brownsville

Epifanio and another deputy swung by the Martins' ranch a couple days after the shoot-out. There was nothing else to call it. Five men had arrived in town and one of them had asked too many questions about when the elementary school let out. When Marge Hilley called the sheriff's department to complain about the cars parked on her land across from the school parking lot, Billy Tucker had driven a patrol car over. Noting the men in both black cars, he'd pulled up and tried to get some IDs from them.

Instead Billy had been shot. Epifanio and Dexter Ames had responded to the officer down call. And Jules Martin had picked up a gun and calmly shot three of them dead only moments before the school bell rang and his daughter ran out into the parking lot with the rest of the students.

Epifanio kept coming back to that scene. Jules was a whipcord thin blond man who had moved into town two years before with his wife and daughter. Laura substituted at the high school sometimes and Jules had bought and renovated a small art gallery. They were friendly, but private folks, and clearly devoted to Genny. As pretty a couple as any Epifanio had ever seen and Genny was a real winner. He would never have pegged Jules for man who could handle a gun, despite the winter-chill blue eyes, until he saw it.

Having seen it, Epifanio and Dexter were agreed: Jules was a shooter. The shots he'd taken had been meant to kill. The man had training. It made them both think about Jules and Laura and their pretty little girl and wonder where they'd come from.

So it was curiosity and caution that brought Epifanio and Dexter down the long, dust choked drive that turned off the two-lane highway cutting across the arid Texas expanse once they were off-shift. Neither of them knew what they wanted to ask, only that they had some questions. Jules, and later, Laura, had been too calm and too knowing in the aftermath of the shoot-out.

The Martins' had bought a ramshackle ranch barely twenty miles from the border. It didn't look like much, a weathered gray barn and ranch house with a wide porch across the front, rusted tin roof reflecting the baking heat and three scrub oaks shading the back and the barn paddock. Whatever Jules did, it wasn't home repair. There were tumbleweeds piled against the corral fence and the base of the porch.

Epifanio stopped the department cruiser midway between the house and the barn. That way Jules, wherever he was, could see it without a problem. He and Dexter just sat for minute, waiting for the cloud of red clay dust to settle before opening the cruiser's doors. Couldn't wait too long with the windows up and the AC off, the interior of the cruiser would turn into an oven sitting in the sun. When a bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck, Epifanio got out. Dexter got out too, stretching to his full six-four in relief. There wasn't a car in the department that had enough leg room for Dexter.

"Hola, Señor Martin," Epifanio yelled. "Anyone home?" The sun-bleached Ford truck Jules used when Laura took the couple's Civic into town was parked next to the barn.

A horse neighed and Jules walked around the corner of the barn. He was leading a little buckskin mare, with Genny riding. The little girl was riding bareback, but had a safety helmet strapped over her blond curls. She was laughing.

Jules was dressed in faded, white-at-the-knees jeans, battered and dusty cowboy boots, and a wash-bleached denim shirt. A beat up white straw cowboy hat shaded his eyes. He stopped when he saw Epifanio and Dexter standing by the cruiser.

An eyebrow went up.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked, the clipped British accent incongruous with the picture he presented.

"Hi!" Genny giggled, bouncing a little and waving, before clamping her little fingers back into the buckskin's coarse mane.

"Hey, chiquita," Epifanio greeted her.

"Just come out to see if everything was all right with you," Dexter said. He pulled his regulation Stetson off his shock of carrot-red hair. "Hello, Miss Genny."

She smiled sunnily at them both.

Epifanio took off his mirrored sunglasses, folded the earpieces and tucked them in his shirt pocket. "Wanted to ask you some things, too, Señor."

Jules seemed to consider them both, then shrugged. "If you wish." He lifted Genny off and sat her own feet. "Run inside and get our visitors two tall glasses of water, love."

"Okay, Daddy."

She streaked off toward the house, apparently immune to the heat. Epifanio shook his head, smiling. He didn't see how kids just ignored stuff that exhausted adults.

Jules led the buckskin mare over to the corral. Dexter opened the gate and closed it after Jules unsnapped the lead from the mare's halter.

