Rivalita

by jasbredavral

Sark found her purely by accident in the streets of London. Tripped over her, more accurately. Sarkney, alternate S3.

15. Chapter 15

Long, long, loooong chapter. My personal favorite, and a joy to write. :)

Note the change in rating, please!

Title by Arctic Monkeys, quote by Green Day. Now hang onto your seatbelts, folks...

XV. If You Were There, Beware

I'm gonna burn it all down. I'm gonna rip it out. Well, everything
that you employ was meant for me to destroy to the ground now, so
don't you fuck me around, because I'll shoot you down.

Sydney threw her purse onto the bunk she'd decided to claim as her own and immediately rounded on Sark. "Please tell me the rest of our aliases are more convincing than this!" she hissed, ever wary of eavesdroppers, waving the passport in her hand for emphasis.

His smirk wasn't rendered more welcome by its predictability. "It seemed somehow appropriate. Also, I dare say a passenger ship to the Netherlands is hardly the most dangerous part of our journey."

The newly christened Tatiana Derevko was less than appeased. "Oh, really? Using my mother's last name at all is insane! We have no idea how rigorously the passenger manifests might be checked, and the name of an international terrorist might be a little bit of a red flag!"

"You have to admit that the theme has a certain charm," said Sark, alias Ivan Lazarey.

"Not if it gets us caught."

She had hoped to enjoy this first alias, since it was the only one that wouldn't involve a disguise, but now it seemed that Sark's warped sense of humor was going to ruin that possibility. Rather than continue the argument, she used her foot to push her suitcase under the bunk, just to create more floor space. Her single, fairly enormous piece of luggage was full of wigs, makeup, high heels and provocative clothing, along with a few favorites she hadn't wanted to leave behind.

"Is everything in place for the meet in Amsterdam?" she asked, sitting down and reaching into a purse for her water bottle.

"Yes. Our Covenant source seems quite eager to cooperate, for a certain price."

"Gee, who does that remind me of?" She cocked an eyebrow at Sark, who naturally remained completely unruffled by the comparison.

Despite his advocacy, not much had happened between them since she'd made her proposal. Both had been working almost nonstop on logistics, contacts, and paperwork, including a small library of fake IDs for each of them. She believed the fact that they seemed to always end up sleeping snuggled together in Sark's bed was entirely her own business. It was a practical measure, after all, in that she hadn't had a single nightmare since his return.

Though last night, in the thrill of having everything ready, she might have gone slightly overboard in her expression of gratitude. She hadn't done that in quite a while, but she had to admit the almost worshipful look that still lingered in Sark's eyes was actually worth it.

The idea of him being physically affectionate still struck her as bizarre, but at a certain point she'd had to accept it as reality. He would kiss her, or touch her hair, or put a hand on her waist, without seeming to give it a second thought. He cuddled, for god's sake. It was as if he'd read instructions on how to act in an actual relationship, rather than the more apropos Homicidal Man's Guide to Sex With the Enemy.

Perhaps more mortifying was the fact she found it so comforting. Addictive, even. There was always a sharp electricity between them, the thrill of getting away with something fundamentally ill-advised. It shouldn't have surprised Sydney. She, of all people, knew the sexual tension that arose between co-conspirators.

In all honesty, she was having the time of her life.

This entire situation was reminiscent of the nights she'd had a little too much to drink. Perhaps, when it was all over, she'd be left with nothing but regrets and a hangover, but right now she was on top of her game, living every moment and never looking back. Right now, her most prominent goals were revenge and destruction, and if her twisted connection with Sark got drawn into the mix, so be it. Introspection occupied a very low position on her list of priorities.

Since Sark was occupied with his computer, presumably double-checking their arrangements, Sydney lay down on her bunk, enjoying the feeling of the Smith & Wesson 5903 tucked in the back of her waistband. A strict truce had been established, and she wasn't about to sacrifice her objectives by breaking it, but it felt good to be armed again. As she'd suspected, Sark had unleashed a veritable arsenal of weapons from every corner of the safehouse prior to their departure.

Thanks to having had less than five hours of sleep the night before, she actually managed to fall asleep on the stiff, lumpy mattress. When she awoke, feeling completely disoriented, Sark was still sitting about a yard away on the opposite bunk, but now he was simply watching her.

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked, her voice slurred by grogginess.

He shrugged slightly. "I believe we should be arriving in approximately forty-five minutes."

A pretty decent nap, then. Her back ached, but she felt significantly more rested. She stood up and stretched. Her fingers touched the low ceiling easily, and as she stood on tiptoe to press her palms against it, she was keenly aware of Sark's gaze on her body. "Like what you see?" she couldn't resist muttering.

"It would be difficult not to," he replied in a matter-of-fact way that belied the appreciative gleam in his eyes. They were dark blue in this light. Captivating.

She lowered her arms, but continued to stand and watch him.

"I meant to thank you for earlier," Sark continued, and for a horrifying moment she thought they were about to have a conversation more awkward than anything she'd ever dared to fathom. "Now that my supplier has met Olaf's wife, any doubts he may have had should be gone."

Trying not to show her relief, she shrugged. "He was a nice guy. He probably believed you anyway."

"One can never be too careful."

For lack of a better response, she shrugged again. Forty-five minutes, her mind was whispering, was a decent amount of time.

"Sydney." Sark tilted his head to one side, watching her closely. "Come here."

She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to very, very much. But there was always that streak of stubbornness and pride, the little voice that told her she would not take orders from him, not in a million years. Not after everything he had done. If this was going to happen, it would continue the way it had begun: on her terms, and hers alone. So she just looked at Sark, knowing he could see the challenge in her face. "Get up."

"Vengeful and domineering," he commented, rising smoothly to his feet. "Fantastic."

Rather than reply, she simply waited. She'd discovered that she enjoyed it when Sark kissed her first; there was often an unexpected hesitancy to the action, as if he were still just waiting for her to punch him in the face for it. Such was the case now. He leaned in slowly, and as his lips brushed across hers Sydney developed an alternate theory: that he did it just to torture her. She sighed, grabbed his shoulders, and kissed him back.

For all his initial hesitation, it certainly didn't take much encouragement to get him to put his arms around her and start doing those very interesting things with his tongue. She slipped a hand under his shirt, exploring the lines of his back, and couldn't tell if he moaned because he liked it or because her fingers were cold.

And true, it wasn't long before they ended up on his bunk anyway, but it was the principle of the thing.

His hands were in her hair, combing it back with his fingers to prevent it from falling down around their faces. Sydney turned her head and gently, almost playfully took part of his wrist in her mouth, scraping the delicate skin with her teeth. He tasted very faintly of soap.

Sark's head dropped back onto the bed, and his uneven breathing was clearly audible. She was balanced squarely on his hips, an arrangement that was quickly becoming more and more torturous for him. His other moved from her hair to her breast—and there was a knock on the door.

"W—wait, please!" Sydney choked out, barely remembering her Russian accent.

Apparently she didn't speak loudly enough. She heard the door swing open behind her, and a young male voice. "Sir, you said to—oh!"

"You didn't bother to lock the door?" she asked Sark in Russian, adopting a giggly, embarrassed tone to fool the Irish teenager currently standing in the doorway, doubtless wondering whether to fulfill his purpose or run like hell.

"Clearly, he has a key," Sark growled back. His Russian, unsurprisingly, was flawless. "What is it?" he asked the boy.

Sydney moved to stand up in an attempt to salvage the situation, but Sark kept an arm around her waist, keeping her pressed firmly to him.

"You, er, you told me to come and tell you when we were almost there."

"Yes. Thank you. On dresser, you will find wallet," Sark told him, handling a heavy accent as deftly as he had the language itself. "Take the money inside. I trust you are discreet young man, yes?"

"Er, yes! Yes sir!" The door was swiftly shut and locked behind him. She could only imagine how much cash he'd just been given.

She looked down at Sark. "It seems I miscalculated the time of our arrival," was all he said, but the frustration in his eyes was clearly visible.

Despite her own thwarted libido, she couldn't help smiling. And, just in the interest of comaraderie, she slipped one hand between his scalp and the mattress, leaned down and gave him a slow, lingering kiss. Which led to another. And another. The mood should have been ruined beyond all hope of recapturing, but she was inciting, and he was responding. Unfortunately . . . She sighed. "We don't have time, do we?" she whispered, hoping to be contradicted.

"I'm afraid not," he confirmed. "There are certain preparations to be made."

And so, however reluctantly, she stood up, and they straightened their clothes and got to work.

Amsterdam

Sark surveyed the crowded nightclub and wished Sydney were next to him, if only to provide distracting conversation. The widespread penchant for arranging meetings in nightclubs was an utter mystery to him. True, the noise and chaos provided a degree of cover, but the hordes of civilians also made any kind of security enforcement a nightmare. Should such a meeting end violently, an untold number of civilian corpses was much less easily dealt with than a few bodies in an abandoned warehouse.

Besides that, the entire atmosphere always struck him as . . . vulgar. Almost obscene, at times.

Right on cue, a girl practically fell onto the arm of the questionably sanitary couch. She was clearly unaware that large crowds gave Sark an itchy trigger finger and sudden movements were extremely unwise. The scent of cigarettes and perfume permeated the air around her.

