Disclaimer: These are not my characters.

Chapter One

May, Los Angeles

There was a time, twenty years earlier, when Jack Bristow thought his life couldn't possibly get any worse. His wife had just died, and he didn't know what he was supposed to do. Finding out his whole marriage had been a lie – that the woman he loved had never existed – the only way he could cope was to bury everything he'd felt for her.

As he pulled up outside his house, he realized he had been wrong. Life could – and had – become much worse.

Sydney.

He pictured her face before him; smiling, as she almost always was. Somehow, despite his failures as a father, she'd turned out perfect. But now she was dead, reduced to nothing more than ashes scattered on a breeze.

Jack felt that same hopelessness as when he'd been told his wife was dead.

He walked up the driveway slowly, reluctant to enter the house Sydney had grown up in. He should have sold it before now, he thought, but somehow he'd never been able to bring himself to do it. Even as he didn't want to face the ghosts of his memory, he knew now that he would never be able to sell it.

Once inside, he headed straight for the liquor cabinet. There was no one to tell him not to drink, and right now he needed the numbness alcohol would bring. There would be time tomorrow to start looking for the people responsible for Sydney's death. He couldn't think of that now, not today, not while he wore funeral black and had traces of ash on his hands.

The scotch burned down his throat, and he refilled the glass.

"You were supposed to protect her."

He turned, unsurprised to see Irina leaning against the door. What did surprise him was her appearance. Gone was the confident woman who'd smirked at him from inside her glass cage, gone was the woman who whispered promises she never intended to keep in Panama. In her place was someone else, someone as broken and as in pain as he was.

He took another sip of scotch, and told himself this was an act. She didn't care; she'd never cared. "You're one to talk."

There was a flash of anger in her eyes, before it was replaced by hurt. "Tell me it's not true. Tell me it's a plot, to bring me out of hiding."

"That would only work on the presumption that you gave a damn."

"Tell me she's not dead, Jack!"

He ignored the pain in her voice, ignored his own feeling of loss, and slowly crossed the room and took her hands in his. He squeezed them, released them, then wiped his hands on her chest, leaving faint flecks of grey. "That's all that's left of her."

Irina shook her head. Her mouth formed the word, "No," but there was no sound.

"So, no, Irina, this isn't to bring you out of hiding. Not everything is about you."

She slapped him, hard enough for him to stumble backwards. He realized then that he'd gone too far; it occurred to him that maybe her pain was real.

He didn't want to think that. He didn't want to believe in her, not again, not this time.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then she launched herself at him. He caught her by the wrists, and flung her aside. She stumbled, catching her hip on the table. She grabbed his glass and threw it at him. He ducked, and it shattered against the wall. She threw the bottle next; he wasn't so quick and it clipped his head as it sailed past.

He stuck out his leg, tripping her, and she fell, twisting midway so that she landed on her hands and knees instead of on her back. She swung out her leg and knocked him off balance; he tumbled down on top of her. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerked her head backwards, then suddenly released her.

"You're bleeding," he said.

She looked down at her hands, shards of glass embedded in the skin. She shrugged, then looked at him again. "So are you."

"Come with me."

He led the way to the master bedroom without stopping to see if she would follow. In the en suite bathroom, he took out a first aid kit from the cabinet and turned to face Irina. She wasn't there.

He found her standing in the middle of the bedroom, looking around the room they'd once shared. Her expression was unreadable, and Jack decided he didn't have the strength or the energy to figure out what she was thinking.

"Irina."

She blinked, looked at him, then walked past him into the bathroom. She was about to open the first aid kit when he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Let me."

He used a pair of tweezers to pull the glass from her palms, keeping his attention focused on her injury to avoid thinking of other things. Once her hands were free of glass, he dabbed a piece of cotton wool with antiseptic and began cleaning the cuts.

"I don't think you need stitches," he said. He looked up to find her smiling. "What?"

"It used to be the other way around. Now you're the one playing nursemaid to me."

Before he could respond, she took a fresh piece of cotton wool and gently cleaned the graze on his cheek.

He closed his eyes; this was too much. It was as if no time had passed at all, and they were still married, and at any moment Sydney was going to come knocking at the door demanding her goodnight kiss.

"Why are you here, Irina?" It came out less aggressive than he intended.

Her hand stilled, and it was a full minute before she spoke. "I had to make sure."

He didn't realize he'd slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her closer until they were standing chest to chest. "No one knows what really happened. She must have discovered Francie was the second double – Did you know?"

She shook her head. "Not until I was extracted. By then it was too late."

"You could have said something! Her best friend—"

"Jack." She put her fingers against his lips. "I'm going to find whoever did this. I'm going to kill them."

Jack studied her. When Sydney was growing up, he saw her mother in her features and sometimes it hurt to look at her. Now, looking at Irina, he could see Sydney in her, and it hurt just as much, but for different reasons.

"We're going to kill them," he said.

She nodded, then stepped out of his embrace. "I'll be in touch."