Julia Thorne slammed her way through the exit, adrenaline pumping. She cradled the strapped bag against her body, the Scatola di Pace tucked safely inside.
She saw their getaway car–black van, parked a few feet away and idling, tinted windows up. She ran up to it and the side door slid open. She tossed the bag into the car before jumping in herself. "Go!"
Nothing happened.
Her gaze flicked at the faces around her, and she froze. "Where the hell is Simon?" This was just great. Every second they stayed upped their chances of being discovered.
"He doubled back," Javier said. He was seated at a console, surrounded by monitors, equipment, and computers. He tapped one of his monitors. It showed Simon sprinting down the corridor she had just left.
Julia glanced through the car window at the service door she'd just come through, feeling antsy. "Well, get on comms and tell him to haul ass. I've got the item."
"Yeah, tried that," Javier said. At that moment, the GK&K alarms went off on Javier's console. He winced and quickly pulled the earpiece out of his ear, and Julia could hear the sirens blaring outside. In the driver's seat, Avery muttered a creative curse and reached for the gearshift. Javier said, "Don't worry, I've isolated the alarm."
"We don't have time for this!" Julia hissed.
"He's the boss," Javier said. Julia could tell Javier was almost as annoyed as she was, but he also wasn't about to let it show. As a general rule, he didn't like to agree with her.
Julia leaned over Javier's shoulder and followed Simon's progress on the screens. He finally emerged from the vault door. A moment later he hopped into the van, and Avery put it into gear.
"You're late, Babe," Julia said pointedly.
"It was worth it, Babe," Simon replied as Avery tooled them up to street level and out of the parking garage. They were a block away when Javier disconnected the surveillance equipment.
"There was a second burglar," Simon said in his London drawl, pitched to express amused incredulity. "What are the odds, right? I doubled back and trapped her in the vault. Perfect."
"Her?" Julia asked. "Could you tell if she had a team?"
Simon shrugged and glanced out the window as they drove. Snow topped trees sped by as Avery increased their speed. "Don't know. Doesn't really matter. I caught her, or rather, GK&K has caught her. It'll keep them busy while we scamper off."
Julia leaned back against the seat and gazed out the window for a time. The streetlights shone brightly against the sky, reflected on the snow-covered sidewalks and buildings. She willed herself to relax. Regroup. "What about the cops?
"No cops," Simon said. "GK&K would rather pay hush money to everyone involved than notify the authorities. It would be bad for business." Avery–their driver and additional muscle when needed–pulled into the airport. Javier hopped out of the van and slammed the sliding door. Without a word or glance behind, he marched into the departure terminal. Avery smoothly pulled back into traffic and wound his way across more bridges on their way to the ferry terminal.
Julia continued her line of questioning. "Did this intruder see you?"
Simon shook his head, but was thoughtful rather than certain. "She may have caught a glimpse. It was at a distance. She had a ski mask. Did you know she tried to shoot me?"
Julia snorted. "I'd try to shoot you, too, if I thought you'd fucked up my op."
"I didn't say I blamed her," Simon said with a grin. "I'd try to shoot me, too."
Julia smiled and looked Simon up and down. He was arrogant as hell, but at least he knew it. "I don't see any holes. Congratulations, you'll live to steal another day."
He grinned. "That's what it's all about, Babe." He leaned in for a searing kiss.
For a moment, Sydney Bristow reappeared. She wanted to stop the kiss and push Simon away. Get the slimy bastard out of her space. No. Julia. Julia wants him, she thought. Unbidden, an image of Vaughn flashed before her mind's eye. He looked hurt, betrayed.
Ruthlessly, Julia shoved Sydney back into her mental closet and slammed the door shut.
Sydney could not let her mask slip. Simon's amused affection concealed a ruthless and dangerous man. And if Simon didn't catch her mistakes, Javier certainly would. So she became the role, became Julia Thorne, professional thief and mercenary. Opportunistic, selfish, and ruthless. The more she believed her cover, the more others would, too. Julia was who she had to be.
