He wakes to a sore neck, bright airplane cabin, sun streaming through the windows — most of the shutters up. Sydney sitting beside him, halfway through a dog-eared paperback copy of A Tale of Two Cities.

"Morning," she says.

"What time is it?" He turns his wrist to reveal the face of his watch — 8 a.m. Los Angeles time, 5 p.m. in Rome. They'll be landing soon. "I can't believe I slept that long."

"Me either. Do you have any idea how hard it is to read Dickens while you're sitting there sleeping?"

"Did you sleep?"

"A little bit." She picks up a highlighter from the tray table in front of her, yellows out a passage.

"You've got plenty of time before classes, start, Syd." Especially if she always reads this impossibly fast — she'd been working her way through a Jane Austen when he fell asleep. "You could take a break and sleep."

"I got enough sleep, and I'll take a break when we get there. I just want to make sure I get through everything early. I want to put together good lectures."

She snaps the cap back on the highlighter, her face determined but concerned.

"You okay, Syd?"

"I'm just a little nervous about teaching for the first time." She looks down at the book. "It's been such a distant goal of mine for such a long time, and now I'm almost there, and I realized, I don't have any idea if I'm going to be any good at this. What if I'm not a good teacher? What do I do then?"

Her concern about teaching amuses him, has since the first time she revealed it. But then she doesn't see herself the way he sees her, absolutely capable.

"Syd, I honestly haven't seen a whole lot of anything that you're not good at. How would teaching be any different? You've come this far without anything remotely close to normal focus on your studies, so obviously you know the material." He lowers his voice, leans in close to her ear. "And there's a reason why there are so many more college professors in the world than operatives who've earned an intelligence star."

She reaches over, clasps his hand in his lap. "Thank you."

"You'll do fine, Syd. Probably much better than fine."

———

"Vaughn, really, I think it's over here."

"Are you sure?"

It is nearly 7 p.m. — Rome time — and they are searching for the correct carousel in a crowded baggage claim at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, walking against what little traffic flow there is. They'd gone through customs easily enough — his credentials hadn't hurt — and he was sure they'd get to the hotel by eight, have plenty of time to find a cafe nearby for dinner.

Instead, he is following her as she attempts to navigate overstacked luggage carts and families standing around giant clusters of suitcases. He pulls his own carry-on close behind him, narrowly avoids catching it on a stroller wheel, and wonders why the hell they decided to check luggage.

"I think the attendant said four, on the plane."

"You think?" You could have stretched a carry-on two weeks. Regardless of what she says.

"I never check luggage. I don't pay attention to all that stuff at the end of the flight." She stops, and he nearly runs into her. "That's it. There's a sign for United."

She cuts through the crowd, heading for the metal conveyor belt, marked "Carosello Quattro/Carousel Four," and he has to reach out, grab one of the straps hanging from her backpack, use it to keep them together.

The crowd around the conveyor belt is already thick, two deep in many places, and they stand back, waiting, little carry-on suitcases parked close. A thin, mid-forties man — on vacation with his family, from the looks of it — struggles with a suitcase larger than either of his kids, finally yanking it off of the conveyor belt and nearly hitting Sydney. Her reflexes are fast, though, and she jumps to the side, grasps the edge of the suitcase and helps him steady it.

"Sorry about that," the man says, shrugging. "You gotta act fast. What are you folks looking for?"

"Two suitcases, about mid-size." Sydney gestures out an approximate shape and size with her hand. "Black."

"No markers?" The man asks. He points to a wide swath of orange paint across the front of the mammoth suitcase. "See, you gotta mark 'em. Makes it so much easier."

"We'll have to keep that in mind for next time." Sydney efforts a friendly smile.

He watches the younger of the man's two girls, walking a circle in the scant space she has beside her mother, trailing a tiny pink vinyl suitcase behind her, almost misses Sydney's cry:

"There! That's mine." She points to one approaching quickly on the conveyor belt.

He steps forward, helps her drag it off. "Well, at least you got yours. I bet mine ended up in Tucson or something."

"You're the one who said you only needed a carry-on."