"Nice little horse," Dexter commented. "Good hindquarters."

"Genny likes her," Jules said. He coiled up the lead and looped it over a fence post next to the gate. Then he walked over to the faucet and hose next to the barn, rolled his sleeves back, turned on the water and scrubbed off his hands. He didn't have a deep tan, he was too fair for that, but Jules' well-muscled forearms were dark enough that the scars stood out. Straight, sharp cuts from elbow to wrist, shiny pale evidence that the man had once been very serious about dying.

Another mystery. Jules didn't hide the scars or appear bothered by them. No one had asked Laura about them, either.

Jules nodded toward the shaded porch of the house. "Would you like to come inside?"

"Sounds good," Dexter said. "Probably better not to leave that little girl on her own too long. Kids can get into trouble faster than you can believe."

Jules offered them a lopsided smile. "True."

He gestured them forward, then froze, his blue eyes focusing past Epifanio and Dexter to the cloud of dust trailing behind a line of three black Lincoln Navigators rolling up the ranch's drive toward them. His face went blank.

Jules strode over to the Ford truck, reached inside the passenger side and pulled a pistol out of the glove compartment. Glock, Epifanio noted. Same thing the Feds and the bigger city police departments were using. Expertly, Jules slapped a clip into the receiver and racked a shell into the chamber. His thumb was resting on the safety. He fished two more clips out of the truck and stuffed them into a pocket.

"Deputy Ames," he said, heading for the house. "Would you please go in the house and stay with Genny. No matter who these people say they are, don't let them near Genny unless Laura or I agree to it in person." He paused and bit the side of his lower lip. "If…There's a phone number inside her teddy bear. It's for her grandfather."

Epifanio unsnapped the catch on his service pistol's holster. "What the hell's going on here, Jules? You're involved in something? Those pendejos the other day, did they have something to do with you?"

Dexter trotted toward the house.

Jules shook his head.

The first Navigator slowed and came to stop about ten feet from Epifanio's cruiser. The other two pulled to a stop just behind it. The windows were all smoked black.

Jules stood, waiting, with the Glock in his hand aimed at the ground.

The passenger door of the first Navigator opened and an older man with a gleaming bald head climbed out. He wore a three-piece suit that belonged in an air-conditioned office building in Fort Worth or Dallas instead of a one-gas-station town along the border. Black sunglasses hid his eyes. He held his hands away from his body as he approached Jules and Epifanio.

He stopped when he was a few feet away and took off the sunglasses. He raised his eyebrows at Epifanio, taking in the sheriff's deputy uniform and Epifanio's hand on the butt of his pistol. Then his attention returned to Jules.

"No Armani, Sark?" the bald man asked.

Epifanio glanced at Jules. He could imagine him in a suit. He didn't look thrilled by this visitor, but he didn't look alarmed, either. He looked poised and ready for action, a racehorse in the starting gate, a cat about to pounce, a loaded gun.

"What do you want, Kendall?"

"A deal."

Jules—or Sark—shook his head. "Didn't Bristow tell you?" he asked softly. "I'm out. So is Sydney."

Kendall nodded. "Because you have a daughter."

"Yes."

"Only she's the daughter of Irina Derevko's favorite killer and a rogue CIA operative, both of them with ties to Rambaldi like steel hausers, and someone tried to snatch her three days ago," Kendall said quietly. "No one is going to let you stay out."

"How do I know it wasn't you behind it?" Sark asked tiredly. "The DSR, isn't it? Project Blackhole?"

Kendall's eyebrows rose. "I'd love to know where you heard about that."

"I said out, not ignorant," Sark said.

Kendall shrugged. "The people that tried to kidnap your daughter are a new group. We've been monitoring them. They've swallowed up everything left by the Alliance and expanded. They're now in direct competition with Derevko's organization. She dropped off the radar four months ago after an attempted hit—she hasn't been in contact with you or Sydney?"

Sark glanced at Epifanio thoughtfully, then answered. "No. She knew about this place, though."

