Chapter 35: "In-the-Round" - fighting in 360 degrees, being attacked from all angles.
"What's your biggest fear, Irina? Hots, blunts, sharps, colds?" Sloane sounded like he was offering a choice of canapés from a tray. "Tell me and maybe I'll be kind and order my assistant not to use that one?"
"Me? – I'm scared of them all."
Sloane had carted Irina into a makeshift 'conversation' room, leaving Jack behind. She was strapped, lying half backwards, in a sort of dentist's chair. The chamber was staffed by Sloane and a svelte, blank-eyed, lethal-looking young man: a white-haired, pink-eyed Albino. Irina found herself speculating that he looked like Sark might have done, if Sark had all the blood and spirit drained from him.
"Irina, I would really rather not go through with this you know - "
"Ah, the old 'I torture you in sorrow rather than anger' routine." He mouth quirked dismissively. "I remember it well."
"There is no point to your holding out. Just tell me the location of the CIA Rambaldi hoard, I know you know where it is." Sloane paused as though about to take a different tack. "Irina, we both want Rambaldi back … "
I want no such thing, you ferret-faced fuck.
" … so why do you care if I'm the one who achieves his return?" His voice became coaxing. "You and Sydney have helped me so much, whether you ever wanted to or not doesn't matter … we can share the glory."
Irina was glad they didn't yet have a heart/brain tag on her to monitor her responses, because at the mention of Sydney it would have spiked. Sydney was the reason she was refusing to give up the location of CIA Rambaldi hoard – the information she had and Jack did not. Sloane could not be allowed to get his hands on it and have all the Rambaldi artifacts, any more than the CIA could be allowed to get their hands on Sloane's cache and have all of them. When either party had the full quota they would realize they needed Sydney to continue, and that was never going to happen. That was never going to happen if Irina had to die to stop it.
"Oh, and did you pick Lab-Rat Boy here for that extra scariness 'Albino' factor? Because really, it works."
"Irina, you will tell me. It is so unfortunate that we can't do this pleasantly." Sloane indicated for the young man to bring over the tray of 'toys' and the heart/brain monitors.
They tagged up the faintly struggling Irina.
The young man moved toward the implements and Irina felt a clutch of fear in her stomach. Despite all the times that she'd ever been tortured, hey, pain still hurt. And this time she knew there was no backing down or dealing. Her daughter's life depended on it. Her thoughts drifted as her consciousness began to cut loose from her body in a trick she'd learned, a trick to muffle pain.
"You've never had children have you Arvin?"
She didn't understand why her comment seem to cause the flutter of blinks across Sloane's face. She didn't know that Arvin was remembering Emily, a woman who'd had a child. A woman who'd be deeply ashamed if she knew what her husband were doing right now. So deeply ashamed she'd be, that he wanted to weep. But he knew that if he didn't do this thing, if he couldn't make himself do it and drag the information out of Irina, if he didn't find those CIA artifacts, then he could never bring Rambaldi back and thus he could never bring Emily back … Rambaldi didn't just have the secrets of eternal life, he had the secrets of resurrection too …
"Irina," there was a desperation to his voice, "please don't make me do this. We can find another way."
Irina didn't even look at him: there is no other way Arvin, because I'm not giving you what you want. You've never had any children, so you don't know. You don't know that you'll die for your child. And if dying means my sitting here and letting myself be killed by you, then I'll do that too …
She knew what was coming.
She imposed her will upon herself. She delved into her circadian rhythms, sending herself deep into a waking sleep, severing the connections she felt to 'pain'.
All the tricks she'd taught Sark, all the tricks she'd never had the time to teach Sydney, all the tricks she wished she'd never had to learn for herself or to teach to anyone else.
"We need a base-line reading," said the young man. He spoke with a faintly metallic German accent. "A question we know we get the truth on, so we get the readings for that, ya? - so we know when she's lying about anything else. 'What is your favourite colour', something like that. But something we can verify her answer to."
