Loyalty
by Rhien Elleth, for Luna
"My loyalties are flexible."
It was true, to a point. The words carefully chosen to be not quite a lie. Flexible did not mean breakable. He was more than willing to flex the bonds of allegiance in whatever way proved necessary to save his own life. To sacrifice a few half truths to protect the ultimate interests of his employer. He was, after all, quite skilled at the game of truth and lies.
By the time he was ensconced in a barren CIA cell, he'd given the Americans the straws they'd so desperately been grasping for. Given up Sloane, given up the location of Jack Bristow, and the means necessary to retrieve him. But Sloane, and Bristow, were not his employer's ultimate concern, and therefore of no consequence to Sark. In fact, he rather suspected that Irina would be relieved to learn of her ex-husband's rescue. In unguarded moments, he'd detected a hint of softening about her when the names of Jack and Sydney Bristow were mentioned.
By giving up Sloane, Sark was able to keep Irina safe. He was even able to answer quite honestly when they questioned him as to her whereabouts. How the bloody hell would I know where she is? I've been sodding here for the last month.
And the month stretched into two, and three, and then six. Long enough for Sark to examine a few hard truths rather closely.
Sloane had not been aware of his intention to visit Stockholm.
He'd assumed, at first, that he'd made a mistake somewhere along the line. A tail he hadn't noticed, an unguarded glimpse of his face at airport security, something of that nature. But since then, he'd meticulously reviewed every step up to his capture. He found no mistakes, no sloppy errors, no slip ups. And only one person other than himself has been privy to his plans.
Irina.
It took him rather a long time to accept the truth staring him in the face. He didn't want to. Sloane had given him a few bad moments, true, but not once in the four years of their acquaintance, had Sark ever thought Irina Derevko might betray him. Not once. A foolish belief, perhaps, given her history. But it was different with him. He was an invaluable tool to her, and he'd worked hard to become so. She'd always treated him with an unusual amount of respect, trust...even affection, in her way.
But it seemed that trust and affection had its limits. She betrayed him, and now she compounded the insult by leaving him in the hands of the CIA.
The bitch.
It seemed that loyalties were breakable, after all.
* * *
He didn't attempt to find her, once he was free. The idea held its appeal, of course. But he'd long ago learned the mistake of being a man ruled by emotion. Sloane was a case-in-point.
And freedom, he'd learned, was not to be squandered. Besides, if revenge was his mood, he quickly found another outlet. His father was dead.
Dead. He couldn't quite believe that. Wasn't sure what to feel, how to respond. To rejoice, or grieve? Instead of either, he felt...empty. And a need to lash out at whoever was responsible. For killing his father. For stepping in, interfering, taking away any possibility of...of what? A confrontation? A proving ground for father and son?
Or was he just angry that someone else had beat him to the punch?
Who, who was responsible?
The question irritated him, intruding and distracting him when he least expected. Why should I care? He answered back angrily, never mind that he was arguing with his own subconscious. Why should I sodding care?
It went on like that for two weeks. Long enough to have his carefully cultivated control on a thread, to have disturbed his sleep to the point of chronic insomnia. Long enough to seriously piss him off.
Long enough, so that he didn't notice immediately, as he should have, that his apartment was not precisely as he had left it. He gave the lock and the door only the most cursory of inspections before entering, closed it behind him before his brain had registered the change.
It wasn't physical or overt, or even immediately obvious. It should have been. He was halfway to hanging up his jacket in the entry closet when it suddenly hit him. He froze, nearly stopped breathing. Adrenaline surged through his limbs, had him reaching for his SIG automatically. It was barely in his hand when she spoke.
"How did you know?"
It was low, sultry, a voice to send tremors down a man's spine. A voice he would never forget, as long as he lived. He closed his eyes. He didn't have to turn to know she already had a gun trained on him. He could feel it.
It was a moment before he could speak. The rush of emotion this woman caused in him was almost unbearable. Two years...