"Then it's possible the Covenant have caught up with her," Kendall said. "We followed them to you."

Sark looked away, staring at the horizon, where it wavered in the heat. Epifanio wondered about what he'd just heard. It reeked of spook shop shady doings and underworld deals, a rarified world away from their dusty town and the man who had led a horse around in the hot sun for his daughter to ride bareback. A man might run a long way, for a woman as beautiful as Laura, or to safeguard a daughter, but no one could outrun their past. Maybe that was what Sark was seeing in the heat mirages: his past.

"What's the deal?"

"Work for the DSR and we make sure your daughter—Genny, isn't it?—is kept safe and out of the Covenant's hands."

A muscle twitched in Sark's cheek. "No testing, no studying her to see if she fits into one of Rambaldi's bloody prophecies."

Kendall hesitated, then nodded. "Agreed. We aren't monsters, Sark."

"Sydney may not agree."

"Her father is bringing her here now," Kendall said. "I think he'll persuade her." He took a deep breath and his shoulders slumped. "We're prepared to accept only one of you working in the field, while the other stays with your daughter."

A cell phone trilled from Kendall's pocket. Sark gestured for him to answer it. When Kendall snapped it closed, he said, "Sydney and Jack are two minutes out."

Sark took a deep breath and slumped subtly. He nodded.

"What's the mission?"

Kendall glanced at Epifanio.

"Jack can brief you once they arrive." He pulled a badge case out of his jacket and offered it to Epifanio. "Deputy…Diaz, isn't it? I think you can leave now. The DSR will take over and set up a security perimeter."

Epifanio looked at Jules—Sark—and asked a silent question. The weary, dead look in the man's blue eyes worried him.

"You'd better go," Sark said quietly. He reset the safety on the Glock and tucked it under his belt. "I need to go get Genny ready to leave." He looked around. "She's going to miss the horse."

Three more ominious black Navigators were turning off the highway as Epifanio and Dexter left the Martins' ranch. Red dust coated them already. They rolled past the sheriff's department cruiser without pausing.

Epifanio steered onto the cracked pavement of the old highway. Sweat dampened the small of his back, even though the AC was cranked to the max. He glanced at Dexter in the seat next to him.

"You ever hear of the DSR?" he asked.

Dexter had been in the Army, CID, before getting out and coming home to Texas.

Dexter nodded and looked grim. "Heard of them. Hush hush shit. Heard they had moles in half the other intelligence agencies." He turned his face toward Epifanio and his brows were drawn together. "Scary people."

Epifanio nodded.

"We aren't going to see Jules and Laura—or whoever they really are—again," he said.

Dexter shook his head.

"Nope."

"Or find out what the hell was going on."

"Got a feeling we should be happy about that," Dexter said, closing the conversation.


Ten stories down, Sark thought how apt the name Project Blackhole was. The DSR's labs and vaults were buried under the desert, without road access, with only a Quonset-style hangar, an airstrip, and barracks observable on the surface. Supplies, equipment and personnel arrived by plane or helicopter. Concealed ground-to-air missiles and radar tracked everything coming in and patrols of men and dogs walked the hidden perimeter inside a no-man's-land of landmines and motion sensors.

The conference room had white acoustic tile walls, a gray ceiling and floor, and held only a brushed steel table with built-in monitors and keyboard controls at each seat.

They followed Jack inside. Sark shared a quick glance with Sydney as they recognized the two men at the table with Kendall. Eric Weiss and Michael Vaughn. Sydney's mouth turned down. As they walked across the room, she moved a step closer to Sark and took his hand.

Jack guided Sydney to the seat across from Weiss and Sark took the one beside her. Jack sat down opposite Kendall at the head of the table.

Vaughn stared at Sydney, then jerked. Sark was sure Weiss had kicked him under the table and had to conceal a smile.

The hum of the environmental controls filled the room. Sark raised his eyebrow as everyone seemed to wait for someone else to start the conversational ball rolling.

Finally, Sydney smiled and murmured, "Hello, Vaughn."

Vaughn nodded. He was staring at Sydney. Sark didn't need to wonder why.

