a/n: Thank you for reading and reviewing. This chapter contains the death of a major character (well, actually two). So if that's going to totally ruin your day, read no further.
Landing
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The first target was a mutual endeavor: Arvin Sloane. She contacted him personally, presumably to ask about Irina, about Jack, and her sister, his daughter. Another intricate web. Midway through dinner she excused herself to use the ladies' room, almost flinching as she felt his eyes follow the sway of her hips away from the table.
"May I join you?"
He turned at the sound of the suave British accent. Surprised? Sark slid into the seat Sydney vacated just moments before.
"Mr. Sark. What a surprise. I presume your presence here is not mere coincidence."
"A man like you should know better than to believe in coincidence."
"The world is such a small place. Some things still happen by chance."
"Yes. Well, moving on….this is a vial of botulinum toxin," Sark recited, holding up a small glass container, emptying the contents into Sloane's glass. "It contains enough toxin to kill three or four people. We can do this one of two ways. You can enjoy a last glass of this excellent vintage Bordeaux, and die quickly and painlessly. Alternately, I can shoot you."
The men faced each other across the table, old and young, one withered, one entering his prime. Sloane reached for his glass.
"Cheers, then."
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They moved on to the next kill quickly, taking a red-eye from Vienna back to the States. She had barely any time to think about Arvin Sloane's death. When she did, the only feeling she could summon was a vague relief. He would never have the chance to ruin another person's life as he had hers. And some excitement over the eight-figure balancein her bank account. She and Sark had split Sloan's assets between the two of them, accessing them with the codes found in his wallet.
Arvin Sloane was easy. His was death was justifiable, clean. The next target was infinitely more personal.
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She killed Vaughn: pulled the trigger while Sark watched from the shadows. And she cursed herself for being so blind, as blinded as her father was by Irina, by the pretense of love. Momentarily, she wondered if he felt anything towards her, if the illusion of love was ever as real for him as Irina once claimed it was for her.
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Drinking coffee at midnight she flipped through the channels on TV in her hotel room. She cried, but it came out choked and bitter. There was a knock on the door, and through the peephole she saw Sark on the other side. She opened the door, and watched him enter without a word.
"You did well."
"I don't need your approval."
"It was intended as praise."
She filled her mug again and sat in the chair by the window, staring at the city's sky line.
"I don't think I want to do this anymore."
"Ah…the beauty of regret."
"I don't regret it," she snapped back.
"Then why the sudden change of heart?"
"You cocky son of a bitch. I just killed the love of my life, my father is next, and you're asking why I hesitate?"
"I thought Danny was the love of your life. Oh, wait, or was it Noah? At best—"
"Don't talk to me about—"
"...at best that was the third love of your life and certainly—"
"...about love. You're not even capable of the emotion!"
"...and certainly not the last!"
They were both standing, shouting over each other. It was the first time Sydney had seen Sark lose his cool exterior. He was livid, cheeks flushed and eyes narrowed in anger.
"I am not incapable of love."
"Lauren? She was a cold-hearted killer."
"You just murdered a man you once loved. I don't think you can claim the moral high ground anymore," he sneered in reply.
"Get out of my room."
"I am the one bankrolling this operation. Technically, it's my hotel room."
"Get out or I will kill you next."
"I'll give you some time to collect yourself. Though I hardly think you're capable of besting me. We leave in two hours."
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Two hours later she was drunk again on cheap vodka but packed and ready to go. Surely Sark noticed: her balance was off and her breath reeked. But he kept his thoughts to himself, for once, lips pursed and crooked, eyes like stone. Once alone in the plane, however, he opened up.
"Surely you can afford better vodka than that."
Sydney pointedly ignored him as she walked towards the back of the plane and locked herself inside the cramped bathroom. Kneeling over the toilet, she retched until only bile came up, and several more times after that. Until her stomach was as empty and aching as her brain. Then she rinsed her mouth and re-entered the main cabin. Sark was waiting in front of the door, a silk handkerchief extended towards her. Her skin was pale, eyes flat and dull.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Sydney chose not to examine that oddly civil exchange. She curled up across three seats and slept fitfully, interrupted by nightmares of dental procedures in Taipei and Vaughan's shocked face, the spray of blood as the bullet hit.
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"Hello?"
Her dad's voice sounded old. She longed to forget everything that had happened, to be wrapped in his embrace like when she was young, naively believing herself safe and sound. A short sob escaped her throat.
"Sydney? Is that you? Sydney, let me explain things. Let me tell you what really happened. When I first—"
Another strangled sob stretched over the line.
"Sydney, I love you. I always have. I always will. Please—"
She hung up the phone, trembling and crying.
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Three days late. What is stress or pregnancy? If pregnancy, she had just killed the father of her unborn baby, condemned her child to never know the joy of a family, a mother and a father.
No matter what had happened after—the assumption of death corrected twenty years later with a bullet in her shoulder, her father's smiles turned into a mask of regret—they had been a family once. Home-cooked meals and encouraging words, a brief kiss as her mom—as Laura—put away the groceries; their displays of affection used to embarrass her so much as a child.
She caffeinated in the morning, drank coffee or popped pills in the bathroom when she felt herself lagging, all to stay awake, stay alert. And then, when all the world was dark and still except her thoughts, she drugged herself into a dreamless sleep for a few scant hours.
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