"Irina," Sloane spoke pleasantly, "what is your name? Who are you?"
From deep within herself, just within reach of hearing him, Irina gave a laugh only she could hear and decided to tell the truth for once. That'd confuse the bastards.
"I am … Irina Bristow."
"YOU ARE NOT LEAVING ME WITH HIM! YOU ARE THE CIA! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO PROTECT ME!"
Sydney stared, grim-faced, down at the screaming James.
"Don't tell me my job. My job is to protect the national interest, which is what I am about to do. Right now, you are not my priority."
"The national interest? This is just about your father!"
"So what? Then you still aren't my priority."
"Are you saying you trust him?" James flung an arm in the direction of Sark. He stood slightly away from them, leaning against a wall, arms folded, ankles crossed, head back and jaw tilted slightly, watching them. Despite whatever he felt, he looked like a somewhat indifferent spectator at a tennis match. "You actually trust this guy?"
'Yes I do."
Sydney blinked. Did she? Yes she did.
James, hauled up short, gasping for breath, stunned. What? This crazy CIA chicka trusted Sark? And she fucking meant it? Since when did that happen?
"He gave me his word on you and I believe him. He will release you at 12 noon tomorrow in L.A.. After that you will be clear of this business and you will be safe."
"Well if he's telling the truth, why doesn't he release me now?"
"Where to? Look about you. It's late and this estate is in the middle of nowhere. Sloane and his men still out there somewhere, ready to collect you and kill you. Exactly where do you think it is safe to release you right now? I'm leaving here on CIA business and you are leaving with Sark. It's the safest thing."
On hearing of Jack Bristow's captured status – his transport had been shot up, but his body had not been found – Sark and Sydney had immediately narrowed it down to two suspects: Irina or Sloane.
"It's Sloane, right?" Sydney's voice had held an edge of desperation. "Mom would never kill or harm Dad, right? You know her better than I do," Sydney had been in such a panic she never even felt the pain of that statement, "she wouldn't, would she?"
Sark had been utterly intent. "Your mother would never kill your father Sydney."
Sydney had felt a sick swoop of relief.
"He may not know it, she may not know it," Sark had continued, "but I can tell you now, Irina never stopped loving that man." He had paused. "Sometimes Sydney, loves never die. People tell themselves they've stopped caring, that they don't love any more, that they won't love any more, but they're just lying. You might give up on something, but some things will never give up on you."
Sydney had folded her arms across her stomach, leaning into herself, fighting her pain, too miserable to even consider Sark's words properly. "I don't know where Sloane is."
"Neither do I, but I know a man who does."
Thirty seconds later they'd had the still tied and blindfold Walker slammed up against a wall. They'd asked him for Sloane's whereabouts and Walker got the words out so fast they ran over each other.
"Idontknowforsurebutthere'sanaddressonlyabout twentymlesawayit'sawarehouse complexI'vegottheaddressandthat'sallIknow."
"Well," Sark drawled, "there's nothing like a bit of old-school loyalty."
"Sloane's a scumbag and we all know it," interjected Walker, sweating under Sydney's ski-mask, "no I take that back – he's a mad scumbag. I've got no loyalty to him."
Sark could think of a dozen reasons why Walker would lie. Chief among them that Sloane did not know Walker had turned against him and so Walker could be treading a fine line, intending not to make an outright enemy of Sloane.
After all, that was what he would have done.
"I swear to you," Walker had said, almost as if he could hear Sark's thoughts, "I've told you the truth. I'm not supporting Sloane. That little rat-bastard was going to kill me, him and that bleedin' lieutenant of his: Doren. You'd be doing me a favour if you killed them both!"
Walker didn't know it but he had said the magic word, the one thing that would make Sark want to move on as fast as possible to curtail the conversation: Doren.
Sydney didn't know about Allison being Francie. For the time being, until he could control the issue, Sark wanted to keep it that way.
