Fic: "Rules of Engagement" (Alias, S/V, 2/10)
"Rules of Engagement"
Chapter: Two
Summary: A mission to London changes Sydney's life drastically.
Category: Sydney/Vaughn drama/romance
Rating: PG-13
Canon: "The Box, Part Two"
Thanks: Thank you to Souris and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings.
I felt awful. I never, ever got sick, and on the day that I was completely stressed about Sydney's latest SD-6 mission, I came down with the mother of all colds. I sneezed, and I coughed, and I went through an entire box of Ludens before my lunch break. By three o'clock I was torn between passing out on my desk and pacing the halls, waiting for confirmation that Sydney had made it out okay. Much as I cared that Sydney made it home, passing out on my desk was winning when my assistant, Annie, knocked on my door.
"Vaughn?" she broached, stepping carefully into my office. I didn't acknowledge her; I continued staring at the window, fingers steepled together in front of my face. She had to walk around and stand directly in front of me to get my attention. "Michael Vaughn, are you in there?"
I blinked furiously, coughing roughly. "Huh…what?"
She pursed her lips, obviously reluctant to continue. "Vaughn, the photos you asked for are coming back from London. I haven't seen them, but…"
I shot out of my chair like a rocket, immediately regretting it as I felt a dizzy head rush, snatching the file folder she held and opening it. On top of the stack of enlarged photos was a shot of a flame-engulfed SD-6 van. Oh, God…no… I could feel myself begin to breathe a little faster, my heart beating a little harder. I hadn't panicked like this since her near miss in Italy...only this time it didn't look like a near miss.
Annie was saying something again, but I couldn't unglue my eyes from the photo. "When did these come in?" I demanded, flipping through the photos rapidly. Street signs, pictures of buildings and parks…
"Weiss said that the first one came about an hour and a half ago," she said. "They've been coming in slowly since then. You were in that meeting with Devlin, I couldn't-"
"Thanks," I interrupted abruptly, snapping the file shut and storming out of the room.
I raced down the hall and into the darkened room where we kept our floor's surveillance equipment. "Weiss, what the hell is going on?" I asked, shoving the pictures in his face. I had to turn away, sneezing several times in rapid succession.
He held up a hand, watching a tech guy pull up a picture on the monitor in front of him. I recognized it as one of the park scenes from the photos. "She's sending in pictures from all over the city," he explained. "Well, she is, or someone is…"
I pulled out the picture of the blazing van once more, studying it carefully. "You think she was in the van?"
Haladki stormed into the room, looked at me, and shook his head. "I'm not sure that you should be here," he replied flatly.
"What are you talking about?" I returned indignantly, rolling my eyes. "I'm her handler. Who else is supposed to be here? You?"
"What are you going to do if she was in that van, huh?" he asked, turning to me and grabbing the photographs from my hand. "You're too emotional about this, Vaughn, and we all know it."
"The hell with that," I spat, tossing the empty file folder onto the desk in front of Weiss.
Weiss sighed and stood, putting a hand on my shoulder and steering me outside. "Normally, you know that I wouldn't do this, but maybe he's right."
"What?" I asked incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me..."
"No, listen," he continued. "You're sick as a dog, Vaughn. I've got him under control, and I can give Annie the pictures, and she can bring them to you."
"No," I replied firmly. "I'm fine. I need to know what's going on...I'll deal with him."
Weiss scrubbed his face with his fingertips. "Okay...here's the deal...I'll have Sarah call him and give him some paperwork. She loves me way more than she loves him."
I rolled my eyes; Weiss had had a crush on Haladki's pretty, blue-eyed assistant for months. "Thank you," I answered. "I owe you one."
"You owe me fifteen," he responded, quirking an eyebrow before picking up the nearest phone and dialing Sarah's desk.
"Listen to me," I began authoritatively as I stalked back into the room. "I want you to figure out what's going on, and then I want information on where she is." I could feel Haladki glaring at me, but I ignored him and stared blankly at the monitor, which was trained on a corner somewhere in London.
