Confrontations
He left his family with Lyndon. Before going, he made Calvin promise that his fascination with fighting wouldn't evolve to following Sark's lifestyle. Calvin nodded somberly.
His parents asked where he was going. Sark just said he had some loose ends to tie up.
Los Angeles was as clear as he'd ever seen it, especially for a February morning. Sark slowed his car along Sydney's street, but saw her car pulling out. He sped up and went ahead of her.
He knew the route she took to work, and it was always scenic. Sark thought that was her way of escaping.
He pulled off the road, parking on a dusty stretch that overlooked the city. He leaned against the side of his car and waited.
She nearly killed a squirrel when she saw him. The brakes squealed as she stopped abruptly. She backed up and parked by his car.
She took in his appearance slowly. Her lips spread into a smile as she looked at him from his shiny shoes, up the black suit and shirt, to his dark sunglasses. Sark returned the smile and took a step towards her.
"Hello, Sydney," he said smoothly.
She closed the distance between them and kissed him softly. "I'm glad you're all right," she whispered.
Sark kissed her, lingering on her lips until she pulled away. "Thank you for taking care of me."
She smiled, but there was tension within it. Sark dropped his grin.
"What's happened?"
Sydney shrugged, which was a tip-off for him. She never shrugged unless she was hiding something.
"Does the CIA still want me brought in?" he asked.
She didn't answer at first, but slowly gave in to a nod. "Yes. They're investigating the mission still. Strachen seems to be implicating us, of all things."
Sark touched his forehead, rubbing a spot above his eye to prevent the coming headache.
"Strachen's alive?"
Sydney didn't answer, and Sark swore under his breath.
"So the CIA has him in custody," he deduced aloud. Sydney nodded.
"He's at Camp Harris. The mission was to capture him, and you. But Weiss and Vaughn agreed to let you go," she said. "The Retract files are still missing. I know my mother took them, but the CIA is convinced you are still working for her. Strachen is . . . giving them more reason to believe that. And now few are buying our story that you escaped."
"Of course," Sark said. "Strachen, being alive, probably told them the condition I was in. I couldn't possibly have escaped on my own."
He ran a hand through his blonde hair and turned to face the city below. He breathed in deeply. Several thoughts and plans went through his mind. I can't let Sydney get in trouble for rescuing me.
And I can't keep hiding. His family couldn't be safe either. There were some in the CIA that would use them against Sark.
He turned back to Sydney. Her hair was smooth, falling in front of her face as she stared at Sark's shoes.
"Sydney," he said softly. "In France, you promised me that we'd find away to be together." He swallowed and joined her star at his shoes. "Do you think the CIA will ever consciously leave me alone?"
She sighed, but shook her head. "I don't know how we could make it work, Sark."
Sark bit his tongue, holding back his anger. He knew it wasn't her fault; it was because of her that he was alive, even. But his anger lashed out in his mind at the CIA, Strachen, and himself.
He closed the distance between them again, and held her face in his hand. He took off his sunglasses, staring intently at her through his bright blue eyes.
"I'll make this work," he said fiercely. "I promise you. If you still want me."
Her eyes were so . . . mournful. Before she could answer, Sark kissed her mouth. It was brief and hard, but he had work to do.
He put his shades back on, and walked to his car. He sped
off without looking back.
It was a boring life, but
someone had to do it. Sark
watched as David Anderson left work at five a.m.
and headed home.
Every day, David stopped by a grocery store five miles from his home. He was in and out within ten minutes, always with one plastic bag. David drove off, and sped home the rest of the way.
Sark followed the man into the store one day. He put on an Atlanta Braves hat, and tried to appear in a hurry, but purposeful in his pursuit of a loaf of bread.
He let himself swagger a bit, that cool and confident strut. Sydney is so much better at this than I am. He shook that from his mind and just focused on the task at hand.
David moved through the store, weaving between boxes which stockers unloaded in the early morning. He headed back to the beverage aisle. Sark perused the variety of Jones soda while David picked out a specific bottle of wine.
It can't be anything good—we're at a grocery store! Sark grabbed a four-pack, threw the yawning clerk a five dollar bill and continued to follow David out. The man was home in under ten minutes. And Sark waited outside the neglected rambler as the sun rose.
