Ultimate Sacrifice
Chapter 1
Several months after Choice:
Dec. 23rd
Snow was somewhat of a novelty to Julian. Granted, he'd been in it before, but he had always been focusing on something else: surviving sub-zero temperatures, obtaining an artifact, avoiding bullets.
But the morning snow now fell daintily, and Julian just watched it from the kitchen window.
"What time is your flight?" his mother asked. She took out the last batch of muffins, and placed one in front of her son. Julian smiled and started to butter the muffin.
"Twelve o'clock. I'm supposed to meet Ilene at her apartment," he answered, taking a bite of the muffin.
"What time are you coming back?" his brother Calvin asked. Julian chewed and swallowed, hiding a grimace at a disturbing chunk in the muffin.
"We'll be back tomorrow around 3 p.m.," he said. "Ilene is showing me around Oxford's campus." He courageously took another bite.
"Just be back before 6 o'clock," his mom said. "We're having the Fitzgeralds over for Christmas Eve dinner." Julian almost groaned at that, but nodded.
His father made his entrance, hustling through the kitchen and grabbing his own muffin. Julian smiled at that. No matter how early his father got up, he was always rushing to make it on time to work.
His father chewed quickly, and downed some orange juice. Julian saw his mother start to clean up the kitchen.
"Mom, let me and Calvin do that," he said. Calvin automatically shot him a "gee, thanks" look. Julian smirked at that, and took over the dishes.
The phone rang, and Calvin gleefully went for it, leaving Julian as long as possible with the cleanup.
"Hello?" Calvin listened for a moment; his face darkened with confusion.
"Sark?" he said into the phone. Julian snapped his head up as the alarm bells rang in his head. "Are you sure you have the right number?"
"Who is it, Calvin?" Julian asked. His brother just shrugged, and Julian crossed the kitchen to him. He took the phone.
"Who is this?" he demanded.
"Mr. Sark," a voice replied. "If you want to see Ilene again, be at the Tower of London at midnight." The caller hung up, but Julian just hung on to the phone, his blue eyes freezing over.
"Julian?" That was his mother. "Is everything okay?"
"Julian?" Calvin tried to snap him out of his cold gaze. "Who is Sark?"
Suddenly, Julian slammed the phone down and paced around the kitchen windows. He peered out, looking for anyone watching the house.
"What's wrong?" his father demanded. "What did the caller say?"
Julian didn't answer, but struggled to keep back the man he used to be.
"They said to put Sark on the phone," Calvin said. Julian sighed, and quickly grabbed the phone again, dialing his sister's number.
The phone just rang and rang, confirming the worst. He hung up and ran a hand through his blonde hair.
"Someone has Ilene," Julian said, almost muttering at the floor. His parents gasped.
"What do you mean?" his mother asked. Julian didn't miss the terror in her voice. He sighed; it was inevitable what he had to do.
"Sark, the person they asked for—that was my name while I was gone," he said. His heart sped up, and the weight of the confession he was about to make nearly crushed him. "I've dodged your questions these past months because I was partially afraid of something like this happening if you knew."
"Knew what?" his father asked, stepping toward his son. Julian glanced at the floor, trying to think of the least painful and telling explanation.
"I was . . . I did some things, illegal things," he said. "It seems someone is trying to use Ilene as leverage against me now."
The silence was deafening, as were the expressions on his family's faces.
"Julian," his father started, "I figured you were mixed up in some sort of trouble, but why would someone use Ilene like this? What could you possible have done that allows someone to use Ilene?"
Julian turned away, staring out the window. Kids were playing in the snow, making snowmen and jumping around to catch flakes in their mouths. Such innocence.
He continued to look out the window as he answered.
"They want something from me," he whispered, conveniently leaving the second question unanswered for the moment. He heard his father stomp across the room to the phone.
"I'm calling the police," he stated. "They can contact Scotland Yard and find your sister."
Julian spun around and laid a hand over the phone. "No." The simple phrase stopped his father, but alarmed him too; the coldness in Julian's eyes was a first for him to see.
"They will kill her if I don't do as they say." He paused. "I have done what they're doing; trust me—they'll kill her." Julian let his eyes study the floor; he was unwilling to see the shock firsthand. "I was an assassin and terrorist, among other things. When I left that life, I faked my death; the world's authorities think Sark is dead. Obviously, whoever has Ilene knows that's not true. But I cannot be compromised by any government knowing I'm alive."
He looked up for some sort of agreement from them in not contacting the police, but instead saw the sudden fear in their eyes. He knew this truth was worse for them than his death. For a brief moment, he wished he really had died.
Julian pushed away his emotions.
"Pack a bag," he said. "I need you all to go some place safe. I'll come get you when I have Ilene back."
"What?!"
Julian just held up a hand to silence them. "Please. Trust me. If they can get to Ilene, they can get to you."
