Part Five
Vaughn and Weiss called as Sark did a dummy check of the suite.
"The coordinates lead to tombs," Vaughn said over the speaker phone.
"Not King Tut, I hope," Sark said.
"No, just random tombs, no one important. But there's evidence of an excavation. We've asked around, and Sloane was here. He left two days ago."
Two days. He could be anywhere. Sydney shot Sark a look that said as much. It was the only time she'd really looked at him this morning. That hurt.
"What did Sloane dig up?" she asked. Sark watched the intensity in her eyes, and couldn't help but think she was purposely trying to hide any thought of him.
Focus!
Weiss' voice came over the phone. "We found someone who worked to dig it up. It was a rocket of sorts."
"A rocket?" Sark repeated.
"Yeah, that's what this guy described it as. We're getting more details."
"Transportation...it's a delivery system then," Sark deduced aloud.
"Seems like it," came Weiss' reply.
"Call us as soon as you have anything else," Sydney said. She ended the call and turned to face Sark.
The wheels in his head were turning, and Sydney waited to hear what he was thinking.
"The prophecy said the world would burn to its destruction," Sark began. "But this rocket was meant to be a means of transportation for whatever weapon Rambaldi created."
Sydney began to pace. "So what is the weapon?" Sark got momentarily distracted watching her move, but quickly refocused before she noticed.
"Rambaldi, based on what Irina told me, was obsessed about immortality," he said, drifting off as he thought some more. "Maybe that included being the only one left standing."
"That mission my mother sent me on, when I went back to the CIA," Sydney began. "I got some DNA research. And one of the things Marshall said it could be used for was to specifically target someone."
"Biological weapons," Sark filled in. "How is that 'burning' though?"
Sydney looked stumped. "Maybe burning like a fever. It'd be so classic Rambaldi to call it burning and expect people to look for fire or explosions instead."
"True," Sark said, nodding. "Any disease results in a fever of sorts, and with something the magnitude of Rambaldi, it'd probably be at least as devastating as Ebola." Sark hid a shudder. If there was one thing that gave him the willies, it was the idea of rotting from the inside out by some virus.
Sydney's cell phone rang, breaking his paranoid revelry.
"Yes," she answered. Sark watched her, his eyes analyzing her reaction for any info.
"We'll head out right now. I'll inform Vaughn and Weiss." She hung up and glanced at Sark as she began gathering her things. "One of our satellites picked up 'Sloane' and 'Rambaldi.'"
"Your Eschelon system," Sark said knowingly. Sydney glared at him. "What? You think that just because that's classified no one else knows about it?"
She sighed.
"The call came from Africa."
Crap. He was headed to the jungle, in the middle of Ebola-central.
"You all right, Sark?" Sydney asked. "You look pale." Sark yanked his facade in place.
"Of course I look pale. I'm Irish." With that, he grabbed his bag and left the suite.
Nairobi. It was hot, humid, and buggy. Sark frowned at the environment as soon as he stepped off the plane. His khaki pants were sticking to his legs already. He was only pleased that he had something light enough in color to make this stop bearable.
He adjusted his shirt, a white polo that stuck to his back. Sark glanced at Sydney. She looked amazing as always, wearing a flattering pair of drab cargoes and a white t-shirt. How does she make bland military apparel look sexy? Sark shook his head, amazed.
"I assume you know where Sloane is in this inferno," Sark said with enough apparent disgust. Sydney nodded, her dark sunglasses bouncing.
"We traced the call to a remote hospital," she said.
"As if Nairobi isn't remote enough," Sark mumbled. He climbed into the open jeep that waited on the airstrip. "Let's get going then."
The drive was long, filled with uncomfortable silences and sly glances. The sun was already setting, and Sark realized how unprepared they were.
"You realize we don't have any tactical gear appropriate for a night raid," Sark said, breaking the long silence.
Sydney, behind the wheel, kept her eyes on the dirt road. "I doubt Sloane is still there. He's always two steps ahead."
"Agent Bristow, where's your faith?" Sark said, trying to draw a smile from her. It didn't work.
Sark sighed into the dusk as trees and whatever else out there whipped by him.
The target hospital was dark except for one end.
"Should we go towards the light?" Sark whispered from the distance they parked away. Sydney glanced at him with a slight smile.
About time, Sark thought.
"What approach should we take?" Sydney whispered. She readied her gun as she did. Sark followed suit.
"Long way around, approaching from the south side."
