Part 28
My own breath fogs my goggles as they pinch the cloth mask to the bridge of my nose. I can't help but be insanely and nervously excited. The S.W.A.T.-like vehicle bounced along the road as we sat inside prepped to the nine in full tactical gear. In my hands was the trusty MP-5 submachine gun, the safety on since before I even loaded it, and the holsters were tight against my right and left thighs carrying the matching nine-millimeter pistols.
My heart must be going a mile a minute and I can hear the excited chatter floating around. I can't really understand what they're saying because I'm lost. Lost in memory. Sydney and Marshall and me laughing at some joke he made during a tech meeting; Sydney saving my ass and vice versa on countless missions; me sitting day after day brutally unaware of the truth as Arvin Sloane rambled on about this and that. I really hate that man.
Hindsight being what it is, I know that if I'd actually possessed an ounce of the knowledge Sydney had during those long-winded meetings, I would have been right there with her - all eye-rolls, zoning out, and disbelief over his faked patriotism. We did everything but that together, I guess.
We don't even get to do this together. She's not here, and that's not fair. I can't stop hearing what she said to me earlier today. I...I couldn't leave without talking with her first. If only we could all be as forgiving and understanding as Sydney Bristow, eh? She was so excited, despite the fact that she wasn't going. I mean, we all tried, even Jack. Full tactical gear meant that she would be indistinguishable from anyone else, but we were all surprised when Kendall said that it wasn't his call, it was hers.
"Sydney...you should be there. If anyone should, it's you."
She just smiled and shook her head. "Losing everything puts a lot into perspective. I don't need to do this part, I just have to be the first person you guys tell when it's actually done. Seriously...don't let them forget that I'm down here waiting for news."
I just stared at her, my dumb eyes filling with tears and my heart pinching as I realized how much my oldest baby had grown up. I said as much and she rolled her eyes reminding me that she was only around ten years younger than I was. It was a lie and we both knew it, but she always followed it up with "you're only as old as you feel." This time was no different.
"Today? I feel twenty-five."
Then she hit me with the truth.
"He deserves a lot more, but you just have to bring him in. Let him see your face and know that it's you. It's your moment. I already had mine."
Let him see your face and know that it's you. Let him see your face and know that it's you.
The van stopped, and I didn't think it was possible for my heart to beat any faster. I've never felt impatience hit me this hard, and I couldn't help but stare at the mission leader willing him to give an update. That's when his gloved finger hit his earpiece, and I knew it was time.
Adrenalin jumped through my limbs as he pounded his fist three times against the metal wall that led to the cabin. The van lurched forward and my damn heart went from the back of my throat to the bottom of my stomach.
The van stopped.
We stand and ready our gear.
The doors open.
We're in the Credit Dauphine parking garage; I know it well. Looking over I can see my usual spot, the small stain of oil from the old family sedan right where it should be on the cement. Weiss cut the cable to the security feed ordering us to stack at the entrance, the doors opening with the swipe of a card at the keypad.
Seven rapid beeps and the locks disengaged.
One staircase, goggles in place, smoke and flash bomb canisters readied.
The office was suppressed; so many familiar faces, terrified as they dropped to the floor.
The glass doors stand before me, the hated man in the expensive suit on the other side.
"I trust you've been made aware of my status as-" his ugly voice stopped the moment I yanked the mask and goggles from my head, expecting the shock I saw on his face. Though...maybe he hammed it up a bit with the stammering.
I fist the front of his expensive suit, bunching it and the tie between my fingers before hurling him to the glass desk. SLAM. His flailing arms knock over the inbox full of paperwork and his phone, but I don't care. Leaning down, I speak into his ear.
"I hate you for everything that you've done. If I didn't have a future, I'd end you in your ugly-ass office."
"D-Dixon...Marcus...calm down."
That voice was trying to deescalate the situation, but what that voice didn't know was that I was calm. Calmer than I'd been in months, and definitely more than I'd been all day.
"One of the last things she did was save me...save my family. You have no idea how badly I want to put a bullet into you, Sloane, just because of what you did to her. But...she taught me to be better, and better means not...like...you. Get up," I roughly yank the zip tie and lash his wrists together, spinning him around.
"I'm sorry, Marcus. For what it's worth."
