
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10685208.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Alex_Rider_-_Anthony_Horowitz
  Relationship:
      Yassen_Gregorovich/Alex_Rider
  Character:
      Alex_Rider, Yassen_Gregorovich
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-20 Words: 22784
****** Isle de la Picaterre ******
by Hijja
Summary
     "You see, for once, this isn't about you, Alex Rider. You haven't
     been brought here because you've been a thorn in Scorpia's side. You
     have been brought here simply to die."
Notes
     Written for Hpstrangelove in 2011's Spyfest.
     _____________________________________________________________________________________________
The tiny island twelve miles south-west of Jersey, the largest of the Channel
Islands, was called Isle de la Picaterre. Before the English Civil War, it had
been turned into a sea fortress that occupied the entire island. A few
untameable cliffs, a landing jetty and one piece of white, sandy beach aside,
the stone walls of the fort seemed to rise up out of the sea itself.
Fort Picaterre advertised itself as a weekend retreat for company outings and
group holidays. It was booked out for years in advance. In fact, none of the
recreation officers or personnel secretaries who'd called to book a holiday on
Picaterre had ever succeeded.
This was because the Isle de la Picaterre belonged to Scorpia, and Scorpia
wasn't keen on visitors. Founded in the late 1990s by rouge members of secret
services unhappy with the post-cold war world, Scorpia had decided to put its
skills at the disposal of the highest bidder. Sabotage. Corruption.
Intelligence. Assassination: those were the main fields of operation from which
the crime syndicate took its name. If they weren't spoken of in the same
sentence with the Mafia, Yakuza or Triads, it was because compared to Scorpia,
these were strictly small fry.
Fort Picaterre was one of their several bases. Not a training centre like
Malagosto in the Adriatic Sea outside Venice, but a retreat and meeting place.
Malagosto was where Scorpia trained its assassins; on Picaterre, it met its
customers and occasionally hosted the planning conferences of its Executive
Board.
The man who stood in the main conference room of Fort Picaterre was called
Arsène de St Helier, but most only knew him as the Accountant. He had come to
Scorpia in the early 1990s from the Direction Générale de la Sécurité
Extérieure, the French Secret Service.
The St Heliers had served France's army and secret services for generations.
Indeed, there had been a General de St Helier who'd fought for Napoleon in
Spain. As a young man fresh from national service and university, Arsène de St
Helier had followed the example of his father – a fighter pilot in the Free
French Forces during the Second World War and later colonel in the French Air
Force – and his grandfather, serving the Deuxième Bureau in the First War.
Starting out in the Secret Service, he had made a quick career in counter-
espionage. Rumours claimed that he'd turned more enemy agents in his few years
at the top of the counter-espionage department than any of his predecessors.
After the Cold War ended, he'd been promoted to lead the Financial Crimes
Department, and he'd brought with him in-depth knowledge of money laundering,
and the international banking system when he defected to join Scorpia. Now, the
Accountant was balancing the books for Scorpia, and made sure that the
considerable sums of money coming into the organisation were profitably
invested.
From there, St Helier had gone to found ASH Connexa, an investment consultancy
firm that quickly rose to the top of the business. St Helier was an expert with
money, and an inside knowledge into the semi-legal activities of his wealthier
clients gave him complete freedom. He knew about high-risk investments in the
British and American housing bubble and avoided them. He knew who traded in
toxic assets and exploited them. Tipped off by informers, he repositioned both
ASH Connexa's and Scorpia's shares and made a killing from the serial collapse
of banks. In one or two cases, he had an active hand in a crash and reaped
millions in short trading. Unlike many of his colleagues at Scorpia, he
excelled at pulling strings and trading information in the background and left
the crude necessities of violence to others.
Now, the Accountant, in a sharp Armani suit and thin-rimmed L'Evenre glasses,
stood in the main meeting room of Fort Picaterre. He was a slender man of
medium height, with dark brown hair and cool grey eyes. The fashionable eye
frames were just an affectation.
The entire front wall of the room was taken up by a window, allowing a
panoramic view of the sea. The morning tide was coming in, whipping up spray
against the walls of the castle, encroaching ever higher.
Gulls danced on the wind over the cliffs, and occasionally a particularly large
specimen exploded in a puff of feathers and blood when they were unlucky enough
to trigger the defence canons of the castle. There were two automatic double-
barrelled Hephaestus M2 Autocannons installed on opposing towers. A close-
meshed web of radar controls enveloped the island and half a mile of
surrounding sea. Any unauthorised boat or helicopter would be cut to pieces by
a hail of bullets. Scorpia valued its privacy.
The Accountant was watching the view with his hands folded behind his back.
Behind him, right inside the leather-padded entrance door, a second man was
waiting. He had close-cropped blond hair and the body of a dancer, wearing
black slacks and a white shirt under a brown leather jacket. His name was
Yassen Gregorovich, and until recently, he'd been Scorpia's top assassin. Then,
things had happened.
The Accountant turned.
"Yassen. Rumours of your demise were quite exaggerated, I gather," he said
softly in French. "It's good to see you alive, although I wish it could be
under less serious circumstances."
"How serious?" Gregorovich asked, dispensing with any formalities.
"Your reliability has been called into question," the Accountant said. "As has
your loyalty to Scorpia. Of course it didn't help that your last mission ended
in an utter shambles and you went underground rather than returning to us
immediately."
"I had been shot in the chest," the assassin commented, "and detained by MI6,
who were quite eager to interview me. It took a little more time than usual to
escape."
"But you did," the Accountant stated. "You were free for several weeks, and yet
you did not report back. And you're a hard man to find, Yassen. We heard of
your escape from a mole within MI6 immediately after it happened. They managed
to keep your capture quiet after the Damian Cray affair, but really freaked
when you got away."
"Klaus is quite skilled at tracking," Yassen admitted. "Though I expected Nile
to find me first."
The Accountant went quiet for a moment. "Nile is dead," he said at last.
The Russian's eyes widened. "How?" The Frenchman searched for an emotion beyond
mere surprise in the assassins face, but came up empty. Nile had been
Gregorovich's best student.
"Alex Rider killed him."
If Gregorovich was surprised, he didn't show it. "I couldn't help thinking that
someone within Scorpia had given Damian Cray the impression that it would be
permissible to shoot me." His eyes hardened in a way that would have silenced
most men. The Accountant didn't even blink.
"I don’t' think anyone was thinking he'd be able to shoot you," the Accountant
pointed out. Then his voice softened. "Cray was certainly not one of the
world's most rational souls, even if he wrote some good tunes. Still, he
shouldn't have been able to get a draw on you. What went wrong out there,
Yassen?"
The assassin stared out the window, his eyes following the zigzag path of a
gull through red laser lines. "I was tired and distracted and it clouded my
judgement. I also –" here he lifted his head to look straight into St Helier's
eyes, "– expected an order of elimination when I informed Scorpia about the
extent of Cray's plans."
The Accountant exhaled and his lip curled. "So did I, but the Board's vote went
against it. They asked for some crude financial costings, then decided that the
profits to be made from a multiple nuclear blow against the major drug networks
and production sites worldwide would leave Scorpia in the position to rebuild
the entire worldwide drug trade under its own command, with rocketing profits
to be made in a world driven to desperation by atomic fallout. The cost of
shifting essential operations and personnel to areas not targeted by the bombs
more than tripled the advance paid by Cray, and all for nothing – it was an
unmitigated financial disaster. As a consequence, the Board is rather unhappy
with you."
"How unhappy?" the assassin asked without emotion.
"There have been calls for your elimination," the Accountant admitted. "Kroll
never liked you. As for the Australian… he has always supported you, but the
Cray affair was his operation. He might not be quite as outspoken in your
defence as he'd usually be. You're lucky, however. Major Yu has left us and
won't be able to force an outright vote against you."
"Left?" Yassen inquired.
"With terminal effect, yes," said the Accountant dryly. Then he shook his head.
"Oh, sit down, Yassen. There is no use in stoicism at this point."
After a moment's pause, the assassin went over to one of the leather-
upholstered conference chairs in front of the window and sat. The Frenchman
followed suit.
"The Board received a rather sharply worded complaint about you from Cray just
a few days before Air Force One crashed in London – that you were unreliable,
unprofessional, and obsessed with the Rider boy to the point of allowing him to
escape in Saint-Pierre and Amsterdam."
Gregorovich's face turned to stone, and the Accountant held up his hand.
"I know what John Rider meant to you, Yassen. I understand that you'd have
wanted to spare his son. Few on the Board would have blamed you for it. But
things have happened while you were gone. He has come to us in Venice, claiming
you'd sent him, and professed to join us. We sent him to Malagosto. On his
first mission, he betrayed us to MI6, wrecking a highly sophisticated and
costly operation and causing the death of Julia Rothman."
If Yassen was surprised, his face didn't show it. Only a muscle twitched in his
cheek.
"A few months later, he was involved in yet another operation for the
Australian Secret Service that cost the life of Major Yu."
"It wasn't just John's son," Yassen Gregorovich said, and for a moment the cold
mask slipped to reveal exhaustion underneath. "I have been thinking about
retiring for a while now, even before becoming the guest of MI6. Perhaps this
is the right time."
"I don't think so," the Accountant said. "Scorpia demands that you prove your
loyalty. If you try to leave now, it will look like treason. You know what
happens to traitors. Even I won't be able to protect you." Gregorovich's hand
went to his shoulder, where the tailored shirt showed no hint of the shoulder
holster that was there. The Accountant ignored the gesture.
"I advise you to tread quietly," he said. "Prove yourself, complete two or
three more assignments after that. Then, I promise you, I will make sure you
can retire without causing a stir."
Yassen looked at the huge window, at the swaying waves, the soaring sea gulls.
He did not object.
Outside the panorama windows, a sea gull met its fiery death by bullet and
plunged down to sea, leaving a trail of white feathers to sink in its wake.
***
Alex Rider was content with the world. He was sitting on a warm stone wall with
the spring sun shining on his face. Before him spread the Bay of Bonifacio, the
oldest harbour of Corsica, and the bright walls and colours of the old town
leading down to the harbour. He adjusted the fit of his Max Calibar sunglasses,
a gift from Jack before he'd left on vacation. With the May weather sunny but
still cooler than during the summer season, the quaint streets weren't as yet
full of tourists, and nicer for it, Alex thought.
He leant his chin on his propped-up knee and searched for Sabina. He caught
sight of her bubble-gum pink shorts at one of the ice cream stands. She'd been
hell-bent on getting the refreshments without relying on Alex's excellent grasp
of French, and Alex suspected that Edward and Liz Pleasure had chosen a French-
speaking holiday destination to give their only child a head-start on her
GCSEs.
He also suspected that they kept inviting him out of a mixture of gratitude and
pity. Gratitude because he'd saved Edward Pleasure and Sabina from certain
death twice now. Pity... well, they knew his parents and uncle were dead, and
whatever Sabina had told them about his 'work' for MI5 – if anything – he felt
that they were trying to help him by taking him away ever so often. While he
felt a little guilty for exploiting their generosity, he'd still jumped at the
chance to see Corsica during the summer half-term break. It would give Jack the
chance to go and see friends in Paris, and Alex to escape a miserably wet
spring in London. And he missed the regular trips abroad that Ian Rider had
taken him on, even if the Pleasures' family holidays were by far less
adventurous than Ian's. But Ian Rider had trained him to become a spy. Sabina's
parents just wanted to make him happy.
