Title: The Courier
Author: DOKChairman
Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. I don't own anything, really. I am in fact a poor person with no worldly goods. If you would like to take pity on me and donate money to my Poor Writer's Fund, please send me an e-mail with your offer. Thank you.
Chapter 4: The Virtue of the Penitent Man
It was an abandoned building, as they most often were, that housed the epicenter of the Arctic Circle. They were the eyes of glaciers, glancing from screen to screen with the speed of their personifying namesake, absorbing every detail with meticulous concentration. It was as if God had poured ice into his body, forming crystals for his soul, but his blood was as hot as any other. The eyes were a facade, hiding the molten pit of rage boiling in the deepest part of his psyche. It was a volcano that rarely erupted, instead lying dormant and waiting. Waiting for the sounds of Pompeii to echo and the gods to grow vengeful.
Vengeance. It was a feeling he was untowardly accustomed to, and he hated that he had become like so many others in his profession. Unprofessional, careless, and ultimately stupid. He did not want to assume their place among the annals of the dead and imprisoned. Patience, he knew, was one of man's best weapons, and so he dampened the rage building inside of him with a few flakes of his soul.
But it was not easy. Few things in life ever were, the man known as Sark knew. Much like the never-ending years of his adolescence, he could not wait for the images of death and destruction to disappear from before his eyes. It was not that he found the images distasteful, for he had participated in far worse, but it was what the images represented: Failure.
For that was the root of his rage. They had failed. Despite all their careful planning, despite all their training and the painstaking hours of analyzing, they had ultimately failed in their mission. Three months, they had planned this ambush. Three months, and all his work, all his time and devotion to putting together a competent team of former Spetnaz and KGB agents was slowly dissolving into one hell of a clusterfuck.
He let out a barely audible sigh as he continued to listen dispassionately to the report from the retrieval team, the fingers of his right hand digging ruthlessly into his palm. It was all he could do not to erupt, and shatter what remained of the mission with the heat of his fury.
Everything had gone perfectly. Their inside information had been flawless, they had taken out the chase car without the lead car even knowing anything had happened, and they had sprung their ambush and disabled the lead car in the right spot to maximize exposure to their avenues of fire. Everything had gone perfectly . . . that is, Sark felt the rage build up inside of him to an almost overpowering level, until the idiots in the retrieval team had placed the mine on the car too late for it to do any good.
Sark listened to the end of the report, and slowly pulled the headset off of his head. He carefully placed it down on the desk with the exhaustive communications suite that he had had installed, and slowly spun on his heel to face the handpicked members of his own courier team. Sark took several short, but deep breaths, and felt his face fall back into its customary emotionless visage. Mt. Vesuvius was calming, and Sark was infused with profound gratitude. "It appears as if there has been a change of plans," Sark said smoothly in his hard earned serene tone. "The retrieval team has run into some complications and have not yet secured the package."
There was a snort of disgust from Pavel Fedorov, the quintessential Russian bear that Sark had picked to carry the package once it was safely in his possession. Sark was sorely tempted to let his agreement with Pavel's assessment of the retrieval team show outwardly, but he knew such obvious display of condemnation would do nothing to improve the current situation. Sark merely nodded and continued on, changing the plan that had taken three months to devise off the top of his head, "Obviously, this changes things. The good news is that everyone in the lead car was neutralized by the mine, with the exception of the courier. The bad news, and the current source of our problems, is that the courier is on foot and rapidly moving out of the operational area. If we don't contain him soon, there is a good chance he will escape to the American embassy."
Sark paused and stared levelly at all four of the men standing in front of him. "I do not need to tell you why that is completely unacceptable. Not only to me, but to our employers as well. That package must not be allowed back into CIA hands."
Pavel shifted his feet and pulled his wool jacket closer to his body. He spoke, his heavily accented English rumbling deeply from inside his chest, "Something tells me that we are going to be earning our pay a lot earlier than we thought."
Sark smiled a thin, grim smile, and his glacial eyes froze into solid ice. "Quite right. Because of the casualties that the retrieval team suffered during the ambush, they do not have enough men to properly search for the courier. We are to leave immediately, swing around, and come at the courier from the north, boxing him in between us and the rest of the retrieval team."
