“Darkness Unbound”

Alias

Written for the Sark Writing Challenge at sd-1, SECOND PLACE WINNER

Setting: Future

Rating: R

Summary: The best way to get rid of an assassin? Send one after him.

I. Pursuit

“I hurl my heart to halt his pace

To quench his thirst I squander blood;

He eats, and still his need seeks food,

Compels a total sacrifice.”

The last words Lauren Reed said to him were, “They’re coming for you next.”

And with her last breath, she had given him that warning. Sark always knew she had a good heart, which was why he had to stab his hunting knife into it.

Three days later, after the CIA found Lauren’s body in the desert, after he washed his hands of her blood, he was already making his way across the world.

In between London and Moscow, he made a stop.

He parked his rental car off a dirt road and continued the rest of his trip on foot. Dressed entirely in black, he made sure to blend in with the dense woods. In his back pocket was his knife and underneath his jacket was a holster carrying two handguns. But of course there were other necessities, like the pair of Versace sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

As he made his way through the deep forest, he was reminded of his first assignment alone. It had been for Irina. Of course. It was for a Rambaldi artifact. Of course. Somewhere in the Amazon rainforest, Rambaldi followers had hidden a piece of the puzzle, and it was up to him to find it.

“You like puzzles, don’t you, Sark?” Irina had asked him on the helicopter.

He glanced down at the tall trees, at the other world that lay beneath him. Irina handed him the parachute and he strapped it on silently. She didn’t say “good luck” or “be safe.”

“Finish the puzzle,” was what she said.

Now, more than ten years later, Sark was still looking to finish the puzzle. The problem was he didn’t know how many pieces he had to collect in order for it to be done. What if it took him his entire life to do it?

He came upon the isolated cabin. He took off his sunglasses, his eyes squinting at the sight of the lone candle burning in the window sill. He removed the knife from his back pocket and made his way to the front door.

If the puzzle demanded his life, so be it.

**

Irina took a sip of the hot tea just as her door burst open. She sat in the rocking chair facing the wall. Her face calm, her body still. She took her time to turn around and acknowledge her visitor.

A light came on inside her. She had been expecting this for quite some time now. She put down her cup of tea and motioned to an empty seat.

Her visitor accepted her offer and sat down across from her. His blue eyes still icy, his hands still tainted.

“It’s been a long time,” Irina said.

“Too long,” he said.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“How can you ask me that question?” He leaned back in his seat. “You were the one who taught me to find anyone at anytime at anyplace.”

She smiled. “Of course. How foolish of me.”

They sat in a moment of silence. She observed him from head to toe. He still looked so young, the same childlike eagerness exuded from him. But she knew that beneath the innocent exterior was a stubborn man with selfish goals, goals that she forced on him years ago.

Irina stood up and went to her window. She lit a candle and watched it flicker. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “I think you know who that person is.”

“Why now? After so much time has passed?”

“The time is right.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m not,” he said truthfully. “But that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

She looked at him. “You haven’t changed at all.”

He tilted his head.

“Still taking stupid chances,” she said.

He let out an exasperated sigh, but remained silent.

“I did teach you a few things worth knowing.” She returned to the rocking chair. “Like using your goddamn brain.”

“Irina…”

She jumped out of her seat as did he. “Listen to me, you worthless piece of shit, if you think I’m going to tell you anything…”

“Always the protector,” he said grinding his teeth.

She stared at him with fierce dark eyes.

“You never protected me,” he said softly. He made sure he had a tight grip on his knife before gutting the woman in the stomach. He slid the blade up towards her chest. Her eyes didn’t lose any intensity. Only life.

**

Irina struck a match against the wood and lit the waxed candle. She placed it on the window sill and turned around.

“Now, what does one candle in the window mean?” she asked.

Sark watched her shadow grow in the candlelight. Shadow monsters, he thought. Even at sixteen, he still believed in things like monsters.

“One candle,” he said. “One candle means there is trouble.”

**

Sark walked into the cabin horrified at the scene. There was so much blood.

Irina’s blood.

He slowly walked to the body on the ground. He choked on the sobs forming in the back of his throat. He was not going to let them out. He knelt down next to Irina and touched her hand, which was slowly turning cold. He let go of his knife, clean and useless.

**

“And if there is trouble?”

“Light all the candles.”

