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Part 18 : Brittle Bones
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She was moments away from bitch-slapping the security guard.
"Alright, ma'am. You're clear," he said, handing over her tote bag.
Clear. She could kill him with her thumbs. Clear, he says.
Tossing her auburn hair over her shoulder, she paced down the terminal, hips swinging. Sark, it seemed, was no more merciful when planning disguises than Marshall.
Sydney tugged at the brim of her cowboy hat and thought, Arsenic. Nobody should drink that much wine and realistically expect not to eventually be poisoned.
A limo was parked conveniently at the curb. Black. To match her skin- tight rawhide jumper. Yee. Haw.
"Question," she stated as she slid into the back seat. A parking attendant closed the door and she met Sark's eyes in the rear view mirror. "Why is it that you are perfectly content meandering the streets of Los Angeles carrying a Glock in one hand and a detonator in the other, whereas I am forced to wear degrading disguises while at a small airport on the northern coast of Scotland?"
He idly spun the wheel, darting into traffic. To his credit, he was dressed in a nondescript chauffer uniform. A devilish grin flickered across Sark's face. "You're more recognizable. Trust me, darling, you're not an easy person to forget."
"Oh, and you are?!" she argued shrilly, kicking off the painfully heeled snakeskin boots. "'Well, my dear chap, why don't you just pop over to my flat and I can kill you after tea! Spiffing, what-what!'" she imitated in a painfully nasal accent.
He shot her an amused look through the mirror. "I'm Welsh, actually. But I admire your language skills."
Sydney, to her eternal shame, let out a string of half-formed contradictory verbs. When, after several tries, she failed to form a complete sentence, she flung herself back against the leather seats. "Central Intelligence Agency," she said listlessly. "Central. The most wealthy country in the world. It took them five freakin' years to figure out your first name! Seriously, guys. Central Intelligence!"
"They didn't by any chance serve coffee with lunch?" he asked faintly.
"Bite me," she grunted.
"Work before play, darling," Sark scolded. "How was your trip?"
"Grating. They kept expecting federal agents to pop out from under the desk."
"Did you make the sale?"
"4 million for the Uzis and the Semtex. And there's a chance I might have threatened to tip their location to the local government."
He grinned. "I'm starting to believe you have a natural talent for extortion."
"You should see me play poker."
It was a frivolous subtext that couldn't hold up. A deadly conversation painted as a give-and-take chat. Sark made a clean cut.
"I was contacted this morning by a new client," he started. "The leader of a reclusive group of Russian operatives called the Osirus, specializing in drug trafficking. The going offer is 90 thousand. They asked for us specifically; No sub-contracting, I'm afraid." He passed over a set of Polaroids, blurry snapshots taken from a distance. "Our mark is one Ladimir Arekhov, a former employee of Osirus whom they've come believe betrayed them to the Russian government during his brief stint as a runner. He's turned family man now, managing several branches of his father-in-law's kitchenware company. They'd like him eliminated."
Sydney glanced at the photos; They showed Arekhov in various places along the thriving streets of Scouri, a tall, wiry man with thinning dark hair and a smile tirelessly straining his face.
"He'll be dining tonight at a restaurant in the western district called La Salle De Rose," Sark added.
"Typical," she said flippantly.
"Quite. I've procured reservations for 7:00. Arekhov normally arrives around 8:15."
"OK, Sark, just a pointer," Sydney put in. "A romantic dinner sounds great, but slipping out during desert to assassinate a Russian drug dealer kinda kills the mood."
His expression of near-boredom never slipped. Unblinking, he kept his eyes on the road. "I'll take you out bloody dancing another time, Sydney. Tonight is business."
"It's been two months since she killed him, Julian. It feels like we're working our way backwards."
"That's because we are," he said brutally. "You got so far ahead in this game you almost escaped. This will take time, darling, but you'll get your revenge eventually."
She remained silent, blindly staring out the tinted window. Sark recognized that look, and despised it. It was Sydney feeling scared, Sydney being weak, Sydney being everything that always led to heartbreak.
"I'll be doing this 'til the day I die, won't I?" she asked faintly, clutching the identifying Polaroids in her hand.