They moved together, with the stealth of animals Sark feared were stalking him. Dried twigs and dirt crunched under their shoes. Sark looked ahead.
The hospital, which looked identical to the third-world elementary schools, was quiet. Not even moaning patients. Sark tried to shake that line of thought from his head before it got out of hand.
It was a little too quiet. It made Sark tense, and he knew something was up.
"Sydney," he whispered, slowing his pace. She stopped ahead of him, though he couldn't see any look on her face. The darkness was starting to consume everything. Only the light was guiding them, and that's what concerned Sark. "I think we're walking into a trap."
"You think?" Her voice screamed defiance. Sark sighed at her stubbornness.
"Stop being difficult and consider our situation," he muttered. "Do you not feel odd about this?"
"Sloane may be inside. And even if he's not here, we at least have to see what he was doing here," she said, moving forward. Sark sighed again.
Women. They rounded around the corner of the hospital, not far from the lit area. Sydney went first, with Sark covering her. He didn't much like that, but she insisted.
His ears filled with the silence. It came rushing at him, and it proved to him something was very wrong. Sark forced himself to calm down and just listen for any edge over the situation.
Sydney was headed to a door in the lit area. Sark hissed at her, getting her attention. When she looked back at him, Sark motioned for another entrance—one not lit up like a "Spies Welcome" sign.
He felt some relief when she followed his suggestion. Before he slipped through the door, which was unlocked, Sark double-checked behind him.
Nothing. He caught the door before it slammed shut. Sark swept through the room, which actually was a dirty hallway. He whirled around to check behind them again.
Through the grimy windows, Sark saw figures scurrying outside. He cursed in his mind. It's a trap. Sark quietly leapt after Sydney, who was almost to the lit room. He grabbed her, covering his hand over her mouth.
"We've been made, Sydney," he whispered roughly. "There are men outside, circling the building." He released her, not missing the glare she shot him.
"What's the plan?"
Sark kept low to the ground and started searching for anything that could provide a distraction for their escape. "Find something flammable," he whispered. He started to move on, but she grabbed his arm.
The heat in her eyes made Sark think now was not a time for romance, but soon he realized it was her defiant streak rearing its head.
"We're not destroying any leads here, Sark," she said in a low voice. Sark was about to scream.
"Sydney, we are being hunted! We have to gain the upper hand somehow," he said more frantically than he cared to admit.
Their debate was interrupted by someone bursting through the double doors at the front of the building. Sark and Sydney fell back in opposite directions, ducking under a counter and in a side room.
Sark could hear the various footsteps filing through the building. He guessed about 5 or 6 men, but that count was thrown off as two men came through the entrance he and Sydney had used.
He pointed his gun towards this new, closer threat. He glanced at Sydney. She was poised just inside the doorframe of an adjacent room. She looked dangerous, wild—beautiful.
Focus! Sark looked to Sydney for any sort of plan, but she kept her eyes on the men coming toward them.
Sark brought his gun up, his eyes tracking the threats. He ducked under the counter again and listened as their footsteps approached. He counted them, pinpointing their proximity.
Suddenly Sark fell out onto the hallway floor, out from behind the counter. He fired, once, twice, four times, bringing down the men in front of him. He heard Sydney fire behind him, but not in the same direction. He realized too late that someone was behind him. Even so, he flipped onto his back, aiming at the unseen threat. He was just in time to see the butt of an assault rifle come at his head.
He came to and quickly deduced that he was strapped down to a steel operating table. He winced at the throbbing in his head, and noticed the caked feeling of dried blood on his face. He tried to look around, and saw Sydney handcuffed to a chair.
"It looks like our subject is awake," came a measured voice. Sark squinted as a light was shone directly over him. He struggled to see the speaker.
It was a man, white, freakishly tall (or maybe that was just Sark's vantage point), and he had gray eyes. He wore fatigues and a lab coat, and the way he was hovering was starting to make Sark nervous. Sark steeled himself for whatever was ahead.
"Do you know what this is?" the man asked, waving a syringe menacingly at Sark.
"Morphine?" Sark quipped hopefully.
"This is a sample of what Mr. Sloane came for," the man said. "He said if you showed up, I could test it on you." He smiled darkly, watching for any effect. "You should feel honored."
"I prefer a bottle of Chateau Petruse over honor," Sark said with a smirk.
"Leave him alone," Sydney said. Sark noticed that fire in her eyes, and hoped there was some semblance of a plan in her mind. Given that his arms and legs were strapped down by thick leather, Sark didn't see himself participating in the plan.