The four men nodded their heads in response, and Sark reached into a pocket on his black coat. He pulled out a small device and pressed a button, the large video screen on the wall behind him coming to life. "This is our target, Agent Michael Vaughn..."
***
Michael Vaughn was in trouble. His legs felt as if on fire, and they were increasingly beginning to feel like rubber appendages. He had only ran a hundred feet, just to the mouth of the alley, and yet he already felt as if his body was ready to give up. He didn't understand. Just a few seconds ago, he had felt relatively fine, and now he did not know if he would make it to the other side of the alley. But he knew he couldn't stop.
He pushed away from the grime encrusted brick wall that he had been resting against for a few heavenly seconds of respite, and continued running. The alley was dark, despite the time of day, and Vaughn found himself dodging debris that would appear as if invisible one second and suddenly insurmountable the next. But he kept running, holding the bane of his existence close against his chest.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, he saw light at the end of his bleak tunnel. He pushed himself harder, faster in the hope that he would reach freedom. The sounds of yelling and the footfalls of angry men reverberated along the alley walls to his straining ears, and once again he dug deep inside himself to move with the speed of a desperate man.
For one of the few times in his life, the needs of the mission became secondary to the needs of his own desires. He pushed himself so that he could live. Live not to deliver the valuable case attached to his arm, but to live in the hopes of seeing Sydney one last time and righting what wrongs existed between them. It was a feeling anathema to his normal way of thinking, but he knew, was honest enough with himself to know, that Sydney was the one thing in his life that would always be above everything else. Even devotion and duty to one's country. It was not a thought that he was comfortable with, nor was it one he often admitted to himself that it existed, but he knew it was there nonetheless.
For he had let that thought dictate his actions often in his past, he knew, and it was pointless to believe that it had no influence with him. Still, decisions like taking on a random courier mission, proved to him that letting his feelings for Sydney dictate his actions was not always a good idea.
Vaughn's lungs burned like a furnace as he exploded out of the darkness of the alley into the gray light of what looked like a small parking lot. There were three cars parked next to a short, squat, and deteriorating building. Vaughn rushed towards the building and began frantically scanning the face, looking for a door.
He found one. He moved as fast as his tired legs could carry him and grabbed for the knob. It didn't turn. The door was locked. Vaughn let out a sickly groan at the revelation and began pounding on the door as hard as he could with his shoulder, as if it was the physical embodiment of all that was wrong in his world. Vaughn's act of tenacity was useless, however, as the door was metal and refused to budge from its snug hinges. Vaughn stopped and instead pounded on the door with his fist. If the door would not break, perhaps the owners of the three cars would hear his frenetic pounding and come to see what all the noise was about.
But again, Fate was against Vaughn, and no one appeared to answer his calls for help. With a last venomous look at the door, blaming it, and only it, for all of his current problems, Vaughn again began running. He had already wasted too much time, and he could hear the men in the alley growing closer. He did not know if he would be able to outrun them this time.
But that did not mean that he would not try.
***
Sydney fidgeted in her seat like a five year old child who had had too much sugar before her flight. Everything was taking too damn long, and she had never felt more impatient and helpless in her life. She wanted to be in London and on the ground NOW! Not eight hours from now, but right fucking now! She suddenly felt an urge to scream.
She would have, too, if not for the sudden appearance of Weiss in the aisle next to her seat. "You look like you could use some company," Weiss said companionably and moved across her, without asking for permission first, and sat in the window seat.
Sydney sighed loudly, no longer bothering to hide her intense frustration from anyone. Besides, she knew, no one on the plane with her was fooled by her pathetic attempt at masking her emotions. There were certain things that Sydney just couldn't hide, or couldn't control, and one of those things was her emotions when concerned with Vaughn.
"If you've come over here in some attempt to cheer me up or distract me, you can forget about it. It's not going to work, and there is nothing you can say or do that will make me able to think of anything else other than what is happening to Vaughn right now." Sydney did not even look in Weiss's direction once during her little speech, and Weiss frowned intensely.
When Weiss finally responded, he did so carefully, "Sydney, stop. You are blaming yourself for something you had no control over."
Sydney suddenly turned her head, her face growing red and her eyes beginning to ignite. Angrily, she blurted out, "I am not blaming myse..."
