a/n: Thanks to sallene, as always!
Part Twelve
They looked tired, dragging luggage and their feet. Sark froze where he stood.
Leave! Now!
They were inside the house now, sighing and chatting as they came in. They'll come up any minute.
Sark reached for the window, ready to slide it open and escape again. And suddenly, he remembered what Sydney had said.
"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."
His hand hung mid-air, just inches from the window. Sark slowly lowered his hand.
His heart picked up its pace. Sark turned around, and walked out of the room. His footsteps sounded like lead against a hard floor. As he stepped out to go downstairs to where his family was, Sark hesitated again.
Is this what I want?
Voices came from the kitchen. Sark saw the luggage, discarded at the foot of the stairs. Sark glanced at the front door, clear for him to slip through. He took a full breath, and moved for the kitchen.
The second his family came into view, Sark froze in the shadows. He watched them; they smiled despite the late hour. Enjoying a midnight snack. Chatting and glad to be home even though they enjoyed the vacation.
How will they ever forgive me?
He remembered his headstone. We'll always love you.
Sark took a step forward, and a loose floorboard creaked.
His mother heard it and shrieked. His father quickly turned, and upon seeing Sark, stepped protectively in front of his wife and kids.
"What do you want!" he shouted in his strong Irish accent. Ilene looked petrified, and Calvin looked ready for a fight.
"Get out!" his mother shrieked again.
Sark held up his hands, and slowly stepped towards them. As the shadows receded and Sark came into the light, he saw confusion come over everyone's faces.
"I'm not here to harm anyone," Sark said. He instantly looked down at the floor for a moment upon hearing his own voice. The British accent was normal for him, but somewhat foreign to them. It was a quick reminder of how much he'd changed.
"Who are you?" his father demanded. His tone warned Sark not to try anything. Sark smirked at that.
"I don't blame you for not recognizing me," he said. "It's been eight years." Ilene's eyes widened at that. His parents and brother still looked confused. "It can't be," Sark heard her whisper. He smiled at that. "Julian?"
Everyone gasped, and Sark almost joined them. Hearing his name from them . . . it was surreal again.
His mother stepped toward him, past her husband's challenging frame.
"Is it you?" she whispered, taking another step. The hesitant joy that threatened to explode on her face made Sark swallow back that damn lump.
"It's me."
The reunion was awkward at best. Calvin was convinced Sark wasn't real. His dad was cautious, as if this was a scam of sorts. But Sark's mother and sister hugged him so tight. He was almost shocked at the physical contact too—no one had hugged him since he was 16.
"Have you been alive all this time?" his mother asked. Sark almost snickered at that.
"Obviously, yes."
"If it's really you, then where have you been?" his father asked, quizzing Sark. "We buried you!"
"No, you buried teeth. Four wisdom teeth and a back molar," Sark said. His father hesitated, but then readied himself for another question.
Sark sighed, and bent over to his boot. He pulled out the knife and sheath. The women immediately stepped back, suddenly fearful, while Calvin and his father stepped forward. Sark gave them a smirk, and tossed the knife to his father. He raised his chin, somewhat defiantly. His father opened his mouth to reply one way, but stopped as if he didn't know what to believe.
"You kept this in the back of your desk drawer. I've had it with me for these 8 years."
"You took it?" Calvin tried to clarify. Sark nodded. He was hesitant to explain anything, but he knew he would have to, one day. Calvin was putting it together, that at least Sark had left willfully. "So did—"
Sark's cell phone rang. He rolled his eyes at that. Of all the moments . . .
It was Irina.
"I apologize, but I must answer this," Sark said politely. He answered the call, and turned away. "Yes," he answered.
"Did Sydney find you?"
"Yes."
"I hope I wasn't too forward in letting her know where you are," Irina said. Sark knew she would have done it again even if it was too forward.
"I was surprised," Sark said simply. He was quite aware of the four people in front of him, asking a million questions in their minds.
"I found Halzden."
Sark immediately shut out his family's presence.
"Where?"
"Russia. But there's something you should know." Irina paused, getting Sark's attention even more. "I've received reports that various government agencies are trying to find you."
Sark closed his eyes at that. Only governments would be stupid enough to still pursue me. Every private organization received the warning message loud and clear when the Hierarchy fell.
"Which ones?" he asked, tucking away his annoyance.
"British, Russian, and American," she said simply. "They've tracked you to Ireland. Be careful."
Careful. It was almost a foreign idea in this business. Sark sighed, and looked back up at his family.
"I'm sorry. I realize you have a lot of questions for me," Sark said, measuring each word. "But it's imperative that I leave now." He looked purposefully at each person, giving them a sad smile.
Sark turned and walked out the door. He heard his family protest.
"Wait!"
"Where are you going?"
"When will you be back?" That was his mother.
Sark stopped and turned back to them.
"I need to take care of something. But I'll come back, if that's all right." Sark didn't wait for an answer. He walked quickly down the street, and disappeared into the night.
Sark flew to St. Petersburg, Russia.
He knew he had two problems. One was Halzden; the second was all these ridiculous agencies trying to capture him.
