the card. But once Reporter-Wanna-Be mentions a British accent . . . Sydney would figure it out.
Sark waited around nervously for the next week, hoping she would come. And if she did, that she would come alone, sans CIA or SD-6. But nothing happened. He grew stir-crazy, and finally decided to explore the country a bit.
The beaches in New Zealand had the clearest water. He never expected himself to relax on a beach, but found it quite enjoyable. He had never had a vacation. As weird as it was to think of this as one, it was even stranger to think that this was his life now.
It was exciting, but also frightening. Was he just going to be a "beach bum" for the rest of his life?
He doubted that, but it did raise the issue of his future. Irina had gone back to espionage after killing Laura Bristow. Would I return? Could I?
Sark laid comfortably on a towel in the sand. The sun was turning his stomach and chest pink, which would create an interesting coloration given the scars. The waves sloshed up on the shore, just a few feet from him. The wind blew sand in his hair, which was blond again.
Whether he could or would return to the industry really depended on one person.
Sydney. He sighed. Sark got up, having had enough of fun in the sun for the day. The sun was starting its descent. Sark shook off the towel and put on a white open button up shirt.
His skin felt tight as he walked through his home. His legs, which previously were unacquainted with the sun, now felt hot and pink. He didn't know if that felt more foreign or if it was the shorts he wore.
He left the lights off in the house, just enjoying the faint rays from the sun and the shadows they cast. He headed for the kitchen, where he downed some orange juice.
Sark put his glass in the sink and walked through the hallways. His feet made slight suction-cup noises as they stuck a bit to the marble floors.
He slowed his pace, coming to a stop in the foyer.
Something . . . Sark quickly crossed to the entry table, reaching under it where he had a 9 mm gun strapped to the wood. Without hesitation, he loaded a bullet in the chamber and removed the safety.
He listened as his eyes shiftily looked for the source of his anxiety. The curls at the nape of his neck seemed to tingle, and Sark whirled around to face behind him.
He saw the figure and immediately raised his gun, ready to fire.
"Who are you?" he demanded. The figure didn't move, but he could hear breathing.
"Sark," a voice called out. Sark froze. He knew that voice.
"Sydney?"
He didn't lower the gun until she came forward enough for him to see her.
"You were stupid to leave a trail. I have a backup team outside, but I've convinced them to give me two minutes to bring you out," she said.
Sark felt a pang in his chest. Not again.
"You let me go before, and suddenly you've betrayed me again, Sydney?" he said, huffing his disbelief. "I'll never understand you." She moved forward a few more steps, raising something as she did.
A gun.
"Why did you lead me here?" she demanded loudly. Sark laughed at her.
"Why? I'm starting to wonder myself. I thought I wanted to see who the real you is, and give the same chance with me," he said. She didn't even react to his words. She was . . . blank. She really did set me up again. Sark cursed his foolishness in wanting to believe. He cursed his heart.
"I should have turned you over last time," Sydney began. "I don't know why I let you go."
That did it.
"Why you let me go? I'll tell you why, Sydney," Sark said, his heart racing with emotional fury. "You care for me. Sydney, since I've met you, we've both tried killing each other. I've tried stealing you over to my side by reason. I even threw my heart into the mix." He swallowed, repressing the feeling that his heart was coming up his throat. "But I guess I've been a clumsy thief.
"At first it was for your mother that I did all this. But later, and even now . . . it was for me." He paused, examining the floor as he collected himself. When he looked back up, she still hadn't moved. Sark threw his gun to the floor, and watched it as it slid over to her. "You know the truth, about SD-6, your mother, and about me. Evidently I can't change you, but you should know that you've changed me, Sydney. I won't fight you anymore," he said, shaking his head for emphasis. "Go ahead and call your precious CIA."
She stalked toward him like he was a wild animal on the loose. Her gun was still aimed at his chest showing through the open shirt. When she was two feet away, she dropped her weapon, and closed in on him.
Her hands gingerly held his face as she kissed him. Her lips were so soft, and the passion between them . . . it was like never before. Sark's chest was on fire, all the way to his lips.
"You have changed me," she said after she came up for air. "But you know I can't stay." Sark couldn't say anything, so he only nodded.
"The CIA," he said, taking a glance out the windows. Sydney shook her head.
"They're not here."
Sark looked back at her, staring hard into her brown eyes.
"You were bluffing," he realized aloud. Sydney smiled. It was the sweetest, most innocent smile. And it showed him that he had been right the first time: she was innocent, though scarred like he was. She still was spontaneous, but also very passionate about everything in her life.
Including me?
"You have to go?" Sark heard himself whisper. Sydney nodded.
"But I'll be back. Some time soon." She started to back away.
Sark grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. He held her close and kissed her so hard his teeth made impressions in his lips. But she kissed him back, and Sark knew his future was forever changed.
When she pulled away again, Sark let her go. She walked tentatively to the door, glancing over her shoulder with every two steps. Sark admired her, not just her body or appearance, but her.
"Sydney!" She turned back to him and Sark considered the words he was about to say.
"I know," she said, smiling. "Me too." With that she turned again, but stopped herself. "Oh." She pulled something from her pocket. "You may need this later."
She tossed it in the air, and Sark barely caught it in the darkening hour. He grinned as he realized what it was.
It was a bottle of aloe gel.
He opened his mouth to say something back to her, but when he looked up, she was already gone. Sark shut his open mouth, and smiled sadly at the empty doorway.
But I'll be back—sometime soon. Sark held onto that promise as he walked up to his room, tossing the aloe bottle in the air.
O Final (the end—sort of)
A/N: This was the original ending of this story until some readers convinced me to write more. So read on if you want a continuation.