Today, they had taken a boat trip through amazing rocks and blue-green waters
of the Lavezzi Archipelago in the morning, and now Edward and Liz Pleasure had
gone up to the castle to visit the little museum in the Bastion de L'Entendard.
Sabina hadn't been excited by the prospect, and so she and Alex decided to
stroll through the town on their own, having ice cream and looking at shops
until they'd all meet again for an early dinner in one of the tiny restaurants
along the harbour before taking the ferry for a trip over to Sardinia in the
morning.
Alex watched Sabina's flirtatious negotiating of ice cream scoops with the
attractive and deeply tanned young vendor who couldn't be more than a handful
of years older than her, when someone cleared his throat next to him.
"Excuse me, are you Mr Rider?"
Alex turned and slid off the stone wall. It was a young man who had spoken to
him, only a few years older than Alex himself, who could have been a brother of
the ice cream seller that Sabina was chatting to. Dark hair, a southern tan,
with battered jeans and no shirt. He'd spoken French with the barest touch of a
Middle Eastern accent, but used the English form of address with Alex's name.
Around the neck, he wore a pair of hi-tech binoculars. Not the type for a bird-
watcher, Alex thought.
"I beg your pardon?" Alex replied politely, also in French.
"Mr Rider?" the young man repeated.
Cautiously, Alex nodded.
The boy took off the binoculars, and handed them to Alex. "Would you please
take a look?"
Alex took the binoculars, and the young man pointed upwards. "Can you see the
crenels above the Restaurant and Hotel du Mar? Now go upwards and right, to the
corner house." Alex did as bidden. "Aim for the top windows with the flower
boxes. Go to the far left." Alex slid the binoculars towards the spray of red
flowers, and the colours practically jumped out at him across the distance.
For a second he frowned, then paused. The window at the far left was pushed up
a little, and something black and metallic and half-buried in red flowers aimed
down at the square. It was the barrel of a sniper's rifle. Alex couldn't
suppress a gasp. In confusion, he stared at the barrel, then back at the young
man.
"The rifle is trained at your little girlfriend's head, Mr Rider," the other
explained." If you come with me in the next two minutes without making a scene,
the sniper will simply walk away. If you don't, she will die."
Alex's heart thumped. "Accompany you where?" he hissed softly. "Who are you?
What is this about?"
Dark eyes stared back at him. "Does it really matter?"
Alex's eyes searched Sabina. She held one ice-cream cone and waved at him,
smiling, while the vendor prepared the other.
"What guarantee do I have that you won't shoot Sabina after all?" he asked.
"We have no personal interest in Miss Pleasure. You, however, Mr Rider... we
think you do."
Alex exhaled. There was no way of warning Sabina, or reaching the sniper,
ensconced as he was far above. He couldn't risk her safety.
"Where do I go," he asked.
"Follow me." The young man held out his hand and Alex handed back the
binoculars.
He started towards the end of the square, where a cobblestone road wound down
towards the harbour. Alex fell into step behind him. The sun beat down on him,
and the back of his loose white shirt stuck to his skin. At the same time, cold
prickled down his spine.
From far behind, he heard Sabina cry, "Alex?", but he didn't dare turn around.
His guide sped up his steps and Alex hurried after him through several narrow
side streets until they were out of sight.
They reached the harbour after a few short minutes, and Alex was relieved not
to hear a shot behind him.
His kidnapper led him to one of the jetties where a handsome white motor yacht
with red and orange racing stripes was moored. The name, in flowing letters
across the side, was Delphyne.
The young man waved Alex to step onto the deck, and Alex obeyed. He had to take
two steps down to reach the bridge, and when his companion nodded, he opened
the door and climbed inside.
The bridge was as new as the entire boat, beechwood and white, and at the
controls sat a man that looked familiar in a way that had Alex confused for a
second. Then the chair swivelled around and the man stood, and recognition hit
him like a fist. Short brown hair, icy grey eyes... the man's name was Klaus
and he was a German mercenary Alex had met him at Scorpia's training centre on
Malagosto outside Venice.
For some reason, he hadn't quite expected that Scorpia would reach for him
again. Mrs Jones had assured him there had been a deal struck with MI6 that
would keep Scorpia off his back.
"Welcome, traitor," Klaus said in English, his accent almost unnoticeable.
Before Alex could say or do anything, the mercenary's fist shot out and caught
him square on the chin. The back of Alex's head hit the wall, and he slumped
into darkness.
He didn't notice when his captors pressed a cloth with a sharp-smelling liquid
over his face to ensure his unconsciousness would last, nor when they
handcuffed him to a berth in the back of the cabin.
The yacht moved slowly away from the pier and out of the harbour, and took for
the open sea.
***
Alex woke in the near-dark, with a thumping ache in his head, a tongue that
felt foul and swollen, and absolutely no recollection where he was, or where
he'd come from. He was terribly thirsty and was lying on something hard but
springy – a mattress of sorts.
When he tried to sit up, something was digging into the skin of his wrists and
ankle and held him back. He'd been chained up too often to mistake the
sensation. Dread crept through him as he lay still and sorted through his fuzzy
thoughts. He'd been on holiday, visiting Bonifacio with the Pleasures, and...
Sabina! Scorpia!
For some incomprehensible reason, Klaus and his accomplices had abducted and
drugged him, and now they were keeping him prisoner.
Voices nearby made Alex realised what had woken him. He pulled at the cuffs
around his wrists, but they didn't loosen. A second later, a light-flooded
rectangle opened ahead of him. The sudden brightness stabbed into his skull,
stirring up a pounding headache.
Footsteps came towards him, and above his head, a single naked light bulb
flickered to life. The flare caused another burst of pain that made Alex's eyes
water. Through a blurry film, Alex recognised Klaus, and his chin smarted in
remembrance. As he had on the ship, the German wore linen trousers, a muscle
shirt and a matching white linen jacket.
He reached under the jacket and produced a pistol from his shoulder holster.
Alex felt his stomach clench as it was aimed at him.
"I will unchain you now," the mercenary rasped. "If you make one wrong move,
I'll shoot you." His mouth twisted. "Not to kill – we still have plans for you.
But a shattered elbow or knee won't matter much."
Alex said nothing. Even if he could think of a snappy comeback, his throat was
dry as sandpaper. When Klaus leaned over him, he realised that both his arms
were shackled to metal rings in the floor. He rubbed his wrists once they came
free, and sat up at last. His back ached – he must have been lying on the thin
mattress for a long time.
The mercenary didn't touch the single cuff around his right ankle, Alex noted
with a pang. Quickly, his eyes ran around his prison. It was entirely made of
stone, and looked old – a smallish barrack with a single, small barred window
in the wall right next to the door, far out of his reach. The grey-striped
mattress in the middle of the room and the overhead bulb were the only
furnishings.
It was hot, and Alex could still smell salt in the air and hear the roar of the
sea cresting against the shore outside. A quick glance revealed that he was
still wearing his cut-off jeans and trainers, but his shirt and sunglasses were
gone. Even the leather thong he'd worn around his neck and the purse and tube
of sun screen in his back pocket had disappeared. His cheeks reddened; someone
must have searched him quite thoroughly while he'd been drugged out of his
mind.
At last, Klaus stepped back to the wall, the muzzle of his pistol trained at
Alex. It was then that Alex realised the German hadn't been alone. Two men
stepped into the small room behind him, and Alex blinked at them through
burning eyes. Alex climbed to his feet.
The man in front looked about fifty years old, dressed in a light white suit
that the heat hadn't managed to touch at all, with fashionable glasses and
haircut. Alex had never seen him before. The other... Alex's head turned, and
his jaw dropped.
That one, he had seen before. Had seen die right in front of him, kneeling
beside his twisted body in the wreck of Air Force One. Yassen Gregorovich had
sent him to Scorpia with his last words.
Alex shook his head and stumbled backwards a step. "You're..."
"Not quite dead, Mr Rider, as you can see." It was the other man who spoke,
with the softest lilt of a French accent.
Alex stared at Yassen, too shocked to speak. The assassin looked at him, his
face distant and hooded. There were some strained lines around his mouth and
eyes that Alex hadn't noticed before. Obviously, death had taken its toll.
He forced himself to look at the second man, who carried himself as if he was
calling the shots.
"Why..." 'Why have you brought me here' was what he wanted to say, but all his
vocal cords managed was a hoarse croak. His entire throat felt as if it was
lined with coarse sandpaper. He coughed.
Without a word, Yassen reached for the shoulder bag he carried, and pulled out
a bottle of Evian. Alex took it without quite meeting the assassin's eyes. He
unscrewed the top, noting that the seal looked un-tampered with, and took a
deep, greedy gulp. The water was warm, but it washed down the disgusting film
of the drug and soothed his throat a little. He drank down half the bottle in
one go, realising how thirsty he was only when he had to struggle to remove it
from his lips. He wondered how long he'd been drugged and unconscious to be so
dehydrated.
"Better?" the Frenchman asked.
Alex purposefully took another hearty sip and put the bottle down next to him.
He nodded.
"Very well, Mr Rider... My name is Arsène de St Helier. I am the financial head
of Scorpia's Executive Board." A quirk lifted the Frenchman's lips. "Which is
why I am generally referred to as 'The Accountant'." He paused as if to give
Alex time to process the nickname. "I'd like to welcome you to Isle de la
Picaterre."
"I was told MI6 and Scorpia had come to an agreement?" Alex croaked. "That if
you left me alone, they'd not make public that you were beaten – three times –
by a 14-year-old boy?"
He expected a blow, and Klaus stepped forward as if on cue. But the Frenchman
just smiled and held up his hand, indicating for the mercenary to leave with
the slightest inclination of his head. Grim-faced, the German retreated.
"There have been negotiations," the Frenchman admitted. "And sometimes it's
useful to pretend to a position of weakness to throw one's opponents off the
track. But the reason you are here..." St Helier steepled his fingers, exposing
onyx cufflinks and a golden Cosmograph Daytona Rolex watch.
"You see, for once, this isn't about you, Alex Rider. You have not been brought
here primarily because you've been a thorn in Scorpia's side on several
memorable occasions. You have been brought here simply to die. At Yassen
Gregorovich's hands."
Alex's eyes flicked to Yassen's steely eyes. He could read no emotion in them
at all.
"Why?" he rasped.
"Because his loyalty has been called into question, Alex – may I call you Alex?
You're still so young, after all." Alex glared; he had no time for the
Frenchman's mock politeness. "You see, Alex, the Board believes that Operation
Eagle Strike failed because Mr Gregorovich here developed some sort of...
affection for you that caused him to disregard his duties." St Helier's face
turned extremely saturnine. "However, due to his long-standing and dedicated
service to our organisation, and because we understand that, although a
traitor, you are John Rider's son, the decision was taken to give him a chance
to redeem himself." A knife-thin smile flashed across the Frenchman's face.
"Yassen has been entrusted with your punishment and execution, Alex. Once he
has disposed of you, he will be accepted back into Scorpia without any further
queries."
The words hit Alex like a blow to the chest. He'd just been kidnapped in an
insane ploy for revenge, and using Yassen to do it... even as fear gnawed at
his insides, it was almost drowned out by revulsion.
"Is there anything you would like to say, Alex?" the Frenchman asked very
softly.
"Just that you're disgusting?" Alex shot back.
"As spirited as I've been told to expect." St Helier gave him a mock bow and
took a step back. "I'll leave you to make your farewells," he announced. He
shared a look with Yassen that Alex couldn't decipher at all. "Don't stay too
long, Yassen."
