The city haunted her. Like a ghost that had feet.

Sydney couldn’t sleep at night because all she could hear was the world going on below her. So, she rose from her useless bed and stood in front of the window of her penthouse suite. She was there, but she wasn’t. She was connected, but she floated.

She placed her hands on the window, but there was nothing returning her touch.

**

It had been three weeks since Sydney was assigned to the Harlan operation. Agent Harlan disappeared days after he dropped off a package at the designated area. The entire agency feared that his cover had been blown so they sent in a rescue team—Sydney.

On day 28, Sydney did her usual routine. She slipped on her pair of sunglasses and got on the elevator a little after noon. The cart stopped on the seventh floor and a man joined her.

“Hello, again,” he said as the door slid shut.

She smiled. “Hello.”

The man was Jacob Winston and every day he left the complex at this time to meet with the rest of his associates. The same associates Harlan was working undercover with before he disappeared.

Winston shook the umbrella at his side. “I heard it might rain today.” He looked at her empty hands. “You should be prepared.”

“I’m always prepared.” Her smile teased him, and then she reached into her bag and retrieved the umbrella.

They shared a laugh.

The elevator chimed, signaling to them they were on the ground floor. They said their good-byes and Sydney waited until Winston got into his chauffeured vehicle before going after him.

**

It was night by the time Sydney returned to her penthouse. She dug out the papers on Ken Harlan and sat on her bed with them. Harlan: age 43; no wife; no kids; in deep cover since 2002. She examined the colored snapshot of the man with thin brown hair and squinty blue eyes. He wasn’t smiling in his photo. Something told Sydney that he didn’t smile outside of pictures either. She set the portfolio aside, once again distracted by what was going on outside her window.

Night time brought out lights that the sun didn’t show. Bright neon lights that reflected blues and reds and greens into the dark. She followed a blue beam into a skyscraper. Inside, figures moved from the other side of the street. Their silhouettes made Sydney wonder what they were doing in their own rooms. Were they were watching her like she was watching them? The thought suddenly made her cautious. She stepped back and shut the curtains, shutting out the outside world.

She turned back to the picture of Ken Harlan. She had to find him, no matter what. Then, maybe he would smile for her.

**

Sydney met Winston in the elevator again. They had their minute of small talk before he vanished inside his vehicle. She moved to her car when she was realized it was missing. She looked up and down the street of parked cars, but her red sports car was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit.” She looked in the direction of Winston’s car and saw that he was long gone. Her jaw clenched. “Shit.”

Just then, the sky above her opened and drops of rain fell upon her unprotected head.

**

Sydney drove her rental car back to the high-rise, this time optioning for the parking garage underneath the building. As she walked to the elevators, she heard another set of footsteps behind her. She kept on walking, allowing her pursuer to follow her. Outside the elevators, she bent down as if to tie her shoes. The footsteps got closer. She straightened her back and turned and found herself face to face with…a young woman with an armload of shopping bags in her possession. The girl cast Sydney an annoyed look and pressed the elevator button. The doors opened and she went in. Sydney remained in place.

“Are you coming?” the girl asked.

Sydney looked over her shoulder one more time; her eyes narrowed as they searched. She looked back at the girl and found that she had left without Sydney.

“Bitch,” Sydney muttered as she pushed the button for the elevator to return.

Suddenly, she jumped as a car alarm went off in the garage. The shrilling sound reverberated in the structure. Her hand slid under her jacket for the gun strapped to her waist holster. She walked away from the elevator and back to the parked cars.

Sydney kept her head held high and her gaze steady as she prowled the area. The car alarm stopped and the garage filled with heavy silence. She concentrated on her movements, on the sound the heels of her boots made—click, click, click… She made sure everything matched up with what her body was doing. Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Click.

Sydney spun around with her weapon raised. There was nothing there. As she turned back, she was suddenly caught off guard when a pair of hands pushed her to the cement wall and removed her gun. She lifted her head and her lip curled.

“How are you doing this evening, Sydney?” Sark asked. His hands tightened on her arms.

