Chapter 8: Vodka and Violence

(Sydney)

"Vagt is on his way."

"Copy that."

His words were clipped. Two weeks ago he made love to me. I retaliated with a blunt metal object. We hadn't spoken of it since. But if possible, he seemed even more coldly professional towards me than ever before.

I told my father the Ferucci mission had gone off without a hitch.

I tugged the hem of the red dress down, only to realize that doing so lowered the neckline too far for my comfort. What choices: I could show too much cleavage or too much leg. Leaning back slightly I managed to recross my legs without flashing anyone. The hotel bar was doing a brisk business, but was not too crowded. The rest of the patrons were respectable couples and older businessmen, with just a few younger singles trawling for company. But they weren't showing nearly as much skin as I was. And no one else was quite so blond as Vagt apparently preferred.

"I see him," I whispered, covering by lifting my glass as if to take a sip.

He was an imposing man: dark hair, strong features, and a thick build. Vagt sat a few stools down, and ordered a drink. I glanced over, caught his gaze and smiled, halfway between demure and interested. He raised his glass, I raised my own, and we drank at the same time. I sipped; he downed an entire shot of his poison of the evening. Turning back to my drink, I swirled the ice in the bottom of the glass and took another small sip. Vagt continued to glance my way periodically. He was interested. Finally he stood up from his stool and walked to stand next to mine, an elbow in the bar as if he owned the place.

"As we are both here alone, perhaps you would care to join me."

It was only barely question. I frowned a moment, then smiled up at him. He sat down on the stool next to mine. He ordered two more shots of vodka. We downed them in a gulp. Firewater. But I had to drink with him. My role was to come across as equal parts tramp and socialite, a worthy conquest.

"What are we drinking to?" I purred.

"I just secured a rather important client for my firm," he lied glibly.

"And you're here alone? Not celebrating with the rest of your firm?"

"I do not drink with my employees. I prefer the company of a beautiful woman like yourself. What are you drinking to?"

"To freedom. And to forget."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"I don't think it's any of your business, anyway."

"I told you my story," he put a hand on my leg above my knee, "It would only be fair if you shared yours as well."

Now I had him. A sob story about an engagement broken off, jetting off to spend a few days shopping in Moscow. Three vokdas later he paid the tab for both of us and led me to his room.

(Sark)

It infuriated me to hear her flirtation with Vagt and to know by her breathing and the conversation when he touched her. Not because I felt possessive of her, but because I knew how much she hated whoring herself out for the sake of the mission. Perhaps I did feel a bit possessive, as ridiculous as that was. I was sure she enjoyed the show we put on for Ferucci as much as I had. But her reaction later that night made it clear it would never happen again. My hand involuntarily brushed over my cheek where she had hit me.

The sound of a door opening, Sydney's playful laughter, the sound of a door closing, and of a body being pushed roughly against a wall.

"Wait, wait—" a breathless voice, strained. It was Sydney. Then a zipper being pulled down, fabric tearing.

"I want you now," that voice was Vagt, and again came the sound of flesh contacting plaster.

"Sydney, what's happening?" I tried her over the comm.

"Let me go!" Sydney again, screaming. A brief scuffle, the grunt of someone being kicked in the stomach.

"Who do you work for?"

Vagt's voice. He found the knife.

"I don't work for anyone, you ugly bastard."

I didn't wait for his response. I sprinted up four flights of stairs, knocked out the guard standing in front of the entrance to the suite, and shot the door open. Sydney was on her knees on the ground, clutching her abdomen, forehead on the floor, back exposed down to her waist by the unzipped dress, on strap ripped off. Vagt had a gun at the back of her head, which he swung up to me as I crashed in.

"I take it you're with her."

I merely nodded. We were at an empasse, guns held steady aimed at each other.

"I suggest you let her go."

Vagt laughed, more like a bark. His aim never wavered.

"Or what? It appears I have the only bargaining chip. Something tells me you would be upset to watch her die. I would be sad to lose such an alluring toy."

"If you kill her, I will kill you."

He laughed at that, more of a bark than anything else.

"So she does hold some value to you." He yanked Sydney up by her arm and stood her in front of him, gun trained on her head now instead of mine.

"Shoot him, Sark."

"Be quiet!" Vagt hissed into her ear. "And you, put down your gun on the table or I will shoot her."

I moved to comply, placed the gun on the table. He moved to retrieve it. And as I guessed his grip on Sydney loosened. I ran towards him as she twisted down out of his grip, and bowled him over. We fought on the floor, rolling over and over, exchanging blows, but I hung on to him. I needed to keep him away from the gun more than anything else.

A shot reverberated through the room. It grazed my arm but went directly through Vagt's shoulder. Weakened from the wound and the pain, his arm drooped to his side, and I sprung away from him. Sydney stood with the gun, still pointed at him. He tried to stand, bleeding down his shirt. She took a step forward and shot him again. This time he slumped to the floor dead.

Then she dropped the gun and ran towards the bathroom.

(Sydney)

I still felt his hands all over me, calloused and clammy, over my dress, on my skin, the weight of his body as he slammed me into the wall, and the adrenaline that had sustained me dropped into the pit of my stomach like a lead weight and left me shaking and empty. I huddled over the toilet bowl and heaved until nothing was left.

Then I became aware of Sark, holding back my hair, pulling me to my feet.

"We have to go. Now."

Urgency in his voice. He pulled the fur coat around my tattered dress and did up all the clasps, smoothed back my hair, and led me out of the room. He led us out the service exit, explaining that we were no longer safe there, that we needed to check into another hotel. The cab ride went by in silence. I was cold. When I looked at him, he was staring straight ahead, his profile cut in moonlight and shadow.

Soon we were in a new room, in a new hotel, with the door locked and bolted and Sark studiously avoiding me.

"He took me by surprise," I finally said, by way of explanation. I screwed up the mission. I screwed it all up. I took of the coat, threw off the shoes and stood there in that ridiculous dress. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror, pale and bruised. And the ripped dress hanging down, exposing most of my breast on the side where he ripped apart the strap.

"We'll have to leave in the morning."

"I don't have anything to wear."

"I'll pick up something for you in the morning," he took a step towards me, as if to say something more. Part of me longed for his touch, for something to erase the feel of Vagt's hands. But he stopped, put his hands in his pockets, and sat down on the couch. "I'm sure you're tired. You can have the bed."