a/n: Please keep in mind that I know where I'm going with this story. Have faith, people—I'm not trying to send you all to the psych ward because of suspense or sadness. Honestly. :o)
Peace and Disturbances
He could smell the pancakes. At least, he thought it was pancakes. Could be waffles.
Sark rolled from the floor and steadied himself on his knees. Sydney and his sister still slept. They, with Calvin, had all crashed on the floor, having talked nearly all night.
Sark glanced at his watch. It was 10 a.m. He quickly got to his feet. Not that I have anywhere to be. But it surprised him to sleep in so much. He combed his fingers through his hair, feeling how unkempt it was. His clothes were just as unkempt. With a straight hand, he smoothed out the plain white undershirt and his khakis.
His black button-down shirt hung on a door knob, and Sark retrieved it. He watched Sydney as he buttoned the shirt. She looked very content as she slept. Her hair was a mess as were her clothes, but Sark couldn't but help think that was adorable. He knelt by her, and leaned over her head. He bent his body further, until he kissed her on the forehead.
She didn't stir, and Sark smiled as he watched her a moment later.
His mother was responsible for the pancakes. Sark saw her busily stirring batter and flipping the cakes.
"Can I help?" he asked. His mom looked up from her task and smiled. It was a sweet, proud smile, one that shouted of her happiness. She picked up a finished pancake and tossed it to him.
Sark caught it in the air and started to nibble on it.
"I'm fine with this. Are the others awake yet?" she asked. Sark could practically hear a song in her voice.
"No, though I don't know about Calvin or Dad," he said.
She put down the spatula and turned to the fridge. "Well, your dad's in the shower," she said. She examined the sparse items in the fridge. "And Calvin—"
"Julian!" Calvin suddenly raced into the kitchen. Sark's eyes widened as he saw the exuberance on his brother's face.
"Good morning," he said with a smirk.
"I've been practicing this kick since I got here," Cal said. "Want to see?" Before Sark could nod, Calvin stepped back and readied himself.
He stepped forward with one foot, then jumped off of it. He scissor-kicked in the air, with his other leg reaching the greatest height—
And with his foot swooping down and catching Sark in the face. Sark plopped to the floor, with a quiet groan escaping his lips.
"Calvin!" he heard his mother scold.
"Are you okay?" Calvin asked. He reached for his brother, offering a hand. Sark looked up from the floor at his brother. Several choice phrases came across his mind. He took Cal's hand and got up.
"I think you have that kick perfected," he said. He rubbed the side of his face, wincing a bit at the tenderness. Calvin's eyes were gleaming as he was quite pleased with the compliment.
Sark's mom chuckled at her sons. "Calvin, we don't have any milk or orange juice."
"I'll get it," Sark offered. "Cal can set the table." He shot his brother a smirk. Table duty was Cal's least favorite thing.
Sark grabbed his jacket, and double checked that his gun was with it. As he headed for the front door, he passed by Sydney and Ilene. Both were still sleeping. Sark smiled, and left the safehouse.
The grocery store wasn't far. Sark was in and out in five minutes. He drove back with the radio on in the car he'd obtained. It was a Jetta. He'd always wanted to try one out, but he was over that now. The pick-up in the car was abominable.
His fingers tapped out a rhythm. Sark couldn't help but smile. Being back was . . . quaint. He loved how happy everyone seemed. Except for Dad. Though he seemed content everyone was safe again, something was still bothering him. Sark made a mental note to talk with him.
As he pulled up to the house, he saw Ilene waiting on the front porch. She yawned as she waved a good morning to him. Sark smirked at that.
He got out of the car, the orange juice and milk in hand.
"Good morning, Ilene," he greeted. And then a shot rang out loudly.
It didn't register as a shot, or at least he didn't react as he should have. Sark found himself turning to the source.
A man in a ski mask and dark clothing fired from the open window of his car. He fired again.
The orange juice practically exploded in Sark's hand. The feel of the liquid awakened him, and suddenly he ducked into the Jetta for cover. The driver side window shattered as he ducked. His hand flew to his gun.
Wheels squealed to life, and Sark heard an engine revving close by. Sark ventured a look through the window, and saw the assassin's car hurtling towards him.
His fingers tried to stumble but he wouldn't let them. He quickly twisted the ignition and the car to life. He slammed the gearshift into reverse and pounded the gas pedal to the floor.
The assassin's car only caught the front bumper, but he maneuvered the car for a second pass. Sark quickly shifted to drive, and sped off. From his rearview, he saw the assassin following, getting closer and closer. He also saw Ilene and Sydney, getting smaller and smaller as they ran down the driveway of safehouse.
His heart raced. His hands trembled, a rarity in itself. Sark glanced at the gun, watching it shake in his hand. He glanced next to the rearview again.
The car behind him slammed into the back of his. Sark's body rocketed forward, but he stopped himself from hitting the steering wheel.
Sark floored the gas again, and drew some space between him and his pursuer. The road turned sharply ahead, leading out of the peaceful suburbia. A cliff awaited those who didn't follow the road. Sark suddenly pulled up on the emergency brake and cut the steering wheel hard. He raised the gun, but froze.
The assassin was too close already. Sark's finger tightened on the trigger as his car was slammed.
He heard himself gasp and felt his body hit against his seat. The world spun and then dropped.
The blue eyes widened as the pupils shrunk. The hillside raced towards him, closer and closer. Sark's hand grasped for the handle, and suddenly he spilled from the car.
He wasn't sure if the loud crunching sound was his bones or the Jetta. But both rolled down the hill.
Tumble, tumble, bounce, bounce . . . He might as well have been a rock. And then he hit one.
