OK, I've had a horrible week. Absolutely terrible. Please, send me some love and tell me what you think.

"Syd, we have no idea where they've taken him. We have no idea where to even start."

Sydney flipped open the organizer Eric had slipped into her hand before she left him. It was a government issued model, simple yet capable of holding any agent's innermost thoughts. The only problem: there was a password.

Speed-dial nine brought up Marshall back in L.A. "Marshall! What is Eric's organizer password?"

"Syd? Of course this is Syd. Password, what do you need his password for?"

"Marshall, I don't have time to explain! What is it?"

"Well, we don't actually have it on file."

"Well, crack it!"

"I can't from here, Syd. I'd need it to be hooked up to a modem and then, maybe."

Frustrated, Sydney threw her phone down and started thinking of possibly passwords. She tried "yo-yo," "pizza," "burgers," "protocol," "superagent," "wisecrack," (and even weisscrack) "joke," "laughter," but nothing was working. An hour quickly passed with no progress. It was harder than trying to find a grain of green sand on the beach.

"Come on, Eric. Please, what is your password?" She was hoping that by some miracle she would somehow be channeled the answer.

"Sydney, have you ever thought that you're not supposed to see what's in there?" Jack had climbed out of the driver's seat and was tending to a cut on Bridgette's leg. "Agent Weiss may have things on there that he doesn't want you to see."

"Dad, I know everything. I think. That statement's a loaded gun in our profession."

She couldn't lose him now. Too much had happened to let something like this keep them apart. The missing two years from her life had been taken from them both. "Sydney." Incorrect. "Bristow." Incorrect.

And the shot he took to the neck, from her mother no less, almost permanently severed all possibilities for them. "Painintheneck." Incorrect. It was too long. Eric was a man of few words when it mattered. The password would be more personable. "Superman." Incorrect. Something funny yet oh-so-true. "Bulletproof." Loading personal settings.

"Leave it to you Eric," she laughed softly as she smiled at her father who returned to the front seat.

Jack started the van at Sydney's request and drove toward the downtown area where the vehicle with Eric was headed.

Scanning through the phonebook, she looked for the only VO8 contact she knew that Eric had. Considering she didn't have any, she thanked her lucky stars for Eric's one contact that knew Gurov.

"Antoinette Montague?" Sydney braced herself as Jack swerved the van. Probably something in the road. "Antoinette, it's Sydney Bristow. I need your help. They've taken Eric. We're in Rio. Where could they have taken him?"

"Sydney? What is wrong with 'Airic? Que vous a-t-il fait dit que votre nom est? Your name is Bristow?"

"What does that matter? Please, you have to help me find Eric! He's going to die."

Taping sounds filtered through the phone line before Antoinette spoke again. "Sydney, the only location mentioned is in my 'usband's financial records: a theater located downtown. A Aranha.

"Thank you, Antoinette."

"Save 'im, Sydney. 'Airic's life is in your 'ands. Don't make the same mistakes others 'ave made before 'oo. 'E needs you. You need 'im. Bonne chance."

Disconnecting the call, Sydney wondered who the older woman could be referring to, and added it to her list of things to ponder later when Eric was back safe and they were talking on her couch eating a half-and-half pizza.

Jack seemed to know where the theater was and quickly directed the vehicle in that direction. Studying him, she realized that he was different. Although most of his emotions looked the same on the outside, she could tell that his usually cool manner was icier than usual.

"Sydney? What's going on?" Sydney had completely forgotten about Bridgette sitting behind her. Turning her attention to the other agent, she realized how beaten the poor girl was and it sent chills down her spine to think Eric was being treated the same way. The woman was almost too good looking to be an undercover agent. Curly, auburn tresses hanging down her back and emerald green eyes were two of her finer qualities.

"My partner is missing. We're going after him."

"I'm so sorry. It's all my fault that he's..." she trailed off and looked down at the metal floor. "Where are we going?"

"A theater downtown. A Aranha."

Horror covered Bridgette's face, "we can't go there. They'll kill me if they see me!"

"Don't worry. We won't let de Meirelles' men get to you."

"I'm not worried about them. It's my father's men."

"What?"

"My father is Yegor Gurov!"