Many thanks to sallene for previewing this, as always!
Good Will
London.
There was something about that city that always made Sydney's heart swell. Sure, Paris was supposed to be the city of love, but in reality, she'd take London any day.
Jet lag was setting in, but she wasn't about to take a nap right now. There was too much to do. Whether or not she could do it, though, remained to be seen.
When you're searching for someone, you really have little to go on. You wait and wait for some information, some break that you can follow. And then you run like hell to follow it.
Sydney wished they were at that point. Instead, Sark was scraping the barrel for sources he could trust. She knew he'd already added his last source to his mental hit list; that assassin had to have tracked them down through the source.
She sighed, drawing a look from Sark as he tried his command over the phone.
"Well, where would MI6 hold their prisoners?" he asked. He pursed his lips together into a frustrated smirk.
They stood at a fuel station. Calvin pumped the fuel into the car, and he looked sufficiently bored. His blonde hair was a mess, and he fiddle with it. He left the pump on automatic, and dipped his hands into the water used to clean the windshields. Sydney cringed as he spiked his hair with the dirty water. He smiled to himself victoriously as he glanced in the side-view mirror.
Sydney shook her head, and focused on Sark. His face was grim but his eyes bright with determination. He hung up the phone and looked to Sydney.
"Anything?" she asked.
He shook his head. "But he's looking," he said, referring to the source he spoke with. "We're to meet him at a club tonight, in just a few hours."
"How do you know you can trust him?" The question, surprisingly, came from Calvin. Sydney glanced over at him, then back at Sark. She raised her eyebrows at him, pressing for an answer.
Sark's face was unreadable and emotionless. "I don't."
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"Wake up," he said loudly. It was to her parents, and it worked. Both of their bodies twitched at the noise, until they too sat up.
"You're being released," he said. Ilene's mother let out an exultant gasp. "Just you, ma'am."
The joy subsided, and Barbara looked to her husband with worry in her eyes.
"But—"
"Now, ma'am, before Agent Yielding changes his mind." The short agent quickly motioned her to her feet, and started pulling her towards the door.
"What?!" Ilene exclaimed. "I want to speak with Agent Yielding!" The demand was bold, but it didn't stop her mother from being led out of the cell. The door shut loudly, and Ilene turned to face her father.
"Why would they only release your mother?" he asked. His face was angry, but then again, so was Ilene.
"I'll find out," Ilene said confidently. She waited; it wouldn't be long until Yielding showed up.
He made an appearance fifteen minutes later.
"Yes, Ilene," he said with a sigh.
"What the hell are you doing?" she said, not hesitating a moment to grill him. "Where is my mother?"
Her father stood up, trying to challenge the agent just by his sheer body build. It wasn't scaring Yielding, but it convinced him to take the conversation elsewhere.
He led Ilene to another room, and she followed passively. He definitely won't take me outdoors again. She suppressed a laugh at that memory, and sat at the familiar metal table.
Yielding stayed standing. He didn't wear a suit jacket, but his shirt sleeves were rolled up and his tie loose.
"Your mother has been released," he said. "I know you're not inclined to believe me, but she has been released. We let her go, out on her own."
Ilene studied his eyes, looking for truth over lies. "Why let her go now? And especially when she'll have no idea where she is!"
Yielding held up a hand. "Ilene, calm down," he said with a touch of condescension. "We told her where we are. She's free."
The suspicion never left Ilene's eyes. Why? Why let her go, especially when she'll contact Julian—
And the glare's force renewed. Ilene narrowed her eyes at the agent. "You let her go so you could follow her to Julian."
It was Yielding's turn to roll his eyes. "Believe it or not, I don't give your mother that much credit to even be able to find him. And, I give Sark more credit than thinking he'll fall for such a blatant tactic."
"Then . . ." she thought about it . . "you're counting on her to lead Julian to you."
Yielding smiled, almost like he was proud of her. "I gave your mother a tidbit of information, to point Sark in the right direction. Which means we have to leave."
He went for the door, then turned back to her. "Ilene, I'm really not the bad guy."