Sarah appeared in the doorway a few moments later and gave Haladki a message about some paperwork. I assumed Weiss had come up with some lame job to keep Haladki busy; he stood to take the message and started toward the exit. As he reached the door, however, a picture rapidly shot through the printer, and then another, and then another. I snatched them before Haladki had the chance, gaping as I scanned them. The first was a shot of Sydney's neat, loopy handwriting: "I'm okay." Then, "I'm in London." Then, "Vaughn, I don't know where I am."
"She's okay," I announced, bringing the photos over and handing them to Weiss. "She's sending messages."
He frowned at the photos. "Could be someone else, Vaughn," he pointed out.
"That's her handwriting," I argued. "And besides, how would anyone else know to ask for me? She's okay. She's lost."
"Have you figured anything out from the street signs?" Weiss asked the tech guy, who I now recognized as Tom, the new video expert.
"I've got it narrowed down to two areas," he explained. "She's moving around, so that makes it more difficult." He pulled out the photos, arranging them in order. "This one's nearer to Blythe House than the others…it's the first picture she sent. This one isn't too far from Victoria Station. She's heading east; she will probably end up at the Thames in a bit."
Another photo began to print on the machine, and Weiss stepped up to get it. "Can you train the camera approximately where you think she might be?" I asked, pulling up a chair.
"She's in the crowd for the Queen's birthday parade," Weiss called out, waving the latest photograph. "Buckingham Palace, Tom…"
"This is a long shot, and you all know it," Haladki argued, and Weiss shot him a look.
Tom punched in a few numbers, and a view of the thick crowd of tourists around Buckingham Palace popped up on the monitor. "Hell," I said under my breath. "How are we ever going to find her in that mess?"
"She's near the road," Weiss called. "I can see the Queen's carriage." Tom zoomed in the camera view accordingly.
"Come on," I murmured, grasping the edge of the table and trying to ignore the increasing pounding in my head. "Come on…"
He zoomed in one more time and, miraculously Sydney's confused face could be spotted in the corner of the screen. "She's there," I said, pointing furiously at the monitor. "That's her, right there."
"You're sure?" Tom asked skeptically.
I shot him a look, and he just nodded, focusing more clearly on her face. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail, and she was wearing a pair of false glasses. "Call Grant at the London office and have him send agents in to retrieve her," I ordered Haladki, grabbing a pile of her photographs and standing.
"You know him better than I do," Haladki argued. "You'd better call him and let him know…"
"I'm not supposed to be involved with this, remember?" I replied angrily. "Call him and tell them to take her to the safe house apartment closest to Buckingham Palace."
"Where are you going?" Weiss asked, still concentrating on the monitors.
I intercepted the latest picture to come off the printer, a shot of Sydney's pleading face, before walking through the doorway. "I'm going to London," I replied, rounding the corner sharply.
***
I bit savagely into the sandwich I'd bought from a deli in the middle of the airport; it wasn't very satisfying, but then, I wasn't very hungry. I tapped my foot anxiously, putting the sandwich down and grabbing the paper I'd brought with me. I always made a point of reading the newspaper, although I knew some of the advanced information that the media didn't. I kept reading them out of habit. Today, I was having an especially difficult time focusing. The words swam on the page.
She is in London, and she is obviously scared, and she's all alone. Thoughts of Sydney swam furiously through my mind. One of her best friends is most likely dead, burned in that horrible fire. There is someone out there who has killed Dixon and who would like to have Sydney out of the way, too.
"Flight 1237, bound for London Heathrow," a woman at the ticket counter announced over the loudspeaker. I looked up, my train of thought broken. "Boarding will begin for first-class passengers only."
