Part Eight B
The beeping was getting annoying, especially since it seemed to be in sync with the pounding in his head.
His eyes were fuzzy, and so were the images they saw. He raised a hand to rub his face, but was tied down.
That alarmed him immediately. Sark fought against the restraints, and he heard the heart monitor beep quicker and louder.
Calm down! Sark froze and looked around him. If he was in a hospital, he definitely had a private room. A nurse was right outside his room. His struggling must have made her nervous. A doctor and an armed guard came in.
"Mr. Sark. Glad to see you're awake."
"Where am I?" Sark asked. His throat was raw yet scratchy. His normally smooth accent now sounded foreign, even to him.
The doctor didn't even look up from the clipboard, and the guard kept one hand on the butt of his pistol.
"You're in Los Angeles, at the CIA Joint Task Force Center."
Wait. L.A. is a pretty long journey from Spain. How long had he been out, and what had happened in the meantime?
"These are different accommodations from my last stay here," Sark said with a touch of levity. He had plenty of questions, but none he expected the doctor to know or answer. "Although I think the restraints are the only reminder of that."
The doctor cracked an almost imperceptible grin. "We can remove those now." He undid the restraints. "You were seizing somewhat frequently." With that the doctor shut down and focused on the medical chart.
Am I not under arrest then? He fully expected it, given the guard and waking up to being tied down. What is going on?
"Is Sydney Bristow here? I'd appreciate the opportunity to speak with her," Sark petitioned politely.
The doctor shook his head. "She left a few hours ago. You need to rest still." With that he left, with the guard in tow.
Sark glared at the man's back as he left, mentally adding him to his personal hit list. But then the rational, and more compassionate, side of him took over. Well, I have evidently cheated death. Some more rest might be in order. He closed his eyes, and was out before he could dwell long on why Sydney wasn't nearby.
His second visit to consciousness was less jarring. His body felt stiff, but Sark imagined that had something to do with bed sores.
A nurse was monitoring him, jotting notes down on that clipboard.
"How are you feeling?" she asked cheerily. Sark tried to smile but frankly just didn't feel like it.
"You probably know better than I," he said hoarsely. She smiled at that.
"You're recovering well. You're not contagious, but I would watch to not contaminate anyone with your blood."
"No more donations to the American Red Cross," he said with a half attempted grin. His humor was effective. "How long till I can leave here?"
"Medically, you can leave tomorrow. Agent Bristow is waiting to tell you about other issues," the nurse said. She gave him an encouraging, tight grin and then left.
Agent Bristow . . . Jack or Sydney? Sark thought. Please be Sydney.
He watched the glass door, and soon enough Agent Bristow came in.
Agent Jack Bristow.