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Part 4 : Smoke and Mirrors
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The mirror, perhaps, is the greatest of man's achievements. It tells us the truth, tells us what we see and what is hidden behind us. It can show us lies, with light reflecting off its surface, with darkness shimmering at its core. All magic inevitably stemmed from a mirror. The greatest of magicians got their start from a colored box and twin strategically-placed sheets of glass. We can look into it and see our reflection, how others see us or how we see ourselves. And mirrors can be broken.
It is the greatest of our creations because it tells truth, and tells lies, or something close to in between. It merely shows us what we need to see, reality or illusion, and that, at least, is something true.
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To the rhythmic pound of bullets dancing after her feet, she tore down the driveway. Oh, they were not pleased, she thought. Not pleased at all.
She sprinted out of the loading alley, vaulting onto the trunk of a parked car and springing over the roof. She tucked her head forward and somersaulted down onto the hood, dropping momentarily behind the front bumper as 8.60mm. buckshot shattered the windshield.
As she was preparing for another burst, an unexpected round of shots hailed down from her left, from the warehouse across the street. The Mercedes was parked around the corner. She was pinned down behind the beige-colored Honda.
"Typical," she muttered in irritation, and hid the stolen bracelet in her jacket. Another spread from the sniper in the warehouse, punching into the black metal of the bumper she crouched beside. Grunting in frustration, she pulled the rifle strapped across her back off and adjusted pull length.
Sydney was familiar with the weapon, a Dakota T-76 Longbow she'd "borrowed" from Simon's cache in San Francisco. She remembered the look on his face with crystal clarity, that blistering day in Bangui when they'd been trapped by Republic guards and she'd unloaded the gun without a word of explanation. He'd been pleased and amused, called her "his own personal little klepto", as he'd loaded round after round of .338 Lapua ammunition into the rifle. Smiling, she'd taken out the nest of policemen hunting them one at a time.
Taking a gamble, she sprang forward, catching her heel on the edge of the bumper and flipping backwards into the air. The sniper fired; a 7-bullet spread tore through the men behind her, and she landed in a cartwheel onto the pavement, pulled the rifle against her cheek and fired once. The .338 caliber shot sliced through the partially open window and burrowed into the skull of the rifleman posted in the warehouse.
Running out of options, she fell to a crouch, and swung the T-76 around to face the men chasing her.
Their sniper's accidental bullets had hindered them, killing one and injuring another. Three were healthy, and fired their pistols rapidly at their mark.
Double shots tore scarlet rivulets in her left bicep and grazed her hip. Sydney sprang sideways and pumped the trigger as she fell behind the corner. The rifle clicked morosely, the trigger echoing against the now empty chamber.
Flinging the gun over her shoulder, Sydney launched upward, catching the frail metal piping of a green-canvas overhang outlining the quaint, empty storefront of a neighborhood cafe. It was dark, starless. The endless gunfire rang deafening in the air.
As her opponents rounded the corner, she floored two with a vicious double axe-kick, using her momentum to swing and release, dropping to the pavement behind the third. He spun directly into her striking fist.
She took her time unlocking the Mercedes as the goons whimpered on the pavement. Sydney wondered when this had all stopped being exhilarating to her.
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God, it was good to be back. The Motherland had never held the breathless danger the grand States had held for him. Maybe it had something to do with the sniveling heroes employed in governing them; In America, he was free, indeed.
Idly he wondered what the lovely Miss Bristow was doing now. Brooding, alone with her dark secrets, no doubt. He pictured her in a bookstore coffee shop, silent and intriguing, looking like she was carrying the whole bloody world on her shoulders.
It was her fault, really. She never should have contacted him if she didn't want him snooping.
He leaned patiently against the blue Audi, fingering the cool metal of the Browning pistol hidden deep in his coat pocket. As the door opened and the security siren buzzed clearance, he called out, "Mr. Flinkman."
The pair glanced up at the name; She looked confused and instantly wary, doubly so when Marshall sidestepped in front of her. The blond assassin smirked at him.
"I've been waiting for you," Sark stated.
It was dangerous, carelessly so. They stood in the CIA parking lot, for Christ's sake. But catching him alone, or nearly so, was the best course of action to heighten and utilize Marshall Flinkman's inherit nervousness.
"It's good to see you again, Marshall," Sark continued cruelly. "And this must be your lovely - wife?"
"Girlfriend," Carrie snapped reflexively. Again, Sark's feral smirk appeared, aimed at Marshall.
"Oh, M-Mr. Sark... Hello," Marshall managed, pushing backwards against Carrie. She compliantly took a step back, then another.
