Author's Notes | Miss me? Just say yes – an unloved author is an unoriginal author. Anyway… I beg forgiveness for the over-2-week delay. My excuse this time? I wasn't in the hospital! *Claps happily before realizing excuse makes no sense* Ah, yes, well… I was away. Again. Just vertically-capable, this time, and on slightly less morphine. In other words, I was a hell of a lot more fun when I was sick.
  I really hate irony.
  But distress not, cheries, for I come with a friggin' huge chapter, as well as – A BRAND SPANKIN' NEW BETA! Yayyyy! Wooooo! Everyone thank Becca, who works very quickly and for minimum wage, and still manages to put some order to my erratic typing moods. Case in point : I continually spell "At least" as one word. So, yeah, everybody send a thanks to Becca, a fruit basket would be nice, a card maybe… It's noticable, what she's done, believe me. So, again, thank you, Bec.

  Also a mob of other people, such as equisetum, Sydney47, cindymusiclover, fairieangel, Chaosti, Fanatic482, Kara, Lex – thank you so much for your reviews, and I'm sorry if I inevitably mispelled your names. And to anybody else I forgot, I don't mean to slight you, I'm just too lazy to click onto the next page of reviews. Please know that I extremely value your reviews – I ain't kidding, sometimes I actually re-read them from time to time. Pathetic, non?
  Must stop talking now. Thank you all for listening. Cheers!

-
Part Twenty : Schism
-


"Assassinations, arms trafficking... Blackmailing, terrorist threats," Dixon glanced briefly at the file in his hands, "and one count of Grand Theft Auto. They're not working alone, either. Over the past 3 weeks, there have been simultaneous operations all over Europe: cocaine trafficking in Ireland, a bombing in Manchester. Sydney herself was spotted in Stavanger, Norway, minutes after the explosion at the embassy. Sark, meanwhile, was in Poltava, reportedly selling a shipment of M-14s to a drug cartel."


"What is this?" Vaughn exploded, throwing up his arms in defeat. "What the hell is she doing?"


"It seems she is running a wildly successful crime syndicate." Lauren observed beside him.


"Our operatives have been reporting discourse within every major organization world-wide," Dixon said, his voice tightly controlled. "The Medici has everyone on edge. They accept contracts from independent organizations and then steal millions from them after they've been paid. But they also deliver results."

"Ladimir Arekhov, a former drug runner for an offshoot sector of the Russian Mafia. Two days ago he was murdered in front of his family in a secluded restaurant on the streets of Scouri, Scotland. The security tape was later discovered to be missing." He cleared his throat painfully. "Witnesses described the shooter as a man in his late twenties, blond hair, blue eyes. He was accompanied by a woman, also late twenties, brown hair, brown eyes, said to be his wife. Many of the diners observed their affectionate actions toward each other throughout the course of their meal."


"She was on a mission. She could have just been playing a part, living the disguise," Marshall put in hurriedly. "C'mon, this is Syd we're talking about. You know how careful she is about the details."


"A CIA operative in Russia reported a major transfer of funds 6 hours after Arekhov was murdered. The money went to 9 different accounts spanning the entirety of Europe. Presumably it was a big payday for the Medici," Dixon explained with disgust.


"So who are they? The Medici? And why would Syd agree to work for them, with Sark of all people?" Vaughn asked adamantly.


From the far corner of the conference room, silent until this point, Eric laughed. Humorless, ragged, he laughed.


"Any thoughts, Agent Weiss?" Dixon prompted wearily.


"There is no 'they'," he answered, shaking his head. "She's not working for a behind-the-scenes mastermind. She is the mastermind."


An uneasy silence descended the room, something far too commonplace in the absence of the Bristows.


"Explain, Weiss," Dixon commanded stiffly. "Is there anything you're not telling us?"


"Sydney's working with Sark to seek vengeance against her murdering bitch of a mother. That's all I know," Eric said shortly.


"Well that's a hell of a lot more than I do!" Dixon yelled, rising out of his seat.


"Why would she do such a thing?" Lauren interrupted quickly, stalling the explosion of frustration from within the group. "Why with Mr. Sark? Surely she could reach the same results from working with the CIA. We, all of us, want to see Irina Derevko brought to justice. I see no need for this - this Medici business."