He sent his family on a private plane to Switzerland. A cottage was already reserved for them, and Sark knew they'd be safer away from Ireland and from him.
He was in London by early afternoon. The first stop he made was a storage unit he still had. Sark grabbed a knife, four magazines of ammunition and a 9mm. He also grabbed an untraceable cell phone that he hadn't ever used yet.
It wasn't even close to midnight, and he was going stir-crazy. Sark went to Ilene's apartment.
Her apartment door was closed but unlocked. Sark walked in cautiously.
The lights were out. Everything seemed intact, until he reached her bedroom. Books and items from her desk were on the floor; it looked like someone swept everything off onto the floor. Papers were crumbled and torn.
Sark froze, his eyes stopping on a spot by the desk. He bent down to it, touching it with his fingertips.
Blood.
Rage froze his own blood. Sark glanced around the room once more and left the apartment.
He was outside the Tower of London at 11:55. It was incredibly quiet, maybe because of the approaching holiday. It only made Sark tense.
A figure approached. As much as he wanted to shoot the person in the knee, Sark kept his hands in sight of anyone watching. He knew more were out there.
That was confirmed when he heard the click of a gun behind him. The first figure stopped in front of Sark.
He didn't recognize him.
"Mr. Sark," the man said. "Please come with us." The man turned and led the way. The second man stayed behind Sark, no doubt with his finger on a trigger.
The three zigzagged down to the riverfront. A small yacht waited for them.
Sark stepped aboard, and his escorts led him below deck. The dim light revealed more shadows than anything else, but Sark saw six men waiting for him.
They were dressed more appropriately for a nice dinner than a clandestine meeting. Sark might have felt underdressed in jeans, a sweater and a jacket if it weren't for the fact that he could only imagine slitting each man's throat.
"We're glad you made it," one man said. He had gray hair, and was easily 60 years old. The wrinkles told of years of stress. The man's voice was raspy, no doubt from years of ordering people around. The accent was West European, but Sark couldn't place where.
"Where is Ilene?" Sark asked without any visible emotion. His mask was in place, complete with his chin pointed proudly in the air.
"She's being held elsewhere, and she's alive," the old man replied. "She'll remain alive as long as you cooperate."
Sark huffed. "'Alive' is not good enough. She must be in excellent condition, or there is no way any of you will survive any collaboration."
His unknown enemies chuckled at that.
"Yes, we know you disposed of the Hierarchy because of their failure to respect you," the old man said with a laugh.
"And yet you're still foolish enough to try this," Sark quickly replied. "That diminishes my confidence in your intelligence."
The man's laugh faded into a cool trace of a grin. "You're not in a position to be so bold, Mr. Sark. You may think that you can overtake us here, with that gun in your coat, but you'd be severely mistaken."
Sark smirked at that. "Thank you for stating the obvious. Let's move on to the point."
The old man smiled. "You're every bit as collected as we expected." Sark instantly wondered who 'we' consisted of. "There is something that we need you to do for us."
The man tossed a manila envelope to Sark. He caught it, but didn't open it. The old man continued.
"We need plans to a particular vault. These plans are kept in a government facility in Los Angeles. The details are in that envelope."
Sark almost rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the objective, but his mind was running wild with questions. He allowed himself to voice one aloud.
"I'm assuming you'll want to use the plans to break into this vault. Are you so incapable that you can't handle a simple theft?"
The old man smiled. "This is more than a simple theft, Mr. Sark. When you obtain the plans, you'll see."
"So you want me to retrieve something from the vault and deliver it to you," Sark filled in.
"That is correct. See? You are the best in the intelligence world," the old man said with another damn smile.
Sark restrained the desire to shoot the man. "Pardon me if I'm not thrilled with the compliment, but you've pulled me out of self-imposed retirement and you've kidnaped my sister."
The man nodded and laughed again. "We're confident you'll succeed. Have the plans in three days. We'll meet again to review them."
Sark sighed. "You force my involvement because 'I'm the best,' and then want to look over my shoulder?"
The men in the room laughed.
"Mr. Sark, we know we can only trust you so much. I want to make sure this collaboration is successful, and that you don't let your new-found emotions get in the way," the old man said. Sark glared at him. "Work with us, and quickly. The sooner you complete our wishes, the sooner you can return your sister to her family."
There had to be more to this mission, but Sark wasn't going to press the matter, not when he had three days to find the vault plans.
"I'd like evidence that my sister is all right," Sark stated. The old man, as if expecting that, tossed Sark a cell phone.
"Press redial, and you can talk to her. Use this to contact us when you're ready too," the old man said. "But don't bother tracing the call. We've taken more precautions than you can imagine."
Sark glared at the man, and was about to flip open the cell phone when he felt a prick in the back of his neck. His eyelids drooped almost instantly, and Sark fell to the yacht floor, unconscious.