He turned and ducked out of the door that Klaus obligingly opened for him from
outside.
"I am sorry, little Alex," Yassen said when they were alone. "I don't hold a
grudge over Air Force One." A wry smile touched his lips, then slid away. "I
have only myself to blame, after all."
"How did you survive?" Alex managed to force out after a pause. "I was sure
you'd died."
"Is it important now?" Yassen asked.
Alex pressed his lips together. Yassen's face on the floor of the presidential
plane flashed before his inner eye, close to death. Your father... he saved my
life. In a way, I loved him. I love you too, Alex. You are so very much like
him.
"I won't make that mistake again, Alex." Yassen said, a touch of regret in his
voice.
He took Alex's chin between thumb and index finger in a curiously gentle grip
and looked straight into his eyes.
"You will be punished for your treason against Scorpia," Yassen announced.
"Then, you will die."
Despite the heat, Alex felt a shudder run over him. He'd heard death threats
before, more than most people twice his age, he thought, but this wasn't a
threat. It was just a statement of fact.
Yassen hesitated for a moment, as if to give Alex an opportunity to respond,
standing so close to him that their lips almost touched. When only silence was
forthcoming, he released Alex's face and knocked on the door. A moment later, a
chain rattled outside. Yassen stepped into the glaring sunlight outside without
looking back.
***
Alex waited for a long moment, ears pricked for any noise, but after the key
turned again in the hole, there was only silence. Then he sat down on the
mattress, staring at the wall opposite the door. He wrapped his arms around
himself and realised they were covered in gooseflesh.
There was no point in hoping for a rescue. Even if Sabina's parents had alerted
the French authorities immediately, it would take hours, at best, before the
disappearance of one British teenage boy on Corsica might trigger the alerts of
MI6 back in London. And if the Accountant had told the truth, he was already
several hundred miles away from Bonifacio.
Yassen's departure had seemed at least momentarily final. If they wanted to
make him suffer, what better way to soften him up than by locking him into his
prison to ponder his fate? Still, he had to force himself not to make a move
yet. He was obviously in a Scorpia stronghold, if his free-standing stone
prison meant anything. There were Klaus and Yassen and the Frenchman to
consider, and of course there would be guards. Waiting until nightfall was the
only sensible thing to do.
The knowledge did nothing to prevent his heart from hammering at the thought
that any minute, someone might walk in to torture him or finish him off for
good. His mouth was dry with fear and heat. He took a modest sip from the half-
empty bottle, then screwed it shut and settled down to wait.
He must have actually managed to snatch a few minutes of restless sleep,
because when he woke, no sunlight was flooding through the barred window by the
door. He sat upright, took another healthy sip that finished the bottle, and
pulled off his left trainer. Waking to find his Nike Vapor Max TR trainers
still on his feet had helped to keep utter panic at bay. Scorpia's men had gone
through his clothes, taking his shirt and removing even the few coins he'd
carried loosely in his jeans pockets. But they'd left him the shoes.
The trainers had been Smithers' gift for Alex's 15th birthday, coming in a
standard gift-wrapped shoebox. A card had explained the hidden extras before
self-destructing in a shower of colourful sparkles. They weren't just loaded
with surprises – they were so comfortable as well that they'd been Alex's first
choice to take on holiday. Now, he grabbed the shoe and pressed down hard on
the blue logo with both thumbs. After an instant, invisible hinges pushed the
bottom of the sole away from the uppers.
Between the upper and bottom part of the sole, Alex pulled out a flat, firm
leather etui. Opening it, it revealed a selection of carbon-fibre lock picks,
chosen explicitly to avoid showing up on airport or hand-held metal detectors.
The left trainer held a collapsible blowgun and a set of darts. Alex settled
down cross-legged and pulled his right foot up into his lap, exposing the lock
of the shackle. It took five minutes and two different lock picks before he
heard the gratifying click. Quickly, he pulled the shackle off and returned the
picks to their sheath. With one shoe off, he darted over to the door, pausing
only for a quick glimpse out of the small barred window.
It looked out into a darkening courtyard. Sand still gleamed bright on
cobblestones despite the encroaching dusk. Twin batteries of floodlights swept
across the yard in 30 second intervals. Alex swallowed and ducked below the
window, pressing himself against the door. The keyhole was large and old-
fashioned, with a thin metal cover. He pushed it aside with one finger, and
shook the biggest of his lock picks into his palm. He could only hope that
there was no guard standing right outside who might hear the scrapes through
the door.
Luck was with him. The lock was even simpler to pick than the shackle's. After
a short moment, Alex returned the lock pick to its pouch, and fiddled the pouch
back into the sole of his trainer. It was one of the beauties of Smithers' gift
that removing the gadgets didn't ruin the shoes – he could just slide them back
into place, and walk off.
Before pulling the door open, Alex crouched down and took off his right trainer
as well, He extracted the blowpipe, unfolded it and inserted the first of the
three tranquiliser darts that came with it. The pouch with the other two darts
went into the back pocket of his shorts. At last, he snapped the sole shut
before pulling the shoe back on. Finally, he emptied the water bottle Yassen
had left to fortify himself for his escape. He waited until the searchlights
had passed once more, then slid the door open.
A quick glimpse around the courtyard showed that he was indeed standing inside
a historical fortress. The three round, massive corner towers connected by
crenelated battlements alone made that much evident. The sound of crashing
waves was even louder outside. The small prison barrack that had confined him
didn't sit squat in the middle of the courtyard, but a little set off to one
side. Behind it, the entire west wall and half the north one were taken up by a
series of former military barracks. A shadowy whipping post rose up in front of
them. The stonework and battlements made Alex think of the late middle ages. In
accordance with what St Helier had said, everything pointed to one of the
historical sea fortresses England had surrounded its Channel possessions with
in the Civil War. Mr Kydd at Brookland had had quite a passion for pointing
them out on the map.
The two autocannons atop the east and west tower, however, weren't medieval but
state of the art military technology. Quite obviously, Scorpia wasn't prepared
to take any chances with hostile planes or ships. Even Malagosto hadn't been
equipped with anything like that.
The searchlights had rounded the prison barrack and came back towards him.
Pressing his back against the rough stone wall, Alex quickly ducked away from
them. When he reached the side with door again after rounding the little hut
ahead of the lights, he froze and shot back around the corner. From a small
stuccoed archway that yawned in the middle of the north wall, two men were
emerging. It barely took the identical semi-automatics over their shoulders to
identify them as Scorpia guards. So St Helier didn't just rely on walls and
cannons. Of course there would be troops.
Alex flattened himself against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he could
see the beams swinging around the other end of the barrack, flooding the castle
wall with light and creeping inevitably closer. His heart hammered. He had to
make a run for it. He couldn't outrun the floodlights - he could only hope to
reach the doorway the guards had come through before they reached him. Whoever
was operating the controls would surely see him otherwise.
However, the two guards didn't seem to be in a hurry. They strolled across the
yard, conversing in quiet voices. There was no way they would reach the gateway
to the main building before the floodlights exposed Alex. If he made his break,
and they heard him, or saw him moving, he would barely have time to feel the
bullets slamming into his back.
He waited until the very last moment, giving the guards as much time to cross
as possible, until the floodlight was almost upon him. Then he sprinted towards
the small archway, trying to be light on his feet. Every scrunch of his soles
on the sand-covered courtyard echoed in his ears. As much as he wanted to look
over his shoulder, he forced himself not to. He just ran.
With the floodlights hard at his heels, Alex half-collapsed into the archway,
pressing himself against the stone. Like the outer walls, the arch was two
metres thick, and hid him from the oncoming light. When he peered back into the
courtyard, the guards had already vanished into the main building. As soon as
his breath had slowed down to normal, he peered outside the archway. His face
fell when he realized that St Helier had spoken the truth. He was trapped on an
island. As far as he could see, nothing but water surrounded the castle. It sat
atop a ring of steep cliffs, lapped at by a few gentle waves. From Alex's
hiding place in the archway, stone steps framed by a waist-high wall led down
to a natural sandy bay that served as a harbour. Apart from the Delphyne, the
sleek motor yacht that had brought Alex to the island, he counted two motor
boats and behind them an elegant, fragile sailing boat. A single path, half
overgrown with bushes, wound its way from the bay up the cliff underneath the
castle walls. While the presence of motor boats indicated that the island
wasn't too far distant from the mainland, it was a daunting prospect to escape
from.
There weren't many options either. One volley from the autocannons would cut a
motor boat in half, and sink the Delphyne before it could get half a mile out
of the harbour. Still, the boats were the only way he might escape. Perhaps he
could hide on the yacht and it would sail out before anyone found out he had
escape. It was a slim hope, but the best he had.
He ducked down the flights of stairs leading down to the harbour. Floodlights
were sweeping over the beach and out onto sea as well, and a line of halogen
lamps illuminated the small harbour itself. They made the sand and the boats
gleamed as if bathed in daylight. Alex swallowed dryly. He could see no more
guards patrolling the waterfront, but if Scorpia had any surveillance cameras
there, they would inevitably catch sight of him if he went down directly.
Longingly, his eyes slid along the sleek flank of the Delphyne. Two red life
buoys gleamed alongside her white bulk like the eyes of a sea monster. Alex's
heart missed a beat when the implication hit him. Without doubt, that pattern
would repeat on the yacht's other side, averted from the beach! Here was a way
of getting on board that didn't involve braving the light-flooded foreshore.
After a last deep breath, he left the cover of the stairwell and sprinted to
the right. A few feet of sand, and he'd reached the stone wall of the cliff
that rose up to the castle above. About three hundred metres ahead, a man-high
granite boulder rising out of the water marked the end of the beach.
Alex crept along the cliff, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible until
he reached the boulder and the water's edge. For a second, he hesitated, then
decided to keep his trainers on. He didn't want to be barefoot and vulnerable
for the rest of his flight, and the lock picks might come handy again. He
folded the blow gun he'd been holding on to around its dart and slid it into
the back pocket of his cut-off jeans. Then he waded into the sea. Water filled
his shoes with a wet slurp, awkwardly heavy as he pushed himself off. The ocean
was warm, though, paying tribute to a long, hot day.
He swam out, letting himself sink underneath the surface whenever one of the
floodlights that spread out across the water passed over him. The salt burned
in his eyes as he looked up and saw the light flow past. Once it had gone, he
surfaced. With swift crawl strokes, he rounded the Delphyne, approaching it
from the side that was averted from the shore.
As he had hoped, her other flank repeated the pattern of white hull and red,
eye-shaped life buoys fastened to their mountings with ornamental gilded rope.
Alex wouldn't have been able to pull them down. But then he didn't want to. He
just wanted a handhold to climb aboard without being seen.
It took him three attempts to shoot up out of the water and grab hold of the
buoy with his wet trainers dragging him down. Then he had it and pulled himself
up, feet scrabbling for purchase against the hull. Sheer adrenaline helped him
to scramble for a foothold on the mounting that secured the buoy in place. He
clung to the rope that suspended it from the railing with one hand, balancing
precariously. Another upward lunge, and he had grabbed hold of the railing
itself. From there, pulling himself over the metal bars and aboard was
straightforward.
For a moment he just collapsed in a gasping wet heap on the deck. A few
emergency lamps scattered along the hull illuminated the yacht, but no one
seemed to have seen him climb aboard. Despite the thumping of his heart, he
took a moment to pull off his sodden trainers and empty them of sea water
before putting them on again.