She waited, but Sark didn't have an answer for her.
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They checked in under assumed names at a high-class hotel overlooking the shore. They kept the curtains firmly closed, white daylight filtering through the cracks and casting a pallor over the dark, cool room.
The clock on the nightstand converted to 6:00, and they rested, out of breath, tangled between the sweat-stained sheets. They didn't speak, or acknowledge, just struggled for air and ignored the detailed strategy they should be creating for tonight's operation.
He observed her, lying on her stomach - smooth, opaque skin, miles of it, silk hair and red lips and chocolate-colored eyes flickered shut. He smiled faintly as he slid his hand along the mattress to caress her bare arm.
Unexpectedly, she flinched.
A quick procession of thoughts - confusion, resentment, anger, self-loathing. He didn't object when she moved away, rolling onto her side to face the wall.
"Sydney -" he began, but the words died on his tongue.
He couldn't bring himself to ask about the suddenly change, the shift in the dynamics of their puzzling relationship. There was a problem that needed to be acknowledge, a roadblock they'd stumbled over from the very beginning, a tear that needed to be fixed. From a lifetime of solitude Sark instinctually ignored it.
After a moment he glanced at the clock glowing on the nightstand. "We'd best be going. Arekhov could arrive early," he said.
Without a word Sydney slipped out of bed and stooped to gather their clothes. Silent, efficient, emotionless.
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A table in the corner, away from the crowd, a perfect view of the dance floor. "Our anniversary," the man explained, and no further excuse was necessary. The woman was undeniably beautiful. Her husband held a hand on her hip with territorial fierceness.
There's truth in disguise, Sydney had learned.
They ordered dinner - the finest champagne, compliments of the manager to the happy couple - and they waited, Sark compulsively checking the silenced Glock hidden in his jacket.
"You should eat," he said mechanically as she watched her salad.
"I'm not particularly hungry," she answered, turning a tomato with her fork.
They waited in silence.
With a sudden jerk he reached across the table and took hold her hand, running his thumb along her knuckles. From a distance it was a caress, a natural gesture of someone hopelessly in love. From a distance you couldn't see her near-recoil, or the restrained force with which he reached for her.
"When Arekhov arrives, I don't want to linger. As soon as the waiter leaves, we approach from the left, circle the table, then out the back entrance through the kitchen," Sark said mutedly, staring vigilantly at their entwined hands. "I'll do it. Just stay close behind me. If anything happens I want to you leave immediately. No questions asked," he insisted.
Sydney glanced up from her plate, caught in a rending limbo: kiss him witless or tear her hand away. In the indistinct light of the French restaurant, she was reminded of the night she sang to him in Paris, back in the old days at SD-6, back when they were enemies, when up wasn't down and revenge wasn't a brittle lifeline. Silent and smoldering, his boyish face clashing with the barbaric intensity in his crystal eyes, he drew Sydney's arm over and kissed her fingers.
She pulled away like she'd been burned.
Sark grimaced slightly, hesitated. He took a swallow of liquor, scalding the back of his throat, and returned the glass carefully.
"I'm curious," he stated precisely, "as to the sudden change in your demeanor. Tell me, is it something I've done, or are you merely following the flight pattern of all your previous relationships?"
"Don't," she said, flinching. "Don't do that."
"Do what? Show my admitted affection for you? Would you rather I be venomous?" he drawled, strenuously composed.
"Yes," she answered, her eyes on the tabletop, the ceiling, anywhere but on him.
"I was being sarcastic, darling," he stated belatedly.
"Don't," she repeated. "Don't call me that. Don't tell me you love me. For God's sakes, don't -"
Voices, loud and boisterous. A recently arrived party, two tables over. Children, all younger than 10, danced around their parents legs.
"Arekhov," Sark whispered tritely.
He'd come with his family, twin boys, a toddler dressed in pink, and a glowing, pregnant wife. He laughingly addressed the waiter with familiarity.
Sydney watched in shock, dangerously close to tears.
"He - his kids. We can't –" she stuttered.
Sensing disaster, Sark leaned quickly forward and grasped her face in his hands. "Look at me, Sydney," he ordered quietly.
