Author's Note : Sorry (as always) for the delay. I've made it my goal now to update faster from here on out. Then again, my new year's resolution was to be less annoying and paranoid, so…

  Anyway. Thanks of course to all the lovely people who took time to voice (read : type) their comments/suggestions/Gypsy curses. In my opinion, reviewers are some of the very finest of our society, right behind whoever makes those little plastic thingys on the end of shoelaces. They have an amusing name for those things but I currently forget what it is.

  This, and now all chapters preceding this (yes, all of them!) were kindly beta-ed by Becca. Were she beta-ing this note beforehand, she probably would have told me "beta-ing" isn't a word, so you get some idea what she has to deal with. Thank you most sincerely, Bec.

  Cheers,

Lauren

-
Part 21 : Digging Graves
-

"I suggest a bazooka at very short range."


He stopped pacing, glancing over his shoulder at her with a mixture of irritation and unwanted amusement.


"I hear the Russians are perfecting a contained-perimeter hand grenade. Might be fun," she added, baiting him.


"I'd be more than willing to murder Irina with nothing other than a paperclip and some imagination, Sydney. What we're lacking is the opportunity," he said shortly. When she shrugged indifferently he fell back on his pacing.


"As detestable as it is, our best option is to follow our original plan," Sark stated wearily, stopping in front of the window and staring down at the city far below.


"It's not really our plan, per se. We're more following a predetermined course of action."


"Technicality," he replied airily. "Makes no difference."

"So we wait," Sydney said coldly.

"For now," he answered, though it hadn't been a question.

Tonight they were in Wexford, on the eastern coast of Ireland. Tomorrow they'd jump to Belfast, then Plymouth, forever two steps planned beforehand with no end in sight. The hotel suite was warm, muted, almost lethargic in tone. Sydney leaned with her back against the wall, arms crossed and staring at Sark, who stood eclipsing the clear afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.

Sark felt her gaze, saw her guarded form reflected in the glass. "They'll pay," he said definitely. He carefully kept his back to Sydney. "They'll pay for hurting you. They'll go screaming to their graves by the time I'm done with them."


Sydney hesitated, frowned slightly as she processed this statement, took in the full weight of his commitment and realized Sark's anger was more cherished than any caress Vaughn had ever given her.


"What about the people who hurt you?" she asked quietly.


He turned in surprise, confusion, observing her critically.


"23 feet, 9 inches. Chalk marble, gilded mahogany doors," she told him. "Ockley kept you in there for four months."

"Insignificant," he contradicted. "You were in the same room for almost seven months. My stay was rather relaxing compared to yours."

"My dad had me programmed when I was six years old," Sydney snapped, "I'm used to it by now. I have bigger fish to fry, sweetie. But you?" She shook her head darkly. "I don't like people touching what's mine, either."

"This isn't about me, Sydney. Ockley's the least of our troubles. We can't afford to go after him any more than we can Irina," he said, moving within inches of her.

"He isn't on the Covenant payroll," Sydney said abruptly. "He was Callaghan's lackey. No official connection with the Covenant. To everybody else he's just a sociopath with a medical license."

Sark didn't respond at first, simply watching her intently with a masked expression of awe. "You're indescribably good at this," he said aloud.

"If you could maybe blink sometime soon, that'd be great," Sydney urged, unnerved.

Swiftly, Sark hooked his foot behind her ankle and swept her legs out from under her. Sydney slid awkwardly into the wall and onto the floor, instinctively cushioning her fall with her elbows before Sark dropped ontop of her, crushing her beneath him.

"What the fu-" she yelled, only to be cut off by Sark pushing his tongue down her throat.

She'd long ago given up trying to map out his rapidly shifting moods - he switched between tenderness and violence with startling quickness, between anger and amusement without warning. Sydney was too disoriented to move, let alone respond, as his hands slid under her shirt with familiarity.

She shrieked with laughter and disbelief as he dropped all pretense and mercilessly began tickling her ribs.

Unpredictable, sure. He liked keeping her on her toes.

-

The tires skidded against the curb. He slowly switched off the engine, taking a moment to collect himself.

