a/n: Thanks to sallene for her help and advice!
Part Eleven
Ice ran through Sark's veins as he left the warmth of Jamaica. He'd left the bodies of Allison and the guard on the floor of her flat. He called the police once he was on the plane—he wanted their bodies found.
"What did you find out?" he heard Irina ask over the phone.
"It was Allison. I'm headed to Nicaragua right now. There's another base in Tunisia. It's weaker but still around," Sark said.
"I'll send a team there," Irina said. Sark nodded into the phone.
"I've uploaded the intel to you."
Sark was about to hang up when he heard Irina say something more.
"Who's backing you up in Nicaragua?"
Sark responded like a machine. "No one. I'll call you when I'm done."
Nicaragua was more jungle than anything else, at least where the Hierarchy chose to be. He wasn't surprised by that, not after Burma.
The black tactical gear hugged Sark's body. In every available pocket or pouch, Sark packed extra clips of ammunition, grenades, timed explosives, anything and everything.
He pulled a ski mask over his face, and headed into the thick jungle. The bugs hushed as he went by.
Sark counted five guards around the perimeter of the building. It was simple concrete, just a square building. Sark crouched down in the foliage. He aimed one of his silenced guns at a guard, and pulled the trigger.
He changed positions, and took out the second guard. Within four minutes, Sark had all five guards neutralized.
There were cameras, of course, but Sark wasn't worried about them. He crept to the building, out of view of the cameras. He picked a lock and slipped inside the building.
The voices he heard were calm, unaware of the danger among them. Sark smirked as he planted an explosive behind a door.
He moved toward the voices, stopping just around the corner from them. His hand searched for a dental mirror, which he used to check the numbers against him.
The mirror showed eleven men, all sitting around, chatting. Sark got a grenade out, and pulled the pin out. He tossed the grenade around the corner.
The room exploded three seconds later. Sark followed in, sweeping the room for survivors. He shot anyone that still moved.
Fire and security alarms sounded, and Sark picked up his pace. He had a gun in each hand as he ran throughout the building.
He fired with zero hesitation at any man around him. A spray of bullets hit by his shoulder, and Sark kneeled on one knee as he turned around to face the shooter. Sark fired three shots, and continued on.
The top floor was where the Hierarchy's leaders were. Sark ran up a flight of stairs, planting another timed explosive along the way. The bland off-white walls blurred together as Sark focused ahead.
His foot just barely stepped on the second to highest floor's flight of stairs when Sark heard panicking shouts ahead of him. Sark stepped back down, and hid behind the turn of the stairs. He heard panting breaths as his prey came to him.
Three, two, one— Sark jumped into the path of the prey. He smirked at the two men, dressed in their cheap suits and untouchable façades. His lips twitched and Sark pulled the trigger. He studied their faces, contorted in shock as the bullets ended their lives. The men looked like hired guns—bodyguards.
Bodyguards for whom?
Sark continued his ascent. He kicked open the door to the top level, and quickly crouched to the ground.
Footsteps echoed down one hallway. Sark's head snapped to the source. He got to his feet and took off after the next target.
His heart beat steadily, humming along with the determined rhythm of his mind.
The prey stopped. Sark couldn't hear footsteps anymore. He smiled, pleased at the challenge.
Sark paced carefully, silently through the halls. He tuned out the beat of his heart, and listened for his target's.
Ragged breathing . . . Sark was close. He approached an open door to a large office. Sark noted the lavish but precise décor. Oversized couches, leather armchairs, a walnut desk that expanded like the British Empire in the colonial era. . .
Sark heard someone charge before he could be hit, and quickly sidestepped the attack. He swiveled on one foot, and rotated his body around to hit the man in the back.
His would-be attacker fell into the leather arm chair. Sark calmly stalked toward him, like a patient tiger who knows the outcome. The man's chest heaved, and his eyes widened at the sight of the dark intruder. Sark smirked at that.
"Please! What do you want? I can give it to you!" the man pleaded. Sark laughed as he leveled his gun at the man's head.
"Really. Who are you?" Sark asked. He was ticked off that it wasn't Halzden. But he could be one of the three leaders. The man could easily have been from Singapore.
