"Land as close to the Villa as possible," Dixon ordered, perched next to the pilot in the crowded helicopter. Two more flew beside him, one full of agents and the other full of doctors and medical equipment. "I want all medics on emergency standby. In fact, unload first."
"Sir, what about the backup? Shouldn't they get out first to protect the medics? And Weiss and Vaughn?"
Dixon sighed, concentrating intently on the sounds the earpiece was picking up from the wine cellar. "In this case, backup is less important than having Agent Vaughn receive immediate medical attention." And possibly Agent Weiss, too.
"The NSA and the CIA are actually working together to learn more about Rambaldi. That means the codes Mr. Vaughn gave us to deactivate the new access control system will work concurrently on any facility concerning our interest."
Sydney resisted the urge to twirl her hair around her finger. The way Sark was talking, an observer would assume she was a clueless rookie!
"The blueprints indicate…" Sark started, pausing when he realized his "partner" was not paying attention to him.
"Agent Bristow - "
"I memorized them," she snapped.
"Such confidence."
No reply. Ignoring him entirely, she rose and began to pace.
"The plan is going well," Sark drawled, not trying to rouse her annoyance.
She smiled at him. A genuine, full-dimpled grin. He hesitated, his sense of danger growing.
"No," she said, tone cheery. "No, it's not."
And then, before he could blink, Sydney strolled back to where he sat, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him up against the right wall of the jet.
A gun fired. Weiss flinched, waiting for the pain of a bullet slamming into him. A pain that never came.
Instead, Diego dropped his gun and collapsed, cursing in Spanish and gripping his leg. Which had been shot.
Weiss twisted around, just in time to see Vaughn toss his, Eric's, gun from his right hand to his left, shifting his aim to incorporate Diego's now lower height despite still fully relying on Eric to stay upright.
The pistol was aimed at the man's other leg, Weiss noted absently. If Mike had to fire again, he still wouldn't kill him.
Something to puzzle over later. Michael's breathing was getting worse.
"Why didn't you - ?" Weiss asked, trying to hold his attention. Carefully he took his service pistol back and then renewed his tight grip on his friend. Vaughn was already swaying and would probably collapse in short order as soon as he was allowed to.
"I killed his brother," Mike said through his wheezes. "He's already dead."
The brother or this guy? Weiss wondered. In Mike's current state, Lord knew what his friend thought was going on. He was half-tempted to shoot the guard himself; there were no advantages to leaving him alive.
But Michael, despite having endured obvious agony at this man's hands, had spared him. Like it or not, Eric knew, it wasn't his place to kill him.
"You," he ordered, gun aimed at the man's head. "Go lie down."
The man stared at him as though he'd suddenly morphed into a woman, not budging.
"Please give me a reason to shoot," Weiss begged, dead serious. "Please."
Point made. The man stood up, limping heavily, and made his way to the cot. Glaring furiously, he lowered himself down on it.
Now what? Eric grimaced to himself. He wanted nothing more than to utilize the four sets of handcuffs that had bound his friend. But Michael was clearly not able to stand on his own. Restraining the guard meant he'd have to bring the younger man closer in proximity to his tormentor, and Eric would die before he allowed the man any chance to put Vaughn through further trauma.
"Hands underneath you," Weiss ordered. "Cross your ankles."
Rolling his eyes, the guard obeyed.
"I'll hear you if you move," Eric warned him. "Your wound will take care of that. Do so and I'll kill you before you get an inch closer to him than you are now. Understood?"
He nodded, seething.
"All right," Weiss murmured, holstering his gun and returning his attention to Vaughn. Gingerly, he pulled him toward the stairs. "Nice and easy, Michael."
"Yessir," Vaughn muttered.
"Yes?"
"Where are you now?"
"En route to the Villa. They are on holiday."
Codeword, that. The young terrorist and Agent Bristow were well on their way to raid for the Rambaldi book.
"No, do not go back. Your cover will be discovered. I want you to go to Operations."
"Operations?"
Los Angeles?
"Yes. Share all you know with them."
"As ordered."
Pause. Then,
"Update me on his condition."
"I planned to give him the antidote before the extraction team arrived. The other guard would have killed him, had I not - "
"Your neglecting to do so could mean his life."
"He should be awake. The hallucinations will soon begin."
"You're too valuable an asset. Show yourself at Operations. If he is deserving of my daughter, he will survive."
"As ordered."
The walk to the helicopter was the longest stretch of time Weiss would ever encounter.
