Part Ten
The first thing that registered in his mind was the warmth. Sark slowly opened his eyes. A dark blanket covered him up to his chin. He could hear a muted buzzing all around him.
He was in a plane. It was smaller, and plush. Jet. His body was stretched over a couch. Sark moved his arms, and heard the familiar rattle of metal.
His hands were still handcuffed, although this time in front of him. He pushed down the blanket to double check.
His chest was still bare except for the wounds, and his jeans were no longer anything close to blue. Although they're quite worn now. Even his feet were still bare. Sark tried to sit up, but something held him back.
Seat belt. Two of them, he discovered. He was strapped down at the waist and legs.
Sark swallowed.
"He's awake." The face came into view. It was Agent Vaughn.
"Let him up, Vaughn." It was Sydney. They shot each other looks, challenging each other. Sark coughed.
"What happened?" he asked. His voice was raspy. He tried to clear his throat, but nothing helped.
Vaughn answered. "We received a tape of the Hierarchy torturing you and Sydney. We tracked the Hierarchy down outside Akyab, Burma, where you and Sydney were being held."
Sark almost smiled. Irina. She forwarded the tape to the CIA. She knew they'd rescue Sydney. And she never put herself or her operations at risk.
Typical, but brilliant.
"We came in last night and raided their compound. You were being interrogated when we went in," Vaughn said.
Sark tried to clear his throat again. "I suppose I ought to thank you then."
"No," he answered quickly. "We're taking you back to CIA headquarters in Los Angeles."
Sydney immediately started to object. "Vaughn, how can—"
"Syd, you should get some rest." Vaughn gently pulled her away from Sark.
Sark closed his eyes, and rested his head back on the couch. From the clutches of one enemy to another. He normally would have stayed awake to strategize an escape.
But this time Sark was too worn out to care. He tried to stretch, but pain reintroduced itself to Sark. He grimaced, and waited for another dose of sleep.
He awoke in a glass cell, open for the world to see. Sark lay on a metal cot. He was still dressed in only his jeans, but at least the handcuffs were gone now.
Sark tried to stand, but his knees immediately buckled under his weight. He stayed on his hands and knees, trying to compose himself for another try.
Instead, he rolled onto his back.
This must be the Joint Task Force center. He glanced around the cell. A tray of food was on the floor, and a change of clothes by a shower and sink. At least this is a four-star prison.
He started with food. It was a three-course meal compared to the soup in Burma. It also gave him enough strength to try standing again.
Sark started by pacing the cell once. He steadied himself with a hand against the walls. The cell was small, but there was at least a bare-bones shower, sink and toilet. Lovely.
When he finished a round, he turned to find someone on the other side of the glass.
It was Agent Vaughn again. Sark rolled his eyes.
"Agent Bristow has requested that you see a medic, given your condition. If you're ready, I'll send one in."
Sark smirked at the agent. "I think a shower would be better first. Give me a few minutes," he said, almost ordering Vaughn. "I have enough dirt and grime on me to recreate the Burmese forest."
Vaughn nodded and left, and Sark turned to the expose shower. He sighed. At least it's clean.
The medic was actual appalled by the number of cuts and bruises. Sark smirked at that. Oh please. Like they don't torture terrorists here. The medic disinfected the wounds and bandaged what he could. He patched up a gash on Sark's cheekbone, and stitched another in his hairline.
Guards monitored the whole thing, especially when the medic pulled out a syringe.
"I recommend a Tetanus shot, as well as a series of anti-bacterial injections," the medic said. Sark almost laughed. Tetanus was the last thing I was worried about. But he nodded for the man to give him the shots.
He was left alone for awhile. Sark thought about Sydney. He couldn't remember what she looked like on the plane, or if he'd even seen her. Did the Hierarchy hurt her? He hadn't really seen her since they were recaptured.
He recalled the mudslide. He'd almost lost her there. But after he had saved her, he almost kissed her. And she seemed all right with that.
He wondered if that would change anything for him.
Probably not. She knows what you really are now.
He slept for awhile, until someone banged on the glass. Sark jumped, half expecting a bucket of ice or cold water thrown on him. He relaxed when he remembered where he was.
Until he saw it was Brianne.