It wasn't that Sydney was beautiful, dressed in a sleek gray suit with her hair drawn into a ponytail and pearls at her ears, it was that she hadn't changed or aged. The others showed differences. Jack's hair had gone silver. Weiss had thinned down and the friendly smile didn't seem as easy as it once had. Kendall was heavier, tireder, than Sark remembered from the last time he saw him, just before the Istanbul exchange. And Vaughn looked worn, frown lines scored across his forehead, eyes bloodshot, suit hanging off his lean frame. A pale band of white on his ring finger marked where a wedding ring had been removed recently. Sydney was the only one who appeared untouched by time; Sark himself had his new scars and knew he needed a haircut, a blond lock kept falling in his eyes. He was in his thirties now and the Texas sun had burned a few crows' feet around his blue eyes.

"Sydney," Vaughn breathed out. He looked pained.

"Sark," Weiss said. He gave his friend a jaundiced look then returned his attention to Sark. "Intel said you were dead after Istanbul."

Sark shrugged and did not let himself think about the scars running down the insides of his arms. "Bad intel," he said, summoning the old smirk. He and Sydney were in a tight spot, dependent on the DSR honoring its promises, but he wouldn't let anyone see anything but confidence.

"Now that we're all done reminiscing, can we get on with this?" Kendall asked dryly.

Sark obediently trained his eyes on Kendall.

Sydney gave her father a complicit smile and followed suit. Her hand was still twined in Sark's under the table. He squeezed it.

"In case you," Kendall nodded at Sark and Sydney, "were wondering why DSR and not the CIA was handling this—"

"I was wondering that myself," Vaughn interrupted.

"The LA station has had some…security…issues," Kendall went on. "Agent Tippin took over many of the field operations aimed at recovering Rambaldi objects in the aftermath of Ms. Bristow's…disappearance. He recruited a Russian expert, a diplomat named Lazarey, as one of his assets. It was Lazarey's assassination that alerted us to the new threat, a terrorist group calling itself the Covenant. The Covenant uses the most brutal methods possible and seems obsessed with accumulating a cache of Rambaldi artifacts."

"Is all of this background necessary?" Jack asked.

Sark raised an eyebrow.

"No, do go on," he murmured. Jack knew that Sydney and Sark were still au courant, because he maintained contact with them, but Kendall needn't know that. It was interesting to hear what the DSR wanted Sydney and Sark to know. It wasn't all that the DSR knew, he felt sure. The information might be out of date, but it told Sark as much about their intentions as it did about the mission or the Covenant. Mirrors and shadows, smoke and lies, nothing was ever to be relied on to be what it seemed. Some part of him had missed the challenge; a new part of him despised it.

"Thank you, Mr. Sark," Kendall said.

Sark turned his head just enough that he could slide his gaze to the side and see Sydney's face. She was pressing her lips together to hide a smile. Stone-faced Jack had a little quirk to his lips as well.

"A week ago, Agent Tippin managed to retrieve a small Rambaldi casket from Africa, but lost it in an ambush by a Covenant operative. The only way that operative could have intercepted Tippin was inside information."

"Is Will all right?" Sydney asked softly.

"Hospitalized at Stoddard. He'll recover," Jack said. He added, "I'm keeping an eye on him. Francie's with him."

Sydney took in a quick breath. Sark squeezed her hand again. Of everything she had left behind to join him, years ago now, leaving behind her friend without an explanation had been the hardest.

"We have no real intel on the aims of the people controlling the Covenant," Kendall said. "They don't leave loose ends. But we have an opportunity now; a potential defector relayed a coded rendezvous through a series of false flagged bank transfers. We need to get this man, people."

Vaughn gave Sark a dirty look.

"So why are they here?"

"Mr. Sark and Ms. Bristow are also targets of the Covenant. They were recently the objective of an attempted kidnapping, bringing them to our attention," Kendall said. He nodded at Sark and Sydney. "They've agreed to act as agents for DSR in exchange for amnesty and protection from the Covenant. I'm sending them to Korea to recover the defector. Because of their own stake in stopping the Covenant, they are the only agents I can be confident haven't been compromised."