Walker gave them all the intel he could on location and manpower as regards the suspected Sloane address. Sark asked James what Sloane was working on Rambaldi-wise, he didn't want Sydney running in there, facing up to a Rambaldi weapon she had no concept of.
"The latest device was a bunch a nuthin'. It's just a load of Renaissance radio shack shit. Like some old telegram machine: it was junk."
"A telegram?" queried Sark. "From whom?"
"Who cares? The thing was designed and created centuries ago. Whoever it was who wanted to send a message, they're dead now, they're not alive to signal and they ain't coming back."
A slight gong went off in Sark's head. No time to pursue it. The problem now was Jack.
Sydney had called the intel through to the Rotunda. She did not mention Sark.
"What about him?" Sydney had nodded at the bound Walker.
Sark's face had taken on a frighteningly closed expression, Walker and he still had unfinished business.
James had spoken up quickly. "He saved my life." Sark and Sydney had looked at her. "Back in Russia, Sloane was going to kill me." James nodded, indicating Walker, "he stepped in and saved my life. I'd be dead already if it wasn't for him."
Walker's breath had come in short gasps from under the ski-mask.
"What will I do about him?" shrugged Sark, "consider the account cleared." He whacked Walker unconscious again.
A significant improvement on killing him.
Sydney was now readying to leave. 'Reluctant' wasn't the word to describe James' reaction.
"You cannot just leave me here!" she screamed, jerking a finger in the direction of Sark again. "He is just a criminal!"
Sark told himself he didn't care when he heard her words.
"Really?" said Sydney coolly. "Well he's a criminal who came here to save you from Sloane." Sydney saw James blink at this news. There was a silence as James, confused, tried to take it in. "So why don't you try cutting him some slack?"
Following Sydney's intel, a CIA team – including Marshall in case of Rambaldi emergencies - was already en route to Sloane's set up. Sydney was to follow them, using a fast car from the villa's garage. She had not mentioned Sark in any of her telephone dealings with the CIA. Sark had wondered if she'd only held off on mentioning him because she knew he was there – listening - and whether as soon as he was absent, she would phone the CIA again and betray him.
"I won't tell them you're here."
It was almost as though she had read his mind. But then in a way she had. They were both prodigies in the same field, they thought alike. She parodied something he'd said earlier. "Despite appearances Sark, I'm not quite the CIA's lapdog."
He had accompanied her to the garage, making an impromptu solo farewell party. Sydney was in her purloined car, engine on idle as she prepared to leave.
"Even if Vaughn asks nicely?"
Sark mentally slapped himself: Fuck! Why did I bring that wanker into it?
Sydney's heart skipped slightly, not because the mere mention of Vaughn's name 'made her heart skip a girlish beat', but because a part of her meanly hoped that the slight edge she had heard in Sark's voice was about her.
She couldn't stop herself from still having hope.
She mentally slapped herself: Stop it Sydney! You blew your chances, he doesn't love you!
"I don't care if he asks in French. I'm still not telling." She made her voice sound even.
The truth about Vaughn was … she hadn't thought about him once since she'd met Sark tonight. A lot of her confusions had been sorted out tonight, a lot of … issues … and one of them was that she did not love Vaughn. She knew it. She admitted it. Whatever there had been between them, if there had really been anything at all, it was over. It was only the decent thing to let Vaughn know it. As to what 'people' might think … did it really matter what 'people' thought? Screw 'people'. She and Vaughn were over; a dark part of her knew they should never have begun.
She'd only ever been using him to fill up the lonesome shaped hole in her heart.
"Sark?" He looked down at her, Sydney sounded strained, as though about to ask something she was nervous of voicing. "How will I find you again?" It put the unvoiced question: 'do you want to meet me again?
Sark answered it.
"You won't find me." Sydney felt a thump of rejection, the unexpected, painful jolt of miscalculating the last stair tread in the dark, and then … "You won't find me because I'll find you. I've built an illustrious career on being able to catch up with you, Agent Bristow. Don't think it's going to stop now."