The crowd is thinning, slightly, couples and families struggling to roll off with suitcases strapped on top of suitcases. The man and his wife eventually pull the last of their luggage, collect their children and wave goodbye.

"Have a good trip, you all!" he calls out behind him.

"You too," Sydney says, and he echoes her weakly. Checks his watch. 7:35, already.

His suitcase nearing, finally, one of the last on the belt. She helps him ease it to the ground, then turns to her own suitcases. He follows her back out of the baggage claim area. Two suitcases behind him, now, even harder to navigate the crowd — new flights, new throngs coming in — and no way to grab on to her backpack strap.

Out into a less-populated corridor. She cuts to her left, heading for an entranceway below a small sign — "Autonoleggi/Rent a car."

"The rental car place is upstairs," she says. "I've rented out of here a few times."

"You know, it's easy to forget you've probably got more frequent flyer miles than everyone in this airport when you're being shown up at the baggage claim by some guy from Minnesota on vacation with his family."

She laughs. "Kate Jones actually has all the frequent flyer miles. And I didn't exactly see you painting up our suitcases before we left, Vaughn."

"I don't check luggage, either. In fact, I was thinking maybe we could FedEx everything back so we don't have to go through that at LAX."

"Sounds good to me."

They walk through the corridor, and he notes another armed guard — they've been present throughout the airport — standing stern against the wall. The guard doesn't acknowledge them as they pass, on the way to the up escalator at the end of the corridor. It takes some maneuvering to get all of their suitcases on and balanced, but they manage.

"You know what else we need, besides the paint?" he asks. "Those little strap things everybody uses to tie their suitcases together."

"I think they come with the suitcases," she says. They reach the second floor, and have to scramble around a turn, repeat the process on the escalator to the third. "I think I threw mine out, though."

"Yeah. Maybe I did, too. You hungry?"

"Starving."

"I was thinking maybe we could just try to find a cafe around the hotel for tonight. We've got plenty of time to hit the better places."

"That sounds good."

Around to the next escalator. They take that to the fourth — and mercifully final, he learns — floor. The crowd here is sparse, and she leads them easily through a round, clear walkway to the parking garage.

"Hertz, right?" She points to one of the signs overhead.

"Yeah."

There is only one woman at rental desk — arguing loudly, something about gasoline stations and her flight is soon — but two attendants, so he walks right up. It takes the man behind the counter a few moments to notice him, too busy watching the woman argue with his coworker, but he hands over the paperwork quickly enough, asks what they'd like.

"Something compact, please. Preferably with a little pep." He has driven these streets enough to know.

Vaughn scribbles through the paperwork, gives it to the clerk along with his credit card. The woman beside him waves her hands in the air and threatens to write a letter, stomps out of the office.

It takes a little while for the man to come back with his card and a set of keys. He apologizes for the woman, reminds them to bring the car back with a full tank of gas.

"We know. Grazie."

Out of the rental car office, into the parking garage, suitcase wheels jittering loud across the concrete floor, searching for Level 4, Lot B, Space 92. And it is now, finally, that he feels the heady rush of anticipation building in him.

They are here. They can begin.

They will go to the top of Janiculum Hill, look down on the sprawling cream-and-tan city, the domes and the ruins. And Traettoria di Nardi, of course — that is an old promise he fully intends to keep. He should take her to Trastevere, walk the cobblestones and find that little bar, cozy up for an evening with a good bottle of Tuscan wine. And to Teichner, for espresso, and Campo dei Fiori, for the market, and they will walk the piazzas and forget —

"This is 92," she announces, coming to a halt and pushing her suitcases upright.

Their car is a compact beige Mercedes C-class that ought to be sufficient. He hits the remote keyless, rewarded with the click of the lock in the hatchback. Pops it open and begins to load their suitcases.

There's not enough room for all four in the back, but he manages to shimmy one into the tiny backseat. Around to the driver-side door, Sydney already seated on the passenger side, her backpack on the floor between her feet. He slides out of his own backpack, lays it on top of the suitcase in the back. Climbs in and adjusts the seat, slides the key into the ignition.

