Chapter 7

Sark toyed with the pencil in his hand, twisting it around in circles. His life had now become much more complicated. The reason Sydney was here would be completely destroyed if they…No. It couldn't happen. No matter how much he wanted, and he wanted it, it wasn't possible. He was honoring his promise to Irina, and in doing so, putting himself in even greater danger. The secret would come out soon, and when it did…well, he didn't want to be around when it happened. How the fuck was it possible that he was the only living relative of Rambaldi?

He was related to Rambaldi. Out of all the people on this earth, it just had to be him. How did he know this? His father had told him, his father, whom he hated. He despised the man. But even saying that, he still worked with the man. His father wasn't related to Rambaldi though, it had been his mother. She was dead, of course, so that left only him. He had known about Rambaldi since he was a child; his mother would tell him stories about the great prophet 'Rambaldi'.

At the time he had been proud to be related to this man. This great prophet and he was related to him. But once he had learned everything…once he learned what a burden it was, he had wished it wasn't true. Simon knew. They had grown up together; they were brothers, even if not by blood. Sark had learned long ago blood is not stronger. No, blood was just a formality. The only family he had was Simon, and he valued that more then he would ever let anyone know.

His father…his father was a bastard. He was a bastard to his wife, Sark's mother, but at the time, Sark was only a child. He had loved his father. Lazarey had another child too; the mother, Sark had no idea. He was Sark's half-brother, Nikolai. He was older then Sark by only one year, but they had bonded well together.

Sark had always been Lazarey's favorite. And Nikolai had hated that. He had always been jealous of Sark, jealous that he never got the attention he wanted. But it wasn't because Sark was better, they were both matched evenly. No, it was because of who Sark was related to. Sark wasn't better at shooting, or fighting; nothing. They had always been equal, and Nikolai couldn't stand that. They had never fought, per say, they had gotten along, but there was always the underlining of something else.

Lazarey had always wanted them to be rivals; to have a dislike for each other, though they never did. As children, they had never understood what their father had wanted. But as Sark got older, he understood, his father soldiers; assassins. He didn't want his children to like each other. He wanted them to compete. He didn't want them close to each other. But contrary to his wants, they did become friends, though they never told their father that.

But once Sark was old enough, Lazarey had sent him to live with Irina. Nikolai had stayed. After that he had only seen them once a month, when they came to 'visit'. Of course Sark knew his father had only come to see how he was progressing.

That's where Sark had met Simon. Irina had found Simon on a train; he had tried to steal her wallet. She had liked him, and finding out from him he was an orphan, had brought him back to her home. He had trained with Sark, and they had become friends.

When they were around seventeen, Lazarey had sent Nikolai to live with them. The three of them, Sark, Simon, and Nikolai had bonded together well. But Nikolai only was with them for four years before Lazarey called him back. He had left without protest, though Sark believed Nikolai had not wanted to go.

Then, Nikolai…Sark had watched as his brother became a lap dog for Lazarey. He followed him around like a puppy, doing only what he was told. Eventually the visits became few, then fewer, then none. He knew Lazarey called Irina, but he never talked to Sark. He hadn't seen Nikolai or his father in years. Sark kept tabs on them, of course, and he knew his father did the same. Lazarey ran a shipping business, but what he was shipping wasn't exactly legal. Nikolai was supposedly his right hand man.

Sark was broken out of his thoughts as he involuntarily broke the pencil he had been holding. He dropped it, watching as the pieces fell to the floor. His head snapped up as his cell phone rang. He picked it up.

"Sark," He snapped into the phone. He hated thinking about his father. He listened to the person on the other line speak, he swallowed. Shit. "Fine, let him in."

His father was here.

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"Julian, my son," Adrian Lazarey spoke warmly, holding his arms out. Sark didn't move. Lazarey dropped his arms, giving Sark a small smile. "You will not give your father a hug?"

"You are only my father by blood," Sark said crisply, walking over to the small bar next to his desk, "and that means nothing to me."