Anderson's wife left for work at 7:30, and didn't return until 6 p.m. She looked weary as she locked her car outside and sulked her way indoors.
And why shouldn't she? Her husband's been drinking a bottle of wine while she was gone, working hard. Sark wasn't sure what she did, because what really mattered was what David did.
David was a little heavier than Sark, but the basic appearance was close enough. Tall, blonde . . . add a hat, and no one would know the difference.
The next night, Sark was waiting inside the home when the young Mrs. Anderson got home. The couple immediately started arguing in the bedroom, but Sark wasn't interested in their domestic dispute. The noise masked part of his plan.
He poured out a vial of sedative into the wine bottle and the coffee maker.
Both Andersons were unconscious by 8 p.m.
Sark walked through the house, carefree as he dressed for the task. David's uniform was a little loose, but Sark's confidence would make up for any questions.
He practiced David's voice, deep but nasal, and gruff compared to Sark's own smooth accent.
He straightened the uniform, pocketed the necessary keys, and moved on to the next step.
No one questioned him as he entered the facility. No one smiled, nodded, or greeted him. And that was just fine. The guards were tired, even though most just barely came on duty. It was partially the nocturnal schedule. It was partially because they were lazy.
Mainly, it was because no one ever penetrated their security at Camp Harris.
That was about to change.
Sark wasted no time in finding where Strachen was being held. He didn't hurry, though, to that cell. He walked steadily, checking his emotions and excitement.
He was a walking wall—no emotion, no expression, just blankness.
His footsteps echoed throughout the cell block. There were only two other unfortunate prisoners in this area, and they didn't move or acknowledge him.
That was fine.
When his footsteps stopped in front of Strachen's cell, the man stirred on his metal cot.
"Strachen," Sark called out, having no qualms about alerting the other inmates. The old man groaned and sat up.
"Why do you bother me at this hour?" the man grumbled. Sark smirked at that, and dropped the American accent.
"Expecting first-class treatment?"
Strachen froze as he noticed the change in voice. "Who's there?"
Sark laughed, as he removed the gun at his hip. "Who do you think?" He saw the old man gulp. "You should be flattered. I went to these lengths to visit you."
"Mr. Sark. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement," Strachen tried. His voice quivered with fear, but that only fueled Sark.
"I doubt it." Sark screwed on a silencer to the standard-issue gun now in his hand. "Any last words?"
Strachen's face was paler than usual, but he slowly smiled. It wasn't pleasant, and it wasn't victory. It was passive defeat. "Derevko would be proud."
Sark smirked and shook his head. "No, but I am." With that, he quickly extended his arm and fired two shots.
The bullets zinged in the air before smacking into Strachen's head. The impact was dull-sounding, and wet. The old man's body clumped to the floor. Sark waited for it to still, then fired again at the head.
He walked out of Camp Harris as alarms started blaring. A smile spread over his face, and Sark started running for his car.
"Where are you?" his father
asked over the phone.
"I can't say right now, but I wanted to make sure you all are fine," Sark said. "I need you to start packing some things."
"What things?" There was that cautiousness in his voice again, but Sark just smiled at it.
"Things you absolutely want to keep. Leave the furniture," he said. "Just gather what keepsakes and things you cannot live without."
"Why? Where are we going?"
Sark smiled into the phone. "I'll call you in a few days, and tell you. Stay indoors, and keep Lyndon on alert."
He hung up before more questions were asked. His next call was all business.
"Yes, I'm prepared to purchase a property in Hamilton, Ontario, and two apartments in Toronto."
He flew to Toronto. Things were calmer in Canada, though he knew it wasn't 100% safe. As long as the CIA didn't see him there, everything would work out.
The realtor was thrilled with the business. Sark immediately approved of the apartments, and gave instructions of how to have them decorated, for an extra fee, of course.
The house in Hamilton was more opulent than his family had ever lived in, but that was part of the point, wasn't it? Sark figured that while he was setting up a new life for them, he might as well spoil them a bit too.
The neighborhood was quiet, filled with empty-nesters not unlike his parents. Calvin would be going to college soon anyway. Sark approved the necessary paperwork, under safe names of course, and transferred funds to the seller.
The realtor had never closed on a property so fast. She set to work at decorating and overseeing all the household purchases.
And Sark flew to France.