Then he rounded the side of the cabin until he reached the few steps down that
led down to the entrance. Only a few feet above rose the bullet-proof glass
pane of the cockpit, transparent from the inside only. Quietly, Alex ducked
down the stairs. As he'd expected, the door was locked. He went into a crouch,
again preparing to slide off his left Nike.
"Going somewhere, Rider?"
Alex whipped around so fast he almost stumbled backwards into the door.
Klaus stood on deck with his legs slightly apart, looking down at Alex with a
superior expression. He wore jeans and a shirt open at the neck; the black
shoulder holster with a handgun contrasted sharply with the white shirt. Alex's
heart hammered. The German didn't draw the gun, however. Instead, he shifted
into a moto dachi karate forward stance. The fingers of his right hand moved in
a subtle little challenge. Come on!
Alex bit the inside of his lip. He was at a disadvantage with his back to the
door. He'd have to get up the stairs and past the German to have a level
playing field. And even then, Klaus had the advantage of intensive training for
as long as Alex had been alive, some of it with the Afghan Taliban, and with
Scorpia. Still, it was preferable to going up against the gun.
Alex launched himself up the stairs, ducking down low and trying to swerve to
the left and up onto the deck where he would be out of Klaus's reach for a
second. He'd reached the top step when the mercenary's foot shot out and caught
his shoulder. It felt like being kicked by a horse. Alex was flung back and let
out a cry when his back slammed into the hardwood stairwell. He had enough
presence of mind to roll himself up before he could bang face-first into the
door. Feeling bruised all over, he clambered back onto his feet.
This time, Klaus's expression was distinctly smug. He stepped forward, blocking
off Alex's escape route altogether.
"I'm almost glad you got away and ended up here," he drawled. "I'm glad for the
chance to pay you back. Do you know why, Rider?"
Alex pressed his lips together and said nothing. He knew he'd betrayed Scorpia,
never mind that Julia Rothman had intended for him to perish along with all the
other young victims of Operation Invisible Sword. It would make no difference
to the mercenary.
"After you betrayed us, Oliver d'Arc looked to one of those who'd trained with
you to conduct your execution. He chose Amanda, because she was closest to
you." Alex remembered her, one of the two women among his fellow trainees at
Malagosto. A former soldier with the Israeli Defence Forces, she was tall and
dark-haired, with a quick smile. At Malagosto, she had spent a bit of time with
Alex, as if mothering the youngest of the group.
"She went to London to execute you," Klaus continued, his voice very cold now.
"But she missed. You were still alive. D'Arc thought that she'd spared you on
purpose."
Reflexively, Alex's hand went to the bullet scar on his chest, almost above his
heart. He'd stepped off the pavement onto the road just when the shot fell. If
he hadn't taken that tiny step, he would have died.
"Two days later, she was sent to assassinate an Afghan drug baron," the German
said bitterly. "It should have been my assignment – I knew the territory, and
the language. She didn't. It was a suicide mission. She never returned."
Something heavy settled in Alex's stomach. He'd liked Amanda. And she had meant
to kill him – he'd been incredibly lucky to survive that shot.
"She didn't miss," he rasped, uncomfortably aware that he was trying to defend
the woman who had nearly killed him.
"I know that," Klaus snarled. "But she's still dead. Because of you. For that
alone, you deserve to suffer."
He moved so quickly that he was right in front of Alex before Alex could make a
move and grabbed him around the throat. Alex wheezed and reached for his wrist,
only to remember what had been drilled into him by both the SAS and Scorpia:
don't try to break a stranglehold – strike back.
He brought his knee up, aiming for Klaus's groin, and the mercenary only manage
to twist away in time. Alex's knee struck the top of his thigh instead. Still,
the German lurched forward a little, allowing Alex to aim a karate chop to the
veins at the inside of his wrist. The grip loosened, and Alex managed to tear
himself away, at the price of deep scratches at the side of his neck. He
elbowed the mercenary out of the way and raced up the stairs.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Klaus's hand go to his holster even as
he scrambled to steady himself. Alex suppressed the instinct of racing straight
for the gangplank. It would expose his back, and he couldn't outrun a bullet.
Instead, he swerved around the side of the cabin and skidded to a halt. Back
pressed against the wood, he fished for the folded blowgun in the back pocket
of his shorts. It was still there, and unfolded to full size without problems.
Alex could only hope that the single dart he'd put inside had survived its
exposure to salt water during the swim. It was his only chance.
When Klaus stormed around the corner, Alex stepped away from the cabin, blowgun
already at his mouth. He blew sharply just as realisation dawned in the
mercenary's eyes. The German threw himself aside, propelled by instincts honed
in years of training.
Even Scorpia-honed speed wasn't enough, however. The dart missed his throat
which Alex had aimed for, but embedded itself like a furious wasp in his the
side of his cheek. The German roared and grabbed it, pistol forgotten for a
moment. Alex used the chance to strike out with a karate kick from the hip that
sent the mercenary tumbling into the cabin wall. He didn't hang around to
admire his success – he raced for the gangplank to put as much space between
himself and Klaus as he possibly could. If he could find cover before Klaus
regained his bearings…
He had reached the beach when a voice behind him barked, "Rider!"
Alex wheeled around. Klaus stood in the middle of the gangplank, his gun aimed
at Alex's face. He was swaying slightly from the tranquilizer shot, but had
obviously managed to pull out the dart before enough of the drug had entered
his system. Alex stumbled two steps back, and Klaus fired.
The bullet hissed past Alex in a hot rush that brushed his cheek and snipped
off a lock of hair. Alex froze. An ugly grin twisted the mercenary's face that
told him Klaus had missed on purpose.
"Did that catch your attention, Rider?" he sneered.
Alex stared into the yawning opening of the pistol. He could feel the frantic
staccato of his pulse thrumming through him. The gun rose an inch until it
aimed directly between his eyes. Klaus was going to fire and there was nothing
Alex could do to stop him. He wondered if he would have time to feel the hot
lead of the bullet slicing into his brain. The world stopped.
"Hold fire!"
Klaus's head snapped up and a scowl settled over his features. Alex turned too,
but more slowly. He knew Yassen Gregorovich's voice.
The assassin stood in front of the stone archway atop the stairs that Alex had
fled the fortress from. The floodlights illuminated his outline and close-
cropped blond hair. More lights swerved towards the beach, centring on Alex and
Klaus. Frantically, Alex cast his eyes around for an escape.
On both sides, the small bay was bordered by cliffs and the sea. Klaus cut off
any access to the boats, while Yassen blocked entry to the castle. At last,
Alex's eyes were drawn to the overgrown path leading up to the cliffs, then
running along underneath the castle walls. The entire slope, too, was bathed in
light.
Without thinking, Alex threw himself around and raced for the path, driven by
flight instinct only. Behind him, he could hear Klaus roar, but Alex ignored
him, trusting that Yassen's presence would protect him against a bullet in the
back. He didn't dare to look back to see whether Yassen or Klaus were coming
after him.
The pathway would have been a challenge even to mountain goats. It wound its
way up among flat, hardy bushes that covered the entire steep slope above the
bay. Their roots, brown and gnarled, grew on and around the path, providing
trip wires for every step. To become this overgrown, it had to have been
neglected for months. Alex raced up as fast as the treacherous underground
allowed. His sodden trainers rubbed the thin skin of his feet. He kept himself
ducked down for fear of gunfire, but no further bullets rushed past him.
It took him less than ten minutes to reach the top of the cliff, although he
stumbled and nearly skidded down the steep slope a couple of times when his
feet snagged at a root. The run left him panting, a sign that he hadn't
completely recovered from being drugged yet.
When he reached the top, however, he almost cried out with disappointment. The
path wasn't leading around the fortress and towards the other side of the
island, as he'd hoped. Instead, it ended in a little natural platform, covered
with sand and roots, outside a door into the north-east tower. The tower
occupied the last bit of rocky outcrop; directly beneath it, more cliffs fell
down directly into the ocean, with a few stones rising precariously up from the
seabed below to discourage any diver.
The child inside Alex wanted to scream and beat its fists against the door. He
didn't have the time to consider it, however. Without a sound, the door opened
outward on smooth hinges and Yassen Gregorovich stepped out.
Alex instinctively backed away. Something gnarled moved under the sole of his
trainer and he slipped with a yelp. Suddenly, there was only air beneath his
back and he fell. He had the presence of mind to throw himself forward and
reach towards the cliff for something, anything, that could break his fall. His
fingers scratched across stone, then touched a handful of roots. He clung on
with every bit of strength he possessed, and the weight of his own body drove
the air out of his lungs.
Although his arm muscles were screaming, he forced himself to hold on and look
up. Amazingly, he had only fallen a few inches, and was hanging on to the
bushes that grew from the roots covering the footpath.
He gripped the roots harder, feeling wood and hardened leaves digging into his
skin, and started to pull himself up. Three pulls had brought his head level
with the path, when something snapped. Alex slipped back two inches before the
roots he'd been clinging to tangled in others, who were still holding on firmly
to the cliff. But he didn't dare to move – anything might tear them loose
altogether, and he would fall.
Just then, Yassen's face appeared over the cliff, looking down at Alex clinging
desperately to the roots. There was no disguising the helpless plea that was
written in Alex's eyes. Yassen was his only hope. Then the assassin's face
vanished from the edge, and hope shattered.
A wave of pure despair crashed over Alex, His fingers were turning slippery
with sweat and blood, and his arm muscles knotted and burned from carrying his
entire weight. He couldn't hold on much longer! In a minute, perhaps two, he'd
slip and fall. This close to the coast, even if he hit the water, it would be
shallow and he'd break his bones or dash out his brains on the seabed. More
likely, his body would shatter on the scattered boulders beneath. For a second,
his mind was thrown back to the memory of dangling over a crocodile pit at
Desmond McCain's mercy, and the primeval terror he'd felt then. There were no
crocodiles now, but the fear of death was the same.
Just then, Yassen reappeared above him, and Alex's relief was so great that his
eyes spilled over. The assassin was carefully knotting a rope that must be
secured somewhere in the tower around his waist. Thus prepared, he went to his
knees and leaned forward.
In a breath-taking déjà vu of the first time they'd met, Yassen reached down to
Alex. This time, Alex didn't hesitate. Like a drowning sailor a buoy, he
grasped Yassen's hand with his left, the right one still clenched in the roots.
He felt Yassen's fingers circle his wrist in a mutual hold, offering salvation.
For an inexplicable moment, however, the assassin hesitated to pull him to
safety.
"Is this what you want, Alex?" When Alex just stared up at him in confusion,
Yassen added, "Scorpia has condemned you to a painful death." His face in the
outline of the floodlights was very calm. "If you let go here, now, it will be
over very quickly."
The first emotion that rushed up in Alex was a flare of anger. How could Yassen
ask him that? He knew Alex. He'd never seen him give up! Then he remembered who
was expected to bring about his demise and swallowed. If Yassen considered
Alex's death on the cliffs the better option for both of them…
After another second, he shook his head with determination and tightened his
grip on Yassen's hand. He'd been caught in more death traps than most adult
spies, and so far, he'd escaped them all. He wouldn't give up this time,
either!
Yassen acknowledged his decision with a thoughtful nod and clasped his other
hand around Alex's as well, securing his hold. "The choice is yours, little
Alex," he said.
A heartbeat later, Alex felt himself being pulled up and dragged over the side
of the path, where he collapsed against the castle wall. His legs were like
butter.