I grabbed my briefcase and my small suitcase, tossing the sandwich in a nearby trash can and rolling the paper up. Getting in line, I grabbed my brand-new false passport and ID, studying them again quickly. Max, Weiss's buddy in the photo department, had whipped up a new ID for me - and a new one for Sydney, too - only ten minutes before I left the office. I was thankful that he had my CIA identification photo on hand, because in a newly taken photo I would have looked as bad as I felt.
I had the sudden urge to sneeze just as I stepped up to the ticket counter. The clerk winced at me, watching me sneeze powerfully, reaching into my pocket for a Kleenex. "It's going to be a long flight with that cold," she remarked, clicking her tongue at me.
Smiling at her, I pushed my ticket and my passport across the counter. "Do you need my driver's license?"
"No, we can do this with one ID," she said, focusing on her computer screen. "Nice name. My father's name is Ben, too."
"It's served me well," I remarked. And it had, for the last hour or so.
"Well, Ben Davidson, I think this should do it," she said, stapling my tickets together and handing me my blue passport. She shot me a flirtatious smile. "Hope you make it okay."
I gave her a reluctant grin. "Thanks…me, too."
I hefted my bag onto my shoulder, shoving the documents into the pocket of my bag. The line to board was relatively short; I handed my ticket in, and I was ushered quickly into the first-class section.
First-class is so much nicer than coach is. I'd flown this particular route more than a few times crammed into a coach seat. After my father died my mother and I would make twice yearly trips to France to see my grandparents. I had a ritual to make the flight go more quickly; watch the in-flight movie for an hour, read a book for an hour, watch the in-flight movie for another hour, then take a Dramamine and pass out on my mother's shoulder for the duration.
This time I could work, I supposed. I had brought a book, but my head was so cloudy that I wasn't sure I would be able to concentrate on it. I was almost too paranoid to sleep on this flight.
"Hi," I heard from beside me, and looked up to see an elderly man grinning at me. "I suppose we'll be enjoying each other's company for a few hours, eh?"
I hated having to get to know people on a plane. "I guess so."
"You're young to be able to afford this kind of seat," he remarked in his crotchety old-man way. "At your age, I would have been riding in the cargo hold, I think."
"My company pays for the seats," I said affably. "I'd probably be flying coach without them."
"You're lucky," he replied. "I'm James. And who might you be?"
"Ben," I answered without hesitation. "Flying across for a meeting?"
He shook his head. "Visiting my new granddaughter. My son married a British girl. I've only seen him twice since." He chuckled.
"Must be exciting," I remarked mildly, rummaging in my seat pocket for the promised pair of headphones. They'd probably have the in-flight movie in a couple of different languages; I could listen to it in French. I always feared that mine was getting rusty, since I didn't get to see my mom as often as I'd like. Over the last year Alice had been with me on most of my visits to Mom's house, and we had spoken English for her sake.
James was saying something again, and I had completely missed it. "Sorry?" I asked.
He shook his head amiably. "I asked if you had any children."
"No, no," I said. "I'm not married."
"Oh…?" he murmured, trailing off.
I felt like rolling my eyes. "I'm meeting my girlfriend in London," I explained, mentally thwacking myself in the head. I wondered what Sydney's reaction to that statement would be. Then I wondered why I had immediately assigned Sydney to that role.
"If she's a good one, I'd get her a ring right away," he advised, leaning back in his seat. "Joe - that's my son - Joe says that it's hard to find a good woman today."
"I think that it's sometimes difficult to find the right woman," I amended, sneezing suddenly. I sneezed three more times in rapid succession, fumbling for my handkerchief.
"Sounds like a nasty cold. So, is this girlfriend the right woman?" James pressed. Apparently the guy was hell-bent on being some sort of professional airborne relationship counselor.
"I don't know," I replied honestly, blowing my nose. "We haven't been together all that long."
"Oh, come on," he urged. "When you know, you know. You love her?"
I was silent.
"You ought to tell her," he counseled. "Women like to hear that."
"I think it's too soon to know if I love her," I replied. "Our situation is…complicated."