"Shenton Ghaut."
"What are you offering me, Ghaut?" Sark said. The man looked surprised at that.
"I have bank accounts, totaling $40 million. I can give you access to them." He looked pleased and relieved that he might be able to buy his way out of death.
Sark put his gun down on a coffee table.
"That's not enough," Sark stated simply. Ghaut stammered. "In truth, nothing you have is enough." Sark lifted one foot and reached into his boot. He slowly removed his knife from his boot. The blade singed against the metal sheath.
"Wait, wait! There must be something," he said, hoping he was right.
Sark just smiled. "Tell me where Halzden is, and I'll make this quick."
Ghaut's eyes were wide, and his lip quivered with fear. "He's dead. He was in Burma when he died."
Sark smirked at that. Halzden is hiding. It was possible that Ghaut was telling the truth. It was also possible that he was protecting Halzden.
He didn't care either way; he would find Halzden, and eradicate the last of the Hierarchy.
Suddenly Sark lunged forward, plunging the knife into Ghaut's heart. The man's eyes bulged, and his lungs hissed out a breath. Sark just glared at the man for a moment.
"I think you were telling the truth," he whispered to the dying man. With that, Sark twisted the blade hard to the right, and yanked it out of Ghaut's flesh.
Sark watched the body for a moment. He wiped the blood off on Ghaut's suit. The knife slid back into his boot, and Sark turned to leave.
And stopped. Standing in the doorway was Sydney.
"Sydney," he said with a nod.
Sark noticed the automatic rifle she held. It was pointed at the ground, but she clutched it tightly.
"You beat me to it," she said, referring to taking down the Hierarchy.
Sark shook his head. "No, I spared you from having to do it." He walked toward Sydney, and she raised the rifle at him.
"We have to get out of here, Sydney. I've set timers for . . ." He checked his watch, "Two minutes."
Sydney touched her earpiece. "There are bombs in the building. Evacuate immediately."
Sark smiled at that.
"Let's go."
They hurried down the stairs, and out of the building as the seconds ticked down. Sark led the way out to the foliage just as the first round of explosives went off.
The force of the blast sent him to his knees. Sydney fell beside him. The heat washed over them and the jungle. Birds and wildlife shrieked and scurried for safety. But he heard only the flames after the second explosion.
"Everyone okay?" Sydney said into her comms. She listened for answers as Sark gazed at her. When she looked at him, he averted his gaze to the ground.
"I have to go," he said, standing up and turning away. Sydney got to her feet quickly.
"Sark, wait," she said. Sark turned back, fully expecting to see her gun in his face. Instead, he saw her eyes. They pleaded with him again, but he didn't know why. She looked torn, confused.
"What?" Sark prompted.
"How . . ." she started. "Why do you always come back to this?"
Sark took a step to her. "To what?"
Sydney sighed, looking away from his hypnotizing eyes. She pointed to her gun, the burning building, to him . . .
"To this life," she almost whispered. Her eyes filled up with emotion. "Why do you choose it over and over again?" He had never seen her so distressed before. The sadness in her eyes was overbearing; it started to make him feel sorry for himself.
Sark turned away from her abruptly. He willed himself to be the strong, cold man he'd been for years.
"Habit," he answered. Sark looked over his shoulder at her. "Goodbye, Sydney."
Sark ran and disappeared into the Nicaraguan jungle.
Irina was reservedly pleased when he reported the Hierarchy's demise.
"The Tunisian base is destroyed as well," she said. "Good work."
"Thank you," Sark replied.
"The Hierarchy was a threat that we didn't fully prepare for. I'm pleased with how you handled it," Irina said. Reading between the lines, Sark knew she was saying thanks for resisting the Hierarchy, and ultimately destroying them. "The word's out about their fall. And rumors are flying around in the organization about Allison."
"Good," Sark said. "That should discourage any potential traitors."
"Yes," was all Irina said in reply. She paused for a moment. "You should take some time off. Rest up and have a vacation."
Sark objected immediately. "Halzden is still out there. I'd like to correct that." Irina smiled at his reserved anger.