"Because Sydney doesn't want justice," Eric said tiredly. "Sydney wants blood."


In the ensuing uncertainty, the air charged with anger and discord, Marshall spoke haltingly. "When Sark came to my house - before Sydney came back the second time," he coughed, adjusted his tie, avoided Dixon's gaze at all costs, "the disk, it wasn't blank. It - you see, the firewalls, they were coded, right, basic SHTML, nothing fancy, brilliantly done, wish I'd thought of it -"


"Marshall," Dixon cautioned.


"Right, right. The disk. I decoded it, eventually. Gotta say, gun at my head? Not such a constructive environment. Anyway, I - it was massive, some of the files on the disk. Some people I'd never heard of: Samantha Laroche, Finn Ryden, others. Also listed were Arvin Sloane and Irina Derevko. Plus lots of references to the Covenant."


Eric listened with half-hearted resentment. They'd both promised to safeguard Sydney's secret, the whereabouts of her lost two years, but it didn't matter now. Now it was all about keeping their sanity.


"I think - well, that is to say, I'm making an educated guess here, that Irina Derevko might be leading the Covenant," Marshall finished nervously.


"How long have you known this?" Dioxn said after a dangerous pause. He looked directly at Eric.


"A while," he said, challenging. "Fire me if you want. It wasn't my story to tell."


"So Sydney was held captive for two years under the orders of her mother?" Lauren wondered aloud.


"Syd wants to destroy the Covenant," Eric admitted spiritlessly. "She wants to kill everybody who has ever hurt her. She wants to burn Rambaldi's artifacts to hell. She wanted to get out, too, but - but I wasn't..."


He stared at the floor, unaware or simply uncaring of his colleagues.


"She told me she wasn't being brave," Marshall said suddenly. "Sydney never thought what she did was bravery. I don't think it ever really crossed her mind. She just - she just did what had to be done."


They fell again into a morose silence, each remembering Sydney; Sydney at her best, or at her worst, never anything less than phenomenal.


"Why Sark, though? Why would he agree to help her?" Vaughn asked petulantly.


Eric grimaced, a dark grin showing on his face. "Because Syd's got him completely whipped, that's why."


The outpouring of disgust and dismay from the decreased assembly of the CIA's former Dream Team, immediate, tense and disbelieving, was stemmed by the insistent ringing of the phone at Dixon's side. He answered it rigidly, and made an indistinct sound of permission.


His expression quickly changed from dire control to desperate confusion.


"That was security section," he said carefully. "There's been a breach at level four in this building. Someone's breaking in as we speak."


-


Her sneakers pounded routinely against the dull blacktop - bleached grey from years of sunlight - her ponytail flapping against her neck and an unknown tune blearing through her headphones. She absently wondered if this was a song Marshall had suggested, one he had compiled onto a CD that she had lost in the clutter of packing back when Weiss had convinced her she could escape.


She yanked the headphones from her ears with aggravation.


"Don't despair, darling. I'm sure N'Sync will have a reunion album soon," commented a mocking voice from behind her.


Sydney angled her head to glance at Sark, resplendent in wrinkled jogging clothes, attempting in vain to gain parallel ground with her fast pace.


He met her eyes when she continued to stare.


"I take it back," she announced, gesturing toward his outfit. "You should always wear designer suits."


"Shocking, isn't it?"


She laughed. "You're like a friggin' vampire, I'm not kidding."


They lapsed into an easy silence, moving effortlessly past the other joggers clogging the suburban street in the early hours of the weekend.


"I was contacted yesterday, while you were clearing up that business in Stavanger. Excellent work, by the way. A lesser operative would have cut and run."

"He was trying to dodge payment. I don't work for free," she replied shortly. "And quit smirking at me, you have no influence over my work ethics whatsoever."


"Denial: is there anything it can't do?" he shot back, grinning.


"As you were saying..." Sydney said tersely.


"Diversionary tactics. How cute."


"I should warn you, I have no qualms with hitting a woman." she said.


"Don't hate me for my beauty," he responded placidly.


Sydney devoutly refused to retort.


"A prospective employer, interested in hiring us to steal a minor artifact currently in possession of the CIA," he relented. "Just a trinket, really, nothing of use. All the same, he's willing to pay a pretty price for it," Sark recited, the words playing out as he'd planned a thousand times since receiving the offer.


