Part Seven
The water was hard and freezing. Sark plunged deep into the waves, the momentum from his fall pushing him down further and further. His lungs screamed for air, partially because of the shock of the cold.
His descent was slowing, but the waves were pushing and pulling him beneath the water. He kicked hard and used his arms to pull towards the surface.
Sark's head broke the surface of the water, and he drank in the air and some seawater. A wave crashed over him, forcing him under the water again.
His body flipped over and twisted with the wave. Suddenly any air in his lungs was knocked out as his body hit a rock. Pain shot through his cold body, but Sark clawed for the surface again.
The waves were relentless, but Sark adapted to their rhythm. With a surge of effort, Sark moved with the waves. He sputtered the seawater as he tried to breathe, but the thin shoreline wasn't far.
At last he felt ground beneath him, and he pulled himself onto the rocky sand. The waves lapped up on him. Sark coughed violently, ridding his body of the salt water.
His body seemed to creak as he moved. He felt stiff, and his arm stung. A nice gash bled openly on it. Must have been the rocks.
He got to his feet, and tried to figure out where he was. Night was in full force. Sark could see the white caps out in the ocean, but beyond that, details weren't standing out. The cliffs—he was still near where he fell, but the ocean had moved him south of the estate. The dark mass of rocks towered over him.
Sark knew he was in no shape to climb. His arm was weak because of the gash, his boots were wet, and he was shivering from the cold on his wet body.
Not good for a free climb. But Sark didn't see any timely alternatives. Until he turned around.
Something . . . it was faint but something—Is that a staircase?! Sark trotted gingerly down the narrow beach.
It was a staircase! It was old, rusted and rickety, but it was a staircase leading to a neighbor's property. Imbecile CIA. They didn't think of a simpler way get to Sloane's? Granted, he'd still have to access the estate, but at least it'd be on firm ground.
Sark started his way up the stairs. He was cautious; the stability of the stairs was close to that of a rock slide. But that didn't stop him from hurrying.
Sloane now had Sydney, Weiss and Vaughn. If they aren't already dead. Sark shook that thought from his head. Sloane wouldn't kill Sydney. She was a part of this, somehow, and Sloane wouldn't harm her. Unless the prophecy called for it.
He ran up the last few steps.
A nice wall blocked Sark from Sloane's estate. Sark noted the broken glass shards cemented onto the top of the wall. And the security cameras.
He stayed in the shadows of trees, watching the cameras as they swivelled from side to side. He watched until he got the timing down. At the right moment, he quickly climbed a tree. He was halfway up when he froze for the cameras. Ten more seconds, and he climbed more.
Getting over the wall wasn't terribly difficult, even with the glass. But the patrolling guards required some creativity.
Sark dropped down by the wall, on Sloane's grounds. He felt around in the dirt for a rock, then chucked it by the cliffs. The guard near it called to another, and they went to check it out.
Sark darted through the trees to the side of the building. He watched for the other guards from the shadows still. In front of him was a window, half buried in the ground. It was dark inside.
Glancing around again, Sark rushed for the window. He pulled out his knife to jimmy the lock. He slipped through into the darkness inside.
Voices, in the distance. He wasn't alone on this level.
He took a step forward and froze. His shoes, still wet, squished. Sark clenched his fists. Of all the things . . . He bent over and took off his boots.
The basement level was pretty bare. Actually, it reminded Sark of a Mexican dungeon. As he rounded a corner, Sark saw why.
There were two guards in this prison area, and they watched two disheartened CIA agents. Sark snuck up behind the first guard. He grabbed the man's head and twisted quickly to his left. The snap was loud enough to draw the prisoners' attention. Without taking a pause, Sark stabbed the other man while clapping a hand over his mouth.
"Sark!" Weiss looked pretty happy considering he was chained to a wall. Even Vaughn looked pleasantly optimistic.
Sark didn't feel that optimism, not yet. Not until Sydney was safe.
"Where's Sydney?" he said relatively calmly.
"Somewhere with Sloane. I thought you fell off the cliff," Vaughn said. Sark shrugged, and moved to free the two agents.
"I did, but I didn't go splat. Sorry," he said. Vaughn shook his head.
"Under the circumstances, I'd prefer to have you alive," Vaughn said. Sark recognized that as close to a bonding moment that he'd ever have with Vaughn. It kind of frightened him.
"It seems we grossly underestimated Sloane's security," Sark commented. Weiss looked sheepish.
"I think I might have alerted them when I tapped into the surveillance feed," he said. Sark shot him a look.