Once again Sark was stunned to find himself say it. And once again he felt another ton of baggage slough off.
She gave a gasp of relieved half-laughter at Sark's words. She took off the handbrake and the car rolled forward. On an impulse Sark put his hand on the lowered window to arrest her. Something was pressing on his mind. Something he had to say. The words shot out before he could stop them. "Sydney, I'm looking to come in to the CIA."
"What? Why?"
Sark was equally startled. What the fuck am I doing?
"Sydney, I've got so many enemies, people could get killed just from standing next to me. If I make my peace with the CIA then at least I only have half my adversaries. Time to make myself less of a target."
… could get killed just from standing next to me … He remembered who had initially said that to him and knew why he had just said what he had. You couldn't expect someone to spend a life with you, if you didn't have a life to offer.
"Try not to get killed Sydney, okay? Because I think I'm going to need a character witness at some point."
Sydney looked up at him, eyes round. Incongruously, she noted his hand on the window edge: big and square; honest, practical hands. She was surprised, why had she always imagined his hands to be long and elegant?
He crouched down, his head now at a level with hers as they looked at each other through the driver-side window, each somehow trying to speak without words.
Sydney forced a grin on her face, but it wasn't a proper grin because it kept wanting to wobble downward at the corners instead of going up. She felt a sudden, upwelling sadness. She had once imagined Sark as a cold, carved, block of marble. A living Kouros. But she had been wrong. Beneath the mega-tonnage pressures of his life, pressures that would have killed lesser men, he had somehow managed to stay alive, to stay human …
Sark's eyes and golden hair seem to gather every passing scrap of light. His expression was almost painfully open, flayed down to a raw honesty.
Sydney wondered if the expression on her own face was just as full of pain.
Their gazes enveloped each other.
She knew that Sark was alarming, he was mercurial, he was ferociously intent … but he didn't hit me tonight when I hit him … He was scary and alluring, and for all the fear and trepidation she should have felt right then … instead I feel safe … This was Mr. Sark, Mr. Ice-Water-Super-Spy, with his Rambaldi agenda and his ruthless attitudes … and he's never tried to kill me, not once …This was arrogant and sneering Sark … but it was so right. But then the knowledge weighed on her, she'd left it all too late, there was someone else now: Dodgson. Sark cared about that woman even though she didn't seem to care about Sark. But … she remembered his words … "People tell themselves they've stopped caring, that they don't love any more, that they won't love any more, but they're just lying. You might give up on something, but some things never give up on you." Who had he been talking about? … It was all just too confusing.
She readied the car and made to go. She had to leave before she started to weep. She could hear Sark's voice as he straightened up, steadying his hand on the roof of the vehicle. He sounded slightly husky, strained.
"Be careful Sydney."
She forced herself to speak, trying to keep her voice steady.
"I will."
"Don't get killed."
"I won't."
"Be safe."
She let the car roll forward a few feet and then called over her shoulder in a last, slightly shaky goodbye as she gasped back her tears, staring straight ahead, not looking at him.
"Sark?"
"Yes Sydney?"
"For the love of humanity … get a haircut?"
Sark stood in the dark and watched her go, keeping his gaze on the tail-lights until they were out of sight; just as she turned a last corner away from him he raised a hand in tentative farewell, even though he knew she couldn't see him.
Okay, so now he was completely confused! He had no fucking clue what he wanted! He was about to run the risk of his life and cut an entry deal with the CIA – which if it went wrong would see him in jail – and who for? For James … for Sydney?
No! I don't care for Sydney and I won't care for Sydney!He tried to slam down on the thought, but it was already too late.
Just what the fuck do I want? He shoved his hands in his pockets. Do you have any idea what you are doing Sarkey? He aimed a vicious kick at a perfectly innocent pebble and turned back toward the kitchen.What he saw there arrested him with a flare of wrath.