Sydney could see straight through him. She always had.


"This trinket," she repeated, purposefully redoubling her pace. "It wouldn't be - gee, I don't know... Rambaldi-oriented?"


Sark slackened to a halt, forcing her to face him. "Yes," he admitted. "A very minor piece, some type of quill pen, apparently. No known use for it. The CIA actually found it by accident - some years before you were recruited, if it matters."


"It doesn't," she said softly, leveling her rapid heartbeat.


"I know the buyer," he stated. "James Pike. I worked with him once or twice while under the employment of The Man."


Sydney kept her gaze on the surrounding tree line, squinting in the harsh morning light.


"He says he represents the Covenant," Sark added. "We can't afford to refuse their offer, Sydney. Aside from the monetary requirements, we don't have the social standing to openly insult the Covenant. Not yet, at any rate. Obviously Irina sent him for a reason."


"She's testing me," acknowledged Sydney. "She'll make it as hard as possible for me to destroy her."


"Our best option is to go along with it. Like it or not, she does plan for you to eventually get your revenge. As despicable as it is, we can't really lose," he pointed out.


"Yes we can," she said definitely. "We already have."


After a moment's disquiet, he kissed her; an unmistakable action of a man who had lost a verbal battle and sought to win by way of human weakness. She soon broke away, absently running her fingers along his face.


"When is the meeting?" she asked.


"Tomorrow night. Leven. Not far from Sipiwesk."


Sydney nodded carefully, clenched her jaw and looked away. He hated himself then.


With little else to say, she turned and continued on at an accelerated pace.


-


Dark corners and rusted metal, everything made of cement, the air holding the acerbic taste of blood and chipped paint. She'd been in dozens, hundreds, of identical labyrinths built and forgotten for the sole purpose of housing secrets.


More succinctly, a warehouse.


The Medici had come prepared – bug killers at every checkpoint and a back-up team armed with Uzis stationed half a block northwest from the back exit. The agreement had been for no unnecessary witnesses. Pike would bring only his bodyguards.  Sydney and Sark were most deadly when unaided.


They waited in silence for Pike's arrival, their stances in an odd reversal of their normal roles. Sark leaned stiffly against the perfunctory metal table - dominant in the minimalist chamber marred only by crumbling pillars - tapping his fingers against his arm in uncustomary impatience. Alternately, Sydney sat on one of the three folding chairs, her feet propped leisurely on the tabletop, breathing steadily through her nose, her face a mask of neurotic stoicism.


"We'll ask for a ridiculously high price, of course. Might as well make him fight for it," Sark said mechanically, something he'd said repeatedly in the last 20 minutes, to break the silence and to deter her attention from the cruel suspense she was facing.


"Calm down, Julian," she answered. "I'm fine."


He nodded uncertainly, and ran his hand comfortingly along her leg. She smiled briefly, turning her eyes back to the red-painted emergency door.


Fashionably late, the doorknob turned.


Sark's usual manner of business decorum had changed dramatically since his alliance with Sydney. Formerly he'd maintained an unapproachable guise of disinterest, unnerving his clients into blindly accepting his terms if only to get away from his perturbing gaze faster. Sydney took the opposite approach - showing her unconcern with, well, unconcern. It antagonized buyers, made them hope to challenge her, offer higher stakes for a harder assignment. Cool efficiency gets you respect, she'd told him, but insolence gets you street credit.


After a relatively short and undeniably colorful career, he supposed she would know.


Pike approached, flanked by bodyguards, and she didn't even bother taking her feet off the table.


He was an unexpectedly small man, dark haired and unhandsome, forgettable but that was an asset in their business. The two men trailing after him were of no consequence - a dime a dozen, not worth the bullets that would eventually end up lodged in their arteries.


"Sark. Good to see you again," Pike greeted him in his falsely casual southern drawl, offering his hand. Sark shook it with unveiled hauteur. Pike ignored him, nodding to Sydney. "Ms. Bristow," he acknowledged. Then, "I'm sorry, is it Ms. Thorne now? Dare I say, Mrs. Sark, perhaps? Forgive my ignorance."


"It's alright," she replied, willing herself not to drop kick the little punk, "I'm sure you can't help it."


Pike grinned with unrestrained delight.