He cleared his throat. "...the air," he said finally. "Whatever it is you scent your hair with, it was all over the entryway. I should have noticed as soon as I walked in."
"But you didn't." It wasn't a question. The barrel of her pistol pressed briefly, painfully into his spine while she deftly removed his SIG from his hand.
"No," he said without emotion, "I didn't."
He turned around without prompting, and waited. She looked...the same. Irina Derevko never changed, never aged, in all the time he'd known her. She was as beautiful and unconsciously sensual as her daughter. And more deadly than anyone, man or woman, Sark had ever known.
She had been, however briefly, the only thing resembling a mothering presence in his life. How very ironic, and how very sad.
He said nothing, allowed nothing to show on his face, but merely waited. If she was here, it was for a reason. For a moment, he'd thought that reason was to kill him, tying up any little loose ends she'd left behind. But she could have done that without ever speaking, so he rather doubted it, now.
She looked him over carefully, taking in the changes, the leanness of frame and more wiry build, the shortened hair.
And she smiled.
"Incarceration seems to agree with you, Sark. You look good."
He shrugged, refusing to be drawn even though anger now pulsed brightly behind his usual cold veneer.
The moment passed, and Irina's smile faded.
"A lot of things happened during those two years, Sark, to a lot of people." She paused. "Your father, for instance."
Another bait, he wondered? He kept still, silent, staring at her.
Irina shrugged, switched topics again. "I won't apologize, you know. We all took risks. I spent some time in that cell, myself."
He stirred. "Planned time, Irina. There is a difference."
"I suppose. Still. You must understand, Sark. As fond of you as I am, Sydney always came first to me. She is my daughter, and I would sacrifice you, or Sloane, or anyone else in a heartbeat, for her sake."
"Lucky Sydney," he murmured. Then, "Why are you here, Irina? Surely not just to reminisce?"
She hesitated, shrugged again, "Of course not. I bring you a peace offering, Sark. Not that I suffer from guilt, mind you, but I thought you might sleep better at night if you knew..."
He almost gave a jolt, betraying himself. Did she know about his trouble sleeping? Or was it merely a play on words?
He made himself sound slightly bored, even daring to look away from her, as if she and the gun she held trained on him were of little consequence.
"Knew what?'
"Who killed your father."
He was instantly, utterly focused on her again. A faint smile tugged at her lips, but he didn't care. He almost took a step forward, stopped himself just in time.
"Who?" he asked softly, intently.
"A woman named Julia Thorne. She worked for the Covenant, freelance."
"Wetwork?"
"Her specialty."
Irina stretched an arm out to the hall table beside her, tapped a nail on a VHS tape he knew had not been sitting there when he'd left this morning.
"It's all here. Your father, Julia, his death." She took two deliberate steps backward, angled toward the balcony doors that, he now noticed, stood open. The night was balmy, and without even a hint of wind to stir the curtains. "I'll consider the slate clean, after this, Sark. And if you make any attempt to find me...I'll see it as a threat."
Of course she would.
She stood beside the doorway, now, tossed his SIG on the carpet across the room. He made no move to stop her, could think of nothing else to say. Why would she do this? Why bother resurfacing to tell him a piece of information that could have no bearing on her?
Or could it?
She started to step through the door, hesitated, licked her lips. Nervous? Derevko? Surely not.
"One more thing," she said. "The woman on the tape, Julia Thorne...it's Sydney."
Shock jolted through him, rooted him to the spot, immobilized him completely while she made her escape. Not that he would have tried to stop her.
Sydney? Sydney had killed his father? How? Why? And why would Irina tell him? Surely she knew he would have to take steps.
He stared at the open balcony for a long time, then crossed over to pick up the tape, hold it in his hands.
"There has to be a reason," he muttered aloud. "A benefit to her."
And not to Irina, no. She had made quite clear tonight the impetus for her actions, all her actions. Something about tonight, some unforeseen consequence, would be of benefit to Sydney. Of that, he had no doubt at all.
Irina's loyalties were not flexible.
end
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