She looked miffed, to put it mildly. Sark sighed and stood slowly.
"Hello, Brianne," he said politely. His accent was worn and raspy still, but he continued. "You look well."
Her eyes narrowed to slits at him. "You bastard."
"I'm not, actually, but I understand why you're angry," Sark began. "I apologize for my deception."
She huffed at that.
"You are the deception," she said forcefully. "You used me. And I actually cared about you."
She was still hurting, Sark realized. Sydney was right. Sark decided to make things easier for Brianne.
"Yes, I have that effect on women. I used you—it's what I do, among other things," Sark said. The effect on her was instantaneous, but he pressed on. "You should thank Agent Bristow for recognizing me, or you might be dead by now."
Brianne banged her hands against the glass, her eyes livid.
Sark smirked at her. "You want to hit me, Brianne? I don't think you'll get the chance. Even if the guards let you in here, your life would be in more danger than mine." He let his eyes be cold and icy, just to emphasize his point. He saw her eyes well up with unshed tears, and suddenly she turned and left quickly.
Sark sighed. That was harsh, but effective. She definitely hates me now. He went back to his cot and lay down.
His next visitors consisted of a group of CIA agents. Sark named them off as he recognized them: Jack Bristow, Vaughn, Weiss, Sydney. . . .
Sydney looked good, Sark noticed with some relief. Aside from the Hierarchy's videotaped hit, she didn't look like she'd been touched. Her hair was soft and flowed onto her shoulders. Her eyes gazed into him, and he stared back.
"Glad to see you're okay, Miss Bristow," he said politely for all to hear. He looked back at the rest.
Jack Bristow spoke. "The raid in Burma destroyed a substantial portion of the Hierarchy. They're severely crippled."
Sark's eyes fired up momentarily. "Does that mean they still exist?"
Jack nodded, and Sark started to pace.
"What about Halzden?" he asked. Jack looked to Sydney, who spoke up.
"The team didn't get him. He escaped," she said. Sark started to laugh, not because of humor, but to mock those before him.
"Halzden was in the cell, torturing me. There was only one way in and out of that cell. And he escaped?" Sark bit the inside of his cheek, frustrated. "Government organizations—they're never efficient."
Vaughn started to argue, but a look from Jack silenced him.
"We've been discussing your fate, Sark," Jack said. "Irina Derevko is still at large. You'll help us find her."
Sark laughed again. "I've spent days with the Hierarchy, and never told them anything about Irina. Sydney can attest to that. What makes you think I'll tell the CIA?"
Jack answered with his stone face. "Because we'll have you for the rest of your life, not just days." With that, he turned and left the cell area.
Sydney tried to linger, but Vaughn escorted her out. She looked straight at Sark, her eyes pleading something to him. He wasn't sure what.
Sark was left alone.
The CIA's questions began the next day. Jack Bristow conducted the interrogation himself, just on the other side of the glass cell. Sark didn't say a word to Jack. The agent left, his jaw set and mouth tight.
Sark was grateful that they weren't going to torture him just yet, but he knew it wouldn't last. When they perceive that I'm well enough, it'll start. Even Sydney wouldn't be able to fight that.
The fruitless questioning continued for four days. On the fifth day, Sydney came to the cell.
"Sark," she began, her voice shaking. Concern clouded Sark's face as he wondered what was wrong. "My father . . . he's been kidnapped."
The Hierarchy.
"We received a ransom demand this morning," she continued, "from my mother." Sark's jaw dropped, but he couldn't help but smile eventually as he realized the plan.
"My mother wants a trade."
"Me for your father," Sark filled in. Irina knew she could get me out of CIA's custody.
Sydney nodded, and Sark couldn't help but laugh.
"I'm sorry, Sydney," he said, "but you can't blame me for being happy at this turn of events."
She glanced down at the floor, then looked back up at him.
"Sark," she began, "I want you to know that I begged them to let you go." Sark took a step back. "I told them how much you suffered, how you protected me. But the CIA—"
"Sydney," he said softly. "It's all right." She stared at him, her eyes shimmering. Sark stared back, his eyes piercing into her. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. It was so quiet, she almost didn't hear it.
"Sark," she started, after a deep breath, "We never—"
Sark just held up a hand to stop her.