Weiss cut her off before she could finish, "Please, Syd, I'm not stupid. I may not know you as well as Vaughn, but I know you well enough, and I know you are blaming yourself for what happened. You don't need to, because it's not your fault. It's nobody's fault."
Sydney opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, without ever speaking, and felt her eyes beginning to water. After several seconds of looking at Weiss's concerned face, Syd finally spoke, "You don't understand, Weiss, it is my fault. I...I pushed him away. I caused the fight that made him leave. It's all my fault," she ended softly, closing her eyes as fresh pain assaulted her. "He could be dead, and I would have been the one to kill him."
Weiss grabbed her shoulder in a surprisingly firm grip, and shook her none too gently. Sydney was taken aback, momentarily, at the rather violent action. Weiss was normally such a gentle and easy-going guy, that she sometimes forgot he was a highly trained operative. Perhaps not like herself, she knew, but still dangerous in his own right. "Weiss...what are you doing?"
"Trying to see if anything will get through that stubborn, thick skull of yours. I thought since my words weren't getting through, I might try and see if I could shake some sense into you."
Sydney pushed Weiss's hand away and said a little testily, "Well...stop."
"I'll stop as soon as you stop being stupid." Weiss felt a small shiver of pleasure tingle up and down his spine at the little look of shock that had suddenly appeared on Sydney's face. Perhaps he was getting through to her after all. "Yes, you may have started the fight, and yes, you may have pushed Vaughn away, but it was Vaughn who chose to leave on the mission, and it was the bad guys, whoever the Hell they are this week, that attacked him. If Vaughn is dead, and I know, Sydney, I know that he's not, but if he were to die, it would not be you who was responsible for his death. It would be them."
Sydney quietly sighed and slowly relaxed into her seat. "I know that, Weiss. Intellectually, I know that what you're saying is true, but emotionally, it just doesn't feel that way."
Weiss smiled softly and patted Sydney's knee gently, "I understand, Syd. Vaughn is my best friend. I don't want to see him dead any more than you do. Besides," Weiss began to grin, his whole face lighting up, "the man owes me some warm nuts!"
Syd giggled despite herself and smiled a grateful smile at Weiss, "Thank you, Weiss. And I really don't want to know."
***
"There! He just ran inside." Sark paused and listened to the breathless voice, before responding, "No, I don't know where he is, I just saw him run inside the building." Again Sark grew quiet as he continued to skirt around the perimeter of the warehouse to the one door that he could see on his side of the building. He whispered, "Yes, I realize that it's a large building, so we'll just have to spread out to cover all the exits. Remember to stay alert; he may not have a weapon but he is not helpless."
With that last order, Sark grew silent completely, and shifted the gun in his hand for what seemed like the millionth time. He did not know why he was suddenly feeling so nervous. It was not like him to have any doubts about this aspect of his life. He had literally dedicated years of his life to honing his skills in combat. In fact, he had faced the very man he was chasing before in a stairwell of a research lab not to long ago.
That had been a brief but intense fight, and although Sark had emerged the winner, he knew not to discount the man's abilities. Even so, he knew himself well enough to know that it was not Michael Vaughn that he feared, but what was contained inside the case he carried.
Sark was not a man accustomed to ignorance, and when confronted with such, he usually reacted negatively. Nevertheless, despite being in the dark about the contents of the very thing he sought, he could no more refuse to complete his mission as he could stop breathing. Yes, not knowing made him nervous and wary, but that only added fuel to the adrenaline pumping inside of him. For Sark, it was no longer the mission that truly mattered, but the challenge of overcoming an obstacle. No matter how much he had never wanted to deal with the obstacle in the first place.
Not for the first time, Sark wondered why he had agreed to take on this job. It was not his normal area of expertise, nor was it something he particularly enjoyed. Being a glorified mailman was not exactly the kind of life he had envisioned for himself when he had first set forth on his current path of amoral entrepreneurialism. It paid well, but money was of little interest when stacked against the mind numbing tedium of planning an operation to capture a suitcase, regardless of what it contained. Yes, he had endured far worse for other operations, and no doubt he knew, would continue to endure other such pedestrian faire in his career, but that did not mean he had to like it.
