SUMMARY:  Um... five things that never happened to Irina Derevko?  Spoilers through season two.

[Five Things That Never Happened to Irina Derevko]

DISCLAIMER:  The recognizable characters belong to Jabrams.

THANKS:  To Em, Lu, and Philateley for reading this repeatedly as I struggled with it.

A slow, deliberate brush of her palm and Irina Derevko's skirt lay smooth against her thigh.  She knew that every moment she was in this room, every movement she made was being watched, catalogued, judged.  Two years of weapons training and week-long simulations and intensive language lessons -- that was nothing compared to her determination to succeed.

No one spoke, and she accepted this as yet another test, standing several feet before the panel.  Protocol required her silence until spoken to; she breathed in a slow breath and stilled her muscles, letting a confident, unconcerned gaze slide from one man to the next, instinctively committing their distinctive traits to memory.

Esenin-Volpin on the left, his hair slightly unkempt, the telltale broken capillaries sprinkled across his nose testifying to his close acquaintance with the bottle.  He stared at her, barely disguised contempt on his face.  Ah, Irina thought.  Old-fashioned, this one.  Doesn't think women should be allowed in the service.  She held his gaze and dipped her chin slightly, a show of deference that she didn't feel.  But she would be what these men wanted her to be.

The man on the left, Laschkova, with jagged fingernails and near-constant shifting in his seat that spoke of a certain impatience.  Irina wondered at the source, but gave him the barest of smiles before turning her attention to the leader.

Dobrovolsky, his hands crossed calmly on the large table, was the only one in the room who could match Irina's ability to project calm disinterest.  He stared at her, bright blue eyes slightly narrowed as his gaze slipped down the curves of her body, subtly emphasized by the cut of her suit.

"Comrade Derevko," Dobrovolsky said after several long minutes passed.  "Good morning.  Please sit."  His tone gave nothing away; even his accent was nondescript.

She took her seat, legs crossed, and gazed at the three-man panel behind the intimidating oak table.  "Good morning, comrades," she replied smoothly.  Her summons had contained only information on the date and time of the meeting, but Irina knew she was being placed somewhere in country.  She knew she'd earned it, and she wanted the best assignment.

America.  Home of the international imperialists.

Dobrovolsky's gaze was on her again, studying her.  She welcomed it, welcomed the challenge.  He glanced to Laschkova, who ordered, "Demonstrate your English."

"I look forward to serving the mother country," she answered immediately, choosing to speak in an American dialect.  She'd proven quite proficient at languages, mastering French, Italian, and Swedish in addition to English.  Her Arabic wasn't as good, but she was nothing if not determined.

The three men exchanged a look.  "Good," said Dobrovolsky, his crisp uniform the trademark khaki and royal blue of the KGB.

"Thank you."  She'd spoken with a note a false modesty, almost unconsciously playing the woman they expected to see.  These men would determine where she'd be sent, and she wanted America so badly she could taste it.

America, where the lust for property and personal gain was draped in a cloak of false freedom and patriotism.  How she would relish seducing a CIA agent, manipulating an American spy.  How she would play on his arrogance -- and she knew he'd be arrogant.  Self-assured and self-righteous.

If she weren't such a talented actress, her disdain for the counterrevolutionaries would doom her mission from the start.  But even as she thought about bringing a CIA agent under her spell, her expression remained the same -- nearly unreadable, save a slight smile that drove certain kinds of men crazy.

Given the way Esenin-Volpin was glaring at her, he was one of those men.  "Monsieur Cuvee reports that you are good with tactical thinking and an excellent marksman.  There are important battles in the moat countries -- Czechoslovakia.  Romania.  Even Afghanistan is becoming a battleground," he said, with a derisive twist of his lips.  "Too bad you are a woman."

Irina said nothing, merely returned his disapproving gaze with a placid look.  She didn't think her observation about the second-class status of women in such countries would win her any favors with this man.  