The man turned to Sydney.
"Interestingly enough," he began, "Mr. Sloane doesn't want you harmed. He seems to have a soft spot for you, Ms. Bristow."
Sark couldn't help but clench his fists.
"But," the man continued, "that soft spot doesn't extend to you, Mr. Sark." He came closer to Sark, taking off the cap to the syringe.
"I wouldn't expect so. I've never met the man," Sark said. "Nor have I met you, Mr. . . ."
The man smiled at Sark's attempt for a delay. "Given your circumstances, you can call me God." He leaned over Sark, and Sark noticed the man's crooked teeth. Odd, he thought, considering you're about to be infected with that virus.
"Wait!" Sark released a breath, glad that Sydney had decided to try something. The man stopped, standing straight and raising an eyebrow at Sydney.
"Yes?"
"What was Sloane after?" Sark knew Sydney's question wouldn't get anywhere. "Why does he want to hurt Sark?"
Sark watched to see if these last minute questions had any effect on the doctor-wannabe in front of him. Sark noticed no one else was in the room, but he caught a silhouette of a guard outside the operating room.
The man placed the cap back on the syringe, and Sark started breathing again.
"We have all the time in the world, so since you want to talk, let's talk," the man said. Sark didn't like the idea of what this man intended to do with all that time, but he forced himself to think of a way out of this situation.
Sark's eyes fell on Sydney's chair. It was a cheap aluminum chair, and the handcuffs would be easy to free if she managed to break the chair.
Of course, breaking the chair and incapacitating Psycho here could be difficult. Sark looked around for anything within his limited movement that could help.
Sydney started to say something, but the man held up a hushing hand. "Please. Let's at least start the process with Mr. Sark. That way, we can see how he reacts as we talk."
The man turned to Sark, uncapping the syringe again. "This virus has the efficacy of Ebola in less than 48 hours. Symptoms normally show up within five hours of exposure." He hovered over Sark, and Sark couldn't take his eyes off the needle as it approached his skin.
He struggled against the leather bonds, but nothing gave. His waist was unrestrained, and Sark found that he was arching his back, twisting his torso in anyway he could. Anything to get away from what was in that syringe.
This is it. The needle was inches above the crook of his arm. Sark couldn't help but think that he knew Nairobi was a bad idea.
A huge crash made Psycho hesitate. Sark tore his eyes from the needle to see Sydney freeing herself from the broken chair. She whipped up a part of the chair and chucked it at the man.
He ducked, and the metal hit Sark in the chest. He winced, but stayed focused on Sydney. She grabbed another chair part as the man lunged for her. The chair slammed into the man, and Sark could hear crunching bones where the metal connected with his skull.
The guard outside burst in, but Sydney was already pumped. She axed him to the ground with a hard kick. No one else came running in, and Sydney quickly came to Sark's side.
"That's exactly what I would have done," Sark said, his voice a bit shaky. Sydney gave him a smirk, which Sark couldn't help but cherish.
"Yeah right," she said as she freed him. Sark tried his best wounded look.
"Really! Well, except for hitting me with that chair," he said, flashing her a disarming smile.
"Grab the syringe. I'll search our doctor here," Sydney directed. Sark shook his head, rubbing the crook of his arm that was almost punctured by the virus-filled syringe.
"You get the syringe. I'll search the doctor." He quickly moved to the doctor, rifling through his pockets to leave no room for argument.
He heard Sydney chuckle, and tried to shut out the mocking laugh directed at him.
Sark tried to hide the random shivers that came over him. He felt a little freaked out still from his near encounter with a horrible death. He tried business to hide it.
"Can the CIA trace any calls made to the doctor's cell phone?" He tossed the phone to Sydney. They were onboard a jet, just waiting on the runway till they figured out what was next.
"Probably. I'll call Marshall," Sydney said.
Sark grabbed a drink and drank greedily. He sat and watched Sydney while he drank.
Why was he doing this? He could hide elsewhere and let the CIA handle this manhunt. What's in it for me to track down Sloane and almost have my insides liquified in the process?
Sydney. But was she worth it? She was already prophesied to save the world. Did she need him? Would it matter if he was in the picture? Sark doubted that.
It didn't seem like she cared at all. After everything they'd been through, betrayals and surviving Irina and the CIA, even after he sprung a deal to free her from jail, she doubted him. And if she doubted him, or even just wanting to be with him, she didn't care.
So why should he?