He arrived at the door and reaching out, slowly turned the knob, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when the knob turned. He gently pushed the door inward and stepped through the door as silent as a whisper of air. He hugged the wall and moved carefully, as he could see little pieces of debris strewn across the warehouse floor.
He moved farther into the darkened warehouse, straining his eyes and ears for any sign of Michael Vaughn. Unfortunately, his eyes had to contend with a rapidly approaching dusk, and his ears with the noises of a major city and the slow erosion of an abandoned building. Still, he knew that Vaughn would have little choice but to run. It was his only option if he did not want to become trapped. And the sound of running, Sark hoped, would rise above the background din and lead him straight to his target.
The deafening explosion of a gunshot assaulted Sark's ears, and he knew that Agent Vaughn had been found.
***
For the first time since clasping the steel ring around his wrist, Vaughn looked at the case that he carried with profound gratitude. It had saved his life. The shot, blinding both shooter and shootee alike, had happened as almost an afterthought. Vaughn had been turning a corner rather abruptly, as he had seen a door that he believed led to the outside, and he had literally ran into one of the men chasing him. The man had been holding his gun in front of him, and Vaughn, who had been holding the case against his chest again, jarred the man's hand, inadvertently causing him to pull the trigger.
The bullet had impacted point blank into the case, sending it crashing into Vaughn's chest and knocking him back several steps. But the bullet had not penetrated the thick titanium hide of the case and Vaughn was unhurt except for a few pesky bruises. He knew that would not remain so, as the man in front of him was already beginning to regain his bearings, and so Vaughn decided to put the case to good use once more.
Using what little strength he had left, he swung with the case at the man's gun arm. The case struck the man's arm ruthlessly and the man screamed in sudden intense pain. The man dropped the gun, his hand no longer capable of holding onto it, and Vaughn followed up the blow with another swing at the man's head. Or what Vaughn hoped was his head. The case hit something solid and a sickening squishing sound assaulted Vaughn's senses. He winced and saw the man fall to the ground lifelessly.
Not wasting any time, Vaughn dropped to his knees and began frantically searching the ground for the man's gun. He knew that he wouldn't have much time before the man's accomplices inevitably showed up and Vaughn needed a weapon. Where was the gun!?
His left hand felt something cold and hard, and Vaughn grasped the object desperately. He sighed loudly in relief when the familiar outlines of a handgun greeted his learned fingers. He adjusted the gun firmly in his grip and climbed to his feet, already moving towards the door. Now that he had a weapon, he no longer felt like a naked man walking through a crowded room. He could feel hope beginning to come back.
He exploded out the door, just as the yells of the man's friends could be heard growing closer. Vaughn doubled his pace, running down a darkened street as fast as his tired legs could carry him. He was lost, he knew, but he didn't care. Whatever street, alley, road, it didn't matter what it was or where it went as long as it took him farther away from those chasing him. He ran for what seemed like hours, his sense of time fading into nothingness behind him. He had no idea how long he had been running or how far he had gone. He just kept going.
Until he could run no more and he collapsed onto the bench of a bus stop. He coughed loudly and could not stop himself from vomiting onto the sidewalk. He lay limply along the bench, knowing that he was completely exposed, but unable to muster the energy to care. He could not go any farther. Not yet. Not until he rested. He had to rest before he ran himself to death; he was so weak.
Two beams of light stabbed Vaughn to the bench, immobilizing him with their intensity. He groaned and rolled off the bench and onto his knees. He breathed deeply several times and used the bench to push himself to wobbly feet. He held the gun close to his thigh, so as to minimize its exposure, and turned his body to face the approaching car. Considering that he was the only one on the darkened street, as far as he could tell, and the fact that the car was coming straight towards him, was a pretty clear indication that whoever was in the car was interested in him.
The car stopped in front of Vaughn and the driver's door opened. Vaughn tensed and cocked the hammer of the gun raising it slightly higher, and pressing the case closer to his body. It had saved his life once before, it might do so again. Vaughn knew he would need every advantage he had.
Vaughn was about to confront the driver, but the driver beat him to it. The voice that floated across the cool and misty air of a London night was a surprisingly welcome relief to Vaughn's ears, "Agent Vaughn? Is that you?"
Vaughn thought he recognized the voice, but he wasn't sure. "Agent Holly?"
