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OOOOOOOO

Chapter 2 –

A dull ache wrapped around her unmoving body like a downy flannel blanket. She wasn't awake, yet her mind wasn't seized by the deadening darkness of complete slumber either. The compromise was somewhere in the middle, somewhere that was black and heady and quiet – oh so quiet.

Quiet except for a faint occasional plink – water splattering on concrete far off in the distance. Then again, maybe the wetness was right next to her, and it was consciousness that was still far away, causing the sounds around her to mute.

The energy that had been drained in her earlier struggle and whatever drug she'd been given weighted her down. But the numbness her body experienced slowly became overpowered by something more torturous, more agonizing, as the mask that had hidden the pain from her slowly began to peel away.

She groaned as she tried to roll off her stomach to her side. The skin on her back felt raw, hot and stretched tighter than strained elastic. Well, whatever skin she had left.

Her face fell flat, right back down on the cold cement floor with a force that jarred her cheekbone. The futile attempt to get a full view of the room she was laying in had also been hampered by her limp noodle arms and weak legs, both sets not cooperating with what the gray matter requested.

Since the rest of her wasn't cooperating, she did what she could and opened her eyes. Blinking away the haze, she found herself behind rows of thick, black metal bars. A cell. Musty and dirty, the distinct scent of mold seemingly embedded in the concrete under her, maybe even the foundation of the building that encased her. If the detoxing didn't succeed in nauseating her, then that strong, pungent smell would.

She forced herself to take a deep breath through the harsh rank, and flattened her palm to the ground, pushing with all the might her body could muster. After two tries, and a nearly debilitating pain spanning the entire surface of her back, she made it.

"Fuck," she gritted in agony between clenched teeth.

An open sore on her back rubbed against the cool floor in the process of turning over, jolting her body smartly. The temperature sort of helped as a substitute coolant, but the movement chafed terribly against the seeping blisters.

Her first instinct was to hold back the tears that pooled in her eyes, to not give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her break down. But considering she had been abandoned in this damp, dark place with no means to alleviate her ailments, "fuck it" seemed the best motto.

She didn't know how long she'd cried. Only that by the time the flow had stopped, her hair and the side of her cheek were both sticky and saturated with a drying wetness.

This feeling was so familiar to her. Despair. This being on the losing end of a situation that would probably end in death – hers or someone else's. It hurt, and not just physically. Her mind itched with the remorse of things left unsaid, undone, might not ever going to be felt again.

Vaughn. They'd had no time to explore what might have been, no time to take out SD-6. Her dad. Francie and Will. Those combined stung nearly as bad as her wounded back. She didn't know what SD-6 would do, if anything, to get her back. But with each hour that passed, hope seemed to be a steadily fading beam of light in the distance.

An odd feeling, a sense that she had felt too many times, interrupted her reflection. A shiver danced along her nape and sent an awful twinge down her back.

She was being watched.

Pressing the heel of her hand to her temple, she raised up on one elbow, her head too heavy to hold straight so it lolled helplessly to the side. She squinted in the darkness for some proof – red light, actual camera – but didn't see one at first.

Only when she dropped her head back in defeat did she see it. Behind her.

Carefully turning her upper body around, she looked expectantly into the bead of red, hoping it had night vision. She pretty much knew that asking for any assistance would be useless. Yet she could try, if merely for the opportunity to get a good look at her situation.

She had to clear a squeak from her throat before she was able to make any sound. "Please," she spoke, too hoarse to even make an echo. "I need… something,"

OOOOOOOO

She had been comatose for three hours. Just like clockwork, minutes away from when the clock struck half-past one, the drug wore off.

Remarkable. He'd have to relay that confirmation to their scientists.

They'd prepared the syringe just for Sark's meeting with K-Directorate. A combination of sleep agents, painkillers, and muscle-relaxers, along with a few other pertinent, body-altering ingredients. The point of the super-sedative was to render the target unconscious long enough to safely transport them back to one of their appropriated buildings. And to leave them with a vicious withdrawal.

Seeing the deep lines of pain that were etched in her face, he knew that had worked, too.

Since the syringe had held the amount needed to promptly put a man of Comrade Kessar's size out if he hadn't accepted the one hundred million dollar offer in the short time allotted, he hadn't used the entire contents on the woman. But, thankfully, the new head of K-Directorate was intelligent and had agreed, giving Sark the option to instead use the syringe on the interloper.

When he'd tackled her on that roof, he'd seen that spitfire gleam of defiance in her eyes. The sort of look that told him if he hadn't completely subjugated her, or tore her back to shreds, he would have had a heavy fight on his hands.

Well, if he was admitting that much, maybe he needed to also disclose that he'd have probably seen a good fight even if he'd only shredded her back. Her eyes were that intense. Not to mention oddly familiar.