"I was never one for reunions, James," put in Sark. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"


"Right. The Quill is an old relic from Milo Rambaldi. You know the guy, of course. It's currently being kept in the lower vaults of the central building of the CIA's L.A. branch." He virtually ignored Sark, staring happily at Sydney as he sat down, placing a briefcase on the tabletop. "Great place, L.A. Lovely weather, isn't it, Syd?"


She'd had enough. Sydney dropped her feet onto the floor, leaning across the table to glare icily, inches from Pike's face. "Bristow, Thorne, Sark, I don't care which," she intoned, "but call me Syd again and I'll show you just how much I take after my mother."
Momentarily, Pike quailed, before recovering his persona and laughing aloud.


"She's quite serious, you know," Sark added.


Pike fell silent.


"We can get the Quill, of course. It'll take some time, but I have little doubt of success," Sark took control. "The question is: what do you have to offer in exchange?"


"The Medici has been gathering quite a reputation," Pike observed, leaning back in his chair. "You're the best. Simple fact. I'm here representing the Covenant."


Sydney bit down on her tongue.


"We've taken notice of you two. We're interested in hitting up the CIA a bit, and you're the obvious choice to do it. The original badass and the prodigy child - what's not to like?"


"Get to the point," Sark commanded, still leaning against the tabletop facing the opposing wall, hands in his pockets as he listened sedately.

"With Ms. Thorne's knowledge of the inner workings of the CIA, amazingly enough, of the L.A. branch specifically, you're a lock-in for the job. I'm authorized to meet any payment," he explained, "so name your price."


Sark reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a notepad with the exact numbers written bleakly across the empty paper - it added to the effect, a chilling provision that often jarred employers into accepting at face value, thinking the price to be inflexible and absolute. Before he could present the slip of paper, however, Pike returned his gaze to Sydney, smiling, and told her, "Irina says Hi."


The result was immediate, premeditated by Pike, wreaking havoc upon Sydney's tenuous calm and sending her emotions in a tailspin. She recoiled out of her seat like she's touched ice, scrabbling to her feet without thought. Sark instantly reached for her hand, but she dodged him, taking steady steps backward.


Pike continued grinning, vicious and victorious.


"I'm sorry," Sydney sputtered, staring into Sark's eyes. "Deal's off."


She wrenched open the scratched door leading into the back stairwell and slammed it shut behind her.


"Stay there." Sark snarled at Pike, and followed her out.


He caught up to her quickly. She stood indecisively at the foot of the first flight of stairs, anger and dismay written across her face.
"We have to make this deal," he stated, stepping beside her. "You know that. Anything Irina wants from us she can have, until we destroy her. Those are the rules, darling."


"I'm not running her errands for her," she bit out. "It's bad enough I'm her victim, I won't be her damned pawn, too."


"Certainly not. But don't be a fool, either."


She aimed a right hook toward his jaw, which he sidestepped, catching her by the waist and holding her there when she struggled.


"You're better than this, Sydney. But for now, at least, you have to play their games," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.


Defeated, she accepted his logic, though she hated it bitterly, and nodded. Moving like a man handling poison, Sark cautiously led her back into the room.


"All made up, are we?" Pike called out as they re-entered. Without answering Sark took a seat opposite him. Sydney remained standing, prowling in menacing circles around them. Pike's two bodyguards stood by warily.


"Our work is expensive," Sark warned. "The bidding starts in the millions."


Pike nodded.


"47." Sydney said abruptly.


When they unanimously glanced at her with confusion, she glared at the both of them with an expression of oppressive authority. "47 million," she clarified. "A nice round number, wouldn't you say?"


Sark couldn't help it. He smirked.


"It's..." Pike coughed, tried again. "It's a bit high for a smash-and-grab job, don't you think?"


Syd shrugged, coming into her element. "Treason is a pricey thing to buy, Jimmy."


Pike continued his unblinking observation of Sydney, contemplating her every move, watching the set of her jaw and the challenge in her eyes. Nodding, he stood, stepping within inches of her.


"Don't be upset, sweetheart," Pike said to her.


Her breathing stilled.


"If you stayed with the CIA, they all would've died, anyway." He smiled in taunting comfort. "Cheer up, Julia. At least on this side you can just be yourself."


Then he made his mistake. Pike reached up and caressed her cheek.