I had a hard time not punching him the moment after he said that. He wasn't sorry. He wasn't sorry at all, and we both knew that. He'd done anything he'd wanted for years and had gotten away with it because of high-placed friends that were just as bad and rich as he was, and that cycle wasn't about to end any time soon. I can feel the oppressive weight on my shoulders as I realize that there will always be an Arvin Sloane out there somewhere. If not today, next week; maybe tomorrow.
"From you? That's not worth much."
The mask felt strange going back over my head, but I didn't need to give everything away to the other people in the office. They'd figure it all out during debrief and be just as crushed as I was to learn that it was all a lie.
Walking Sloane to the back of a windowless van was one of the most satisfying things I'd ever done. If she couldn't do it? I'm glad it was me.
…
Sydney had relegated herself to the kitchen after exhausting every avenue of distraction that was available to her. She'd run a couple of miles on the treadmill but stopped herself from going farther. The point wasn't to wear herself out, the point was to while away the time. That and any farther would make her knee ache all night.
After the two miles were done came the hot shower. When that was done, she'd tried to watch television. When that wasn't working, she'd ended up in the kitchen with a pint of coffee ice cream, her legs folded underneath her as she perched on the corner of the counter.
'This is going to work.'
'What if it doesn't?'
'Oh, shut up, brain. It's going to work.'
'Can you spend the rest of your life in a basement?'
She sighed. She'd had this conversation, argument, with herself countless times. If anything, being secluded in a basement had fine-tuned her ability to talk to herself, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
'I'm not going to spend the rest of my life in the basement.'
'Can you and Vaughn be happy down here? Raise kids?'
That one idea terrified her. Six months ago she would have laughed if someone had told her that she'd be out of the C.I.A. before next year, but here she was. She'd already filled out the retirement paperwork and accepted a ridiculous package Kendall assured that she'd more than earned, all before fully accepting to herself that she was done with this life. She was excited to get a chance at living something new, but the success of this mission was the one thing standing in her way.
Would she be given that chance? Could she take it if it wasn't given? Everything in her life was an unknown, though the biggest looming problem was that on paper, she didn't exist.
'It's hard to start a new life when you're dead. I...I assume.'
Not that she didn't also have a plan for that, but one step at a time. The Alliance had to go or no other plans mattered.
'There's no use worrying about it. Just sit and eat your ice cream.'
That's exactly what she was doing when the elevator across the hall dinged. That ding catapulted her heart into her throat and it was genuinely hard to take a breath until her nerves calmed down. Casting the carton aside and hopping off the counter, she rushed from the room and saw Dixon in the hallway.
He was still in his tactical gear, and she could see the sweat beading on his forehead. Having been in that gear before, she knew how hot it was. He fidgeted there with a file folder in his hand, looking down and then up, and then down again.
"Did...how did…"
'How do you ask if the bad guys are all gone?'
'What are we, five?'
After a few moments of stillness, she made the first move. Stepping up with a nervous shake to her fingers, she quickly undid the straps and clasps holding his heavy kevlar vest in place. It loosened until he felt it slip away from his chest and back, and they both heard it hit the floor with a thud. Next was the tactical jacket underneath, and he felt the cool air of the basement hit his sweat-soaked undershirt and was instantly relieved. Her hand stayed for a moment over his pounding heart, and when she met his eyes again, his were filled to the brim with tears.
Everything slowed down around and inside her as the ball of optimism keeping her afloat popped. As much as she'd prepared herself for the worst and as much as she'd schooled herself not to get her hopes up, she'd done just that. Sydney had lain awake last night as this very moment haunted every thought. The feeling of long-dead coils of fear and anger sprouted below her stomach and weaved like thorny vines around her lungs to surround and pierce her breaking heart.
'I'm so stupid! I thought it would be easy! So stupid!'
"It's okay," was all she said in a strangled whisper as her gaze slipped from his to focus on the teeth of the zipper to the left side of her hand. "We can," shuddering inhale, "it's not o-over. We can...still get them, I don't...we..."
"It's done. They...they're gone, Sydney."
Before everything crashed, it froze. The pieces of her heart and mind all stopped as if hitting a glass ceiling - a ceiling that protected the rock bottom of her soul. Their brown eyes met as the tears spilled down his cheeks.
"It's over, baby."