She raised her knee in an effort to slam it into his groin. He was quicker, shoving it back down and placing his legs in between hers, making her immobile.

“I assume you’ve seen better days.” Sark pocketed her gun and slammed her back against the wall. “Now, listen to me carefully.”

“What the hell do you want?” Sydney spat out.

He smirked at her question. “Didn’t I just say listen to me?” He took a step back, enough for her to lean forward and enough room for him to wrap an arm around her waist. He led her to a parked BMW.

“Get in,” he said, gesturing to the backseat.

She threw a punch at him. His head tilted back at the impact. He retaliated with his own fist, knocking her against the car. He opened the door to the backseat and pushed her inside with him.

“I’ll kill you, you bastard,” Sydney said, ignoring the intense throbbing from her wounded face.

Sark patted a handkerchief to his bleeding lip. “I don’t doubt that, Sydney, but unfortunately, I’m not here to kill you.” He set the cloth down and looked over at her. “I’m here to offer you a trade.”

Sydney’s breath stopped. “What kind of trade?”

“Your agent for a piece of the prize,” he said.

“What prize?”

He chuckled. “You don’t need to worry about that. So, do we have a deal?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I do not kid,” Sark said. “Either you take it or Agent Harlan dies.”

Harlan’s stoic face flashed in Sydney’s mind. She had made a promise to herself—to find Harlan, to see him smile. She intended to keep that promise.

And then Sark spoke the four words that made her believe him: “You have my word.”

**

Sydney took Sark to her suite. She tossed her jacket on the bed and glanced at the shut curtains. She was enclosed in his space with Sark. Only Sark. She watched him as he scanned the place she’d call home for almost a month. A year had passed since she last saw him, when he locked the door behind him and left Anna for her. Was he opening that door again and stepping back through it?

“Sydney,” he said.

She blinked and snapped out of her reverie. Sark stood in front of her with his hands inside the pockets of his suit pants. His head was cocked to one side as if he knew what she had been thinking about. She cleared her throat and turned to the kitchen.

“Turn on your television set,” Sark instructed her.

She stopped halfway to the kitchen. “What?”

“Turn on your television set,” he said again.

She did what she was told, picking up her remote and pushing the on button. What she saw startled her.

Harlan was chained to a dirty floor. The only thing with him was a tattered mattress and four walls. He sat with his legs crossed. Sydney saw no emotion coming his face—no fear, no anger, no sadness, just a blankness.

“Where is he?” she said.

“I cannot—”

Sydney grabbed the collar to his blazer. “Where the fuck is he, Sark?”

He pushed her away. “He’s alive, isn’t it? That’s all that should matter.”

“Look at him!” She pointed to the screen. “He’s in chains and scared for his life!”

“Is he?”

Sark’s cryptic question lingered in the air. Sydney looked back at the impassive man.

“Maybe he’s already accepted his fate, Sydney,” Sark said. “Maybe he doesn’t care whether he lives or dies.”

“Why wouldn’t he care?” Her attention stayed on Harlan.

“Because he thinks life has already given up on him.”

Something in Sark’s voice made her move her gaze away from Harlan and to him. She had detected softness in his tone, but it was quickly replaced with malice as he moved to the front of the TV screen.

“I need you to get to Winston,” he said.

“Winston?”

“Yes. I need you to kill him.”

Sydney’s eyes widened. “Kill him?”

“Stop echoing my words, Sydney, and just do as I say.” He sighed. “When I said I wanted a piece of the prize, I meant Winston. He’s worth millions and with his death, I become a profitable man.”

“You’re sick,” Sydney said.

“Think whatever you want, Sydney, but I know where your precious agent is, and you don’t.” He stepped aside so Sydney could view Harlan. “He may not have a lot of time left.”

Sydney’s gaze rested on the bound man in his prison. She imagined the chains digging into her skin, the smell of heat and sweat in the windowless room, and the thoughts of despair that would be circulating inside her head.

“I’ll do it,” she found herself saying.

“What was that?” Sark said, even though she knew he had heard her just fine.

She glared at him. “I’ll kill Winston.”

