ARGENTINA

"We're about half a mile off from here," Sark says, checking his GPS. Sydney nods. They have been walking for over ten minutes.

Sark takes a quick look at her. He isn't quite sure what it is, but something is different. She seems in a good mood, like she's in her element, doing what she's done for so many years.

It makes him feel as though he's doing something right.

Sydney's voice takes him out of his reverie. "So . . . Mr. Sark. Are you still sure you refuse to tell me your first name?"

Sark offers her a half-grin. "I'm still sure." He goes on, "I can't understand why people are so concerned with my background. It isn't really one of much interest."

"You think so?"

"I suppose it depends on your perspective."

She turns to look at him. "How about you start with when you met my mother." A clear statement, not a question.

Sark inwardly sighs. He knows her persistence. "I was eight when she found me. It began then."

"Your training."

"One would say that."

"And then what?"

"My career." He senses her dissatisfaction, and he smiles.

Sydney gives him a look. "What about before she 'found' you? How did she find you?"

"I was at boarding school for a time . . . I found out later that I was being observed there. When the time was right, I was - extracted, you might say. And that's all, really. I warned you . . . quite uninteresting."

"It wasn't."

"Shall I thank you for that?"

"You don't have to."

"I would pry you for your history, but I'm afraid I know far too much about it already." He could swear he sees her roll her eyes.

"How far will the safe house be?" she asks.

"Not far, really . . . about one hundred miles. Considering the size of South America, it's not that terrible. We have the car."

"The file didn't mention what the page might contain. Any ideas?"

"I don't know for certain, but yes, I have an idea." He hesitates. "Part of a prophecy."

"A part of which one?" she asks softly.

Sark gazes at her. "I don't know."

The GPS sound grows louder as they approach the coordinates. At the mouth of a small cave, the noise becomes a consistent monotone.

Sydney draws a breath. "This is it." She turns to Sark. "Are you ready for this?"

Sark gives her a quick nod, and without a word, begins the next long walk into the dark cave.

*              *              *

Some ways through, he hears Sydney's voice crackle through on the comms. "How's it going?"

"Marvelously," he replies. "Not much air, no light except for mine, and several bizarre insects. Not bad at all."

"I'm saying you might want to get it as quickly as possible. Scanner detected movement within the radius. We might not be the only ones here."

He shakes his head slightly. Always. There was always something, always some competition.

"Copy that," he murmurs, increasing his stride.

Five minutes later, Sydney's voice returns, a little more stressed. "Sark, they're coming. I'm not sure who it is, could be CIA, could be K-Directorate, could be anyone."

Sark's lip twitches in irritation. "I can't be far off from the page. As soon as I get it, I'll run. The best thing for now might be to lay low, but don't let yourself get on the defensive."

"I know."

"Be careful."

She doesn't answer.

After several more minutes, he comes to the end of a wall. This had to be it. Somewhere in the wall. He takes out a special sifting device and runs it up and down the wall.

Suddenly he hears something in his comm. Some yells, noise, the beginnings of a fight.

No, Sydney, not now . . . He, almost desperately, continues to search the wall.

How was she doing? He strains to hear.

Rough edge. This has to be it. As carefully and quickly as he can, he removes the leather-bound single page and places it in his backpack.

And then he begins to run.

Runs, runs, turns into a sprint, and there is the light. Light at the end of a tunnel. He slows his pace. He isn't sure of how many there are, or where they are, or –

The flicker of movement catches his eye, and he delivers a hard kick to the stomach of the man who had blended with the wall. He barely pauses to watch him fall.

He reaches the outside, gun at the ready now, and sees Sydney, bruised and slightly bloodied, fighting off two men at the same time. She's doing well, but her weary eyes tell the real story. She is about to give out.

Sark watches – one has his back turned – and he shoots.

Sydney and the other man stop, for just a moment, surprised, watching the man fall. Sark throws himself out of view.

Silence is only temporary. He hears someone fall. Was it a ploy to get him to show himself . . . He decides to take a chance.

Sydney, her hand clamped around the man's wrist, his knife pointing at her throat.

Without stopping to consider, he shoots again.

He hits the man squarely in the arm.

Sydney, now back in control, jumps to her feet and gives a spinning kick to her adversary. He falls to the ground and lies still.

She turns to look at Sark, watching her dust herself off. "You can't always have the last say."

*              *              *

"Do you have the page?"

Sark nods. "Let's go."

They begin the long walk back to the car.

After a few minutes, Sark notices Sydney's breathing – stilted and ragged. "Are you all right?"

Sydney stops. Gingerly she lifts up a corner of her shirt.

A large cut, raw and running freely, reveals itself on her stomach. Sark and Sydney both wince. "I can't believe it hasn't bled through," says Sark, taking off his pack and rummaging through it. "Or that you haven't noticed it." He takes out a long medical bandage. "Or perhaps your pride prevented you from informing me of your injury."

Sydney sighs, exasperated. "You think I would ignore something like this?" She takes the bandage from Sark and begins wrapping it around. When finished, she looks up. "Thanks."

Surprised, he replies, "Of course."

"What time is it?"