"All right, then," she giggled, leaning in until Sark was barely able to refrain from putting a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. "Care to buy us a drink?"

"Madam, I would more eagerly mainline toxic chemicals."

"What?" Her forehead creased, and then she burst out laughing and poked his shoulder. "You're funny!"

Clearly he had underestimated either her stupidity, her level of inebriation, or both. Sark nodded slightly to himself, preparing to modfy his tactics accordingly. "Allow me to clarify. First of all . . ." He trailed off and reconsidered once again. Perhaps even this explanation would fail to permeate the girl's drunken haze. What this situation required was rudeness and words without many syllables.

It seemed it was time to brush up on his little-used impersonation of an American.

"Okay, listen, lady," he began again. "You're drunk off your ass and you smell like you just came out of a whorehouse. I'm only here 'cause I'm waiting for my girlfriend to show up, so why don't you do us both a favor and get the hell outta here?"

Ah, that was the ticket. She immediately drew herself up onto her feet, albeit rather unsteadily. "You bastard!" she yelled, though the volume of the club's music and patrons almost completely drowned her out. "Where the hell do you get off—" She shifted her purse and raised a hand, presumably to slap him.

Sark looked at her and, just for a moment, allowed his carefully 'normal' façade to slip. For a split second she looked into the icy, deadened eyes of a killer.

By the time she blinked, it was gone, but her instincts told her what her brain couldn't quite process. She left in a hurry.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Sydney asked over the com in his ear.

He covered his mouth with one hand and vehemently replied "Yes," loudly enough for his voice to be picked up and transmitted.

It sounded like she was laughing. "All right, fine. As long as . . ." She paused, then spoke again, much more curtly. "Possible contact in motion."

Before Sark could carefully scrutinize the nearby patrons, another woman sat down, this time on the cushion next to him. Her suit jacket and matching skirt were a little formal, giving the setting, and she projected nervousness the same way the other woman had reeked of cigarette smoke. "The traffic is horrible this time of year," she blurted, eyeing the announcement on the small table—three olives, impaled on a toothpick, from Sark's untouched martini.

Inexperienced, he judged, or a truly stellar actress. "I would suggest you travel by train," he replied blandly.

"Oh, thank god." She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, looking utterly relieved.

"On my way," said Sydney.

"My partner will be joining us in a moment," he told the woman, and extended his hand. "I'm Mr. Sark."

"Annika Hals. It's, uh, nice to meet you." Her handshake was clammy and limp. "I was worried I would walk up to the wrong person."

There was movement to the right side of the couch, on the other side of Annika, and though his attention never visibly wavered from their skittish contact, a strictly compartmentalized part of his mind was thoroughly distracted by certain aspects of Sydney's appearance. Namely, her breasts. The hem of her dress actually reached all the way to her knees, but the black fabric was skintight and the square neckline plunged in an extremely provocative fashion.

It wasn't nearly enough to affect Sark's focus on the task at hand. It was just enough to make him look forward to when that task was complete.

"Nice evening," Sydney commented, perching on the table directly in front of Annika. "Are you ready to do business?"

"Oh my god!" The other woman looked ready to vault over the back of the couch to escape. Sark put an arm around her shoulders—presumably a friendly gesture, but he held her firmly in place. Annika was literally quaking with terror, her wide eyes fixed on Sydney's face. Even with the short two-toned red and black wig, it was clear that their Covenant contact knew the face of Julia Thorne.

This was why Sydney hadn't been in place for the initial greeting; she'd worried that her presence could be enough to scare off their informant. Apparently, she'd been right. Though Miss Hals struck him as someone rather easily frightened, Sark found himself increasingly intrigued by this alter ego of Sydney's who was capable of inspiring such total dread. Julia was the Covenant's prize assassin, according to Bristow, and it seemed her reputation was large and menacing.

Annika clearly wanted nothing more than to escape. She was wriggling desperately in Sark's grip. "Please—let me go!"

"Sit back and shut up," Sydney snarled, and to his surprise, the order was instantly obeyed.

The woman's eyes darted between the two of them. Her lip was trembling. "Please . . ." Her voice wavered. "Please don't kill me."

"All you have to do is cooperate, and you'll walk out of here in one piece. You have my word."

He found himself grateful that Sydney had insisted on taking point in the transaction. It allowed him the opportunity to study her actions now, because he strongly suspected, taking in the unfamiliar commanding posture and the dangerous look in her eyes, that he was meeting Julia Thorne for the very first time.

Now, she leaned forward and stared Annika straight in the eye. "I know all about the project you were working on. I know what the Covenant is trying to create, and I will not allow it to go forward." She adjusted her ring, the signal they had pre-arranged, and Sark moved closer to Hals, pressing the barrel of his gun against her ribs. Annika was quickly turning deathly pale. "If you value your life," Sydney continued, "you will give me the location of the lab."

"I'm just a nurse!" she said, verge of tears. "I—I only work for them because they—"

"Not interested," Sydney interruped. Sark was certain that only he had noticed the brief flash of pity in her otherwise merciless eyes. "Tell me. Now."

He adjusted his gun, aiming it at Annika's vital organs with deadly precision.

Words spilled out of her lips so quickly that it was hard to distinguish what she was saying. "They sent the specimens to a location in Patagonia! An abandoned building, near the mountains! That is all I know, I swear! Please . . ." She cringed away from both of them, into the corner of the couch. "Please, don't . . ."

For a while, Sydney didn't speak; she just gazed contemptuously at their informant. Then she nodded to Sark, and he holstered the gun.

"One more thing," she interjected, just as Annika took a deep, sobbing breath of pure relief. "Then you'll get your payment."

Her consent was instantaneous, driven by a strong survival instinct. "Anything."

Sydney leaned forward again, until she was close enough that Sark could faintly smell her perfume. Unlike the overpowering scent of the girl he'd encountered earlier, it created in him a powerful desire to move even closer. A desire that was quickly pushed aside as he forced himself to concentrate on her next words.

"Where," Sydney asked in the tone of one who will not bother to ask again, "is Oleg Madrczyk?"

They were staying in a hotel several blocks away, a distance that seemed almost interminable to Sydney. The meeting had taken her mind off of it to an extent, but the fact remained that she'd spent almost the entire day wanting Sark, and seeing him in the club, looking absolutely edible as he sat on that couch, had done nothing for her state of mind. Now that she was done spouting death threats at helpless lackeys, it was about time she clocked out for the day.

As they waited for the elevator, she took a few deep breaths through her nose. There were limits to even the most hardened agent's self-control, and she had resolved that once they got inside their room, all bets were off. And if some stupid teenager barged in again, they could damn well enjoy the show.

Aside from them, the elevator was empty. Before she could even turn to look at Sark, his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back against him. Oh, she realized, her face flushing. Speaking of 'hardened.' He brushed his face against the back of her neck, inhaling deeply.

"Julia Thorne is a fascinating individual," he murmured.

"You think so?" she managed, her voice annoyingly breathy.

"Yes."

Their room, Sydney observed, was fourteen paces from the elevator. As soon as the door was shut, Sark pushed her against it, managing to fasten the locks with one hand while kissing her simultaneously. Once both hands were free, they roamed across her body, stroking her skin through the thin, tight fabric of the dress.

She was having a hard time remembering that she'd intended to at least take off her wig first. Possibly wash her face. Both considerations had all but vanished at this point. It made her feel like the heroine of a trashy bodice-ripper to notice how wet she was, but, well . . . she was.

Predictably—since he was, after all, a man—Sark's mouth trailed down her chest to the impressive cleavage created by a low-cut dress and a push-up bra. He slid his tongue between her breasts while his hips pressed urgently against hers. "Oh . . . Sark," she half-whispered, half-whimpered. It felt as if every nerve in her body had been turned into a live wire. "Just . . . just give me a minute, and I'll . . . get changed . . ."

"No." His tone brooked no opposition whatsoever. He continued to speak, his lips against Sydney's ear, making her shudder. "I will not wait another moment."

She didn't exactly give her assent, but she twisted one leg around him, pressing him closer. The removal of clothing and relocation to the bed took place swiftly and without a single word spoken between them. She barely had time to adjust to being abruptly horizontal before Sark was inside her, and she cried out, putting her hand arms around his shoulders. "Oh . . . oh, god . . . Vaughn . . ."

The moment she said it, she dropped back against the mattress, eyes shut tightly. She felt as if her stomach had dropped completely out of her body.

Sark's fingers tightened in her hair until his grip became painful. "No," he corrected flatly, rocking in a way that made her want to scream. "I'm afraid not."

With effort, Sydney forced her eyes open. She tried to think coherently, to dredge up something—an apology, an explanation, anything. But perhaps she'd played the part of Julia too thoroughly that night, because what came out was completely different. "Dammit, Sark," she hissed. "Just fuck me."

As she looked up at him, Sark's eyes were empty, their depths reflecting no light at all. His lips twisted slightly, but she was too far gone to interpret.

"Please." She moved beneath him, willing him to understand. "Pl—"

He kissed her brutally, effectively silencing her, and proceeded to obey her request. His movements were harsh, almost punishing in their intensity, and she didn't know if she was moaning in pain or pleasure until she came, the noise in her throat between a sob and a scream—just before Sark, who slammed his release into her, his teeth biting down on her lip with enough force to draw blood. He pushed himself away from her as soon as he was physically capable of doing so.