Lazarey nodded, and sat down on a chair sitting in front of Sark's desk. "I was hoping your anger with me would have cooled in the past years, but I suppose that was just wishful thinking on my part."

"I suppose it was," Sark said, pouring Whisky into two small glass cups. He walked over and handed one to Lazarey, taking one for himself, he sat down across from him.

"You remembered what I drink," Lazarey said, sounding surprised. Sark regarded his father for a moment. He looked older, but appeared healthy. Sark wasn't sure if he was happy or angry about that.

"Not by fault," he finally said, "I was taught to remember things. You know that. Now what do you want? I assume you know the only reason you're alive is because you are related to me. I'm giving you that courtesy, but I only have so much patience when it comes to you."

"I understand," Lazarey said, taking a sip of his drink. He nodded his approval before continuing. "You know what's happening?"

"Of course," The annoyance was clear in his voice.

"The Covenant is looking for a blood relative of Rambaldi's," Lazarey said, "this woman, in the prophecy," he motioned with his hand, "this Sydney Bristow, they are looking for her too."

"I know that," Sark snapped. He was tired all of the sudden. He ran a hand over his face, through his hair. "You're telling me things I already know."

"Of course, you already have Sydney." Lazarey said, taking another sip of his drink. "But you must know the Covenant will find out soon you are the only blood relative."

"Yes…"

"Whether you like it or not, I am your father. I don't want to see you in the hands of the Covenant once they learn this." Lazarey said, "I want to help you."

"I don't like it," Sark said, "I don't see how you would mind, and I don't want your help." He sighed, shaking his head. He didn't want to deal with this.

"Sometimes even when you don't want it, you have to except it." Lazarey said calmly.

"And how are you going to help me?" Sark finally questioned.

"I will try to lead the Covenant in a different direction," he said, "and we will go on from there. But I would like to leave someone here for any…mishaps that may occur."

Sark gave a small laugh. "You know I'm the best," he smirked, "so are Simon and Sydney, who could you possible find that's better?"

"Well, I may not be better, but I'm as good as you, brother," a male voice spoke from the doorway.

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Sark watched as Nikolai walked into the room, surprised at his brother's appearance. Nikolai resembled Lazarey, but mostly had his mother's looks. He usually had dark brown hair, which stuck out in all directions, but now the top was dyed a bright blue. He had a strong nose, like his father. His right eyebrow now had a silver ring piercing it. He had a soft mouth, almost like Sark's, and a scar right over his top lip.

But even with appearances so different, you could tell they were brothers. They had the same eyes. Not in color, but the way their eyes changed with their moods…it was undeniable. Nikolai had green eyes; they were sea green, emerald…they were always changing. Just like Sark's. And they were both arrogant, cocky, and smug. They had an air about them that just begged you to try them.

"Nikolai…" Sark finally spoke, standing up from his seat. He walked over to his brother, they stood eye to eye. Sark regarded his brother. Nikolai had on a dark blue dress shirt, black pants, boots, and a black string choker with a silver charm to complete the outfit. So different from the plain attire he used to wear. "You've changed."

"Haven't we all?" Nikolai questioned. He moved past Sark and grabbed a glass from the bar. Flipping it in the air with his right hand, he caught it with his left and set it back down on the table. He turned back around. "Have any beer around here?"

"Nikolai," Lazarey snapped, standing up from his seat. "I did not bring you here to drink yourself to death. Now sit down." Nikolai glanced at his father, then walked over and sat down on a chair next to him.

"If I'm staying here for awhile, I'm going to need some beer," Nikolai said to Sark. He motioned to the bar. "None of that crap. I'm gonna' need some Guinness."

"You can't expect for him to stay here," Sark said to Lazarey, "the three of us can handle everything." Lazarey stood and walked over to Sark.

"You need my help, and as your father, I'm going to do just that." He said calmly, "Now you can accept my help, and Nikolai will stay with you, or you can refuse my help, and Nikolai will still stay, even if that means he will sleep outside."

