TITLE: Post Hoc
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
ARCHIVE: Ask, please.
RATING: R
POSTED: (Started, actually) May 2004
AUTHOR NOTES: Got just a little fed up with stupid actions by supposedly smarter-than-that characters.
STORY NOTES: No spoilers that I can think of, so far, since this is only "sometime that's not today."
DISCLAIMER: Personally, I think this universe would be better served if it weren't owned by those who own it, but I certainly can't do anything about that. Read.
You'll find Weiss first.
Solid, dense, but not as dense as his sometime partner. Some people are suckers. They're the ones who will indeed touch the hot stove three times. Not good learners, those; no real retention abilities, although they can be trained to commands using the right techniques. Really, you've always felt that it's helpful that so many survive to adulthood. They thin out the pool and make your life easier, almost boring, at times.
Weiss isn't one of them. That's why you'll find him first. Surprise is the element that will allow you to prevail.
You'll arrange to bump into him at the grocery store, possibly in the paper goods aisle. It's a relatively innocuous set of products to be surrounded by, since few could do serious damage with roll of toweling paper.
"Pardon me, but you're blocking the Bounty."
His back will stiffen. You won't have bothered to disguise your voice.
"Sark." That "k" will snap, something spat out that the napkins can't absorb. He'll turn to face you and he won't back down when you close with him, one step, another.
"Fancy meeting you here, Eric." Your friendly greeting will help you blend into the sleepless-night dawn consciousness of the woman with her toddler heading for the diapers and rolling around the corner.
His hand will clench on the metal handle of his basket, then he will release it altogether and the canned soup will bounce out to clatter and roll along the floor. Before he can reach inside his jacket for the small gun you'll glimpse tucked under his arm, you will turn your hand, catching the fluorescent light on the blade in your palm. Just so that he'll see.
"Tsk. Always have something less likely to start a panic in 'normal' situations, Agent Weiss. There's no telling what might happen to your career should the CIA find itself fielding irate calls from the local chamber of commerce."
A minute later -- slightly out of breath, fingers tingling -- you'll tuck an un-bloodied box of Ultra Soft Kleenex under your own arm and mutter, "Not that it matters now."
Paying for your tissues, milk and Cheerios with cash, you will give the heavy-eyed cashier a smile that's almost too sharp for just another guy in sweatpants and sneakers looking for that morning fix.
**
Dixon will be next. It won't help to take out the head before the legs -- these legs won't flop around for long on their own -- but it will have to be done because the first twinges of paranoia will only be counteracted for that target when mixed with the sharpest blade of grief.
You will move in as he returns to the office, his mind restrained by thoughts of kissing his children goodnight and whispering promises that they will not have to sit church-still at another funeral.
A block from the garage, you'll see his car making the turn. The shadow of his broad shoulders will stand out from the darkness of the car as he passes under the street lamp three blocks down, that moment's glare in his eyes giving you the chance to toss something into the street that pings, metallic rain, when it hits pavement.
There will be a pop-pop when his car passes, followed by the squeal of a skid. It will be a short one; he's had too much time in the field, despite the time that's passed, for instincts to do anything other than take over. A low, tired curse will be clear in the air when he opens the door.
When he bends over to see how the rim of his front left tire is now scraping the ground, that's when you'll throw the dart that will carry the quickest-acting poison money can buy.
Only two minutes will pass before the convulsions stop and you can step over his wide-flung arm to pluck the needle from his neck.
**
Bristow must be taken care of at that point, before he takes care of you. He will be ready to do just that even before Dixon's children have been sent off to their grandparents. He has been ready from the beginning.
But there is no way to be prepared for a metal slug through the throat, high, just under the chin.
You'll lower the rifle immediately, your hands already automatically moving to break it down into its component pieces to be left throughout the city. You won't wonder now what Bristow was doing in D.C. as you watch his body slump slightly on the bench under the well-tended trees lining the water.
