Storage Room Secrets (Part 6)
TITLE: Storage Room Secrets [6/?]
AUTHOR: *note, author uses alias, this is not her real name* Ambrose Chavez
EMAIL/FEEDBACK: agent47AChavez@hotmail.com
DISTRIBUTION: feel free to archive this work as long as you notify me of its location so I can visit the site!
DISCLAIMER: ALIAS is the property of ABC, Touchtone Pictures, Bad Robot Productions, and is the creation of JJ Abrams. Sadly, I have no part in it.
RATING: (this chapter) PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: dramatic romance
AUTHOR'S NOTE: To all who take the time to read this: thank you.
// When the darkness fills my senses, when my blindness keeps me from your touch…\\
The dreams came in rapid succession. Painful, haunting, and gripping. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t.
Hurling herself into the impenetrable midnight, she fought for stability, scratched the surfaces of the enclosing walls that threatened to choke her, and slipped into nothingness.
A harried frenzy that clawed at her insides, and she called out his name. Stumbling in the dizzying vision, she found a door left slightly ajar. Pushing it aside, she stepped into the hazy charcoal colored room.
Amidst the sea of surreal, death-like fog was a figure. She drew near and in the small clearing, a sliver of parting between the sheet of misty darkness, was a sun-kissed head with hair matted to the scalp, a lightly golden tanned fist outstretched in her direction, and a pool of crimson engulfing him.
She saw his face – torn and bloodied.
She felt his body – ragged with bullet holes and moist with his entrails.
//When my burden keeps me doubting, when my memories take the place of you…\\
She allowed no sound to escape between her lips, and nothing more would be released from his slashed throat. The tears were fringed along her lashes, but did not fall.
Instead, she found herself swimming. In a sea of crystal blue, she was drowning in some kind of numbing anesthetic where all things faded to black except one sense. Piercing her on all sides from all angles, Sydney twisted, writhed, and found herself injected and filled with only agony.
There he was, speaking into the air, pretending to read the Los Angeles Times, and giving her instructions for her counter-mission. Again, his gemstone eyes burning into her own, impressing her so deeply that she was certain all things do work out for the best.
The voice she knew so well, a rich, low timbre of caresses, telling her that she was welcome to call him whenever she needed him.
That single touch. Oh goodness, his hands, his arms, his shoulders. When he embraced her, on more than one occasion, to comfort, to soothe, to massage… to taste.
The memory of the searing kiss was still vivid, the taste of him on the tip of her tongue.
And she stilled, settled against the sand. She felt the bottom of the ocean shift to accept her, and hugging her slowly… burying her at sea to join the one she lost too soon.
The final image that passed through her mind was of him.
Michael Vaughn stood once again in his suit and tie and in all his masculine glory in the dimly lit room they both knew so well. His face alight with obvious pleasure, eyes glittering with conviction, and his mouth forming words she couldn’t hear.
Words she felt, and never spoke.
//And I’ll follow you there~to the place where we meet~and I’ll lay down my pride~as you search me again~Your unfailing love~Over me again\\
{~}
Alice heard the soft click of the gun, and felt her attacker press the glacial barrel harder against her racing pulse. Her captor instructed her to shut up and only answer his questions. One false move would result in her death, he assured her. Alice held her breath.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ice swam in his veins, and she knew burning anger bristled beneath his skin.
“Nothing. I didn’t do a damn thing.”
“Bullshit.” He bit out. “She’s on the ground, and I don’t know if she’s bleeding. You’ll pay for this. I know everything about you. I know where you live, I know where your sister and parents live, I know where you work—“
“—She’s fine. I swear, I didn’t kill her,” Alice whined. She coughed once; his grip was tightening. She put on such a tough girl act, but when it came down to it, she was as shallow as thin ice.
“Tell me why.”
“She was getting in the way.” The gun knocked hard against her temple and she cursed softly. “I was instructed to do this!”
“What did you get in return?”
“Why the hell should I tell you?” she frowned, complaining. God, she never stopped complaining.
“I will not hesitate to let a bullet rip a scathing hole in your skull if you don’t answer me.”
Quickly, she answered. “Monetary compensation. Why else would I do it?”
“Selfish bitch. Who sent you? Who do you work for?”
“f*** you.” She pulled against him and attempted to free herself. “I’ll alert my superiors and you’ll be killed.”
“Never could do shit for yourself.” He said laconically.
“You don’t know me, asshole,” she spat.
The arm that was restraining her neck pinned her against the chair and began thinning her air supply.
Once more, he asked. “Who the hell do you work for?”
Finally, she rasped, “I only know that I work for a man who refers to his employer as The Man.”
It was enough.
“Where’s Michael Vaughn?”
“I don’t know.”