"What the hell do you think you are doing?"
James and a revived Walker were hunched, head to head, attentions riveted on Walker's cell-phone, where he was taking a call. James had evidently untied him so he could answer it. She motioned Sark to silence with an angry wave of an arm and a hushing noise. Sark stalked over, and shoved his Glock up under Walker's jaw.
"Oh will you just shut up and listen?" hissed James, returning her attention to the cell-phone. Sark found himself doing likewise despite his inner wrath … and got straight back on the clock: it was Arvin Sloane.
"… so Mr. Walker, have the Wand and Dr. Dodgson ready for extraction. I'm sending a team over to collect. Be ready to go with them the instant they arrive, they should reach you in about 15 minutes. It is utterly imperative that you be out of the area and moving North, past the interstate, by midnight."
The three listeners looked at each other, puzzled.
"Look mate," Walker spoke down the line, angling for intel, "be ready to go in 15 minutes? Why is it so important?"
"I am not accustomed to being questioned, Mr. Walker."
"Yeah, so? I'm not used to being given the run around, but I get that from you all the time." Walker's tone hardened, this time with a with genuine anger. "So, once more with feeling: why is it so important?"
There was a silence from the other end of the line where a quietly furious Sloane was mentally signing Walker's death warrant; not that it mattered, Walker had quit anyway. Sloane spoke. "Mr. Walker, whilst ordinarily I wouldn't explain myself to you," – no shit mouthed Walker, "but I have decided to make an exception in this case if it will expedite you. Do you recall a recent 'incident' in Mexico City?" All three froze, Sark knew exactly what Sloane was referring to because he'd done it, James knew about it because she'd just heard of it, and Walker knew about it because he'd seen it on CNN. "Well if you don't want to be caught up in a similar conflagration at midnight, I suggest you follow my orders."
"Ask him where the bomb is!" hissed Sark.
Walker switched his attention back to Sloane. "So your going throw a great big firework show tonight, huh? Where?"
"Mr Walker. I find your sudden inquisitiveness quite annoying …"
Sark interjected whisperingly. "Ask him if he's got Jack Bristow!"
Walker kept his hand over the mouthpiece, "I can't. We're not supposed to know anything about that. If I ask, we're just tipping him off to the CIA intercept." He turned his attention back to Sloane, interrupting him, "Yeah, whatever, fine mate …"
"He's not as stupid as he looks is he?" whispered James, indicating Walker to Sark, "but then again, no-one could be."
Sark suppressed an almost shy grin – it was the first thing she had said to him in a long time that didn't indicate he was dirt beneath her feet. They tuned back in on Walker.
"… it's up to you mate, but I can tell you now, after tonight you'll have the CIA all over your arse."
All three caught Sloane's reply.
"What's left of them." There was a dark chuckle from the handset. "And now I believe it's 14 minutes Mr. Walker - be ready." He hung up.
There was controlled chaos in the kitchen.
"How can he have that weapon? The CIA have got it." Sark's English accent rang out clearly.
"He doesn't need the original weapon," James' Bayou drawl answered. "He had the plans for it, he knows how the technology works, all he had to do was build a modern version."
"Fuck that. We are leaving." Walker never was one for charity.
"We can't just leave, the city is going to fry!" spat James.
"Yeah, but without me in it!"
Sark and Walker took up arguments and discussions. James ignored them and moved to the white fridge door. She swept it clear, effectively leaving herself with a white sheet and then, tuning out the noise around her, she got to work. She mentally projected a map of L.A. onto it, and then in her mind marked out the interstate … It is utterly imperative that you be out of the area and moving North, past the interstate, by midnight … She was calculating: so the interstate must be the northern perimeter of the burn. If he's using max power that thing has a range of … which makes a radius of … which puts the epicentre about …
She turned to the still arguing Sark and Walker. "Say you two, Sloane goes for symbolism in his attacks. The guy's got a theatrical streak. Anyone know anything suitably symbolic in the…" she looked back at the map she'd projected, boosted up the magnification of the epicentre area, and called out the street area.