Instead, she uncrossed her legs, shifting slightly in her seat before crossing them with slow, deliberate movements.  "Women," she answered, quietly amused by their uniform reaction, "have certain talents that men do not."  She smoothed her skirt once more, nothing overtly sexual in any of her actions.  Yet all three men were watching her more intently now.  More hungrily.

"They do indeed," said Dobrovolsky, glancing down at the dossier on the table before him.  "The Party requires you to put those talents to use."

Irina nodded, remembering her mother's resigned expression.  They were a family of survivors, of pragmatists, and while Irina had told her mother only that she would be attending the academy, she suspected her mother understood what that meant.  Her mother had sent Irina away with a quick hug and a present -- her grandmother's golden earrings.

"As you know, we've been sending comrades into various imperialist countries to infiltrate the intelligence communities.  Information on technological advances is valuable, but the Party also needs certain," Dobrovolsky paused, "sensitive information on high-placed individuals."

Blackmail.  Irina very nearly smiled.  "I understand."

"Our agents," Laschkova interjected, "have significant latitude in gathering this information.  You may choose to involve yourself, if that seems easiest, or you may otherwise ingratiate yourself into the life of your target."

Her target.  Hers.  They were sending her in.  It was harder to fight the smile this time, but Irina's control was already legendary among her classmates at the academy.  

Dobrovolsky tapped the open folder in front of him.  "Your assignment is to monitor the imperialists' attempts to propagandize against the Party.  We cannot afford another 'Prague Spring,'" he spat the words, the first real sign of emotion he'd seen.  "You are also to gather information that could be used as leverage if needed."

"Yes, Comrade," Irina answered.  She was surprised to find her heart beating quickly with excitement.  She'd expected this, she'd hoped for it, but the reality affected her more than she thought it would.  Imperialism had many faces, but the most ugly, the most brutally powerful was America.  

"After extensive research," Dobrovolsky explained, "we've selected targets in America, Britain, France, Italy, West Germany, and Canada."

"My German is rudimentary," Irina answered, "But I have mastered English, French and Italian."

"We know."  Dobrovolsky glanced again at the file.  "We're sending you in, Comrade Derevko.  Your target is patriotic, but unsentimental.  He has few friends and many drinking buddies.  We have assessed him to be independent, but lonely."

Irina asked, "Do you have a suggested approach?"

"Yes.  You are Laura Bennett, a newly hired literature professor at Oxford.  You will meet your target by chance on a knockabout weekend in London."

Irina blinked once.  London.  

Dobrovolsky closed the folder.  "Your target is currently in the British Army, deployed in Northern Ireland.  He is also a recent recruit to MI-5."  He held the dossier out to her.

Standing, Irina moved towards the panel of men.  Britain.  They were sending her to Britain.  She swallowed her disappointment.  "What is his name?"

"Harold Pearce."

She looked at Dobrovolsky.  "Thank you, comrade."  Irina's fingers closed around the folder, and she stared down at the name on the tab.  

Harold Pearce.  

***

Her trembling fingers skated across her flat abdomen.  There was no telltale bulge, no subtle changes to her body.  Not yet.

Still, Irina was drawn to the mirror.  Blinking back terror and wonder, she turned sideways, studying her belly, looking for anything that would betray her pregnancy.

Nothing.

Her body looked exactly the same, though her breasts were tender and her emotions very nearly out of control.  Control was something Irina needed to do her job, something she quite literally couldn't live without.

The first rule in her line of work was don't get emotionally involved.  Irina had been at the top of her class.  She'd been foolish and so sure that she would never fall for her target.

Three years with him, three years of watching as he let down his walls, let her see him, and she knew now that she was involved.  Because she'd locked herself in the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror, her shirt pulled up and her pants unbuttoned, looking for any sign of life, of the life they'd made together.

The phone call had been mercifully brief.  She'd used a false name, and the nurse on the other end congratulated Nancy Novobatzky, an excited housewife.  Irina stood, shaking, in the living room she shared with her husband and tried not to react.

It was an impossible task, because she was carrying a baby.

Jack's baby.

The thought was thrilling and painful, all at once, because she knew what came next.

