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Part 8 : Ante Up
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1 a.m. in a college library as he typed quickly, ignoring the alternate curious and appraising looks from students pulling all-nighters in their study groups. Sark, suffice to say, found his current mission draining.
He sat at a quiet, black-screened computer in the far corner. He punched in a quick 19-digit code, memorized from Callaghan's mouth moments before he...
Well, you know.
The code supplied entrance the Covenant mainframe; level 5 clearance. From there, a series of well-placed taps of the keyboard, and he gained full access.
Sark wasted no time on their functional information, the locations and contents of their vaults, or the status reports on their grand schemes. He bypassed all the information the CIA would give its proverbial front teeth to have, and went straight for their operative files. Conspicuous and marked with a Classified tag, he found the hasty report on Michael Vaughn.
It began vaguely, with ill-informed accounts he'd supposedly fed the Covenant while working for the CIA. There were holes in his reports to Ockley, trifling, cynical and obvious to anyone but Sydney Bristow. It was a sloppy job, set up with minutes to spare before Simon Walker accessed the mainframe and discovered the information to be false. Michael Vaughn was no traitor. He was still the same shoe-shined pansy he ever was.
A Covenant sleeper agent. Right.
Sark glanced absently through the incomplete report, skimming through the personal evaluation for his own amusement. Idealistic, compassionate, levelheaded. Ha. The man had the spine of a premature crustacean. A spotty account of his dormant relationship with Sydney, noticeably absent of details since her infamous return to the CIA.
There was absolutely no mention of her second disappearance.
A deficient reference to his lovely wife and a throw away sentence dedicated to his sidekick, Agent Weiss were also found. On impulse Sark logged out of Vaughn's fictitious file, and searched through the surveillance records for a run-down on Eric Weiss. The Covenant kept close tabs on ranking American field agents. It was easily found, clustered amid information on all the other L.A. branch operatives Sark knew and loved.
Well, knew.
In his entire two-year confinement, Agent Weiss had only come to speak with Sark once. He remembered it clearly, 3 days after Sydney's apparent death. Weiss had interrogated Sark before anyone else had thought to even consult the imprisoned right-hand man of Irina Derevko. It had been short and to the point, brutal, and Weiss had left without another word when Sark admitted to ignorance.
Weiss had a sporadic attendance record, as well as concerns from Dr. Barnett, and strange gaps in his financial situation. Odd disappearances, returning days later with obscure trips to the government infirmary sporting unexplained wounds. Eric Weiss had come dangerously close to losing his job, all because he was out searching for Sydney Bristow.
His erratic behavior started a few months after Sydney vanished, after Jack Bristow had retreated into his impenetrable shell, Vaughn had given up in favor of grief and cheap alcohol, and life had seemingly continued on without her. Eric Weiss had continued searching for Sydney when the otherwise-unanimous fad sweeping through the CIA had been to release hope and move on.
After she turned up in Hong Kong, Weiss's behavior had shifted dramatically. He became dependable, moving like clockwork through his assignments, never missing a beat. When she left again, he picked up his old habits and returned to the search.
It seemed to Sark to be of vital importance, somehow. It reminded him of something foreign, a forgotten feeling he'd pushed away without remorse. Love? No. Love was the wallowing sack of confusion called Michael Vaughn. Friendship. Untainted, unapologetic friendship. Eric Weiss loved Sydney with nothing expected in return. He'd given her friendship, and it had been constant.
Shaking his head at the stupidity of the man, Sark deleted the cache and walked into the early morning. Callaghan's murder would be easily enough tracked back to him. There was work to be done first.
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How… clichéd.
He stalked through the doors of the Swiss bank without hesitation; No one would be looking for him there. By report, Sark was in Fiji, tracking the movements of the rogue Agent Bristow.
Though, for all he knew, Sydney could very well actually be in Fiji. She'd disappeared without a trace after their little conversation in Britain. He'd returned to her house in Etrelles to find it ransacked.
"Mag ich Ihnen, Sir helfen?" inquired the desk clerk politely.
Idly removing his sunglasses, Sark opened his mouth to reply before remembering Callaghan, typically, hadn't spoken German.
"I'm sorry," he said haltingly. "Do you speak English?"
The clerk forced a smile, and nodded. Sark briskly requested access to Joshua Callaghan's vault, spitting out the stolen security codes before the clerk could say another word.
After all, Callaghan had been a rude little bastard.
As the precisely uniformed young woman stiffly turned away to her computer, Sark slipped a hand into his breast pocket and pressed the end of a silver engraved pen, once.
By the shining glass double doors, the monitors lining the security desk flickered and went black. Hastily the guard posted at the desk snatched up his walkie-talkie, barking through the snapping buzz.
"It's down again! All security teams stand by."