"Take a break. I'll have my sources track him down." Sark opened his mouth to object, but Irina shot him a look.
Sark simply nodded. "You'll contact me when you find him?"
Irina gave him a short nod. "Where are you going?"
Sark hesitated. He knew his answer would clue Irina in to what was going on within him. "Probably London and Galway."
She didn't rub it in, but simply told him to have a good trip.
London was comfortable for Sark. He could blend in easily and just relax. Today he thought back to a vacation his parents had dragged him on.
They had visited Buckingham Palace when he was fifteen. Sark had complained the whole time, thinking it was boring to walk around a huge, gated mansion.
He went there today. The weather was overcast, like it always seemed to be when he visited London. Sark pulled the leather coat tighter around him. He smiled as he noticed the jeans he wore.
He bought another pair as soon as he got into town.
Sark strolled around the palace. He looked up every now and then, but mainly looked at his feet as he thought back to one of his family's visits here.
"Come on, Julian!" his father called. He barely picked up his pace, and just walked behind his parents, while his younger brother and sister teased each other.
His mother turned back to wait for him. She took his arm, smiling at him in her loving way, and paced the way around the palace with him.
Sark smiled sadly at the ground. He glanced up at the peaks of the palace. It was taller than he remembered.
A crowd of tourists walked by Sark. Their chatter interrupted his solitude, but Sark stepped aside and just watched them walk by. He could hear the guide speaking over the megaphone, saying something about the change of guards.
A gust of wind whipped through him, and Sark hurried to flip the collar of his jacket up against his neck.
"We haven't been back since before Julian died." Sark could imagine his parents saying it on their next visit.
Sark froze. He quickly realized he didn't imagine that. Sark snapped his head up, looking around for the speaker.
At the back of the tourist group stood four people. They were older, especially his siblings. But it's them. His mother had spoken, and his father now laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. Sark saw her wipe her eyes.
It can't be. He hadn't checked up on his family, ever.
But he knew it was them. His sister, Ilene, was tall, probably 5'9." His brother, Calvin, no longer teased her, but looked around, appearing interested. He was taller too. He must be 18 now, Sark thought. His blonde hair was longer, and it curled around his neck. Ilene suddenly pulled at his hair.
"When will you get that cut?" she teased. Sark froze. Her voice was almost identical to his mother's. Ilene's probably 21 now. Sark couldn't remember their birthdays.
Sark felt a pang in his chest. How did I leave this? A lump rose in his throat as he watched them walk on with the tour.
Stop them!
The Sark in him ordered him to stay put. I made my choice eight years ago. Sark just stared after them, staying rooted to his spot in the middle of the plaza around Buckingham Palace.
Over a bottle of Chateau Petreuse, Sark started to feel better. Well, not better, but not as bad. The dull ache in his chest was starting to recede.
But the question 'why' kept popping up in his mind.
Why did he let them walk on?
Why did he leave them years ago?
Why was he still here?
He didn't have the answers. So he took a long draw from the bottle.
You could have gone back. Sark chastised that thought.
There is no going back. He made the decision, and lived with it quite contently for eight years. It's too late to change my mind.
Just like it's too late to change Sydney's mind. He knew he'd sealed her judgment of him when he murdered Ghaut and everyone else in Nicaragua, and when he told her he wouldn't leave the life she hated.
Sark had shown her that despite their time together in Burma, he hadn't changed. He couldn't change.
He never would.
He tortured himself further by going to Ireland the next day. The cemetery in Galway was large. It went on for forty acres. Sark left his rental car at the gate, and just walked through.
It was a bright day. The sun reflected off the lush green grass. Everything looked so cheery, despite the site and its purpose.
He didn't remember where he was 'buried,' so Sark just wandered. He walked without looking at the names on the stones around him.
Sydney. If there was one person he felt could redeem him, it was her. Something about her drew his attention and devotion.
It wasn't just because she was Irina's daughter. It went beyond that. Sydney was so different from Irina. Different from Allison. From Brianne. From every woman in the world. Her severe passion about life, others, her job . . . Sydney originally caught Sark's eye just with her abilities as a spy. As he studied her and encountered her again and again on missions, his admiration expanded to her as a whole.
