"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

—The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

Chapter 1 — Contingencies

There are three ways that it ends.

There is her, in an alley, in a parking garage, in her bathtub. Single gunshot wound to the forehead. Autopsies and photographs and a case file stamped closed after they lower her casket into the ground.

There is the end of SD-6, a smile he's never seen from her. Freedom and possibilities, and he'll push past the nerves and the new tension between them. Remind her that he owes her dinner, and they'll go to the little restaurant three blocks from his place. The eggplant parmesan here is amazing, Sydney. They'll work through a bottle of red zinfandel and revel in the fact that the future is finally wide open. You're amazing, Sydney.

There is the meticulous planning, extraction contingencies. Maps that record the distances. Nearest safehouse to Credit Dauphine. Her school. Her house. An urgency, created by the threat of the first way, the men with guns searching for her. The casket, after she leaves, without the gunshot wounds, the pictures and the death. Plans, laid into place when she was activated, ready to be set into motion with a phone call.

He gets that phone call today.

"Bristow's been made," and he does not need clarification as to which one. His Bristow. Sydney. Certainly the possibility exists for Jack, and there are plans for him as well. But he only worries about Sydney, harsh and real and now, years of fears pummeling his mind as his stomach lurches and tension takes his body.

"Do we have a location on her?" Short and blunt, his response determined by protocol, procedure. Mapped out years ago with the hope that it would not end this way. The knowledge that it probably would, that this was preferable to her dead, that the little restaurant was never really going to happen. Someday, there would be the phone call. Someday there is this and fuck fuck fuck she needs you to focus. He does, and realizes he knows the answer to his own question.

"Wait, LAX. She's on her way back from Singapore. We've got the flight number somewhere."

"I'm on it," his caller says, and hangs up.

He knows what to do, now. Go to her, find her, guide her, until she is somewhere they can't lay a red dot on her. Her flight arrives at 1:30 — he's got 20 minutes and it's a half-hour drive. Close enough.

Car keys and wallet, snatched quickly off his kitchen counter, and he forgets to lock the door on the way out.

———

He is all business by the time he arrives, 20 minutes of deep breaths through the car ride here. Thirty miles over the speed limit, but it is Saturday, and no one seemed to notice. Discreet with his credentials, through several gates, into the concourse, and somehow he is early. Or her flight is late.

Ten minutes late, according to the display above her gate. He leans against the wall in front of the gate, close enough that he will see her clearly when the passengers exit. Ten careful minutes of watching anywhere but the doors to the long hallway that leads into the airplane. He listens, instead, until the first set of suitcase wheels clunks over the small strip of metal between the hallway and the waiting area. Then he picks up his cell phone, number one on speed dial. SD-6 always pays for first class, and she will be among the first off of the plane.

A young executive and an elderly couple first, neither in a big hurry, and they frustrate him. But there, now, Sydney. Alive. Laughing at something Dixon has said, head tilted back slightly, happy smile on her face. He catches this image of her, pulls it in — wants to have it, hold it, because regardless of what happens next, she will be gone from his life soon.

"I have a 20 on Mountaineer," he murmurs into his hastily applied microphone.

She responds, finally, to the ringing of her cell phone. Digs through her purse, pulls it out, thumb down on the send button. "Hello?"

"We're pulling you," he says. "SD-6 has a hit out on you. Find a way to get away from Dixon — we have to get you out of here."

It is on her face, mostly in her eyes, but only briefly. He sees it — sees her stomach drop like his did and her pulse jump and the sudden realization that this is the end of life as she knows it. Dixon does not, and then it is gone. She turns toward him, and Vaughn can hear some of the conversation, despite the bustling concourse. Something about Will and duty-free tequila. She'll grab a taxi later.

Dixon nods, walks away. She waits until he disappears around a distant corner, and then turns to Vaughn. Full panic on her face now.