"I never—" Nikolai started, trying to interrupt. Lazarey held up a hand, silencing him.

He glanced at his watch. "I need to leave; I have a plane to catch. I will be in touch." He walked out of the room, leaving a silent Sark behind. He clenched his jaw. He really hated the man, especially when he was right. He did need his help.

"Hate when he does that," Nikolai said, standing up from his chair and walking towards the door. He glanced back at Sark. "Where am I sleeping?"

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Sydney pulled a pillow over her face and gave a scream of frustration. She hated him. Well…she was supposed to hate him; it was part of her job. Yet here she was, working with the enemy. She jumped off the bed, pacing. She shouldn't be thinking about him…that way. She should be thinking about her dad, Marshall, Weiss…anyone but Sark. Simon. She should think about what Simon said about her mom. How did Simon know her mom? Oh god...it was no use. She couldn't stop thinking about him.

"That's it," she said aloud. She untied the towel that had been wrapped around her. Even during her shower she had thought about him. She shrugged off the towel that had been wrapped around her hair. She pulled on underwear, a pair of cotton shorts, and a tank top. She walked out the door to her room, heading for Sark's office. She was going to make him tell her everything. Everything.

She tore the door open to his office, walking inside. It was empty. She walked out, heading for the kitchen. She grimaced, looking down at her shoulder. And to add to everything, she had opened her stitches. But there was no way she was going to ask him to help her. She couldn't stand the thought of looking him in the eyes after crying in front of him. Crying. Sydney Bristow does not cry in front of the enemy. She sucks it up and deals. She'd been taught how to hide her emotions perfectly, and yet she had let them show; in front of Sark no less.

No, she did not want to face him right now. She was being a coward, she knew it, but right now, she didn't really give a shit. So there was only one thing she could do- she was going to have to find Simon. With a sigh, she stood and headed for the door.

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Sydney walked down the hallway. She was unsure which room was Simon's. Great. So she had to go knock on every door? She stopped at a door, her right hand lifted to knock. No answer. She went to the next one. No answer.

"You have got to be kidding me," she spat out, walking to the next door. Her hand was posed to knock, but she saw that the door was partially open. She looked both ways down the hallway. Empty. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. She heard a shower running. Go, stay, go, stay…stay. She walked into the room. She saw a bag of clothes open on the bed. Why would Simon have an open bag of clothes on his bed? He wouldn't. This night was just getting better and better.

She was about to turn around when she heard a noise behind her. She spun around quickly. A fist came at her face. It connected, sending her flying onto the bed. She jumped up, kicking the man right in the stomach, he grunted, bending over. She brought her hand up to her mouth, it came away with blood. Fuck. Alright, now she was pissed. Pissed enough to kick who's ever ass this was? Hell. Yes.

"Who the hell are you?" she asked. She sat down on the bed. Damn, she was tired. Her shoulder hurt, and now her mouth hurt, and she was sure to have a nice bruise tomorrow morning. This day sucked. "I would kick your ass right now, but I'm tired. And I have a feeling you're supposed to be here. So spill it now, or I'm just going to take that gun out of your bag and shoot you."

"Who the hell are you?" He asked, standing up. He had dark brown hair on the sides, bright blue on the top. His right eyebrow had a silver ring through it and his eyes…why did they remind her of Sark?

"I asked first," she said, pulling the gun out of his bag. She took off the safety, setting it on her lap. "Well? Do you really want me to shoot you?" The man gave a small laugh.

"You won't shoot me," he said, sitting down on the only chair in the room. He looked arrogant. That reminded her of Sark. Fuck Sark. She lifted the gun and shot the wall right next to his head. The noise was loud, echoing through the house.

"I have really good aim, and I'm pissed," she said coldly, "so don't push me."

"I'll tell you if you tell me," he said with a smirk. Sydney glowered. She lifted the gun again, preparing to shoot the man when Simon and Sark burst into the room, guns draw. They both froze when they saw who they were. Simon was the first to speak.

"What the bloody fucking hell is going on in here?"