"See why I prefer working for myself?" Sark said. "I can't rely on anyone these days." Weiss shot him a short glare but gratefully rubbed his free wrists.
"Hey man, what happened to your shoes?" Weiss asked.
Sark sighed, flabbergasted at this questioning when so many other things were at stake. "I fell off a cliff, remember? Into the ocean. Wet shoes make noise."
Weiss nodded, as if he knew the answer the whole time. It drew a light laugh from Vaughn.
Sark grabbed the fallen guards' weapons and chucked them to the agents. "We should split up," he said as he pulled out his backup gun. He checked it, making sure it was still sound after the seawater.
Vaughn nodded, and Weiss checked his gun. "Lead the way, man."
The three men headed up the stone stairs to the main level. Sark peered around the corner of the stairwell. A guard circled the foyer in front of a stairway. Sark grabbed his knife and flipped it in the air. He caught it by the blade, then quickly rounded the corner.
He chucked the blade at the guard, who went down within impact. Sark retrieved his knife and signaled for Weiss and Vaughn to come.
"I'll take the top level," Sark volunteered, heading for the guarded stairway.
Vaughn pointed across the hall. "I'll search out here. Weiss, take the second level."
Weiss followed Sark up the stairs, then split off on the second floor. Sark continued up.
Just as his feet touched the level, someone ambushed him. Sark dodged the wide punch, and swivelled on one foot to elbow the person in the back. The man grunted, and Sark followed through with a blow to the man's head.
Sark kept moving. His instincts told him he was close to Sydney, but that meant there would be plenty of danger ahead.
But oddly, when he came to one room, it was unguarded. Sark opened the door, barging through and aiming at anything that moved.
Sydney was on a medical table, strapped down. She wasn't moving.
Please be unconscious! Sark went to her side and gently nudged her.
"Sydney," he said softly. He checked her pulse. It was strong, and she started to move. "Sydney."
Her eyes fluttered open slowly. The look she gave him . . . it warmed him.
"I thought you were gone," she said. Sark smiled.
"You can't get rid of me that easily," he said. He loosened the straps holding her down. "Are you all right?"
She nodded, sitting up slowly. "Yeah. I got knocked out, just after you . . . fell." Sark smiled faintly, but froze when he saw her arm.
"What happened to your arm?" he said, his tone low and tense. In the crook of her arm was a puncture mark.
"I drew her blood," a new voice interrupted. Sark whirled around, aiming the gun at the source, when he felt a prick in his chest. Sark looked down to see a dart sticking out of his chest, but he didn't feel weak.
"Your tranquilizer failed," Sark said with a smirk to the man he recognized as Arvin Sloane. With that, he fired.
Sloane stumbled out of the room, clutching his shoulder. Sark plucked out the dart and glanced at Sydney. He tossed her his gun. Then he pulled out his knife and started after Sloane, with Sydney at his heels.
They ran down the hall, searching the rooms. Sark heard Sloane call out ahead of them. He glanced at Sydney, whose vengeance shown on her face. They darted after Sloane.
He led them to an open, tall room. Sark and Sydney spread out.
"That wasn't a tranquilizer, Mr. Sark," Sloane called out. He was hiding somewhere in the room. Sark tread carefully.
"Then what was it, Sloane?" He held his knife at his side, his arms down but ready to gut Sloane. He hoped he'd get that opportunity. Especially after what he said next.
"It's the virus. It's now in your system." Sark stopped as Sloane continued. "You were the one who told Sydney about SD-6."
"Yes, I don't pretend to care for someone and then lie to them," Sark said. Not anymore, anyway. He hoped the jab would get under Sloane's skin.
"That virus, especially in your weakened state, will spread quickly. I'd give you four hours until symptoms show."
Sark saw Sydney's horrified look. Is that concern I see there?
"You're bluffing," Sark shouted. Please be bluffing, please be bluffing. Sloane's laughter filled the air, and Sark noted how sinister it sounded.
"I'm afraid I'm not, Mr. Sark. Nor am I bluffing about the virus's delivery to the general population."
Sark and Sydney shared another look.
"Why?!" It was Sydney's voice, and it was pleading yet angry.
"Sydney. You know you're like a daughter to me," Sloane called out. "But Rambaldi . . . This is the last step to fulfill his works."
"Even if it is, do you think it's right to use his ancient rocket to spread a terrible disease to the world?!" Sydney almost screamed at him.
That's when it hit Sark. He's not bluffing. He was infected. And soon everyone would be.