She attempted to smile, shooting him a sideways glance. "All we've been through, and you still can't parallel park?" she teased lightly.

"Can you hear it?" Sark whispered.

Sydney angled her head toward the open passenger-side window, listening apprehensively for the sound.

Out of sight, she heard the ocean.

Keeping her breath even, Sydney briskly unclasped her seatbelt and stepped out the Mercedes. Forcing his composure, Sark did the same, retrieving the heavy leather briefcase from the backseat before taking her hand. Together they walked across the empty city street toward the 9-floor office building, something that had become a permanent fixture in their suppressed nightmares.

Sark hesitated when his hand touched the glass front door.

"This plan is either revolutionary or pure suicide," he said.

"I deflect all blame on lack of time and proper funding," she responded, unwilling to drop her impassive facade.

"There are dozens of people in there," he remarked, "People with families and friends and lives wholly unaffiliated with their choice of employer."

Her eyes flashed angrily, something personal experience had taught Sark to dread. "Tell me they couldn't hear the screaming through the walls," she said in a grim monotone.

Sark nodded, once, and without pity. He tugged open the door and followed her inside.

The lobby was clean and smooth, comfortable but sterile, exactly fitted to a medical office. The clerk posted at the desk looked up from his computer, quickly ushering to his feet.

"Good morning. Do you have an appointment?" he asked mechanically.

"No. We're a walk-in," Sydney answered, calmly drawing the UZI from her overcoat and punching 5 of the 32 round magazine into the secretary's chest.

Using his own submachine gun, his a '74 Skorpion, Sark took out the bank of security cameras dotting the ceiling.

Alerted by the indescribable amount of noise caused by the weaponry, a trio of security guards can rushing from the lounge located behind the desk. Shoulder to shoulder, Sydney and Sark downed them within seconds, their firearms dealing a combined rate of 1850 bullets per round.

She watched as they folded over onto the ground. Two years, a month, hell, a week ago, Sydney would have felt the guilt like a knife to the chest. But she'd been pushed too far.

  Efficiently ejecting the empty clip onto the floor, Sydney snatched a fresh magazine of ammunition from the supply strapped to Sark's chest, bandolier-style. Without comment he shouldered the briefcase, drawing a second gun with his free hand.

  "Watch behind us," Sark suggested, flicking off the Glock's safety.

  She swiveled compliantly, slamming her back against Sark. Together they walked, Sydney facing backwards, down the empty corridor leading to the elevators. The entire floor echoed with the sound of gunplay and the stench of fresh blood.

  Sydney heard a door screech from behind her. Ignoring her instincts, she remained facing the way they had come, clenching her jaw when she felt Sark jolt against her. He fired a short burst of bullets, then continued guiding her onward.

  In passing she saw the bloodied corpse of a janitor still twitching in the partially-open doorway of the cleaning closet.

"Ignore it," Sark told her quietly, "Put it out of your mind. Concentrate on finding the mark and getting out alive."

  They reached the elevators. The door slid open with a ding.

  "Relax for a moment," he continued as the compartment began ascending. "Save your energy."

  Sydney smiled wistfully, swiping at the blood spattered on his face. "You've done this before, I take it."

  "Many times." He holstered the Glock, again taking hold of her hand.

  Unable to contain it, she laughed.

  "You always hold my hand," she explained when he frowned in question. "You always call me Darling and you always hold my hand. You, Mr. Sark," she said, "are absurdly romantic."

  He grinned, almost sadly. "This is real, Sydney."

  "I know," she said lightly, "but you told me not to think about it."

  The dial posted above the elevator door moved to 7. Unanimously the pair stepped to opposite sides of the compartment, out of view from the hall as the door slid open with a repeated chime.

  Immediately the guards waiting outside opened fire; Sark could feel the air disturbance against his face as bullets hissed by and struck the back wall. He winked at her from across the doorway.

  Sydney reached around the corner and tossed a time-rigged grenade at their feet.

  When the flames had died down and the plaster shrapnel settled beside the bodies, they stepped out of the elevator and strode unchallenged down the hall.

  Together they proved despicably adept at massacre.