He groaned as it connected with his chest. He stopped just a bit further down the hill. His chest heaved, though it hurt to do so. He gasped for breath.
The car seemed to as well. Sark could hear it hissing. He heard something running, like water.
Fuel, or something that could not be good, he thought mildly. Sark made himself stand. As he did, he realized something was still in his hand. Gun. He felt himself smirk at that.
Just as he did, he heard a gun shot.
The car flew in the air as an orange ball of flame. Sark fell back from the heat wave.
Move! He didn't trust his legs just yet, so Sark crawled. The safety of trees lay ahead, and he pulled his body toward it with his gun in one hand.
Once in the thick of the trees, he allowed himself to stand. He glanced over his shoulder, back at the wreckage and beyond. His eyes spotted them, at the top of the hill.
You have to go, quickly. He obeyed that voice in his head, and moved on, away from them. The game would be up if they saw him.
He stumbled through the trees, clutching his chest. Ejecting from the car sooner could have prevented the pain. But he had to admit, he was surprised.
Emilio did a good job. Not bad for the Portuguese assassin. Sark had instructed him to make it a surprise, to catch him off his guard. He certainly did that.
He heard a twig snap ahead of him. Sark stopped, his eyes searching. And there he was, leaning against a tree as if he was completely unscathed from the job.
"Emilio," Sark said, relaxing a bit. "Nice work."
"Thank you, Mr. Sark," the assassin-for-hire replied. He wore a light grin on his face. It seemed slightly skittish, but then again, he'd just 'killed' someone. "I hope you weren't hurt."
Sark waved that off. "I'll be fine," he said. "You received the initial funds without any problem?"
Emilio nodded. "Good. The rest has been wired to a different account." Sark slipped a hand into his tattered jacket and pulled out a slip of paper he'd been guarding for days. He passed the paper to Emilio.
"Thank you," Emilio said. He stared at the paper. Odd, Sark thought. It wasn't like the man hadn't been paid large sums of money before. Unless he's hit hard times. Sark almost laughed that thought out of his mind. He continued to study the man.
Emilio's eyes didn't stare at the paper. Sark could see the man trying to steal a glance at him.
Why? It was sneaky, and completely unnecessary, unless—
Sark quickly whipped the gun to the man's head.
"Who else is paying you?" he demanded. His voice was even, and suddenly Sark found himself no longer shaky. Sark was back, in all his icy glory.
Emilio dropped the slip of paper and held up his hands.
"Mr. Sark, please," he said, almost laughing. "I would never—" Suddenly Emilio hit the gun out of Sark's hand.
Sark almost went after it, but then steeled himself for the charge Emilio made. His weight hit into Sark's chest, worsening the pain he felt there. The two men flew back into the grass.
Sark rolled back and held onto Emilio's shirt. He rolled back until he pushed Emilio's weight off of him. The man rolled on, and Sark quickly regrouped. He got to his feet and ignored the sharp aches in his chest.
Emilio's eyes smiled. Sark berated himself for trusting anyone. Especially an assassin-for-hire. There used to be some honor among thieves . . . He shook his head. Not that I ever followed that.
Emilio charged again. Sark side-stepped him, and swung a fist at the man. It connected with his temple, and Emilio fell against a tree. He was stunned but it wouldn't last.
Sark stepped forward, and exacted the same kick Calvin had tried earlier. The kick barely caught Emilio's jaw, but it kept him dizzy. Sark followed up with an uppercut. Then he turned his body around and slammed an elbow in the man's chest.
Emilio's back slid down the tree trunk. Sark stared at the unconscious man. There was a time no one would dare try to cross Sark. How things have changed.
And yet, not changed. Sark sighed, and grabbed the man's head. He banished the reluctance he felt in his shrinking heart, and quickly twisted. The crunch of the man's neck breaking made Sark shut his eyes. He let the body drop, and turned away before reopening them.
It was time to disappear, and quickly. Sydney would be searching soon, and he didn't want to see her.
Not again. Not ever.
His heart ached, but Sark clenched his teeth together and made himself move.
---------
Yielding stared at his reflection in the mirror. The tie definitely wasn't working. He sighed as he pulled it from his neck and tried again.
The events of the last few days ran through his mind as his fingers worked the silk into a suitable knot. His superiors were surprised at his willingness to give up on Sark. Yielding himself was surprised that they agreed with him.
"If he has gone to all the trouble of rescuing his family, maybe he has changed."
"He certainly doesn't pose the threat he once did."
It made him realize that MI6 wasn't nearly as interested in Sark as he himself was. Sean . . .
His personal vendetta had fueled him to find the ex-spy, and yet now that the vendetta cooled, MI6 could care less about Sark. They agreed to my plan because I wanted revenge.
Not that he was alone in his desire. Sean had been well-like and respected by all. But he wasn't the only one to fall in the line of duty. Nor would he be the last. It'd taken—how many years?—to learn that.
Alan sighed and yanked the tie away from the mirror again. His eyes focused on the reflection of the material.
He chucked it to the side, stepping on it as he moved for his bags.
Ilene sounded grievous on the phone, and Alan instantly knew that Sark had succeeded. The burden he now carried would be hard, but he had promised Sark that he wouldn't tell Ilene, or any of his family the truth.
He'd also promised to protect them. Which was why he was leaving London.
MI6 seemed reluctant to see him go, but understanding. Yielding's excuse had been one of change, and that was acceptable to them. Have I changed?
His eyes moved past his bags to a picture on his wall. It was Sean and him, after they both 'graduated' from agent training. A slight sadness hit his heart, but it wasn't bitterness. He smiled at the photo, as if bidding goodbye.
He was letting go of the pain he'd held for years.
Alan grabbed his bags, and left his flat for Heathrow.