There would be no look of shocked surprise on Jack's face, no smug male pride.  No baby showers, no tiny pink dresses, no small baseball gloves.  No chance to see Jack's fierce protectiveness of his little boy or girl.

No family pictures, no first day of school.

If circumstances were different...

But they weren't.  And wishing had no place in Irina's world.  She swallowed twice, willing herself not to cry.

There would be no baby.  

Only two options presented themselves -- betray her country, or betray the tiny life growing inside of her.  

Intellectually, Irina knew the choice was already made.  Even if she wanted this child, even if she confessed the truth to Jack, even if he forgave her -- the KGB would find her.

The KGB would find her child.

And that was what Irina had learned to call an unacceptable risk.

She knew that she had to move quickly.  Jack was on a business trip to Germany -- to contact his counterpart in the German intelligence service.  Irina's problem must be solved before he arrived home.

She studied her body for a few more moments, running her palm over her abdomen.  Then she dropped her shirt back into place, smoothing it down.  

Entering the kitchen, Irina plucked the grocery list from the refrigerator, ignoring the magnet that tumbled to the floor in her wake.  She drove in a fugue, muscle memory getting her to the grocery store.  

There was a small pay phone just inside the doors, and Irina shuddered as she dropped a dime into the slot.  She hoped the number the KGB had forced her memorize in the months before her departure for America was still good.

"Women's clinic," a harried voice answered.

Irina swallowed once.  She was surprised to hear the tremor in her voice when she said, "I need to make an appointment."

The voice on the other end of the line softened, just a little.  "What kind of appointment, ma'am?"

"I need--"  Irina blinked furiously.  Her accent had surfaced; she told herself to calm down.  "I need an abortion."

The woman from the clinic explained that Irina should arrive a half hour early, should eat normally and -- the rest of the instructions did not register with Irina.  She thanked the woman softly and hung up.

Irina didn't dare commit the appointment to paper.  She stood with one hand on the receiver and memorized it with little effort.  She trudged up and down the aisles, grabbing items at random before heading to the checkouts.  

A half hour later, she dropped the grocery bags on the floor of the kitchen and kept right on moving until she reached the bathroom.  Stripping, she purposefully avoided looking at herself in the mirror.

Instead, Irina locked herself in the shower and allowed the tears to come.

***

A brush of her palm over her hair to smooth any errant strands and Irina was ready.  She checked her reflection -- plain black skirt, silk shirt unbuttoned a little too far, and a vaguely guilty expression.  Yes, she looked the part of a nervous woman engaging in a cheap affair.

Keys, purse, jacket, and Irina left the house, hoping, as she did every day, that she wouldn't be extracted.  Sheer willpower kept her from lingering in the doorway to Sydney's room each time Irina left the house.  The thought of leaving her gregarious young daughter left her with a tight, hot ache in her chest.

She didn't like to think about it.

Instead she concentrated on her plan.  Her debriefs usually lasted a little over two hours, which was a bit long for a tawdry affair, but it was the best cover her handler, Dremluga, had come up with.  He was an unimaginative man, but in some ways, Irina preferred that.  It would never occur to Dremluga that Irina's cover was more real to her than her "real" life.

She climbed into her car and eased it out onto the road, following her usual route from the relatively decent neighborhood of Los Feliz down into Hollywood.  Dremluga was a man of routine, and he'd chosen the small, inexpensive hotel off of Highland nearly a year ago.  About halfway there, Irina noticed a light blue Chevy four cars back.

She slowed, taking the next left.  The Chevy drove past, still going south on Highland.  Frowning, Irina pulled into a small convenience store and parked.  She wandered the aisles for a few moments, choosing a few items to buy.  Once outside, she headed back toward the hotel.

Irina was hyper-cautious as she arrived, scanning every pedestrian and every car she passed for familiar faces.  Nothing tripped an alarm, but she still felt a free-floating unease.  Irina hated to act without actual evidence, especially when it could blow her cover, but she didn't last 10 years in the game without learning to trust her instincts.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Irina sauntered up to the front desk, using her small compact to check the corners of the lobby as she pretended to touch up her makeup.  Two men reading newspapers, and a woman standing casually near the door smoking and watching traffic.  