She couldn't reclaim Sydney Bristow until Julia's mission was complete and Arvin Sloane was behind bars, or dead. Sydney didn't care which.
They pulled into the drop-off zone at the ferry terminal, and Avery bundled into a hunting jacket and pulled a watchcap over his close-cropped hair. He gave them a jaunty salute before striding to the docks. Simon took the wheel, and they began the drive to Grisslehamn.
"Javier still doesn't trust me," Julia said, breaking the silence. She absently studied her fingernails. The job had chipped the shiny topcoat of polish. She'd have to reapply it when she got to Rome.
"Javier doesn't trust anyone," Simon said. "It's one of his endearing qualities."
"It's less endearing if he stabs you in the back. He might, you know."
"You know, Babe, that almost sounds like you want me to trust you instead of him," Simon said conversationally.
"Trust is a liability. Javier's got that right, at least. I'd be surprised if you did trust me."
"You see, that's why we're the perfect couple," Simon said. "We understand each other."
"And the sex is great." She glanced at Simon's profile, barely visible in the dark interior in the van. "Come to Rome with me. It'll be fun."
It would also, coincidentally, be a good opportunity to observe Simon and keep track of the Scatola di Pace. And get closer to her current objective: identify Simon's client.
"You know I have to drop off this package. And get paid," Simon gently chided. "But it's too damn cold here. Rome sounds fantastic, how about next week?"
"You'll wire my money?" she asked. There were priorities, after all.
"I could deliver it personally," Simon suggested.
"Wire it. I might not be in Rome by the time you get there."
"Tease," Simon said.
"You know you like it," she shot back.
"Oh, Babe, I love it," he said.
Slime, Sydney whispered. Julia ignored her.
It was a clear, dark night, and the heater in the van worked overtime to keep the temperature tolerable. A couple of hours into the drive, they arrived at the ferry terminal in Grisslehamn.
Julia leaned into the car window, and Simon grabbed her coat lapel and pulled her in for a kiss, followed by a quick bite on the lips. "Remember," Julia said. "Hurry up if you want to see me in Rome. And make sure the client doesn't stiff us, ok?"
"It's all under control, Babe," Simon assured her. "You'll be happy with the take from this one. Be ready to do it all over again."
"You bet your ass I will."
Simon pulled away, heading exactly where, Sydney wasn't sure. She frowned and pulled up the collar on her down jacket, and strode purposefully to the departure hall. The ferry was a quick hop to Eckero, Finland, and from there, she'd make her way to her apartment in Rome.
It wasn't home, not by any stretch. Her home was gone. As was safety, and warmth, and friendship. And love.
But this was something she had to do. The only way to secure her future was to hide her past. The only way to protect those she loved–was to leave them.
She hoped Simon would call her with a new job. The sooner, the better.
Stockholm, Sweden
Norrmalm District
Den Mörka Sidan Nightclub
Irina pulled up the collar on her coat, meager protection against the bite of the wind on her face. Russian winters were harsher, but Stockholm had the disadvantage of being on the water. Thus, she found herself grimacing a bit as the moisture in the air soaked through her clothing and chilled her bones.
The airport had been a bust. She hadn't really thought to find Sydney there. It was an obvious getaway point. If it had been Irina, she would've taken the ferry out, or even left overland, rather than by boat. In spite of the inconvenience, she felt a rush of pride. Her daughter was good; Sydney's skills were top notch. Irina hoped they were enough to keep Sydney alive until they could find her.
Irina stayed at the airport long enough for the last flight to leave Stockholm and then texted Jack:
The restaurant is closed. I'm going shopping.
She was fairly certain their communications weren't being tracked, but you could never be too careful.
SAME. I WILL RETURN THE RENTAL.
Irina rolled her eyes at Jack's penchant for writing in all caps, and wove her way through the crowded, icy sidewalks to her destination. At the club entrance, she winked at the bouncer and pushed through the doors into another world.