He was too drained, physically and mentally, to put up any resistance when
Yassen dragged him through the small door, through the tower, and back into the
courtyard. The door to the barrack that had been Alex's prison was still ajar
the way he had left it after his escape. Yassen shoved him inside and flung him
down on the mattress he had been chained to before.
The Russian picked up the discarded ankle chain and let it run to his fingers,
probing the shackle. Shaking his head wryly, he pushed Alex onto his back. The
assassin closed the handcuffs first around Alex's left, then his right wrist.
They shut with two final snaps, leaving Alex with outspread arms on the
mattress without even the energy to glare.
Somehow, he couldn’t quite muster the effort to struggle against Yassen's
hands. Perhaps because they'd held, and preserved, Alex's life just a few
minutes ago. Yassen's touch felt comforting, even though he was returning and
chaining Alex to his prison, with no promise but a painful death.
The assassin ran pale blue eyes over Alex's body, counting the various
scratches and abrasions from where he'd fallen and scrambled to hang on to the
cliff, the dull red bruise just above his hip left by Klaus's kick, the nail
marks on his neck where he'd torn himself out of the mercenary's grip. When he
seemed satisfied that none of them required attention, he took hold of Alex's
chin again and wiped a bit of half-dried blood off his split lip with his
thumb.
"You may have made the wrong choice, little Alex," he said softly and stood.
He went, but not before slipping Alex's Nikes off his feet and slinging them
over his shoulder by the laces. After the key turned in the door, Alex heard
the heavy rattle of a chain barring it from outside. This time, Yassen was
leaving nothing to chance.
***
It was the very same rattle of the chain that roused Alex from the exhausted
sleep that had hit him like a brick as soon as he'd been alone. His eyes
snapped open. The dull white of early morning air before the sun rose came in
through the little window.
His heart started to hammer in his chest. Were they coming to kill him?
Executions at dawn had a long military tradition, and this was a military
fortress after all. He tensed, pulling instinctively at his handcuffs, only to
realise that there was nothing he could do. He could only wait for what was
about to happen to him.
When the door opened, however, it wasn't Yassen or Klaus or some of the guards
who entered. Instead, it was the Frenchman, St Helier, again all the
businessman in a light Miu Miu summer suit, polished Armani leather loafers and
thin-rimmed French glasses. For a moment, Alex struggled as to whether he
should pretend to be asleep, but then he decided against it. His eyes met the
Frenchman's straight on.
St Helier studied him from inside the door, as thoroughly as Yassen had done
the night before, and yet this scrutiny made the tiny hairs stand up on Alex's
arms. The Frenchman struck him as too polished to carry out a death sentence
with his own hands, but he'd learned the hard way never to underestimate
Scorpia.
"I wanted to speak with you about Yassen," St Helier said.
It was not, to say the least, what Alex had expected to hear, what with all the
inside secrets about MI6 Scorpia might think he was harbouring. He hid his
surprise, however.
"I saw what happened yesterday," the Accountant went on when no response was
forthcoming. "On the cliff."
"You did?" Alex asked without emotion.
"There isn't much on this island that I do not see," the Accountant replied.
"Scorpia's surveillance equipment is superb. We do quite a few business
conferences with outside organisations here."
Yes, Alex was certain that spying on potential rivals would give Scorpia an
advantage.
"What about Yassen?" he cut to the topic brusquely.
"He cares about you," the Accountant said. "You're John Rider's son. His best
friend's child." The Frenchman took a few steps forward, until he stood next to
Alex's stomach, looking down at him. "That's why he ruined Operation Eagle
Strike. That's why he's here. It's why both of you are here. The Executive
Board has stopped trusting him."
"It's not true," Alex protested. "Yassen didn't betray Scorpia. Damian Cray
just really didn't like him. He was a madman." Alex felt the familiar surge of
rage boil up inside him. "He planned to detonate 25 nuclear missiles all over
the world." He raised his eyes until they could meet the Frenchman's behind the
fashionable glasses. "He was completely crazy."
The Accountant shrugged. "It wasn't my project, and I didn't vote in its
favour. For Scorpia, however, the projected gains in influence and money were
expected to pay off. That's the only thing I am concerned with."
Alex had to swallow down his fury before it choked him; he knew moral outrage
would mean nothing with these men.
"I note, though, that you are quite eager to protect Yassen?" the Frenchman
commented. Alex felt his cheeks warm and said nothing. "He killed your uncle,
did he not? Ian Rider? Who raised you, after your parents' death?"
Again, Alex stayed silent, trying not to gnaw at his lip. He'd asked himself
the same questions before, ever since the first time he'd run into Yassen on
the top of Sayle's Tower. Yassen had saved his life – did that make up for
taking Ian's? And he'd kept saving Alex, or giving him odd fighting chances,
right up until tonight. On some level, he feared he had forgiven Yassen
Gregorovich when he'd pulled him to safety on the tower a year ago. He'd had
the chance to take revenge, he'd had the assassin helpless at gunpoint – but he
hadn't been able to pull the trigger.
"I think you care about him," the Accountant confirmed, "as much as he cares
about you." He turned and walked over to the tiny window, staring outside. "It
is unfortunate that you seem to have bonded this way."
"We haven't bonded," Alex shot back mutinously.
"Unfortunate for Yassen, above all else," the Accountant continued without
paying attention to Alex's protest. "Very few of those who have encounter the
wrath of the Executive Board ever survived the experience." He turned around,
his back to the window. "They are giving Yassen a chance because he's the best
at what he does. And because he has friends."
"Friends?" Alex echoed in confusion.
"He matters to me too, Alex. Some 18 years ago, when he came out of the UDSSR
and found Scorpia, I took him under my wing. We became… friends of sorts,
perhaps. A bit more than that, for a few years." Blood shot into Alex's face at
the implication.
"You were lovers?" he blurted out.
He had never imagined Yassen with a girlfriend – women didn't seem to exist in
the Russian's world, unless they were assassins, or international criminal
masterminds like Julia Rothman. He had never thought about him with men either,
but… it seemed a little less alien, perhaps.
The Accountant laughed softly. "It is easy to forget that you are still a
child, Alex. What a romantic notion. There are no lovers in our world – lovers
make you as vulnerable as anyone you get close to. As your friend Gregorovich
is finding out now."
Alex frowned. "He's not my friend. And why are you telling me this?" His fists
clenched in frustration, rattling the handcuffs. "What do you want from me?"
"I want Yassen to live." The hairs at the back of Alex's neck rose. "I think
you have the power to make him betray us once again, and then I'll have to kill
you both. I want you not to try."
"If you care about Yassen as you claim – then just let us go," Alex cried out.
A thin smile curved the Frenchman's lips. "I can't do that, Alex. The Executive
Board may look like a collective, but in truth it's a snake pit. There is
nothing Scorpia likes more than pitting themselves against each other, testing
their power. My connection to Yassen is known among my colleagues. This is not
just his test – it is mine, too." He tapped a manicured fingernail against his
lips, contemplating Alex carefully.
"As you will probably know, Scorpia has taken quite a few knocks recently,
Alex. But sometimes, retreating into reorganisation isn't a bad thing. It
flushes out one's enemies, and exposes internal weaknesses. It can allow you to
emerge stronger, while your opponents underestimate you." The Accountant cocked
his head. "Shall I tell you why this concerns Yassen?"
Alex nodded silently. Finding out more about the internal workings of Scorpia
might be useful. It also postponed the necessity to think about the Frenchman's
earlier words for a moment.
"Thanks to your activities, the Board has shrunk to seven members," St Helier
took up his narrative. "Most of them are old men, survivors of the early days
of the Cold War. Still coloured by ideological divisions that have lost all
meaning in the 21st century. I want to see a revival of Scorpia, but with some
fresh faces and input and talents."
Alex could feel his mouth fall open. "Yassen?" he gasped. "You want Yassen to
become a member of Scorpia's Executive?"
"Someone who'd be loyal to me would not hurt," St Helier confirmed wryly. "And
Yassen's reputation is not one to be underestimated. It might be advantageous
for us to have someone like him on the Board."
"And you think he'd throw all of that away, for me?" Alex whispered. His mouth
was suddenly very dry.
The Accountant shook his head. "He doesn't know about any of this. The only one
I have spoken to about it – apart from you – is an Australian colleague who
agrees with the general direction I want Scorpia to take." He paused for a
moment. "Yassen dreams of retirement, of a little fortress of his own somewhere
in Russia, perhaps. But there is no leaving Scorpia. Our oldest board member
found out about this the hard way not so long ago. Yassen, however, is proud
man," St Helier said. "He values his independence above everything else – even
above his loyalty to us. I can't deny that I'm afraid that he will throw away
everything he has so as not to compromise himself."
Knowing Yassen – or what little he knew of Yassen – Alex was inclined to agree.
He had certainly never been one to toe his employers' line – not on Sayle
Tower, and definitely not with Damian Cray either.
"I don't hate you, Alex Rider," St Helier said, and for some strange reason,
Alex was inclined to believe him. "I didn't have much love for those colleagues
of mine whose deaths you caused. Even though your exploits did Scorpia – and
myself, as shareholder – considerable financial damage. I know this isn't fair
to ask of a young man, even an exceptional one as you. But I do. There is no
saving yourself – all you might do is drag Yassen down to share your fate." He
looked Alex straight in the eyes. "I ask you not to."
Alex stared back, speechless. "How?" He ground out at last. "Even if I wanted
to, how could I stop him?"
The Accountant removed his glasses and twirled them between slender fingers.
"You are your father's son. There is one thing that we both know, and Yassen
Gregorovich does not, that might make him look at you in a different light," he
pointed out softly.
Eyes widening, Alex exhaled. "He doesn't know? He still doesn’t know that my
father was an MI6 agent?"
"No," St Helier confirmed. "It is not something Scorpia likes to advertise. Do
you think it would change his mind about you?"
It might, Alex admitted to himself. When he thought he was dying aboard Air
Force One, Yassen had told him he'd loved John Rider, and Alex too. If he only
saw Alex filtered through his father's memory, he would be angry. At both of
them.
Angry enough to kill in cold blood? Alex wondered. But then, how much did it
take for an assassin?
"Why aren't you telling him, then?" he challenged the Accountant.
"I'm not sure whether he would believe me." The Frenchman sighed and put his
glasses back on. "He knows I want him to do this. He will believe you." St
Helier looked down the bridge of his nose at Alex. "Think about it, Alex
Rider," he said.
After another moment of pregnant silence, he turned away and walked over to the
door.
This time, after he was left alone, Alex didn't manage to get back to sleep for
a long time.
***
He must have managed after all, however, because when he opened his eyes,
morning was already giving way to heat, and his hair was plastered to his skull
in damp tangles. Alex twisted his shoulders as much as the shackles allowed to
get some of the kinks out of his back. Against his will, the previous night's
conversation with the Frenchman started to prey on his mind again.
Had the Accountant just messed with his mind, or did he, Alex, really have as
much of a hold on Yassen Gregorovich? Somehow, Alex couldn't imagine he did,
but then, Yassen had saved his life more than once. But he'd also explicitly
said that this time, it was either him or Alex, and that he'd save himself...
The door opened, and Alex jumped. His mouth went dry when he found himself face
to face with the object of his thoughts. Walking over to Alex, his face stony
and unreadable, Yassen seemed to lack some of his usual grace. He didn't speak.
Instead, he unshackled Alex's ankle, then his hands, giving him time enough to
sit up and stretch his back and rub his numb wrists.
"Is this-" Alex croaked.