Irina didn't like it at all; this wasn't the kind of motel that people typically spent their leisure time in, but she forced herself to keep going.

"Hello," she greeted the clerk, letting an embarrassed flush break out over her cheeks.  "I'm meeting my husband, Kevin Drake."

The clerk nodded knowingly.  "Yes, Mrs. Drake, your husband has already arrived and left you this key.  Room 241."

Irina accepted the key, kept her gaze shyly downcast.  "Thank you."

It was chance that she glanced back at the clerk when she did.  She'd pressed the call button for the elevator, using the matte silver doors to keep tabs on the people in the lobby.  But she couldn't see the clerk, so she started to pace in a small, impatient circle, letting her gaze slide over to the check-in desk.  

The clerk was speaking into the phone, and as she watched, he threw a glance her way.  

"Damn," Irina muttered, willing the elevator to hurry.  The doors slid open and she stepped inside, a small, embarrassed smile still on her lips as she jabbed the button for the fifth floor.  

When the doors opened on the fifth floor, Irina bustled off the elevator, frowning down at the key in her hand as she proceeded quickly down the hallway.  She'd studied the hotel and knew all the exits.  She just wished L.A. was a proper city with connecting roofs to give her somewhere to run.  Instead, she had to climb down the fire escape and hope no one noticed.

The bright sunlight gave her pause when she stepped out onto the roof.  She squinted around, checking the corners, not wanting to wait a second to get away.  Dremluga would leave if she were more than ten minutes late; she only hoped he'd get away clean.

Seeing no one on the roof, Irina headed for the ladder leading down to the alley.  The metal was hot to the touch, but she gritted her teeth and swung her leg out over the edge of the roof.  Her skirt and heels slowed her down, making her movements awkward as she tried to hurry.  

The sound of running feet registered before Irina saw anyone, and she cursed herself for a fool.  Hazarding a glance down at the dirty pavement, she realized she was still too far up to jump safely.  Four rungs from the bottom of the ladder, a man in a dark suit rounded the corner, gun drawn and aimed at her.

"Freeze!" he shouted.  "Federal agent.  Stop right there."

Irina cursed, considering her options.  If they were after her, they knew she was KGB.  Any movement would give this agent license to kill her.  Would she prefer death to capture?  Years ago, she would have, but now...  

Now she had Sydney, and she wasn't sure she could bear not to see her tiny daughter grow up.  

With a small sigh of capitulation, Irina balanced herself carefully.  She slowly lifted her hands, letting her purse -- with her gun -- drop to the pavement below.  

"Okay," the agent yelled, moving closer.  "Nice and easy, now.  One step at a time, come down the ladder."

When she moved to comply, he lifted his wrist to his mouth, "I've got Derevko in the alley."

He was close, now, almost within reach, and he'd split his attention, taking one hand off of his gun.  Irina didn't even think, she simply acted, vaulting from the ladder directly at him, aiming a kick for his gun hand.

But he was better than she expected, and got a shot off.  It went wild, and Irina's momentum carried her to the ground.  Her heels threw her off balance, sending her sprawling, skidding across the rough pavement.  She rolled, regaining her feet and facing the agent as he brought his gun back up.

In desperation, she launched herself right at him, trying to get past the muzzle of his gun before he fired.

"Vaughn!" someone shouted a split second before the report of a gun.

Irina landed hard against the agent, knocking him to the ground with her.  They landed in a mockery of a lover's embrace, Irina lying across his chest.  She lifted her head, staring at him, a bit dazed.  

He looked young.  Younger than Jack.  Beautiful blue eyes, sandy blonde hair.  He stared back at her, his forehead wrinkling in shock at their proximity.  Up close, he looked a little bit panicked.

Irina started to feel it, then.  First, it was just the heated dampness of her own blood soaking into her shirt.  Then her abdomen started to burn with a strange fire.  She tasted copper.