Sark takes out his cell and glances at it. "About a quarter to seven. We have about two hours to get to the safe house. Are you sure you'll be-"

"I'm good. Really."

They continue to walk.

*              *              *

The safe house is small, with a kitchen/dining room, a bathroom, and a general common area.

The first thing Sydney does is announce that she is going to take a shower. Sark doesn't argue with this – she's so worn that one might guess she's been through a cyclone.

He takes the time to explore the place – he's never been here before. He finds a small supply of food, along with which comes a bottle of wine – not a bad vintage, he notes. Chessboard in the cabinet, several pillows and blankets, candles, clothes, basic survival items.

It's been nearly an hour, and Sark manages to keep his mind from straying by imagining Sydney's reaction if she found out what he was thinking. He feels considerably more like a teenager than a high-profile assassin.

Finally, Sydney leaves the bathroom, leaving Sark to discover that all the hot water seems to have disappeared. After a good period of alternate scrubbing and shivering, he gets out and changes into black, casual attire.

Upon leaving, he sees Sydney in the kitchen, wearing a white tank top and loose black pants, her hair in a ponytail. She's making something – Sark isn't sure what. He crosses into the kitchen with the comment, "You could've taken a bit longer in there – you wouldn't want me to have all the hot water."

"I'm just going to assume," she replies without turning around, "that I'm doing both of us a favor right here."

Sark smiles a little. "I have to admit that I haven't had much opportunity to perfect my culinary skills." Francie fills his mind suddenly. A restaurateur. He immediately. "What's the main entree?"

"Cinnamon toast."

"That actually sounds appetizing," he says lightly. "About how long will it be?"

"Just a couple minutes, I have to use the toaster oven." She turns and gestures around. "Make yourself at home."

Sark drops onto a dark red leather sofa with an afghan draped over it. "Have you made contact with Irina?"

"I left her the message. You know," she continues, "you didn't really give me much detail."

Sark, in the middle of arranging the chess pieces, is puzzled. "About what?"

"I still don't know your first name or where you're from, or where my mother found you-"

"I believe you once said that I couldn't bait you with stories about a woman you never knew."

"In Paris? You remember that?"

"Of course I do. I thought you were aware of the fact that I can recall every second of the time I've ever spent with you. The world, indeed, does revolve around Sydney Bristow."

"Shut up – do you want to get some of this or not? Because I think there's some peanut butter and saltines around here somewhere if you're interested-"

"I take it back, I take it back. No need for threats."

The toaster beeps.  She opens the drawer and takes out the tray, her hands in oven mitts. She sets it down on the stove, takes off the mitts, and pulls out a chair with a piece of toast in her hand. "You never answered my questions."

Sark grinned, "Ah, I was hoping I could divert you. Didn't work." He heads for the tray and takes a piece, and slides in across from Sydney. "My first name – off-limits. My home country – again, off-limits. Where your mother found me . . ." He takes a bite, and after swallowing he says, "England."

"So you're not British?"

"I might be. I don't think I've ever stayed in one place long enough to consider it my own."

"Do you have to be so enigmatic?"

"It does have its benefits, doesn't it?" Very good toast, here. "It's a good conversation topic . . . there isn't much worry about passports . . . it can build confidence in certain compromising situations . . ."

"It gives you a bit of an ego, you mean."

"I can't ever remember being accused of arrogance before."

"Now that's surprising." After a second, she asks, "Did you see the Merlot?"

"I did." He half-smiles. "Were you interested in it?"

"Unless you have something better, then yes."

"As am I." He finishes off the toast and heads to the cabinet. He takes out the bottle, along with a knife and corkscrew.

Sydney watches as he removes the cork with ease and sets out two glasses, filling them. His motions are smooth and swift. Sydney rises and crosses over to where he stands. Sark hands her a glass.

"To our continued survival," he says, slightly raising his glass.

With a small smile, she raises hers. The glasses make a quiet tap, and they drink.

They are so close together now, and he can feel the almost electric connection between their eyes.

Sydney breaks it by a short glance away, with a small smile. "At the risk of sounding slightly juvenile . . . do you want to play chess? Come on," she says with a laugh, as he gives her an incredulous look, "you have to know how to play."

His blue eyes gaze at her, daring her, challenging her. "It's not a question of whether or not I can play . . . it's more an issue of whether you can."

Sydney gazes right back at him. "I can play."

*              *              *

"Checkmate."

"There's no way," Sydney replies instantly, scanning the board. After a second, she comes back with, "Damn." 

Sark laughs. "I thought you said you were good at this."

"I am! I just – I didn't put in enough effort. I could beat you any time I wanted."

"You couldn't beat me even if you tried."

It's quiet. Both are looking at the other, brown eyes locking with blue ones, both waiting.

"Maybe I could."

Her words hang in the air – everything is still.

There is no time for thought.

Her lips hit his, and he responds with the same intensity – they grasp it – feel they can never get enough as he takes in the scent of her hair – everything is revealed and nothing is secret – she begins to take him in, let his soul fill hers and giving hers to him, feeling that at once, at last, she's found the truth with him - just the pure, the sweet and beautiful truth. 

There, lying in the dark, feeling his arms around her, enclosing her, surrounding herself in his presence, she feels all that is peace.