"That's insane," Vaughn exclaimed, leaning over the table. "He's a fucking mercenary and Sydney—" he flashed her an angry, betrayed look, "Christ, remember what she did to get him out of custody!?"

"Like I could forget, Mike," Weiss muttered. "Jeez, we were all at Istanbul."

"I intended to ask you to act as their handler—"

"No—"

"No way—"

"It won't work—"

Sark, Weiss, Sydney, all spoke simultaneously.

Kendall's mouth twisted into a smile. "—but that clearly wouldn't be wise." A glint in the older man's eye clued Sark in. Kendall did have a sense of humor and he'd been having a bit of fun there. Sark pursed his lips. Well, it had been humorous in retrospect. He wouldn't kill the man.

"Agent Weiss will be your handler in the field, while Agent Vaughn acts as CIA liaison, and Jack coordinates from here," Kendall said. He looked at Sark and Sydney. "Is that more agreeable?"

"That is acceptable," Sark said.

"Jack, get them down to op-tech and kitted out, okay?" Kendall directed. He gave Sydney and Sark a measuring glance. "I imagine they'll both want some time with the child and to acquaint you with her."

Jack nodded and stood.

Sark gave Vaughn a cool look and Weiss a professional nod. They would need to talk with Weiss before they deployed.

As they followed Jack out, he heard Vaughn exclaim loudly, "What child?"


Sark surprised himself with how much he missed Genny. He loved his daughter. Had from the first moment he saw her in Barcelona. He'd wanted, from that moment, to guard her against the madness that comprised his and Sydney's existence. He'd had an ally in Jack Bristow from the first.

Because of that, he didn't fight leaving Genny in Jack's charge, but within a day, he missed her. He wanted to call Jack and hear what she'd done that day, if she was having nightmares, remind Jack not to let her have too much sugar on her cereal in the mornings and tell him to read her the illustrated version of The Black Stallion at night. He suppressed the impulse ruthlessly and ended up pacing up and down the cabin of the jet taking them to Korea.

Sydney was staring blankly out the window at the night sky, ignoring the mission briefing on the laptop in front of her. Sark saw her hand steal over to the cell phone lying next to it twice, only to be snatched away. Her face was drawn and miserable. Becoming enmeshed in their spook's world and the Rambaldi prophecy again was even worse for her than him. He'd never aspired to a 'normal' life and only valued it in respect to the happiness it provided for her and Genny. For Sydney it felt worse. This was losing her dream again.

Sark brushed his hand over her smooth head once as he paced by, silent comfort, but said nothing. He couldn't fix this.

His restless perambulations took him to the head of the cabin as Weiss stepped out of the cockpit. Weiss smiled and nodded at a couple of seats. "Want to go over the whole thing one more time?" he asked. Dark eyes gleamed with humor and Sark knew the man had seen through his cool facade.

Sark shrugged. He glanced at Sydney.

"She's got it," Weiss said. "She's tougher than she looks." He snorted out a laugh. "You should know that."

Sark tipped his head back, an old posture that he'd used to communicate disdain when facing taller men. It came back easily. It all came back, all too easily. "Are you holding a grudge, Agent Weiss?"

"Against you or against Sydney?" Weiss shot back. He shook his head, still smiling. "No, to both." The man smiled too damn much, but his relentless puppy-dog friendliness had even Sark relaxing. It was a subtle weapon, that amiable style, and one Weiss used in the place of more obvious intimidation tactics. Sark admired it.

"And Agent Vaughn?" Sark asked.

Weiss shrugged this time and slumped down into one of the seats. "Who knows with Mike anymore?"

Sark took the seat opposite him and raised an eyebrow.

"If he is, he can't do anything," Weiss said. He waved a hand aimlessly. "Liaison is a pretty much useless position. Jack won't tell him shit until he wants to—which knowing Jack—" another smile here, touched with acid, "—won't be until after the next millennium."