**

Sark threw the match to the ground. The flame ignited the trail of gasoline into the cabin and onto Irina. He watched the fire until the foundation started to crumble. The windows shattered, the roof collapsed.

It wasn’t until he was far from the fire and smoke, when he reached his parked car, did the first wave of sadness hit him.

**

The cemetery was eerily quiet at night. The hairs on Sark’s neck stood up, his eyes alert for any signs of movement, any unusual noises. He kept his hands to his side as he scanned the tombstones.

Meredith Ross. Kathleen Webber. Paul Owens. Jacob Nelson. Wayne Douglas.

He stopped.

Lauren Reed Vaughn.

He stood in front of the fresh plot and folded his hands. In all his years, this was the first time he ever visited the grave of someone who had died by his hands. He wondered what made Lauren more special.

“They’re coming for you next.”

Maybe because she had cared enough to tell him what was to come.

Maybe because it troubled him that she still cared even as she died in his arms.

Maybe because…

Maybe because he cared.

**

Morning came.

Sark heard the car engine start and started his pursuit. The silver SUV made its normal route downtown, but after two streetlights, it noticed it was being followed. It turned down a deserted strip of road and stopped. Sark turned off his engine and waited.

The SUV’s owner climbed out. Black boot, long leg clad in black slacks, dark shirt, long dark hair and eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

Sark climbed out of his own vehicle. Black boot, leg clad in black slacks, dark shirt, cropped blonde hair and eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

They met halfway.

“Sydney,” he said.

The CIA agent kept her firm stance. “Why were you following me?”

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.

“Here to confess to the murder of Lauren Reed?”

He looked away. “I’m not here to confess anything.”

“Then, why are you here?”

“I’m not sure how to tell you this, Sydney.” He returned his gaze to her. “But, your mother is dead.”

Sydney was silent.

So was he.

“You’re lying,” she said through a clenched jaw.

“Why would I lie about that?”

“You want something,” she said. “You’re using this lie to take advantage of me.”

“I do want something from you, but I would never lie about something like this.”

Sydney took off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. It was the dirt, she told herself, the dust in the air, that’s why her eyes were watering.

Sark lowered his voice. “Sydney.” He took a step towards her.

She moved away from him. “Don’t.”

He didn’t attempt to come any closer. He removed his own pair of sunglasses and placed it in his breast pocket. Now she would have to look him in the eye. Now she would know he was telling the truth.

“Will you help me?” he asked.

She looked at him, eyes dry and face grim.

He took a small step forward. She didn’t recoil this time.

**

They agreed to meet in France.

Before Sark left, he gave Sydney instructions. “When you arrive to the hotel, tell the doorman, ‘Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.’”

“Racine,” she said.

She opened to him the other side of Sydney Bristow just then. The college graduate with a degree in English and literature. The woman who read books leisurely. The one who had been untouchable until now.

Sark welcomed her.

II. Storm Tracker

“Commanding that corkscrew comet jet forth ink

to pitch the white world down in swiveling flood,

you overcast all order’s noonday rank

and turn god’s radiant photograph to shade.”

The First Assassin

He sat in the dark bar with sharp eyes and tight lips. One hand on a cold beer, the other on his .45 in his side holster. You could never be too careful.

“Can you take care of this?”

The older man, maybe of Middle Eastern descent, was sitting across from him in the back booth. He was impatiently waiting for an answer from the American.

Brisk Tanner finished his beer and gave him a slow easy smile. “Lucky for you, I’m Mr. Fix-It.”

The man smiled back despite his confused expression.

Brisk shrugged. Not everyone got his sense of humor. He stood up and tossed a few dollar bills on the table. He pocketed the picture of the blonde kid.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

**

Henry “Brisk” Tanner got his name because he always got his job done. Three words that described the forty-two year old assassin: fast, quick and efficient. He was entitled to have bragging rights.

He tracked down the kid in Los Angeles. This was how Brisk got the job done everytime. He got to know his targets. Observed their movements. Who they interacted with. How they lived their lives. He made it personal.

On the second day of trailing the kid in L.A., he was ready to make his move. One nice clean shot in the head would do.

Unfortunately for him, today was also the day the kid decided to board a plane.

Brisk entered the busy airport and looked around for the blonde. He spotted the kid leaving the ticket booth. It was going to be tricky, but Brisk always liked tricks especially if he was playing them.

So down the airport terminal they went. The kid walked into a men’s restroom. Yeah, this just got a lot easier for Brisk.