"Vaughn." Her voice low, urgent, hand locked around his wrist.

He follows her gaze, across the garage. Sees, can't possibly be seeing, but he is —

Sark and the double. Walking fast, black leather jackets and shoulder bags, only, for the two of them.

Approaching their spot, their car, and he tenses. They are here for her, they must be. Somehow they knew — it wasn't hard to find out. Their names were on the passenger manifest for the plane, the reservation for the hotel. It wasn't hard to find you at all and now you're here without backup, without that security system and those agents busting down the door in under 10 minutes.

Close, too close. His gun is in the backpack; he reaches back, locks his hand around one strap, pulls it into the front, rips open the zipper with a loud screeee. Sydney angles the rearview mirror to watch them come behind the car —

There! His hand on the cold metal of the H&K, pulling it out, sliding the clip in. He's armed now, they won't take her, won't hurt her.

— and pass, still walking on the other side.

He releases the breath he'd been holding, hears her do the same beside him, a thin, shaky whoosh. Sark and the double walk down the aisle, apparently oblivious to their presence.

"This is impossible," he says, watching them open the doors to a dark red Mercedes convertible parked somewhere in the low 100s and climb inside, Sark on the driver's side. They leave the top up. "They're supposed to be in Finland."

"Apparently nobody told them that."

"Syd, I'm going to back the car up to the door. Go inside, find one of the guards. Explain your situation — they should be able to help you get to the American Embassy. It's on Via Vittorio Veneto — "

"What?"

"I'm going to try to follow them. I want you to go the American Embassy."

Sound of the convertible starting, faint.

"Are you insane? You're going to dump me and go after them with no backup?"

"I'll call for backup. Look, Syd, I don't think it's a coincidence that you're in Rome and they just happened to show up here. You should be safe at the Embassy. It's under Marine guard, and they've got people from the Agency working out of there."

"Vaughn, there is no way in hell I'm letting you follow them by yourself. No way."

"Syd, you're not an agent anymore. You're a civilian and I don't think — "

"Don't give me that, Vaughn. It's been three months. I still know how this works."

The Mercedes backing up.

"You're not armed."

"All the better reason to stay with you." She motions to the gun, still clasped tight in his left hand, resting on his thigh.

"You'd only be — "

"Look, Vaughn, I know you want to keep me safe, but if they're going to get me, I'd rather it be chasing after them, not running away. What's that saying? The best defense is a good offense?" She lays her hand on his shoulder. "Vaughn, I don't want you to get hurt because you tried to do this solo."

The Mercedes straightening, starting down the ramp to the next floor.

He hands her the gun. Starts the car, shifts into reverse.

Maybe she is right. Maybe it's her decision, anyway. Even though it will kill you if she's wrong.

"Okay."

His feet on the clutch and the gas, backing the car out, body suddenly tight with tension.

She pulls his backpack from his lap, roots through until she finds his cell phone and sunglasses, handing him the sunglasses as he straightens the car, shifts into first.

"Here. It's not much of a disguise, but it's better than nothing."

He puts them on, despite the dim light of the garage. It is harder to see as he rolls around the first turn, down another ramp.

Sydney slips on her own sunglasses, sits with his cell phone in her left hand, the gun in her right. Another turn.

"Oh six, two two four, five nine six eight." The emergency contact number for Station Rome, one he's never actually used, but memorized long ago.

Sydney glances down at the display, holds up the phone. "You don't have service."

"That's impossible."

"No bars, Vaughn. Maybe it's the garage. I'll try again when we get outside."

"Okay." He swings around another turn. Daylight up ahead, and the convertible, two cars in front of them, waiting at the parking gate. This is helpful; they can use those cars as padding.

The gate lifts, and the convertible turns right. The next car, a scarily subcompact little orange thing, goes through quickly and turns left, but the green Citroen in front of them is slow, painfully slow. Come on, damn it, come on. We could lose them right here. Move it, move it, move it.

The Citroen finally through, turning right as well. He pulls forward, pushes the card from Hertz into the cashier's hand. Pulls forward as soon as the gate begins to lift and barely hears the cashier call out good day through his closing window.