He'd shot her.

Irina stared, dumbfounded, into the face of the man who'd shot her until the rest of the world swam back into focus.

Hands pulled at her, rolling her off of him, onto her back.  Voices shouted for an ambulance, for backup, for Jack.  Fingers tore at her shirt, pressed at her wound until she yelped.

Through it all, she stared up at this man who'd shot her, who'd killed her.  Irina reached up with her free hand and beckoned him closer.  With a tortured look in those brilliant blue eyes, he complied, dropping to his knees beside her.

Her gaze slid down to his shirt, soaked in her blood.  "Agent Vaughn."  Irina swallowed, searching for the words.  She wanted to apologize to Jack, to explain to Jack, but he wasn't there.  She needed to tell him in a way he'd understand.  

Irina licked her lips and whispered, "Tell Jack to take care of Sydney."

***

A brush of her fingers across his hand and she had his full attention.

Jack wasn't an effusive man, not even with their exuberant daughter, but Irina could read his intense gaze easily after a decade.  This particular look suggested curiosity without any suspicion.

That would come momentarily.

Irina glanced into the backseat, where Sydney chatted happily with her favorite doll.

"I think we've got a flat," Jack announced.

Irina nodded at Jack, projected her reassuring smile, and pulled a pen and paper from her purse.  In the relative privacy of their garage, she'd pretended to drop several apples from a torn grocery bag.  Kneeling to retrieve the fruit, she'd neatly punctured the back tire, starting a slow leak.  She didn't think their garage was wired, but she couldn't take the chance.

It had worked, though, because they were on the Pearblossom Highway, out in the deserted neverland between Los Angeles and Las Vegas.  And Jack was pulling the car over.

"I'll check it," Jack said, flipping the engine off.

Irina took a deep breath, then another.  She tore the top sheet of paper from the pad -- never leave traceable indentations -- and used her palm as a writing surface.  Very carefully, she wrote:

I know you're CIA.  Are you bugged?

Irina folded the paper into her palm and half-turned in her seat.  Sydney was still engrossed in conversation with her doll, her thin brown hair flopping down to cover one eye.  

"Sydney."

Sydney looked up and grinned at her mother.  "Why are we stopped?"

"Flat tire," Irina answered.  "Daddy's fixing it."  She stared at her daughter, drinking her in, knowing she might never see Sydney again.  "Be a good girl and wait here," Irina instructed, rolling down her window to allow some cool, desert air into the car.

She opened her door and stepped out onto the sandy shoulder, her fingers sliding over the reassuring lump of her gun.  The sun shone down mercilessly, and Irina paused, letting her eyes adjust.

Jack glanced at her around the edge of the open trunk lid.  "It is flat.  Must've run over something."

With a nod, Irina said, "I'll help."

His expression shifted, a tiny bit disconcerted now.  "There's no need."

Irina grabbed the tire iron and smiled.  "I'm already here."

After a moment, Jack shrugged, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck.  He hauled the spare tire out of the trunk and rolled it around the side of the car.  Irina knelt beside him, smelling asphalt and motor oil and his cologne.  She watched a beat up old truck lumber past, scanning the road in both directions to make sure they were alone.

When Jack had unbolted the flat from the car and laid it on the pavement, Irina took a steadying breath.  She opened her palm and held the note in his line of vision.

A tremor went through Jack's entire body, and then he was absolutely still, his gaze like liquid heat.

She didn't move, didn't breathe until he moved, turning on the balls of his feet to face her squarely.  

"I don't believe so," he said roughly.  "But I can't be sure."

Irina nodded.  "You need a better wrench."

Jack was standing all of a sudden, glaring down at her.  His gaze raked over her form with cold calculation.  Reaching down, he jerked her to her feet, pushing her around behind the car, then a few feet down the road.  Away from Sydney.

"Why do you have a gun?" he demanded.

Irina knew from his demeanor that she only had a matter of seconds before he'd have his Glock aimed at her.  "My name isn't Laura," she said.  "It's Irina."