She didn't answer.
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Calvin buttoned up his shirt. He was so freaking excited! My first op!!
Well, not his, but he was going along. The shirt was a strategically-torn black Rammstein t-shirt. He worked on his hair next, his eyes glued to the mirror as he watched the spikes rise.
And suddenly he saw Sydney in the reflection too. Calvin immediately straightened up and tried to appear disinterested. But he saw her smirk just the same.
"Nice try, Cal," she said, patting him on the back. He tried his best to seem embarrassed by that until she moved on. And as soon as she did, Cal grinned at his reflection.
He left his domain by the mirror when he felt ready. He knew he was strutting through the hotel room, but he honestly didn't care.
Julian was fixing his own hair, and Calvin couldn't help but let his jaw drop. Getting his brother to wear jeans on a daily basis had been a struggle, but here he was, willingly dressed in a black shirt with a metallic shine and dark pants that had more zippers than needed. To top it off, he wore a chain around his neck and fake studs in his ears and chin.
He was actually applying eyeliner too, and that's when Calvin started laughing. Julian glared at him.
"You're next," he warned, waving the black eyeliner at him. Calvin shrugged.
He wandered around the room, enjoying the anticipation. And Sydney—can she be any hotter? Calvin noticed that Julian kept eyeing her when she thought he wasn't looking. How can anyone not look? The leather bustier and magenta streaks in her hair . . . something about that combination and knowing how cool she was in real life just made her hotter than usual.
Julian's phone rang. Calvin moved to get it.
"Toss it here," Julian said. He caught it and answered while Calvin took Julian's place in front of the mirror.
"Mom?!" he heard his brother say.
"What?" Calvin and Sydney asked simultaneously.
"Mom, where are you?"
Calvin was practically jumping. Mom's calling? She must be free!! And Dad and Ilene—
"Okay, okay. Calm down, Mom," Julian said. "Listen, I want you to get to the airport. Wait in a heavily populated area, and wait to be paged under the name Lynn Pharoahs."
Lynn Pharoahs?! Where did he come up with that name?
"Someone will come for you," Julian continued. "Mom, it's not safe for any of us to come get you directly. Trust me."
Does he know something I don't? Calvin shot a look to Sydney, who nodded reassuringly. Typical—she already knows what he's talking about.
Spies, he thought with a sigh.
Julian hung up.
"Wait! Don't I get to talk to her?" Calvin protested. Geez, she's my mother too. But Julian shook his head.
"We shouldn't stay," he said. "We don't know if Mom was set up to make the call, to try and track us down. Sydney, do you think your father could look after her?"
Calvin looked to Sydney, who nodded with a touch of hesitancy. Julian must have picked up on it.
"Just to keep her safe. No one will get by him," Julian said.
Sydney nodded again. "I'll call him."
"Wait," Calvin said, reminding everyone that he was indeed present and not up to speed. "What's going on?"
"We're going to the club, now."
---------
Calvin asked questions along the way, and it was annoying Sark.
"Cal, let me sum this up as quickly and succinctly as possible," he began. "MI6 let Mom go, and only Mom. They're either counting on me to come find her, and then they'll pick me up, or they're counting on Mom to give us a tidbit to find Ilene and Dad."
Calvin stopped walking along with them, which again made Sark frustrated. "Really?"
Sark rolled his eyes. "It's so much easier if you just understand this naturally," he muttered. Sydney shot him a glare and mouthed 'be nice' to him.
"Come on," Sydney said, putting her arm over Calvin's shoulders. "The club's just ahead."
Sark's mindset changed as soon as they set foot in the club. He let himself go on the defensive, looking in every corner for anyone too interested. The thick chain around his neck rattled as he cut through the crowded entryway.
"Sydney," he said with a nod. She nodded back and spread out. Sark loved that they still connected that way. She had his back, and that was comforting, especially when their only other asset was Calvin.
Asset? That was being generous, but Sark let it go. His brother followed him, looking amazed at how some people were this weird. Sark glanced at him. Calvin looked like he fit in, except for the astonished looks and nervous fiddling with his hands.