Sark stopped in mid sentence and looked at her. "That's only five blocks from the location of the L.A. branch of the CIA."
"You're not leaving here, you little Brit thug, until you've done helpin'!"
"Bleeding 'ell, alright then! I'm helping! See? This is me, 'helping'!"
The were in the garage, tearing the place apart, looking to fill a 'shopping list' James had drawn up. They were all painfully aware that Sloane's collection crew were due in under ten minutes.
"James, are you absolutely certain you can stop it?" Sark hurled mechanical equipment about, getting oil all over his suit. "My understanding is that once the neutron surge has started, there's no defence."
"Yeah, well our defence is that we're not going to let it get started. We're going to get there in time and switch it off."
"Huh!" snorted Walker, "if you can!"
Sark didn't say so, but privately he agreed with Walker, once the thing was even switched on it built up a charge that had to be dispelled, you couldn't just 'switch it off', you had to dissipate the power. He had explained this to James, but she had just shrugged.
"This is our mess, we have to sort it out. I built the prototype and you gave it to Sloane. We owe it to the world to stop this now. Besides, you said we couldn't have the area evacuated."
They couldn't, not only was there the problem of getting the civil authorities to take the matter seriously, but even if he pulled his Echelon stunt twice, Sark knew that if Sloane went to a maximum burn then the combustion area was too big, in the crush very few people would escape and James would be prevented from accessing the bomb to stop it. You couldn't evacuate a large city area in 45 minutes.
"I've told you before James, they don't have civil defence plans for a situation like this."
"Yeah they do," interjected Walker, "it's called 'everyone dies'."
Sark marked Walker's words. He was increasingly concerned that what they were trying to do, couldn't be done. He didn't think there was enough time, he didn't think it was even technically possible even if there was enough time.
They had swiftly discussed phoning the details in to the CIA and getting them to search and intercept before the bomb was switched on, but Sark had assured James that Sloane would have already switched it on, if he was going for the maximum burn radius he would need time to escape.
"And if it is switched on - with their 'special skills', what are the CIA going to do?" sneered Sark. "Speak French to it?"
They'd discussed contacting the CIA direct to evacuate just them. Well, James had; Sark had been indignant and Walker had snorted with contempt.
"Why should they have special treatment?" Sark had spat. "They'll have to take their chances along with everyone else."
It was easy for him to say, because at least he knew one thing: when he had seen the circumference of the burn, he had immediately calculated that it didn't include Sloane's place as indicated by Simon Walker, so Sydney was quite safe. So was Jack Bristow – well safe from the bomb anyway. He knew Jack was almost certainly with Sloane, for which he found himself oddly relieved, and that the little science geek Marshall who was also on his way there too. Sark found himself oddly relieved about that as well. Irina was probably okay, because wherever she was, he knew she was not locked in the basement of the CIA!
As for the general night crew at the CIA office, well they'd have to do what they were paid to do: risk their lives. James was aiming to risk hers without being paid for it!
She hauled aside a tarpaulin, still searching around wildly for the last thing on her list. "When I find that bomb it's going to be a precision engineered, down to the micron job to disrupt it so…" her eyes lit up as she saw on a far shelf what she was looking for, "fetch me that angle-grinder!"
Walker leapt to it, returning with it in his hand. "Can I go now Miss?"
"Oh alright."
He leapt into a car.
"But before you go," continued James, "I need the combination to the villa's safe to collect the Wand." Walker looked doubtful. "I need it Walker. I can't do this without it."
He gave her the combination.
James memorised it. "That the real combination? You're not lying to me?"
"Your putting your life on the line. I'm not lying to you."
Our lives will be on the line – thought Sark – and I don't think it can be done.
Walker switched on the ignition and shifted into gear and made to leave, but then paused, giving James a sly look. "That Little Miss CIA who was here before. What did she look like? Pretty?"