Weiss certainly knew Jack. Sark nodded with an unwilling, crooked half-smile. He had an odd relationship with his father-in-law. Jack thought he should have stayed away from Sydney—not for Sydney, for himself—because Jack had been there, with Irina, putting Sark back together after Sydney walked out in Bern. Jack had been there when all the drugs cleared out and Sark realized, appalled, what he'd been reduced to. He had fled the game, disappeared with Jack's help, and been shocked when Jack told him to meet Sydney in Barcelona. The addition of Genny to the equation had changed everything: changed him, changed Sydney, and changed Jack. Maybe it had even changed Irina, but that wasn't something Sark wanted to count on.

"Mike…He's in trouble. Second marriage going down the tubes, drinking, blown missions…," Weiss sighed. "This liaison thing, it's just an excuse to get him out of the way."

"As long as he doesn't interfere…," Sark murmured. If Vaughn endangered Genny or Sydney, the man was dead. Amnesty be damned.

Weiss shook his head. "You and Syd. That's still wild to me. And you've got a kid." Dark eyes measured Sark, then rested on Sydney's oblivious profile. "Who the hell but you two would have the gall to bring a child into this world?"

"I don't want her to ever be in this world," Sark snapped before thinking.

Weiss nodded definitively.

"I guessed, but I wanted to hear it."

Sark narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because now I know I can trust you. You've got something to lose. Something to live for." Weiss hesitated. "You and Syd, you were never afraid of dying. It made you good agents—maybe the best—but it scares people like me. It gets the people around you killed, because we have doubts and fears and they slow us down." Weiss drummed his fingers on the arm rest, obviously debating whether to say any more. Sark's silence must have seemed like an invitation to continue. "Four years ago, in Istanbul, I started to see it. She was willing to kill for you…and you were willing to die for her. But I don't think either of you were willing live for each other, or even yourselves."

Sark almost, almost let the flinch show. The scars on his arms burned with phantom pain. Eric Weiss was far more astute than he'd ever given the man credit for being. He couldn't lose Sydney and Genny. Wouldn't survive again. Wouldn't want to. But he wasn't afraid of dying, no. He was afraid of leaving them behind, afraid of what might happen if he wasn't there for them. He would do whatever he had to do to survive—for them.

He closed his eyes, only to open them and meet Weiss' dark, almost kind gaze. "Welcome to the human race," Weiss said.

Sark's lips quirked into a sardonic smile.

"Shall we go over the briefing one more time, then?" he said, signalling that the other conversation was over.

Weiss nodded. "Sure."

"Tell me more about the Covenant."


They were easily within the window the defector had set for the meeting. And there were the three, ridiculous sugar cubes, incongruously white and crisp. The man had been reading too many Ian Fleming books.

Sark casually sat down on one side of the dark-haired defector. Sydney took the other. The breeze picked up her long hair and whipped it over her face. She pushed it off impatiently. Even pink with cold and with chapped lips, she was the loveliest thing Sark had ever seen. He had to smile.

When the man nervously glanced back and forth between them without doing more than lick his lips, Sark sighed and put on his American accent. Not the Texan one, though he'd perfected it over the last two years. He'd decided to use the Oregonian accent, to go with the place of birth on his latest passport. Julian Hollier was from Portland, after all.

"You asked for this meeting."

"Yes," the man said quickly. "But—but how do I know you are who you say you are?"

Sark raised an eyebrow at Sydney. "We haven't said who we are."

The defector jolted, eyes widening with fright behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Sydney glared at Sark, then patted their spooked objective's hand where it was wrapped around a mug of tea.  Sark presumed it was tea. It might have been mud. He wasn't ingesting anything in this benighted country if he could help it.

"Ignore him," Sydney said. She smiled blindingly at their man, melting his doubts into a puddle along with his brain. "We're here for the CIA. I'm Julia and this is—" Sark smirked at her. He just didn't do first names, no matter what was on the passport du jour. He'd given up his first name with his first identity. "—Julian."

Of course, she remembered his cover name. He'd answer to it, the way he had answered to Jules Martin. The way Sydney would look his way if he called her Julia Thorne.

"What should we call you?" Sydney asked.