Right turn, out into the sun, low on the horizon, nearly blinding, even with the sunglasses — his eyes have adjusted to the dark garage. The convertible in front of the Citroen, farther down an access road. He keeps well back — it is easy to see them, here. No need to risk getting close and being spotted.

The convertible turns left onto another access road, and when he reaches the same intersection, he notes the sign there, "Autostrada - Roma."

"I think they're heading into the city." Which is good — they'll be able to hang back and blend with the other cars on the highway. The trick will be catching what exit they take, staying unnoticed on the surface streets.

He makes the same left and looks over at Sydney, trying again with his cell phone.

"Still no service, Vaughn."

"That thing is supposed to have service across most of the world. How can I not have service just outside of Rome?"

"I don't know, but you don't. You want me to try mine?"

"Yours isn't secure."

"It's better than nothing. We're not going to be able to tail them indefinitely without backup, Vaughn."

They could be listening. If they are, you're screwed anyway. "Try it."

The entrance ramp for the autostrada up ahead, the convertible and the Citroen both turning, taking the ramp. Sydney reaches into her backpack, pulls out her own phone.

"Damn it. I don't have service, either."

"What the hell is going on?"

The convertible right up to speed, cutting across traffic, over into the fast lane. He'll need to accelerate more, or they may lose it.

"I've never brought a normal cell phone over here, Vaughn. They're on a different network in Europe, aren't they? It's possible my phone just can't recognize the network."

"But mine is supposed to work on all networks."

Approaching the entrance ramp, now, shifting into third, fourth.

"Maybe there's something wrong with your phone."

Fifth gear, pressing hard on the gas, up to 75 by the time they need to merge. Cutting over more cautiously — anything aggressive and they might stand out — one lane, then another, finally over into the fast lane, settling in behind a black Jaguar. Five cars between them and the convertible, but he can still see it. They are set, for now.

"Maybe they're jamming the signal."

"They don't seem to know we're here. Why would they be jamming cell phone signals?"

"Maybe they're not jamming them for us." He checks his own rearview mirror, finds nothing suspicious, but the highway is busy. Someone could be back there, tailing them, or you, and you'd never know it. "Or maybe this is a trap."

"It doesn't seem like a very good trap, if that's what it is."

"So you think the same people who wanted to kill you a few months ago just happened to fly into Rome and rent a car from the same rental agency as us, at the same time?"

"It's possible, Vaughn. I think it's more absurd that they would come up with some plan that would involve us seeing them, and tailing them, rather than just jump us in the garage."

"But what are they doing here in Rome, then? We had a plan set up, Syd, to lure them out in Helsinki."

"Looks like they didn't bite," she says. "I guess we'll find out soon enough."

He drives with both hands tight on the wheel, waiting for the cars in front of him to change lanes. He will need to move over if the traffic gets too thin, hide here in the pack, and still find a way to stay with them.

They'd covered the basics of this in CST — several days spent following a chase car through the rural roads of Virginia, interstate highways, D.C. streets — but always with multiple cars. Alternating who was the direct tail, sometimes sending a car out ahead, coordinating catch-ups, covering possible intersections — massive operations coordinated over secure radio.

You could follow someone indefinitely like that, if you did it right, because a different car was always appearing in their rearview mirror. But the rule had always been that a solo tail would fail, eventually and often spectacularly if you were following anyone with decent skills, ending when the target slipped away or caught the tail.

The Jag puts on a right turn signal, waits for an opening in the lane beside them, pulls over. Vaughn decides to stay — there are still four cars between him and the convertible, and there's no reason for them to stand out on the crowded highway in the little beige car.

"Anything on the phones?"

Sydney picks up his cell phone and then her own. "No bars, and no bars."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Vaughn — "

"I see it."

Two cars in front of them with their turn signals on — they are nearing the GRA, the autostrada that runs a giant ring around the city, and much of the highway seems to be moving over, preparing for the exit. They will have to move over now.

He flips on his turn signal, finds a small gap in the cars beside him and slides into it. Better to move now, before the other cars. If they happen to look in their rearview mirror, and they happen to recognize you, it's over.