Those expressive eyes of his widened, then turned to ice.  "You're KGB," he said, his gun out and aimed coolly at her head.

"Yes," she answered, and it was like a dam breaking inside of her.  The lie that always stood between them was gone, finally.

Jack didn't blink, didn't waver.  "Why break cover?"

"They're extracting me in three days."

His jaw tightened.  "Not if I kill you first."

"You wouldn't kill me in front of our daughter," Irina answered, keeping her tone soft, her posture unthreatening.

"Our daughter?" Jack repeated scornfully.

"Yes," Irina shot back.  "Our daughter.  And I won't leave her.  I won't leave you."

He glared at her, the lines of his face hard with anger.  "You were told to marry me.  You've been betraying me for ten years."

Irina held his gaze.  "Yes," she admitted, her tone even.  "I was told to marry you, and my wedding vows were a part of my assignment."  Jack flinched, and she fought the urge to reach for him.  He had such a tough exterior, but he felt things deeply.

"Now," she said instead, willing him to hear her, to believe her, "I understand them.  I mean them."

"I don't," Jack snapped.  "I fell in love with a woman named Laura Bennett, a construct.  I don't know who you are."

"Do you think me that good an actress, Jack?  You know me by a different name, but I haven't faked anything with you in years."

His expression of disdain was a physical blow.  "Do you really think I can believe anything you say ever again?"

"You have to trust me, Jack, when I tell you this:  whether I'm extracted or not, our daughter's life may be in danger."

That got his attention.  His grip on the gun tightened reflexively; lucky for Irina he was so well-trained that he'd left his finger on the trigger guard.  "May be?" Jack shot back, chancing a quick glance at the car.  Irina could hear Sydney singing to herself in the back seat.  "Of course she's in danger," Jack bit out.  "Your lies have placed her there."

"My lies," Irina laughed.  "Your cover is an airplane parts salesman!  And what makes you think the daughter of a CIA agent is any less a target than the daughter of a KGB agent?"

"You're right," Jack agreed, his tone vicious.  "Families of CIA agents are in constant danger because the KGB is ruthless enough to target wives and daughters--"

"And husbands," Irina added.

Jack ignored her.  "The CIA follows certain rules of engagement."

"My daughter would be safe," Irina answered, "if she were not also your daughter.  The KGB will want to recruit her.  Worse, they will test her with your Project Christmas."  Irina nodded at Jack's shock.  "Yes, I know about your work, Jack.  Indoctrinating children."

"It's an aptitude test, not indoctrination," Jack argued.

Irina waved an impatient hand.  "We're getting off the subject.  Sydney will be safer with both of us protecting her."

"Sydney," Jack returned, "will be safer when you're gone."  His thumb shifted, resting on the safety.  "Don't think I can't make it look like an accident, Laura."  His frown deepened, and he practically spat her name, "Irina."

"You won't kill me, Jack," Irina told him, and she knew she was right.  She knew him, and he was anything but hasty.  She was offering him information that might help him protect their daughter, and she knew he'd keep her alive long enough to get it.  Long enough for Irina to convince him to trust her.

"Oh, really," he answered with bitter sarcasm.  "Why not?"

"Deny it all you want, but you do love me."

"I love my daughter," Jack corrected.  "And I am prepared to protect her with deadly force."

"I am not a threat to my daughter," Irina said, letting anger bleed into her words.  "My employers are."

"A problem that can be easily solved by your incarceration."  Jack's icy gaze remained perfectly steady.  "Or untimely death."

"Think about what you're saying," Irina implored.  "If I die under suspicious circumstances, they'll think I was compromised.  To find out what, if anything, I divulged, they'll come after you.  If I wind up in CIA custody, they will go after Sydney as leverage against me.  All three of us disappearing is the only safe option."

He actually laughed at that, bitter and brutal.  "Do you honestly think that I would go anywhere with you?"

"Yes," she answered immediately.

"Why?"

"Because you know, Jack, what the KGB will do to me if they know I've turned."