"Leonid, Leonid Lisenker." He shoved a sheaf of brown hair off his forehead and offered a weak smile to Sydney.

"Why do you want to defect?" Sark asked quietly. He was watching past Sydney. He despised this set-up. They were out in the open, exposed and obvious, three Westerners amid the Asian throng. There were Korean army troops in the market day crowd, probably trading military goods on the black market for something to eat through the next week.

"This horrible country," Leonid exclaimed softly. "The Covenant has had me here for five years. Five years! I've begged to be reassigned. Anywhere. I can't bear it any more. Everything in this place has no culture! No fun. No pep."

"Pep," Sark echoed. He didn't dare look at Sydney. He knew if he did, they would both laugh.

"Pep," Leonid repeated with a brisk nod. "The United States must have pep. Like Gloria Estefan. I have CDs. Latin music. Wonderful. She is full of pep. Not cold and dull like this pit."

Don't ask me, don't ask me if you can meet her.

"I know I could be happier in a country that has such a woman." Leonid then eyed Sydney with equal enthusiasm. A surge of jealousy surprised Sark. He wanted to tell the man to stop undressing his wife with his eyes and punctuate the request with a nine millimeter bullet. That would be doing the Covenant's work for them, though, so he didn't.

"Well, the United States has all sorts of culture," he said. "I'm sure you'll like it there. The CIA is prepared to set you up with a new identity once you've briefed them on the Covenant. Say yes and you'll be on your way to being a god-blessed American."

Sydney grimaced at him, telling him he was laying it on a bit thick. But Sark had had plenty of experience with Russians. They were as naive about the US as most Americans were about the rest of the world.

"Say yes and you'll be on your way to an unmarked grave," said a gravelly woman's voice as a gun was shoved into Sark's ribs. He glared at Sydney. He was watching her back, what the hell was she doing, beyond charming their defector?

Leonid looked up with his mouth open and his eyes wide.

"Who—who are you?"

Sark twisted his head to the side and observed the woman who had slid into a seat next to him. Caramel skin, pixie cut hair, and snapping dark eyes, none of it had changed, any more than her sex-and-whiskey voice had.

"Hello, Allison."

Sydney was glaring at him now.

"You know her."

"Yeah, he knows me," Allison said with a blinding white smile. The gun in Sark's side didn't waver. "We trained together—" her gaze turned to Leonid, "—and, buddy, it wasn't at The Farm."

"Odessa was a long time ago, Allison," he said. Trained together, slept together, run missions and played wild games together, until they'd tried to kill each other. Something like his relationship with Sydney only in reverse. Without marriage, children, or love. "You've found a new master."

"You've gone soft," Allison replied. "I can't believe you're working for the CIA, after what I heard they did to you."

"What did you hear?" Sark asked in genuine curiosity.

"That they shot you, turned you inside out and broke you." Allison narrowed her eyes. "Maybe they did—Is that what you want, buddy?"

Leonid looked back and forth between the three of them, clearly more and more frightened.

"They didn't break me, Allison," Sark said.

"Someone did."

Involuntarily, his eyes slid toward Sydney. When he did that, Allison's attention followed. Sark's instincts took over and he shoved away from the gun, sweeping his elbow into it and knocking Allison's aim awry. She cursed; the shot hit the table top. Leonid jumped to his feet and started running. Sydney came over the top of the table at Allison and Sark pulled his own silenced gun, thankful that Allison's weapon had a silencer. There were too many soldiers around.

Sydney slammed Allison to the ground. Her head came up and she hissed, "Go after him!"

Sark went, fully positive that Sydney could handle Allison.

He caught up with Leonid in a moment, clamping a hand on the man's shoulder. "You still want to go to the States, don't you, Lisenker?" he asked, shoving his own gun into the man's back. "I hope so, because you are coming with us."

Leonid gaped at him. "You mean you are the CIA?"

Sark grimaced at the thought. "Well, in a manner of speaking."