He swung the door open and locked the door behind him. He was alone with the kid in the restroom. He took out the gun from his holster and ducked his head down, looking for a pair of feet in a stall.

What Brisk didn’t know was that Sark knew, and right now the blonde kid was hanging over him from the ceiling bracing himself for the fall.

Sark jumped on the man and straddled him from the back, grasping his neck in a tight hold. One move and he could break the guy’s neck.

And Brisk knew this. He had killed people like this before.

“I was wondering when you were going to make your move,” Sark said.

Brisk groaned from the painful pressure Sark was applying to his neck.

“You’ve been following me for days.” Sark pushed some more, a gleeful glow coming from his eyes as Brisk grimaced. “Tell me. How many more are there?”

“I don’t know, kid,” Brisk spit out.

Sark twisted his neck a little more, enough to make Brisk cry out. He narrowed his eyes. “How. Many. More.”

Brisk let out an unexpected laugh. “The damn ceiling.” He chuckled again. “You’re a tricky little devil, you know that?”

“I’ve heard worst,” Sark said.

“Son of a bitch,” Brisk moaned, the pain pulsating from his neck to his entire body. He was getting too old for this kind of shit.

Sark managed to form a small smile on his face. “That one I never get tired of hearing.” In one swift move, he snapped Brisk’s neck. The man’s body went limp and collapsed to the tiled floor.

Sark checked the man’s pockets: pens, receipts, chewing gum wrappers…. and a wallet. Inside the imitation leather-bound wallet were a few credit cards—all with different names printed on them, some cash, and a faded photograph of a woman and a little girl. The only item that was stashed in a hidden compartment was a Minnesota driver’s license with the name: Henry Tanner.

It was almost time for his flight to leave. Sark opened the door and glanced at the motionless body. “Nice try, Henry.”

III. The Avenger’s Lament

“I am vertical

But I would rather be horizontal…

It is more natural for me, lying down.

Then the sky and I are in open conversation,

And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:

Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.”

“You have to consider the possibility that God doesn’t like you, he never wanted you. In all possibility, he hates you.”

Sark listened to the movie in his hotel room. A random channel he had flipped to while wasting time before Sydney arrived. A movie about a fight club—something he could relate to. A movie with a few interesting lines.

“Fuck damnation. Fuck redemption. We are God’s unwanted children with no special place and no special attention.”

Who knew Brad Pitt could play insightful so well?

Sark turned off the television just as a knock came from his door. He reached for his gun and slowly opened it. He relaxed when he saw Sydney.

She eyed the gun in his hand. “It’s good you’re prepared.”

He tucked the gun into his back. “You should be too.”

She raised her hand and showed him her gun.

“So, you are.” He opened the door wider to let her in.

She entered with a bag and looked around the large penthouse. A stocked bar. A bedroom. A living room with a widescreen television set. This was a hotel room?

“There’s another bedroom over there.” Sark pointed to the far right corner. “It’s smaller, but it will have everything you need.”

“I already arranged for my own room,” Sydney said.

“And I already arranged for it to be cancelled,” he said. “If we’re going to be working together, I expect us to be together at all times.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

She tossed her bag to the floor. “At least give me the bigger room. That’s what a gentleman would do in this situation.”

“I never said I was a gentleman, Sydney.” He walked behind the bar. “But I can make you a drink.”

She went to him and sat down on a stool.

Sark poured the liquor into two glasses. He raised one to toast. Sydney did the same.

“To justice,” he said.

Sydney clicked her glass with his. “Our justice.”

And they drank.

**

“You just let her burn?”

“I had to.”

They sat on the floor in the darkened living room. The one lamp that was turned on radiated a warm glow around them.

“And you think she was killed by the same people who are after you?” Sydney asked.

Sark nodded. “Assassins hired by the Covenant.”

“Why are they after you?”

“Obviously because they want to kill me.”

Sydney found no humor in his remark. Her mother was dead. She had no reason to laugh.

“Sydney.”

She cringed at his tone. Soft and filled with concern.

“Whatever you’re feeling right now,” he said, “use it as your fuel. When the time comes, it will not be the bullets that will be your ammunition, it will be your sadness and your anger.”

**

Sydney fell asleep on the carpeted floor. An arm tucked underneath her head as a pillow and her legs curled up in a ball.

