ALIAS – Ten Reversed
[DISCLAIMER: This is an original work of fiction, based on the television series ALIAS, created by J.J. Abrams, and produced by Bad Robot and Touchstone Television.]
Sydney's ears
ached from the quiet. And though it wasn't pitch black in the warehouse
– the wide windows that lined the walls, broken and unbroken, were
allowing the waning sunlight to illuminate the structure as well as
could be hoped – it was still a place where the shadows were long and
dark and concealing. And Sydney didn't like that one bit.
It was on the edge of one of those shadows that she noticed the familiar shape of a sedan's backend. She kept her weapon out, and one eye on the catwalks overhead, as she sidled ever so cautiously toward the car. As her eyes adjusted, she could see through the rear window. To the edges of the broken safety glass of the driver side window. To the grue that clung to it.
She pushed herself forward, crouching next to the right rear tire, then hugging the edge of the vehicle as she circled around it. Gilchrist's corpse lay just beyond her, his right leg still in the vehicle. It looked like he'd barely set foot out of the car when the bullet smashed through his skull. Working through her distaste, she pulled back the man's coat sleeve to see the four-pointed star tattoo on his wrist. She brushed over it with her thumb, feeling the peculiar octagonal raises in the darker parts. Dad was right, she mused. Thank God I left the pen at the office, she added.
That's when she felt heat and pressure against the back of her head. Smelled the acrid mix of burnt gunpowder and oil. Heard the snap of the hammer being pulled back. Then Webber's voice rang in her ears, all iced poison. "Drop the gun, and stand up, Sydney. Slowly."
Sydney rose, releasing her grip on the pistol. It clattered to the ground, and she heard his foot shuffle to it and kick it across the dusty cement. "I knew your father had been turned," she heard him hiss. "But I didn't want to believe that you - that you were part of it." His voice was a low snarl now. "That you helped him steal the items. You - and that father of yours - you humiliated me."
"I warned you," Sydney replied, in a cool, matter-of-fact way.
"You did," Webber replied. "And now, Syd - now you have to die. Just like him."
She felt the ring of the muzzle push harder against her, like he was bracing his arm for the recoil, and it was then that Sydney's instinct and reflexes took control. She rolled her head forward and to the right, and pushed her energy into the knuckles on her right hand, swinging a backfist squarely into Webber's sternum. In a fluid motion, she then opened that same hand and threw a palm strike right under her would-be executioner's chin, which closed the startled man's jaw.
That shot spun Webber away from her. Sydney moved to take advantage with a punch into one of his kidneys, but he managed to use his momentum to turn back to her, while flipping the gun over in his hand, and he used the force of his motion to club Sydney's still-tender ribs, the weight of the pistol aiding the power of his strike.
Sydney yelped as the Beretta collided with her, causing her head to drop, taking her trunk with it. She felt the weary creak of the knitting bones in her rib cage, and the sharp spike of pain from a fresh break. She tried to maintain her breath, knowing full well that Webber's next move would be to bring that pistol down on to the back of her head like a sledgehammer. Sensing she had no time to lose, she gritted her teeth, drove her center of gravity forward and up, and sent an uppercut crashing into Webber's jaw, splitting the flesh apart along the bone.
Webber stumbled backward, the piece dropping from his hand. Sydney stepped forward, fired a snap kick into his belly, then followed up with a roundhouse kick against the side of his head, which finally sat Webber on the floor, and hard.
Unfortunately for Sydney, he landed right next to her gun. And he was alert enough and quick enough to grasp it and aim it and squeeze off a round. One that tore through her right shoulder, and took her off her feet.
And right on to Gilchrist's still-warm and pliant body.
As she lay on the ground, a sleepy haze overtaking her vision, feeling the heat flowing from her shoulder, Sydney realized two things. One, Webber was stunned and beat-up, bloody and woozy, but not dead, and he still had her gun. Sure, his hand was lazy on the grip, but that would change, probably sooner than later. And two, even in death, Gilchrist had managed to hang on to his Glock. Her arms ached from the effort, but she found the strength to take the piece from the dead man's hand, and aim it at Webber.
Webber's chest rose and fell. "Sydney. Please."
She looked at his teary eyes, merely slits in his bloodied and battered face. She felt her shoulder screaming, her chest sobbing. She began to feel waves of pain rolling through her as she breathed. But there was something else, too; that lead slug of hate dissolving, disseminating into her blood, reminding her of friends, colleagues. And her father. All victims of this twisted son of a bitch.
That sleepy haze was gone, replaced by a clarity she had never really known before.
Webber seemed to realize this. Maybe he could see her face, maybe he could feel her emotional swing. Either way, he was trying to stand up. He was trying to take aim at her again.
Sydney stopped that by putting a forty-caliber round into his right shoulder.
He yowled in pain, and dropped the gun.
Normally, Sydney would have lowered her weapon. She would have cared that he was helpless. She would have felt empathy for another human being in pain. She would have remembered her duty to the agency and brought him in alive.
But nothing was normal now. She knew it, too, because she was still aiming at him.
Webber's tears were rolling down his cheeks, and mingling with the blood from his gashed jawline. "Don't. Oh, Sydney, please don't," he begged in a choked voice. "You have to understand."
Sydney squared her jaw. "No," she replied. Then she squeezed the trigger, again and again, until she realized that the clip was empty. Then her grip loosened, and the weapon dropped and clattered against the dirty concrete floor. It barely registered in her mind that there were only three shells on the ground near her.
Then she heard the activity outside, orders being barked by desperate voices. One of those voices belonged to Vaughn, she was sure. And that was enough for her to begin to relax, and slip into the gathering dark of unconsciousness that was looming around her.
Just before she passed out, she took a long last look at Webber. At the tear-streaked face. At the trio of ugly gaping holes in his torso. And she felt the twisting of emotions: it shouldn't have ended this way, but this was somehow the only way it could end. The overriding feeling she had, however, was that even though the Glock was empty, she wished she had another bullet or two she could put into him.
Just to be sure.