Part Six
Sark didn't say a word for several moments. His eyes started to sweep the room. He suddenly felt paranoid.
"Sark?"
"Yes. Thank you for the call." Sark hung up, and then flashed Brianne a tight smile.
"Everything okay?" she asked. He shook his head.
"I'm afraid not. I have a sort of emergency at work." Sark paused, watching her. "I'm so sorry. I have to go." He flagged down a waiter while Brianne tried to object.
"Yes sir?" the waiter said. Sark shoved a few bills in his hands.
"This should cover whatever the lady wants, and a cab home." Sark stood up, surveying the room again. He came back to Brianne, who looked worried and somewhat flustered. "Brianne, I'm sorry. Let's try this again later." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
"Um, I hope everything's okay!" she called after him. He nodded back to her and left.
He left his car where it was, and hurried down the street. Sark had no idea if the Puo-Tang was nearby, but he had to act somewhat erratically now to avoid any surprises.
Being caught off guard wasn't something that happened often. Sark didn't much care for people hunting him down, but he wasn't afraid. He was annoyed.
Imbeciles trying to find out more about Irina.
Sark heard the clacking of his shoes on the concrete; the noise peaked above the passing vehicles and other people around him. Sark kept his head down, but his gaze flickered everywhere.
How would they even find me? None of his actions were planned, or seemingly important to anyone in the intelligence world. If they think they could just find me, then they would have to have significant man-power. That thought almost concerned Sark.
He shook it off, and kept walking. As he did, Sark caught his reflection in a store window.
And someone else's. The man, about five people behind Sark, made eye contact with him in the reflection. His face was stern, and definitely Asian.
Sark picked up his pace, and quickly turned down another street.
The footsteps behind him sped up. Sark glanced over his shoulder, and found not one, but two men following him.
Puo-Tang. Not so incompetent after all.
The traffic was busy enough to discourage jaywalking, but Sark suddenly darted out into the traffic. He ran down the street, and cut down an alleyway as horns blared behind him. The flaps of his suit jacket fluttered behind him as he ran.
Food—Sark smelled grease, and he knew a restaurant was nearby. He spotted a back entrance and cut through the restaurant.
He ended up in front on another street. One of the Puo-Tang rounded the corner as he emerged. Sark kept running. His gun was stashed in his car, a fact over which he cursed himself.
Sark ducked into a bar and quickly went out the back. He ran further down the back alley, and then ducked behind a dumpster.
He removed a knife from a sheath in his boot. He admired the blade as he twisted it in the dim street light, watching the glints reflect off the metal. The blade was curved, the tip up. Intricate designs decorated the metal on either side of the blade. Sark had it since he was a teenager, when he faked his death.
It was his father's—something bought from a tourist shop on one of the many summer vacations. Sark had always wanted it. He used to sneak into his father's office and swish is through the air. Right before he faked his death, Sark just took it.
Now, he relied on it and his skills to get out of this.
The follower approached. Sark counted off the steps, and suddenly met the man with his blade.
The blade sank to the hilt. Sark quickly pulled it out and spun around. He swung his leg down on the man, and the body fell to the dirty ground. Sark wiped the blade on the man's shirt, then sheathed it back by his ankle.
There were two. Sark froze, watching, listening. After a minute, he walked on.
Sark reemerged on another street. The people going by were carefree, unaware of what danger walked by them.
He was four blocks away from his hotel when a dark van suddenly screeched to a halt in front of him. Sark started to take off, but the side door slid open, and three men inside grabbed him.
The captors pulled at him as he fought against their hold. They suddenly slammed his body down on the van floor. Sark grunted at the impact, but picked up his struggle.
One of the men elbowed him in the stomach. Sark's body automatically crumpled. Before he could recover, he felt cold steel against his forehead.
"If you want to live, don't move."
Sark complied. "What do you want?" he spat out.
"We'll have plenty of time to talk, later," one replied. Sark felt coarse rope being forced over his hands.
Sark knew there was no way he was letting himself being captured here, like this. Or at all. He took a deep breath, and then struck.
