Chapter 3: Engagement - contacting the adversary's blade.

Standing in the aquarium, Sark shut down his self-questioning; only in his early twenties, he had already learned that it didn't pay.

Mr. Sark didn't 'do' introspection.

As far as he was concerned he had his own aims and agendas, whether the ends justified the means wasn't the point, he'd made his compromises with morality long ago. He'd had to, like it or not his was the kind of life which once started had an almost clockwork inevitability about it. Once you were set on the left hand path, the only thing you could do it seemed was to keep walking.

He had spoken to his mentor, Irina Derevko, about it once. 'It's like sharks in a shark tank Irina – once you're in there's no way out, all you can be is the biggest shark in it.' Sark had determined to be a Great White; hell-bent that he and Irina were going to be as safe as they could be at the very top of the food chain.

Once he'd snatched the boy, the husband was easy. The couple had split up to find him and his crew had jumped the man as he'd wandered off to the gift shop to see if the child was there. As with most people, his reaction to the onslaught of sudden violence was to freeze up – meekly allowing himself to be lead away.

The aunt was somewhat different.

She had raced around wildly, calling out the child's name in an increasing panic – Aaron! - trying to enlist the help of strangers, asking if they'd seen the child, asking if they'd help look. Sark knew she was wasting her time there, he knew it was the human condition to veer away from the wretchedness of others, as though misfortune were catching.

He hadn't even had to track her down to grab her: ricocheting blindly, Dr. Dodgson had run bodily into him, going so hard she had actually bounced off.

Sark wasn't unusually tall, at just on six foot his height fell within the range of average, he liked it that way, it rendered him less conspicuous. Truth was he already had enough else to render him eye-catching: his hair colouring, his eyes - his everything actually - it was as though Nature herself conspired against his secretive role in life. But even so, in comparison to him Dr Dodgson was so small that when she ran in to him the top of her head barely reached up to his mouth.

Without thinking he reached out a hand to steady her as she rocked back off him; in turn she instinctively flung out an arm to right herself, clutching his shoulder so that they unwittingly made a circuit.

She stopped dead, teetering back on her heels from the impact, and was caught by his intent blue gaze. He would help her, wouldn't he? This man with the direct, almost glittering stare? She made her mouth move.

"A boy – a little boy," she gasped out, her words tumbling over themselves in a panic. Slow down you jerk, he needs to understand you to help you! "He's only four." Get a grip, hysterics won't help! "He's 'bout so-high," she held her hand down to indicate his height, "brown hair, blue stripy T-shirt, gappy little grin?" She felt a rising panic. "He's only four!" She dug around in her panicking mind. What was that word people used to get help? 'Please'? She tried it. "Please?" She stared up at the stranger. "Please? He's lost."

The man gave a warm, expansive smile but when she tried to mirror it her attempt couldn't hold and melted into an expression of her utter distress. She felt his grip on her arm tighten at this, and she was suddenly sure from the way he held her that he was going to get involved. He was gazing straight at her, not through her as other people had, he would help.

"Dr. Dodgson. Would you like me to …" Uh? James Dodgson's mind was numbed by a vague astonishment. What? - he had a clipped British accent? And he knew her name? The stranger's words re-imposed themselves through her confusion. "Would you like me to help locate your nephew?" His voice slowed to let the inference sink in, "… and your husband?"

She realised that the man who gripped her arm was pulling her toward him. She looked at him for a moment in blank incomprehension, and then she got it. He wasn't here to help, he was here to harm - they were being snatched.

There were reasons why she didn't collapse under the pressure and just let herself be lead away. One was that upon graduation she'd been interviewed by the NSA, they hadn't recruited her, but she'd been told she could expect to be 'contacted' by the Russians/ Chinese/ Iraqis/ whoever. She could remember their speeches now: "axis of evil…blah, blah…world domination … blah, blah, blah … deadly organisations … blah." She'd laughed out loud in their faces at the time, but had mentally filed it away so if anything ever did happen she'd be forewarned. Another reason was, that she was who she was.