"Do what you said you were going to do. I'm right behind you." He tries to keep his voice reassuring, but fears his face looks just as alarmed.

She turns now, begins walking, but he forces himself to wait. Hold. Hold. Hold. And now. He starts after her, 25 feet of people and suitcases and strollers between them. Don't lose her. Can't lose her. Can't fail her now.

"Vaughn, what the hell is going on?"

A large man cuts in front of him before he can answer, carry-on flapping behind him, blocking Vaughn's view of her for a few seconds. Lost her. Lost her oh god lost her. But the man passes, and she is still there, a few feet from a corner.

"Syd, I don't know. I just got the call."

She turns the corner. He walks briskly, relaying the gate numbers he passes through his comm link. On the other end, agents in a surveillance van are checking them against maps of the airport. Trying to come up with a plan on the fly.

He reaches the corner — finally — and turns into a large hallway, sided by more gates. There, at the end, the duty-free shop, and he can't see her, but she must be inside.

Five minutes, says the voice in his ear, the plan detailed specifically.

"Syd?"

"I'm in the shop." Voice soft and a little shaky over the phone.

"We need five minutes." How many brands of tequila are in there, he wonders. How long can she stall? How long can she look at liquor and cigars and fine chocolates without wanting to sprint out of the place and run for her life?

"Okay."

He looks around for a way to pass the next five minutes inconspicuously. There, on the wall, a bank of monitors — arrivals and departures. He walks over and pretends to study it.

———

She emerges five minutes and 23 seconds later, her purchase in a plastic blue bag, brown paper somewhere beneath that. Her hand makes a tight fist, clutched around the neck of the bottle.

He presses the phone closer to his ear. "There's a women's restroom to your right, Syd. Do you see it?"

"Yes."

"Right side, third stall from the end. There's a change of clothes in there." And somewhere inside, the female agent that placed the clothing, there to back her up. But he does not tell her this. "Leave everything but your cell, and come back out when you're ready."

She disappears into the restroom and he waits, again.

———

Four minutes, three seconds this time. She is dressed now as part of the custodial staff, baggy blue coverall uniform and her hair tucked under a baseball cap. Will's tequila is gone.

"Syd?"

"I hear you."

"Turn left. Twenty feet down there's a door, marked 'Staff Only.' Go inside and wait for me."

She works her way through the crowd and then the door, and he relaxes slightly as she slips inside. You're still not home safe. He starts to follow her, head pointed toward the door, eyes sweeping the place. They halt on a familiar face. Dixon is back, flanked by two men in dark suits, presumably searching for Sydney. He increases his pace toward the door — not dressed properly to be going through it, but he will anyway. Agent training, day three. The authoritative air. Act like you're supposed to be going wherever you're not supposed to be going.

Relief, when his hand is on the knob and Dixon and the suits are still halfway down the hallway, scanning the crowd for a woman who is about to be long gone. Door open, now, and she stands to the side, hands balled into fists and ready.

Her hands relax, drop to her sides. "Vaughn, what the hell is going on?"

"We don't have time," he tells her, reaching out, locking his hand around her arm. "Come on. We've got to move."

The hallway here is long, clean carpeted floor, offices and vending machines at regular intervals. They walk, swift, but not fast enough to arouse suspicion. Left at the corner, says the voice in his ear, and they obey, through a large metal door. Another hallway, but this one smells of oil and heavy machinery, the floor smooth concrete now. Right. Right. Left. Right, into some sort of loading and unloading zone — trucks, crates and ramps. Bay three, says the voice, but he can see it. A smaller truck than the rest here, the driver and the man holding the back door familiar.

They could sprint now, he thinks, but avoids the desire. Wonders if she does the same. They make it, even at the swift walk, and everything loosens inside him when she disappears past the doors, into the back of the truck.

"Phoenix," says the man standing at the door. Agent Preston, he thinks. "You going?"

He hadn't realized it was an option. Now that it is, he needs no time to make the decision. "Yes."