Sark placed the blanket over her body and stepped back. It was not so long ago that she wouldn’t have even closed her eyes in front of him. It was not so long ago that he would have taken advantage of this scenario and killed her right now in her sleep.

He placed his hand on the lamp and looked at her once more. Her mouth was partially opened, a few strands of hair fell over her shut eyes. One bare shoulder from her tank-top peeked out from under the blanket. He highly doubted he would have hurt her much less killed her. Well, at least not in her sleep. He turned off the lamp, immersing them in complete darkness.

IV. Sugar and Spice

“The box is only temporary.”

The Second Assassin

“Can you take care of this?”

Eva Guerrero snatched up the picture. Blonde. Kind of cute if you liked pretty boys. Young. Then again, she was only twenty-six. In this world, she was considered a baby.

She blew her cigarette smoke into the Middle Eastern guy’s face. He turned his head, but didn’t complain. She held the cigarette in between her fingers and with her other hand, she looked over the blonde again. This could probably be fun.

“Don’t worry,” Eva said. “I’ll take care of it.”

**

Eva was fluent in five languages. French was not one of them. She was under the impression that the entire country was filled with a bunch of stuck-up snobs anyway so why bother learning their stuck-up language?

It was night when she saw the blonde leave the hotel. She stomped out her cigarette and started to follow him. He was moving fast. He was like water: fluid, rapid, graceful. She pushed past pedestrians in order to catch up to him. By the time she did, he was entering a dance club. She snuck behind the bouncer’s back and continued her chase.

She frowned at the sight inside. The theme tonight was apparently costumes. She was surrounded with an array of bizarre outfits. How was she going to find the blonde in here?

“Hey, sugar.” A pirate leered at her. “Dance with me?”

“Fuck off.” Eva shoved him and made her way through the dance floor.

Come on, Blondie. Where are you?

A flash of golden hair made her turn her head towards the far left corner. There he was. He was walking up the stairs to the second level of the club.

When she made her way to the top, she lost sight of him again. She was bombarded with costumes and masks. She turned to make her way back downstairs when she bumped into someone.

Her eyes went wide. “Julian?”

Sark smiled at her and handed her a glass of liquor. “Vodka straight up.”

“You haven’t forgotten,” she said taking the drink.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m just here to have some fun.” She gulped down the vodka, her body tingling from the sensation.

“I thought you hated France,” Sark said.

She shrugged. “Things change.”

He looked her over. Same dark brown hair and eyes. Same fire in her eyes.

“I have a VIP room in the back,” he said. “Care to join me? We can catch up.”

Perfect, Eva thought.

She followed him into the room covered with velvet and silk. She sat down in a plush seat and looked up at Sark.

“How’s Ali?” she asked.

“Ali’s dead,” he said coldly.

She raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing here, Eva?” Sark asked again.

She took out a cigarette and lit it. “I told you. Looking for some fun, that’s all.” She inhaled the smoke and held it in until her lungs could take no more. “Remember when I taught Ali how to smoke?”

“I never forgave you for that,” Sark said.

“You said you didn’t want to feel like you were kissing an ashtray.” Eva smiled. “Did that stop you from kissing her?”

“No.”

“I thought so.”

Eva quickly finished her cigarette, eager to get this over with.

“What are you doing here, Eva?” Sark asked for the third time.

She stood up and reached behind her back. Her hands quietly grasping the pair of daggers. “Can’t a girl have some fun?” She threw a dagger at him.

Sark dodged out of its way and hit Eva with a swinging kick. She stumbled, but recovered fast. She tucked and rolled across the room to retrieve her other dagger. She whirled around to face him, daggers in both hands.

“Do we really want to be doing this?” Sark asked.

“Business is business, Julian,” she said. “You understand, don’t you?”

“How many more are after me?”

“After tonight, I don’t think you will have to worry about that.” She charged at him, hands swinging, daggers close to flesh. She slashed his shirt with a grin. “We have a lot of memories together, Julian. I hope you’re not bitter about this.”

He touched his torn shirt. “You know me, I hardly hold any grudges.”

Eva smiled a genuine smile. “You’re such a liar.”

Sark returned her smile. “I know.” He tackled her and pulled her arms around to her back. One of her hands let go of the dagger, the other was twisted awkwardly and painfully. Sark picked up the fallen dagger. “Remember when I taught you how to use these things?”

She snickered. “Yeah, you told me I was awful.”