"I can't do this, not in front of his family. I don't care about Irina. I can't, Julian," she whispered, her voice cracking.
"Look at me."
Finally she obeyed, meeting a searing gaze void of sympathy.
"Why are you running from me?" he demanded.
Quiet, calm, avoid notice, Sydney told herself. (Ignore the pain, ignore everything, ignore it until it's gone.)
He wouldn't ask her again.
"Because I can't do this if you love me," she burst, shaking. "I can't kill innocent men, I can't murder my mother, I can't - I can't betray my friends if you're one of them."
He held on to her firmly, disallowing it when she tried to turn her head away.
"I couldn't bear for you to end up just another Danny or Simon or Vaughn."
Sark froze; For the briefest of moments, he froze. Then he launched to his feet, seizing Sydney cruelly by the arm and pulling her after him. Her surprised cry drew the attention of other diners, but he was beyond caring. He dragged her brutally after him, approaching Arekhov's table intently.
Bizarrely, Sydney would remember most vividly of that night the flickering second where Arekhov's wife met Sydney's gaze, before she could begin screaming, before shock could even register as her husband fell forward onto the pristine tablecloth.
Fluidly, almost cavalierly, Sark drew the silenced Glock from its shoulder holster and placed three quick bullets in Arekhov's chest. Before the shrieking could even echo through the air, he'd led Sydney through the swinging kitchen doors and out into the darkened alleyway behind La Salle De Rose.
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Sydney protested in confusion as he navigated the twisting alleys he'd memorized earlier that morning. Left, right, right, left, straight, right, left...
She scraped her heels along the concrete, knocking Sark off balance and forcing a halt. Sydney shot him a warning look as he began to admonish her. Love or hate him, she could still take him any day of the week.
"You killed him. In front of his family," she accused. "You -"
"It's my job," Sark murmured, struggling for control.
"It's murder!" she hurled back at him.
"I'm a killer!" he suddenly exploded, grabbing her by the shoulders and slamming her against the brick wall of a nameless building. "I'm a killer, Sydney! I'm not Danny Hecht, I'm not Simon Walker, and I am sure as hell not Michael Vaughn!"
An unintelligible whimper slipped from her lips. Sark couldn't stand her like this; vulnerable, weak, terrified of her own skin.
All at once he got it.
Half a dozen languages. Basic knowledge in everything from quantum mechanics to limited neurosurgery. Skills ranging from Krav Magna to Cordon Bleu cooking 101. Sark was faintly surprised it took him to long to realize.
"I won't die," he told her. "You have my word on that. I won't ever leave you alone."
Another noise, a wordless squeak from Sydney.
"Good lord, Sydney, I'm not going anywhere. You can stop whimpering," he assured, smiling faintly.
She repeated herself, this time slightly louder: "You're squishing me."
Laughing at the sudden absurdity, he stepped back, freeing her from the wall.
"I'm sorry," she said, folding her arms over her chest. "For back there. I'm sorry. I just get - sometimes I -"
"You'll always be CIA at heart. I understand," said Sark curtly.
"I'm becoming my mother, you know. This is exactly what she planned for me."
"Yes," he said placidly. "We're playing into her hands and we all know it. But she wanted us to kill her, Sydney. At any rate, I hate to see a good plan go to waste."
She let out a shuddering breath, staring up at the dark sky blotted with stars and streetlamps. "It is worth it," she said after a moment.
"Revenge isn't all that satisfying, actually," he noted casually.
"No. Your heart. It is worth it," Sydney whispered.
He shot her a sidelong glance, indistinct in the murky blackness of the alleyway. He didn't trust himself to kiss her.
"It's not too late," he answered slowly. "You can still get out, you know. Walk away from revenge. I can... I can get you out of this."
Sydney shook her head, graced him with a sad smile. She reached out and took hold of Sark's hand.
"C'mon, Jules. We've got work to do. Things to steal, people to assassinate." She began walking, tugging him along.
His smirk returned. "'Jules'?"
"Would you prefer JuJu?"
"You know, you're cute when you're annoying."
"I've been told."
They were both imperfect, but they'd survive.