He waved a hand in the air, as if magically erasing the problems. "Complications shouldn't matter. Tell her that you love her…you'll see what happens."
Perhaps a punch in the face, I mused, sniffing. I felt the cold medicine I had taken finally kicking in, and I relaxed back in my seat.
Did I love her? It didn't matter, I decided. I couldn't. We couldn't. It would be the biggest mistake we'd ever make, I was sure of it.
***
I slept through the entire flight; so much for paranoia. My eyes felt gritty when James pushed my shoulder, telling me that we were landing. My feet felt like bricks, solid and heavy. I wearily gathered up my bags and tickets, quickly filling out the customs form for a flight attendant and disembarking.
It was cool and quiet in London. Clouds shrouded the evening sunlight, and I had to rub my eyes vigorously to see clearly in the dim light. I went through the airport quickly and efficiently, using my false name and passport. I was supposed to take a cab to the CIA safe house closest to Buckingham Palace to meet Sydney.
I wondered where she was; I wondered what she was feeling. After the shock of her mother's betrayal, I had listened to her speak more and more about Dixon. She considered him a surrogate father. Another family member taken away from her suddenly. She must be a mess.
My cell phone rang unexpectedly as I walked through the terminal. I unearthed it from the bottom of my briefcase, opening it and answering with a generic "hello?" instead of my usual greeting.
"Agent Vaughn, there has been a change in plans," an unfamiliar voice explained without preamble.
"Who is this?" I demanded, my eyes automatically sweeping the surrounding area.
"This is Agent Reynolds from the London sector," he answered. "You'll meet your cab as planned, and you'll be taken to the safe house, but you will not be meeting Agent Bristow."
My heart stopped for a split second. "What are you talking about? Where's Grant?"
"There's been a change in plans with the rescue mission. We'll explain more when you arrive," he responded cryptically.
I couldn't keep anger from seeping into my voice. "You'll explain to me now," I demanded.
"Go find your cab," he replied. With that, the conversation was cut off, and I was left standing in the busy crowd of travelers, uncertain again.
Chapter: Two
Summary: A mission to London changes Sydney's life drastically.
Category: Sydney/Vaughn drama/romance
Rating: PG-13
Canon: "The Box, Part Two"
Thanks: Thank you to Souris and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings.
I felt awful. I never, ever got sick, and on the day that I was completely stressed about Sydney's latest SD-6 mission, I came down with the mother of all colds. I sneezed, and I coughed, and I went through an entire box of Ludens before my lunch break. By three o'clock I was torn between passing out on my desk and pacing the halls, waiting for confirmation that Sydney had made it out okay. Much as I cared that Sydney made it home, passing out on my desk was winning when my assistant, Annie, knocked on my door.
"Vaughn?" she broached, stepping carefully into my office. I didn't acknowledge her; I continued staring at the window, fingers steepled together in front of my face. She had to walk around and stand directly in front of me to get my attention. "Michael Vaughn, are you in there?"
I blinked furiously, coughing roughly. "Huh…what?"
She pursed her lips, obviously reluctant to continue. "Vaughn, the photos you asked for are coming back from London. I haven't seen them, but…"
I shot out of my chair like a rocket, immediately regretting it as I felt a dizzy head rush, snatching the file folder she held and opening it. On top of the stack of enlarged photos was a shot of a flame-engulfed SD-6 van. Oh, God…no… I could feel myself begin to breathe a little faster, my heart beating a little harder. I hadn't panicked like this since her near miss in Italy...only this time it didn't look like a near miss.
Annie was saying something again, but I couldn't unglue my eyes from the photo. "When did these come in?" I demanded, flipping through the photos rapidly. Street signs, pictures of buildings and parks…
"Weiss said that the first one came about an hour and a half ago," she said. "They've been coming in slowly since then. You were in that meeting with Devlin, I couldn't-"
"Thanks," I interrupted abruptly, snapping the file shut and storming out of the room.