That was the first night that they slept on separate halves of the bed. Sydney curled up on her side, unable to stop the tears escaping from her eyes.

It hurt.

Not in the way he had wanted it to—aside from her bleeding lip, there were actually circumstances under which she would have enjoyed what had just passed between them. But not like this. Her chest ached with unspeakable loss and regret. She thought she'd put it all out of her mind, the grief and the longing for a man who'd left her behind. Now here it was, back with a vengeance, just in time to ruin what little happiness she'd been able to find.

Her sleep was fitful, and haunted by old phantoms.

The next morning, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, surveying the damage through red-rimmed eyes. There was a bruise forming on one of her arms, roughly in the shape of a hand. As she poked at it, the door opened, and Sark stepped inside.

Sydney just stared at him, at a loss for words. In the harsh light of the hotel bathroom, he didn't look any more rested than she did. Even his eyes looked washed-out, a tired, faded grey. He took a washcloth from the rack and dampened it in the sink, then stepped close, dabbing at the dried blood on her mouth with a gentleness that made her want to cry all over again. Then he set the stained cloth back down and took her face between his hands.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and kissed her forehead. They never spoke of it again.

Graz

When she'd adopted Julia's blond hair, Sydney had never worn a wig. Instead, she'd bleached her own hair as part of the new identity she'd been supposedly embracing. Now, however, she had no intention of repeating the process. As the car came to a halt, she fingered the strands of the long blond wig that was as close as she'd been able to come to the old hairstyle.

Sark pocketed the car keys and spoke in a startlingly rough Cockney variation of his usual accent. "You ready, love?"

Unlike Sydney, he was almost unrecognizable. Contact lenses had rendered his eyes dark brown, and his hair was tinted temporarily black. He was wearing black pants, a white tank top and a leather jacket, topped off with a fedora that suited him surprisingly well. The first time she'd seen him in his disguise, she'd done a double take, but she was slowly adjusting to it. He held himself in a way completely unlike Sark; he even had Simon's accent nailed.

"Ready," she affirmed, and they made their way toward the entrance of Das Verlustzeit Hotel.

Once they were through the doors, Sark swung a careless arm around her shoulders and surveyed the lobby. She slipped a hand into his back pocket. Her attention was focused on the man at the main desk, whose cooperation was necessary for the successful execution of Plan A.

"Julia Thorne," she announced when they reached the desk. "I'm here to get something I have in storage. Box 23."

The man took a moment to check his computer records. "Of course, Miss Thorne," he said. "Right this way."

"The problem is, I've lost my key." Sydney flashed him a bright, apologetic smile and checked his nametag. "Do you think you could open it for me . . . Franz?"

"I'm afraid it is not usually permitted . . ."

She leaned forward and placed one hand on the desk, deliberately giving him an excellent view down her low-cut shirt. "Could you check with your manager?"

"I . . ." He swallowed. "I will see what I can do."

"Thank you," she said graciously.

As Franz moved away, Sark turned Sydney to face him and pulled her close. "Lost your key?" he asked, and his ability to mimic the playful, roguish tone of a man he'd never met was nothing short of uncanny. "Now, how the hell'd you manage that?"

"Mm." She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Didn't. Unless you count throwing it in the English Channel as losing it."

He laughed as if she'd just said something deliciously filthy. The sound reverberated through her body, and Sydney slipped her hands inside his leather jacket, eliminating all the distance between them. After all, she and Simon did have a bit of a problem with keeping their hands off each other . . .

"Miss Thorne."

She turned to face Franz with Julia's polite, vaguely condescending look in place. Behind her, Sark groaned almost inaudibly as she stepped away.

"It seems I will be able to help you. But if you could first give us your fingerprint—just a formality, for security reasons, you understand."

"Of course." The machine quickly verified her identity, and Franz wasted no time in leading them down to the safe deposit boxes. He opened 23, and there it was. The Rambaldi cube. A special 500-year-old vintage of lunatic DNA, specially preserved for the sole purpose of making her life miserable.

She reached in, and the cube promptly slid away from her hand.

Too late, Sydney realized what was going on and knelt down to see a hole carved in the back of the safe deposit box. Whoever had just taken the Rambaldi cube, they were on their way to the nearest exit. Also, though they didn't realize it, they were in terrible danger. She would make sure of that.

"Let's go," she snapped. She and Sark had bolted from the room before Franz could even ask what was going on. Once they were out of sight in the fluorescent-lit back corridors, both drew their guns. She caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, and she simply pointed. With her in the lead, they sprinted after what had to be a Covenant operative. When she turned the corner, she saw him.

He was dark-haired, and built like a linebacker, but she knew she could catch up. Her feet pounded on the unforgiving concrete, closing the distance with every step. She probably could have just shot him, or stepped out of the way and let Sark do it, but she was, in the final analysis, CIA. She'd try to avoid it.

Sydney overtook him halfway down the hallway with an effective—if less than graceful—tackle. The impact completely knocked the breath from the operative's chest, and the cube went flying—along with her gun. "Get those, will you, dear?" she growled to Sark, twisting the man's arm behind his back.

"Certainly, darling."

Unfortunately, the Covenant's man thrashed beneath her, gaining enough leverage for a dizzying blow to her head. He regained his footing, but she recovered quickly enough to sweep his feet out from under him yet again. The next time he got up, she aimed a kick directly at his face. Had it landed, he would have been out cold, but he managed to deflect the blow. His fist connected solidly with her ribs.

"Step aside, for god's sake!" yelled Sark, who couldn't get a clear shot in the middle of a brawl.

Even as he spoke, Sydney was using the momentum of the man's arm to flip him to the floor, where—always the kickboxer—she sent him swiftly into unconsciousness with a well-placed slam of her heel. Another thing about a bullet between the eyes: it was just never as satisfying.

Sark lowered his gun and watched Sydney calmly tie the man's wrists with his own shoelaces. Then she stood up, smoothed her clothing and combed a hand through her mussed wig. "Ready to go?" she asked briskly, and he licked his lips. He wanted her, right there in the concrete corridor. To hell with the fact that he was dressed like Simon Walker and hotel security was no doubt on its way.

Then his eyes were drawn to her lower lip, still visibly torn despite her lipstick, the sight of which had the same general effect as a bucket of ice-cold water. She had acted the part of his lover convincingly in front of that bumbling employee, but he didn't know if the real Sydney would ever let him lay a hand on her after what he'd done. For the moment, he was following her lead in more ways than one.

"By all means," he murmured, holding out her gun by the barrel. "Shall we use the side exit?"

"No." She holstered the gun and rearranged her coat over it. "We'll go out the front door."

And so, without a word of explanation to Franz or anyone else, they swaggered out of Das Verlustzeit just as they'd entered it. After all, they had nothing to hide. Julia was merely stopping by to retrieve one of her own possessions. Once they were outside, with a remarkable lack of ceremony, Sydney opened the cube, removed the vial inside, and smashed it on the pavement, grinding the pieces beneath her heel. The empty cube was tossed into a nearby receptacle.

It was a rather anticlimactic way to get the best of the long-dead madman, but it seemed somewhat appropriate. As they made their way back to the car, Sark smirked and turned his head to regard Sydney with frank admiration. "I believe I've said it before. You are so good."

"You ain't seen nothing yet," she promised, flashing a remarkably light-hearted grin.

That, at least, he could believe.

Frankfurt

Loud rock music pulsed through every inch of the club, complementing the dark blue-lit interior and the generally drug-fueled clientele. Sydney had a certain fondness for hard-rock clubs, just because it seemed she usually got to cover herself more decently in them than in the more brightly lit, lip-gloss-and-skimpy-clothing techno clubs. Even if it did generally involve more leather. Not a problem—Julia Thorne owned plenty of leather.

In this case, she'd even gotten to wear respectable pants. It was a real mood-booster to actually be able to run and kick people comfortably, even if the pants were accompanied by a corset top and a black leather trench coat. Tonight's wig was short, spiky, and dark blue; it wasn't going to obstruct her vision.

"Hey! Hey, fuck you, man! Get your fuckin' hands off me! Hey!"

And that, of course, would be Sark. She'd been the one to suggest he be an American again. After all, he'd certainly managed to be offensive the first time.

A few seconds later, he was dragged past by several security guards, all of whom were struggling to keep him under control. The little British cocky son of a bitch could put up a hell of a fight when he wanted to. Sydney watched the spectacle pass by and sipped her drink to hide a smile. She added eyeliner to the list of things that Sark could pull off while still looking ridiculously attractive, and then her accomplice made his move.

The group of security guards continued to escort the obnoxious patron to the exit, but he'd managed to palm one of their keycards and had dropped it on the floor, almost directly at Sydney's feet. She bent to pick it up, slipped it into her sleeve, and headed quickly toward the back of the club.

Thanks to the majority of the guards being occupied, no one stopped her from going into the back area. As she closed the door behind her, the com system was activated. "I'll have you know that I'm considering filing a complaint," Sark told her. "I believe those guards used an unnecessary amount of force."

