Chapter 4 - Endings

Dixon could tell as soon as she walked in.

"All-nighter?" he asked.

Sydney glanced down at herself. She hadn't thought she looked any different than normal. Hair blow-dried to a glossy brown, her usual minimalist anti-mission makeup. Sure, she was wearing her most comfortable suit, because she was pretty damn sure this was going to be a long day, but nothing about her seemed to scream "no sleep."

"Yeah. How can you tell?"

"I don't know," he said. "I just can. Instinct, I guess."

It was extremely puzzling to Sydney, how Dixon could be so intuitive as to see right through her — a spy, no less — but couldn't see the truth about what he did. But then, she told herself, you didn't either. You probably never would have, if not for Danny.

She never had nightmares about missions. Every nightmare, for Sydney, was walking into that bathroom. Seeing that bathtub. Seeing his body.  She wasn't sure if they would ever go away. But today, Danny, I avenge your death, she thought. And I am so sorry for what they did to you — what I did to you.

Dixon interrupted her thoughts. "Hey, meeting time. Don't fall asleep on us."

She took a deep breath and followed him into the conference room. Her father was already seated there, and greeted her with a poker-faced, "Hello, Sydney."

"Hi," she said, drawing on his impassiveness to keep her voice from shaking. Arvin Sloane picked that moment to walk into the room, and she sat down.

Sloane greeted them with a brisk, "Good morning, people," and an evil eye toward Marshall, who had picked the wrong time to slurp from his coffee mug.

"We actually don't have a whole lot on our plate for today," Sloane said. "I just wanted to congratulate Sydney and Dixon on Geneva. We've got the vials in analysis, and I'm hearing some promising things."

Sydney forced a smile at him, and prayed that he would end the meeting with that. Instead, Sloane launched into the lengthy biography of some Balkan arms dealer. She stole a glance at her father, hoping perhaps that he would give something away, but she should have known better. He was still stone-faced, listening attentively to Sloane.

"So we're going to keep an eye on him, but at it doesn't look like we'll need corrective measures at this point," Sloane said. "That's all, people."

She stood and walked with Dixon back to their desks, checking her watch again. It was 10:05, and she was convinced she would go crazy if she had to wait much longer.

At 10:08, she picked up some paperwork. By 10:15, she realized the futility of that, since the CIA was going to confiscate it shortly. She turned to checking her email. At 10:24, she decided to go get some coffee. When she returned to her desk, she checked her watch again. 10:29. She decided it would be fun to smash her watch into tiny little pieces when everything was over.

At 10:35, she saw her father leave his office. He glanced at her briefly, gave her a miniscule nod, and then walked into Sloane's office.

Forty-two seconds later, 25 men with assault rifles burst through every conceivable entrance to the room.

"Hands in the air, now!" One shouted. "Put 'em behind your head. Nobody moves."

Sydney put her hands in the air and slowly placed them behind her head. She glanced at Dixon out of the corner of her eye, mentally pleading with him not to try anything heroic. Don't move, Dixon. You don't know it yet, but they're the good guys.

The assault team walked through the SD-6 offices, checking to see that everyone had complied with their orders. And they had. The strike had come too quickly for anyone to even think, much less put up a fight. The sound of handcuffs clinking and voices reciting the Miranda speech filled the room.

Sydney's concern then turned to her father. She glanced at Sloane's office, just in time to see Sloane, and then her father, led out with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Sloane's face was bright red with anger, but his eyes showed betrayal. He knew, Sydney saw. He knew her father was a mole. She pictured her father walking into the office, pulling his gun on Sloane, telling him not to move, not to set off the failsafe. Telling him the truth — that all these years Jack had been working against him, all the while pretending to be his friend.

This reverie was interrupted by a pair of soft hands at her wrists. She knew who it was without even looking, could smell the familiar spice of his aftershave. Vaughn squeezed her hands lightly before pulling her wrists down and loosely locking the handcuffs.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you choose to waive this right..."

She let his voice soothe her, bring her breathing back to normal, as she surveyed the flurry of activity in the room. Most of her co-workers' faces were filled with shock as they allowed themselves to be led out. She searched for Dixon and Marshall, but couldn't see them.

Vaughn stepped beside her and placed his hand on her arm. "Time to go." They passed Weiss on the way out, who had his arms full of empty evidence boxes, and a wink for Sydney. Vaughn led her out the front doors of Credit Dauphine, into a sunlight that seemed somehow brighter than it had in a long while.

"Damn it," Vaughn cursed. She looked around to see the cause of his anger, and saw that there were several television news vans already set up across the street. That was fast, she thought. He led her a short distance to a nondescript black government sedan and opened the rear door. Vaughn helped her in, placing his free hand on her head to keep her from bumping it on the door frame. He closed the door, walked around to the other side, and got into the driver's seat.

"I'll pass you the cuff key once we get past the little media circus here."