This lane is much more crowded, moving slightly slower. Five, ten miles per hour less, maybe, but it is enough that they'll lose the convertible if it stays in the fast lane and they can't move back over.

Get over, damn it. Yes, there you go. The convertible cuts over, no turn signal. One lane and then two.

The exit sign up ahead — "Gran Raccordo Anulare - 1KM" — and he moves over, as well, one lane, only. The far-right lane is exit-only, and it's possible they're not going to exit just yet.

Another car cuts in front of him before the exit, approaching rapidly, nearly clips him, and he has to bump the brakes, hard, losing his focus on the convertible.

"Damn it."

"Watch the road," she says. "I've got them."

He does, the traffic tight around him, too many cars trying to move over too late.

"They're moving over. Get off." She speaks firmly, and he'd forgotten that voice, forgot what she sounded like, working an operation.

He puts on his turn signal, hopes someone will let him over, something will open up. There is a space maybe larger than his car behind the car beside him, and he brakes, hopes the woman behind him won't lay on her horn — she doesn't — and cuts over. No horn from the car in the exit lane, either.

The convertible must be well ahead of them, now, but they can catch up on the GRA, as long as Sark and the double don't exit too quickly. Onto the exit ramp, shifting down to third around the cloverleaf, the Mercedes hugging the turn good and hard, back up to fifth and onto the GRA — 75, 80, 85, over, over, over, into the fast lane.

"You see them, Syd?"

"I'm looking." She looks first out the front window, then the passenger side, finally in her rear-view mirror. "Second lane, a little ways back."

"Damn it. They're going to exit soon."

"We're okay. Just move back over."

The GRA is crowded, but nothing like the mess they just faced. He pulls straight over, still in front of the convertible, all the way to the first lane, hoping it will be slow enough to let the convertible catch up. The sign for the first exit flashes by, but the convertible stays in the second lane, and if this works, he thinks, it will be good to spend some time in front of the other car.

One of the first things the instructor mentioned, in CST surveillance, he remembers. Nobody suspects the person or the car in front of them — they're always looking behind. The problem here is that Sark and the double will pass them, eventually, both cars beside each other for a brief time.

"Get down, Syd."

"What?"

The convertible five, maybe six cars back, now, coming up fast.

"They're going to pass us. Even if they've got no clue we're here, you're still pretty recognizable. And give me my cell phone."

Four cars back. Sydney leans over, tucking her head below the glove compartment, reaches up blindly, his cell phone in her hand. He takes it from her with his left hand, transfers it to his right, holds it to his ear, trying to cover as much of the side of his face as he can.

Two cars, and then one. He watches the convertible pass out of the corner of his eye, doesn't dare look over. Tries to stay as close to the car in front of him as he can. If they pull directly in front of him in traffic this tight, it is only a matter of time before they look back and notice him.

The convertible doesn't pull in front of him, but it moves over two cars down.

"They're past," he says. "They've moved over, but they're not too far ahead. Stay down — I think they're going to exit."

As he's predicted, the convertible pulls off on the next exit. Neither of the cars between them exits, however, and when Vaughn pulls off of the highway, he brakes hard at the top of the ramp, hanging back, watching the convertible turn right, heading into the city.

"They turned right. You can get up."

He speeds, now, up to the intersection — no cars coming — and through the turn. Sydney rises beside him, her face red, ponytail messy, stray hairs wisping around her face. She runs a hand over the top of her head, attempts to smooth her hair.

He can see the convertible up ahead, still no cars between them, and he hangs back, an invitation for the Ford waiting to turn out of a side street.

The Ford makes the turn, and Vaughn accelerates. You can't do this forever. There isn't always going to be a car to go between you.

He glances down at his cell phone, still in his hand. No signal. He gives it back to her.

The city begins to thicken, apartment buildings and row houses four and five stories high, crowding the narrowing street, bricks painted rust and tan and mustard yellow but starting to fade.

They drive up, over a hill, and there's a traffic circle ahead, which could hurt. If they suspect a tail, they may drive around a few times, force Vaughn to pull off and run the risk of losing them.