Sark snapped his head to the side, dodging the gun threat. With a quick swipe, Sark kicked over his head and nailed one of the men. He braced his body up with his bound hands, and kicked out at the other two men.
The three were stunned, but not down. Sark lashed out another kick directly at one man's throat. The man's head snapped back and his hands rushed to his throat. His breath went out moments later.
Another man dove for Sark as the van swerved in the road. Sark sat up and met the man's dive. He pulled his hands back and then hit the man in the chest, hard and direct.
The third man scrambled for the gun, which was bouncing all over the van. Sark simply beat the man to it. With his hands bound, Sark didn't hesitate to pull the trigger.
The driver was worried now. Sark nearly put the gun through the driver's head.
"Pull over, now," Sark ordered. His tone was deathly calm. The driver obeyed immediately.
Sark freed his hands, then had the driver out on the ground.
"I want you to tell me everything about the Puo-Tang," Sark said. The driver nodded nervously. "Good. Let's start with how you found me."
"The Puo-Tang struck, but failed," Sark reported. He was surprised when he heard Irina sigh in relief.
"What happened?"
"I killed them. And I know where the rest are and who the order came from," he said. He was on the way into his hotel. At the front desk, he paused. "Check out for Devin Nichols." The concierge nodded, but not without a look at Sark's disheveled state.
"Tell me, and I'll take care of it," Irina said. Sark smirked, which at the moment was a very content expression for him.
Sark was safe in a new hotel, and eagerly hacking through the CIA's system. He had called Brianne to let her know he had to leave town for a brief trip. He didn't feel like pretending at the moment. That, and he still needed to get something to cover up a bruise.
There it is. A new brief, marked urgent, detailed the demise of Puo-Tang. Irina did take care of them. The whole group was eviscerated.
CIA's analysis was that other groups were rethinking going after Sark. They saw the Puo-Tang's demise as a warning to stay away from The Man and Sark.
Perfect.
There was no mention of the LA run-in, which relieved Sark. He didn't want to draw the CIA's attention to himself or his source.
Which reminded him . . . he had to make amends with her.
"Brianne."
"Devin! You're back?" she asked.
"Yes. I'm really sorry about the other night," he said. "Can I make it up to you?"
She practically giggled. "Yeah. Actually, there's this concert this weekend that I have tickets to. . ."
"Let's go to that. When should I pick you up?"
The next "date" was set for Friday. Sark continued to play chauffeur to Brianne, all the while listening in and searching for intel through the CIA.
With the Puo-Tang gone, Sark turned his attention to the Hierarchy. The suspected
leaders were from Tajikistan, Sweden, and Singapore. Not your usual
mix, Sark noted.
Suspected locations of
operation were Tunisia, Nicaragua, and Burma, of all places. Not
the normal hot spots for terrorism. Sark stopped reading. Why are they
out in these relatively remote areas?
Sark rolled his eyes to himself. That's the point. It keeps them hidden. Even the locations were vague. Countries, but no specific area or city. Sark continued on. The CIA's intel was sparse about the group. It seemed to be growing quickly, but yet their presence seemed non-existent. So far, they hadn't killed or bombed anything. However, the Hierarchy was on several lists as suspects for robberies world-wide.
So what's their objective? Based on what they might have stolen, they were getting ready to launch themselves as a verifiable source to be reckoned with. Advanced weapons, next-gen technology, jewels and money . . .
As of yet, they had no purpose, but Sark suspected that would change. Their interest in him pointed to that. Sark suddenly felt a rush of ice run through his veins. His instincts screamed at him, and Sark knew.
The Hierarchy was no Puo-Tang.
"I think they would be trickier to defeat if they came after us," Sark told Irina later. She absorbed the information with an 'hmmm.'
"Anything else from your asset?" she asked. The way she annunciated 'asset' revealed her approval in his methods and genius for 'recruiting.' Sark smiled at that.
"Nothing beyond what I've gotten from the CIA network," he said.