Twice, Vaughn went limp against him and Eric was forced to shake him awake. The younger man's lips were an alarming shade of blue, and the most scary part of all was that he didn't seem to care. Anyone else would have been hysterically trying to gulp in air, but that seemed to be aggravating his wounds even farther. So in his half-awake state, Michael wasn't bothering to fight to breathe.
And his condition affected him in other ways too… the cold air was indeed worsening his fever - Eric could feel the rising heat just by standing next to him - and he was obliviously and innocently talking to Sydney under his breath as a result. It was almost as though he was in a a dream state.
What did these people do to you?
And the remnants of Diego's cruelty also insured Weiss was unable to keep a steady hold on him. Just when he thought he had, Vaughn would jerk against him as a wound was aggravated and Weiss would almost lose his grip, something that would probably send both of them crashing to the ground.
I should have shot that man myself when I had a chance.
But then they were there, and other agents surrounded them. Strong arms took Vaughn from him gently, laying him down on a padded stretcher. Another pulled an oxygen mask over his face. Weiss closed his eyes briefly, relieved, meeting Dixon's smile with one of his own. He'll be fine. And then you can kick his ass for turning you into a mother hen.
The return of oxygen seemed to restore some of Vaughn's reflexive reactions, which fell victim to both his fever and hazy drug aftereffects. The agents flocking around him began to strap him down to transfer him safely onto the helicopter, something he clearly disagreed with. Weiss' jaw dropped as his friend, not realizing he was among allies, began to fight the retrieval team with a vengeance - and in his weakened mental state, automatically regressed to the first language he learned as a child.
"Arrêtez-le! Libérez-moi! Pourquoi faites-vous ceci? No!" Vaughn protested, his voice muffled behind the mask but still audible, pain and confusion apparent. He struggled wildly against their holds. ("Stop it! Release me! Why are you doing this? No!")
"Agent Vaughn," Dixon spoke up, frowning in concern. He laid his hand over Sydney's boyfriend's heart, only to jerk it away when Vaughn groaned at the contact. "You know us! It's all right!"
But the delirious agent only fought harder at the words, French spilling frantically from his lips. His captors had seemed to enjoy referring to him in such a formal manner, after all, and Vaughn had had enough.
"Sydney, aidez-moi! Arrêtez-les!" he half sobbed, half yelled, thrashing against the many hands trying to keep him immobile. "Je n'ai fait rien! Arrêt!" ("Sydney, help me! Stop them! I didn't do anything! Stop!")
Forcing his lower jaw to reconnect, Weiss stepped through the crowd and held his friend still with brutal strength, grunting from exerted effort. "Mike! What the hell? Chill!" He gripped the other man's shoulders, pressing him back down against the stretcher despite the wounds on his back. "Relax, buddy!"
The pain from that seemed to get through to Vaughn, and he frowned, quieting. The men around him let out relieved breaths. Dixon passed a weary hand over his eyes. That hadn't been fun to witness.
"Eric?"
But Weiss raised an eyebrow, still on guard. The way Michael had just said his name… what was he hallucinating now? Whatever it was, it wasn't good.
"Yeah. I'm here."
His eyes clouded. "They got you, too?"
Huh?
Weiss opened his mouth to express his confusion… and then cut off when his friend abruptly began to struggle again.
"Damn it! Michael, stop this! You're hurting yourself, idiot!"
Vaughn ignored him, eyes focused on something. Puzzled, Eric risked looking behind him even as he tightened his hold.
An agent stood there, a syringe in hand.
"What the hell are you doing?" Weiss thundered. Dixon glared.
The man nearly folded in on himself at their reactions. "It's just something to calm him down," he blurted.
"Which considering what he's just been through, might be alarming to him," Dixon growled from off to the side, vowing to get the man's identification later.
"Shoo," Weiss ordered the insipid agent. "I'll handle this"
And then he leaned closer to Michael, still pinning him down. "Mike, if you do that again, I'll make sure to let Sydney know, you got me? You're safe. You're fine. Anyone that looks at you funny will answer to me. So lie still and for once don't do anything, got it? Or I'll let the rookie and the needle come back because damn it, I didn't just raid the Villa to have you basically commit suicide. Relax, buddy. Now."
Point made. Vaughn nodded and quieted, going from hysterical to motionless in a matter of moments.
"Base," Dixon said into the earpiece, watching as the medics carefully loaded the injured agent onto the helicopter. "Retrieval successful."
"Good work," Kendall complimented him. The tense room behind him broke into immediate, quiet celebration.