“You still are.” He stabbed the dagger into her side.

Blood gurgled from her mouth and she slowly fell to the ground with Sark’s arms around her. He cradled her for a moment before placing her body on the floor.

“That’s not fair,” Eva said weakly. “You always told me that smoking was going to kill me.”

He smirked. “I was wrong.”

She reached up to touch his face, her eyes closing. “Sorry about the shirt, Blondie.” She let out a small sigh and her hand fell from Sark’s face.

V. Night Wonders

“I walk dry on your kingdom border

Exiled to no good.”

Sark returned to the hotel room to find Sydney awake and sitting in the dark. He wrapped his arm around his tattered shirt, his hand reaching for the lamp.

“Leave it off,” Sydney said.

He obliged and sat down next to her on the couch. The moonlight reflected a part of her face. Her eyes stared straight ahead of her, into empty space, into nothingness.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“I had to take care of something,” he said.

“Something or someone?”

He moved his arm from his shirt. “Someone.”

Sydney looked down at the rip. “Are you hurt?”

“I’ll live,” he said. “I always do.”

She turned to look at the moon. “We’re supposed to be working together.” She pulled the blanket over her upper body. “I want vengeance for my mother’s death as much as you do, Sark.”

“So, you’re upset that I’m doing all the avenging?” he said scornfully.

She looked back at him. “I’m upset that you’re not utilizing all your resources. I can help you. Isn’t that why you came to me?”

“I came to you because you had to know about your mother.”

“Right.” Sydney ran a hand through her hair. “How does that go? Don’t shoot the messenger?”

Sark rubbed his forehead. “I’ve had a long night, Sydney. I’m going to bed.” He got up from the couch. Sydney didn’t say anything as he left the room.

In his bedroom, he stripped out of his clothing. He went to the door to shut it, but paused. He could still see Sydney sitting alone. He turned to his bed, deciding to leave the door open.

**

It was still dark out when Sark woke up to the sound of someone crying. He sat up and saw Sydney sitting at the foot of his bed. Her head was lowered, her hands gathered on her lap.

“Sydney?”

“It occurred to me…” More sobs. “…that she was…” She looked up at him. “…she was your mother too.”

Sark’s eyes slanted with concern.

“I never knew her,” Sydney said. “And what I did know was all a lie. You were the one she took care of, the one she raised. She abandoned me.”

“That doesn’t mean she stopped loving you,” he said.

She wiped away her tears and listened.

“Irina loved you very much, Sydney.” Sark pushed the blanket off himself and moved closer to her. “Growing up I watched her miss you every single day. There was not an hour that went by where she didn’t think about you.”

Sark had said this to comfort her, but it only made Sydney cry harder. He bit down on his bottom lip and tentatively placed his hand on her knee.

A moment later, Sydney covered his hand with her own.

**

Night continued. Morning never seemed so far away.

Sydney fell back against the pillow and glanced at Sark next to her. His back was facing her and his body was still, perhaps he was asleep already. She turned to her side to look at his white T-shirt and put her hands under her cheek.

She wondered if Sark knew how much it meant for him to tell her that her mother did love her.

**

Sark waited until Sydney stopped moving, until her breathing slowed, before turning around to watch her sleep.

VI. A Forgotten Lullaby

“I?

I walk alone;

The midnight street

Spins itself from under my feet.”

The Third Assassin

Joe entered the bar to find it practically deserted. The bartender. Two waitresses. A handful of customers drinking at the bar. A rock song playing around the sound system.

What a setting for a murder-for-hire deal.

Joe rolled the toothpick in his mouth and sat down at the counter. He motioned to the bartender. “Hey, man. Get me a beer.”

The bartender, a fat old man with a round belly, put down the glasses he was cleaning and popped open a longneck bottle for Joe.

“Hey,” Joe said. “Have you seen a guy in here? Someone with a fancy suit maybe?”

The bartender shrugged. “Don’t think so.”

Joe took a drink of his beer and looked around the bar. He checked his watch. His contact was ten minutes late. Now why would a person who requested a meeting be late for his own appointment?

A waitress approached him. “You’re looking for a guy in a suit?”

“You’ve seen him?”

“He left a few minutes before you got here,” she said.

“He left?”

“Uh-huh,” she said chewing her gum loudly. “He looked Arabic or something. Left with some kid.”

“What kid?”

“Some guy. Maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. Blonde. Blue eyes. Real cute.”