With that same thought, Sark knew she would never see admiration for him. In Burma, she'd seen glimpses of him that she liked; the fierce protector, the sacrificial lamb, a confidant. But as a whole, Sark was still the machine she always suspected.
And she knows it's not because of anyone else's doing.
Sark's eyes wander over the headstones. They stopped on a familiar name.
My name.
Sark kneeled down in front of the headstone. He took off his jacket, tossing it aside. His fingers traced the years of his supposed life. His eyes scanned over the parting message.
Beloved son and strong brother. We'll always love you.
Something rose in the back of his throat. His chest heaved, almost convulsing. A dry sob escaped from his throat, and Sark couldn't hold anything back.
He heaved once more, and then sob after sob racked his body. The tears threatened to fall.
Maybe they did. But his face and eyes stayed dry.
Sark walked slowly back to his car, staring at the grass. The blades bent over in the breeze. The sun was starting its descent, and the orange and pink shadows it cast on the earth were beautiful. He sighed loudly for no one to hear.
And stopped in his tracks when he saw Sydney, casually leaning against his car.
She looked more beautiful than any sunset. Her hair flowed with the wind, and she smiled quickly at him.
"Hi," she said, somewhat tentatively. Her eyes looked . . . hopeful. Sark furrowed his brow, confused.
"Obviously, I didn't expect to see you, much less here," Sark said. Sydney smiled again and looked away.
"My mother told me you were here."
Sark almost laughed. Irina. She always knew.
"It's somewhat disturbing that I'm that predictable," Sark mused. It drew a slight laugh from Sydney.
"Are you alone?" Sark asked her. She nodded. "Why are you here?"
Her smile disappeared. Sark almost regretted cutting to the chase, but his mind and heart could only take so much.
"I needed to know something." Sydney measured each word carefully, and Sark could tell. It's as if she is making sure she doesn't upset me. Sark instantly hated himself for making her feel that she had to be so cautious around him.
"When we were in Burma, you risked your life to protect me," she said. She looked at him directly. "You saved me, from the Hierarchy, torture, and even a mudslide."
Sark didn't answer, unsure of where she was headed.
"I thought it was because of your extreme loyalty to my mother. You knew she would want me safe," Sydney said. She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "But then you told me about you and your family. I never expected you to tell me anything so . . . personal."
Sark looked away, then back at her. "I'm sorry, I don't see where you're headed with this," he said with a touch of hurry.
Sydney sighed and banged her hand on the car in frustration.
"Why do you do this?! Why do you push everything away? Have you not learned anything?!"
Sark opened his mouth, but Sydney cut him off.
"You're so determined to stay 'safe' in this harsh world you've chosen. And you're so afraid of admitting you were wrong that you won't even consider going back."
Sark stepped toward Sydney suddenly, his face stern and flushed.
"Going back? To what, Sydney?" He ran a hand through his blonde hair. "I have what I've worked for. Why would I seek out anything else?"
He said the words, but he didn't mean them. He didn't care about what he claimed to.
"Sark, you made a mistake. Something you've paid for dearly for years. You paid for it in Burma. And you'll keep paying for it, unless you get over it."
"Over what, Sydney?" Sark said, sighing. He didn't want to argue, not anymore.
"Over your bad choices and on with your life," she said. Sark opened his mouth to object, but she pressed on. "This isn't your life. Go back to it, to your family. Start over."
Sark laughed, mocking her.
"Start over? I don't see you rushing to leave the ranks of the CIA," he said. Sydney hesitated. "That's right. It's not so easy. You know how hard it is. There's no leaving this life, Sydney."
Sark turned away from Sydney and walked around to the driver's side. He opened the car door and was about to get in when Sydney rushed around and grabbed the front of his shirt.
She balled the fabric in her hands, and slammed his back against the car.
"Why are you so stubborn?" she hissed at him. Sark smirked at that.
"You're one to talk, Miss Bristow."
She hit him, hard and over the fading scar on his cheekbone. Sark grunted as his head whipped to a side with the impact.
"Thank you for proving my point," he mumbled. His fingers gingerly touched the impacted area.