I raced down the hall and into the darkened room where we kept our floor's surveillance equipment. "Weiss, what the hell is going on?" I asked, shoving the pictures in his face. I had to turn away, sneezing several times in rapid succession.
He held up a hand, watching a tech guy pull up a picture on the monitor in front of him. I recognized it as one of the park scenes from the photos. "She's sending in pictures from all over the city," he explained. "Well, she is, or someone is…"
I pulled out the picture of the blazing van once more, studying it carefully. "You think she was in the van?"
Haladki stormed into the room, looked at me, and shook his head. "I'm not sure that you should be here," he replied flatly.
"What are you talking about?" I returned indignantly, rolling my eyes. "I'm her handler. Who else is supposed to be here? You?"
"What are you going to do if she was in that van, huh?" he asked, turning to me and grabbing the photographs from my hand. "You're too emotional about this, Vaughn, and we all know it."
"The hell with that," I spat, tossing the empty file folder onto the desk in front of Weiss.
Weiss sighed and stood, putting a hand on my shoulder and steering me outside. "Normally, you know that I wouldn't do this, but maybe he's right."
"What?" I asked incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me..."
"No, listen," he continued. "You're sick as a dog, Vaughn. I've got him under control, and I can give Annie the pictures, and she can bring them to you."
"No," I replied firmly. "I'm fine. I need to know what's going on...I'll deal with him."
Weiss scrubbed his face with his fingertips. "Okay...here's the deal...I'll have Sarah call him and give him some paperwork. She loves me way more than she loves him."
I rolled my eyes; Weiss had had a crush on Haladki's pretty, blue-eyed assistant for months. "Thank you," I answered. "I owe you one."
"You owe me fifteen," he responded, quirking an eyebrow before picking up the nearest phone and dialing Sarah's desk.
"Listen to me," I began authoritatively as I stalked back into the room. "I want you to figure out what's going on, and then I want information on where she is." I could feel Haladki glaring at me, but I ignored him and stared blankly at the monitor, which was trained on a corner somewhere in London.
Sarah appeared in the doorway a few moments later and gave Haladki a message about some paperwork. I assumed Weiss had come up with some lame job to keep Haladki busy; he stood to take the message and started toward the exit. As he reached the door, however, a picture rapidly shot through the printer, and then another, and then another. I snatched them before Haladki had the chance, gaping as I scanned them. The first was a shot of Sydney's neat, loopy handwriting: "I'm okay." Then, "I'm in London." Then, "Vaughn, I don't know where I am."
"She's okay," I announced, bringing the photos over and handing them to Weiss. "She's sending messages."
He frowned at the photos. "Could be someone else, Vaughn," he pointed out.
"That's her handwriting," I argued. "And besides, how would anyone else know to ask for me? She's okay. She's lost."
"Have you figured anything out from the street signs?" Weiss asked the tech guy, who I now recognized as Tom, the new video expert.
"I've got it narrowed down to two areas," he explained. "She's moving around, so that makes it more difficult." He pulled out the photos, arranging them in order. "This one's nearer to Blythe House than the others…it's the first picture she sent. This one isn't too far from Victoria Station. She's heading east; she will probably end up at the Thames in a bit."
Another photo began to print on the machine, and Weiss stepped up to get it. "Can you train the camera approximately where you think she might be?" I asked, pulling up a chair.
"She's in the crowd for the Queen's birthday parade," Weiss called out, waving the latest photograph. "Buckingham Palace, Tom…"
"This is a long shot, and you all know it," Haladki argued, and Weiss shot him a look.
Tom punched in a few numbers, and a view of the thick crowd of tourists around Buckingham Palace popped up on the monitor. "Hell," I said under my breath. "How are we ever going to find her in that mess?"
"She's near the road," Weiss called. "I can see the Queen's carriage." Tom zoomed in the camera view accordingly.