Sark sighed, and stopped. Calvin almost ran into him.
"Cal," Sark said, or yelled over the loud bass and techno. "You have to relax. I have to meet this source alone." He paused, waiting for some nod of acknowledgement. "Can you blend in?"
Calvin nodded like an enthusiastic intern. "What should I do?"
Sark fought back a smirk. "Go pick up a girl, and try to watch for Sydney."
Calvin nodded again, with a serious but proud look on his face. It's blending in, not saving the world, Sark thought. But his brother split up and headed to the bar. Sark followed him with his eyes, watching until Calvin sat and smiled at a girl with peroxide-white hair and an eager response to his brother.
Sark turned and moved through the club. People bounced around him, shook their heads and hips around almost violently. He felt a few hands on him, passing touches and invitations. Sark never flinched but kept his eyes on his objective.
His source. The man sat at a corner table by an exit. Convenient, if I were completely alone. But he wasn't and he was glad; things were too unpredictable to go alone, especially since Sark felt slightly out of it.
It didn't help that being around Sydney constantly was screwing with his head. He'd had at least a dozen conversations with her, all in his head and playing out whether or not they could realistically be together.
The source stood, standing a good four inches over Sark. Sark had never considered himself short, but damn!
"Leonard," Sark greeted coldly, without any expression other than contempt. "What have you found?"
The tall man raised an eyebrow.
"No hug? Not even after coming back from the dead?" Leonard said. Sark narrowed his eyes at him. He didn't like where this was going already.
"Stop wasting time, Leonard." Sark sat down, facing the crowd. Leonard didn't look pleased but he obliged.
"This Alan Yielding doesn't like you much," the man started. "He's been put in charge of arresting you."
"Tell me something I don't already know," Sark said coolly. Leonard held up a hand.
"He is in Scotland, at MI6's Glasgow station." Leonard raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Good, yes?"
Sark fought to not shake the man to death. He'd already heard this from his mother, and he knew that Yielding wouldn't stay in Glasgow.
Sark glanced at Calvin, who was absorbed in his lady of choice. And she seemed absorbed in Sark.
She looked away and smiled instantly at Calvin.
Sark whipped his head around to find Sydney. He couldn't see her. There was plenty of colored hair in the room, and none of it matched her magenta.
And there it was—a slight wind, quick but hard, going through Sark's bones. Leonard. Sark looked back at the source. Leonard had a hopeful look on his face. It wasn't just to appease Sark. It was hope that he wouldn't be made.
"Leonard," Sark started as he slowly moved his hands to rest on the table, "who else is here?"
With a flash of movement, Sark grabbed his gun and shoved it against Leonard's knee.
"Mr. Sark, I would never—" Sark grabbed a knife from his boot, and thrust it in Leonard's calf. The man screamed but it was lost in the music.
"Who is it?"
But it was too late. Sark saw Calvin's girl suddenly reach for something in her own jacket and poke it in Calvin's stomach. Calvin's spine straightened instantly, and from where he was Sark could see his brother's wide, blue eyes.
"Consider yourself dead," he muttered to Leonard. Sark yanked the blade from the man's leg, and then stood slowly. The woman acknowledged him and nodded at a staircase to the basement floor of the club. Sark headed there, tucking away his gun and knife as he walked. His eyes still searched for Sydney. Was she taken?
He couldn't deal with that, not on top of everything else. Sark glanced over his shoulder, and saw the woman and Calvin following him.
Her eyes were like stone—dark and unmoving. Calvin kept looking frantically at his brother, uncertain about what to do. Sark didn't know either, but he would think of something.
Think!
As he reached the stairs, Sark heard Calvin and the woman behind him.
"Go down, slowly," she warned, prodding something into his back. Sark obliged. The noise from the club died down with every step.
"May I ask who sent you?" Sark asked politely. His voice came out confident and smooth, as if he were asking her for a date. But by the increased pressure in his back, he gathered she didn't buy into it.
Better think of something quickly—she's not going to chitchat.
