The woman was insane.
Sark found her incessantly bleeding heart to be annoying, at best, though he supposed it stemmed from her insurmountable strength. His own heart, impenetrable, served to ward off remorse, attachment, or anything else he might have otherwise felt that would distract him from his job.
But now his job was the distraction. For the first time in nearly 20 years, Mr. Sark was without a coherent reason for his current mission. From the get-go he'd felt animosity toward the Covenant. For one, they'd effectively undermined The Man's operations, reigning in the world of espionage as the sovereign organization. The years in prison had left him out of the loop, and he returned to find the far-reaching crime syndicate he'd worked tireless to build with Irina Derevko had been dismantled, a band of Trust-Fund has-beens calling the shots in a new foundation based on brainwashing and manipulation. For all his indiscretions, Sark despised the idea of agent programming. Blackmail, murder and trickery were far less petty than mind games. So naturally came something Sark was not trained to handle: conflict. An irrational part of him guided Sark to act as a sort of vigilante protector of Sydney Bristow, fighting her enemies while careful remaining one of them. If you could call cornering her alone in her own house and fucking her senseless merely being her enemy. He scolded himself, insisting that it had merely been an exercise in control. Demonstrating that Mr. Sark inevitably got what he wanted, one way or another. Proving to her that he would achieve his goal by whatever means necessary. It was all damn good, to be sure, but the part that confused and infuriated Sark was that, at the time, he hadn't had a motive, a goal to work towards. Touching Sydney Bristow, and later killing her enemy to save her the torture and dismay of guilt, he had done merely for his own pleasure, and out of a sense of protectiveness for her well-being. And he was on his way to do it all over again. He thought over his quandary as he waited, alone, in a filthy warehouse on the side streets of Stoke-on-Trent, tapping his fingers patiently on the stiff metal folding chair. Allison approached, trotting toe-to-heel in the shadows. She'd improved in stealth during his extended sabbatical, but she should have known better when dealing with Sark. "Stop prancing about and sit down," he ordered lightly, not bothering to lift his glance from the tabletop.She came forward and, predictably, kissed him. Rough, sultry and nothing, he thought, like the icy warmth of Sydney Bristow's lips. He welcomed it, of course. Power wasn't only about who held the gun to who's head.
"I've missed you," she stated, and Sark couldn't resist a laugh.Power. The easiest thing in the world to achieve.- "What do you want with Callaghan?" Work before play, Allison. Too late now. "I need a word with him about the famous Agent Bristow. Alone," he said. He slipped his tie over his head and re-fastened it around his neck. She sent him a piercing, suspicious glance. She was just beginning to sense something was wrong. "I'll tell him. Someone will contact you." He shook his head. "No. Have him call me. No middle-man." Contempt, skepticism, wariness. "Alright," she said. "Good-bye, Allison." He walked out, disappeared into the flickering streets of Britain. She watched him go. Shivered.-
Irina Derevko, Joshua Callaghan, Finn Ryden. He would guess Sydney would save her mother for last, twisting the metaphorical knife in the wound for as long as possible before she made the agonizing decision between revenge and forgiveness. Ryden, though, would be the trickiest - she would wait until Callaghan was dead to move onto him. How, then, would she eliminate Callaghan? Or, rather, when? Part of him rationalized it as simply reaping his own revenge, stealing the satisfaction of killing their shared enemies for his own. And of course, he admittedly delighted in pissing off the lovely Miss Bristow. "What do you want?" Strange. Daydreaming was certainly not a normal part of his repertoire. Callaghan, eclipsing the sunlight as he stood impatiently before his employee. Five bullets, all four limbs crippled, then a final shot through the collar bone. Easy. "There are some matters I wish to discuss about the former Agent Bristow." Former. Sark sincerely doubted she was still on the CIA payroll after two extended disappearances in as many years. Callaghan instantly slid into the empty chair across from Sark. Sark frivolously tapped his fingertips on the tabletop, staring at his hand with preoccupation. Callaghan waited, the innocent noise of the busy café oppressive as he shifted nervously in his seat. A moment before Callaghan could unleash his impatience, Sark observed, "I tracked Miss Bristow to a nightclub in Italy. I spoke briefly with her before she managed to escape." Ill-masked astonishment: Callaghan was frightened. "She murdered Arvin Sloane last night." Dry lips, color draining from his face, he sensed the muted danger of the calm young man beside him, like a panther behind a veil. "She murdered my father." Callaghan couldn't see his eyes from behind the impenetrable black lenses. A dangerous, deadly game; Sark knew he could win or lose in the space of a second. "I suspect you are next." "Find her," Callaghan rasped. "Find her and kill her." Sark nodded in faint agreement. "I am curious as to her pattern, though. I