Chapter 9
Three weeks later…
"Who do you work for?" A heavily accented French voice spoke.
Silence.
"I will not hesitate to hurt you."
"Well, in that case I better tell you." A female voice spoke.
"Yes…?"
"I work for…" A sigh, "I work for…"
"Well?" The voice was growing angry.
"Damn." A shrug. "I can't remember." A punch was directed to the left side of her face. She spat blood onto the metal floor. She smirked. "That was a little soft."
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48 hours earlier…
"Thomas D'Aubigne," Simon said, pointing to the screen. A man in his mid-forties was pictured; he was handsome, black hair, dark eyes, obviously French. A cigarette dangled from his hand. He looked cocky, like he always got what he wanted. Sydney already despised him. But there was something familiar about him… "We recently learned he has made some interesting discoveries. Ones he shouldn't have."
"Apparently he has found a Rambaldi manuscript," Sark spoke up from his seat at the table. Sydney carefully avoided any eye contact with him. "One that could contain information about Rambaldi's second coming." She could feel Sark's gaze, but she ignored it, instead focusing on the papers that lay before her.
"So he's having a party?" She questioned.
"He's invited many members of the covenant," Nikolai, who was seated next to her, spoke, "he plans on revealing the manuscript there. The guy obviously wants to gain a better seat within the kingdom, and what better way to do it then find something they all want, and dangle it in front of their faces?" She nodded. He did have a point.
"What are we going to do?" She finally asked, glancing up at Simon again.
He grinned. "Steal it."
"Of course, what was I thinking?" she remarked, standing up from her seat. "When are we leaving?"
"'Couple hours," Simon said, "and pack a bag."
"Right," Sydney nodded and headed for the door, ignoring Sark's gaze that followed her out. She kept walking out into the hallway, and almost clobbered him when he grabbed her arm.
"Sydney-"
She spun around quickly, ripping her arm out of his grasp. "Don't touch me," she spat out. Sark didn't seem fazed by her anger, simply tilting his head to the side.
"You're angry with me, I understand that-"
"Angry with you?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "You think I'm angry with you? I'm just acting how I would normally act with you. I don't like you, Sark. I thought you would have figured that out by now, but, hey, if not, let me clear that up for you – I don't like you." She turned, intending to walk away when his voice stopped her.
"You can't expect me to tell you my life story, Sydney. I will inform you of what I believe you should know, nothing more." Before Sydney could respond, Simon walked out into the hall, stepping between the two of them.
"I don't know exactly what happened between the two of you, but I have a pretty fucking good idea," he said, looking between the both of them, "But you know what? I don't give a flying shit. Get over it. I don't care how you do it - but you better have this cleared up before we leave, 'cause I ain't gettin' my ass killed because you two love birds are having a feud." Sydney opened her mouth to respond, but Simon raised his hand.
"I don't wanna hear it," he said. "Figure this shit out." He walked back into the room, leaving an awkward silence behind. Sark was the first to speak.
"Sydney-"
"He's right." She said, turning around. "Just forget it."
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12 hours later…
"Black Mamba, do you copy?" Sydney rolled her eyes, bringing her hand inconspicuously up to her ear. She pressed her com link.
"How many times have I told you that is not my codename?" She shook her head. She could almost see Simon's grin on the other line.
"At least a hundred," he said, "and you have to admit, it fits you perfectly, babe."
"And yet, I don't," she said, glancing around the room. She caught a pair of familiar blue eyes, looking away quickly, she resumed her scan. She had artfully avoided Sark since their conversation, and she didn't intend to start being friendly now. Not that it mattered. They were on a yacht, floating at sea in the middle of nowhere.
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Sydney's gaze followed Thomas D'Aubigne as he made his way around the room. She glanced up when she felt a hand touch her shoulder. It was a man in his early thirties, he was handsome, but he looked a little snotty for her tastes. She smiled tightly.
"Would you like to dance?" He asked, giving her a brilliant smile. She was about to respond when she heard Simon's voice in her ear.
"Jul's going into the room, babe, we need a distraction. And while you're at it, tell that guy…Vais le baton il augmente votre âne." She choked on the glass of champagne she had been sipping, and started coughing loudly. Everyone around her stopped talking and watched. The man patted her on the back, trying feebly to help. "We're good, babe."