They went through a door that blocked off the basement. As soon as they all cleared it, the woman quickly shut the door.
Privacy for the hit—a rule in close-distance assassinations, to be sure, but it didn't bode well for Sark.
Nor Calvin, and that thought motivated Sark. He wasn't really surprised at this assassin, and that scared him. I'm becoming too accustomed to this danger.
And he knew that wasn't fair to those he loved.
The woman suddenly shoved Sark forward, making him stumble but not fall. He turned to face her, with his hands up in plain sight.
"Lose the gun, and the knife," she ordered. She held her own blade against Calvin's throat. In her other hand was a gun, which she kept aimed at Sark. Sark moved his hands steadily as he removed his gun and knife, letting both fall to the floor.
That peroxide white hair distracted him, and he gathered that was its point. The woman's eyes glared at him. But it wasn't personal. She's trying to intimidate me.
Her eyes looked Sark over and then she smiled.
"Something amusing you?" Sark asked. She shook her head.
"Most of my targets are old, fat and egotistical," she said. Her accent was French.
"Well, at the least I'm egotistical," Sark said, drawing a fuller smile from her. "Who sent you?"
The smile ended. "You're smarter than they give you credit for," she said. "Most people I kill ask who I am."
Sark shook his head. "That means nothing to me, since I know you've been hired."
"Someone who understands the business," she commented, the smile returning.
Sark shrugged. "It's business, not personal."
Suddenly the door burst open, and Sydney came through. She didn't hesitate to fire a shot at the woman. The assassin ducked, taking Calvin with her to the floor. She changed her aim and fired at Sydney.
Sark dove after his gun, avoiding crossfire in the process. He heard more gunshots as his weapon slid in his hand. Sark rolled on his back and faced the noise.
Sydney was in a stalemate, aiming the gun but not tightening the trigger. Her eyes showed fear as the peroxide-friendly woman started to draw a line on Calvin's neck with her knife.
"Don't," Sark said. His voice was even but so low the woman did a double-take to make sure he'd spoken. She smiled, her eyes victorious. Calvin whimpered as the cut grew across his neck. Sark hated that everyone always went for the neck. Although it's the most life-threatening area that can instantly cripple. Evidently, that was common knowledge.
"I'll let him go, if you give yourself up," she said. Sydney flinched; she pursed her lips together stubbornly, as if ready to shoot the woman in the head. Sark shot her a look. Trust me, he wanted to say.
He considered it. If she succeeds and kills me, Yielding will probably let my family go anyway. Was it odd that he considered death a viable option? Nothing was certain in his life, no safety guaranteed, no relationship set in stone. Sark blinked, clearing his vision and mind.
Sark gave up his gun again, this time tossing it to the corner of the basement. In doing so, he noticed an exit, probably to the back alley.
"Come here," the woman ordered. Her hold on Calvin was nervous; she knew she was outnumbered and that if she didn't play this carefully, Sydney would have her head. Nervous people can overreact, a danger for everyone. Sark obeyed.
He had no intention of letting Calvin get hurt anymore; he wasn't about to make a move, not with him here.
So he got closer to the woman. She kept the blade at Cal's neck, and aimed the gun at Sark. Sark moved until his chest pressed against the tip of the gun. Suddenly the assassin let go of Calvin and in a single movement, transferred the blade to Sark. She draped her arm around his neck, the knife against his skin, and then poked the gun in his side. Sark let her.
"Now leave," she ordered. Sydney's eyes were frantic, pleading for Sark not to make this so easy for the assassin. His eyes were unresponsive, and he knew it. Sydney collected Calvin, and started backing for the stairs, while the woman continued to drag Sark to the alley.
"Julian!" he heard Calvin call out.
The assassin kicked the door shut behind her, and they were alone in the alley. The club's music was still pounding. Sark doubted if anyone heard the gunshots.
"Keep moving," she whispered in his ear. She hustled him, but not enough where Sark could take advantage of the movement. The blade was starting to sting his skin, and the gun felt like it was already embedded in his side.