The road changes to cobblestone as they approach the circle, bumpy and loud. Past a trio of yellow-and-green gasoline pumps on the sidewalk, a barbershop and a small drugstore, and into the circle. There are pedestrians, here, milling around the small fountain in the center of the circle, forcing the traffic to slow, stop as they dart across the road.

A little red subcompact in front of the convertible halts for a woman with a stroller, starts moving again. Twenty feet and then the convertible turns off on one of the spokes, accelerating down what looks like another residential street. No other cars turn off on that street.

He follows, fears they'll be spotted here — they are so obvious, they must be — but the convertible turns left on a side street.

He slows and then stops before he makes the turn, although there's no traffic coming in the other direction, looks down the narrow street. The convertible parking, Sark and the double getting out. Don't look this way, don't look this way. Waiting, waiting, watching them walk across the street, up to a doorway. Bingo. Destination.

He accelerates, first, second, third, to the next street, turning left, pulling in between an old Fiat and a pair of motorbikes. Shifts into neutral, puts the parking brake up, looking over at her.

"You don't have to do this, Syd. You could take the car, go to the Embassy — "

"I'm going, Vaughn." Her voice strong, firm. They do not have time to argue, and he knows he would not win, even if they did.

"How are we going to do this?"

"It looks like there's an alley up the street. We can cut across there." She checks the safety on the gun, hands it to him, butt first. "You should take it. I haven't shot in three months. Maybe four, by now."

There are other, better reasons for him to take the gun. She's had more training, more experience in hand-to-hand fighting, and even now, months out of practice, she'll have more options than he would unarmed.

He grasps the gun tight, looks over at her. "You ready?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

They throw open their doors simultaneously, and he feels the adrenaline swirling through him. The gun low, close to his body as they start to move. They are both wearing tennis shoes and jeans — not ideal for this, but still better than her old dresses and heels.

The sun just beginning to set, slight tinges of pink and yellow above the houses. He wishes they had time to wait until dark. Wishes they had backup. Wishes she was locked in an interior room at the embassy, two or four or six armed Marines around her.

They sprint across the street together, then slow, slightly, staying close to the buildings — apartments, mostly, from the look of them. Nikes clapping across the cobblestones, into the alley, narrow and sided by concrete blocks nearly black with years of grime. She stays close, nearly hugs his back as he approaches the corner of the alley.

He waits, listens, then swings out into a street much like the one he lived on here. Past the little pizzeria, white tablecloths over folding wooden tables and chairs, clustered along the edge of the street. Beneath the ornate iron balconies, dripping rust onto the apartments they side, covered with concrete flowerpots and plants in varying stages of life, so familiar they almost feel like a memory.

They are lucky — no one is outside. He still holds the gun closer as they approach the tall, narrow row house Sark and the double entered. The arched doorway is right on the street, the door likely the same age as the building, which he puts at a century, minimum, the old wood painted glossy red.

He puts a tentative hand on the brass knob, turns slowly. The door is not locked, which means the metal rods can stay in his wallet, he won't have to stand out here in the street trying to pick the old lock. He looks back at her, mouths "on three."

She holds up one finger, then two. He turns around when it's time for three, throws the door open. Gun out in front of him, two-handed grip, steady, panning fast across the tiled hallway straight in front of him, the stairs further down the hall, the parlor to his right.

All are empty. He steps inside, feels her close, warm behind him. Another step, and a faint click as she closes the door.

Upstairs, or down? He waits for a noise that would give them away.

Silence, at first —

Did they miss them? How could they possibly miss them? The convertible is still outside, how could they have got away?

— and then the sound of footsteps, faint voices, from upstairs.

Toward the stairs, tiptoeing through the hall. He lays his foot down on the first wooden stair, rolling from heel to toe, painstakingly slow, fearing it will creak and give them away. He puts all of the weight on his front foot, gingerly swinging his back foot forward, placing it on the next step. They move carefully up the steep, narrow stairway like this, Sydney behind him, her hands in tight fists, held close to her body.