You'll save the rifle sight until last -- wandering the opposite bank with the clutch of curious tourists flocking now to flashing lights instead of white marble -- flipping it into the Tidal Basin like a coin.
**
By this time, you'll be hunted. Not that you haven't been before -- and not that they will know you are the prey they seek, not quite yet -- but vengeance and blood lust have rarely been worked into the equation.
Emotions are, will always be, the key to Sydney.
Anger is not the emotion you will need from her, however, in order to make this easy.
You will watch her walk, alone. A solitary figure weaving around headstones. There won't have been many that you will have had to wait for, observing how they leave her staring blankly at the hole that the workmen fill efficiently in over her father's coffin.
When you finally approach, she will be kneeling despite the dirt grinding into her straight skirt, both hands pressed flat to the face of the granite memorial to a name you won't recognize. The dates, so close together, will provide a kind of answer.
"What do you want?" she'll ask, the hitch in her voice stopping you at the stone behind her. Then she will look over her shoulder, the slow turn practically screaming her reluctance to let you see the tracks of tears running from under the dark glasses that shade more that her eyes.
"I came to pay my condolences." You will take those last steps, and lower her guard further as you sink to your heels beside her. "This is not precisely where I thought to find you."
With a sniff, her head will turn again, away from you. Her fingers will brush into the carved numbers. "My father wouldn't want me to cry for him, but...I don't think he'd mind if I cried for a child."
As the pieces fall into their expected places, you will say your line: "Is that why you haven't tried to separate my head from my body for talking to you?"
She will only shrug and shake her head.
Silk, deep and smooth as a well-loved carving, will fall free, a nice touch from fate to round out your plan. Before she can push the hair back, you will raise your left hand and do so for her, tucking it behind her ear. Her lips will part, perhaps in surprise.
"I thought as much," you'll say, bringing your other hand up and, in one smooth thrust, placing the blade straight into her heart.
When you pull her in tight, absorbing her jerk and obscuring her expression, any observers will see nothing more than a devastated embrace.
**
Sitting cross-legged on the hard motel bed watching the evening news, you will pause while cleaning your pistol. Your back will straighten further, your mouth tightening and stretching into a smirk.
Although the overhead shot from the helicopter won't provide an angle on the figure in the front seat, you will have recognized that car being pulled -- water gushing back to its proper place out of every open window -- from the Sisquoc River.
"Trust Michael Vaughn to take all the fun out of this job," you'll tell the room, switching to the Weather Channel.
A moment later, the bedsprings will creak as you lean out to snag the phone book from the desk, turn to the blue pages, and memorize the address for the county ME.
**
The tracker will be hidden between the seat and the center compartment that should hold CDs, but will instead hold nothing of value.
Tugging the map that slid off your lap free from the minute obstruction, you will fight the urge to glare at the tiny bundle of circuits now digging into your right palm, pinned there by two fingers.
The knuckles on your left hand will be white on the steering wheel. You won't have the spare concentration available to reach for the cell phone in your jacket pocket, but that won't be why you don't pull it out.
It is not your practice to request any particular car from a rental agency.
While you flush it down the toilet in the last stall at the Molly Pitcher Service Area's Roy Rogers, you will be chilled, uncertain whether this is something that the CIA's wunderkind could have created.
**
You don't like unanswered questions. It is a remnant of the never-ending Rambaldi quest, an imprint left behind by those you used to support.
Once he awakens, Marshall Flinkman -- the normally babbling fount of electronic knowledge -- will be speechless, however. Even though you will have taken out the tightly twisted black t-shirt you used for a gag.
"I haven't harmed you in any way," you'll point out, nose-to-nose with the man and his sweat. "Yet."
Another inarticulate sound, edging closer toward a whimper.
"That will change unless I start hearing words from you." You will grab his chin, intentionally tight enough to bruise, and rise from your crouch, forcing his head up with you. "When did the CIA tag me? And, more important, how?"