That didn’t help Joe at all.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Sure thing, hun.” She sashayed to the next customer.

Joe took a long drink of his beer, his lip curling in anger.

Fucking A.

He was going to be late on his rent payment again this month.

**

He looked over the young blonde man with interest. “Joe, is it?”

The young man nodded.

“If you succeed, you will be richly rewarded.”

Joe titled his head. “I don’t want the money.”

A mercenary turning down his payment?

“I’m going to do this for my own pleasure,” Joe said.

And my own reasons.

The man in the suit laid the picture down on the table. “Can you take care of this?”

Joe kept his head tilted and glanced at the picture. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Just like him.

“Consider it done.” He stood up from the table.

“Don’t you want the picture?”

“I don’t need it.” Joe patted his employer on the back. “Let me buy you a drink at a more suitable location.”

“That sounds good.”

They left the seedy nightclub together.

Ten minutes later, Joe Harrigan drove into the parking lot in his Ford pick-up. He shoved a toothpick in his mouth, slicked back his greasy hair, and proceeded to the bar’s entrance.

**

“How do you know we’re being followed?”

“How can you not know, Sydney?” Sark grabbed her hand as they crossed a busy street. He practically dragged her with him. “The man in the dark blue jacket has been after us since we left the restaurant. He took a seat across from our table and watched us eat our dinner. He ordered a white wine and read the newspaper. After we were done eating, he got up from his table and stood outside the restaurant. Once we started walking, he started following.”

Sydney had to resist the urge to look behind her shoulder. “Where are we going?”

Sark looked down an alleyway. “Where no one can see us.” He pulled them both in and pushed her against the brick wall, pressing his body against hers.

“Sark…”

He covered her mouth with his, cutting her off. Sydney’s eyes fluttered and half-closed, but she kept her hands on his shoulders as a sign of protest. The kiss was deliberately slow. Uncomfortable, but at the same time, relaxed.

Sark suddenly reversed their positions: his back against the wall and her body in front of his. One hand remained on her hip, the other disappeared behind his back.

He kept his mouth on hers. Sydney lowered her head against his cheek. She opened her eyes and caught sight of the handgun emerging from Sark’s back. She fell onto him and turned her head to see a blur of dark blue standing behind them.

Sark fired his gun. The bullet hit their assailant’s shoulder and he tumbled to the other side of the alley. The man recovered and took another step towards them.

Sydney saw Sark’s trigger finger flinch. No. Before Sark could shoot again, she high-kicked the man in the stomach. He doubled over and groaned. She jumped and kicked the man’s face. That did it. He collapsed.

When he didn’t move, Sark put the gun back in his holster and bent down to claim the man’s gun.

“What are we going to do with him?” Sydney asked.

Sark looked up to see the warehouse entrance to their right. He nodded in the direction. “We’re going to ask him a few questions.”

**

He regained conscience a half an hour later. He was on his side, hands tied behind his back, feet tied at the ankles. He grimaced from the pain of the gunshot wound.

A pair of footsteps moved towards him.

He looked up at a blonde man dressed in black. Wait a minute. Was it—

“We will let you live if you answer our questions,” Sark said.

The man remained silent.

Sark looked down at the dark-haired man with a weary expression. “Do you value your life?”

“Yes,” the man muttered.

Sydney came to Sark’s side. She crossed her arms, her icy gaze burning a hole into the man’s face.

“Why did the Covenant kill Irina Deverko?” she asked.

The man’s strained face turned to confusion. “Who’s Irina Deverko?”

Her hands balled into fists.

Sark took notice of her accelerated anger. He looked back at the bound man. “If you truly value your life, you will start cooperating with us.”

“I don’t anything about the Covenant or Irina Deverko,” the man said. “Somebody hired me to follow you.”

“Who?” Sark asked.

“I don’t know.” The man squirmed on the floor. “He didn’t tell me his name. He was young. Blonde. In his twenties.” He paused. “He looked like you.”

Both Sark and Sydney frowned at the revelation.

The man sat up on the concrete ground. “Listen, I can help you two out. I can go back to the guy and…”

A blast echoed in the warehouse.

The man fell back to his side. A bullet hole in between his eyes.

Sark and Sydney turned around to see a running shadow in the railings above them.

Sark took out his gun and threw the man’s gun to Sydney. He motioned to Sydney to move right. She quickly moved away. Sark ran to his left.