"Do you really want to start a conversation about unnecessary force?" she asked, moving down the hallway in search of the right door. "I think we could start with all the fake teeth in Will's mouth from a little trip to Taipei."

There was silence on the other end. "On second thought, I'm sure I got what was coming to me," he said— if not contrite, than at least conciliatory.

"Damn right." She opened a door to her left, but it was only a janitor's closet.

"That being said, I would not refuse any efforts on your part to . . . what is the phrase . . . 'kiss it and make it better'."

Finally, she found the right one. "Yeah, I bet," Sydney muttered as she descended the stairs. "Let me guess—the place that got hurt the most is your—"

She should have anticipated the guard, but she didn't, and it nearly cost her her life. She barely jumped back in time to avoid sudden death. Bullets struck the concrete wall with a deafening cacophony of gunshots and ricochets. She pressed herself against the stairwell wall, listening carefully for the guard's approach.

"Sydney?" Trust Sark to know by the sound of the shots that it hadn't been her gun. She couldn't tell him she was uninjured without compromising her position.

When the guard got close enough, she lashed out with her foot, knocking him unconscious with a single kick. She knew there was a good reason she'd had these boots made steel-toed. The guard looked like he'd be out for a while, but she confiscated his gun anyway, just in case.

"Sydney!" Sark's voice was clipped and tense, devoid of its former levity.

"I'm fine," she said, and got a burst of static in her ear that could be caused by a frequency malfunction—or someone exhaling into a headset.

"Radio silence until your extraction?" asked Sark, entirely calm and businesslike.

"Affirmative. See you in a few minutes." After a quick scan of the area to make sure there were no other surprises waiting, she ran across the empty concrete toward a single heavy door at the end of the sub-basement. The keycard worked its magic, allowing her access to the secure lab.

Madrczyk sensed the intrusion and reached for his gun automatically, but she was too fast. She shot it out of his hand.

For a prolonged moment, they stared at each other across the empty metal table. Madrczyk clutched at his wounded hand, but hadn't made a sound since his initial agonized yell. Drops of blood hit the floor, but it was too dark for them to be visible. His eyes were caught between surprise and resignation.

"Julia."

There were so many things she wanted to tell this monster, this pathetic excuse for a man. In the end, only one seemed appropriate.

"My name is Sydney Bristow," she said, and emptied her clip into his chest.

Zurich

Sydney actually liked wearing high heels, when she didn't have to fight for her life. She liked the way they made her taller, changing her posture and the way she walked. Also, she liked the sound they made. Now, walking across the lobby of Sloane's Omnifam office, her shoes clacked sharply against the hardwood floor with every step, a wordless indictment of everything this false humanitarian claimed to stand for.

It would have been more dramatic to just barge in on him, but she stopped at the desk. "Hi! My name's Sara Godson," she told the receptionist, giving the name from her current set of identification papers. "I used to work with Arvin back in the States; I wanted to pop in and say hello before my flight leaves."

The woman smiled at her. "I'm sure Mr. Sloane would be delighted. If you'll wait just a moment . . ."

She reached for her phone, but Sydney caught her wrist in motion. "Do you think I could just . . . you know, go in unannounced? He doesn't know I'm in the area, and I think he'd like a surprise visit from an old friend. I promise I won't take up too much of his time."

"Well . . ." His receptionist bit her lip. "All right. But he still has a lot on his schedule this evening."

"Oh, this won't take but a minute," she promised, already on her way to the glass door.

Sloane recognized her immediately. He'd seen her in too many outlandish aliases to be fooled by a curled blond wig. "My god," he breathed, staring at her as if she were a vengeful spirit come to haunt him—which, in a sense, she was. "Sydney."

Her eyes narrowed, almost of their own volition. "Don't try acting like you're surprised that I'm still alive."

"I knew it was not your destiny to die that night in your apartment, but Sydney . . ." He shook his head. "After two years, even I began to have my doubts."

She crossed the room and stood across the desk from him, unavoidably reminded of their days at SD-6. If he tried to pull that you've always been like a daughter to me crap, she wasn't going to be responsible for her own actions. The day she started thinking of Sloane as a father figure would be the day . . .

. . . the day you start having sex with Sark, and—even worse—thinking of him as an actual human being?

Well, all right, she conceded mentally, shifting slightly on her feet. There was that. However, one impossibility coming to fruition was not nearly enough cause for her to start feeling the warm-and-fuzzies for the man who had killed her fiance.

No. Just the man who killed your best friend.

Damn her mind. Damn it to the deepest circles of hell.

With concentrated effort, Sydney blocked off every bit of the self-doubt that had suddenly decided to make itself known at the most inconvenient moment imaginable. "I am here for only one reason," she said in a tone only slightly more hospitable than the one in which she'd told Sloane she wanted to rip out his throat.

"And what is that?" He clasped his hands in front of his predictably immaculate suit and waited patiently for her response.

"I know you've somehow managed to secure a pardon for everything you've done, and the rest of the world is convinced that you've reformed. But you aren't fooling me. You will never fool me again, because I know what you are. I don't know what your endgame is this time around. Just know that you will fail, because I will be watching you," she promised. "And when you make your move, I will put you away for the rest of your miserable life."

"Sydney . . ."

She could feel her lip curling in disgust. Here it was—the pathetic denial. Perhaps he'd even pretend to be hurt by her suspicion.

"Don't even try," she told him, shaking her head to reinforce the words. With her message successfully delivered, she turned and headed for the exit.

"Sydney."

She stopped, but didn't turn. "What?"

"You know your presence here has been recorded by the office's security cameras."

"But I also know you'll destroy the footage."

"And why would I do that?" His tone of voice was one she knew and hated. He was testing her, toying with her, making her prove herself as if she still worked for him, or even gave a damn what he thought of her. There were so many times when she wondered if he'd ever really left SD-6.

"You want to have a secret. Something only you know about me." Because you're a conniving, manipulative bastard. But this time, you'll do me a favor.

She reached for the handle of the flawlessly unsmudged glass door.

"Mr. Vaughn's wife was assigned as my new handler—did you know that, Sydney?" Sloane saw her hesitation and was quick to press his advantage. "Ms. Reed is a lovely woman," he continued. "She's very lucky that Vaughn was able to overcome his grief after your passing . . . in a matter of months."

By the time she realized that she should have smiled or said something to the receptionist on the way out, Sydney was already in a cab, on her way back to the hotel. She stared down at the band around her wrist, the band that would inject her with deadly toxins if she tried to run away, and tried to pretend that its outline did not blur periodically as her eyes filled and refilled with tears. Every time, she blinked them back, refusing to give in.

It was a cheap shot, even for Sloane, but she should have realized that nothing was beyond him. And his motive was obvious— he wanted her to be curious, to stay and demand to know more. He wanted her to allow him the upper hand in exchange for information, but she would never be that desperate. Never.

Sark was waiting up for her, of course, reading in bed with the bracelet's remote trigger on the nightstand next to him.

While Sydney locked the door, he set down his book. They stared silently at each other from opposite sides of the room until finally, she approached, holding out her right arm so he could safely remove the band from her wrist. As he did so, his fingers brushed her skin. She didn't know whether to recoil or fall into his arms. She settled for neither. The bracelet hadn't chafed much, but she still rubbed her wrist automatically.

In the bathroom, she removed her wig and washed her face. Her hair, crumpled by being tightly trapped against her scalp, fell down around her face when she took off the head covering that went under the wig. In the mirror, there was a lost, insecure, miserable woman, and Sydney didn't like her at all.

When she came out, Sark was still watching her. Waiting for something, but she had no idea what. She wasn't in the mood to guess what was going on in his head. She was in the kind of mood that drives sensible people to drink and cry and break things. But here she was, locked in a Zurich hotel room with her enemy or captor or lover or— whatever the hell he was, and she couldn't do any of that. So she started digging through her suitcase for a nightgown.

"Sydney." Apparently he was going to break their silence first. "What on earth did he say to you?"

"It doesn't matter." Her hands dug through the densely packed clothing, and she pulled out something either black or dark blue. It didn't matter. She started taking off her clothes without ceremony or any regard for Sark's presence. It wasn't until she was completely naked that she realized that it was a thin robe, not lingerie. Probably packed by mistake. Oh well. She put it on anyway. That didn't matter, either.

There were really an entire host of things that didn't matter, when you thought about it. The way she no longer mattered to Vaughn was a perfect example.

A strangled laugh escaped her as she turned to face Sark, and she could tell that it unnerved him.

"Maybe I'm just easily replaced," she said to him in a voice that veered sharply between lightness and despair. "Do you think that's it?"

The slightest movement of his eyebrows, up and together. "Sydney . . ."

A few tears dropped down her face as she walked to the bed, but that was all. She sat with her legs folded beneath her and her fingers clenched in the sheets and her eyes never leaving Sark's. He was actually the one who looked away, as if to gather his thoughts. "I realize we have quite a bit of history between us, and most of it unfriendly," he finally said in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone. "So what I'm asking may not be the easiest thing for you to give. But I need you to try."

"What are—"

"I need you to trust me, Sydney. Trust me when I say that you cannot be replaced, easily or otherwise."