Being led through the winding metal hallways of Credit Suisse, Sark counted the impenetrable vaults as they passed. 9th floor, 3, 4, 5... 6. He absently snatched hold of the clerk's distastefully stiff collar and delivered a brutal karate-chop to the back of her neck.
He picked the ID card off her jacket as she slid to the floor. After a 12-digit entry code and a swipe of the keycard, he entered the anonymously owned vault, covered from thieves by a decoy account of Joshua Callaghan's. Inside was metal, smooth, seamless plating along the walls and floor. Newly malfunctioning security cameras were mounted in all four corners. In the center of the room was a table, much like the one housed in Sark's vault in Grand Cayman. Stilettos, a coy little black dress, a pistol, and a smirk; Sydney sat on the table, and nothing else.
"What can I say," she remarked. "Girls love diamonds."
His first instinct was to shoot her. Lift his hand, pull in his index finger, and blast away that little fucking smile. Seeing her there, legs crossed and seated languidly, unquestionably the victor, left Sark dangerously close to losing control of his faultless, uncaring cruelty and descend into barbarism.
"Don't do that," Sydney corrected suddenly. "Your scary eye-twitch thing. Don't do that."
He stood in the doorway, barely noticing that the bank clerk outside began to awaken, or that the security system would reboot any second, or that he held his gun aimed viciously at Sydney's throat. Unfazed, she stood and swept past him into the hallway. She was nearly to the emergency stairwell when she turned and shot him an amused frown.
"Coming, Sark?"
His jaw clenched, his knuckles white with rage as he gripped the Glock, Sarl followed her out. A scattered team of guards met them at the back door. Sark shot them, a bullet in each thigh, before Sydney could even react.
She led him to the Mercedes parked 3 blocks away.
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"I'm assuming you have a vendetta against Ryden, too, right?" she commented, stopping at a yellow light. Sark resisted the temptation to snipe at her for her driving. Hitchhiking was not something he looked forward to.
"But of course."
"Why?"
"Don't worry. I'm sure I'll find a reason."
She gripped the tough leather binding on the steering wheel with unnecessary violence, keeping her face impassive. "We'll do it Friday, then." "
I apologize, Sydney, but I'm afraid I'm seeing someone else right n-"
"I mean kill him together. He'll be in San Angelo this week to meet with some arms dealers. Dumbass," she snapped.
"Where is it? The money?"
"Focus, Sark."
"Damnit, woman, where is my money?" he hissed, glaring at her from across the armrest.
"It's in good hands. Good, filthy rich hands." She was enjoying this far too much, he noted. "I want to be the one who kills him."
"Priceless."
He rolled down the window then, wind instantly whipping through his slowly growing hair and drowning out the line of profanities he began reciting under his breath.
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He was waiting for her. He knew from the reports that he was next. Sydney Bristow had eliminated all her enemies but two; Derevko would be the last. Finn was prepared.
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Sark was in the Falklands. Tomorrow he would be in Chile, following word of Sydney's travel. The next day, Ecuador. From there, to Never-Never Land and back, with more cryptic sightings of the errant operative.
Allison had no choice but to accept his word.
Sark put away his phone, standing unnoticed outside the blaring nightclub in the core of Texas. Leaning against a lamppost, dressed in skin-tight black leather and a wholly unflattering turquoise wig, Sydney grinned mockingly at him.
"How's Allison? Does she miss her Sweet Babboo?"
"Says the woman dressed like a hooker."
Continuously grinning, Sydney straightened, and led him by the hand into the nightclub.
She was irresistibly reminded of the disastrous night in Taipei, only her hair had been a different shade of blue and it had been Vaughn instead of Sark shoving away the half-drunken men who stepped closer to leer at her. Sark, though, seemed to be taking an unrivaled pleasure in throwing off unwanted attention centered on his companion.
"Couldn't you have worn, say, a burlap sack, instead?" he muttered, slipping an arm around her waist as she scanned the crowd.
"I hear unkempt is in," she replied absently. "Up there. On the loft."
He unconsciously tightened his grip on her, and swayed compliantly to the droning music. There was no real need to dance. The dance floor was a mating ground, an unpolished stage where ill-dressed partygoers took the opportunity to grind their bodies against each other.
Sark had learned to waltz when he was seven. Such waste.
"Three guards. He's still waiting for his appointments to show up," she murmured in his ear.
"Turn."
Sydney complied, circling around him like a caged cat. He smirked at the effort. Attention to details could keep you alive in this business.
At a cramped table near the wire-metal staircase, Ryden glared into the crowd as he clutched a half-empty glass of Coke and a withering cigarette. He was different than the photograph Sark had studied - his hair, not dark and curling, but short and rough, black at the roots, crayola red at the tips. He had several new holes in his ears, one in his eyebrow, fierce eyes hidden behind black-framed glasses. Ryden was dressed as his custom: a tarnished windbreaker over a brand-less T-shirt, a silk tie around his neck and a Glock hidden in the pockets of his khakis. He sat with his right leg tucked beneath the chair, carefully guarded from the jostling patrons passing by.