Despite the chill outside, the room was stuffy from the heat of so many bodies packed into a small space. The heavy beat of techno music shook the floor beneath her. The walls sported glowing neon decorations: A red wave to her right, a blue wave to her left. Multicolored lasers flashed to the ceiling, and the club lighting pulsed red, blue, and then green. She made a beeline for the bar, where a burly, bearded man with a mohawk and sunglasses poured generous drinks and pocketed tips. Another, younger man (really a boy) stacked bottles on the glass shelves lining the wall behind the bar.
Irina loosened her coat and slid onto a stool at the end of the bar. Joakim has upgraded, she thought. The last time she'd been at the club, it had just opened, and smelled of newly painted brick and beer. He'd painted again, but this time the brick was a matte black, and lighting was at a premium. That was fine with Irina. It was unlikely that she'd be recognized here, but that didn't mean she could let down her guard. She scanned her fellow patrons. It was the typical crowd; barely-dressed twentysomethings looking for a good time. Irina shouted down along the bar: "Oppigårds." The young man looked up at her voice. He eagerly grabbed a bottle, intending to serve her. The man with the mohawk put two large hands on the boy's shoulders and steered him to another customer.
The owner took the bottle himself, and placed it in front of Irina, unopened. He grabbed a clean, chilled glass and set it beside the bottle. She twisted open the drink, and Joakim poured it for her, expertly managing the head until the bottle was empty and the froth bubbled neatly on top.
"Joakim. Du gör det bra," Irina said. He was doing well for himself. So well, in fact, she was beginning to be concerned that he wouldn't have the information she needed.
"Well enough," the man replied, continuing the conversation in Swedish. "Another year of this and I'll be able to retire."
"Entrepreneurship suits you."
"It always has." Joakim wiped down a glass and set it on a tray. "You don't make social calls, Anna. What do you want?"
Irina laughed. "Information." She slid a photo across the bar. Before they split up for their individual errands, she and Jack pored over as many frames of footage as they dared take time for. The result had been an unfortunately cropped, grainy image of the man who preceded her into the vault. Their only solid lead. "Have you seen him?"
Joakim picked up the photo, tilted up his mirrored sunglasses to reveal dark, keen eyes. "No. Too fancy for a place like this."
Irina rolled her eyes. "Not here."
A grin flashed through the man's beard. "Not at my other job, either." He stabbed a finger at the photo. "This guy looks like he's in 'procurement.'"
Irina raised an eyebrow.
"You know the type. Suit, white business cards. Maybe a white Mercedes, too. Comes up to you, says he's in procurement. Says he's a specialist." Joakim shrugged, and set another glass on the tray. His voice went down a notch, until she could barely hear it above the music. "Now, me–I know who I am. I'm a thief, plain and simple. Smash, grab, and go. None of this specialist bullshit. These guys like to pretend they're something better. But we both do the same thing."
Irina nodded, disappointed. She'd known her burglar–whoever he was–almost certainly ran in different circles than Joakim. That wasn't new information. She'd hoped for a lead, at the very least. She reached for the photo, intending to put it back in her pocket.
Joakim stopped her, his index finger preventing the photo from sliding away. "He steal something from you?"
"Yes," she replied. It wasn't a lie. Scatola di Pace would have been hers, had she not been so stupid. Being gassed and then rescued by Jack still stung her pride. Irina released the photo, and Joakim took it.
"I'll talk to some people, make some calls. Guys like me and guys like him don't usually cross paths, but everyone has a past. I'll see what I can find out." He flipped the photo over, and wrote Irina's burner phone number on the back.
While she gave him her contact information, Irina fingered the second photograph in her pocket, wondering if she should show it to Joakim. No. Joakim was smart. He'd see the resemblance. What she didn't know was if he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Irina finished her drink. "This is time sensitive."
"That will cost extra, Anna. There's not much to go on here."
"Of course," Irina conceded. Joakim wasn't bullshitting her. There was virtually nothing to go on. She thanked him for the drink and tossed several bills on the bar.
As she stepped out into the crisp air, irritation nipped at her heels. He would try, but she doubted he'd come up with a lead. She didn't relish the thought of Jack's response when she turned up empty-handed. She was on thin ice with him, Irina knew. Jack said he'd left the CIA, but she had no proof. Her continued freedom (if not her status among the living) depended on being useful. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets. Her stomach twisted. Being 'of use' to a man–Dear God, she thought she'd left that behind her long ago.