Sadness won out where, in another situation, she might have kissed him. "I wouldn't be so sure," she replied, trying to contort her mouth into a smile.

He reached over and cradled one side of her face in his hand. Without meaning to, she leaned into the gesture. "Whoever Vaughn's new woman might be," he said quietly and evenly, his eyes once again locked onto hers, "I pity her. Whether she realizes it or not, she stands in the shadow of someone she can never hope to equal."

"You don't know anything about her."

"I know you," was his simple reply. "Which I believe to be more than sufficient."

This time, she did kiss him. She moved slowly and with care, wondering if he might disappear. Perhaps this was all just a dream, because the Sark she knew would never say anything so tender to anyone. But as her lips covered his for the first time since Amsterdam, he felt solid. Warm. A sigh of sharp, almost painful relief passed between them, but she didn't know if it had been him or her, or both.

She slipped off the robe, pushing it haphazardly toward the floor. An almost fearful reverence burned in Sark's eyes.

"Dear god, Sydney," he whispered.

It was the last thing said between them for a while.

His mouth felt as if it should leave a mark as it worked in tandem with long, clever fingers to map every inch of her bare skin. He kissed the scar on her stomach, tracing the line of healed tissue with his tongue, and despite the dense haze of pleasure surrounding her mind, it made her want to cry. She felt broken, abandoned, damaged. Afraid to let him worship her this way. His fingertips slid down her hips. The trail of his hands burned.

"Julian," she cried out, so softly she wasn't sure he heard. She said it without thinking or planning ahead, but it felt unexpectedly right. This moment was too raw, too intimate and delicate for her to use his false last name. In the morning, he could be Sark again.

Later, it became blurred in her memory, a hazy string of sensation and emotion. His lips and tongue, touching her so intimately—her fingers clutching at the pillow—one of his hands at her knee—his hair beneath her palm—her voice, breaking. When it was over, she pulled him closer and wrapped herself in his arms, lulled into sleep by her own sated drowsiness and Sark's breath on her face. Unhindered by logic, she felt warm and utterly safe.

Just before she fell asleep, he kissed her cheek and said, "Sweet dreams." But when she woke up in the morning, she had already forgotten.

According to the alarm clock on the bedside table, it was a little after seven. Sydney reached up to rub her bleary, sleep-crusted eyes, and realized as she did so that she was somewhat sprawled across Sark's side. His arm was curled around her back, and she had been resting her head on his chest.

He was still asleep, reminding her of the first morning she'd woken up beside him. This time, she had no intention of getting out of bed. Instead she reached up with one hand and began tracing his aristocratic, almost delicate features with her fingertips. She gently brushed his forehead, cheekbones, and jaw, moving down his throat to feel his pulse. By the time her thumb moved to stroke across his crooked lower lip, his mouth was curving into a smile.

"Good morning," he murmured, not opening his eyes. His voice was drowsy, heavily laced with sleep and contentment.

"Hi," she whispered back. Sydney adjusted her position so she could more easily bend over him and kiss him. A low, pleased sound vibrated in his throat, and his lips moved against hers slowly, deliberately. It was understandable, given his half-asleep state, but it was also driving her crazy.

Then he had actually had the gall to stop. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked. He finally half-opened his eyes and regarded her hazily.

"There's nothing good on TV," she replied, and kissed the spot on his neck just behind his ear. One of Sark's arms slipped around her back as he chuckled at her ridiculousness. In retaliation, she rolled on top of him, which effectively put a stop to his laughter.

Sark wanted to say something to her. He wanted to request that she wake him up this way every morning, because he was certain that he would never tire of it. He wanted to tell her that Michael Vaughn was a goddamned fool. He wanted to let her know how unfathomably beautiful she was. But he didn't know how to say any of those things, so he just kissed her again and again, savoring the taste of her and knowing that it wouldn't last.

The last vestiges of sleep were driven away completely when Sydney guided him inside her, slowly, her lips never ceasing to move in tandem with his. He clutched at the back of her head with one hand, feeling his control crumble with every roll of her hips. "Sydney," he breathed. She said nothing, only placed kisses all over his face and stroked his hair. He finally managed to capture her soft sweet mouth once more.

He shifted beneath her, and she moaned softly, her eyes fluttering shut. Not being a complete imbecile, he did it again.

"Oh . . . Sark . . ." Her movements were becoming more urgent, and she buried her face in his neck. "Sark," she repeated, muffled against his skin.

His hands traced her ribs, her spine, the delicate bones in her shoulders. He focused on that, because whenever she said his name that way, her voice throaty and thick, it became extremely difficult to keep any sort of grip on reality.

"Sark . . . oh, god, Sark—" She cried out wordlessly, writhing above him. Which was quite lucky, really, because his world was in the process of turning inside out in a blaze of searing heat, complete with little white explosions behind his eyes. So much for keeping a grip on reality.

For a while, they just lay there, entangled, moaning softly in the aftermath and trying to catch their collective breath.

It was Sydney who spoke first, albeit in a rather dazed mumble. "When do we have to leave?" she asked.

Sark smiled languidly to himself and began tracing circles on her back with his fingertips. "Not for a few more hours."

"Mmmm. Good."

He'd never seen her like this before—so serenely unguarded, almost boneless with contentment as she nestled her head into a comfortable position on his chest once again. He hadn't even been certain that she ever acted this way. It was rather surreal. He briefly reconsidered his initially discarded Project Helix theory, but decided it was far more likely that Sydney simply contained hidden depths of behavior of which he had hitherto been unaware.

"Sark?"

"Hm."

"You know . . ." She yawned. "I was gonna come back and fight with you."

"Last night?"

"Yeah."

"Fight with me. About what?"

"How it's all a big mistake, and you'll just end up hurting me."

"I see." He was waiting for her muscles to tense, for her to pull away from him, but it wasn't happening. "Do you still believe that?"

She actually snickered. "Probably. Knowing you."

"You don't seem terribly concerned."

"Well . . ." This time, she interrupted herself by stretching. "I figure if you try anything, I'll kill you."

It was difficult to argue when she said it so calmly.

Sark began to stroke her tangled hair. "This is truly strange, this . . . relationship of ours."

"Oh, so now you get it," she muttered.

"I suppose we can't all have your keen perception of the bizarre, Miss Bristow."

She lifted her head abruptly, which was sufficient provocation for him to completely open his eyes. Sydney was staring at him with an almost wounded expression on her lovely face. "Don't call me that," she said. "Not after last night."

"I'm sorry," he replied, startled into an apology. "Sydney."

"Better." She leaned up and kissed him—too briefly—and then rolled away. Sark's entire body protested the sudden loss of her soft warm weight, but he didn't say a word; he just turned on his side to face her. She had her head propped up on one hand, and as he watched her, Sydney flashed that grin at him.

"So," she said brightly. "What's next?"

Cadiz

Now this was a classic example of why she preferred the heavy metal scene when it came to clubs. As Sydney checked her coat at the door, it was difficult not to be aware of how much her clothing didn't conceal. This particular incarnation of the little black dress was tight, ribbed, strapless, and short. Granted, it looked good on her, but she sometimes had to stifle the urge to steal someone's jacket and use it to cover herself.

Sydney pressed her lips together and reminded herself that she was Julia Thorne, and she did not give a damn about anything except achieving her objective.

She tossed her fake head of hair as imperiously as she could manage, shaking off her doubts and insecurities. When she'd taken off the blond wig in Zurich, she'd accidentally torn it, so she was making do with a chin-length, tousled dark hairstyle. What the hell. Assassins changed their look every now and then, too. She'd considered not wearing a wig at all, but something about it helped her get into character. The old habits, in this case, wouldn't die at all.

When she looked over at Sark, a jolt of pure lust hit her so abruptly she could hear blood rushing in her head even over the pounding techno music.

At that moment, she wouldn't have been entirely shocked if the air between them had started sparking. Every line of Sark's body was accented by the fitted black dress shirt he'd tucked into his leather pants. Several of the top buttons were open, and she found herself entranced by the long lines of his neck, and his vivid blue eyes— which were currently roaming up and down her bare legs. She told herself that one lapse before they got down to business wouldn't hurt anything, so she stepped close, slid a hand around the side of his neck and kissed him.

She didn't let it last very long; after all, they were in public. She could very faintly taste his toothpaste when her tongue darted past his lips.

"Ready?" she asked, having stepped back to a safe distance. Without meaning to, she tucked a bit of her wig behind her ear.

He closed his eyes briefly and muttered a few rather evocative profanities in Russian and French. Then he nodded, the picture of calm, and they proceeded into the crowded, pulsing discotheque. Sark had lobbied for scheduling the meet in a more subdued location, but in the end he'd been overruled by Simon's contact.

Thus the recurrence of Sark's leather pants. He'd worn them in Frankfurt, and at first had flatly refused to wear them again. Sydney had managed to talk him into it with the argument that if she had to wear such a ridiculous dress, he could wear the damn pants. Despite his strenuous objections, they weren't all that tight. And they looked damn good on him.

Sydney shook her head mentally, though on the surface she was scanning the crowd with an affected expression of boredom. The intensity of this . . . thing between her and Sark was something she'd never encountered before. Most likely that was because she'd never had a relationship based almost purely on physical attraction—and deeper desires on her part that she had no wish to examine. Her and Simon's association had been completely sexual, but this was somehow different from that as well. She remembered the things Sark had said in Zurich and blushed in the safety of the flashing colored lights.