Sark's eyes widened in disbelief. What? – Wanker had been cuddling up to James and now he was planning to hit on Sydney? Maybe he should just shoot the fucker after all, just to be on the safe side!
James shrugged, recalling Sydney. "Good looking? Yeah, I guess. In that well-known, Slavic, 'I wrestle wolves bare-handed in the Tundra for the honour of my village' kind of way."
They both snorted with laughter. There was a split-second of stillness as Walker held James' gaze, saying goodbye, and then nodded a curt farewell to Sark. At the last he paused, addressing Sark. "One last thing mate, that crew Sloane's sending will probably be led by someone called Allison Doren. A real bitch. And I don't want to add to the pressure here, but for some reason," he pointed at James, "she hates you. She was always going to kill you." Behind James, Sark stiffened. Walker drove off.
For the first time in days Sark and James were quite alone. James knew he had come to save her. Sark refused to really think about why. Standing at her side, slowly folding his arms, head tilted to one side, teeth gritting slightly, Sark stared ahead. With all the pressure on him he had one key thought grinding through his mind.
"Did you just have a private little joke with him?"
James, tilted her head to one side and also stared straight ahead.
"Yeah, so? And you have tête-à-têtes withMiss Wolf-Wrestler?" She folded her arms. "And, may I remind you that L.A. is about to be turned into a pot roast?"
Sark almost flinched.
There was a pause. They still stared straight ahead, neither of them looked at the other.
"So how many people did you kill by the way?" she asked, almost conversationally. "Just while we're on the subject."
Sark knew James was talking about Mexico City and the use of the Rambaldi bomb.
"Sixty-two." He didn't now how he even managed to get the words out.
"Not even gonna try and tell me 'you had no choice'?"
"There's always a choice James. Even if someone's holding a gun to your head you've always got the option of letting them shoot. I'm not going to lie about it, I did it because I thought it was the best thing to do at the time."
She tilted her head slightly toward him, but still staring straight ahead. Sark felt he was on the verge of receiving an all-time invective tongue-lashing, but all she said was -
"And now? What do you think now?"
"I think I was wrong."
There was another pause and then they silently split up, Sark to load and start the car, James to raid the safe.
With James momentarily gone, Sark knew he should be concentrating every energy upon their plan, but despite their current situation he was still full of confusion as to what he felt, and now also with the subject of Mexico out in the open, full of self-disgust as well. He refused to attend to any of it. He would not think about it. He would deal with it later. But it was like a tonne of water on the other side of a dam, one crack and it was going to come through and he'd be dwelling on it and, yup, too late … it was on his mind.
Make your mind up you conscienceless, murdering bastard! What the fuck do you want? To redeem yourself? To run away? Do you want James? Sydney? What? WHAT IS GOING ON IN THAT POT OF MAGGOTS THAT PASSES FOR YOUR 'MIND' SARKEY?
Leaning into the car he'd chosen, Sark furiously tossed his Glock onto the passenger seat; seriously wishing he had some ready punch-bag upon which to take out all his frustrations as he had back in that stairwell in Stuttgart. He heard what he thought was James behind him and half-turned to see -
"Get your hands up Sark. You're finally caught."
Sark found himself staring straight into the muzzle of a CIA standard issue automatic. Seeing who it was, he smirked, knowing the expression on his face would wind-up his opponent far more than anything else he could possibly do right then, and with a slow, insolent sneer he started off as he meant to go on: deliberately disobeying orders. Instead of raising his hands, he tilted his head and casually slid them in his pockets, insolently weighing up his opponent, smirking, dismissive.
It was quite a relief really. Now instead of fretting he had something to do instead, a problem to solve, someone to beat up. All the stuff he was good at.
On the two occasions when he'd seriously wanted a punch bag to take out his frustrations, the same person had come through twice.
"You know Vaughn, sometimes I feel almost sorry for you."
