A/N: Okay, if you're not too mad at me for killing Sloane (hah!) and Vaughn (sorry), I just wanted to say thank you for reading and reviewing, and this is the last chapter.

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As they sat in the darkness, waiting for her father's return, Sydney pondered that she had never been in his apartment, in the twelve years she had lived in LA, so near to him. The place suited him: downtown in one of the high-rises. It was all dark wood paneling and understated furniture, the kitchen done in dark granite, the walls a muted cream. No way could he afford this on his CIA salary.

There were no personal touches anywhere, nothing out of place. But as she rifled through his desk and his nightstand she found pictures of herself, report cards from elementary school, and even a few embarrassing scribblings she had drawn before it all went to hell.

Sark didn't look around. He just sat in the living room with his gun gripped by his side, and his laptop set in front of him, showing the feed from the building's security cameras.

Under the false bottom of a drawer in his dresser she found pictures of his wedding to Laura, what she assumed to be his wedding ring, and ironically, a copy of the police report on her mother's 'death'.

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"Don't get too comfortable, Sydney," Sark chided her an hour later, as she heated a can of soup on her father's stove and drank orange juice from the carton. There wasn't much in the fridge, but she found a stack of carry-out menus in one of the drawers.

"Shut up and watch the feed," she sniped back.

"Aren't you going to offer me something to eat?"

"No."

"So inhospitable. Really, I think you learned better manners from your parents."

"Like what? How to kill a man politely? With a smile on my face? I think you're much better at that, being a total sociopath and all."

"Sydney, I'm wounded."

She transferred the Progresso soup to a bowl and sat in the leather chair across from him.

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"He's in the elevator. Three minutes, at most," Sark finally broke the silence.

Sydney set her empty bowl down on the coffee table and pulled her gun from the holster at her thigh. She felt nervous, unsettled. Her companion seemed as calm as ever.

"He's my father, you know."

"It really doesn't mean much."

"Not to you. You already killed yours."

"And I'd do it again."

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There was the sound of keys jangling, a doorknob turning, and the squeak of un-oiled hinges. Jack Bristow smelled food as he walked into his apartment, and knew immediately that something was wrong.

"Mr. Bristow, so glad you could join us," drawled Sark, his Beretta leveled at her father's heart.

"Sark," he acknowledged. Looking further into the room he found his daughter perched on his reading chair, nervously tapping her handgun against the arm. "Sydney?"

"We'd like some information before we do anything rash. Where did Irina hide the Manifesto?" continued Sark. Sydney was silent.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His voice was stone and ice. So different from how he used to speak to her, as a child, reading to her at night, tucking her into bed.

With the silencer on the bullet barely made a sound as it tore through his thigh. Painful, but hardly lethal. Jack fell to his knees as the leg buckled beneath him, and clutched a hand over the wound. Sydney jumped at the sound, her face betraying more pain and anguish than her father's.

"We can do this all night," Sark continued.

"And I still won't tell you anything," Jack spoke through gritted teeth.

Sark aimed again, at his shoulder. It was Sydney who spoke next.

"Stop it. Put the gun down, Sark, now!"

She was on her feet, torn between rage and bitter regret. Sark turned to face her, his gun still aimed at the other Bristow in the room.

"Sydney, what are you doing?" He sounded more annoyed than anything.

Jack took the opportunity to grab the knife under the stool at his left, and sprang at Sark. They grappled, Sark's gun dropped to the floor, Sydney afraid to shoot lest she hit her father by mistake, until finally there was blood dripping down Jack's arm. A sob wrenched out of Sydney's throat and she ran towards the two. But Jack stood steady, and Sark slowly fell to the ground, puzzled by the knife sticking from his chest.

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"Daddy, I'm so sorry, so sorry. I was so mad but I didn't want…not really…I couldn't, I mean….how could I even think of it? I'm so sorry…"

He held her in his arms on the couch, rocking her back and forth as she sobbed against him. "Shhh, Sydney, calm down. It's okay. Nothing happened."

"He shot you. I let him….I was….we were here to…."

Sark lay dead and cold on the floor, the puddle of blood congealing around him.

"It doesn't matter, sweetheart. You didn't do anything."

"And Sloane, and Vaughn….I'm so sorry…."

He had wondered about that, those two deaths so close together, so intricately involved in betrayal at the highest level. Their absence might make things easier for his investigation.

"Let me show you something, Sydney."

She sat with her arms around herself, still crying, as he retrieved a folder from a safe behind a landscape painting in the office, and set it into her shaking hands. And as she read this folder, this classified document, she discovered the deception went even deeper. Just as they had worked as double agents within SD-6, Jack was still playing the game, to try and topple a conspiracy that reached the highest levels of government.

"It was too dangerous. I couldn't let you get dragged into that again, against your will, not again. I was trying to protect you, Sydney. I love you more than anything."

"Oh Dad…"

"But now you know. Now you're a target, too."

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