She stopped coughing, giving the man a smile. "Excuse me, I have to go…" She walked off without waiting for a response. Once she was out of earshot she cursed into her com link. "Go stick it up your ass? I almost choked to death, you bastard." She couldn't stop the smile from coming over her features, though. The man was funny.
"I can tell you with certainty that guy wanted to stick his-"
"Simon!" She shook her head, shocked, but knowing she shouldn't be. This was Simon she was talking to. "I get the idea. Now-" She broke off, hearing footsteps coming from behind her. She turned around, her breath stopped when she saw who it was.
Thomas D'Aubigne walked past her and Sydney almost sighed in relief, she started walking towards the dining room when his voice stopped her.
"Wait," she stopped, turning around slowly. She smiled at him.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she said, giggling at the man. "I was looking for the bathroom."
"Do I know you?" He asked, gazing at her curiously.
"I don't think so," she said with a grin. "I would have remembered meeting you." He watched her for a moment, then smiled.
"I hope you are enjoying the party, mademoiselle." Sydney smiled. This was almost too easy.
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Sark couldn't help but glace at Sydney every couple of minutes. She had been avoiding him since their conversation in the hallway. That bothered him, more then he cared to admit. Living in the same house as Nikolai and Simon was hard enough, but add an angry Bristow, and you've got quite a situation. A giggling voice broke Sark out of his thoughts.
"Excuse me, monsieur, you looked lonely." A beautiful blonde woman in her early thirties smiled at him flirtatiously, batting her eyelashes. Sark gave her his trademark smirk.
"I assure you, I am quite fine by myself." He spoke, "I doubt your husband would approve of you flirting with every man in sight, non?" The woman huffed indignantly, glaring at him.
"Bâtard," she spat, walking away quickly. He shook his head. French women were so easily angered. He scanned the crowd again, noticing Sydney talking with Mr. D'Aubigne. Time to play, he thought, walking off towards them.
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"Isabelle, my dear," Sark wrapped his arm around Sydney's waist, his eyes on D'Aubigne the entire time. "Care to introduce me to your new friend?"
"David, darling, this is Mr. D'Aubigne," she giggled, twirling a piece of hair between her fingers.
"Mr. D'Aubigne," Sark stretched his arm out, shaking the man's hand. "A pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine," he smiled, "and please, call me Thomas."
"Tell me, Thomas," Sark's voice dropped, taking on a cold tone. "Do you make it a habit in trying to steal other men's wives?" D'Aubigne's eyes widened at Sark's tone, and he raised his hands in defense.
"I was not trying to steal your wife, Monsieur," he spoke, obviously flustered. "we were just talking."
"Oh, I'm sure you were just talking," Sark glared at the man, "just like you've probably talked with all the other women in this place."
"Monsieur, you are obviously mistaken." Thomas said, his eyes narrowing. "And I do not appreciate being talked to in that tone. If you have a problem with me we can go into my office and talk it out, but not in the middle of this room."
"Fine," Sark grabbed a glass of whisky from a serving tray and downed it in one gulp. "Let's go to your office and talk this out."
"David," Sydney clutched onto his arm, "Sweetie, don't do this, please-"
"Dear," Sark removed her arm, "Why don't you go powered your nose." Sydney's mouth fell open in shock, her eyes narrowed and she walked off in a huff. Sark snorted and looked at D'Aubigne. "Women. Now…how about that talk?"
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"I assume you do not wish to talk about your wife?" Sark glanced back at D'Aubigne, who was seated behind his desk. He sat down in the seat across from him.
"Of course not, Mr. D'Aubigne." The man watched him for a moment.
"Then I assume you would like to know about a certain something I have in my possession."
"Yes." Sark nodded, glancing around the room. "I assume you won't let me see that certain something?"
"You assume correctly, Mr. Sark." D'Aubigne smiled, showing his white teeth.
Fuck, was the last word Sark thought before falling to the floor, unconscious.
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Sydney scanned the area, watching for Sark. He was still talking with D'Aubigne. She glanced at her watch. It should have been over. She bit her lip, quickly releasing it once she realized she had done it. This wasn't right. Something was wrong.