**

“Hello, again.” Winston smiled at Sydney and gave her a polite of the head. “The universe must have planted this cosmic connection between us. We’re here everyday at the same time.”

Sydney moved over in the elevator. “I blame this story I’m writing. If I don’t keep the same schedule, it sets me back.”

Winston raised his brows. “You’re a writer?”

Sydney pretended to blush. Her hidden hand wrapped around the gun in her pocket. “Well, I’m writing my first novel and—”

“What’s it about?” he asked.

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to hear about it,” she said. “It’s a complete mess still and…anyway, what do you do?”

Winston looked up at the numbers as they lit up with each descending floor. “Oh, you wouldn’t want to hear about it.”

He was mocking her, but in a sincere manner. Like they were friends. Maybe after all the time they spent riding the elevator, he did view them as friends, or at least as acquaintances.

Sydney shut off that thought and focused on what she was going. She tightened her hold on her gun, ready to pull it out, when suddenly, the elevator stopped on the third floor. She pressed herself in a corner and watched as the doors slid open for the new passenger.

The doors revealed Sark on the other side. He stepped in beside Winston, barely looking at Sydney.

Fuck, what was he doing? Sydney tapped her fingers on her gun as the elevator neared the lobby.

“Excuse me,” Sark said to Winston, “do you have the time?”

Winston rolled back his sleeve on his left arm and checked his watch. “It’s almost 12:30.”

“Great.” Sark finally looked at Sydney with a devilish grin. “I’m right on time.”

With a swift flick of his wrist, Sark shoved the pistol into Winston’s gut. He shot two bullets with his silencer on before Winston slumped to the floor.

Sydney watched in horror as the man died. It had all happened too fast. She stared at Sark, speechless and with her mouth open.

Sark pushed the red emergency button to stop the elevator. It screeched to a halt in between the second and first floor.

Sark grabbed Sydney by her arm and looked under her coat. He pulled out her gun. “This is a tranquilizer gun!” He shoved her against the wall. “You lying bitch! You weren’t going to kill him, were you?”

Sydney glanced at Winston’s body. “I’m not like you!”

“Like it or not, Sydney, you have to be.” He handed her back her gun and climbed onto the railings. He pushed the flap open on the ceiling and lifted himself out of the elevator. He looked back at Sydney with his hand extended. “Come on.”

She struggled with her decision. Was she going to stay here with Winston? Let someone see her with the body? Or was she going to crawl through the ceiling and to Sark?

“Come on.” Sark waved at her.

Sydney jumped and grabbed Sark’s awaiting hand.

**

They climbed up the elevator shaft to the third floor and found the staircase. From there, they returned to Sydney’s penthouse.

Sydney sat, petrified on her bed, listening to the sound of running water as Sark washed away the evidence. The moment he stepped into the room, Sydney pounced on him. “You bastard! Why did you ask me to kill Winston when you were going to kill him anyway?”

Sark avoided her failing arms and grabbed them, pinching them together in front of her chest. “It was a test. A test you failed.”

“What happens to Harlan now?”

“His survival is still up to you.”

“Winston’s dead,” she said. “What else do you want?”

His blue eyes made a slow trail over her body. Sydney automatically tensed, already sensing his answer.

“My reward.” His grip on her became stronger. “And I’m not talking about Winston’s money.”

He moved his hands to the buttons on her blouse. He undid the top one.

“Don’t,” she said, but she made no attempt to stop him.

His fingers undid another button.

This time, she did flinch. She clutched her blouse. “Don’t.”

“One time, Sydney,” Sark said. “That’s all I want.”

She gulped and lowered her hands. Sark’s fingers rested on her chest again and finished their task. He slid the blouse off her shoulders and cold air hit her bare skin.

“Do you want to know how long I’ve fantasized about this moment?” He whispered to her like they were lovers. “How long I’ve wanted to undress you and make love to you?”

“This isn’t love.” Her voice cracked.

He kissed her neck. “I’ll make it love.”

Sark moved his mouth down the slope of her neck until he reached the valley in between her breasts. He unhooked her bra and they became free. Sydney shuddered as Sark’s lips inched towards her nipples. He ran his tongue over one and Sydney stepped back with her arms crossed.