"May I know our destination?" he asked, ever the gentleman. The assassin didn't answer.
She's getting us as far away as she can before safely killing me. Smart. Sark knew Sydney was already running around the building to cut them off. But the peroxide queen was hurrying for an adjacent building.
It was a warehouse, ever the companion to shady clubs in metropolitan areas around the world. The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed herself and Sark through it.
"So, what's your name?" Sark tried again. Peroxide Queen wouldn't do forever. She huffed at that and shoved him to the floor.
"Laina," she answered. Sark banged his knees as he hit the floor. "On your belly," she ordered. Here it comes, finally, Sark thought. He complied.
"For the record, I just bought these pants," he complained lightly.
"Interlock your fingers behind your head." Her tone was all business now. She feels safe, just her and her target.
Sark smirked as he followed the order. The floor was incredibly dusty, and unsanitary as his eyes zoomed in on a questionable substance.
He heard Laina's feet shuffle, just a bit closer to him. The gun clicked as she handled it.
"How long have you been in the business?" Sark asked. His voice was seductively cheerful, hiding the real coldness that ran through his veins.
Laina chuckled. "Long enough to know that you're stalling." He heard another sound, and felt her foot bump his leg. She was getting into a stance.
Sark acted on the final seconds. He rolled over on his side, kicking his feet out at her ankles just as she fired where his head had been. She stumbled but didn't go down. She started to re-aim. Sark arched his body towards the ceiling; his arms braced his weight up, and with a quick breath, he kicked off his feet and connected with Laina's arms. He continued his momentum until his legs were suspended in the air, and then as they started to fall again, he pushed off his arms. His body lifted and he landed on his feet. It was a cheesy move, but it served its purpose when needed.
Laina glanced at the gun, which Sark noticed was well out of either person's reach. But she reached by her leg and pulled out the knife. Before Sark could react, she hurled it at him.
Sark spun to the side, but not far enough. The 4-inch blade slammed into his side, just barely catching his waist. But it was enough to stay lodged, with only the hilt sticking out.
Laina stayed on the floor, her chest heaving. She had a gleam in her eyes, a gleam Sark recognized. It was the pleasure from the kill, the rush just as the tides turn and the target is taken.
It was premature.
Sark yanked the knife from his side. Laina stumbled to her feet, surprised at her prey's resilience. She started for the gun, but Sark was tired of the scenario.
He lunged at her and pinned her on her stomach. He used only one arm while he held the knife at his side.
She struggled beneath him. Sark eased off her enough to roll her on her back. He pressed his forearm into her throat, which made her panic.
"I know you have to kill me," she said hoarsely. "But make it quick."
Sark smirked at that. "I don't have to kill you."
Then he plunged the knife in the woman's chest. Her chest seemed to hiss as air and life left her body.
Sark saw her mouth move.
"I . . . I thought it wasn't personal," she said, no doubt her last words. Sark's eyes froze over.
"It is when you go after my family." With that, he twisted the blade, instantly ending what remained.
He stared at her, the peroxide hair not seeming so bright in this faded warehouse. He stood and brushed himself off as he glared at what he'd done. You could have let her live.
No you couldn't. They don't stop unless you kill them.
For the first time in . . . he couldn't place when—but he hated killing.
Yet he acknowledged that he was good at it.
He left the warehouse, shaking off the blood that splattered his hands. He went back to the basement of the club and gathered his gun and knife. Methodically, he put both away. Then he removed his cell phone, and called Sydney.
"Sark!" she yelled into the phone.
"I'm all right, Sydney." His voice was robotic, though he tried to snap out of it. "Meet me in front of the club."
Calvin hugged the air out of him when they met up. Sark smiled but winced at the pressure on his side.
Sydney was next, but instead of a hug, she opened up his jacket to see the wound.
"We need to get you cleaned up," she said. Her tone was stiff. She's miffed. "Don't you ever do that again," she hissed in his ear.
Sark nodded and gave his most apologetic look. Then he turned to Calvin.
"Hundreds of women in the room, and you choose the assassin?"
A sheepish Calvin just shrugged.