Alias
A Free Agent

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It's called Alias, not Ford Focus's Alias

Seconds later, Sloane's on the phone with the non-dead missus, telling her that he's waiting for some owner to counter or something. He's all, yeah, of course it has a garden, sweetie; I'm looking out the window at it right now! The only problem with this statement is that not only is there no garden in this warehouse where he's pacing, but there's also no window. Jesus. He's so evil that he's lying to his non-dead wife with nine fingers.

Sarkie just smirks at Sloane from the sofa and wants to know what happens when Auntie Em's ready to move into her Tuscan villa? Sloane's all, I purchased the bloody house six months ago. Don't you have anything better to do than lounge around and make pithy comments about my non-dead wife with nine fingers? Sarkie's all, well, yes, now that you mention it. I made contact with our point man, and he's got a team ready for the bank job. But, like, dude? I am NOT happy that you plan on leading the team yourself. Not the best move, daddy-o. "I'm approaching the finish line of a thirty-year odyssey," says Sloane, his face stony. "I won't let anyone else take the final step for me." Oooh. Scary. Stupid, but scary.

Oops Center. Kendall's Krew is assembled around a monitor, checking out the flight plan of the cargo plane. Guess where Sloane went? Yeah. Switzerland. Since he was recently demoted to Assistant Kendall Krew Lackey Number Five, Jack just states that Sloane might be in Switzerland for a reason, and he's not just passing through. Vaughn pipes up that he knows a dude at a place with a thing near that spot where he went one time and that, if Sloane needed mercs, he'd be contacting this guy tout suite. Kendall likes the sound of this and orders Vaughn to set up a meeting with the dude. "You two are on a plane," he finishes, walking off. Vaughn and Syd glance at each other as if to say, "Yeah, now we're gonna put in a little time on that whole 'mile high club' thing. Woo!"

Switzerland. Land Of Peace, Prosperity, And Pretty Little Villages That Look Like Walt Disney Built Them. Sloane's hanging out with some disguise dude, discussing his new look as a German multimillionaire or something. Yawn. At some bar across town, some shaggy-haired dude is enjoying a nice afternoon tea of scotch and smokes when Syd and Vaughn enter, all dressed in black. Vaughn, togged out in black leather and looking all sorts of fine, takes a seat at the bar. Shaggy's all, what's in the briefcase? Vaughn's all, five hundred thou, dude. Oh, and he says this in French. Did I mention that? Yeah. That thud you hear is my sorry hungover ass hitting the floor in a dead faint because when Michael Vartan speaks French, I lose control of my limbs.

Shaggy doesn't think that five hundred thou is enough moola to put together a team. Vaughn's all, well, good, because I'm not putting together a team. I need info. Shaggy's all, uh, I'm not an encyclopedia. Oh, and fuck off. Vaughn's all, yeah? Well, I'm not French mafia. I'm CIA. And I look hot in this leather jacket. He shows Shaggy a snapshot of Sloane and Sark and asks if he knows them. Shaggy's all, fuck your mother. Vaughn's all, oh, that is IT! Nobody tells me to fuck my mother! He slams Shaggy into the bar, breaking his nose, and splashes scotch all over his face. The big bald bartender moves as if to get a weapon, and Syd points her gun at him, shouting, "Hands!" Action Vaughn sparks a lighter and brings it close to Shaggy's face, demanding that he talk. Shaggy finally spills that Wife of Slater and Son of Slater are downstairs in that very building. Just in case we don't get it, though, Vaughn turns to Syd and goes, "They're here." Syd just looks like she's pointing the gun at Vaughn and not at Baldy the Bartender.

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Alias

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