Mentally, Alice began calculating the time it would take for her to reach down for the knife she kept strapped to her ankle.
He questioned her again, this time, his voice was as steely as the gun he held.
“I don’t know!” she insisted, letting go of his arm with one hand and reaching for her ankle.
His leg shot out and smartly broke her wrist. She howled in pain and he covered her mouth with his gloved hand, muffling her. She bit down hard, and he snatched his arm back and away.
Twisting from her chair, she vaulted toward him, and he lifted his foot, ramming her hard in the stomach. She blanched and fell backward onto the transmission control.
Clutching her stomach with her good hand, she met his eyes and jolted with recognition. “Oh my God.”
With deadly calm, he stood and faced her unmasked.
“This is the last time you will ever pull something like this, Alice.”
She only nodded, and he noted that she was visibly shaking.
Once she affirmed that empty promise, Eric lifted his arm and fired one lethal shot into the center of her forehead. Her body slithered down and settled into a slump between the seats of the van.
{~}
The mid-morning sun was burning significantly warmer than all of last week. Jack Bristow had not changed from his traditional suit and trench coat despite the heat. Arm still in a sling, he watched his daughter as she slept. The expanse of her energy had been expended and in light of recent events, had taken its toll.
He had kept watch over her all morning, watching her fitful sleep, listening to her soft moans of discomfort. She had dreamed, he knew. A usually light sleeper, only deep nightmares took hold of her and refused to let go until they were done. She had been the same as child, tossing and turning with each unpleasant image, refusing to wake even when he shook her and shouted her name.
This became routine after her mother’s death for several months. There were repeated nightmares he couldn’t bring her out of – both in reality and in the shroud of the mind’s night activity. Still, he realized, there were real-life nightmares he couldn’t save her from.
When trapped in the clutches of a nightmare, there were times she held her breath and she gripped the bed sheets hard, gathering them into tight fists. She broke into a sweat, and had kicked him once when he made a vain attempt to wake her.
She has whispered one name in her anguish.
Michael.
After that, she finally passed into a calm and restful sleep at 7:47AM.
“Mr. Bristow,” the agent cleared his throat loudly.
Jack turned, eyes slightly bloodshot from his vigilance.
The agent tried to set his mind at ease as he gently guided Jack from the room saying, “She’ll be safe here. This safe house is within a 25-mile radius from both your house and HQ. Agents will be keeping watch at all times.”
Jack merely nodded and proceeded into the conference room that kept constant surveillance over his daughter. Three other agents were there, two of them were working and the other was seated, anxiously twirling a pen in his fingers.
“Officer Weiss would like to speak with you.”
At the sound of his name, the agent who had been sitting, stood and extended his hand.
Wordlessly, Jack met Eric’s gaze and lifted a hand to dismiss the junior officer while raising a brow at the formality of the handshake.
Eric dropped his arm and gave a small shrug. Senior officers were always testy.
“Mr. Bristow,” he began. “I am—“
“I know who you are. You took the pictures of Sydney and Mr. Vaughn.”
Gulping hard, Eric cleared his throat nervously, and tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Uh, yes. As I’m sure you know now, The Man and the KGB are working in conjunction to, ah, take hold of both Miss Bristow and Micha-- Officer Vaughn. This morning, they were only half successful in their pursuit.”
“You mean they have Mr. Vaughn.” Jack stated.
Sighing, Eric gave up on the formal executive talk. This man was personally involved, not just another agent he was reporting to.
“I need your help to get Mike out.”
Furrowing a brow and frowning, Jack only asked “Why? You can set up an extraction team and—“
“—We don’t have that kind of time.” Eric interjected. “I know you’re still injured from your last mission, and I’m aware you maybe aren’t too fond of Mike right now either.”
Jack blinked.
“Okay,” Eric held up a hand. “You maybe never liked Mike much. But you’re the best the agency has.”
“I doubt that I’m the best.” Jack spoke matter-of-factly. “I’m simply more experienced.”
Eric rolled his eyes. “Look, if you come on this mission, we can use this rescue as an opportunity to acquire more intel from them. Maybe we can gather more insight into what exactly the module is supposed to be, what they’re plans for it are, and why they’re after Mike and Sydney.”
“So you want to execute a mission with a double objective?” he said.
“Sure. Nothing you aren’t already accustomed to anyway,” Eric shrugged.
“Why would you want to pull both a rescue and recon mission simultaneously? Especially with an injured agent?”
Under his breath, Eric replied, “Because I owe it to them.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ll get Vaughn, and you get the intel. We’ll both do what we’re good at and in the process, we’ll produce a double whammy on those bastards.”
Eric, sensing Jack might cooperate, plunged into the mission specs, detailing the entire plan he had drawn up and presented to Devlin earlier that morning for approval.