She'd been born a brilliant, totally unforeseen offshoot of Cajun Bayou folk in a region so isolated they didn't even have proper roads. Rather than brilliant, as a toddler the family had thought she was simple. It was hardly surprising. She didn't speak a word until aged two, but then came her very first words, a fully formed sentence, grammatically correct and intelligibly enunciated: I want an apple.

If she'd been born a few centuries earlier, the townsfolk might have burned her as a witch.

Later in life her grandfather had asked her why she had not spoken sooner. She had shrugged, answering in her curling Bayou drawl, 'didn't seem much point in speakin' till I knew I could be understood'.

Cursed with a brilliant mind, James Dodgson hadn't enjoyed childhood, she'd survived it As a kid her schooling had been haphazard, some days she'd go to class, some days she wouldn't, some tests she bother to take, some tests she didn't. Her family and township were stunned when she'd snagged a series of prestigious scholarships and had escaped to ivy clad universities. James had survived her early years by depending upon herself, by being in a continual state of Defcon 4, always ready to go to Defcon 5. Well, she was ready now.

She kicked her blond opponent straight off, no hesitation, hacking her heavy, ugly shoe straight into his shin, and then she started screaming.

She registered that he gave a tiny flicker of surprise at her attack, but no flinch of pain. For his part Sark registered just one thought: fuck, that hurt!

He snapped-to and grabbed her, spinning her round and heaving her off her feet and carrying her with her arms trapped against her torso. He fastened his free hand over her mouth, turning her scream into the muffled yowl of an angry cat.

Hauled up off her feet and being hustled out, Dodgson was stunned. What the fuck? She struggled, but the man was terrifyingly quick and strong. The realisation hit her: he did this for a living! She began to truly panic. She bucked like a fish on a line and got out a scream before he clamped his hand over her mouth again, then she remembered her legs and started drumming her heels backwards into his shins, heaving and twisting to escape. As she struggled on, the scant number of mid-week trippers began to look in their direction – some merely curious, others irritated, but none sure what to do.

Hell you ass-hats, can't you tell I'm being kidnapped?

The man's voice cut across her thoughts, his beautifully articulated British accent carrying clearly, not remotely breathless despite her efforts.

"Darling, honestly, I know I've betrayed our marriage and that it will take time to get the trust back, but you've got to believe me, it's over between she and I."

Relief rippled through the thin crowd, it was only a spat between a couple of young marrieds after all. If anything, as they snatched glances at the screaming, bucking harridan – the strange woman who'd been running about wildly earlier, what had she been shouting about then? - they felt sorry for the handsome young husband.

If she hadn't felt the sing of fear, James would have given in to hysterical laughter at the audacity of it. Whoever this bastard was, he was going to get away with kidnapping a struggling woman from a public place in broad daylight!

He was carrying her towards a back-stairs fire exit. She slammed a foot against the door jamb, wedging her leg there as she heaved and struggled, trying to keep herself lodged inside the gallery. He didn't slacken his grip on her for an instant.

"Really darling," a trace of exasperation this time, hitting just the right tone, "we must discuss our marital discords outside."

An incongruous thought broke through her panic. 'Marital discords'? What kinda fancy-talkin' kidnapping bastard is this?

She tried to snap her head back – to hit him in the face with it – but it was an ineffectual effort and simply glanced off him. He heaved her through the door and instantly dropped the concerned husband act. He hurled her round to face him, scooped her over his shoulder and ran down the stairs toward a car park.

Her eyes began to water from the repeated thumps she got from his shoulder. She was continually winded and couldn't scream. But … she had her hands free! One threshing hand landed on something lying in the small of his back – a knife handle! She went for it, fumbling the knife out of his waistband, but he'd felt her movement and whisked her round and caught her. He'd reached his crew now and one of them clamped a hand over her mouth to stop her screams for help: she bit down instantly, no shrinking back, freeing her mouth to let rip another shriek. She was still screaming and shrieking as two of his men physically picked her up and tossed her into the back of a windowless black van like a sack of turnips.