"W-w-" A gasp. "Wh-"
"There's a syllable, congratulations." Releasing his chin, your hand will drop to his throat, the leather of your gloves barely slipping on his damp skin. "If I squeeze here instead, will I get an entire word?"
"No!" His eyes will grow even wider. "I-I mean, yes! Yes!"
"See?" Stepping back to prop yourself against one of the poles helping to maintain the separation between this structure's first floor and the basement around you, you'll reward Flinkman with the smallest of smiles. "Not so hard, is it?"
His head, shaking wildly, will fling droplets of panic in all directions. "I don't, I-" His arms will jerk, and you will bite back a true smile, knowing how much his hands want their freedom to speak. But they won't help you, so they'll stay bound at the small of his back, the rope tied off on both back legs of the chair. "I have no idea -- none, I swear -- what the h-hell you're talking about!"
Your jaw will clench, amusement fleeing before your frustration. This is not a man who could dissemble in such a situation. It's been years, yes, but there is no way that will have changed.
Swearing only once, you will take some small pleasure watching his face darken, listening to his new wordlessness as it rises into a keening that will be absorbed by the walls. The sound will soon disappear completely under your hand, which will nonetheless continue to tighten on the pressure points you learned a lifetime ago.
**
Kendall will be difficult. There has been too much time and too many bodies. That was always going to be the future; now it will be the present.
And you will be attempting to forget the increasing number of questions for which you lack answers.
Extracting Flinkman -- or, more precisely, leaving him to be found by a housewife following her nose -- will have Kendall holed up even deeper than normal within the bunker of Project Black Hole. Soldiers. Long, tall, sharp fences. More soldiers. Solid, blank walls. And those will be only the barriers you can see. The DSR has more resources than the CIA could ever hope to slip through closed sessions of Congress.
There is a city within that compound, and Kendall will not be coming out any time soon.
Black hole, how appropriate, you'll think as you drive by the front gate along with the rest of the mid-day traffic. Nothing escapes. Not people. Not secrets.
That will be why you're there. The how, the means, will be more difficult to determine now. You will have tossed the cell phone in a trashcan in Balboa Park last week. Its battery will have skipped across, and then under, the waves somewhere along a stretch of white Malibu sand.
Still, there will be one person who will be able to assist you. The shock should have value, if nothing else.
"I wondered when I would see you again. You look...well." Slim fingers will twine together and play against thinner lips, tapping, a habit that will be just as irritating as you remember.
"This is not a reunion. You have one use left; I am here to take advantage of it. And you."
"Now, that tone doesn't fit. Not when you actually look your age." The fingers will pause. "They don't suit you."
"The tone can't be seen by the cameras." You'll smile, broadly, unconcerned, and reach up to trace your reflection in the glass. Your expression will make sure that the recordings take away nothing more than a young man reaching out to a troubled family friend. "The clothes can."
"Yes, so right. As always."
It will be easy to ignore the taunts. More than a decade of practice.
"You will inform the guards tomorrow that you have a new prophecy for Kendall, something that you only now determined would come to pass."
"I will?"
"Yes."
"For what reason?"
"We made it possible for you to be here, with a window, instead of rotting in a CIA basement."
You won't be able to suppress a shudder at the memory of that cell. Rubbing your free hand on your forearm -- bared to the air by the short sleeves of your worn NYPD t-shirt -- you'll make it appear it was only the air conditioning.
"Ah, yes, another question answered: When will that marker be called in?"
You'll ignore that as well. "If Kendall doesn't come running within the next 36 hours, you will be dead."
Looking over his shoulder, Sloane will raise his eyebrows at the guard by the door.
You will lean in, and your breath will be hot enough to fog the glass. "You know it will happen."
The beatific smile that will shine across his sagging face will stretch the skin to a point where he is almost the man you remember. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
You will suppress the frown -- the one that will almost be deep enough to be termed a glower once it emerges -- until you are back in the rust-covered Chevy and you've waved good-bye at the gate. You will do so by making yourself a promise.