  Another squad of armed guards spilled out of the emergency stairwell at the end of the familiar darkly-lit hallway. Sydney held down the trigger on the UZI, falling the men with unflinching butchery, Sark at her side sniping away at any survivors with his more-accurate Glock.

  Not even Rambaldi had seen this coming.

  Gripping the double handle of the weapon, Sydney's knuckles had gone white. She loosened her hold on the UZI, flexing each hand by turns and grimacing.

  "If I recall, the laboratory's the last room at the end of the hall," she announced. She'd already fought her way out of this place once before.

  "There are more coming," Sark warned, crouching down to unsling the briefcase he'd insisted on bringing. Indeed, the sound of heavy footsteps were heard pounding toward them from the open stairwell.

  Sydney reluctantly lifted the UZI once more, her arms stiff from maintaining the needed stance. Sark began removing the many pieces kept in the briefcase, steadily assembling the OICW assault weapon kept inside, a rifle/shotgun hybrid capable of not only killing an opponent, but also knocking the body a solid six feet backwards. It was a military-grade weapon not even available for civilian use. It was also grotesquely expensive.

  "You and you're toys," Sydney scolded him, and charged down the corridor.

  Instantly she was met by a trio of guards, stepping onto the landing with more men thundering up from below. Dodging, she decked the first with the butt of the UZI and struck the second with a jacknife kick to the throat. On the third, before he could be his rifle to good use, she twirled the UZI like a baton, spinning sideways to touch a blow just below the man's ear. He instantly followed his to companions onto the floor.

  "Use the business end of that thing!" Sark yelled, shooting past her to eliminate the second wave of guards arriving behind her.

  It was over pitifully fast. With the tactical advantage and an unreasonable ammount of ammunition, the two freelance operatives defeated the twelve-man strike team without pause. Within seconds both Sydney and Sark were splashed in blood that was not their own.

  The haunting laboratory was entranced by two locked double doors. Sydney took a step back and viciously nailed the handle with her heel, snapping the flimsy latch in two. The doors swung open, a blast of sickly cold air sweeping forth.

  As remembered, there was a tiny port window cut into the wall, any sunlight overwhelmed by the harsh electric light of the overhead lamps. Nothing from their memories had been changed – all was white, everything but the polished metal of the operating table with leather bindings at strategic placements, and the silver instruments posted on the tray in one corner.

  Sydney let out a shuddering breath, stepping into the room. She felt rather than saw Sark come to stand beside her, reaching robotically for her hand.  Four months or seven, it made no difference; Both had the same nauseating memories of bright lights before impenetrable darkness, of the cool steel of the blade before the burning feel of blood, of the sound of a purring voice and the methodical coolness of the ocean. Of the stark black-and-white picture hanging irregularly on the opposite wall.

  "He's not here," Sydney said.

  As if on cue, Sark turned and bolted from the room, Sydney at his heels. With blind intuition he ran back toward the stairwell, vaulting over bodies, over railings, heedless of noise. Down, down, 3 floors below them, a white-clad figure scurried away. High on adrenaline and rage, Sark sped after him, Sydney trailing behind. She reached over and fired several rounds downward; The bullets sizzled at Ockley, striking sparks off the metal railing inches from his hand.

  The distance closing, Ockley turned and wrenched open the door onto the 5th floor. Within moments the two followed him inside.

  The 5th level had a similar layout to the 8th, a long, straight corridor, the elevators at one end, the emergency stairwell at the other. Six doors on each side lined the hall.

  "Where'd the little bastard go?" Sydney grunted, breathing heavily through her nose, as she arrived behind Sark. Spanning before them was a anti-climactically empty hallway.

  "To hell, in a minute," Sark answered shortly, shouldering open the first door. The office inside was unoccupied.

  They took turns breaking through doors in as destructive a manner as possible, a testament to their rapidly fraying patience. Room after room, quaint, innocent offices with desks and plotted plants, or small chambers with x-ray machines and jars of lollipops resting on the examination table. Ockley operated under the careful disguise of a private medical practice.