fail to see the connection." The founders of the Covenant. Sark knew, Callaghan knew, Sydney knew. A connection no one spoke of. Without hesitation Callaghan reached into his briefcase and withdrew a simple filing folder. He pushed it across the distorted glass tabletop. Scanning the crowd before flipping it casually open, Sark took one glance then shut it again. Boyscout. Prince Phillip. Peter Parker and Mary Jane in one. Agent Michael Vaughn. He hid his surprise behind a wall of expressionless boredom. "A sleeper agent. Bristow and Walker hacked into our mainframe 9 months ago," Callaghan explained. "Lazarey was his handler. Arvin Sloane, I suspect, was just an old adversary of hers she wished to eliminate. Grudges last forever, Mr. Sark." A feasible lie. Bravo, Josh old boy. "And you?" Shrugging. Callaghan pawned his desperation off as nonchalance. "She remembers my face, I suspect. I'm easily enough traced back to the Covenant." He twisted his mouth, gloating. "I do run things, after all." Tedium. Mr. Sark didn't care, and he showed it to the world. "Your tricks don't work on me, Joshua." Personal - the closer the better. The worse. "I'm well aware of the procedure done on me by your beloved pet, Dr. Ockley. I'm willing to overlook the offense." Twitching. The man was terrified. "Despite your indiscretions, the Covenant is still the employer best worth my time," Sark explained, slipping the file into his own case without comment. "I will fulfill my task, as asked." Mercenary. Sark could destroy everything, bring the Covenant to ruins and leave ashes in his wake. Callaghan nodded for him to continue. "I need all information you have on Bristow, as well as Simon Walker. I need access to the Covenant mainframe to observe her training tapes. There may have been something you missed." Sark paused, deliberated while his dining partner squirmed. "She will die, Mr. Callaghan," he stated. Callaghan nodded, making a succession of blurred promises as to yielding Sark any and all resources available. Grimly, Sark advised him to grant clearance as soon as possible. Callaghan made the call with him listening from across the table. 10 minutes later, Sark left the buzzing outside cafe, alone. Callaghan remained seated at the table. Only at closing time later that afternoon did anyone notice the cold body, an arsenic tablet still dissolving in his bloodstream.- She was waiting when he got there, sitting indian-style on the hood of his beloved Mercedes, wearing a cat suit and a scowl. A pack full of weaponry and repelling equipment lay in the passenger seat. "I've just come from an estate not far outside Stoke-on-Trent," she explained, watching him with blackened eyes. "There wasn't much problem with security, actually. The family was attending a funeral." "I'd really like my car back," Sark observed. "I'd really like my life back." Sighing, he leaned against the bumper beside her. "Callaghan robbed me, Sydney. I don't take that kindly." He waited for her to snap, to launch to her feet and give him a rousing ass-kicking. He expected it of her by now, but she seemed hell-bent on disappointing him lately. "You can get your damn money back, Sark. Callaghan took something irreplaceable from me." "What, an over-priced apartment and a government salary? Good Lord, Sydney, you came out on top." He wanted her to hit him, hurt him, badly. She was fading back to Julia Thorne as they spoke. "He took Vaughn." She didn't seem overly upset, really, but she'd learned a thing or two during her stint as a hired assassin. Oh, hell. "Sydney -""When he was missing, after I destroyed the Mueller device. It wasn't Khasinau. It was the Covenant."
"And your supposed to be a bloody spy..." "They turned him over to The Man after they were through with him. They knew I'd rescue him. Callaghan knew it!" "Perhaps, but you, apparently, don't know a thing -" "Vaughn betrayed me, just like all the others. God, I'm like a plague, aren't I?" She was ranting now. The old, fragile Sydney Bristow rearing up finally and bursting forth. "I just destroy the lives of everyone I love, you know that, Sark? Which, come to think of it, is probably why you're still alive. Damnit, everything I touch - Will, Francie, Vaughn, Simon, Eric. I screwed my dad up pretty good, too. I mean, he's still trying to save me, for God's sake." Exhaling through his teeth, Sark reached out a placed a hand on her arm. As amusing as it was, she was beginning to hyperventilate in a hotel parking lot. She stiffened immediately, and threw his hand off with a jerk. "I'm not your therapist, Sydney," he said quietly. "Hell, I'm not even your friend. We're on opposing sides and we always will be. That night in Etrelles changed nothing, as I'm sure you will agree." Her face contorted with the rage of ever agreeing with him, but she bit back an insult. It was far better than the alternative. He was leaning forward, now, whispering darkly into her ear, her glossy dark hair fluttering on his breath. "I expect nothing less from you but complete opposition, Miss Bristow. So I will say this only once." Her pulse has stilled. She was completely immobile, though he doubted it was with fear. "I always..." His lips nearly touched her skin, perilous for both of them. "Get..." Her hand moved, involuntarily formed a fist. "...What I want." As slowly as melting ice, she turned to face him. He narrowly leaned away in time.She smiled.
"Wanna bet?"