He'd expected retaliation from Bristow, a slap to the face, maybe a sucker-punch, but it would've been worth it. His back turned, Pike didn't see Sark move until he'd drawn out the Desert Eagle holstered at his shoulder, placing double shots in each of Pike's bodyguards before vaulting the table. Pike was reaching for his own handgun when Sark caught him brutally by the throat, spinning him and slamming Pike's face against the metal tabletop.


"I don't... like," Sark gritted slowly, seizing Pike's arm and twisting, "... people... touching..." He took a fistful of Pike's hair and cracked his forehead once more against the table. "... what's... mine."


He released Pike, watching without pity as the man slid to the floor, blood erupting from his nose and temple.


"We'll contact you when we have the Quill," Sark added, sheathing the pistol. He held out his hand expectantly to Sydney, who stood by, rightfully startled.


After a slight hesitation, she took it. Sark escorted her out of the warehouse without looking back.


-


Sydney wondered why Sark had the L.A. branch blueprints readily at hand. She decided not to ask.


"There's a weakness in the security system here," she illustrated with her finger along the map, "in the ventilation system. Clichéd, I know, but there you are. On the fourth floor, an air duct leads directly into the secondary mainframe. Sure, it's grated, and about 3 feet wide, but no sensory detectors or anything. I always thought that was a major goof on their part, but I was never exactly on good terms with Security Section, so..."


"How many guards?"


"Two in the room, six patrolling the hallway at all times. At least three technicians, too. Once we're inside, we disable the guards, access the mainframe and find out where the Quill is kept. Everything's kept in the vault in the basement, but that place is huge. We need a tag number if we want to find it before Christmas," Sydney explained rapidly.


"You do realize it has to be just the two of us. No other operatives," Sark noted.


The highway was eerily silent, undisturbed in the black late hours of night. They stood with the maps spread over the hood of the Mercedes, working under flashlight. Sydney frowned.


"Why? I mean, sure, it has to be a small team, to get in and out as quickly as possible, but I don't see why we can't use some of our operatives."


"Because," he pronounced, "I doubt you're willing to trust any of our employees not to kill any agents they come across."


Justifiably, Sydney was really getting sick of people throwing her off balance tonight.


  She cleared her throat unsteadily, crouching above the blueprints in sudden aversion to Sark. "We can enter the tunnels from the roof," she continued in a dry, uneven voice. "It'll be tricky getting down to the 4th floor, but we can climb. Once we get inside we have to move fast. After we get the Quill, our best option is to just run out the front door. It's the closest exit, and if we cause enough chaos, we can slip out pretty easily. Any questions?"


Sark stared at her closely, with the same vehement impassiveness she'd grown to dread. "Just one," he said. "When push comes to shove, who will it be? Me or Agent Weiss?"


She could have slapped him. "You," she snapped. "I've already chosen. It's you. Now stop being so damned insecure and get with the program."


"'Insecure'?" he echoed. "Excuse me for thinking rationally, but from past experience I'm not a firm believer in your ability to face the disapproval of your friends. I'm merely afraid you'll jump into your beloved Eric's arms while I get hauled back into jail."


"No," Sydney said fiercely. "You're just afraid of trusting someone."


She defiantly continued her perusal of the blueprints, pointedly ignoring Sark. He stood in an unaccustomed daze.


"That... episode, with Pike." he stated. "He was hurting you. I won't allow it."


"I'm not made of glass, Julian."


"I wasn't referring to your vulnerabilities. I was referring to my own."


The discussion was wordlessly declared over. Reluctantly, Sydney smiled.


-


"Lovely view."


She kicked him.


"You're the one who insisted on going in front. Don't begrudge me my limited delights."


"Do you always talk this much while crawling through a ventilation system?"


"Yes, but it's usually more pathetic. Usually I'm alone."


She cleared a spider web out of the way.


"Besides, if you don't like my appreciation, you shouldn't have worn those pants," he persisted.


"You know, I studied these tunnel arrangements a lot closer than you did. I could knock you out and leave you to die. Think about it."


"Death threats are very stimulating, darling."


"Shut up. The grate's up ahead," she said, a touch regretfully.


Sydney peered through the metal bars, limiting her breath. Below, the expected pair of guards and the trio of technicians milled around the cramped room, computer consoles spanned across three of the four walls. She retrieved the vial of acid from her pocket.