  They found him seated nervously in the guest lounge, running his fingers erratically through thinning hair. Furnishing the room were soft leather couches and dark wood tables. A crescent window dwarfed the opposing wall. With practiced agreement Sydney stood in the doorway, her firearm held ready, as Sark entered the room aiming his assault rifle at the doctor.

  "I suggest you stay completely still," Sark said in that lilting, taunting tone of his, "I'm afraid I'm a bit trigger-happy, you see."

  "Mr. Sark," Ockley said, strained. "Ms. Thorne. My two favorite projects."

  "A failure, as it were. You can see, your work didn't take," Sark answered, stepping closer. At this range, Ockley would feel the full impact of the 12mm. buckshot.

  Ockley failed to begin groveling for his life, and that was when Sydney knew that something was Very Wrong.

  "Julian, shoot him now," she called urgently. Her voice died away when she felt the barrel of a rifle against her spine.

  "Irina told me you might by paying a visit," Ockley explained. "Nothing but the best security when my former patients are in town."

  A second team of guards crowded the doorway, and this time, the Medici would not win.

  "Drop the weapons," the leader ordered, masked by a bulletproof visor.

  Sydney dropped the UZI and held her hands aloft, coming cautiously over to Sark. He barely noticed when she bumped against his shoulder, he glared so intently at Ockley. Mr. Sark, she realized, was sorely tempted to blast the son of a bitch, anyway.

  She put a hand firmly on the OICW rifle, pushing it aside. "We found the mark," she murmured, "now let's concentrate on getting out alive."

  Sark finally tore his eyes away from Ockley, frowning down at her with a foreign expression.
 
  "Drop the weapon!" barked the commando again.

  Sark held her gaze, as if oblivious to the world.

  "I suggest you listen to him, Mr. Sark. I expect more of you than to see you die in vain," Ockley grated.

  Deliberately, Sydney sprang forward, slamming against Sark and propelling them toward the window. Surprised bullets spit out around them as they crashed through the glass in a tangle of limbs.

  Sark wound his arms around her waist, tucked her head against his chest, and now they were flying, now falling, five levels up, glass shards sparkling around them, bullets above, concrete below, and nothingness in between. With a jerk of her arm the spring-loaded dagger sheathed on her wrist sprang out, Sydney catching it deftly while she wrangled her body sideways.

  "This is absurd," Sark had the audacity to complain as she stabbed the utility knife into the smooth white marble racing beside them. The knife glanced off the stone, once, twice, then caught in a groove between blocks, less than thirty feet from the ground.

  Momentarily the wrenched to a halt, the knife scraping a shallow cut through the marble. Inevitably the steel blade snapped.

  They hit the concrete, hard.

  3, 4, 5, - 5 little monkeys, all in a row – Ockley's security team leaned out the smashed window and opened fire.

  "You know, this really wasn't a wise career move for me," Sydney yelled, rolling to her feet and scrambling for cover.

  They'd landed behind the building, in the perpetual alleys behind the skyscrapers. Unfit for a mad dash through the half-mile stretch of pavement with gunfire dancing around them, Sark tugged her hastily behind a dumpster. The unceasing pound of buckshot punching into the metal blocking their view told them to sit tight.

"You just had to drop your gun," Sark muttered petulantly, to which she righteously slapped him. Realistically, though, she took stock of their weaponry and found they had only Sark's uber-rifle, his Glock, and the vaguely sharp hilt of Sydney's utility knife.

She whistled. "Yeah. We're screwed," she agreed.

To punctuate her point, another round of gunfire hailed against the dumpster.

"We have to move," he decided unnecessarily, "They'll be coming for us in a minute. Make a run for it?"

"OK," she said gamely, "You go first."

He grinned wryly and didn't move.

Sydney rose to a crouch, scanning their surroundings. "There," she announced, pointing.

Sark looked, and Sark recoiled. Twelve feet away was a manhole leading into the sewer system.

"I think I'll just walk down the alley, thanks," he grunted.

Sydney didn't bother listening. She testingly gripped the side of the dumpster and gave it a nudge. With a screech, it rolled forward. Sighing, he rose to help her.