**
The sedan won't have left the compound alone, but a one-lane-per-direction paved strip of mountain will not allow the coverage that a guard detail would normally demand.
Screeching metal will echo down deep into the tree line, growing ever more piercing. It will be broken by the near-silent, yet unmistakable shattering of safety glass after you stomp on your breaks, slamming the entire bed of your truck up onto the windshield of the tail car. Your rear wheels will spin, squeal, then with a thunk you'll shift and the front wheels will take over, dragging you off your victim.
The lead car will have been the one that left that jagged, gaping tear in the barrier a quarter-mile back.
A bullet will pierce the air, the sound of its crack ricocheting on the rocks until it sounds like a dozen. The only thing harmed, however, will be your passenger window.
Jerking to a stop, the truck straddling the road and facing the valley spread below, you'll send one of your own bullets through the now-empty window frame, not really aiming at the dented black car shielding your quarry. Pain will scream along your arm when your elbow rams the steering wheel as you wrench the door open, but another long second and you will be rolling out and up, your back solid against the front wheel.
"I only want to talk, Director Kendall," you'll call, trying to keep things polite, even if calm won't have been a possibility since they noticed your presence and attempted to accelerate faster than you.
"Yeah, right!" Two more shots will be followed by thuds as the bullets strike the cab.
Snarling -- you will have to drive this damned thing back to civilization, after all -- you'll let some of your frustration loose when you yell, "If I wanted you dead, you'd be crumpled along with that one! Or perhaps you'd prefer being impaled on a tree 500 feet down?"
Silence. A bird will cry, but you won't look up.
"Put the fucking gun down, Kendall!"
"And just where the hell will your gun be, Sark?"
With a snort, you'll slide the pistol under the truck. The additional thrust you put behind the action will send the black metal spinning harshly across the pavement.
"Satisfied?"
Muffled, but undaunted, will come the response, "Not hardly."
But there will be an answering clatter and a similarly lethal tool will skid to a stop, almost touching yours.
"Now you come out first, Sark. And I want to see hands when you do."
You'll raise an eyebrow at the order -- it was unconscious, perhaps, but irrefutably clear in his words and even more obvious in his tone -- but you will comply. After a moment, Kendall will emerge, blood smeared at his temple.
"Is there a reason I just lost three good men?" he will demand, his hands tense at his sides.
"Of course," you'll assure him as a mother would a child. Except yours is not a nurturing soul. "I'm not that starved for amusement."
You will smile when you can see him clench his teeth. "And?" he'll growl.
"I need...information. Information that you, as the senior officer in charge of the U.S. government's Rambaldi trove, will undoubtedly have."
Kendall will weave ever so slightly, pushed into rocking by either the wind whipping the dirt around you into waves or the wound that is now seeping blood into the crumpled collar below his left ear. He'll pull himself straight, scowling, and bark, "Spit it out."
This odd hesitation will annoy you enough that your own words will be blunt, uncushioned.
"Where is Ylena Derevko?"
**
You will berate yourself -- graduating near immediately from idiot and senseless fuck -- at irregular intervals all the way to Washington. Bristow had never done anything without purpose.
Only once will you let loose any of those curses. It will be surprised out of you by a tentative touch on your arm and come harshly, something vile enough to raise Kendall's eyebrows. Ignoring him, you will attempt to smile reassuringly at the flight attendant who overheard your growl but who clearly doesn't understand Ukrainian, for she will not be groping in a blind panic for the nearest blunt instrument. Kendall will chuckle.
An hour later the door will hiss open. You won't have watched the trees and low buildings transform into carved and proud monuments, dull white along the riverbank, cutting into the gray skies visible past Kendall's profile. You will, however, notice light paths running along the fingers of your right hand that, when you drop that hand again, you will find match the edge of the seat arm at your side.
"Why would you keep her here?" you'll finally ask. The black government car, for once unobtrusive, will be sitting and jerking in afternoon traffic heading south. Looking out the window as you break free of the rubbernecking for a stalled car that will have already found its way to the shoulder, you will frown. "And why, if here is so far from the city, would we fly into National?"