She turned, only to be stopped by a gun pointing directly at her forehead. Before she could think, the butt of a gun hit the back of her head, knocking her unconscious.
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Present…
"Who do you work for?" A heavily accented French voice spoke.
Silence.
"I will not hesitate to hurt you."
"Well, in that case I better tell you." A female voice spoke.
"Yes…?"
"I work for…" A sigh, "I work for…"
"Well?" The voice was growing angry.
"Damn." A shrug. "I can't remember." A punch was directed to the left side of her face. She spat blood onto the metal floor. She smirked. "That was a little soft."
"I can assure you; this is just a taste of what is to come."
"You have no idea how excited I am." Sydney spoke in a bland tone, smirking as the man left, slamming the metal door of the boat behind him. Once he was gone, her shoulders slumped in her chair. Her hands were tied tightly behind her with wire; they were wet, presumably with her blood. She grimaced. Life was great.
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"Mr. Sark, tell me what I want to know, and you are free to leave." The French man spoke, walking slowly around the chair which Sark was tied to.
"Unharmed?" Sark asked, face blank.
"Of course." Sark nodded. The man smiled. "Good. Now, tell me who you work for." Sark sighed, shaking his head. He shrugged.
"What if I tell you where to find the most excellent red wine ever produced?" The man backhanded Sark across the face. Sark licked the inside of his mouth, tasting blood. "That was a mistake on your part."
"I will tell you what the mistake is! The mistake is you not telling me what I want to know!" The man started shouting in French. Finally he came very close to Sark's face. "You will tell me what I want to know." Sark smirked.
"That is most unlikely, but to all his own." The man spat in Sark's face.
"Filthy Americans!" He left, slamming the door behind him. Sark grimaced as he felt the saliva slide down his face. That man was dead.
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Sydney was humming softly. It was a song her mother used to sing to her when she was young. She couldn't remember what it was called, but knew the tune perfectly. Her gaze lifted to the door when it opened. The French man walked in, as well as two other men, both sporting enough weapons to kill a small village.
"You will not talk, but perhaps your friend will talk if we put on a show for him, eh?" Sydney shook her head.
"I don't know what you're talking about, I just came to have a good time—"
"Silence." The man raised a hand. "We shall see what happens. But I believe my friend Douleur will help with our communication issues." Sydney shook her head.
"Oh boy, I'm scared now. Do you have a closet?"
"Excuse me?" He looked confused.
"A closet, you know, so I can go hide?" She smiled at the man. He smiled back.
"Douleur!" He yelled loudly. Sydney smirked.
"Douleur? Pain?" She bit her lip, containing her obvious amusement. "How very original."
"I assure you I do live up to the name, mademoiselle." A man in his late-forties walked into the room. His hair was a dark brown, almost black, starting to gray. He was handsome in a way, but once you saw his eyes, you knew he was just plain…evil. He had no soul. Sydney almost shuddered. Almost.
"I'm sure you do, Douleur." Sydney bit her tongue to keep from saying anything else, but found a moment later she need not bother as she felt a needle slide into her neck none to gently. Her last sight was of Douleur, and his startlingly empty eyes.
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Sydney gasped and sputtered as ice cold water was thrown onto her face. She coughed, having swallowed some. After a moment she finally looked up. Douleur smiled at her. Sydney noted Sark tied to a chair behind him. She looked back up at Douleur, and was proud of herself for not flinching at the emptiness that stared back at her.
"My dear, shall we begin?" He smiled at her again, gesturing back at Sark. "We have your friend here to watch. We are going to have fun." Sydney tried moving her hands, which were, she found, tied behind her chair. Her legs were tied to the chair as well, but she found she could move them a little.
"I don't suppose we could just have a friendly conversation?" She asked, mentally preparing herself for whatever was about to happen. She tried the rope again, it gave a little.
"But of course," he said, grabbing something from the small table behind him. "If you would only tell me what my employer would like to know, we would not have to go through all of this."
"You know, I'd love to help you out, I really would," she shrugged, "but I don't work for anyone. Honestly." Douleur made a 'tisk, tisk' sound, turning around so she could see what he had in his hand. A mask, connected to a long tube, which in turn was connected to a tank. She swallowed inwardly. She was not looking forward to this.
"Now, shall we begin?"