Ever-present gunfire raining down toward them, Sydney and Sark wheeled the dumpster slowly toward the manhole. To test his patience, one wheel squealed incessantly.

Feeling the grave indignity of it all, Sark pried open the grate and descended into the sewer. Sydney sealed the lid behind them.

"What's that smell?" he grimaced.

For the second time in as many minutes, Sydney slapped him. "We're in the sewer. Dumbass."

"Ahh, true love. Sweet endearments, crass name-calling, it makes no difference," he observed sarcastically.


Forcing herself not to consider what was caught around her ankle, Sydney led the way, trudging through the black tunnel systems with only Sark's watchlight as illumination.

  "There's an opening over there," he said hopefully.

"We're too close," she said wearily, "We have to get as far away as possible from the building. If we go up through there, we'll just be at a bit farther range than before. The term sitting duck comes to mind."

  "All right, so, what? We just keep walking?" he balked.


  "You really hate getting your clothes dirty, do you?" she snorted, reaching into her coatpocket and taking out a cellphone.

  "That's no use," Sark grunted, "None of our operatives know where we are. They're nowhere close and I certainly didn't trust them with our mission semantics."

  "I'm calling for directions," she answered simply, punching a button on her speed-dial. She silenced Sark's questions with a wave of her hand. "It's me," she said into the phone.

-


  Suffice to say his work had lost it's appeal. Day after day, 12 hour shifts, coasting on caffeine and boredom, Eric schlepped through his paperwork, went on routine missions that had lost their thrill, sat in Barnett's office and told her repeatedly that he was just dandy.

  He went through aspirin like it was candy.

  Vaughn noticed, of course, invited him to hockey games, to dinner at their house, offered him a place on the couch and an ear to talk to, but Eric retreated home at night and rarely answered the phone. Vaughn was thankful, though shocked at first, that Eric had erased Sydney's voice from the answering machine. Calls were no longer left for "Syd or Weiss"; You were merely instructed to talk after the sound of the beep.

  "Lighting play Friday, ESPN2. Lecavalier's back off his leg injury. Lauren's out of town, we could watch it at my place," Mike was saying, leaning against Eric's desk.

  Eric glanced momentarily up from the endless report on his computer screen, blinked once, then returned to reading without comment nor expression.

  "C'mon, Eric," Vaughn urged, "You gotta get over this. She's gone,"

  Any hopes Vaughn had of gaining a reply were negated by the ring of Eric's cellphone. Clearly irritated, he dug it out from under a pile of half-finished paperwork and answered with a growl.

  A short reply from the caller sent Eric jerking back in his seat, his breath quickening as he vainly strove to remain calm. "Syd - where are you?" he croaked.

  "What?" Vaughn asked. "Weiss, who is it?"

  "I'm in the Scarborough sewer system," Sydney said carefully, "I'm a bit lost."

  "Syd, wait – shit, what's going on?" Eric said frantically, turning in a circle to watch for anyone listening in.

  "Syd? Is that Sydney?" Vaughn demanded, and Eric smacked him irreverently on the shoulder to be quiet.

  "Deep breaths, Eric. I'm alright," she hesitated before adding, "Julian's here with me."

  "Hello, Agent Weiss," sang a distance voice over the phone.

  Eric sighed, turning toward his computer. "What do you need?" he asked stiffly.

  "Directions. We're just north of the sewer entrance behind the Ockley Private and Family Medical facility. We need to get to an exit at least two miles south. Somewhere hidden."

  "What are you doing?" Vaughn insisted as Eric closed out his report windows and opened the satelite mapping program.

  "Hang on a minute," he told Sydney, "I'm looking now."

  Frenetically scrolling through read-outs, Eric found the coordinates within minutes. "OK, you listening? From the point you entered from, you're gonna want to go straight down the south tunnel for 9 kilometers, then take a left east, then south again. You'll pass four manholes on the last tunnel. Go up the fourth, it'll land you right behind a car garage. I checked, it closed for the day 2 hours ago."

  Confused, Vaughn listened intently. He knew better than to interrupt.

  "You're my knight, Eric," Sydney whispered, drawing a involuntary smile. Eric stood, turning his back to Vaughn.