Yes, this was a different thing altogether. She just couldn't figure out . . . why. Why it was different with Sark, or why she liked it so much.

These musings—and her search for Josef Alber, Simon's contact—were interrupted by the extremely unwelcome presence of someone's hand on her ass.

She whirled around, but there was only Sark behind her—and, to the left, a man whose face was contorted in pain, clutching what could very well have been a broken wrist. "Carry on, darling," Sark told her serenely, putting an arm around her waist and keeping up their pace through the dancing horde.

"Sark," she scolded, because she felt that she should, even though she sort of wanted to laugh.

"Any sign of our man?"

Badly behaved and utterly incorrigible. A deadly combination. Not yet, she was about to reply, but just then she caught sight of Alber in the very small lounge area not taken over by dance floor. The bleach-blond middle-aged German had always reminded her unpleasantly of Anthony Geiger, temporary head of SD-6, but he was relatively easy to spot. "I see him," she said. Once again, she led Sark through the mob of patrons.

Sitting down across from Alber without flashing him was difficult, but she managed it out of long practice. Sark sat next to her, and she deliberately slung one arm over his shoulders. "Mr. Alber," she said, just loudly enough to be heard. "It's been a while."

"Julia! I almost did not recognize you, with your, ah, new hairstyle. I like it, very much."

She and Sark shared a split-second glance of complete understanding. Apparently McKenas Cole wasn't the only one with a hair fixation.

"Glad to hear it," was her appropriately Julia-like brusque reply. "I'm here for some information. Simon told me you're a reliable source. Is that true?"

"Well . . ." Alber spread his hands, which were laden with multiple heavy rings. "I am flattered by his high opinion of me, but I cannot know everything. How can you be sure I even have what you are looking for?"

"You do." She began running her fingers back and forth from Sark's shoulder to his neck. His muscles tensed considerably under her touch.

Alber seemed somewhat taken aback by her complete certainty. "In that case . . . if I have what you want to know, I will be happy to share it. Of course . . ." Now he grinned widely and repulsively, back on more familiar territory. "Nothing in this life is free."

"Of course."

The German's attention seemed to be wavering. "Pardon me," he said abruptly. "But I think I recognize you—Julian Sark, is it not?"

"That's correct," Sark confirmed. One of his hands seemed to have wandered onto Sydney's bare knee, but it merely rested there, behaving itself.

"You have not been—what is the word. Not been about for a few years now."

She didn't have to see Sark's condescendingly raised eyebrow to know it was there. "I'm back."

"Ja, I see that," chortled Alber, returning his gaze to Sydney. "Does Simon know about your new pet?"

"It's none of his business," she replied with a careless shrug. "Or yours. I want you to get me back in contact with Dr. Galvani. Can you do it or not?"

The sudden return to their transaction seemed to throw Alber off for a moment, but he quickly recovered. "Of course, of course. We have just talked last week about some equipment he is looking for. If you want a phone number, I—"

"I want to know where he is. For a follow-up visit."

The way Alber looked at her was so blatantly lecherous that she dug her fingers into Sark's shoulder unintentionally. "The information you ask for is very valuable," he told her, drawing out each word. "I let you off easy last time, but now I will have to be paid in full. Your money will no longer suffice."

Shit. This wasn't exactly unexpected, but it was unwelcome as hell. "What do you want?" She asked the question with a calmness she didn't remotely feel.

"Mr. Walker has told me much about you, over the course of our association." That single sentence was enough for her to know what was he was after, but she knew he wouldn't stop there. Men like Alber liked watching people squirm almost as much as they liked watching them . . . do other things. "His stories of your, ah, appetites, they provoked my interest. I had hoped to make the request of you and Simon together, but the opportunity never arose. I imagine you and Mister Sark will perform admirably. That is, if you still—"

"What do you want?" she snapped impatiently. She hoped the honest annoyance masked her growing trepidation.

"I have an apartment, not far from here. You will provide me with a little show, in exchange for the location."

Having seen it coming didn't make his demand any less disgustingly unpleasant. She had to turn this situation around, and fast. "Look, Josef, I'm not sure what Simon told you, but my 'appetites' do not include performing for his friends. No deal."

Alber's grin was her only warning: she wasn't dealing with another stupid, drooling pervert. No, she was dealing with a very smart drooling pervert, and he knew he had her cornered. "Tonight, you will, if you want to see Galvani again," he told her in the same gratingly smarmy tone. "You will not be having much luck, if you look for another way to find him. You should know, Julia, that his, ah, elusive operation is part of what makes him so valuable."

Sydney stared him down as if she were considering her options, but most of her attention was focused on her index finger, tapping in Morse code on Sark's neck.

T. R. U. S. T. M. E.

"Could I trust you to keep this strictly confidential?" she asked, stalling for time. "My presence here isn't supposed to be common knowledge."

"We can get around the security cameras. Your secret will be safe with me." God, that filthy grin turned her stomach.

Sark's reply, tapped gently on her leg, was simple and concise.

Y. E. S.

"All right. We'll do it." She could have sworn Sark's head jerked when she said it, but she didn't turn to look.

Alber's expression only became more gleeful. "Wonderful. Please, come with me."

He stood up and began to wind his way through the throng, confident that they would follow. As Sydney began to do so, Sark was right behind her. "I regret to inform you, Sydney, that exhibitionism isn't exactly my passion."

Without slowing down, she turned her head and saw that he looked, for Sark, considerably ruffled. She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

"You're trusting me, remember?"

The trip to Alber's apartment was excruciatingly tense—for her, at least, and Sark's hand on her waist was more of a death grip than a comforting gesture. Only Alber, predictably, was completely unaffected by it. The bastard even started whistling as they walked down the hallway toward his apartment. He opened the door with the air of a congenial host and gestured expansively at the interior. "Please, make yourselves at home."

Once they were inside, the first thing Sydney did was head for the stereo. It wasn't normally something she thought about, but she wasn't about to get even remotely hot and heavy with Sark if the only sounds in the room were them and this pervert's heavy breathing. The situation was unbelievably frustrating—she couldn't just refuse, or threaten him, or hit him with a lamp. She needed to find Galvani, and Josef fucking Alber was her only known link.

If he pushed it too far, she would still hit him with a lamp—the really heavy one by the window. She just hoped it wouldn't come to that.

All she could find was loud dance music similar to what they'd just been bombarded with in the club. Apparently Alber was a fan.

Sark watched her, mostly to avoid making eye contact with their repulsive host, who had gone to his mini-bar. He kept waiting for Sydney to put her plan into action, whatever it was, and a small, unpleasant knot in his stomach was telling him that cooperation might, in fact, be the entirety of that plan. Aside from the addition of Alber, this was, in fact, exactly what he'd planned on doing tonight, but the addition of their one-man audience was unexpected and unacceptable.

"Would either of you like something to drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?"

"Vodka," he replied without taking his eyes off Sydney's back. "Just give me the bottle, would you?"

The sudden blast of music from the speakers wasn't enough to drown out Alber's abrasive laughter, but the man was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself and hand over the vodka. Sark nearly choked on the first mouthful; a combination of unwelcome nerves and not having had hard liquor for more than two years. He kept drinking steadily until his throat felt like it was on fire and a third of the bottle was empty, whereupon Sydney took it from his hands.

"Good idea," she told him sotto voce, and picked up where he'd left off. She had taken off her coat and slung it across the TV, so as she drank he was able to admire the steadily moving muscles in her throat and the aesthetic prominence of her collarbone. God, this would be a perfect night if it weren't for Alber.

Sydney set the bottle down on the nearest flat surface and immediately yanked him over by the belt for a hard, alcohol-flavored kiss.

He tried to think about the music. Sydney's legs. The usefulness of ambidextrous decocking levers. Anything but the voyeur in the room, who was making Sark's mental effort extremely difficult by saying things like "Ah ha ha! Getting right to it, I see. Excellent!"

His thoughts were derailing, centering more and more around the idea of killing Alber in the most painful ways he could imagine. Whether Sydney really picked up on what he was thinking or just knew him well enough to guess, she pulled back just enough to speak. "Don't think about him," she murmured. "You can do this. We just have to put on a good show."

The bed was low to the ground, which made it easier for her to collapse onto it. She pulled Sark down with her, and he landed on his elbows to avoid hitting her with his full weight. At absolutely any other time, the way she was kissing his neck would have been driving him half-mad with wanting her.

As it was, he had no idea what to do, how to act. Losing control around Sydney had become almost a routine occurrence, and he no longer resented her ability to so easily disarm him. But there was absolutely no chance that he would reveal that vulnerability to anyone but Sydney herself, in absolute privacy. Caught between obstructed lust and indignant rage, a violent energy was rapidly building inside him, and his attempts to stop it were only worsening the situation.

Sensing that she would have to take the more active role, she flipped their positions. She looked at him with the question in her eyes.

"I can't," he hissed through gritted teeth. His hand was in Sydney's fake hair, but it was a gesture of desperation, not a conscious part of the act.