He guided Leonid to their jeep at a fast trot. Anything faster would have drawn too much attention. A quick check showed that Allison hadn't found it. No boobie traps or bombs. "Get in the back and stay down," he said, as he started the jeep and shoved it into gear. Leonid fell back against the seat with gurgled shout and Sark hit the gas and tore into the square.

Shit. Sydney and Allison were still fighting and a wide group of spectators were gathered around the remains of the cafe's outdoor furniture, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Sark hit the brakes and winced as Sydney slammed a broken chair leg into Allison's arm. Allison rolled with the blow and swept her leg up, kicking Sydney in the solar plexus. Sydney went down.

"Wow," Leonid breathed, leaning over the jeep's front seats and watching the fight avidly. "Is what they call catfight, da?"

Sark shot him a sour look.

Sydney jack-knifed to her feet just in time to meet Allison's next rush as they met in a flurry of back-and-forth blows. Then she dived to the ground, grabbing for something. Sark caught his breath and hit the jeep's horn as Allison pulled the flick knife she always carried and tried to sink it into Sydney's back. The sound made Allison slow for one critical second, her head whipping around.

Sydney trusted that the noise meant back-up and not another threat. Her hands locked around the butt of Allison's fallen gun. She rolled onto her back, peered through blackening eyes, and pulled the trigger, emptying three shots into Allison. Allison stumbled back. She dropped the flick knife and half lifted her hand toward the hole blown in her shoulder. Then she fell.

Sydney slumped back on her elbows.

Sark hit the horn again and leaned across the empty passenger seat. "Julia!"

Sydney lifted her head and blinked dazedly past some of the gathered onlookers to the jeep. Sark gestured to her. "Get in!"

Sydney stumbled to her feet and lurched her way to the jeep, still holding Allison's gun in one hand. Sark grabbed her arm and pulled her in ruthlessly, hitting the gas and barrelling out of the little town's market square before Sydney was even fully inside.

They tore out of the town just ahead of a shouting group of soldiers.

Sydney collapsed against the seat and dabbed at her split and bleeding lips, then rolled her head to face Sark. Both eyes threatened to swell shut. He concentrated on the road, pushing the jeep to its maximum speed. "Hell of an old girlfriend there, Julian."

He snorted.

"May I direct your attention to your own romantic history," he sniped.

"What?"

"The Snowman?"

Sydney opened her mouth, then snickered. "Okay, I'll give you that one." She turned around in her seat and checked behind them. "—Take a couple of backroads, it looks like they haven't got anyone after us. If you slow down and quit throwing up a dust trail that a blind man could follow, we'll make the rendezvous with Weiss without any problems."

Sark took the first backroad he could find and followed her suggestion, ignoring Leonid's panicked babble in the back seat. He fished a handkerchief out of his khaki jacket's pocket and handed it to Sydney.

"There's a water bottle under the seat," he said.

She fished it up and used the water and handkerchief to clean up as much as she could, then pulled her tangled hair back into a ponytail again. With a sigh, she reset the safety on Allison's gun and tucked it in her own coat pocket.

"Just once, I'd like to run a mission that didn't end up with me going hand-to-hand with someone, shooting them, or knifing them," she complained.

"But, darling, that's how we met," Sark joked.

Sydney flopped back against the seat. "I hate it when you pretend to have a sense of humor."

Sark took his right hand off the steering wheel and groped until he had Sydney's hand in his. He drove like that through the rest of the morning and half-way into the afternoon, stopping once to threaten Leonid with a gag, before they reached the rendezvous.

Weiss took one look at Sydney and took over the extraction procedures and handling Leonid. A few hours later, they were back in the private jet, in the air and crossing the Pacific again, flying away from the sun.

Sark wrapped his arms around Sydney and let her sleep pillowed against his shoulder. He was tired too, but couldn't relax enough to sleep. He thought longingly of picking up Genny once they were back in the US and returning with her and Sydney to Brownsville.

He closed his eyes and buried his face in Sydney's hair, taking short, sharp breaths and tightening his arms around her.

He didn't know what they were going to do.

This was it for them. He couldn't see any way out. Brownsville and their safe, normal life had been nothing but a mirage.

They couldn't go back.

-fin