She moved with the grace of a beached seal, awkwardly shifting as the feeling in her limbs slowly returned. Her attempt to sit up was laughable, but for some reason he wasn't laughing. SD-6, the man had said. A group of stellar agents under the absurd assumption they were deep CIA, and had no idea who they were really working for.

Not his concern.

He saw the exact moment she realized that she was being watched. The grainy screen he watched her on picked up the tears and the shaking over an hour before, and the trying to keep some semblance of control. It also picked up her sudden stillness and the consequent scour of the dank room.

She was looking for a camera. There were five in that room, only one noticeable in the darkness. Moments passed and he thought she had given up, her head hung back in defeat, but then he saw her eyes widen.

Bingo.

The camera made her face look even more sallow than it probably was in reality. She looked ghostly and haunted, and in so much pain.

But even when she spoke – Please, I need something – he didn't move an inch. Didn't quirk a brow, didn't turn his gaze from the screen in sympathy. One never knows when one's being watched, he recited in his head.

Sark just stood there in the control room, as aloof as he had been for the past three hours, and watched the woman squirm. More or less, until breakfast, it was what he had been told to do.

His only reassurance lay in the knowledge that Khasinau would be calling soon. Even if the Director of Operations, Sark, would be the one left to deal with the prisoner in the end, if it came to that, his reassurance lay knowing that at least before then he'd know if he had the permission to spottily respond to her plea.

After all, even though she was working for the wrong side, like everyone thought he was, she was still a human being.

OOOOOOOO

The burn in Sydney's back flamed even stronger than before. Whatever she had been injected with had completely exhausted her body. She was doubly uncomfortable now that the grime and dust inside the cell had delved and rapidly fermented into her gaping sores, causing a terrible itch.

One bonus was that she did have full movement of her hands and legs now, but she didn't dare touch the damage back there for risk of further infection. Who knew when, or if, she'd have the opportunity to clean it? So she lay on her stomach, arms crossed under her for her head to rest on, watching beyond the bars for any sign of movement.

Her request for help had gone unseen or heard, or had been purposely ignored. Most likely the latter. Either way, no one had bothered to leave her with even so much as a bottle of water. Which, she handled fine. Along with the pain that had turned into sadness, the sadness that had morphed into further despondency, to now – acceptance. She'd handled the changes, dehydration as well, as best she could considering, but wondered for a moment what would come after acceptance?

Sydney had no concept of time still. The black cell offered no outdoor source to give signs that the sun had risen or was on the brink of. She had fallen into a fitful sleep again, though. One filled with flickering rainbow holograms and devilish faces that left her with a further sense of sorrow.

Her watch and the few other belongings she had dared to bring with her had gone missing sometime before she woke. They mattered little now. Her throat – parched and itchy – was one of her main bothers. Desperate for even a moment's relief, she was almost tempted to find the source of that dropping water.

She was startled by the clanking of a metal door closing somewhere far off in the distance of the lower level. The sound practically echoed in the silence, filling her with immense trepidation.

This was it, she convinced herself. Either she was going home under negotiated terms, already marked for death, or neither but worse – someone was fixing to make her hurt worse than she already did.

Even thinking that Sloane would waste the energy, or hand over whatever precious resource or object Sark's employer sought in exchange for her return was pointless. SD-6's agenda was its own – agent status be damned. The ruthlessness of her own employer had been proven the day that she'd found Danny in their bathtub. She didn't want to think what would happen once her visitor came down the hall.

Footsteps echoed like small explosions in the large room, each one seeming as loud as her thundering heart. She moved awkwardly to stand, not wanting her captor to see her in this submissive position, reaching her feet in time to see Sark stop in front of her.

A challenge hung between them as they stared at each other. He had won the first round by bringing her here, but Sydney wanted to show him that if the chance came, round two would show a different victor.

In his hand was a tray holding bottled water, a cloth, and a croissant with some sort of deli meat inside. Just seeing the snack made her stomach grumble, and in the silence, the sound was shattering. Her cheeks nearly flamed over her uncontrollable weakness.

He'd changed from the taupe suit he'd worn earlier into black casual slacks with a matching crew neck sweater and looked well rested, clean, even refreshed. At that moment, she hated him with the same vigor as she felt her hunger.

"I see that you're awake," he announced.

If possible, that feeling grew. Substantially.

"For hours now," Sydney replied testily. "Was that something you discovered while watching from your surveillance room or did you just come to that brilliant conclusion?"

He stood, appearing almost lifeless, his expression unfathomable. Controlled and remote. How very British, she thought. Even when she tried to take a jibe at him, he had a cultured air about him.

"Your back just beginning to itch?" he asked coolly.

No, she loathed him.

Too bone tired to spew the verbal tongue-lashing that immediately came to mind, Sydney stayed silent. It didn't matter. She figured he'd fill the quiet between them anyhow.