From those problems came more complications. Sark knew his family could not be discovered. He wasn't worried about the CIA, but the Russians might use his family as leverage. Plus, he wasn't certain how much he would ever tell them about his life. There's little I can reveal without making them a target.
Sark shook that thought from his head. That doesn't matter right now.
For now, he had to eliminate Halzden without getting caught.
Halzden was holed up in a club that acted as a front for the Hierarchy. The club was on the banks of the Fontanka River.
Sark dressed appropriately for both clubbing and assassinating: all black. Black pants, black shirt, and black leather jacket—it turned several heads.
The "security" hardly glanced at him as he went in. Sark didn't mind that.
The bass vibrated the whole building. Sensuous music and dancing fools surrounded him. Sark cut through the hoard and past the blue lights flashing to the music.
He went up a flight of stairs to a floor that overlooked the stage. Sark passed couples who flirted and drank while he moved by with purpose.
A guard stood by a closed door, and Sark strolled up to him.
"I need to see your boss," Sark said with a smile. His politeness threw the guard, but as Sark tried to get by, the guard grabbed Sark's arm.
Sark reacted with no hesitation; he elbowed the guard, spun around on his heel and followed up by drawing his gun. He fired, loud. The guard groaned, and slumped to the floor. Club patrons screamed and scattered.
Sark didn't care. He just kicked the guard's unconscious body aside and opened the door. It led to another flight of stairs. As he climbed, he noticed he had to have gone a few stories up, but with no other floors to access.
Private stairwell? Interesting. He finally came to a sole door. Sark tightened his hold on his gun. With one hand on the door knob, Sark flung the door open and quickly went through.
Five bored guards quickly got to their feet, but Sark fired off five shots before they could even get him in their sights.
Shouting. Panic. Footsteps. It reminded him of Nicaragua. Sark followed the pandemonium.
He heard someone shout an order. The voice was familiar—a tight and precise Swedish accent. Sark grinned.
Three bodyguards spilled into Sark's path. Their guns were drawn, and as the first shot went off, Sark dropped to the floor.
He returned fire, hitting the men but not killing them. When they were down, Sark stood up and kicked their weapons out of reach as he moved on.
Halzden zigzagged around, and finally Sark heard a door clang shut ahead of him. Sark started to run in pursuit. He found the door; it was a roof access.
Perfect.
Sark kicked the door open. The air swept by him, bringing a chill and the sounds of sirens. Shouts came from the street below, both from fleeing clubbers and eager authorities.
Sark shut the sounds out. His eyes shifted around, looking for his target. He walked around on the roof, unafraid and bold.
He heard the click right behind his head, and froze.
"Drop your weapon," Halzden demanded, pressing the gun against Sark's head. Sark smirked at that, but obeyed. "Who sent you?"
The smirk grew, and Sark slowly turned around.
"Don't you recognize me?" Sark said. His blue eyes sparkled in the darkness. He was ready for this, even eager for this revenge.
"Mr. Sark," Halzden said. Confidence dawned on the man, and he had the audacity to look smug. "I didn't recognize you without the bruises."
Sark smirked at that too. "The scars are there still, if that makes you feel better."
Halzden waved the gun at him. "Back up." Sark obeyed, moving back until his feet were just a meter from the edge of the rooftop. He could hear the Fontanka River below him.
"You were foolish to come after me, Mr. Sark. I'm disappointed, but also delighted that I have this opportunity." Halzden's eyes darkened with the evil that Sark knew, and Sark watched as his finger tightened on trigger.
Shouts interrupted the execution. Russian authorities rushed to stop Halzden and capture them both. But Halzden was determined. He faced Sark, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit his chest. Sark stumbled back, right to the edge. He glared at Halzden and heard everything within him cry out for revenge. Halzden pulled the trigger again, just before the authorities tackled him.
The second bullet ripped into his shoulder. The impact pushed Sark's body backwards, and he could only look up as he fell. He saw police looking over the edge, and they got farther and farther away until they disappeared.
Sark's body hit the river, and the river pulled it into the current and under the surface.
The article was interesting. Baffling, really. It screamed of being doctored by intelligence agencies, with all the strategic information left out.
The report detailed a shootout between unknown terrorists at a club by the Fontanka River in St. Petersburg. One was shot to death. Authorities apprehended the other.
A far-away photo of Halzden accompanied the story, but the caption didn't reveal his name. The reporter managed to scoop other papers, and knew the Russian government was transferring the terrorist today.
The transferring vehicles drove by. Three vans, all identical.
Suddenly the third van exploded. Russian citizens screamed, and the heat filtered out over them.
He smiled, and stood up. Sark chucked the paper in a trash can, and then disappeared from the chaotic scene.
The fall from the club's rooftop was unexpected, but lucky too. When he fell into the river, it was the perfect testimony to the authorities. Halzden shot Sark twice, and his body was lost to the river.
Only one bullet actually hurt Sark. It was the second shot; a Kevlar vest only covers so much. Sark flexed his right shoulder, feeling the soreness from the healing gun shot.
His cell phone rang, and Sark looked at the caller's number. Irina. He smirked at that. Just the fact that she was calling said she didn't buy his supposed death. But Sark didn't care what she believed. Sark threw the phone out his car window as he continued to speed along to a private airfield.