Irina didn't say anything for a moment, and Sark thought it was because of the lack of intel.
"Allison asked about you," she said finally. Sark rolled his whole head around in annoyance.
"Really?" he said flatly. Irina laughed.
"I'll be in Russia for awhile. Call me when you have anything new."
Sark nodded into the phone and hung up.
The concert, he learned, was U2. That pleased him—fellow Irishmen, who could actually play decent music. Sark half-expected the concert Brianne chose to be Barry Manilow.
Sark had to go out to find suitable attire for the evening. A nearby shop had a variety of jeans he never knew existed. Not my usual shop. He normally spent his money at suit-only establishments.
Boot-cut, painter, baggy, flare, relaxed . . . Where's 'normal'? The shop's clerk must have noticed his perplexity, because she came up to him.
"What are you looking for?" Her smile wasn't forced. Another woman attracted to me, Sark thought with a tired sigh.
"I'm not sure," Sark answered in his normal British accent. It was accompanied by the grin she wanted to see. "I had no idea jeans could be so complicated."
"Well, how do you like your jeans to fit?" Her eyes batted at him non-stop.
Evidently, the suit he wore didn't clue her in to his indifference. Sark took a deep breath. "Would you mind just picking out something you think would look suitable?"
It took half an hour, but Sark finally left the shop with a pair of boot-cut, deep-denim-washed, worn-styled jeans. Whatever the hell that means. They were bluish and fit well.
He had a black polo shirt in his hotel room, along with a black leather jacket. While part of him couldn't believe he was thinking so much about what to wear, he felt it was justified because he wanted to make sure he didn't stand out. Especially not after the Puo-Tang found me.
Who are you kidding? You're excited about wearing jeans.
Sark ordered half of his brain to shut up.
Brianne had said that dinner wasn't necessary since the concert started relatively early, and Sark was quite grateful he didn't have to sit through a five-course meal with a girl he could care less about.
Sark was waiting outside her door at 7:30 that night. He rang the bell, and fiddled with his blonde hair as he waited. His hair was perfect; he had it trimmed a couple of weeks ago, and now it was past the fresh-haircut phase and into perfection.
Not that it really mattered how his hair looked. I could shave my head and women would still fall all over themselves.
Brianne just about did. Her mouth opened in surprise as she took in his appearance.
"Wow," she whispered. "I don't think I've ever seen you so . . ."
"Informal?" Sark filled in, teasing her. She flashed him a look.
"I was thinking of 'hot,' actually," she said. Sark laughed, and nodded to her wardrobe choice.
"You look great," he said. His tone was soft, feigning sincerity over her form-fitting black pants, sage tank top, and beige suede jacket. Not bad, but still not Sydney.
The concert was filling up fast, judging by the parking lot. From the outside, Sark could hear excited shouts and random guitar chords.
Brianne grabbed Sark's hand and started to pull ahead. The touch startled him, but he followed her inside.
It took ten minutes to find their seats, and when they got there, Brianne quickly went up to a flock of women in the area.
"Hi!" she said. She turned back to Sark. "I hope you don't mind, but some of my friends had tickets too."
Sark nodded with a smile. "No problem at all," he said, straining his American accent. I hope Sydney isn't here. A gun hadn't been shoved in his face yet, so he assumed he was safe, but he didn't breathe easily until Brianne introduced all her civilian friends.
The concert hall darkened, and immediately the crowd went silent. A multitude of lights flashed next and a song began.
Sark watched in amazement as Brianne and her friends immediately started screaming. Instinctively he reached for where his gun normally was, until he realized he purposely left it in the car because of concert security. The crowd roared along with Bono, while Sark wondered if he'd ever heard the song before.
As the song was coming to an end, a new figure joined the group. Brianne instantly went to the person, introducing her friends along the way. Sark ignored the newcomer for a moment as he watched Bono and the Irishmen.
"And this is Devin," he heard Brianne say.
Sark turned for his introduction, and froze.
There in front of him, looking equally surprised and horrified, was Sydney Bristow.