He had his gun raised. His eyes were filled with alertness. He went down a hallway and scanned his surroundings. A floor creak caused him to spin around.

He was alone.

He got to the end of the hallway and turned the corner with caution. Nothing. But his acute sense of hearing took over. He looked up at the rows of doors on either side of him.

Creeekkkk…

There it was again.

Someone was definitely moving nearby.

He opened a door and found an empty room. Another one. And another one.

A door opened at the end of the hallway. Sark walked towards it puzzlingly. He waited for someone to walk out. No one did. That meant someone was waiting for him inside. He kept his gun raised as he stood in the doorframe. His arms dropped at the sight.

Sydney had a gun to her head.

The man holding the gun looked at Sark with a defiant smile.

“Hello, Nikolas,” Sark said.

The blonde-haired, blue-eyed man was still smiling. “Hello, brother.”

VII. The First Blood Shed

“This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless.”

Irina picked up the two boys at the train station in Moscow. She immediately smiled when she saw them. “It is so good to see you.” She embraced them.

“Where are our parents?” the younger one, Nikolas, asked.

“They will be here shortly,” Irina said.

“No, they won’t.” The older one, Julian, had the face of a statue. “They’re not coming at all.”

Nikolas glanced at Irina. “Is that true?”

Irina cast Julian a dark look. No fourteen-year-old boy was going to talk back to her like that.

She stood up and took a hold of Nikolas’s hand. He was twelve, still young enough to trust her intentions. Unlike Julian who was already questioning and defying her.

“Come now,” she said. “There is much to do.”

**

Irina picked up the two boys at the train station in Prague. She immediately let out a sigh of relief when she saw them. “Welcome home.” She went to hug them. Nikolas walked into her arms. Julian receded from her touch. Instead, he handed her the briefcase. The one he had been sent to Warsaw to collect.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

“Fine,” Julian answered for him and his brother.

She firmly tightened her hold on the briefcase and watched the two boys walk away.

Two years had passed and nothing was altered.

**

Irina picked up the two boys at the train station in Stockholm. She immediately frowned when she saw that Nikolas was alone.

“Where’s your brother?” she asked.

“He’s coming back on a later train,” he said.

“He didn’t clear it with me first.”

“He said he was going to be all right.”

Irina wrapped an arm around Nikolas. The sixteen-year-old relaxed against her. “Did you complete the assignment?”

He looked up at her with bright blue eyes. “Yes.”

Twenty-four hours later Irina received the news that the Swedish businessman had been found with four bullets in his chest.

**

Irina picked up the two boys at the train station in London. She immediately narrowed her eyes when she saw that Julian was alone.

“Where’s Nikolas?” she asked.

Julian stood tight-lipped.

She raised her voice. “Where’s your brother?”

“He had to be left behind,” he said softly.

“What happened?”

He didn’t say anything.

**

A week had passed since Nikolas disappeared on the last mission.

Irina worried about the eighteen-year-old boy. She kept in touch with her contacts, traced possible leads on his whereabouts. Nothing helped.

Julian kept silent over his brother’s vanishing. He didn’t mourn. He didn’t vow vengeance or cry for blood. He just became mute. Shut everything off.

“Julian.” Irina approached him from behind as he stared out the study window.

“Don’t call me that anymore,” he said.

“What shall I call you?” she asked.

He waited a moment before replying. “Sark.”

After the Isle of Sark, Nikolas’s favorite getaway back home in England.

Irina watched him turn back around. It was like a total transformation in that instant. From Julian to Sark in seconds.

**

On Sark’s twenty-first birthday, he pulled out all of Nikolas’s belongings and burned them. Everything from the stuffed animal he had brought with him to Moscow to the silver-handled knife he once carried on their mission to China.

The fire turned a radiant orange and red. The flames leaped out to Sark, but didn’t dare touch him as if he was too cold, as if he would vanquish them.

Once the fire had subdued and the ashes were picked up the heavy wind, Nikolas Lazarey no longer existed.

VIII. In Despair

“Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood;

As if, above love’s ruinage, we were

The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair.”

“Surprised to see me?” Nikolas said.

Sark glanced at Sydney. Her expression had changed from fear to bewilderment. He looked back at his brother. “I’m surprised to see you alive.”

“Why?” He pulled Sydney tighter to him. “Because you left me to die four years ago? Because you and Irina didn’t even bother to look for me?”