Elsa watched unobtrusively, sitting in Vaughn's chair. Not caring who saw, she wiped tears of relieved joy from her eyes. Had the younger man died she would never have forgiven herself. This whole mess began with her family, after all.
On the other side of the room, Craig Parker dropped his head. He'd asked for an LA assignment the second he had heard what his ol' Daddy was up too. For a bit, it had looked as though Michael had bitten off more than he could chew.
But he should've known better. Whoever else he was, Vaughn was luck incarnate.
"Operations, this is Officer 83489, requesting a pickup. Confirmation: yankee doodle."
"Pickup sent. See you shortly."
Jack Bristow sat alone, studying the phone in the middle of the table with the same interest one would study a priceless jewel.
Or so it seemed.
His "relations" with his ex-wife had hardly been simple, but this…
It's for Sydney, he thought.
And with that, the weight lifted off his chest.
Regardless what happened, his daughter would be safe.
Robert Lindsay dropped the phone onto the cradle, raising an eyebrow in return at NSA Director Brandon.
"Who was that?"
He hesitated, automatically holding back info… but all four agencies - CIA, FBI, NSC and NSA - seemed to be reluctantly cooperating to take care of Sloane and Derevko.
"Her name's Lauren Reed," he answered. "She's been in deep cover with Sark. Her cover must have been blown. I'll debrief her here."
"Look, Lindsay," Brandon snapped. "I don't give a damn about whatever else you have going on. I'm here to get my agent home."
"I'm here for the betterment of my country," he replied.
"You're here because the president that appointed you needs a re-election," Brandon retorted.
"Sydney - " Sark interjected, grasping at her hand with both of his, trying to loosen her iron-clad grip.
She only tightened it. "I warned you," she growled. "I warned you! Vaughn was not to be hurt! Not one hair on his head was to be touched!"
"Hardly my fault," Sark gasped out, grunting as she lifted him higher in the air. He would most certainly have bruises from this.
Damn it.
"They worked for you!" Sydney exploded. "You wouldn't hire people that don't follow your orders!"
It vaguely occurred to Sark that he had possibly just been complimented, but his need for oxygen overruled any emotions he might have normally felt.
"You were in the room when I told them not to harm him," he choked out. "I cannot be held responsible for their noncompliance!"
But Sydney's wrathful expression and tight stranglehold didn't wane. She looks like Irina, Sark thought, trying to blink away the spots that were suddenly in front of his eyes.
And then he blacked out.
"I don't recommend this! This is not wise!"
Eric rolled his eyes. "You just told me you saw this man before, treated him even, and even though you knew he was a prisoner you did nothing to help him!"
"My priority was saving his life!" the Spanish doctor blustered. "Details like that were not important!"
"Details?" Weiss gaped. "I'm flying him home, and my actions are sanctioned by my superiors. Don't get in the way, Doctor."
But the man persisted, "He is not stable enough to move! Agent Weiss, you could kill him by putting him on an airplane!"
"He's obviously not safe here," Weiss snapped. "But I'll talk to him. If he wants to go home and you interfere, you'll be glad you're in a hospital. Trust me on that."
Sark woke to find himself crumpled in a heap against the side of the jet, bruised and throat burning. The sound of papers wrinkling caught his attention and he turned his head with tremendous effort.
Sydney sat with calm nonchalance a few feet away from where she'd dumped him on the floor, carefully scanning the blueprints.
He looked fragile, for lack of a better word.
Weiss sank down into the chair by Vaughn's bed. The younger man didn't stir, of course, his unexplained hysteria making it necessary for doctors to render him unconscious. Had he been awake, the breathing tube down his throat and the light restraints on his wrists would probably have alarmed him into hurting himself further anyway.
Eric groaned, patted his friend on the arm and then rested his elbows on his knees, burying his head into his hands. However idiotic the doctor was, he was right. Michael's condition had yet to fully stabilize. Returning him to Los Angeles could indeed be much too traumatic for him to handle.
But leaving him here, in a Spanish hospital that had unapologetically looked the other way when they, at the very least, could have helped him escape Sloane…
Let this be the right choice, Weiss thought to whomever could be listening.
And then he stood up to charter an airplane back to California.
He was finished.
Neil dropped his head, exhausted. The computer's monitor burned in front of him, the blinking cursor resting directly at the end of the number strands that represented his wife and son's DNA profiles.
When Sloane activated the weapon he, Neil, had built, seven people would be spared. Seven out of Los Angeles' 4 million citizens.
Did that make him a saver of lives or an accessory to murder?
Up next: Weiss bends the truth.