"Not a very safe place to keep it," Sark whispered from behind.


Sydney resisted chucking the opened vial over her shoulder.


She applied the chemicals to the rim of the metal grate, the savorless hissing noise masked by the sweep of chill air running past them into the room. If nothing else, the first stage of the mission had been at a constant 72°.


"Ready?" she said, barely audibly. Sark gripped her feet carefully, and she curled her fingers around the slim bars.


He gave her a hearty shove out the air duct.


The grate scraped, then finally tore free, weakened by the acid. It came away with the force of the push, sending Sydney tumbling to the floor. Before the inhabitants could react to the intrusion, Sark slid halfway into the room, firing four successive tranquilizer darts. Sydney dropped the last one with a tactless heel to his stomach.


"There comes a point when this is just too easy," Sark noted, dropping onto the floor.


Sydney didn't bother answering, but moved quickly over to the main server and typed furiously through the security points. Sark briskly shrugged out of his leather Kevlar-lined jacket, turned the material inside out before putting it back on. On the reverse side it was a tailored, if slightly wrinkled, business coat. He slipped a pre-tied necktie over his neck and clipped a forged ID card to his front pocket.


"Accessing inventory archive," Sydney said absently, pausing briefly to allow Sark to remove her own jacket, reverse it to the same affect, and unpin her curled red hair.


"File number 803, drawer 2, row H, vault A," she announced, closing out the system.


Sark handed her the ID card, which read 'NSC Visitor'.


"Too easy," she agreed, wrenching open the door.


-


"The security team at the level 4 checkpoint didn't meet up with their trade-off," Dixon explained, herding his operatives out of the conference room. "When the relief team moved in, all workers in the secondary security room were down. The server showed signs of a break-in. They've found no traces of the assailants or even if they're still in the building."


A security specialist met them as they trooped down the hall, pulling with him a cart of weaponry worth millions on the black market. Eric accepted an assault rifle, unlocking the trigger guard as he listened carelessly.


"We have several operatives guarding the doors to the vault. If the thieves are still in here, that's where they're headed," Dixon said with surety, strapping on a bulletproof vest over his suit.


There was little question passed between them. Army-trained desk jocks just wouldn't hold up against freelance spies. They were needed to save the day.


Vaughn grabbed Lauren's arm. "Stay here," he insisted.


She wasn't field rated. She'd never even fired a gun. Lauren considered arguing, but held her tongue. She watched warily as Eric pumped the rifle's chamber with something bordering gleeful desperation.


Nervous, Marshal took a tranq pistol. "You'll need a tech guy," he mumbled.


"Let's move," Dixon commanded.


-
Hand in hand, Sark and Sydney stepped unhindered off the elevator. The guard at the checkpoint glanced at their IDs and waved them past.


"Last time I walked through here, I was in handcuffs," Sark observed quietly.


"I stopped by here on the way to my Dad's funeral to pick up his office effects," Sydney replied. "You've got nothing on me."


They headed straight for the vault doors.


"Excuse me, but there's been a security breach. If you could please go back to the -" recited one of the two CIA officers, before Sydney nimbly cracked their heads together.


"And here I thought that only happened on television," Sark commented, taking out a set of tweezers and going to work on the keypad posted beside the metal door.


It soon slid open with a familiar hiss. They stepped over the guards and cautiously drew their firearms.


-


"Has anyone been past here in the last 5 minutes?" Dixon barked to the checkpoint guard, storming down the corridor.


"Just two NSC agents: a blonde guy and a cute redhead. I'd never seen them before, but they seemed safe."


"Or not," Eric said grimly, catching sight of the unconscious guards and the cannibalized keypad.


"Who do you think it is?" Marshal squeaked from behind.


"I'd hazard to guess Sark," Vaughn answered, furious.


Dixon turned to the terrified guard. "Contact your commander. Order a perimeter around the building. I want him to keep all his men away, understand? There are at least two highly trained assailants in the main vault. No one gets in or out without my say-so. Dismissed." He glanced at Eric, who had already moved to the door and was re-wiring the keypad. "If it's Sydney," he reminded them - Marshal, Vaughn, especially Eric - "if it is Sydney, remember that she's now an enemy of the United States. You have orders to shoot if she makes a move. Do you understand me?"