Sark straightened, and advanced, closing the distance between them in a moment. "You needn't be worried, Mr. Flinkman," he assured. "You and your" – he coughed slightly, unsure of himself - "paramour, here, will not be harmed if you comply with my request."
Without waiting for a reply, he withdrew a disk from his breastpocket and held it out to the technician. "I need this decoded. I've worked through the main files, but I need to know if there is anything hidden in the safeties. I need it done tonight."
When Marshall hesitated, Sark glanced pointedly at Carrie's swollen stomach. "As I said, neither you nor Miss Bowman will be injured. May I ask when your lovely child is due?"
The last remaining bit of color drained from Marshall's face, and Carrie looked ready to either cry or haul up and pop Sark one in the face. "I'll see what I can do," Marshall said in a panic.
"Excellent." Sark opened the door to the Audi; the door Marshall had locked this morning. "Ladies first."
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It was an awakening experience, to say the least. The Flinkman residence was full of color and noise. Marshall's mother answered the door, staring at Sark with a critical eye before smiling and inviting him in. Marshall haltingly told her Sark was a business associate, and Carrie led her into the kitchen, and that was the last he heard from her.
The den, or at least a wide room cluttered with technology and a couch, was where Marshall settled to work. Sark stood vigilant behind him, once or twice drawing out the Browning to toss absently from hand to hand. At these moments, Marshall would let out a shuddering breath, and type with renewed fervor.
"There's a main file," he read. "It's already been unblocked. Kind of a mess, too. It looks like it might have been damaged when it was forced open."
Snorting in annoyance and self-reproach, Sark ordered him to reconstruct the lost information.
His blood bubbling with anxiety, Marshall set immediately back to work. He pounded the enter key, rapidly reading through the intricate maze of characters.
Suddenly his fingers tripped over the keyboard, fell dormant onto the desktop. Sark stiffened, leaning over his shoulder.
"Sydney," Marshall muttered.
"What? What is it?" Sark demanded, gripping the man's shoulder until his fingernails bit into skin beneath the cotton shirt.
"She - nothing. It's nothing," Marshall said at once, and moved to continue typing.
It a fluid, practiced movement, Sark seized the hair at the nape of his neck and pressed the suddenly-there Browning just beneath Marshall's ear.
"Now, little mouse," he breathed in a grating, honeyed tone, "tell me what you see, or I might... just... break... my... word."
"It's a code," Marshall said abruptly, "written into the securities. Look, it's the same sequence." He pointed to the stream of white text on the black background. "Each different firewall, or whatever, they're all in sequence."
Sark stared at the screen. Absently, unceremoniously, he jerked his hand and sent Marshall tumbling to the floor. He slid into the vacated seat, pressing the 'down' arrow to scroll through the files.
A date, a location... and a prophecy. He almost laughed when he saw the reference. Rambaldi's notebook, currently in possession of the Covenant. The artifact rotting in the CIA vaults, it seemed, was a fake.
Marshall was valiantly trying to crawl away. Without looking away from the screen, Sark lifted the Browning and fired. A bullet frayed the carpet centimeters from the technician's hand. "Stay put, Mr. Flinkman."
A knock, a frantic voice at the door Sark had locked behind them. Sark ignored it, removing the disk and slipping it into his coat. Marshall pushed himself against the wall as the assassin approached.
"Thank you for your time," Sark said simply, and wrenched open the door. Carrie was on the other side; She darted past Sark before he could stop her, had he wanted to. He headed into the kitchen.
A pistol whipped out and struck him across the jaw. There, beside the refrigerator cluttered with magnets and cautionary quips clipped from the newspaper, was the ever-caustic Agent Vaughn.
Before the CIA puppy could use the business end of his Beretta, Sark righted himself and delivered a chop-block to Vaughn's elbow. The gun clattered to the floor, and with his other arm Sark seized the annoying, twit of a man by his pretty face and slammed his head against the freezer door.
A gun cocked from across the room, and Sark had barely dived beside the cabinets as bullets riddled the kitchen. Agent Weiss, field commander and Vaughn's trusted lackey, fired on Sark with a squad of agents at his back.
Feet sliding on the polished tiles, Sark lurched forward, arms over his head as he burst through the glass door. Outside, he rolled to his feet, his Browning up and blasting. Limb and hip shots, nothing fatal. The small team that had remained outside crumpled onto the garden path as he jogged past.
Damned woman. He'd cut the phone lines and confiscated their cell phones, of course, but Carrie, or, god forbid, Marshall's deplorable mother, must have found an alternative form communication. Whatever the route, the CIA was here, and they were not pleased.
Uttering every swear word in the two dozen languages he spoke, Sark reloaded as he ran, bullets sizzling in his wake. The cool, irregular plastic of the decoded disk sat securely in the pocket, just over his heart.