"I wanted to thank you," she said quietly.
"What for?" her husband asked.
They sat at a nearby restaurant while the kids played at home with a sitter. It was a neutral place, and noisy enough to have their conversation not overheard.
"For leaving it up to me," she said. For never giving up on us.
He looked troubled. "Diane, I love you. But I will never deny that I lied to you. Of course it's your decision."
She nodded, eyes fixed on her straw as she stirred her ice cubes around.
"Diane - "
"Marcus - "
They flushed, dropping their heads and stirring their drinks rapidly.
"Agent Bristow!"
Following the retrieval team in, Jack turned. Rick flew up to him, out of breath. "Yes?"
"The DNA comparisons are in," the younger man answered, handing him the file.
Waking up hurt. Come to think of it, breathing and blinking weren't much better.
Vaughn shifted slightly (bad idea) and tried not to moan. His upper back and shoulders seared with agony, and his throat burned from holding in screams. He was thirsty - desperately so. Not a good sign.
But he was also alone. Closing his eyes, he forced the pain from his mind. It simply didn't exist. All that existed was logic.
Something he had apparently been missing lately. It was time to remedy that.
Jack scanned the file once, twice, three times. Part of him was relieved, while another part of him lurched. If asked, he wouldn't have been able to say whether or not he was pleased. Both options had complications.
But even more so, of course, for the option backed by the DNA results.
Sark had been telling the truth.
"It is time to give him another dose of the sedative."
She grimaced. The two guards stood outside, sunning themselves and watching for Mr. Sark's arrival. A constant watch was hardly required for the captive inside, especially after Diego went against orders.
"I gave him one a few hours ago," she lied carefully. In reality she had given him more of the counteragent, trying her best to chemically cancel out the initial dose that was already in his bloodstream. Granted, that meant she was actually speeding up when he could awaken… but considering his current physical state, she doubted he would have enough strength to regain consciousness anyway.
"I know," Diego dismissed. "I watched." He smiled, the blood flicks on his cheeks, the gun on his shoulder and his heavy accent adding to the chilling image he presented. "It's my turn."
"No, I - " she started quickly.
He ignored her. "Call Mr. Sark and report," he ordered, picking up a syringe from a nearby table and striding down the hallway.
Vaughn strained against the manacles holding his arms, whimpering softly as his movements caused him to stretch apart wounds on his back. Whoever had again put him in this blasted chair had not been observant; the chains seemed willing to open with a proper flex of strength.
Something he didn't have at the minute, apparently. It was taking everything he had to stay awake and make his current tiny movements. Truthfully, even if he could free himself, he knew beyond a doubt he'd be reduced to crawling. And even that was questionable. Dehydrated and wounded, with more raw cuts on his back than skin, it was a miracle he was able to stay awake.
He groaned, straining again. He needed to get away from the guards. Possibly contact the CIA and arrange for his newest subordinate to recapture him in the fields, even. Because if he stayed here, Ricardo's brother was going to kill him. And he wouldn't do that to Sydney. Or his widowed mother, for that matter.
He gave himself another few moments to steel himself for the pain, and then pulled again. His concentration on his task was so intense, his resources so taxed, that he failed to realize he now had an audience.
Another hour, another briefing.
Leaning back lazily in the comfortable leather chair, Sark didn't bother to look up when the door opened. Since that first debriefing, an agent had poked his head in to check on him every 10 minutes or so and another one had frisked him at Kendall's orders.
"Don't let me interrupt," a voice said. Sighing grudgingly, Sark sat up straight and folded his hands on the table. Kendall glowered at him. "Results are in," the Director informed him.
Sark waited, one eyebrow raised.
"The strand is indeed Allison Doren's," the man finished, reluctance at revealing that obvious. Sark flashed him a razor thin smile.
"As I informed you it would be," he replied.
"Curious," Diego said from the doorway. Vaughn froze in place at the sound, eyes widening slightly.
The man strolled into the room, a mocking smile on his face. Shit, Vaughn swore. Hiding his emotions behind a mask, he raised his head and watched the guard walk towards him.
"El sedante que usted se dieron es suficiente a abajo un paciente en un hospital por seis horas. Nosotros lo hemos estado administrando a usted cada cuatro," the guard informed him. ("The sedative you were given is enough to down a patient in a hospital for six hours. We have been administering it to you every four.")