“That’s not true,” Sark said carefully. “We thought you were dead.”

“No. That’s not it at all.” Nikolas moved Sydney to his other side, his gun still planted at her skull. “You didn’t try hard enough. You gave up too soon.”

“We tried everything, Nikolas.” Sark looked him in the eye. “But nothing was working towards our advantage.”

“I find that very hard to believe,” Nikolas said. “Irina is—was—a very resourceful woman. If she really wanted to find me, she would have.”

“She tried,” Sark said.

“You left me in those woods, Julian!” Nikolas aimed his gun at him. “You left me to get captured and you know what they did to me? Do you know?” He gestured wildly with his weapon. “They tortured me for weeks. They starved me, whipped me, burned me. I was near death. But do you know what kept me alive?” He chuckled. “This very moment.” He cocked the gun. “Seeing the look in your eye as I blow your head away.”

Sark cautiously looked at the gun in Nikolas’s hand. He could wrestle it away from him, but he knew he couldn’t do it without someone in the room getting shot.

“Don’t even think about it,” Nikolas said, his gaze on his Sark’s focused face. “If you try anything, then Sydney dies.”

Sark narrowed his eyes.

Nikolas returned his gun to Sydney’s head. “I finally get to meet the lovely Sydney. You don’t know me, but I know you. Your mother was very fond of you. Every birthday you had, we were there to celebrate it.” He sneered at Sark. “As a matter of fact, I think Julian had a crush on you.” He moved the gun’s barrel down Sydney’s jaw. “I kind of did too, but I guess Julian already beat me to you. As always. He never wanted to lose in anything.”

“You killed my mother.” Sydney shook with rage.

“I did,” Nikolas snickered.

“When the time comes, it will not be the bullets that will be your ammunition, it will be your sadness and your anger.”

Sydney suddenly knew what Sark was saying. She inhaled. In one motion, she maneuvered herself out of Nikolas’s hold, grabbing his gun from his hand. She stepped towards Sark. She exhaled.

Nikolas remained calm, hands in the air. “Well done, Sydney. Your mother would be proud.”

Two guns pointed at him.

“Did you miss me at all, Julian?” Nikolas asked with sincerity.

“Everyday,” Sark said.

Nikolas lowered his hands and head. “I missed you too.” He grabbed the knife from his back pocket and whirled it at Sark. The blade made contact with Sark’s right shoulder.

Sydney didn’t hesitate to pull her trigger. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And Nikolas fell, lifeless, to the ground.

Sark groaned from the corner and pulled the bloody knife out. He sat up, pain shooting up his arm.

“Sark.” Sydney knelt down besides him. She touched his wound and quickly glanced at Nikolas and back to Sark. She opened her mouth as if she was going to apologize.

“That’s not my brother,” Sark said. “My brother died four years ago.”

She nodded with understanding. She hoisted Sark’s arm around her shoulders and helped him stand up.

And together they walked out of the room.

**

“Sydney?”

She looked up at the little boy standing at her outdoor table. He was wearing a red baseball cap and holding an envelope. “That’s me.”

The boy handed her the envelope.

She opened as he stood there and watched. Inside was a white sheet of paper with penciled numbers:

1112181391452111

A code.

She saw something right away. She reached inside her bag and pulled out a pencil. Using the pink eraser, she erased some numbers and what was left was

18139145

She looked up at the boy again. “Do you need something?”

“He said you would pay me,” the boy said.

“Who said I would pay you?”

The boy pointed across the street. “The man over there.”

Sydney turned her head, but she saw no one. She had a feeling she knew who it was though. She turned back to the boy. “How much?”

“A dollar.”

She handed him a crisp dollar bill and he thanked her with a smile before leaving. She glanced across the street again, certain she was being watched. She went back to the code.

A couple of minutes later, it was broken.

18 1 3 9 14 5

R A C I N E

Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.

In the bottom of the forests your picture follows me.

Sydney looked across the street, a small smile spreading upon her face.

Sark was making his way towards her.

The End

Author’s Notes: The poetry quoted at the beginning of each section was by Sylvia Plath.

I. “Pursuit”

II. “Sonnet to Satan”

III. “I am Vertical”

IV. “The Arrival of the Bee Box”

V. “Full Fathom Five”

VI. “Soliloquy of the Solipsist”

VII. “Burning the Letters”

VIII. “The Other Two”