"Clear as day," Eric snarled, punching in the correct code. Again, the door slid open.


-


The vault was located underground, spanning half a mile beneath the city. A narrow metal staircase led down into the room, where over three dozen rows of identical, towering steel filing cabinets formed duplicate hallways. It was shadowy, and cold, lit dimly by low-grade overhead lights.


The rows were unmarked.


"Whoever designed this filing system," Sark growled, "should be publicly flogged."


"Or awarded with a medal. I'd say he did a damned good job, if we can't find what we're trying to steal," Sydney contradicted.


He wished she would stop being so logical. That was his shtick, frankly.


"Split up. I'll go right, you go left. We meet back in 7 minutes. Keep quiet," he instructed quickly, "but call out if you need me. I'm sure there's one hell of an echo in here.  I'll find you if you're in trouble."


"And vice versa," Sydney shot back gamely, jogging off down the deserted hallway formed by endless queues of locket holding closets.


Sark was moving the opposite way when he heard the unmistakable whisper of the heavy door sliding open, followed by a procession of footsteps clanging onto the wire-mesh catwalk. He turned quickly, catching sight of Eric Weiss, who scanned the chamber bellow.


Training told him to shoot the bastard in the skull.  The Glock 18. had a range of at least 165ft. Instead Sark dove inelegantly onto the floor, sliding against the steel cabinets, and hid in the shadows. Admitted or not, he loved Sydney too fiercely to murder her best friend.


Somewhere, on the other side of the vault, a safety clip unlocked.


"There's someone here!" Weiss shouted, charging down the stairwell, closely followed by Former Sydney-Sidekick Marcus Dixon, Agent Michael Doormat, and - dear lord, Flinkman. Sark hastily began crawling degradingly along the makeshift hallway, checking the filing tags periodically.


"Weiss, Marshal, you go left," he heard Dixon command. "Vaughn, right. You're with me. Spread out, meet in the middle. They're trapped in here."


Any other marvelous observations, Director Obvious? Sark thought cynically, then wondered when working with Sydney had reduced him to crafting mute luke-warm zingers. He moved upward into a crouch to check another tag - 'A., H., #623'.


Annoyed with the wholly unethical filing system, Sark moved on his knees down the corridor. At the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, he flung himself back down against the foot of the boxes, pressed into shadow. Dixon scanned the hallway swiftly before moving on.


Vaughn, of course, would be following soon, but Sark had little to no faith in the man's abilities. He stood freely as Dixon disappeared, walking hastily along the safes until he found the correct vault. It was sectioned into three drawers, each with ridiculously complex locking mechanisms.


Sark pried open the keypad and cut the red wire. The lock instantly deactivated.


"Have a little imagination," he grunted, seizing the Quill, encased in a glass box, and pocketing it.


In a moment, he noticed Michael Vaughn holding a gun in his face.


"Drop it, Sark," he said angrily. "Where's Sydney?"


"Off alone somewhere, I should imagine, wondering which formerly-dead relative must have brainwashed her into dating you," he answered indifferently.


"Drop the weapon," barked Vaughn, and Sark complied - arrogant jackass or not, he wasn't stupid.


"Was it really worth it?" Vaughn asked harshly, holding the Beretta closer to Sark's forehead than strictly necessary. "Stealing Sydney, playing with her head, making her believe she actually likes you? Making her betray the people she loves? Is it really worth the death sentence, Sark? Are you happy?"


"My girlfriend's trained in Krav Magna," Sark answered irreverently, "Of course I'm happy."


Without consideration Vaughn moved to pistol-whip the assassin across the face. Anticipating, reveling in the action, Sark dodged smoothly, seizing the man's arm and slamming his open palm into Vaughn's chin. Vaughn's head snapped back, releasing the Beretta, and tumbled sideways.


"Freeze!" shouted a second voice, and Dixon chose to put in an appearance, at the other end of the hall.


Sark fired three shots into the Director's chest. The bulletproof-vest saved his life, but not his consciousness. Dixon hit the wall and slid.


"Agent Weiss I let live because he seems the more able of the CIA's operatives. But I don't particularly like you," Sark warned as Vaughn made a lunge for his dropped Glock.