She leaned closer, blocking everything else from his view and holding his head in both hands. "You can. It's just me, okay? It's just me." Sydney pressed a soft kiss to his temple, even while her hips jerked and she let out a loud moan for Alber's benefit. "Just me."

But it wasn't just her, and he couldn't do this. Not in front of that. "Sydney." The weakness in his own voice disgusted him, and from the way she tensed up above him, she could hear it too. "Please. Do not make me beg."

Sydney's whole body jolted, but she turned it into a smooth, complete gesture, rearing up to look at Alber. "You've seen enough," she said. Sark, laying back with his eyes closed, noticed a certain degree of huskiness in her voice. "Where is Galvani?"

"He . . . he is in Tokyo. The main office—you have been there before," Alber replied, too glazed even to argue.

"Thanks." She got up—Sark stifled a gasp as her weight shifted on his erection—and walked over to the chair Alber was sitting in. "This is for being a sick, disgusting pervert," she said clearly, and delivered a roundhouse kick to his head. After a moment of consideration, she kicked him again, knocking him down onto the floor. "And so is that."

She looked expectantly at Sark, who had decided to sit up to watch the show. "Ready to go?"

He wanted to thank her, but didn't know how. He also wondered if it would be tacky to request that she pick up where she'd left off, now that Alber was safely unconscious and would likely remain so for several hours. Questions of good taste aside, he decided that relocation was the wisest option. The apartment had a distinctly unpleasant connotation in both their minds already, and it would be very inconvenient if Alber did revive and Sark had to slit his throat.

Rather than answer, he merely stood up and straightened his clothing. Sydney picked her coat off the TV but left the music blaring. They left the apartment with even less fanfare than when they'd entered, proceeding straight to the elevator.

They were almost down to the fifth floor before Sark pressed the emergency stop button and they nearly attacked each other.

Sydney wriggled against him wonderfully as they kissed. "Mmm . . . mm. Sark . . . I do not . . . understand you," she informed him in a breathless voice that seemed to travel straight from her lips to the fire in the pit of his stomach. Her fingers had forgone unbuttoning his shirt in favor of unfastening his belt.

"I almost did this in Amsterdam," he muttered back. "Stopped the elevator."

"That doesn't—" explain anything, she was probably about to say, but she became rather involved in the process of exploring Sark's mouth, and seemed to forget about finishing her sentence. He didn't pay much attention to what she was doing with her hands until one of them wrapped around his cock. Half-laughing as she delivered the famous last words "I can't believe I'm doing this," she maneuvered their bodies together with a studious precision that, under other circumstances, might have amused him.

For a moment he just leaned into Sydney, pushing her against the wall, overwhelmed by the sudden perfection of being buried inside her. Despite the cowardice of it, he thought it might be for the best that she return to the CIA. She was simply too much for him to handle on a regular basis.

In high heels, she was the same height as him, if not a tiny bit taller, which made things easier. Unfortunately, Sydney had the habit of twining one or both of her legs around him, which worked on a bed but not standing up. As he moved in and out of her, she kept fidgeting her legs and making little frustrated whimpering noises—which increased his arousal and speed, which increased her fidgeting. Finally, she managed to get one leg securely around his waist. The sudden change in angle made them both gasp.

One of Sydney's arms was wrapped around his shoulders for balance. Her other hand was running rampant on his scalp, roughly stroking his hair in every direction. It was distractingly pleasant—which, considering the situation, was impressive. Not for the first time with Sydney, he continued to fuck her with an edge of desperation, half-convinced that if he didn't come soon he could conceivably die. It certainly felt that way.

"Ohhh. Sark. Sark." She continued to say his name in that voice that utterly destroyed him every time, and he almost wanted her to stop. He never wanted her to stop. He never wanted this to stop, but his world was beginning to contract. There was nothing but Sydney. Her leg wrapped around him, her breath on his neck, her voice in his ear, the scent of her skin, and the marvelous wet heat surrounding his cock, and her back arching against him—

He didn't scream her name. He didn't scream anything in particular, insofar as he was aware enough to notice, but when his vision cleared and his brain started to function more clearly, he was vaguely surprised that he'd managed to remain upright. Greater clarity of thought also brought with it a certain degree of guilt.

"Sydney. You didn't . . ."

She cut him off with a swift, soft kiss and a smile. "It's all right. You've got all night to make it up to me."

"True." He considered that further and gave her a smirk of his own. "Still, I believe there's a saying about there being no time like the present."

Sydney later tried to convince him that his hands were being wasted handling guns, but he maintained that being well-rounded and multitalented individual had its own merits. His counterargument—that her mouth was, in general, wasted on talking—was met with scorn and a malicious bout of tickling. It was a long and complex argument that lasted for most of the night, though the opposing sides forged a truce around 4 a.m. and fell asleep in each other's arms.

After all, they did have a plane to catch.

Tokyo

The thing about boundaries, Sydney mused, was that they were easy to draw but almost impossible to enforce. One could say, hypothetically, that a relationship would be allowed to progress to a certain point and no further. But once you found yourself in the damnable position of actually liking Julian Sark, entirely separate from your desire to jump his bones, there was nothing to do but look back at those utterly mutilated boundaries and feel . . . tricked, somehow.

Drawing do-not-cross lines for intimacy was worse than drawing lines in the sand; it was more like drawing lines on water itself. Sex led to cuddling which led to knowing about that spot on Sark's side that he would absolutely never admit was ticklish. Real fights degenerated into playful teasing—and she knew, she just knew there was something wrong with a universe in which Sark could be playful.

What had she done wrong, and what could she possibly do to fix it? There had to be a way to just sleep with him, without starting to care. She'd managed it with Simon, and it wasn't as if Sark were something special. He wasn't the sort of man she could ever actually fall in love with. International travel aside, he was still holding her hostage, for god's sake. The time and place of her release to the CIA had been set, and in four days she would be back in Los Angeles, getting reacquainted with her soul mate and his 'lovely' wife. Sark would drop her off without a care in the world and go back to working for the highest bidder.

Sometimes Sydney wondered if she was trying to stockpile these happy moments with Sark, in a futile attempt to safeguard herself from the inevitable grief of seeing Vaughn again. It was the only theory that made any kind of sense. The other explanations . . . well, they were too absurd to even contemplate.

"I must say— that was rather anticlimactic."

"What?" They were in the streets of Tokyo; the weather was so nice that Sydney had insisted they go back to their hotel on foot.

"You, simply walking away. I suppose I was expecting something a little more dramatic, after all the trouble you went to."

Or in less cryptic, non-Sark language, I rolled around on a lecher's bed to get you Galvani's location and all you do when you find him is punch him in the face and then just leave him there with his broken nose? "I guess I'd be more angry with him if our little reclamation project wasn't going so well," she replied with her mother's feline serenity. "Now all that's left is Patagonia."

"The man in front of the drug store is watching us."

Sydney looked forward. Three blocks ahead, business suit, long coat. It wasn't cool enough for a coat that size. She didn't look straight at him, carefully avoiding any eye contact, but it was hard to miss the white-blond ponytail tucked into his collar. Mikhail Basirov. The mission in Murmansk.

Dammit.

"You're right. That's a Covenant assassin; I met him once on an assignment." She said it calmly, because there was no point in panicking, but she could feel the adrenaline beginning to shoot through her veins, preparing her for fight-or-flight response. By the time the situation came to a head, she'd probably be able to take several hits without feeling them, but if Basirov opened fire right away, the bullets would kill her just as quickly.

"I see." Neither of them broke pace; she could practically feel the rapid machinations of Sark's brain. "Do you suppose he's here for you or me?"

"They wouldn't send Basirov after me. He must be here to kill you."

"Could he do it?"

A pause, lasting no more than two seconds. She was remembering the bloodied corpses of the Murmansk facility's guards and employees. As for Sark—she couldn't begin to guess what was going through his mind at that moment.

"Yes."

"Then I suggest you turn at this next alley. Circle around and move in behind him."

"Aren't you worried I'll run?" she asked neutrally.

At the mouth of the alley, he paused, and his eyes flickered to hers. "I'm attempting to prioritize, if you don't mind."

"Right," she replied, unsure what she meant by it.

Even as Sydney moved off the sidewalk and began to run, she wasn't certain what she planned to do. Sark was smarter than Basirov, but she'd also seen Sark fire and miss. She hadn't seen Basirov do that. Not even once. It was probably an even match, skewed slightly in favor of Sark because he had been warned. If she left, there was a good chance that he could dispose of Basirov. Sark was a master of survival. She could, in good conscience, make her escape right now.

She still raced the circumference of the two blocks to ambush Basirov, but at least she'd examined her options. There was some obnoxious saying, Sydney recalled, drawing the gun in her purse, about how if you were going to hell, you might as well do it thoroughly. It was as good a reason as any.

When her ears picked up the peculiar sound of a gunfire muffled by a silencer, she was just turning the corner. Basirov, unwounded, was standing in the mouth of the alley with his back to her. Screams from the people on the street rang through the air, but they were dull in her ears. She was numbed by the adrenaline. Numbed by fear. Basirov was backlit by the sunlight, casting his shape into darkness. Just another silhouette at the firing range.