"Has it not dawned on you why I'm here?" Sydney said. Her voice was softer, but still determined.
"Yes," Sark said. "You're here to save me." Sydney stepped back. "And I don't need you for that."
She swallowed, and that sadness crept back into her eyes. Sark got in the car, and pulled the door shut. He quickly turned on the car, and sped out of the cemetery without looking back.
He wanted her words to not affect him. It was easier that way. He wanted to go back to being the Sark he set out to be: cold, calculating, fearless . . . unstoppable.
Ireland didn't help. Being back only made it harder to be Sark.
And Sydney didn't help. Sark felt bitter; she only wants to change me and save me from myself.
Sark walked into his hotel room, and went straight for the balcony. The wind ruffled his hair. He clenched the cold metal railing, his knuckles tight and paler than usual. Sark looked down over the city.
What do I even want anymore?
And suddenly he knew.
Sark stopped by the concierge on his way out.
"Do you have a city directory?" he asked. The concierge gave him the book. Sark flipped through it frantically.
He found the address, and was astounded.
His family was still at the same house. They never moved.
He sped to that part of the city, stopping three blocks away. Sark walked with purpose in the shadows. A million thoughts and emotions ran through him, but they all were silenced when he saw it.
Time and the elements had taken its toll on the house, but it still was the same to him. Sark noticed the window to his room.
He had snuck out of it to get his teeth extracted the night before he left.
Sark went towards the house, as if drawn to it. It was dark, and no vehicles were parked outside the home. The front door was locked, but Sark easily picked it and walked in.
The lights were off. Probably still in London. The house smelled like mulberry. His mom always liked that scent, and constantly boiled potpourri to comfort her senses. Sark walked through the hallway to the kitchen.
The hard wood floors creaked now. There were scratches in the counter tops. The fridge was new. Sark opened it; it was fully stocked. His mom always kept it filled, concerned her children wouldn't get enough to eat.
Sark shut the fridge and moved through the house.
The dining room. It was only used for holidays and rare visits from family and business associates. The solid wood table still shined, no doubt from the meticulous weekly polishings.
The family room. Too many decorative pillows were scattered around the room on the floor and furniture. The draperies were new, or new to him.
His father's office. It was exactly as he remembered it. Sark went to the large desk, kneeling by the drawers. He pulled out the drawer where he took his father's knife eight years ago.
The space was empty, near the back of the drawer.
The bedrooms had changed. Instead of childish designs and pictures, Calvin's room was littered with posters and books. Ilene's room was no longer pink, but a soft shade of lavender. She always liked that color. Her room was neat, almost unlived in. She probably lives elsewhere now.
Sark moved on, and stopped outside his old room. The door was shut. Sark stared at it for several seconds before he reached for the door knob.
Air rushed past him as the door opened. The room smelled dusty. Untouched.
It was almost exactly how he left it. His bed had been made, and his things were straightened and tidied up. But beyond that, it was left alone.
It surprised him, and hurt him at the same time. He half-hoped they had changed it around or made it a guest room. It would be easier to justify everything. Instead, they had kept it as almost a shrine.
They've held onto this all. Onto me, all these years.
Guilt hit him like a rifle in the stomach. He sat on his bed, carefully so he didn't disturb the perfectly placed bedspread.
It was almost an out-of-body experience for him. He ran his hand over the bedspread, the fabric soft but dusty. He lifted his hand up to the night street lights, seeing the dust cling to his fingertips.
He felt that lump rise again in his throat. His chest started to expand and contract quickly. The first sob came, and its force twisted his stomach. Sark felt the pain, physical and emotional, and ran for the bathroom.
He threw up, retching several times into the toilet. His chest felt like it was on fire. He clutched it, and he could almost feel the wounds from Burma splitting apart.
Tears fell, dripping down his face. Sark struggled to breathe calmly. He leaned over the toilet seat for several minutes, just trying to regain control. Finally, he ran a hand over his face, wiping away the wet tears.
He flushed the toilet and turned on the sink, splashing clean water on his face. He turned off the faucet, and was drying his face when he heard something.
It sounded like a car door shutting. Sark tensed, and went back to his old room. Through the window he saw them.
His family.