He watches each tennis shoe as it rolls down on the wood, but also the top of the stairway ahead, counting the number of steps until they reach the top. Six. Five. Four. He can see the second floor, just barely, and he glances around, gun up, ready to run up the stairs if he sees them here. He doesn't. Three. Two.

One. Up into another hallway, carpeted, fortunately — they can dash to each of the four doors, two on each side. He opens the first door, gun ready, and finds a study of some sort, walls filled with bookshelves and a brown leather chair in the middle, empty.

On to the next room, filled with a nightstand and a solitary twin bed, made up tight, also empty. Across the hall to the largest room yet, master suite, a double bed and more furniture here. The bedsheets messy, slept in recently, but there is no one here. Back out into the hallway, and he can hear their voices again, louder than before, but still not on this floor.

He opens the fourth door just in case, finds only a tiny bathroom. They move back to the stairwell, and another flight of old wooden stairs. Careful, again. Sark and the double must be close, and any sound would give away their advantage, surprise.

Six. Five. His heart pounding, this is the moment that could kill them if he gets it wrong.

Four, and he can see them, across a vast room that takes up most of the third floor, leaning over a hole in the wall, likely a safe inside. He glances around, gathers the periphery — the large painting on the floor beside them, the desks along one wall covered with computer equipment, the set of three large armoires along the other wall. Keeps his gun trained on them as he creeps up three, two, one, Sydney right behind him.

"I've got it," Sark announces.

Don't turn around. Don't turn around. He takes one step forward, onto a wooden floor that's been covered with a thick layer of tan paint. Deep breath.

"Freeze!"

Rushing forward, now, surprise is gone, and they are spinning, Sark and the double. Something flying at him — gold, shiny, a brick from the safe, maybe, yes — and he ducks, dives, manages to keep hold of his gun. Tries to come up firing, but Sark is already there, kicking hard at his hands, sending the gun skittering across the floor.

Sark standing over him, prone there on the floor. Does he have a gun? Sark slips a hand inside his jacket —

Vaughn pushes off of his hands, stretches out his left leg, sweeping his foot under Sark's legs.

Sark hits the floor hard, but comes out with the gun anyway. Vaughn kicks up with the other foot, catches Sark in the wrist. A single shot, into the ceiling, and the gun flying off to the side of the room.

Get up. Get up, you get the advantage.

He tries to stand before Sark can recover, but the other man is up nearly as fast. Vaughn moves first, a left uppercut that catches Sark as he's still rising, hard against his ribs. Knuckles stinging, Vaughn pulls back, tries to dodge Sark's quick jab in return and mostly fails, pain radiating through his jaw.

He is vaguely aware of Sydney fighting the double beside him, crying out: "You killed her, didn't you, you bitch!" Of his gun, buried somewhere in the tangle of wires below one of the computer desks, and Sark's, which must have landed somewhere over there. If he could just get to the desks —

Sark swings again and he's ready this time, right arm up to block and left hand swinging, connecting just where he'd aimed — the throat, hard to recover from — and Sark staggers backward a step, gasping. He recovers, though, and comes back with a wild punch, which Vaughn blocks, and a knee to the stomach, which he doesn't, and suddenly it hurts to breathe.

He comes at Sark again. Dodge, blow, dodge, duck, punch, and the smack of someone hitting the floor hard, knockout hard. Sydney? God, if it's her you're sunk. You're going to have to get to the gun. It's your only chance. He glances over, rewarded with another blow to the chin for his inattention to Sark, but it's the double, not Sydney on the floor, and they will do this. She will come over here and help him and they will do this. He swings again.

A sharp, stinging pain in his calf. What the —

He looks down, and it takes him awhile to locate the source of the pain. A tiny little red-and-white feather-tipped tranquilizer dart.

Growing dizzy, now. Sark punches him again in the gut, but he hardly feels it in the numbness swirling through his body. Sydney approaching, and it's hard to stand, too hard, and everything is blurry, and he is swaying, his knees buckling.

He collapses on the floor, feels Sark fall next to him. He tells himself to get up, take the dart out, but he can't move, can barely think.