She dimly felt his fingers wrap around her hand, lifting it away from his chest and turning it flat so he could set the file folder over top. Her mind was still reeling, her brain still desperately trying to tamp down the flames of disappointment and avoid the looming spiral into despair, but she opened it. A sobbing laugh immediately flew from her lips, her dimpled smile juxtaposed to her red-rimmed eyes.
Vaughn had handed Marcus the folder and ordered him to go give Sydney the good news. Naturally, he'd assumed that it had some Kendall-ordained memo declaring the C.I.A. in control of all Alliance facilities, partners' or otherwise. Peeking, he saw bright red marker hand-written across a blank piece of white printer paper, and he beamed with joy.
HAPPY NEW YEAR. Let's cash in those NEW BEGINNINGS.
…
Forcing back a yawn, Greg Thomas brought the cup to his lips. The liquid was still too scalding to really drink, but each airy sip made him feel as if he was helping the caffeine soak into his burned lips in order to work. The elevator dinged and he stepped out with one eye on the phone that just chimed as someone else equally distracted moved forward, the two bumping awkwardly into one another. The man that had bumped him, however, wasn't carrying a paper cup of fiery-hot liquid, and thus didn't end up with it sloshed over their fingers and splattering the arm and front of their light blue button-up shirt.
"Sorry, man," the guy said and hopped into the elevator as the doors began to close. Greg sighed deep, adjusted his crooked glasses, and turned right to head for his cubicle. The disgruntled figure of his boss stopped him short, another slosh of coffee scalding his already singed fingers.
"Where is the housing project report, Greg?"
'Shit.' "Sorry, Ms. Litvak, I'll get it to you asap. I just need to get to my office and boot up my laptop."
Pulling her glasses from their spot resting at the tip of her nose, she glared daggers at the reporter and set a hand to her hip. "Printed and on my desk in twenty, no more excuses."
Another sigh left his chest as the senior editor stalked away leaving him to slink to his desk. Bringing the only remaining swallow of coffee to his lips he chugged it down and tossed it at the trash, but it hit the rim and bounced back causing the last few droplets in the bottom to splatter up onto the stacked and printed article proofs on his desk.
"Could this day get any worse?" he muttered glumly under his breath.
"Mister Thomas?" A voice that sounded like a very large man rumbled behind him, Greg turning to see that his assessment was spot on as two guys in Men In Black style suits stood calmly at the entrance of his cubicle.
"Maybe?" His reply made the bigger of the two grin.
"Would you come with us please?"
'Shit.' "Uh...can I ask why you're asking me to come with you?"
Commotion in the immediate area of the office stopped completely as every person stared at the interaction.
The shorter, but no less intimidating, gentleman answered, "it's a matter of national security, sir."
"National security? I'm doing a report on a local housing project, I don't understand."
"This isn't about your work, sir, I can tell you that, leave whatever you're working on and come with us," the giant assured, making the request one last time.
It may have only been 9:08 in the morning, but Greg was done with this day and something clicked in his mind as he narrowed his eyes and fought back. "No. Not until you tell me who you are, who you work for, and why I'm being asked to go with you. It would also be nice to know where you're planning on taking me."
He thought he sounded brave save for the higher pitch of his voice, but the men shared knowing smiles before the bigger of the two responded, "I'm Agent Willis and this is Agent Olson. We are with Central Intelligence Agency Joint Task Force Operations and have been sent to bring you to our office for a meeting with someone; a meeting that has national security implications. Would you come with us now, sir?"
The tone of the voice and the giant hand he used to gesture toward the elevator indicated that they were a half step away from picking him up, tucking him under a muscled arm, and carrying him out. Looping the messenger bag back over his shoulder Greg stepped forward, the agents letting him lead the way to the elevator before joining him inside. He wasn't claustrophobic until now, and as the doors closed, he felt like a kitten trapped in a box with two wild dogs.
"Thank you, Mister Thomas. Please know that you are not being detained and are free to leave at any time-" Greg's hand shot out and hit the open door button on the panel, and the agents laughed. "After the meeting. We'll bring you right back here if it's where you want to go."