Truthfully, he had no fucking idea what to do with Agent Vaughn. Knock him out, naturally, but Weiss and Flinkman (though he didn't really count) had already been alerted to Sark's presence. For all he knew, they could have captured Sydney by now.


"Where's Sydney?" Weiss demanded, rounding the corner.


Well, there goes that theory.


Sark immediately leveled the Beretta to Vaughn's ear in response to the SIG SG pointed at him by Eric Weiss. A standoff.


Whatever the outcome, Sydney was going to be pissed.


"What is your collective obsession with the whereabouts of Sydney Bristow? She's a grown woman, you know, perfectly capable of raising hell all by herself," he responded affably.


"I should shoot you right now," Eric said slowly.


"Yes," Sark agreed, "but then who would be around to make you feel unworthy?"


This was a dangerous situation, despite Sark's flippant demeanor. He could readily end up with a 30-round magazine in his chest. Muscles tire. Fingers waver. Michael Vaughn wouldn't be held prisoner for long.


Eric switched on the laser sight of his rifle; a red dot appeared on Sark's throat. "Where is she?" he repeated.


"I'm up here."


The warring members of the Sydney-Loves-Me-Better club turned their eyes upward, to where she stood atop the row of steel holding boxes. The pistol in her hand was aimed straight at Eric's unprotected torso.


"You hurt Sark, and believe me, I will pull this trigger," Sydney said steadily.


Sark, her boyfriend, was threatening to shoot Vaughn, her former lover.  Eric, her would-be hunny and best friend (since the death of Non-Clone Francie), was holding up Sark. Sydney, beloved by all, was aiming her gun at Eric.


Sydney absently scheduled a mental breakdown for sometime next week.


Eric returned his gaze determinedly to Sark, holding the rifle tightly as if daring him to move. Vaughn, for his own part, considered risking another lunge for the Glock, but Sark kicked it away.


"What are you doing, Syd?" Eric questioned, his voice low and steady. "Why like this? We could have protected you. You didn't have to go with him. Why?"


When no answer came, he dared a look over to her. Those big brown eyes he'd gotten to memorize were now filled with regretful tears. "I didn't have a choice," she explained tiredly.


After a brief hesitation, Eric threw away the SIG, lifting his hands in submission. He stared at Sydney with a mixture of forgiveness and disappointment.


She stepped off the side of the security boxes, Sark half-catching her as she dropped lightly to the ground.


She always landed on her feet.


"Where's Marshal?" Vaughn said suddenly.


"Row C. I surprised him and he accidentally shot himself with the tranq. He'll be out for a couple of hours." Sark was now pulling her insistently away, more worried about their escape than a grand scene between former friends. "I'm sorry, Eric," she said hastily. "I really am."


He nodded, once, but she was already gone.


-


Sark offered to go alone, to save her the torment, but she was realistic. Pike had demanded her presence and she wouldn't risk the job against it.


"That was quick," Pike commented as he joined their table. Roadside cafes were ideal for these meetings - impersonal, unobstructed, isolated while surrounded by people. Sark slid the case across to him.


Their transactions were quick and to the point; 47 million scattered into 14 different accounts across the continent. When business concluded, minutes before dessert arrived, Pike reverted to his old tricks.


"It was a pleasure working with you again," he voiced, rising to shake hands with Sark. He offered his hand to Sydney, but withdrew when he perceived the fork she gripped firmly, smiling a bizarre grin.


"Anything I should pass on to Irina?" he asked, resorting to the same foul he'd played at their first meeting.


"Sure," Sydney said breezily, "Tell her to hire a new middle man. Her current one is as good as dead."


"She's really something, isn't she?" Pike told Sark, unaffected, admiring. "I'd hold on tight if I were you."


Sark didn't feel the need to comment, her nails digging into his knee unknowingly. Only when Pike left did he dare speak.


"He's nothing, Sydney; Just a puppet on a string," he murmured confidently. "He's not worth your notice."


She held a strange expression, one Sark had seen fleeting glimpses of in the past, usually before she royally screwed him over to gain possession of the prize. It was something he'd previously feared, something he'd barely failed to define until now.


"Mom's been pulling the same run-around for three years," Sydney pronounced. "I've had enough. I'm going to follow my own damned rules."


Sark was witnessing the prophecy's heroine in action. She'd realized a flaw in Irina's plan: according to Rambaldi, Sydney was invincible.


-