“This is supposed to be the easy part, Sydney,” Sark said with a frown. “Don’t make it hard on us.”

“You disgusting pig.”

Sark’s frown turned into a trademark smirk. “I’m glad to see you’re participating in the foreplay as well.”

Sydney hurled a fist at him. It hit him in his mouth again.

Sark displayed no signs of anger. He chuckled and touched the wound. Sydney went at him again. He grabbed her hand and twisted it behind her back.

“This is only turning me on, dear Sydney,” he said in her ear. He tossed her to the bed. “Take off your pants.”

Sydney narrowed her eyes.

“Take. Off. Your. Pants,” he repeated.

She unbuckled her belt and slid the pair of jeans down her legs. She saw Sark’s eyes become heavy with desire. She was regaining the power in this situation. She threw her head back, letting her long hair fall over her shoulders. She licked her lips, hoping Sark would take the invitation to come closer. Close enough for her to grab his gun.

“Touch yourself,” Sark said.

His request surprised her. “What?”

He stayed away from the bed. “I’m already turned on. Now, turn yourself on.”

“I’m not going to do this.” She started to get up when Sark pushed her back into sitting position.

“You will,” he said as a warning.

Sydney’s fingers slowly crept down to the front of her lavender panties. She lowered her head so she wouldn’t have to look at Sark. She tried to think about anything but Sark. Still, it was impossible not to picture his face as he watched her push her fingers inside herself. She moved them up and down and she felt her heartbeat accelerate, the sweat start to form on her forehead, then a moan that wanted to escape from the back of her throat. She bit down on her bottom lip as she rubbed faster and harder. She came quickly and breathlessly. She finally looked up to find that Sark had undressed himself. His gun wasn’t in plain slight. She glanced at his pile of clothing on the floor, but before she could do anything, Sark was pushing her down to her back.

Sydney shut her eyes as he glided her panties down her legs. She felt his hands part of her thighs and the weight of his body on top of her.

“Are you turned on, Sydney?” He kissed her shoulder while his hands played with her breasts.

She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. She grimaced when Sark grabbed a handful of her hair.

“Answer me,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?”

She looked into his cold eyes. “Yes, I’m turned on.”

“Good.” He kissed her and she opened her mouth wider to accept it.

Then, Sydney finally understood what Harlan felt like chained in that room. How life had given up on him. Just like Sark had said.

Her hips jerked as Sark thrust into her. She whimpered and wrapped her arms around his neck, digging her nails into his back. He moved in and out of her in a frenzied tempo. With each thrust, Sydney could feel a little bit more of him. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to feel that much.

Sark stretched out her arms over her head and held them down as they climaxed. He interlaced their fingers and his body became slack, pressed on top of hers. His lips rested on her moist forehead. He didn’t move away from her.

“Sark,” Sydney mumbled into his arm.

He lifted his head to look down at her.

“Is this what you think love is?” she said.

His face became steel. “There are many different forms of love. Not one of them is correct.” He let go of her hands and fell over to his side of the bed.

**

Sometime during the middle of the night, Sydney awoke to the sound of the television. She rubbed her eyes and turned on her lamp. She was alone in bed. She dismissed Sark’s absence as she noticed the figure on her TV screen. It was Harlan in his cell.

There was the sound of commotion and Sydney watched helplessly as the door opened. She held in her breath and she imagined Harlan doing the same. But the people who walked through the door weren’t who they thought.

Sydney recognized the attire of secret service agents. They were there to rescue Harlan. She knelt down in front of the screen and watched closely as they unchained Harlan and helped him out of the room. And there—there was the smile on his face.

A smile spread on her own face.

Her phone suddenly rang. She answered, still enthralled with what was going on in the cell.

“I’m a man of my word,” Sark said on the other line.

She was still smiling. “I know.” She heard him hang up and she got on her feet. She walked over to the window and opened the curtains. She put her hands on the glass, not caring that she was standing there naked. All she cared about was how, for once, she felt connected with everything around her.

THE END