"Not yet," the assassin said. He pulled Alex to his feet and pushed him around
to bind his wrists behind his back.
Yes, Alex remembered. He was to be punished before he'd be killed. An icy
shudder ran through him. Despite the heat, his hands and feet grew cold.
Yassen tested his bonds, then turned towards the door where two guards were
waiting at a respectful distance. Before the Russian could call them, Alex
whispered, low and urgent, "Wait!"
He didn’t quite like the calculating look that slipped into the assassin's eyes
– as if Alex was somehow falling short on his expectations.
Without allowing himself time to think, Alex blurted out, "My father – he
didn't work for Scorpia. He was an MI6 infiltrator." And then, when no muscle
twitched in Yassen's face at all, "He wasn't your friend! He betrayed you."
He didn't see the assassin move. He only felt the back of Yassen's hand snap
across his face, throwing him into the wall. His head was ringing, and he could
taste blood in his mouth.
Alex straightened his back as the Russian walked to the door. Somehow, he
couldn't help but feel that he'd just thrown away the last chance of getting
Yassen to help him.
The pair of guards grabbed his arms and marched him outside. The sudden flood
of sunlight made Alex stumble. He could barely make out where he was being
dragged. Only when he saw the whipping post rise up in front of him did he dig
in his heels and struggle against the grip of his captors. Surely they
couldn't, couldn't...!
"Quite appropriate, don't you think?"
Alex's head snapped up. The Accountant had stepped out from the tower entrance,
escorted by two Scorpia agents, Klaus, and the young man who'd helped to abduct
Alex in Bonifacio.
"The British Empire insisted on punishing its delinquent soldiers this way for
far longer than any major European power," the Frenchman pointed out. "Since
you have been a traitor and deserter to Scorpia, Alex Rider, I have to agree
with Mr Gregorovich that this does indeed constitute an appropriate
punishment."
"You're sick!" Alex croaked. He felt panic rush through him and kicked out at
the shin of one of his guards, only to receive a cuff over the head.
Behind the post, a small tribune had been raised, covered against the glare of
the sun with a striped white-and-green awning. A half-circle of comfortable
chairs was arranged underneath in the shade, and a serving table with drinks
waited behind them. It reminded Alex of how dry his own mouth was.
When he was dragged closer, his eyes fell on a wooden rack that stood beside
the post, and he nearly swallowed his tongue. It carried an assortment of
whipping instruments, from a gleaming black leather cat o'nine tails to a
metal-studded whip so heavy it looked as if someone could break a limb with it
if applied hard enough. Alex had to look away; for a moment, it felt as if only
water was running in his legs. If the guards hadn't held him, he was sure he
would have fallen.
Then he was being thrown forward against the whipping post, its wood ancient
and smooth against his chest. A second bar of wood crossed the post at chest-
height, then rose up on both sides like the arms of a cross. The bars had
shackles on them, and the guards bound Alex's wrists to them with a final
click. The position left him standing upright with a bit of stretch to his
toes; evidently, the post had been designed for a man, not for a teenager.
The Accountant and his staff were taking their seats on the tribune, being
served colourful fruit drinks by one of the guards who had exchanged the MP
over his shoulder for a white handkerchief. They would have a perfect view of
his face.
Alex saw Klaus refuse a drink with a shake of his head, then the mercenary
headed over to him.
"Enjoy your punishment, Rider," he snarled. "You deserve a traitor's death –
painful, and humiliating."
Alex would have liked to spit at the German to express his contempt, but his
mouth was too dry.
"You might want to step back, Klaus," he heard Yassen's voice behind him, and
instantly, gooseflesh broke out all over Alex's back. The assassin stepped up
beside the rack, calmly slipping on a pair of black fingerless leather gloves
as he contemplated the whips.
"I would take this task off your hands," the German said, his accent just a tad
more pronounced than usual. Alex froze at the thought.
"I know you would," Yassen agreed calmly. "But I don't think your self-control
is quite up to the task, Klaus."
The Russian's eyes wandered over the rack. At last, he selected a short,
tightly braided whip and let it whistle once through the air. Alex flinched at
the sound, producing a titter of laughter from the onlookers. His face went
hot, and he bit his lip.
Yassen walked up right behind him, and a second later, Alex felt his hands
around his hips, sliding loose the button of his cut-off jeans and pulling down
the zipper.
"Don't!" he shrilled under his breath.
"Be quiet, Alex." With a deft pull, the Russian slid off Alex's boxers and
shorts, leaving his buttocks bare and vulnerable. Face glowing, Alex pressed
himself against the whipping post to hide his groin.
The first blow whistled across Alex's back without giving him time to prepare.
It drew a soft cough from his lungs. He'd known it would hurt; however, he
hadn't expected the line of pure fire that raced across his skin from hip to
shoulder. A second followed, straight over his buttocks; Alex gasped. The pain
was worse than he'd expected, the blows coming much harder and faster than he
was prepared for. The fourth blow, artfully cutting across the first three,
wrung a cry from his throat.
He'd hoped he'd be able to stay silent. He'd somehow thought that his survival
training with the SAS might have strengthened his ability to withstand torture.
Now, he understood that it hadn't. Yassen seemed to know exactly how to target
and measure his blows to hit Alex just that strategic bit harder than he
expected.
Once the Russian's whip had broken through Alex's defences, Yassen managed to
draw a noise from him with every blow. A dull moan when the tip of the whip
gauged the flesh of Alex's buttock; a sharp cry when it whistled across a
shoulder blade, a garbled whimper when it snapped over Alex's hips.
Even as he cried out, he saw the cool eyes of the Accountant studying his
expression through the fashionable frames. The Frenchman's tongue touched his
lip in sickening appreciation, and Alex looked away.
The pain made Alex squirm against the wooden post, trying to evade the whip but
always failing. Sweat was darkening his fringe, burning in his eyes and turning
the observant, whispering onlookers on the tribune into blurred shadows. He
struggled against his bonds, tearing at the cuts that already marred his
shoulders, helplessly trying to escape the blows that fell like rain on his
back and buttocks and thighs. Instead of water, however, they scorched his skin
like splashes of acid, dousing him in screaming agony.
He didn't quite know what he was screaming; whether he was crying out his rage,
or pleading with Yassen to stop, or just giving an inarticulate voice to the
pain that rocked him. His throat was becoming raw and hoarse, and his eyes
spilled over, sending a wet film of tears down his cheeks and over the wood.
His nose clogged up and he felt tears or snot run down and drip onto the sand.
After what felt like hours, exhaustion and heat took their toll. Alex hung
against the whipping post like a rag doll, too drained to move under the whip
or try to shield his genitals or pained face from view.
At first, Alex barely even noticed that the blows had stopped. He saw Yassen
reach for the rack, and flinched so badly that it sent another snap of pain
across his shoulder blades. Instead of selecting a different whip, however,
Yassen grabbed Alex's chin and lifted up his face, exposing the tear-stained
mask of pain he'd wrought. He nodded.
"Take him back to his prison," he commented calmly, then let Alex's head fall
down and walked over to take a fruit drink from the Frenchman's hand, sipping
thoughtfully.
Alex cried out again when he was torn away from the whipping post without much
care for his bleeding cuts and welts. The guards grabbed him by the wrists and
dragged him across the sand to the prison barrack. The sudden shadow brought no
cool, but felt like a pleasant exhale across Alex's back nonetheless.
He was thrown onto his stomach on the mattress, and someone stepped forward to
re-fasten the shackle around his ankle. Alex's brain felt hot and strange as he
lay on his stomach, lurching close to unconsciousness. He drifted for a few
minutes, until more footsteps came into the little building and towards him.
"That wasn't so bad," Klaus's hateful voice commented, pressing the side of his
boot against the whip marks on Alex's hip. Too shattered to even cry out, fresh
tears of pain leaked from Alex's eyes. "He's barely even bleeding."
The mercenary's contempt cut into Alex like another scourging. His back felt as
if it had been torn to shreds, and all these men saw was an over-sensitive,
sobbing child. Not a spy, not an equal – a kid, easily broken in the adult
world.
"You might want to return to Dr Three's Psychology of Pain," Yassen replied in
the tone of a teacher critiquing a none-too-bright student. "I want him alert
for his execution – resentful, full of fighting spirit, clinging to the hope of
giving us the slip at the last minute. I could have cut his back to strips, and
broken him physically," the Russian lectured while cleaning the cuts on Alex's
buttocks with a series of antiseptic wipes. They stung beyond endurance, and
Alex arched against his touch, trying to crawl away.
"Calm, you!" Yassen admonished, holding Alex down by the scruff of his neck
with his left while completing the procedure with the right. "But
incapacitating injuries would take him beyond hope," he continued his lecture.
"Death would come as a release. This way, fear and hope can still work on him."
The words just wrung another sob out of Alex. His mind felt as raw as his back.
"You would know, wouldn't you, Yassen," Klaus said, with only the slightest
touch of a sneer in his words. "You were the Doctor's favourite student, after
all."
Without another comment, Yassen followed up the cleaning with a cooling salve
slathered across Alex's back. The cold hurt as much as the whip, and Alex just
helplessly twitched under the assassin's cruel fingers. A different sort of
frantic heat ran through him when Yassen touched the bare skin of his hips and
buttocks. He buried his face against the mattress.
Klaus snorted audibly. "You're just coddling him now," he objected.
There was a moment of silence. When Yassen spoke, his voice was so cold that
Alex shuddered physically. "You know the procedure for taking a mission from
another Scorpia operative, Klaus. Would you like to challenge me?"
Klaus hesitated, and Alex felt the tension hum between the two men. Then Klaus
shook his head and his footsteps retreated, far heavier than Yassen's would
have been.
A moment later, the rim of a cup was pressed to Alex's lips. He was so
desperately thirsty that he gulped down the first few mouthfuls of fluid
without even noticing how bitter it was. It soothed his throat, raw from
screaming. Even when he realised it was a drug, he continued to swallow. Part
of him wanted to stay awake, because unconsciousness would make him even more
helpless than he was now; but a larger part just wanted to escape the pain.
He emptied the beaker and felt numbness crawl up his knees and thighs until it
enveloped his back, soothing the burns out of existence. Then it touched the
back of Alex's brain, and he passed out.
***
He woke a long time later when someone was insistently shaking him awake by the
shoulder. Alex moaned through cracked lips. His tongue felt like a leathery
something stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was being rolled onto his side,
and flinched when the lash marks on his hip touched the mattress. Then cool
plastic brushed his lips and he inhaled a mouthful of water before managing to
press both hands around the water bottle and suck down the contents like a life
saver.
"You slept for over 24 hours. How are you feeling?"
Alex wasn't surprised to hear Yassen's voice.
"Better," he replied softly. It was true, he realised with a touch of surprise.
His back still burned, but it was a bearable ache, not the overwhelming agony
he'd felt before. Whatever salves Yassen had used on him, they had done their
job.
Fear grabbed him on the tail of his thought. "Is it now?" he blurted out.
"Not yet," Yassen replied. "Tomorrow at dawn. You still have the night."
Alex's gasp of relief came out more like a sob. Dusk was creeping in through
the little window, and the thought of lying here, having an entire night to
look forward to fretting about death was the most horrible thing he could
imagine.
Yassen stepped behind him, pushing him half onto his stomach to study his back.
"You're healing very well."
"It'll make no difference!" Bitterness spilled out in Alex's tone. He felt his
eyes burn, hating himself for the weakness.