When he finished, he took a breath and asked, “Will you help me?”
{~}
They fed him mush. It was God-awful clumpy soup the color of Arizona dirt.
Vaughn wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t trying to kill him with a slow food poisoning.
“Eat.” Sark shoved the bowl across the chrome-plated table. It skidded to a halt in front of him.
It had been some time ago they had searched him, and left him. Then they returned to unbind him, and *now* they were trying to feed him.
“I’m not hungry.” His stomach grumbled otherwise.
“Suit yourself.” Sark lifted a finger, and his assistant promptly began to reaffix restraints upon Vaughn’s legs. Anticipating the move, Vaughn bolted from the chair, letting the chair clatter onto the floor on its side, and he lunged, knocking him onto his back. When he executed a side kick to trip him, he launched himself onto the table, flipped, and aimed his foot to hit Sark’s head.
Sark pulled back, Vaughn missed. Landing on his feet, he threw one fist forward. Sark shifted, kicked, and suddenly, Vaughn hit the floor hard.
Calculating son of a bitch, Vaughn thought viciously. He opened his eyes and ended up staring up the barrel of a gun.
“I see you’re going to make this difficult.” He nudged Vaughn’s leg. “Get up.”
He did as he was told, scowling and secretly scanning the room for another exit route. There was an air duct and the door. In the corner of the room, Vaughn noticed a camera.
“My employer has instructed me to keep you alive and relatively – marginally,” Sark corrected, then emphasized. “Marginally comfortable.”
Irony made Sark smile as he remembered he had said some variation of those words before to Mr. Tippin.
Sark continued, “It seems she was very fond of your father.”
Vaughn’s eyes raged, his jaw clenched, and Sark knew he hit a nerve.
“Sit down.” Sark motioned to a chair in front of him. “Sydney Bristow has become of particular interest to me recently. I understand you are able to give me insight as to who she is.”
Stunned to silence, Vaughn gaped and blinked twice. “Excuse me?”
“All this time you’ve spent meeting with her, acting as her handler, you’ve gotten to know her quite well, have you not?”
“I fail to see the relevance.”
“My employer wishes to rekindle her relationship with her daughter. She is especially interested in the relationships Miss Bristow has with those who know her well and are familiar with her tendencies and actions. For example, her father, friends, and you. She risked quite a bit going to Taipei to save Mr. Tippin.”
Sark casually leaned forward and added, “My superior was also fairly impressed with Mr. Bristow’s rescue.” He kept the gun trained on him. The assistant refused to take his eyes off of him, and awaited any further instructions from Sark.
Vaughn forced his face to betray no emotion.
“It’s intriguing to note both Mr. and Miss Bristow’s loyalties.”
“What are you implying?”
“It’s quite advantageous to be part of the CIA and the SD-6, don’t you think? Information acquired on both sides is knowledgeable to both agents, and also beneficial to you and the CIA – provided the CIA is their primary loyalty, of course.” Sark paused. His voice became sharper, his accent more pronounced. “Tell me what you currently know about Miss Bristow.”
As expected, Vaughn refused.
Feigning a sigh, Sark shrugged. “I will only ask you once more before I am forced to employ other…” he lifted a hand, and the female agent brought forward a syringe filled with pale yellow liquid, close to the shade of urine, and smirked at him. “…methods of attaining information.”
Warily eying the needle, Vaughn inwardly shuddered. God, he hated needles. He needed to think. How can he get out of this situation?
“Why the sudden interest in Sydney?” He was stalling, but it was the only thing he could think of to buy more time.
“There is no ‘sudden interest’, Mr. Vaughn. She is the key to unlocking the Rambaldi mystery, and my employer wishes to find out why.”
The key? Vaughn thought, puzzled. The prophecy had been about Sydney’s mother… so what part does Sydney play in this?
“You won’t get what you need from me.”
“On the contrary,” The other agent lifted the needle and graciously let a few drops squirt out as Sark spoke. “You’re going to give me everything.”
She stepped up, and Vaughn pulled back into his chair. He could fight him, but Sark had the gun trained on him, and he knew there were guards behind the door and a camera taping every move.
He bit back a small yelp as he stabbed the needle unceremoniously hard into the bend of his elbow.
Sardonically, he carelessly shrugged and removed the syringe. Sark sent him a disapproving glare. This time when he thrust it in, pierced his vein relatively painlessly and released the liquid into his bloodstream.
His mind went blank and fuzzy as the drug took effect, his body became limp and his face took on an expression of trance-like quality. Memory began to slip, and his vision blurred for two minutes before clearing.
Five minutes later, Michael Vaughn was babbling God-knows-what nonsense.
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