"Come on," I murmured, grasping the edge of the table and trying to ignore the increasing pounding in my head. "Come on…"
He zoomed in one more time and, miraculously Sydney's confused face could be spotted in the corner of the screen. "She's there," I said, pointing furiously at the monitor. "That's her, right there."
"You're sure?" Tom asked skeptically.
I shot him a look, and he just nodded, focusing more clearly on her face. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail, and she was wearing a pair of false glasses. "Call Grant at the London office and have him send agents in to retrieve her," I ordered Haladki, grabbing a pile of her photographs and standing.
"You know him better than I do," Haladki argued. "You'd better call him and let him know…"
"I'm not supposed to be involved with this, remember?" I replied angrily. "Call him and tell them to take her to the safe house apartment closest to Buckingham Palace."
"Where are you going?" Weiss asked, still concentrating on the monitors.
I intercepted the latest picture to come off the printer, a shot of Sydney's pleading face, before walking through the doorway. "I'm going to London," I replied, rounding the corner sharply.
***
I bit savagely into the sandwich I'd bought from a deli in the middle of the airport; it wasn't very satisfying, but then, I wasn't very hungry. I tapped my foot anxiously, putting the sandwich down and grabbing the paper I'd brought with me. I always made a point of reading the newspaper, although I knew some of the advanced information that the media didn't. I kept reading them out of habit. Today, I was having an especially difficult time focusing. The words swam on the page.
She is in London, and she is obviously scared, and she's all alone. Thoughts of Sydney swam furiously through my mind. One of her best friends is most likely dead, burned in that horrible fire. There is someone out there who has killed Dixon and who would like to have Sydney out of the way, too.
"Flight 1237, bound for London Heathrow," a woman at the ticket counter announced over the loudspeaker. I looked up, my train of thought broken. "Boarding will begin for first-class passengers only."
I grabbed my briefcase and my small suitcase, tossing the sandwich in a nearby trash can and rolling the paper up. Getting in line, I grabbed my brand-new false passport and ID, studying them again quickly. Max, Weiss's buddy in the photo department, had whipped up a new ID for me - and a new one for Sydney, too - only ten minutes before I left the office. I was thankful that he had my CIA identification photo on hand, because in a newly taken photo I would have looked as bad as I felt.
I had the sudden urge to sneeze just as I stepped up to the ticket counter. The clerk winced at me, watching me sneeze powerfully, reaching into my pocket for a Kleenex. "It's going to be a long flight with that cold," she remarked, clicking her tongue at me.
Smiling at her, I pushed my ticket and my passport across the counter. "Do you need my driver's license?"
"No, we can do this with one ID," she said, focusing on her computer screen. "Nice name. My father's name is Ben, too."
"It's served me well," I remarked. And it had, for the last hour or so.
"Well, Ben Davidson, I think this should do it," she said, stapling my tickets together and handing me my blue passport. She shot me a flirtatious smile. "Hope you make it okay."
I gave her a reluctant grin. "Thanks…me, too."
I hefted my bag onto my shoulder, shoving the documents into the pocket of my bag. The line to board was relatively short; I handed my ticket in, and I was ushered quickly into the first-class section.
First-class is so much nicer than coach is. I'd flown this particular route more than a few times crammed into a coach seat. After my father died my mother and I would make twice yearly trips to France to see my grandparents. I had a ritual to make the flight go more quickly; watch the in-flight movie for an hour, read a book for an hour, watch the in-flight movie for another hour, then take a Dramamine and pass out on my mother's shoulder for the duration.
This time I could work, I supposed. I had brought a book, but my head was so cloudy that I wasn't sure I would be able to concentrate on it. I was almost too paranoid to sleep on this flight.
"Hi," I heard from beside me, and looked up to see an elderly man grinning at me. "I suppose we'll be enjoying each other's company for a few hours, eh?"
I hated having to get to know people on a plane. "I guess so."
"You're young to be able to afford this kind of seat," he remarked in his crotchety old-man way. "At your age, I would have been riding in the cargo hold, I think."
