Part Three
Irina was immensely pleased when Sark returned to the lab facility. From the look in her eyes, she already knew he had been delayed, but she didn't ask why.
That was Irina's version of compassion.
"Start testing it immediately," she instructed, tucking her hair behind one ear. The movement made Sark cringe. It was just like Sydney.
Sark nodded quickly. "I'll have a preliminary report for you tomorrow." She nodded.
"I'm leaving in an hour for Hong Kong. I'll look for the report while I'm there." She gave him a firm, pointed look and then left. Sark smirked behind her back. Then he took the vial and went into the labs.
He passed the vial to one of Irina's hired scientists.
"Verify this is the right strain, and then start the animal tests," Sark ordered. "Call me with the results."
Sark turned on a heel and left the lab. In one of the guest rooms at the facility he changed into more comfortable clothing. Dark jeans, black t-shirt, leather jacket . . .
He knew the lab would need at least six hours to have any results, so Sark descended to the garage where he kept a nice toy.
The motorcycle was sporty, sleek and powerful. The body was silver and black, two colors he believed accentuated his image. Sark picked up the helmet and slipped it over his blond hair. He shut the shaded face guard, and hopped on the bike.
The engine kicked in, and Sark immediately pushed the fuel line. It wasn't the best motorcycle in the world. It wasn't the most luxurious, nor the best money could buy. But it had its share of power. That, when combined with Sark's driving, made these excursions . . . fun.
Fun was a word he knew was rarely associated with him. Though it could detract from his stone-cold killer image, he was somewhat proud of it. That's why he was severely disappointed when his fun ended.
The fun killer came in the form of Allison. She was one of Irina's recruits, and she waved that knowledge around to any underling she could, just to evoke fear. Sark realized his association with Irina helped his image as well, but he at least had the true iciness behind him to back up that image. Allison, on the other hand, was as scary as a cheerleader with a frying pan.
Well, in his opinion, anyway.
Sark spotted her through the limited vision of his helmet as he stopped at a fine wine store. But by then it was too late; she'd seen him.
She waved him in, and Sark complied.
But only because I'm deathly low on Chateau Petreus.
To his annoyance, she had such a bottle in hand.
"I thought we could share this over dinner," Allison said with such obvious desire that Sark almost vomited. She wore brown leather pants, and a low cream tank top that left nothing to the imagination. Completely different from Sydney.
"I have dinner plans," Sark replied with no smile. Her own flirty grin froze, but then spread wider.
"Maybe tomorrow then," Allison purred. She batted her eyes at him; they were brown with golden bits that reminded him of a tiger's coat. She was like a tiger---stalking her prey.
Him.
Sark flashed her a charming but firm smirk. Without a word, he picked up three bottles of Petreus, and went to the cashier.
As he did so, a man reading a newspaper outside quickly looked back to the newsprint. It instantly caught Sark's attention, but then Allison cut in.
"Come on, Sark. We're both in town for awhile," she said. She was right; he planned to stay for three or four days as the tests were run, and Allison would contrive some reason to stay near the lab too. She tried to appear confident with her invitation, but behind those brown eyes was fear . . . of rejection.
Sydney would never be so unconfident.
Sark hid a sigh. I'm getting soft.
"Sure. Tomorrow," he said. He gave the cashier a few bills and went to his bike.
"Can I get a ride?" he heard Allison call behind him. The thought 'hell no!' went through his mind.
Sark looked around for the man with the newspaper, but he had disappeared. That started to make him wonder, but Allison again interrupted.
"Sark?"
"You'll freeze in that, with no jacket," he said. He purposely didn't offer his own, and she noticed, but quickly made up for it with her assumptions.
"Oh you're too sweet. Making sure I don't get sick."
Hmmm. Maybe I should take her. Get her sick to death.
"Besides," Sark said with a growing smirk, "I don't want to risk dropping the wine. Take it back for me?" With that, he shoved the bag of wine toward Allison, slipped the helmet on and revved the engine to life. He flashed Allison an astoundingly fake smile and took off into traffic.
Sark returned to the lab in somewhat of a bad mood, thanks to Allison. Lately, avoiding her was like trying to avoid a mugging in Rio de Janeiro.
"The vial?" Sark prompted, already impatient at the technician.
"It's what we thought. I've already begun tests on the animals. Half are showing symptoms, and the others will follow." The man indicated some Plexiglas cages.
Sark circled the clear cages, watching various rodents. Normally they scurried, but the technician was right; half were struggling for life, quite visibly. Their little chests heaved for air.
The vial contained a neat little virus. It attacked the lungs. A few hours after exposure, the cells in the lungs died off. The lungs themselves started to overwork themselves. The diaphragm went into overdrive. And with each forced breath, the effort fueled the virus as the host's lungs disintegrated.
The brilliant part was that the virus seemed like advanced pneumonia. While death was imminent within 36 hours, the host seemed victim only to bad luck.
It wasn't contagious, which was partially why it was so brilliant and useful given The Man's purposes. Irina had several human candidates to test the efficacy of the virus. All of them would require Sark to go out and properly infect the candidates for assassination. That was fine with him, especially if it sent him to Los Angeles.
He wouldn't mind taking a slight detour to see Sydney again.
"Have a report ready after they're dead," Sark said finally.
He sat in front of a fire place, nursing a glass of wine in one hand while staring at the flames. Sydney plagued his thoughts like the virus plagued the animals downstairs.
She was vibrant in Prague. Her fierce determination to stay in control impressed him. Her obvious attraction made him hope.
Well, there was that shudder which displayed some revulsion, but Sark was willing to overlook that on Sydney's behalf. She'd come around and realize how much she wanted him soon enough.
His eyes started to itch, and Sark knew it was time to turn in. A glance at a mantel clock showed it just past 1 a.m. Sark sipped the rest of his wine, and set the glass down on an end table.
He had changed into some gray flannel pants, but now took off his shirt. Sark wanted to feel the chill of night right now.
It didn't last long. Sark felt his body slowly relax against the starched sheets. Rest overtook him.
And when he woke up, suddenly startled, it was Sydney who overtook him. Sark froze as Sydney smiled over the barrel of the gun aimed at him.
"I bet you thought you won," she said, almost whispering. "One thing you should know about me, Sark: I don't give up easily."