"You're awfully talkative all of a sudden."
Kendall will turn away from your quick glance, but not before you get a brief sense of his knowing smirk and that will make your shoulders tense even while you make your voice mild.
"Given that you have been equally as reticent, such a simple request for information at this stage shouldn't come as a surprise."
Kendall won't shrug, but the motion will be telegraphed to you nonetheless, a ripple in the confined space. You won't be getting an answer. Not now. He knows full well what value answers carry.
The driver will pass exit after exit. He will even fly past Quantico, steadily overtaking, then passing the families headed to the beach with their back windows jammed full of towels and toys. Still, it will be a surprise when he turns off to follow them.
"Norfolk?"
It will be the first sound for almost 100 miles and the driver will jump, the car jolting just enough with the extra gas fed to the engine to amuse you.
"It's secure neutral territory," Kendall will say, turning to face you at last.
You'll let your skepticism show in the lifting of an eyebrow. "'Neutral.' Not precisely the word I would have chosen for a U.S. Naval Station."
A sharp smile of his own will pass over Kendall's face. "It's not a DSR or CIA facility, so take what you can get."
With an inclination of your head, you will acknowledge that point. But...
"You do remember the agreement."
His jaw will clench, conveying how displeased he is about that reminder. "I'm not likely to forget," he'll spit. "I hold to a promise, unlike some."
"Just checking," you'll say with a bright, almost innocent look, and you'll have the greater pleasure of seeing his glower broken by a startled blink.
**
Once face to face with her -- the true blonde of the trio, or so Lauren would have had you believe -- you'll watch her look around, eyes coolly taking in that you will be the only two in this room.
"You?" she will ask, sliding into the seat opposite you at the gray table. Her silk won't match the hard metal chairs, but it will slip across it as easily as if she sat on well-worn wood.
"I have no doubt that there are cameras in this facility, but they've all been turned off in this room," you will tell her, ignoring her faint contempt.
Surprise will flash in her eyes, turning them true blue for only a moment. "And how did you accomplish that, given that you can't even say for sure if they're there?" The blue will deepen to an almost midnight darkness as those eyes travel up and down the frame that she knows her daughter had known well.
You'll bestow upon her a serene smile that will belie the tight ball rolling around in your gut. "Friends in high places."
She won't sigh, but something, somewhere inside of her will go visibly slack, bending her toward you. You will put a hand on her arm, as if to provide comfort as you are providing some moments away from the eyes that she will have lived with for a year. That will be when she will stretch an arm across the table, cupping one hand behind your head to bring you to her for a kiss that you will make sure will leave her open, without breath.
As she pushes at your jacket and you tear her skirt down, listening to her gasp at the sibilant ripping of silk, you'll turn your wrist enough to see your watch.
The years will have taught you many things about Derevkos:
One, the women can't stop that little keening cry when they are backed hard against a wall and filled deep, a mouth sucking on and nipping at the pulse beneath their chin.
Two, while amazing in every way possible, they are never to be trusted completely, no matter the name, face, or mind.
Three, as her hand goes to her hair, that is when to ask your questions.
**
Kendall will say nothing when you open the car door and drop into the seat. He won't say anything when you finally inform the window and him that you're satisfied that he has upheld his side of the agreement. It's not until you step out once more, hair whipping around your ears from the gusts rushing across the tarmac of the private airfield that he will say: "There's a change of clothes on the plane. You should take them."
The derision, the true contempt, none of it will ever truly touch you, not so long as you tell yourself what you will tell him as you carefully shut the door: "This has been the payment for things that were far less valuable to me."
The tarmac will still be in sight, the lights defining its boundaries in the dusk and casting the short shadow of the lone car, when the sky will flash a bright, violent orange.
You will almost wish you had been able to hear the scream of metal and men as they gave way.
**
TBC
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