"I know."
The switch was made the following day. As Sark and Jack crossed paths, he could have sworn that Jack was going to pounce on him and kill him with his bare hands.
Jack restrained himself. Sark made it safely to some of Irina's men.
"Mr. Sark," they greeted him. He nodded, and got into a waiting car.
"Scan me immediately for any tracking devices," he ordered one of the men. He was clean.
"Ms. Derevko instructed for us to fly you to the base in Italy."
Sark nodded, and sat back. He was free.
"I'm glad you're all right," Irina said. Her dark hair was tied back.
"Thank you for the extraction," Sark said. "A nice play, kidnapping Jack Bristow." Irina smiled.
"I thought so." She dropped the smile, and got to business. "What happened in Burma?"
Sark's eyes darkened. "I learned Allison was the Hierarchy's source."
"Are you sure?"
"I'll verify it before I kill her."
Irina nodded at that. "The Hierarchy is still up and running. I plan to send a team soon."
Sark's eyes blazed at that thought, and Irina noticed. "I'd like to handle the Hierarchy myself."
Irina smiled, that soft, knowing smile that showed her amusement and pleasure. "It's good to have you back."
Sark nodded, and left her.
Jamaica. The sun felt great, especially compared to Burma. Sark wore light-weight khakis and a light blue dress shirt only half buttoned. He added sunglasses and started heading to his destination.
He waited inside Allison's flat. It was about noon, and Sark helped himself to a drink from her fridge.
He heard a key in the lock and laughter as Allison and a man entered the flat. Sark just watched them as he continued to sip at his drink.
She was flirting with the man. Both were happily engrossed in each other. Sark smirked at the sight, until he realized he recognized the man.
He was one of the guards from Burma. Hierarchy. It was the same man who cut Sark up, who took his knife. Sark narrowed his eyes, and placed a hand on the silenced gun tucked at the small of his back.
The guard said something to make Allison laugh even more. Their flirting was starting to disgust Sark.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said, breaking their solitude. Allison whirled around and gasped as she faced Sark.
"Sark! What are you—are you okay? I heard about Burma," she said. Her eyes held fear and hope. Hope that I'll buy her lies.
"I'm fine," he said coldly. He smiled at her, but not to loosen her up. It was to make her even more frightened. He hardly ever smiled at her.
The guard started to creep back, no doubt going for some weapon. Sark stopped him with fake kindness.
"And who is this?" Sark asked Allison. The guard stood straighter, and his eyes showed panic with fear of discovery.
Sark extended a hand to the guard. The guard hesitantly took it.
"Uh, I'm a friend. My name is—"
Sark didn't let him finish. He yanked the guard's arm past him, flinging the guard to the floor at Allison's feet. In the same movement, Sark whipped out his gun and aimed it at the guard's head.
"I know who you are," he hissed. He fired one shot at the man's knee. Allison screamed. "Shut up, Allie."
She backed up until her back hit a wall. Sark glared at her, holding her there with his eyes. He turned back to the guard.
"Where's Halzden?"
The guard was groaning, grasping his knee. "You shot me!"
Sark smirked happily at that. "Brilliant observation. You cut me, remember? Speaking of, where's my knife?" Sark patted the man down, while keeping an eye on Allison. He felt something in the man's boot, and Sark removed the knife and sheath victoriously.
"Ah, there it is," Sark said to himself. He shot the man again, this time in the right shoulder. The man passed out from the pain.
Sark pocketed the knife, and glared at Allison.
"Please, Sark, I—" she started.
"You what?" Sark mocked. "You gave the Hierarchy information about The Man. About me. And about Sydney Bristow."
Anger washed over her face. "It still comes back to her, doesn't it?" She took a step toward Sark, but he didn't raise the gun. He didn't need it for her.
"You are a silly girl, Allison," Sark mused aloud. "You betrayed us, and you never ensured that it wouldn't come back to bite you. You allied yourself with a group that is inefficient, disorganized, and even disrespectful."
"Disrespectful?!" The bewilderment on her face made him laugh.
"You'd understand if you were there in Burma," Sark said. He took a few steps toward her, until he pinned her against the wall. "Now Allison, you're going to tell me everything you know about the Hierarchy."