The Jigsaw Trail
by
Chris AndersonDisclaimer: Alias is the property of other people, including J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot productions.
Written for the Theatrical Muse 'confrontation' challenge.
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She is in her element.
Never phased, even with her back against the wall, she lives for her work. For this, and all the moments like it, she feels a passion like no other.
She likes a challenge. The gun is gone, kicked away, but she isn't much troubled by it. This has become close work anyway, and it was not her only weapon. She draws the knife and thrusts upward, and her attacker staggers back, cursing.
"Bitch!"
She laughs. Why must they always waste energy, breath, on such useless words? She knows what she is better than this creature ever will, and she will still be laughing when he has breathed his last.
She ducks a clumsy blow, stabs under it. He falls back, and does not rise again.
Irina nods to herself, counting seconds. She still has time; she'd planned for this as a contingency.
"You have another sixty seconds," says Jack's voice her earpiece.
"Thank you," she says, only a hint of sarcasm in her words. As if she would have lost track of the time.
It is good to be working with him again; if the circumstances were only different, she might even enjoy it. As it stands...
"Thank you," she says again, more softly, as she cleans her knife upon jacket of the man she had killed. "I'm on my way."
As she turns for the last staircase leading out into the sunlight, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye. Her hand lifts, flash of her blade in the light, and the guard falls before he has recovered from the sight of her.
Then she is running up the stairs, the computer disk, priceless, tucked into her jacket. The rushing sound of tires on gravel, as the truck comes to a stop. Jack throws the door open and she leaps in.
She slams her door shut and checks her watch. "Now," she says.
Alarms begin to wail, too late.
"Did you get it?" he asks.
Irina looks at him for a long moment. "Of course." She lifts the disk, smiles.
Jack nods. "Good."
They are pursued, but the chase hardly matters. They have what they came for, the next sign along the road they both hope will lead, someday, to the truth of their daughter's death.
He does not glance at her, but one hand slides from the wheel to grasp hers. With that silent touch they renew the promise; whatever it takes, they will find the answers. No matter the length of the search, no matter who or what may stand in their way, they will.
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