"No, it will not." Yassen confirmed just as gravely.
Alex wanted to recoil from this stern man who offered nothing but an
unmitigated death sentence, but instead, he leaned forward across the mattress.
Almost as if on its own volition, his hand slid over and cupped Yassen's wrist.
He couldn't look up at the assassin. His heart beat painfully fast. Slowly, he
brought Yassen's wrist up to his lips and laid his mouth openly against the
pulse point there.
Yassen's skin tasted warm and salty and surprisingly human under Alex's tongue.
"This is a very bad idea," the Russian murmured, almost inaudible.
Alex's head whipped round like a snake's; he bared his teeth in a soundless
expression of rage.
"I'm not asking for mercy!" he growled, but the words died under Yassen's
heated glare. Yassen grabbed a handful of hair at the back of his neck and
pulled his head back just a little while he looked at Alex's angry face. There
was something glinting deep down in his eyes that made Alex's stomach tickle.
Then Yassen pulled him close, sinking into a crouch on the mattress, and closed
his mouth over Alex's, snarl and all.
The speed with which Alex relaxed under the kiss would have embarrassed him in
any other situation. Yassen kissed harshly, all hard press of lips and
insistent tongue, and Alex found that the easiest way to deal with it was just
to go along. It saved him from having to think about what the heck he was
doing, too.
Yassen's grip on his hair loosened, and one of his hands snaked around Alex's
neck, mapping the skin over his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. Alex bit
his lip. It felt... good. For some reason, his instinct-driven brain associated
Yassen's hands with safety. This was the man who'd stripped and whipped him
until he'd been a crying, broken thing, and yet he relaxed under his touch.
The hands wandered lower, tracing Alex's chest. A fingernail caught his left
nipple, and made it tighten almost painfully. Alex gasped, and bit his lip in
embarrassment.
Yassen paused, smiled, and did it again, his eyes never once leaving Alex's
face. Alex heard his own breath rasping in his throat. The assassin stroked his
chest, then his belly, and Alex felt a shudder run through him when Yassen's
finger brushed his navel.
The sparse, silky trail of blond hairs below it hadn't been there a year
before, and Yassen's fingers toyed with them on their way south in a way that
made Alex's skin crawl all over, half with the sheer sensation of it, half with
expectation. His face, he knew, had to be burning, and he was glad of the
shadows.
Yassen didn't tease or delay when he reached Alex's cock, which had hardened
quite a bit during the assassin's exploration of his body, and was nervously
curving up as if asking to be touched. Instead, he closed his hand around it,
firm and rough, and Alex nearly came off the mattress he was reclining on. He
could feel his erection swell, cradled in Yassen's palm.
Of course he'd touched himself before, had even imagined Sabina touching him
there the few times they kissed. But this wasn't his own hand or embarrassed
imagination. This was real and harsh and then Yassen's thumb grazed over the
head of his cock, tracing the slit with his nail, and a desperate sound of need
spilled from Alex's lips that made his ears burn in shame. His hips snapped
forward, burying himself deeper in Yassen's palm.
"Please!" he gasped.
Yassen didn't answer. Instead, he kneaded the length of Alex's cock, tormenting
the head with his fingertips, until hot, heavy heat pooled in Alex's balls, and
he couldn't stop himself from moving against the assassin in restless, helpless
jerks.
It took an embarrassingly short time until the pressure boiled over; Alex's
entire body stiffened, and he felt his cock jump and spill into the tight
confines of Yassen's fist. Alex groaned with relief, going limp and letting his
forehead sink onto the assassin's shoulder. Somehow, he felt too exhausted and
boneless with release to move. He didn't quite fancy looking at Yassen either.
Instead of wiping his soiled fingers on the mattress as Alex would have done,
Yassen lifted Alex's chin off his shoulder with his thumb, and touched his wet
palm to Alex's lips. The smell of his own come hit Alex's nostrils, and he
scrunched up his nose. The thought of tasting himself seemed weird and depraved
and wrong, but if Yassen wanted him to, who'd got him off after all…
He stuck his tongue out and ran it over the pads of Yassen's fingers, tasting
his come in a warm mix of bland and sour and not-so-terrible-after-all. Yassen
let out a soft, satisfied sound that quite reconciled Alex with his task and
leaned forward to kiss him again, sharing Alex's taste from his tongue. Warmth
fluttered through Alex's stomach even though he'd only just come.
"What... what about you?" he breathed after Yassen freed his mouth, knowing how
stupid and desperate he sounded.
He felt Yassen's laugh rumble against his chest. "Everything I might want to do
to you would probably hurt, little Alex." There was a provocative purr in the
assassin's tone that made Alex think of a prowling cat.
"I don't care," he whispered. It was a lie, of course. His stomach was knotting
in apprehension. But he'd never been good at ignoring challenges, especially
Yassen's, and although it had got darker outside, it was still too early. A bit
of pain seemed like a small price, if it meant not being left to wait for death
on his own.
"Don't you?" Yassen mused, leaning in very close. In the dim light, his eyes
were quite dark for a change.
Then he drew back and rose to his feet, and Alex wondered whether he had made a
mistake somehow. But Yassen only straightened and slid his jacket off his
shoulders, then undid the remaining buttons of his shirt at a leisurely pace –
not hurrying, not slowly, just as evenly as he probably had fastened them in
the morning. It wasn't remotely calculated to be seductive, and yet it made
butterflies flutter inside Alex's stomach.
Yassen peeled off his belt, jeans and pants and added them to the discarded
pile of clothes on the foot end of the mattress. He wasn't fully hard, Alex
diagnosed after a side peek out of the corner of his eyes. Not as eager as Alex
had been after the first touch – but not wholly disinterested either. It was a
strangely satisfactory sight.
The assassin crooked a finger, indicating for Alex to rise to his knees, then
put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from getting up any further. "That's
good," he murmured once Alex was kneeling on the side of the mattress. "Now
move forward a little."
Alex obeyed, shuffling forward on the mattress until he felt Yassen kneel down
behind him. The shackle around his ankle caught at the chain until the assassin
pulled it free. Yassen touched his shoulders, thumbs lightly tracing the fading
whip marks there. It stung a little, but wasn't quite the reason why Alex
shuddered. Yassen's lips brushed the back of his neck, and he shivered again,
harder this time. His hands opened and closed nervously at his sides, until
Yassen caught his wrists from behind.
"Now these would look good tied behind your back," he mused. "But that would be
a bit awkward in this position." He shifted his grip and brushed his knuckles
against Alex's limp cock, and Alex felt it twitch with interest. "And
definitely no touching yourself," Yassen decreed. Alex's face started to burn
again.
The assassin's larger hands cupped Alex's and placed them flat on the insides
of his thighs. "Yes, this will work quite nicely," he said. "Though you could
use them to spread your legs a bit wider for me." Alex's cock twitched again,
without being touched this time. "Can you do that?" Yassen breathed.
Alex obeyed, shivering with arousal, until his thighs formed a wide-open v and
his heels touched underneath him. His mouth felt very dry, although his palms
were sweaty on the soft skin of his thighs.
"I'm not going to fuck you," Yassen said, and Alex experienced a twin flash of
relief and anger. "Neither of us is prepared for that, I think." He placed a
sharp bite on Alex's collarbone that made Alex squeak. "But that doesn't mean I
won't have my way with you, little Alex." The hairs on Alex's arms rose. He
felt as if Yassen was already doing more to him than he could handle with his
voice alone.
Alex threw his head back, eyes wide open, and froze when he saw the shadowy
outline of a human figure against the sliver of moonlight creeping in from the
window. He thought he caught a flash of glasses.
Yassen's hand reaching for his neck distracted him. He felt his head being
pulled around at an awkward angle until the assassin's mouth closed over his.
It was a brutal kiss, full of teeth digging into his bottom lip, and insistent
tongue that would lick away the blood and challenge Alex's own. Maybe he'd only
had a hallucination?
Then Yassen leaned away from him and reached backward to pick up his discarded
jacket. He rummaged through the inside pockets, and came up with a folded black
silk tie. He licked the corner of Alex's mouth, then released the grip on his
head and shook out the tie. Alex barely had time to prepare himself before the
black silk came up in front of his face and closed over his eyes. He squirmed
nervously until he felt Yassen move up against him, his cock a heavy presence
against Alex's buttocks. The assassin knotted the tie behind his head, and Alex
felt the soft ends whisper down his bare back. The sensation made him shiver.
He couldn't help but take it as a message. The mere fact that Yassen saw fit to
close off his vision was proof that they weren't alone, and that he didn't want
Alex to react to the presence of an onlooker. The thought of being put on
display, naked and blindfolded with spread thighs, made his skin crawl. On the
other hand, the blindfold and Yassen's warm body at his back made it easier to
ignore anything else. Wrapped inside Yassen's arms and smell and presence, he
could pretend they were alone.
He felt Yassen's eyes on him despite the tie over his eyes, more intense than
if he could have seen them.
"Very nice," the Russian murmured, his accent stronger than usual. He stroked
Alex's lips with his fingers, and Alex used the opportunity to brush them with
his tongue.
Alex felt Yassen settle down close behind him, kneeling down to spoon him from
behind. Large hands cupped his buttocks, lightly enough to not further bruise
the still-inflamed skin there, but not quite so careful as not to sting. Alex
gasped when a thumb followed one of the more prominent welts. He knew his skin
had to burn hot against Yassen's palms. The assassin lifted his arse a little,
and Alex took the cue, rising a bit higher on his knees.
When Yassen's thumb traced the crack between his buttocks and the opening
there, Alex's breath stopped in a moment of sheer panic. His heart hammered in
his chest like a small woodland creature ringed by predators.
"Child," Yassen chided against his shoulder blades, and indignation calmed the
panic a little. He brushed Alex's hole again, very lightly, only just grazing
the puckered skin until the tickly touch made Alex squirm and tremble deep
inside.
Then Yassen shifted again, and his thumb stopped moving against Alex, replaced
by something much larger, slicker, and very hot against Alex's sensitised skin.
"Calm!" Yassen hissed before Alex could freeze again. He reached around Alex's
chest, pinching a nipple on the way, then rubbed the heel of his palm against
the hairs at Alex's groin, not quite touching his cock, but close enough to
make it rise to attention. At the same time, Yassen's erection, slickened with
something that Alex didn't quite want to identify as possibly saliva, took the
place of Yassen's thumb, rubbing over Alex's hole in a maddening rhythm. Never
aggressive, never moving to penetrate, only sliding back and forth and creating
a friction that made Alex shake. His thighs trembled under his hands, his
shoulders felt cramped, and he was eerily aware of his spine as if it had been
outlined by a hot flush inside him.
Somehow, involuntarily, Alex bent forward a little to give Yassen's cock more
room to move against him. Longer than Yassen's thumb, it slid across Alex's
hole, and over the sensitive skin behind, until the head, sticky and warm,
brushed the back of Alex's balls. He whimpered the first time it happened; the
sensation was so intense it almost felt like pain, slithering through him and
into his cock until he thought he would come from it right away. He felt a drop
of fluid flow from the head, and run down over his hot flesh.
Yassen repeated the movement as soon as he realised what it did to Alex. He
slid his cock over Alex's hole and perineum to his balls, hard and slick with
precome while his free hand stroked Alex's chest and belly, ever so often
pinching his nipples and grazing the bottom of his cock for a fleeting, cruel
moment. Alex could hear him breathe now, rough and raspy, and something inside
Alex mourned the blindfold that made it impossible for him to see the
assassin's face when he was not in control, and undone by Alex's body, of all
things.