He tapped the capped needle lightly against his palm. "Por lo menos ella tiene," he mused to himself. ("At least she has.")
Vaughn said nothing, mentally filing away that little tidbit for later. Provided he had a later.
Diego stepped closer and Vaughn tensed automatically. He was rewarded with a jeering smile as the guard, with studious carelessness, pulled up a chair at the table and sank into it, resting his gun and the syringe on the table beside him.
"Answer me, American," he said, the English still menacing but awkward-sounding. "When you killed my brother, did he suffer?"
Vaughn paused. Of all questions, that one was the least he had considered as possible.
"No," he answered with prompt honestly, never even considering denying the man a response. "No, él hizo no." ("No, he did not.")
The man nodded, face hardening. Vaughn mentally swore again. Not good.
"You took him away from me," the guard said, temper rising. He rose, stalking over to tower over the prisoner. Vaughn swallowed hard, not bothering to argue circumstance. What would the point be?
Rage further ignited by his silence, Diego turned and left the room. Vaughn paused, thrown. The guard had just left - and his gun was still on the table!
Both Kendall and Sark looked up when the door opened again to admit both Bristows and Agents Weiss and Dixon. And following them, nervousness apparent, was…
Sark inclined his head. "Mrs. Caplan," he greeted, ignoring all other people in the room. She glared back.
"Here's how this is going to work," Kendall said shortly. "You will return to Spain as planned, and work under and for Agent Vaughn to render Arvin Sloane vulnerable. In the time it takes for you to prepare Sloane for us, you will use your access to learn all you can about his organization, his contact list, his associations with Irina Derevko, and the status of Neil Caplan. Do those things, Mr. Sark, and we will consider an immunity agreement."
The whereabouts, Elsa corrected mentally. Not the status.
"Is that all?" Sark's voice was amused. "I don't presume to say that means you trust me."
"Good," Sydney shot back.
Kendall glanced at her. "I don't know what your agenda is, Sark." he said shortly. "But yes, your willingness to incriminate yourself with Ms. Calfo's murder has earned you the beginnings of trust. Waste it, and I will personally devote my career to having you tried and executed."
"Then I suppose I shan't 'waste it'," he replied.
Vaughn's bewildered elatedness was short-lived. Mere seconds after leaving, Diego returned with a jug of soda water and a wound handkerchief clutched in his hands. Without any warning at all, he stalked over to Vaughn and forced the cloth around and into the prisoner's mouth, gagging the agent effectively. When Vaughn grunted, surprised, Diego smirked to himself and tipped the jug.
Vaughn jerked and gasped, the carbonated-sizzling liquid feeling like acid as it slowly dripped down his lacerated shoulders and back, tracing lines of fire akin to the same way the strap had. His abrupt movements were far too much for his body to handle, and this time he couldn't help a scream as the rest of his wounds were ripped open or forcibly torn away from where they had attached themselves to the chair. His cry was caught and squelched by the gag, the other man knowing his partner would come running if she realized what he was doing.
The guard waited a few minutes for the agony to fully sink in, and then drenched the agent again. Held in place by the straps, Vaughn couldn't even lean forward to get away. He again thrashed and cried out, the muffled sounds bordering on hysteria, the movements causing even more damage and pain than the actual soda water was. A cruel form of torture, Diego knew, that rested the blame for most of the pain on the prisoner, rather than the torturer. The man that had killed his brother deserved nothing less.
"Diego, parada!"
Diego ignored her. This time, Vaughn was too far gone to even brace himself. His violent flinching had only succeeded in injuring himself further, perhaps seriously. Gut-wrenching sobs escaped, escalated by the fact that he couldn't breathe around the gag and the blood pooling in his mouth. Internal injuries, he noted detachedly, even as he choked and gasped for air.
"Stop!" a new voice commanded, in English. Realization dawned. That woman wasn't British…
Diego whirled. Irina Derevko stood there, eyes shooting sparks. His partner stood just behind her.
"Now," the Russian hissed, voice frigid with rage.
Up next: Jinnie's Up Next from last chapter. LOL
My apologies, but it's one of my swamped moments. I'll make for it Tuesday, I swear!
And feel free to review anyway. ;-)