  "Syd?" he said quietly.

  "Yeah?"

  He released a shuddering breath. "How's he treating you?"

  Across the line, Sydney laughed. "He persists in holding my hand at all times."

  "He damn well better," he replied bluntly. "I don't suppose you can tell me why your in the sewer?"

  "Another time, maybe. I have to go."

  He nodded, entirely to himself as she couldn't see him. "I'm glad you called me," he admitted. "Whenever you need me. Always call."

  Momentary silence.

  "I will."

  Almost unwillingly, Eric removed the phone from his ear and pressed 'End'. After collecting himself, he turned back to Vaughn.

  "What're you doing?" Eric echoed, frowning.

  Startled, Vaughn closed out the program he had opened. "Cleaning out your cache," he said quickly. "That was Sydney, right? I'm covering your tracks," he explained. "What'd she say?"

  "Nothing," Eric answered truthfully, sinking back into his chair. "She was in a sewer, Sark has a hand-holding fetish, and I'm her knight in shining armor," he said. "Nothing."

-

  "There's a reason I don't make friends," Sark commented. "It only leads to guilt."

  "Really?" Sydney marveled sarcastically, "I thought you just didn't have the knack for it."

  They trekked through the tunnels, following Eric's directions. Sark was in a difficult mood, alternately quarreling and bantering with her, while Sydney's mind was otherwise occupied with guilt-ridden memories of Eric Weiss.

  "He forgives you, you know," Sark said suddenly. "They all do. You're too damned likeable, darling."

  "I'll work on that," she said easily, passing the third overhead grate. "Here it is."

  Ladies first, Sydney climbed the short metal ladder up to the grate, Sark close behind. With some difficulty she shoved it open.

  Faded evening sunlight shot down into the tunnel, blinding from hours spent in blackness. Squinting, Sydney grabbed the rim of the hole and began pulling herself up. Directly she became aware of the multiple gun barrels held inches from her head.

  "Follow the leader," Ockley called from above.


  From below Sydney, Sark observed the turn of events with a sort of detached desolation. Partially blocking the grate, Sydney glanced down to meet his gaze, the same look of uncomprehending horror mirrored in her eyes.

  "Come up slowly," instructed one of Ockley's men, "Arms where I can see them."

  Sydney swung her gaze back upward, counting the opponents. She clenched her jaw and Sark knew.

  "Darling, no!" he cried as her heel lashed down and collided with his face, knocking him off the ladder.


  "Get out of here!" she screamed at him, pushing herself up out of the tunnel, into the waiting arms of Ockley's men. Sark had barely scrambled back to his feet, blood oozing from the bruise forming on his cheek, when Sydney kicked the grate shut. Following came the sound of the emergency latch being moved into place.

  The sunlight instantly cut out, leaving Sark bathed in grey darkness. He immediately scaled the ladder, pushing against the grate in an effort he knew to be futile.

  Sydney had been captured.

-

  It'd been two days since he had talked to her. Two days of wondering, half-expecting another call, two days of worsening insomnia. Eric considered moving his belongings out of the den and into the bedroom, Sydney's bedroom, but inevitably he made no attempt to do so. Her room remained intact, exactly as she had left it, down to the copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland laying in her chair with a bookmark edging between the pages. It was vaguely pathetic, he supposed, to not pack up her possessions, but the alternative would be shipping them off to storage in denial that she had ever lived there. Disturbing, too, were the cardboard boxes that rested inside her closet, meticulously labeled 'Office Effects of Jack Bristow'.

  In the early morning, when he formerly would be nagging Sydney to eat something, Eric made coffee in morose silence and never, ever wore the navy suit that clashed with his hair.

  He was more irritated than surprised by the doorbell ringing as he washed his breakfast dishes. Mike, probably, stopping by before work again. When Sydney had first returned, Eric had been forced to chose sides. His friendship with Mike was moot at this point.

  Eric walked to the front hallway and tugged open the door, grimacing.

  Standing on the landing, dark leather, blonde hair, impenetrable sunglasses. Not, he realized, Michael Vaughn.

  Sark held a handgun aimed at Eric's throat.

-