Her words hung there, the ugliest truth of all, until he shook his head and said, "You haven't turned."

"Haven't I?" Irina laughed.  "I would be killed for telling you my name, Jack.  By doing so, I've handed you the power to destroy me."

He cocked his head to the side, but he was too stubborn to ask the question.

"You know what they do to disloyal officers," Irina explained, a trace of her accent slipping out as she spoke.  "You know what they would do to me if you told your contact at the KGB that I confessed my name."

He actually looked like he was considering it.

"All you would have to do," she continued, knowing he was starting to understand the larger picture, "is disappear for a few months after turning me in, and Sydney would probably be safe."

Jack's mouth tightened.  "Probably."

Irina shrugged.  "I'd be dead, Jack.  I can't protect her if you don't let me.  You have the power to destroy me, Jack, but I know."  She stepped closer, the barrel of his gun inches from her chest.  "I know the man I married.  I know you won't do it."

He shook his head again, but she could read the indecision in the furrow of his brow.  "You're wrong."

"I'm not," she said, willing him to believe her.  "I've turned.  I've told you everything you need to know to have me killed.  You understand the game, Jack.  Tell me what other possible move I could be making.  Tell me how this could possibly end well for me in any scenario other than the one I proposed."

He watched her, studied her, as he considered her words.  "Everything you've ever said to me is a lie," he pointed out.  "You may be lying now."

"If I were anyone but who I say I am," Irina countered, "how would I have gathered so much intelligence about your life as a CIA agent?"

"That proves only that you are an agent," Jack answered.  "Not that you are Irina--"

"Derevko," she interrupted, a hint of a smile touching her lips.  "My name is Irina Derevko."

Irina lifted her shirt, moving slowly, letting him track her motions.  Using two fingers, she slid the small handgun out of her waistband and offered it to him.  "A gesture of trust," she told him.

He accepted the gun, sliding it into his pocket.  "I don't trust you, Irina Derevko," Jack said viciously.

She nodded.  "I don't expect you to, not right away."  She indicated the deserted roadway.  "But you can't hold me at gunpoint all day.  Someone will come by sooner or later.  Sydney will grow impatient very soon."

"True," Jack allowed.  

"You must have several identities in place," Irina said, her tone urgent.  "Choose one that protects all three of us.  We must go, Jack.  Today."

"Go where?" he asked, and for the first time since she'd revealed herself, she saw a trace of the man she loved inside the agent.  He shifted the gun in his hand, aiming it down and away from her.

She tilted her head in the direction of the car.  "Somewhere the KGB won't ever find us."

He stared, hard, at her for short forever it took him to decide, those intense eyes burning with anger.  Irina didn't let herself move, didn't breathe.  

Finally, his jaw tightened and he tilted his head toward the car.  "Let's go."

***

A slow, reassuring brush of her fingertips over the detonator, and Irina shifted slightly in the driver's seat.  It was a late model Mercedes, black, with tinted windows.  Perfect for blending in with the rest of the social climbers in Los Angeles who lived above their means in this neighborhood.

Surveillance was not Irina's favorite thing; she preferred to delegate such tedious tasks.  She'd logged her fair share of hours smoking cigarettes and logging tape twenty years ago.  Tonight, however, was far too critical to leave in the hands of anyone else.

If things went as planned, her organization would gain an invaluable asset.  That was the way she'd explained things to Sark, anyway.  Her own motives were more personal, of course, but she pushed away emotions -- they would only get in the way.  Tonight more than ever, she needed to be calm and in control.

Tonight, the balance of power would shift decidedly against Arvin Sloane.

Irina was parked at the curb, six houses down from her target, with a pair of binoculars in her lap.  Sark had gotten in earlier in the day to lay the charges, and Irina had been there for three hours before the key player in this small drama had arrived home.  

Normally, Irina would move closer; perhaps make her way to the backyard through the small alleyway that ran behind the houses on this block.  But Sark had come through with audio surveillance inside the house, though he hadn't shared the details of his methodology.  She would have to debrief him later.  For now, all that mattered was that she didn't have to compromise the operation by moving closer.