There was a black sedan waiting for them out front, the larger man opening the rear door as Greg slid over the leather seats. He'd never been this scared in his entire life, and the myriad of unknown questions dug deeper and quickened his already rapidly beating heart during the drive across town. What was probably only fifteen minutes felt like an eternity, and as the car came to a stop at a gated checkpoint entrance, he released a breath he hadn't known he was holding as the sign next to the guard station read 'Joint Task Force Operations Center'.
Knowing that they actually were who they said they were was a relief, though the reason for them picking him up in the first place was still a mystery. He was digging through his mind for contacts, projects, meetings, and informants, with nothing and no one shady coming to light.
Greg had made a conscious effort to keep his work above board and was honestly proud of the fact that he had stayed below the criminal radar by being unbribable and only utilizing respected and trusted sources. The fact that the Central Intelligence Agency was knocking on his proverbial office door came out of nowhere.
The car stopped at the main entrance and the hulk of a man slid out, walked around, and opened the door, his cue to exit. The bright sun made him squint as he realized he'd left his sunglasses at his desk, but their time outside was brief as the men escorted him to the front door and inside the building.
Greg's focus was the bold insignia on the floor and ran headlong into the muscled back of one of the agents as they had stopped in front of him.
"Sorry," he whispered and looked around the foyer.
Kendall watched the young man escorted in, his journalistic eyes taking in every detail they could soak as he awkwardly clung to the shoulder bag with both hands like a scared school-yard boy.
"Thank you, fellas, I'll take it from here." The men nodded and went down a side passage, and the young reporter visibly relaxed. "Thank you for your willingness to come here today, Mister Thomas."
"Willingness is a strong word," he said quietly, finally laying eyes on the bald man before him.
Kendall merely laughed and gestured for him to follow before turning and walking farther into the facility. "Mister Thomas, I'm Deputy Director Kendall and I want to welcome you to the C.I.A./F.B.I. Joint Task Force Operation Center. 'Round here we just call it the J.T.F."
"That sounds important. Could...could you tell me what the hell I'm doing here?"
Kendall laughed. "Right this way."
With practiced hands and smooth motions, Kendall walked through security, the guards not asking to see his credentials, though the man presented them anyway as the badge hung clipped to the breast pocket of his grey suit. More hallways lined with glass blurred past until one side opened up to a large open room filled with computer monitors, desks, a wall of screens, and a dozen people running around in business attire.
His jaw dropped and his feet stopped, Kendall turning his head to find the young man lagging behind. "C'mon kid, we'll show you around later."
"Later?" His first question was his mouth speaking before his brain could comprehend. "Wait...show me around?"
Kendall led the confused and awestruck journalist through the rotunda toward a back hallway of conference rooms before opening a door and leading the way in assuming correctly that he would follow. A blonde young man greeted them with excitement putting a bounce in his step.
"Greg, it's great to see you again, man!"
"Will? Holy shit!"
The blue-eyed reporter-turned-analyst held out his hand. "Yeah. Sorry for the cloak and dagger routine, it's kind of...well...my whole life right now."
"Where the hell have you been, man? The office has been worried to death!" Skipping the handshake Will was pulled straight into a hug as the messenger bag became a lumpy wedge between the two men.
They parted with a pat to each shoulder before Greg settled into the offered chair. "I know, and I'm sorry about all that. It wasn't exactly my plan to, ya know, just...disappear."
"I - I never got to say it, but I'm really sorry about Sydney. That was holy shit insane, dude. Have you been here this whole time? Is...was this where she worked? Is this where you work?"
A throat cleared across the table and Greg turned to see another well-dressed man in a suit with a look of apprehension and annoyance shrouding his steel-blue eyes. "If you don't mind, I'm sure Mister Tippin is more than happy to reconnect with you after the meeting."
Kendall stepped back in and took a seat next to the scowling older agent. "Mister Thomas, this is Jack Bristow."
"M-Mister Bristow, hello. I-" his awkward greeting was cut off.
"We're going to speak very frankly here and we need to know very quickly if you are in or out on this project. Do you understand?"
Greg thought of answering 'yes' despite the fact that he had little to no information, but his brain kicked into gear before his mouth could again be impetuous. "Look, I have no idea why I'm here, so I can't exactly agree to anything. If it's a story, have Will do it. He's a better writer and honestly, I have half a dozen projects waiting for me back at the office that I'm behind deadlines on already. That's...not a good resume, I know, but it's the truth."