"Loathsome little nerd, isn't he?" Sark whispered in her ear, and she gave a low, smoky laugh.
A quiet group of jagged men approached Ryden. They spoke in whispers, sat beside him and placed an array of papers and a metal attaché case before him. Sydney reached around Sark and withdrew the Ruger tucked in his belt.
"Just tell me when," she said in his ear.
They began arguing. Quiet hissing across the table, the spokesman for the arm dealers leaning in to bark at Ryden, who didn't glare, or smile, or show any emotion besides vague interest. He sipped his Coke, drew on his cigarette, and listened without comment.
"About your beloved Agent Vaughn," Sark began, tugging her closer when she moved to release him. "Have you verified the information on his treachery?"
"Yes," answered Sydney. One hand was half-beneath his shirt, the cool metal of the pistol hidden against his skin, and the other was digging blunt, black-painted nails into Sark's shoulder blade.
"Simon did it for me. And I trust his word, Sark."
"'Trusted'," he corrected. "Past-tense, Sydney." He instantly found is necessary to tighten his grip once more, refusing to let her slide away. "Just listen to me for a moment."
The dealers were nodding, Ryden leaning back after stating a short sentence and crushing his cheap cigarette on the blistered tabletop. "Callaghan gave me the report on Mr. Vaughn when I confronted him about your little murder spree. He produced the file as a cover, Sydney. He insisted Ockley was his handler."
She flinched, gave a final try at struggling out of his grasp. "Where did you get the information incriminating Agent Vaughn?"
"Ockley told me," she snapped. "During the first few months, after I kept resisting the physical torture. I found proof when Simon and I hacked into their mainframe."
"After you escaped?" He was smiling now, condescendingly, down upon her like she was an amusing child.
"What's your point, Sark?" The dealers slid a case to Ryden, shook hands. Rose to leave. "
Where do you think I was all that time your dear Agent Vaughn was missing? Twiddling my thumbs in a nunnery?" He spoke harshly, hurriedly. "I was in charge of his handling after he was found in Taipei. Khasinau took charge of him when your mother requested I beginning planning her extraction. Didn't you ever wonder where those scars on his arms and legs came from?"
"You -"
"Yes." Her fingers squeezed viciously into his shoulder. He chanced a glance away from Ryden to look her in the face. Tears. Hurt and rage.
"What are you telling me, Sark?" Her voice was cotton, torn to shreds and rasping.
"Michael Vaughn is as patriotic and naively loyal as ever he was," he stated, almost bitterly. "Though I do admit, marrying the first available NSC agent he laid eyes on does leave one wondering, doesn't it?"
"So Vaughn -"
"No." Her breathing came in sporadic gasps, her face cracking as she fought for control of her movements. She was unable to feign enjoyment, unable to dance seductively, to play her part. Sydney was on a mission, but she froze.
"He's not - he never... how could I ever believe such a thing? I thought he - God, I thought he betrayed me!"
Sark gripped her shaking body, and berated himself for being unable to tear his eyes away from her distress. Ryden was on the move - damnit, he'd lost sight of him.
"Sydney!" Sark warned, and swung her around. A punch, a perfect right-hook, slammed into his back and he crumpled to the floor.
He rolled, counted their attackers - five, circling through the dance floor, two moving in on Sydney and another looming above Sark with a handgun leveled at his head. Ryden stood at the foot of the staircase by the exit, smirking and lighting a gasper.
Sydney didn't fail him. She took one glance, gave herself a mental slap, and dropped Sark's executioner with a savage roundhouse kick. To the sound of safety catches being release, she turned, lifted the Glock, and opened fire on the two arms dealers Ryden had hired for their assassination.
All around them, patrons were skittering away, shrieking and stumbling. Chaos. Ryden grinned happily, and blended into the crowd surging out of the nightclub.
"We do this a lot, don't we?" Sydney mused, casting away the empty Glock and accepting Sark's offered hands. He swung her at arms-length like a ballerina, her feet shooting out and catching the outstretched hand of an attacker, striking the loaded pistol from his hands.
Sydney rolled to her feet as Sark caught the gun. "Find us a car, won't you?" he told her politely, calmly engaging in a fierce shoot-out with the three remaining arms dealers.
It didn't last long: three bullets, a vicious precision shot in each lung, and he followed her out. No one dared stop him. In the distance, sirens blared.
At the curb, Sydney waited behind the wheel of a hot-wired silver GT Mustang. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't see any Mercedes'."
"Where's Ryden?" he barked, sliding into the passenger's seat. She slammed on the gas, swerving to avoid a multitude of panicking onlookers. Ahead of them, tearing through a red light, was a powder blue Aston Martin.
Sark smiled grimly. "I should've guessed."