She reached over to the small briefcase on the passenger seat and turned up the audio feed.  From the intell she'd managed to gather, things were going along about as well as she could've hoped.

There'd been an unexpected casualty that Irina would have to explain to her unhappy partner later, but that couldn't be helped.

Irina listened carefully as the two women talked, waiting.  Soon enough, it began.  Her hands clutched at the steering wheel as she listened, unable to bear not knowing precisely what was happening.  Sark had decided and Irina had agreed that trying for video would be an unnecessary risk.

Still, the sounds of combat weren't enough for Irina to know what was going on inside the house.  She regulated her breathing, telling herself to stay calm and ready.

Glancing to the passenger seat, Irina pulled the detonator closer.  Her timing would be critical, but she had to trust that her partner in this particular ruse would be able to pull off her part.

When Irina heard gunfire, she tensed, willing her partner to be the one holding the gun.  The echo of the shots faded, and Irina waited for the go sign.  

Nothing.

Irina frowned, checking her watch.  She'd give it sixty seconds before moving in.  She upped the volume on the audio and listened intently, but heard nothing.

After fifty-nine seconds, she flipped off the audio with a simple twist of her wrist, then closed the briefcase and latched it.  She slid her gun out from underneath the seat and opened the car door, slipping the gun into her pocket.  The safety was off and a bullet was chambered.

She adopted the brisk, casual walk of a Hollywood exec returning home after an excessively long day at the studio.  Only difference was, Irina had one hand in her pocket, her fingers wrapped lightly around the butt of the gun.  

Irina turned up the driveway of the house beside her target, slipping at the very last moment around the edge of the house and into the shadows.  She moved slowly, struggling to hear something that would tell her what was going on inside.  Pulling the gun out, she held it against her thigh as she reached the back of the house.

Irina led with her gun edging around the corner.  The patio was empty, but the furniture was toppled.  Irina moved closer to the door, noting the jagged edges around the frame.  

Then the body on the floor registered.  For an unending second, Irina stared uncomprehendingly at the woman splayed on the floor.

Allison.

It was Allison.

Three bullet wounds in her chest, but Irina kicked Allison's gun away from her body anyway, just in case.  

"Sydney?" Irina called softly, rounding the doorframe and entering the house.  Sydney was slumped against the opposite wall, eyes closed.

Irina kept half her attention on the door and crossed quickly to her daughter's side.  "Sydney," she murmured, using her free hand to check for injuries.  No gunshots, no obvious broken bones.  Letting out a breath, Irina leaned closer, squeezing her daughter's shoulder.  "Sydney."

Grumbling, Sydney started to come around.  Her eyelids fluttered, and then she looked up at Irina.  "Mom?"

Irina nodded.  "You're all right?"

Sydney frowned slightly as she began to move, pushing upright.  She glanced around her room.  "Yes.  Is she--?"

"She's dead.  We need to go."

Sydney gained her feet with the help of her mother, then slid her gun into the waistband of her pants.  She walked slowly toward the door in Irina's wake, stopping near Allison's body to look back into her apartment.

Irina paused on the patio.  "Sydney."

"Will's dead, mom."

Irina sighed.  "I know.  I'm sorry.  We'll call someone to retrieve his body."

Her daughter turned a tear-streaked face Irina's way.  "He died because of me.  It's my fault."

"No, it isn't, Sydney.  It's Arvin Sloane's fault," Irina answered firmly.  It was true, but it was also the only thing that would break through Sydney's shock and force her to refocus on the larger goal.

Sydney nodded, turning to face her mother fully over the wreckage of her former life.  "Okay," she said, quiet but determined.  "I'm ready."

Irina smiled and reached for her daughter's hand.  "Let's go."

***

THE END

Feedback cherished: macha@healthyinterest.net

Note:  The KGB officials mentioned in this story are all named after Russian dissidents arrested by the KGB in the 1960s.  And, yes, Harold Pearce of Spooks/MI-5 made a brief appearance in this fic.