"My company pays for the seats," I said affably. "I'd probably be flying coach without them."
"You're lucky," he replied. "I'm James. And who might you be?"
"Ben," I answered without hesitation. "Flying across for a meeting?"
He shook his head. "Visiting my new granddaughter. My son married a British girl. I've only seen him twice since." He chuckled.
"Must be exciting," I remarked mildly, rummaging in my seat pocket for the promised pair of headphones. They'd probably have the in-flight movie in a couple of different languages; I could listen to it in French. I always feared that mine was getting rusty, since I didn't get to see my mom as often as I'd like. Over the last year Alice had been with me on most of my visits to Mom's house, and we had spoken English for her sake.
James was saying something again, and I had completely missed it. "Sorry?" I asked.
He shook his head amiably. "I asked if you had any children."
"No, no," I said. "I'm not married."
"Oh…?" he murmured, trailing off.
I felt like rolling my eyes. "I'm meeting my girlfriend in London," I explained, mentally thwacking myself in the head. I wondered what Sydney's reaction to that statement would be. Then I wondered why I had immediately assigned Sydney to that role.
"If she's a good one, I'd get her a ring right away," he advised, leaning back in his seat. "Joe - that's my son - Joe says that it's hard to find a good woman today."
"I think that it's sometimes difficult to find the right woman," I amended, sneezing suddenly. I sneezed three more times in rapid succession, fumbling for my handkerchief.
"Sounds like a nasty cold. So, is this girlfriend the right woman?" James pressed. Apparently the guy was hell-bent on being some sort of professional airborne relationship counselor.
"I don't know," I replied honestly, blowing my nose. "We haven't been together all that long."
"Oh, come on," he urged. "When you know, you know. You love her?"
I was silent.
"You ought to tell her," he counseled. "Women like to hear that."
"I think it's too soon to know if I love her," I replied. "Our situation is…complicated."
He waved a hand in the air, as if magically erasing the problems. "Complications shouldn't matter. Tell her that you love her…you'll see what happens."
Perhaps a punch in the face, I mused, sniffing. I felt the cold medicine I had taken finally kicking in, and I relaxed back in my seat.
Did I love her? It didn't matter, I decided. I couldn't. We couldn't. It would be the biggest mistake we'd ever make, I was sure of it.
***
I slept through the entire flight; so much for paranoia. My eyes felt gritty when James pushed my shoulder, telling me that we were landing. My feet felt like bricks, solid and heavy. I wearily gathered up my bags and tickets, quickly filling out the customs form for a flight attendant and disembarking.
It was cool and quiet in London. Clouds shrouded the evening sunlight, and I had to rub my eyes vigorously to see clearly in the dim light. I went through the airport quickly and efficiently, using my false name and passport. I was supposed to take a cab to the CIA safe house closest to Buckingham Palace to meet Sydney.
I wondered where she was; I wondered what she was feeling. After the shock of her mother's betrayal, I had listened to her speak more and more about Dixon. She considered him a surrogate father. Another family member taken away from her suddenly. She must be a mess.
My cell phone rang unexpectedly as I walked through the terminal. I unearthed it from the bottom of my briefcase, opening it and answering with a generic "hello?" instead of my usual greeting.
"Agent Vaughn, there has been a change in plans," an unfamiliar voice explained without preamble.
"Who is this?" I demanded, my eyes automatically sweeping the surrounding area.
"This is Agent Reynolds from the London sector," he answered. "You'll meet your cab as planned, and you'll be taken to the safe house, but you will not be meeting Agent Bristow."
My heart stopped for a split second. "What are you talking about? Where's Grant?"
"There's been a change in plans with the rescue mission. We'll explain more when you arrive," he responded cryptically.
I couldn't keep anger from seeping into my voice. "You'll explain to me now," I demanded.
"Go find your cab," he replied. With that, the conversation was cut off, and I was left standing in the busy crowd of travelers, uncertain again.