Second Chances

Chapter Three

Will swore. "How am I supposed to call you if you don't leave a number?" The answering machine was the only substitute for Sark that he had at the moment and so he pushed it into the wall, but that just caused it to replay the messages. Samantha's voice now grated against his ears and he roughly yanked the cord out of the wall to silence it.

Will began pacing back and forth trying to think but all he could focus on was ripping Sark's cocky British head from his shoulders. After a few minutes of this he forced himself to rationalize: Before he could find Sydney – and kill Sark – he first needed to call him back. And in order to do that he needed to find the number that he had called from. He knew 69 was out of the question so he started cycling through his other options.

I could trace the call . . . No, what would I tell the operator? – I could call my case manager. No . . . Jack Bristow—Jack Bristow.

"Jack Bristow."

Will pulled out the phone book from underneath the telephone and quickly flipped to the government listings. He found the number for the Madison CIA office. Reaching for the phone he began to dial the number but stopped before he pressed the last digit. "If Sark found my number then he can probably monitor my calls." He put the phone back on the hook and grabbed his keys. "I need to make the call from somewhere else."

Will knew he was being followed. That was something he had learned from Jack, actually. If a vehicle mimics your turns more than three times, much like the non-descript black sedan behind him was doing now, the chances were good that the vehicle was tailing you. On the first contact Will had ever had with the man, knowing his true identity, Jack had run through the procedure for solving this problem. –- All one needed to do was confuse the person tailing you by doubling back every few blocks and making your turns as sudden and unpredictable as possible. This was simple enough in L.A. --- Obviously, Jack had never counted on being caught in Wisconsin. This was America's Dairy Land but it had never boasted any metropolis. The town where Will lived was no exception to this. It was little more than and industrial municipality and place for truckers to refuel and farmers to but their supplies.

Will's knuckles whitened as he gripped his steering wheel in frustration. His difficulty in shaking the tailer had begun to lead him out of town. He hadn't wanted to do this but he had little choice; there was no where else to go. He had already driven through the small suburbs and was now passing by the bent trailer parks. Soon he'd be in open farm country with no where to hide.

That's when he glanced at his glove compartment. His last resort; his gun was in there. He hadn't ever wanted to use it but it was clear that he might have no other option. As he drove past the last rusty trailer he glanced again into his rear view mirror. His eyes widened in shock and he no longer hesitated. He slammed his fist against the dash and the glove compartment door fell opened. He grabbed the loaded gun.

"Where the hell did she come from?" There was now a woman in the back seat of the sedan and she was loading what looked like a very large gun. The sedan put on speed and threatened to tap the bumper of his truck. But as it did the driver's face became clearer. Will could practically see the gleam of the man's straight white teeth and the arch of his smug eyebrows.

Before he could even bite off a curse the glass from his rear window rained down on him as the woman began to shoot at the truck. Will swerved and lost control as one of his tires was blown. As he careened into a muddy ditch he managed to get one shot off which blew Sark's window out and forced him off the road as well.

Smoke rose from both vehicles as Sark raised his bleeding head from the steering wheel. Bits of glass cascaded down his shoulders as he shook himself, checking for further injuries.

"Are you all right, darling?" he asked as the woman began to stir from where she landed in the floorboard.

"I'm fine–darling," she replied testily, shaking the glass from her own shoulders and blonde hair. "Couldn't you have had better control over the car?"

"Excuse my concern, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart. Never mind, let's just see to Tippin."

Sark smirked as he kicked the door open. "Have I told you today that I love you?"

Will's ears were ringing and his vision was blurred as he picked himself up off the seat. He winced as he moved his right shoulder. He could feel that it had been dislocated from the socket. He swore as he straightened himself, as much as his slightly tipped over truck would allow. For a moment he struggled to remember what had happened until his door was roughly opened. Then he remembered and reached for his gun but it was pulled from his grasp by a hand coming through his blown out rear window.

"You won't be needing that Mr. Tippin. We aren't here to kill you."

"What do you call what you just did, you British bastard?"

Sark's grin changed to an expression of anger and he pulled Will with surprising strength out of the truck and shoved him against the cab. He felt the cold barrel of what he imagined was his own gun pressed against his neck. It was the woman and she breathed down his neck.

"We haven't come to kill you but that can certainly be arranged," she said pressing the barrel more firmly against his windpipe.

"I don't believe you." He coughed against the strain on his throat. "You need me for something."

"No Mr. Tippin," said Sark, his congenial attitude returning, "You were merely our first choice. We could just as easily use someone else close to Sydney." Thinking that Will had been sufficiently intimidated he nodded to the woman who let off of Will's neck.

Will drew in a few ragged breaths. "Sydney? Is she still alive?"

"Yes, she's still alive. For the moment." Sark turned to his associate. "She's holding up remarkably well, wouldn't you say?"

"What do you want from me? If you haven't noticed I'm not much of a spy. I don't see how I can go on any mission for you."

The woman jumped from the truck bed then and pulled out a mobile phone from her pocket. "We want you to make that phone call to Jack Bristow." She saw the look of disbelief on his face. "What? You didn't know that we've had your apartment bugged?" This woman seemed just as full of herself as Sark.

"I'm sorry that you'll have to forego Samantha's party this weekend," Sark continued, "but there was no reason for you to break your answering machine. Tsk. Tsk."

The cell phone was shoved into his hands. "We've programmed his personal mobile number in there. Just hold down the number one."

"Wait," Will interrupted. "Why do you want me to call Jack Bristow?"

"Because you'll be needing Agent Bristow's help. We quite agree with you—you are no spy."

"What do you want me to say to him?"

"Tell him that we've contacted you," the woman said.

"Who are you?" he asked looking cautiously at her.

She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "Tell Agent Bristow that we have his daughter and that if he expects her to live she will need The Antidote with in forty-eight hours. He will know what you are talking about."

Overhead Will heard the chopping of a helicopter. Sark buttoned his blazer as a ladder was let down from the cockpit. "Now if you'll excuse us. Our transportation has just arrived." With that Sark and the woman grabbed onto the ladder and were lifted away.

For a moment Will stood there watching them leave with the cell phone clenched in his hand. At a loss for what else to do he finally held down the number one and raised the phone to his ear.

"Jack Bristow here."

"Jack . . . Jack, its Will Tippin."