She bounced off the far wall from the impact, collapsing to the floor but immediately trying to get up. She hauled in breath and shrieked again. The man she'd already labelled 'Blond Guy' – her kidnapper - viewed her struggles with an almost amazed regard.

Well, Sark thought, whatever else you held against her – dress sense, deportment, diction - you couldn't fault her for enthusiasm.

One of his crew reached in and air-hypoed her in the neck, she slumped to the floor in a boneless heap. There was a sudden silence.

The man bending over her stated the obvious, "She's unconscious."

"Really?" Sark's voice held a hint of sarcasm as he leapt lightly into the back of the van. "I didn't realise. When the screaming stopped I just thought I'd gone deaf."

Despite his urbane tone he surveyed the collapsed woman before him with exasperation. Christ what a nightmare! How could someone that small make so much noise?

Checking her eyes, he assessed her state of consciousness for himself, she wasn't quite fully under yet so he could still see the irises as she slid away. He was surprised to find that he had already registered their colour: violet. He shrugged to himself and thought nothing of it, he must have only noted it because it was such an unusual shade.

Hours later James Dodgson began to come-to, slowly, gently, a bather floating just below the surface who was then jarred awake by the thrumm and vibration of engine-roar.

Her mind was groggy and slow - she couldn't seem to move her arms - and then she jerked into half-wakefulness at the burgeoning memory of what had happened. That had all been a nightmare, right? She was going to wake up now, right?

The thrumming was insistent, loud, heavy.

A car? – no, too heavy, more like … an airplane?

She struggled to get her leaden eyes open, only to see 'Blond Guy' leaning forward, regarding her intently from a seat opposite. He watched with all the dispassion of a man checking an animal import consignment.

She was trapped inside a moving cargo plane.

A stunned, disbelieving sensation spiralled up through her. She couldn't be being kidnapped, she couldn't be! It was mad! It was a mistake! Aaron had kindergarten tomorrow! Where was Aaron? Her mind tried to grind up through the gears – she hadn't seen Aaron in the back of that van, and she couldn't see him around her now -

What the fuck is going on? This is crazy stuff!

"Where am I? What have you done?" Her hysterical note was slurred by the drug still in her system. She found she couldn't move her arms because she was chained to one of the plane's interior struts.

Her internal monologue focussed, over-riding her alarm.

Okay soldier suppress that panic. So, there's gonna be no bad-dream get out of jail free card. The upside? Maybe you're the only one they snatched. More upside? The Government's going to come looking for you – and Neotech are when you don't show up for work tomorrow. Okay, so Neotech don't actually like you – but that's okay, 'cos they need you. Anyhow, 'tomorrow' might have already happened, they may be looking right now!

"You're crazy," she said, only to find that her throat felt raw and sore and that her own voice hurt her ears, "you won't get away with this!"

He already has went a sly inner voice.

She forcibly ignored it and tried to calm herself and took another tack: aiming for a hopeful, wheedling timidity. "Look Mister, are you sure you've got the right woman?" She smugly congratulated herself on her cunning switch of tactics.

Sark gave a slight flicker of disdain at her pathetic effort to undermine the situation. Did he have the right woman? For Christ's sakes! "Yes, Dr. James Dodgson, or if you prefer," he ran through her diminutives, "Jimmy Dodge, or just 'Dodge'."

She stared at him, trying to keep her heavy eyelids open, and wondered: just what was it about the British that let them do 'patronising' so well?

Sark dismissively lowered his attention back to his laptop. "Really, 'am I sure I've got the right woman?' What kind of question is that?"

She felt insulted, patronised and … angry. Well, as hopefulness, modesty and timidity hadn't cut it, she decided to revert to type. She fastened her blurry gaze on him, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth. "The kind with a question mark at the end, dumb-ass."

He looked up, annoyed, his gaze a sharp glint. He'd had a bad day and the last thing Sark wanted was to be insulted by his own kidnap victim. He reached across and she heard the hissed ka-tish of the air-hypo again, as her last thoughts were: whatever you do, don't go und – as she was sent down into darkness again.