NEVADA

A van pulls up into a gas station in southern Nevada. The air is cool, and the moon is still visible on the far side of the sky.


There is another van, waiting.

Two men step out of the car, between them a cuffed and half-drugged woman. The three of them proceed to the second, stationary van.

The back of the van opens, and the woman is thrust inside. It closes.

One man gets out, shakes hands with the two men, and re-enters the van.

Within ten seconds, both vans are gone.

*              *              *

A static-filled voice sounds on the radio.

"We got her."

Jack Bristow responds. "Copy that. Proceed to landing base."

"Copy."

*              *              *

MADRID

"I tried to call you on your cell last night. I couldn't get through." Irina gazes at Sark questioningly.

"Battery failure. I replaced it this morning," Sark replies.

"And you were late."

"I apologize."

"It had better not happen again."

He had downed three cups of coffee before he could bring himself to drive over to the office.

He had tried, through his burning headache, to make sense of the night before. Sydney had come . . . apologized . . . the mission. The mission.

"Sydney and I are taking Argentina," he says.

Irina seems pleased. Then her face becomes serious again. "We've just confirmed—Doren is on a private flight headed for Madrid."

There is silence. Sark finally speaks. "If you don't mind my asking—how has this been planned? How exactly did you bring this all about?"

Irina looks away, and back. "Now is not the time." And Sark knows he'll just have to stay content with that answer.

*              *              *

CIA OPS CENTER

"Uh, Mr. Kendall, there's something I think you—really should . . . see, here." Marshall tentatively holds out a piece of paper to Kendall, who eyes him incredulously.

"Make it quick."

Marshall looked considerably more nervous. "Okay . . . um, you'll see a message transcript here, supposedly sent from us, the CIA, to Arlen Center. And you were the one that sent it."

Kendall looked up at him and frowned. "I don't recall sending any messages to Arlen Center-"

"You see, sir, that's my point – if you didn't, who did? Now, you see, there – in the second row? A series of numbers. CIA official transcript number. Very classified, high-level, secret, top-secret—anyway one of the numbers . . . is not a match. Thirty-third across."

Kendall snatches the paper, scans it, and throws it down on the desk. "Tell security section to get on this right away," he barks at Marshall. "Contact Arlen Center and Camp Harris to check on the prisoner's status. I want tails put on every high-level member in this office. Now!"

*              *              *

Jack glances out the rearview. He's said he's taking a few days off, just for some time. And they understood. At least he thought they did.

He feels almost on edge. Everything seems to be going along well, and yet he can't help but feel he was reckless. The letter was risky. He had moved perhaps too quickly . . . He glances out again.

Before he realizes it, he's turned left. Would've been faster to keep going straight . . .

How could they get on to him? And then he think of a million solutions, and he feels the sickened sensation in his chest. He could take a risk—just not one this foolish.

That gray car—still behind him. He turns right.

Within a few seconds, it's there again.

Damn it, Jack thinks furiously. He drives faster now, picks up speed—takes turns that have no logical path.

Within ten minutes, the car is gone.

The plane is waiting for him.

He apologizes for the delay.

*              *              *

"Mr. Kendall, we think we have the source of the letter." The young agent can barely suppress his proud smirk. "Jack Bristow."

*              *              *

24 Hours Later

"Sydney . . . there's someone I'd like you to see." Irina rises from her desk and walks across the room. She opens the door.

Sark stands off to the side. It seemed so incredible to him when he first learned of it, a few hours ago . . . but now . . .

In walks Jack Bristow.

And for once, his steely reserve is thrust aside. He holds his daughter tightly to him. She hugs him back.

Sark looks away. He feels as though he is intruding on something sacred, something that he knows he should not share in.

Quietly, he exits, without a glance back.

A/N: I realize I did stray a bit from the impending Sarkney and Sark and all that good stuff . . . but these were plot things I needed to get done . . . then we can have all the characterizations we want. :)  My muse is working as hard as she possibly can . . .  Reviews are appreciated, as always.