Sark lifted the latch for the small rectangular door in the bottom border of the servile quarters, sliding the tray for her to take. She eyed him warily as she did, moving back to the center of the cell as he returned the lock.

"My employer will arrive tonight and hopes to begin negotiations with your Arvin Sloane immediately following. Depending on how forthcoming your superior is, this may be over with by tomorrow morning."

Sydney laughed, a bitter, bitter sound, even to her own ears. "If you think I'm okay with being your employer's prize quarry in this, you're sorely mistaken."

"And if you think that anyone on this end cares if you're okay with this, then you're in for a major disappointment," he replied patronizingly. "You're just a small bauble in a much larger collection of priceless jewels."

Sydney would never admit outwardly how much that statement injured her pride. The truth did hurt rather badly. It took all her saved energy to not blanch or even flinch at his cruelty. Honest cruelty.

"Our protocol calls for supper in five hours," Sark informed as he began to languidly travel back down the hallway.

"There's protocol for this sort of thing?" she asked incredulously.

He ignored her and continued, "Besides nourishment, I've been permitted to allow you antiseptic and a wrap."

"Wait." Her jaw went slack at his words, and she found herself at the bars again, keeping pace with him until she couldn't any further. "Five hours? Why not now?"

Sark turned to her and she watched the corner of his mouth twitch up. It wasn't a smile, looked a touch too feral to be called one. She supposed it was meant to chill her, but it only managed to irk her further.

He was quiet for a beat before replying with a single word. "Protocol."

OOOOOOOO

Sark reclined in the stiff side chair, fingers loosely clasped behind his head, his feet propped up on the counter a few inches from the monitor. He was tired, but even those who worked closely with him wouldn't be able to tell. It had taken much practice to live off no sleep and much caffeine, but he considered himself a veteran at it now.

Besides the one man who'd taken his place for the hour Sark took earlier that day to shower and change his clothing, and the twenty minutes or so it took to deliver their "guest" breakfast, he'd been the only person in the small room.

Khasinau had told him to ensure the woman remained down in the basement until his arrival that evening, but even Sark admitted the man probably hadn't meant to this extent. Denying himself sleep, wasting his resourcefulness on such a simple job.

Delegation always came easy to Sark, especially when it came to the menial tasks, but for some reason he couldn't offer this to any other man.

There was something about this woman. Something familiar. His heightened instinct was practically screaming it.

He had to admit that he admired her determination. At breakfast, when he'd neared her cell, he'd witnessed the last few awkward moments of her standing up to face him – standing to face him when many men and a few women before her couldn't even bear to even reach a sitting position. And most of their injuries had been less severe. It was a behavior that he could see himself displaying in the face of the enemy.

Hell, at times he had.

He absently straightened his shoulders. That was long ago, and this was now.

After fully inspecting the sandwich he'd brought her, the woman had finally deemed it edible and ate it with a hint of desperation. She also drank the bottle of water with the same voracity.

He shrugged it off. Again, not his concern.

Sark took a glance at his watch just as the door opened behind him. He watched as Alexander walked in and immediately strolled to look at the surveillance screen.

It was barely noticeable, hell if he hadn't known the man for nearly six years he wouldn't have seen it, but a hint of surprise registered in Khasinau's eyes as he looked at the figure pacing on the screen. He knew the woman.

A few beats of silence passed and were interrupted by his curt, accented voice. "She'll want her moved," he said, a bit pensively. "Take her to the villa in France. Make sure security is doubled."

Sark was never one to question orders, but this time he was tempted to. Doubled security? In a compound that was so tight even he would have had some difficulty breaking into or, if needed, out of?

But he simply nodded in response and watched as Khasinau took one last lingering glance at the screen before leaving the room.

Strange, he thought as he sat again, eyes drawn to the screen and the woman who now more than piqued his interest. He'd have to find out more somehow. But no one watching would see that speculation his eyes.

OOOOOOOO

Something was happening.

She had barely begun to enjoy the feel of the antiseptic and the fact that her wounds had been bandaged when she heard the same sound of the door opening in the distance. But instead of one set of footsteps, it sounded like half a dozen.

She uncrossed her legs to stand, unconsciously backing up a few steps just as a group of men in dark fatigues lined up outside her cell. She recognized that pale face, that blonde hair, those startling blue eyes that led the pack, but all other faces were unfamiliar.

Her thoughts were scrambled, but she tried to think of something witty to say. Taking a long, drawn out look at the gun that was pointed at her, she spoke the first thing that came to mind.

"I guess this means I've overstayed my welcome."

She thought she caught the corner of his mouth turning up slightly before the shot rang out and the small dart was sticking out just below her collarbone, but as darkness came once again, she couldn't be sure.