Her boots crunched in the snow, and as hoards of clueless twenty-somethings partied around her, Irina moved on to her next lead.
June 1986
Mexico City, Mexico
Organized crime, at its heart, was just a business. Even the Mafia had expenses to pay, deals to make, and meetings to hold. It was, Irina thought, all rather boring. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:32 p.m.
"You've done well, Irina. Since you've become head of security, our success rate has been, what? Fifty percent?"
Diego Perez, head of the Chilpancingo cartel, was leaning on his desk in front of her chair. Irina found the power move amusing. Without realizing it, the man was telegraphing just how insecure he really was. People with true power didn't play such games, they didn't need to. "Seventy-five percent." You condescending ass.
"Seventy-five," he agreed. "Taking down the Sandoval operation was particularly impressive. How did you do it?"
Disarm. Irina smiled. She emphasized her natural drawl. "You can't expect me to share all my secrets, can you? Otherwise, I wouldn't have a job." There. Sugar-sweet over steel.
For a moment, Perez looked as if he didn't buy it. His brows drew together in a frown. Irina leaned back in her chair and smiled again, her lips turning upwards in a tease. He blinked.
"Of course not. Your report was very thorough. I was merely wondering how you came up with the idea."
She shrugged, and gave him a small truth: "Money only buys loyalty for as long as it lasts. Real loyalty is blood. La familia. Sandoval believed that. Lucky for us, his grandson did not."
Perez laughed. "And now they are all gone.Torn apart from the inside. At this rate, we'll be taking on those Sinaloa cabrones in another year or so."
I doubt it, Irina thought.
"You know, I've been watching you these past two years–"
I bet you have.
"And you have a way with people. I'm planning on expanding our operation into Venezuela. I'd like you to head that branch."
"Sir, I'm a security officer."
"Oh, you're much more than that." He leaned forward and placed his hand on her knee. Irina glanced at the clock behind his head. 10:45. She reached up and toyed with her necklace.The simple amber pendant–and the shadowed dip beneath it–caught his eye. Like a moth to a flame.
"And the compensation?"
"Generous." Perez was so close to her that he was practically in her lap. He slid his hand from her knee up to her thigh. She fought the urge to vomit.
"How generous?" 10:55. Irina tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Perez named a figure that she barely heard.
"And that should be generous enough, even for you."
11:03.
The room went dark and sirens blared. Irina surged up from her chair and slammed her knee into his groin. He doubled over and she leapt forward, knife in hand. One swift stroke across his throat and he was dead before he could bleed out. Perez's body crumpled to the floor and she wiped her knife on his suit. "Thanks for the promotion."
Irina took a moment to slow her breathing and compose herself. Beyond the office door, she could hear people exclaiming in confusion. She opened the door and stepped out.
The emergency lights had kicked on, and the hallway was bathed in a red glow. Clusters of people stood by their office doors, voices raised in alarm. Irina caught a passing tech by the arm.
"What's going on?"
"Se fue la luz," he stuttered. "The backup generator came on, but–"
"Get to the point!" She snapped.
"The computers. There must have been a virus, or... or something." The kid stared at her, his eyes wide. "It's all gone. The bank accounts have been drained."
"No mames," Irina swore. "Call security. I'll see what I can do to get the system back up and running."
The tech nodded, and jogged back the way he had come. Irina wove her way through a crush of suits until she reached a stairwell. Someone called out to her, but she shook her head. "Breaker!" she called. Irina didn't wait to see if the man followed her.
She raced down the steps to the parking garage and pushed through the exit. A black van pulled up and the back door opened.
"Did you get it?" she asked as she slid into the car, and slammed the door shut. The driver stepped on the gas.
"Yes, Ma'am." He nodded to the brand new IBM laptop at his side. The text glowed blue in the night.
As she watched, the computer finished its download and gave a cheery little beep. Irina leaned back into the seat, a satisfied smile on her face.