The man began walking towards Vaughn slowly and Vaughn psyched himself up to be ready for anything. "It's Agent Thomas Holly, Agent Vaughn."
The driver stepped in front of the headlights and Vaughn got his first look at the man. When he saw that it was who the man claimed he was, he moved the gun in his hand to settle it inside the pocket of his jacket, and he slumped weakly against the bench in overwhelming relief. "Oh thank God!" Vaughn blurted out loudly, not bothering to hide his total exhaustion anymore. "I thought you were dead, Holly." Vaughn used his now free left hand to help keep himself upright.
Agent Holly hurriedly moved to Vaughn's side and stabilized him. He wrapped an arm around Vaughn's waist and took the majority of Vaughn's weight onto his body. "No, not dead. Almost though. Agent Johnson and I were ambushed in an apparent traffic jam. We tried to get a warning off to you, but they were jamming us."
Vaughn smiled a relieved thanks to Holly and helped Holly move him to the bench so that he could sit down. "How did you get out? Whoever they are seemed to have everything set up perfectly for us. We didn't stand a chance."
Holly frowned and stood in front of Vaughn, looking him over with a careful eye. "We didn't. Johnson was killed and I nearly as well. I managed to escape and...um...acquire this car from a shop near the ambush."
Vaughn chuckled lightly, wincing partially as the laughter vibrated pitilessly across his body. He hurt in so many places that he wasn't even sure if he would be able to continue on. "I'm just so grateful to see you. How the Hell did you even find me?"
"There is a tracking device embedded in the case. I've been tracking you since the ambush, trying to reach you. It hasn't been easy; your movements have been so erratic and I was constantly having to evade capture."
Vaughn wheezed slightly and coughed wetly, stuttering, "S-S-sorry. Chasing me. Don't know who, but I feel like I've been running for hours."
"You have been, Vaughn. It's been almost four hours since you and the others were hit. I can't believe you've managed to make it this long."
Vaughn sighed and wiped his brow of sweat. The night was cool, but since sitting down, Vaughn realized for the first time that he was feeling flushed and that he was sweating worse than a leaky faucet. "I have no idea how I've managed to make it this far. I don't think I want to know, to be honest. I just want to take this to the Embassy and be done with this whole fucking ordeal."
Vaughn moved the case onto the bench next to me, unwilling to support its weight any longer. The son of a bitch would not be his problem for much longer, he thought happily. With Holly and his car, they could be at the Embassy in relatively no time, and Vaughn could not stop the effusive relief from saturating his body.
Holly shifted in front of Vaughn and asked in an odd voice, "So, you haven't contacted anyone?"
Vaughn cocked his head and looked out wondering at Holly. "No, I haven't had the chance. I've been running nonstop since the ambush. I haven't even found any civilians to use as a go-between either. Why?"
Holly shook his head and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, "No reason in particular. Just making sure that I'm covering all my basis." He paused for several seconds and Vaughn used that time to stand up and off the bench, getting ready to leave. Holly continued talking, and his words froze Vaughn in confusion, "I'm sorry all this had to happen to you, Vaughn. You're a good agent. Being on the run for this long is an impressive feat and I admire your devotion to duty. But like every good thing, there must always be an end."
"Wha...what the Hell are you talking about, Holly?" Vaughn asked warily, suddenly afraid that maybe putting his gun away had been a bad idea.
"I'm not saying anything, really, Agent Vaughn. Just that I'm sorry." Holly voice did sound genuinely mournful to Vaughn's exhausted ears, and he felt himself relaxing a bit at the man's obvious sincerity. He should not have done so.
How Vaughn missed Holly pulling the gun out from inside his jacket, he would never know. Not that it mattered, really. The 9mm pointed at Vaughn's lower stomach from less than four feet away fired once, and only once. The flash was bright, but not overly so, and Vaughn had no time to react.
Vaughn let out a violent explosion of air as the bullet tore into his lower stomach, destroying everything in its path. Vaughn collapsed to his knees just as a light rain began to fall. The case struck the pavement with a loud clang, suddenly a roar to Vaughn's ears, and he looked up into the night sky, bleeding from the wound in his stomach, like a desperate man praying to the heavens for salvation.