Her first shot went wide. The second ripped out his throat. She'd been aiming for his chest, but worrying about marksmanship was the last thing she intended to do. In fact, Sydney's worrying was currently restricted to one thing and one thing only.

But as Basirov staggered from the impact of his newly acquired lethal wound, he was suddenly blown back into the alley. And 'blown' was truly the most accurate word. Sydney came to a dead stop a few feet away, staring at the damage with something between sick fascination and absolute horror.

His entire torso was a complete ruin, his head barely attached to the rest of his body. Most internal organs that weren't destroyed had been made clearly visible, and the smell . . . she covered her mouth with one hand and tried not to breathe, think, or vomit. The puddle of blood surrounding Basirov's remains was growing steadily, black in shadow and sickening vermilion in sunlight. Soon she'd have to step back, or it would pool around her feet.

Sark moved into the alley with her, looking remarkably healthy for someone who'd supposedly just been shot. "Police will arrive soon," he commented, and pulled—of all things—a cell phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open and, after pressing a few keys, took a picture of the corpse. Her desire to demand to know what he was doing was quickly defeated by the roiling in her gut. She rushed to a nearby trash can and clutched the cold metal rim as she emptied her stomach.

When she finished throwing up, she became aware of Sark's voice beyond the dull buzzing in her head.

"We should be going. Can you walk?"

She spat into the trash can, trying to clear the taste of bile from her mouth. It wasn't that she mourned Basilov even for a second—after all, he'd be just as thoroughly dead at her hand even if Sark hadn't decided to turn him into the human equivalent of a broken piñata. Still . . .

"Yeah," she rasped, raking her hair back with one hand. "I can walk."

He handed over the gun she'd dropped in her haste, and she put it back into her purse.

The trip back to the hotel was quick and silent. As they waited for the elevator, Sark reached up as if to touch her face, but she flinched and he immediately dropped his hand. It wasn't until they reached the relative safety of their room that she spoke again.

"What did you do to keep from getting shot? He fired his gun; I heard it."

"Sydney . . ." He didn't want her to do this, but there was no stopping it now.

"You pulled someone in front of you," she surmised, nodding to herself. "Of course you did. Was it a man? A woman? A child?"

"A man." His chin was lifted, his icy eyes locked on her face. Just like the good old days. "A little shorter than me, well-dressed. I'm afraid we didn't have time for formal introductions. I wasn't very taken with his cologne."

"Dammit, Sark!" she shouted. Her voice was still hoarse and her throat felt raw. To make things worse, tears were welling up in her eyes.

She wanted to hate him. She wanted to throw a punch at him. She wanted him to understand the panic still tight in her chest, the horrific anticipation of a world in which Sark no longer existed, and she wanted him to be sorry for making her care.

Without the slightest change in his expression, Sark closed the distance between them and put his arms around her. He was unmoved by her attempts to push away— from him, from the hideous truth: she was glad an innocent man had died, because it meant Sark was still alive. She wanted to hate Sark, but the only person she hated was herself. She struggled against him, but his arms were firmly locked, more restraining than comforting.

She could have broken his hold on her, had she chosen to. The problem was actually bringing herself to do it.

Perhaps being trapped was better than being lost.

When Sark did let go, it was to wipe the tears from her cheeks with his fingers. "You shouldn't cry," he advised her, matter-of-fact. "It depletes your body of moisture and leaves your vision impaired to possible attacks."

She laughed wetly with her face in his hands. "You shouldn't be such a jerk. It makes people send assassins after you."

"I'll take it under advisement." The twitch of a smile danced at the corner of his mouth.

"What the hell did you shoot him with?" she asked, more because she had to know than because she wanted to.

The gun Sark pulled out of his leather jacket looked like the bastard love child of a SIG-Sauer P226 and a sawed-off shotgun with a pistol grip. It was a handgun, at least marginally, but everything from the size to the pure black finish made it look like Death with a trigger. "Custom-made, special order," he told her unnecessarily. "I had just picked it up from my associate when I found you in London. 13mm cartridges, explosive rounds. 15-shot magazine."

"That . . . can't be very practical," was all she could think to say.

"It isn't. Not only is the ammunition prohibitively expensive, the gun itself makes concealed-carry next to impossible. The weight would also quickly lower my accuracy in a prolonged firefight. However, when it comes to sending a message that I would rather not be hunted like a common miscreant . . ."

"You sent the picture of his body to the Covenant."

"Yes."

She nodded absently. All the adrenaline was gone, leaving utter exhaustion in its place. She'd thought jet lag was a thing of the past for her, but a week and a half of cross-time-zone travel had proved that assumption dead wrong. Also, she and Sark hadn't exactly been judicious in the amount of sleep they'd allowed themselves. It was all catching up with her, and all she wanted to do was collapse on the bed. She decided to rinse out her mouth first.

Sark was putting away his ridiculous gun when she returned. She watched, waiting until he stood up, and extended a hand. "Come to bed."

Somehow, after everything, he still looked surprised. Apprehensive, bewildered, nervous. Something.

But he didn't say anything, protest or complaint. The secret thrill of seeing him obey her was a potent addiction for Sydney. It had no real value, especially considering that she was still his captive, not the other way around, but it still made her pulse quicken.

It wasn't until he was within arm's reach that she actually got a good look at him and realized that Sark looked even worse than she felt. Even on the flight from Spain, she remembered that he hadn't closed his eyes once. It seemed constant vigilance came with a hefty price.

"Come on," she said, even more quietly. "You need to sleep."

"Your concern is touching."

Sydney managed not to roll her eyes. Instead of responding to the sarcasm, she caught his wrist and tugged him onto the bed with her. For all his flippancy, he sighed audibly from his position behind her and quickly made himself comfortable on the lumpy mattress. His breath against her neck soon became deep and even, and the arm around her waist was dead weight more than an actual grip. She leaned back into the solid warmth he provided.

"You know . . . I think you really might be a psychopath," she murmured.

"Nnm. Your hair smells lovely." The words were slurred and barely discernible, and made her wonder if he'd even heard her. A part of her almost wanted to wake him up and repeat what she'd said, because she really had meant it and would probably never broach the subject again. Now was the time.

On the other hand . . . Sark nuzzled the back of her neck and made a quiet humming noise in his sleep.

It was fine like this.

Patagonia

They approached the building undetected, but Sark and Sydney were both palpably tense, taking aim at every stray noise or moving shadow. There was no way of knowing what kind of guard a Covenant facility such as this would warrant. It could be sufficiently out of the way to be left with relatively light security, but the Covenant had already gone to great lengths to put this farcical fertilization scheme into action.

Sydney had never told him about it in detail, or even explained the purpose of the operation in forthright terms. He'd culled the information from a variety of sources—what little she said, the facts that she implied, the neat surgical scar on her stomach. When he brought it up, obliquely as possible, she managed to confirm his suspicions while simultaneously bringing the discussion to an immediate halt. His curiosity was unsatisfied, but he respected her wishes.

The situation was incredibly bizarre. Sark lacked neither intellect nor imagination, but he had never seriously considered having children in any capacity, let alone with a co-parent who had died centuries ago. He could only surmise that Sydney's status as the supposed Chosen One had contributed to this madness.

How could she possibly feel about this violation, not only of her free will, but of her own body? What would she have done if the procedure had been carried out, creating a child that would be—if only biologically—hers? He would never know the answers, because he never planned to ask.

"The Covenant probably knows I destroyed the DNA in Graz by now," Sydney whispered as they crept through the pillared entrance. "It's possible they already shut down the lab, but I have to be sure."

It was beginning to seem more and more likely that such was the case. Their assault rifles seemed rather superfluous, prowling through empty hallway after empty hallway. They were almost to the main hall of the castle-like building, and there were still no signs of an active facility.

Those signs only manifested themselves when they reached the main hall itself. There was the laboratory equipment, inactive but secured by several armed guards, none of whom seemed particularly alert or interested in their assignment. Their ennui was understandable—even the most vigilant watchdog could be lulled into boredom by prolonged inactivity—but it would also be the opening he and Sydney needed. At her signal, he raised his gun and fingered the trigger.

They opened fire indiscriminately, going for a wide spread of bullets instead of careful aim, covering each other seamlessly. Four of the guards were mowed down easily, and the fifth got off only a few shots before taking four to the chest and tumbling down the stairs, leaving a crimson smear on the white marble.

Sydney passed her gun to Sark without a word and drew the flamethrower from her utility belt.

The fire quickly engulfed every piece of equipment, shattering glass and melting plastic, spreading to the bodies and filling the air with the smell of seared flesh. Sydney didn't blink at the heat, the stench, or the small chemical explosions; she stood firm in her tactical gear and stared into the glow of her private inferno, darting flames reflected in the darkness of her eyes. There was something almost inhuman about her, something both otherworldly and ruthless. She was an angel of destruction, come to exact her final reckoning upon the unrighteous. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The scorching heat of the fire only increased until Sark felt it down to his bones. A bead of sweat formed at his temple and made its way down his cheek.

When Sydney was satisfied, she simply turned her back on the ruined equipment and walked away. He fell into step with her effortlessly, and as they walked the length of the main hall, she reached out and took his hand. Together, they left the burning wreckage behind and emerged into the clear, dark night.