Will sent the two older agents a comforting grin and stepped up before they could toss his friend out. "I called you here. Believe me when I say that this...project," he paused and looked deep into the matching blue eyes of his former colleague, "this is like nothing you've ever done before. This will put your name everywhere instantly and has Pulitzer written all over it. Trust me; you should say yes."
Greg's curiosity was definitely piqued. "Bullshit. Why give it to me and not take it for yourself?"
Kendall slid a folder across to the bewildered journalist still clutching his book bag like a lost child at the mall. Flipping it open a frown creased behind the thin-rimmed glasses. "This is a non-disclosure agreement." He flipped a few more of the pages as his eyes opened wider. "This is...like a dozen non-disclosure agreements, and...a-and a living arrangement clause?"
Kendall nodded. "Mister Tippin is telling you the truth. This is a once and a lifetime opportunity that he can't do by himself. He hand-picked you to work with him on this, but the hard part will be signing every single one of those before you're even allowed to know, let alone see, why you're here."
Silence filled the room as three pairs of very different eyes stared him down. He read through each page, probably not as thoroughly as any representation would have liked, but enough to know that the agreements themselves weren't giving away any detail of this secret project.
"Why me?"
Will answered. "Greg, you were the only other reporter in that hellhole with a soul. You only worked with informants and contacts and contracts that were legit and never once compromised your articles to get closer to the front page. You were consistent with facts and the only guy that would collaborate with me on anything because I was a huge pain in the ass."
"Was?" The stoic, grey-haired man joked with a smile crooking the corner of his mouth, Will flashing an annoyed look across the table.
Doubt nibbled at the edges of his mind and hampered his ability to make the decision quickly, but his heart and mouth both wanted him to sign as fast as humanly possible. Thankfully, his brain was the cautious one of the three. "Can...could I have some kind of hint?"
"Trust me, you want to do this," Will enticed.
As many times as he read them, the N.D.A.'s didn't change, and he found himself right back at the beginning of the problem no matter which way he circled. He reached into the bag and pulled out a pen, and once all lines that required a signature were signed, he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Closing the folder and sliding it across the table to Kendall, he turned expectant eyes on his friend and saw a bright smile lighting up Will's face.
It was Jack that spoke next, and Greg felt that the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees. "If you break any of these, Mister Thomas, you won't get a chance to realize the mistake you've made."
"Jesus, Jack," Will interjected, Greg flashing him with eyes that screamed 'what have I done?' "I need you to do an interview. You would stay here while doing research with me, conduct background interviews, write everything for approval, and then we'll do it live on a worldwide television broadcast."
Greg frowned in confusion. "An interview? Who the hell would I be interviewing that would require nearly a dozen N.D.A.'s?"
Kendall spoke with a clear and confident voice, "Sydney Bristow."
You could hear a pin drop.
The others in the room waited for the man's reaction. He surprised them all with a sharp outburst of a single laugh. "Don't screw with me."
"It's not a joke," Kendall promised.
Will chuckled under his breath as Greg's jaw went slack, a shaky hand removing the glasses from his face.
"Are...is this...seriously?"
Will nodded, "seriously. That's why I can't do it myself."
"Are you in, Mister Thomas?" Kendall asked before sliding another folder over, Greg's hand stopping it from falling off the edge of the table and into his lap, but just barely.
Still-shaking fingers lifted it enough to peek inside, and he was surprised to see just a single sheet of paper on C.I.A. letterhead, CONTRACT typed boldly at the top. It was very simple. He was basically agreeing that the work would be the property of the American government but that a copy would be usable in his portfolio. His eyes got stuck on a single sentence near the end, reading it over and over as his head continued to spin.
'I, Gregory David Thomas, hereby agree to any and all stipulations brought forward or drawn up after the signature of this initial contract, by one: Sydney Bristow.'
The weight of this revelation came crashing down on him, heavy burdens pushing his shoulders down into a slump. Tears filled his eyes as he looked back up at his friend, and the excitement that was once abundant quickly shifted at the distraught sheen in Greg's glistening eyes.
"I watched her die, man. You're serious about this?"
Will set a hand to Greg's shoulder and nodded. "I wouldn't lie to you; not about this. You in?"
Sniffling and wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he nodded.
…