The thought scattered when Yassen's rhythm sped up, sending a surge of need
deep inside him. For a moment, Alex wished the man would bury himself inside
him instead of teasing him with friction because it would relieve the need
inside him. He squirmed, desperate for more, only to find Yassen's nails close
around and brutally twist a nipple. Another trickle of precome spilled from
Alex's painfully hard cock, and he nearly came when Yassen emphasised his
hissed "No!" with a warning bite to Alex's ear lobe.
His entire body was hot as if he was about to burst out of his skin; his
undercarriage prickled with need, his groin and arse burned, and he knew he'd
go mad if the pressure didn't give soon.
Then Yassen pushed forward once more, both hands gripping Alex's hips so hard
he knew there would be finger-shaped bruises. Hot fluid spilled over Alex's
balls, almost as warm as the need boiling inside them. Alex cried out and felt
his own cock spurt, at last. Warm come spilled on his knee and the mattress,
and he slumped forward, nails digging into his thighs, almost blanking out with
the force of release. Yassen's arms closed around him for a moment with
crushing force, and only when the grip loosened Alex realised how badly he was
trembling. As soon as Yassen let go of him, he collapsed onto his side, winded
beyond words.
Caught in an exhausted, blissful haze, Alex only wanted to curl up and sleep,
preferably pressed up against Yassen's body. The Russian's hand on his shoulder
holding him back made him grumble under his breath, until a light slap on the
head shut him up. He felt the touch of a familiar soft, wet cloth, wiping away
the sweat from his body and the come off his groin. It was nice and cool, and
when Yassen finished his cleaning and put a plastic cup with an equally
familiar, bitter fluid to his lips, Alex swallowed without protest. The drug
had made him forget before. Whatever it was, it was exactly what he needed.
He blinked like a myopic owl when Yassen slid the blindfold off his eyes. He'd
almost forgotten he was wearing it, and it made little difference in the
darkness. Reflexively, his eyes flitted to the window. He could see nothing and
no one at all.
Then he was allowed to lie down, curled up on his side to protect his back,
although Yassen pushed him over onto the side of the mattress Alex had not
christened with his come. Half-asleep, Alex grabbed Yassen's wrist to pull him
down beside him. To his surprise, the assassin didn't resist. Instead, he
settled down, a warm, solid presence, until Alex's face almost touched his
chest and Yassen had to feel him breathing. He slung an arm around Alex's hip,
his hand coming to rest on Alex's buttock. And although Alex could feel its
weight on the deep welt there, he just let his mouth curve into a smile and
fell asleep.
***
Small noises from outside his prison woke Alex the next morning. As he'd
expected, he was alone. The cuff around his ankle was gone. His boxer shorts
and cut-off jeans lay freshly laundered on the other side of the mattress. Alex
raced over greedily and slipped them on with greater relief than he'd have
anticipated. No matter how many Scorpia employees had seen his naked arse since
his 'punishment', it felt good to be covered!
The sense of relief didn't last long, however. Every sound outside, every
crunch of a foot on the sand made him jump. They would come for him soon. Then,
he was going to die. He felt more alert than he had been since he'd set foot on
this accursed island, as if the drink Yassen had given him before he'd fallen
asleep had contained a stimulant.
Thinking of Yassen made his face flush scarlet, and he pushed the memory away
as quickly as he could. That hadn't been him, Alex Rider. That had been some
desperate, animalistic thing running purely on emotion–
The sound of the door opening brought Alex back to reality. A man ducked
inside, a serving platter with a silver dome tucked in the crook of his left
arm. Alex recognised the young man who'd abducted him – years ago, as it now
seemed – on Corsica. He held an automatic 9mm Makarov pistol in the other hand,
which he pointed straight at Alex.
"Go back, as far as you can." Alex took a few steps back. "Get on your knees,
and fold your hands behind your neck." Grimacing, Alex obeyed.
Only then did the young man step forward and put the platter down in front of
the mattress before retreating back to the door.
"You should eat," he suggested. "They will come for you soon."
Despite the cold that crept through him, Alex crouched forward on his knees and
snatched the silver dome off the platter. A ragged burst of laughter escaped
his throat. The plate contained a packaged BLT sandwich, a packet of salt-and-
vinegar crisps, and a bottle of regular Coke. The bottle had been chilled until
recently – drops of condensation were still running down the plastic surface.
"And here I thought that with St Helier in charge, I might get some decent
French food as my last meal," Alex quipped. The other didn't respond – he just
left.
Despite his words, Alex made very quick work out of the sandwich packaging, and
practically inhaled the two triangles. Eating reminded him of how hungry he'd
been. The Coke was wonderfully refreshing, and Alex polished it off
interspersed with handfuls of crisps. When he was done, he almost felt human
again. Apart from being about to die, he thought bitterly.
The food didn't get much time to settle. When they did come for him, it was
without any fanfare. Two black-clad guards that could have been clones of the
others Alex had seen on the island so far entered through the door and pointed
the barrels of their submachine guns at him. Without wasting a word, they
grabbed his wrists, bound them behind Alex's back with a leather cord, and
marched him outside. Alex allowed himself to be handled without comment. There
was nothing to say.
He immediately recognised the contraption that had been erected just inside the
large archway of the main gate that led into the castle proper. The trellised
iron gate had been raised until only the top metal bars and defensive spikes
were showing. A small wooden platform had been erected underneath. From the end
of the spiked iron gate hung a black, leather noose, immobile in the warming
air, waiting for its victim.
Even viewing from across the courtyard, Alex felt fear constrict his breath. It
took almost more strength than he possessed not to try and break the guards'
hold and run for his life. But he knew it would be in vain. This was the end.
He could only try and face it with as much dignity as possible.
His eyes found Yassen in the half-shadow of the open gateway, looking cool and
crisp in jeans and a fresh shirt that shone bright white against the shoulder
holster he wore openly now. Alex's neck burned, and his lips tightened. And
still he took strength from the Russian's impassive expression. Yassen expected
him not to break down, that much was evident. Alex could do that much.
While the Accountant and his guards were present once more, the overcast
morning had little of the garden-party-style atmosphere that had dominated
Alex's whipping. Maybe it was too early. Or maybe the prospect of a boy dying
at the end of a rope was somehow less exciting.
Alex was manhandled closer, and Klaus stepped out of the gateway into the
light, making a display out of checking the noose. He caught Alex's eye and
smirked.
"Well, Mr Rider..." At last, St Helier acknowledged Alex with a razor-thin
smile and Alex tried very hard not to think how the Frenchman had last seen
him. The Accountant spared a glance at his Rolex watch. "I don't think this
will be taking very long. You see, I have a late lunch appointment scheduled at
an excellent local oyster bar at Saint Pol de Léon, and by then, Alex Rider
will be nothing more than a footnote in the history of Scorpia."
"I wouldn't hire a ghost writer just yet," Alex said. "It wouldn't be worth
reading anyhow."
"Spirited to the last," St Helier replied spitefully. "It seems that your
scourging hasn't left very deep impressions." He patted Alex's cheek, even
though Alex craned his head back to escape the condescending touch.
"Let's have a look at what Mr Gregorovich has arranged for you, shall we?"
Trying not to show the sting he felt every time Yassen's name was mentioned,
Alex let the guards push him towards the tribune in the Frenchman's wake.
'Tribune' was almost too dramatic a term. It was nothing but a flimsy elevated
wooden platform, about two metres in diameter, one metre high, with two steps
leading up in front. Enough for Alex to stand on with the noose around his
neck, he supposed, until someone kicked it off from underneath him.
The Russian easily balanced up the two steps like the dancer he resembled, and
nodded at Alex. One of his two guards gave him a light push that made him
stumble forward, to some scattered laughter. Clenching his jaw, Alex climbed up
the stairs, far less elegant than Yassen with his hands bound behind his back.
The Russian reached for the noose, testing the firmness of the knot, then
slipped it over Alex's head from behind. Yassen was wearing his fingerless
gloves again, and even the slight brush of leather gloves against his neck made
Alex's entire back break out in gooseflesh. The noose sat curiously light
around his throat, even after Yassen had tightened the knot at the back of his
neck. Involuntarily, Alex tugged at the cord that bound his hands behind his
back. It didn't give an inch.
"Friends and colleagues," the Accountant exclaimed after having called for
silence with a hand gesture. Alex noticed that he wore a small black case
looped around his wrist, like a digital camera, only smaller. "We have
assembled this morning to witness the execution of Alex Rider, for desertion
and treason against Scorpia." There was scattered applause from the guards and
onlookers. Alex saw Klaus clap energetically.
Fear was closing like a steel trap in his stomach, paralysing and impossible to
shake.
"Not to mention for tainting his own father's memory," St Helier added, and a
sudden burst of anger ripped through Alex's panic.
"My father wasn't one of you!" he spat.
The Frenchman's lips curved. "If that thought makes dying easier for you,
Alex..."
The edge of the platform under Alex's bare feet bounced when Yassen jumped
down, landing easily on the ground. He reached for something that had leaned
against the platform, outside Alex's view. It was a round metal disc, about one
metre in diameter. When the assassin turned it over, it showed one single,
rubber-coated leg, straight in the middle. With a surreal flash, Alex
recognised it. It was a one-legged stool. Years and years ago, in his Nursery
School in Chelsea, they had had two or three of them to play on – a wooden
seat, with one leg in the middle to balance on. To see one now, here...?
Yassen flipped it over onto the leg, steading the seat with one hand, and Alex
understood. He was supposed to balance on the stool until he inevitably
slipped. Gravity and his own body weight would combine to kill him. Alex's
forehead drew into a grim line when Yassen reached out his free hand to him as
if to ask him to a dance. Why should he play along with their little game? The
outcome would be the same.
In the end, however, he couldn't bring himself to face death even a second
earlier than it had to come. Thin-lipped, he ignored Yassen's hand and took the
small step sideways from the wooden platform onto the metal stool. It was one
or two inches shorter than the platform Alex had been standing on so far. He
felt the noose constrict at his throat and had to rise on tiptoe to breathe.
Then Yassen took his steadying hand away, and Alex felt the seat sway
underneath him. He slid his feet apart for better balance, trying to create
tension between his calves that would keep the stool in place. He knew it was
impossible. Even without having his hands bound behind his back and being
constricted by the noose, keeping steady would be impossible even for a
gymnast.
He tried, though, wobbling on bare feet, trying to throw his hips into the
balance, which provoked a few chuckles among the onlookers. He had to resemble
a frantic belly dancer.
His calves and toes started to cramp, stretched and contorted unnaturally as
they were, and it made trying to balance on the stool. Sweat of fear and
exertion was dripping down his face, and his eyes burned. He wanted to cry in
despair. The more he swayed, the harder it became to breathe.
Alex felt his toes slip with a panicked sense of inevitability. He scrambled
for contact on the smooth metal surface, but found none. As if in suspended
animation, the stool slipped, spun, and tipped into the sand. At the same time,
the noose, already tight from Alex's balancing dance on the seat, cut into his
neck. He didn't snap down with full force that would have broken his neck;
instead, his body stretched, trying to find some purchase, but he wasn't tall
enough to reach to the ground. His toes curled helplessly in mid-air as the
braided cord of the noose cut harder and harder into the soft flesh of his
neck. He heard his own frantic gagging noises, amplified inside his pounding
head.
Then there was a crack, and a jolt. Something snapped sharp and painful next to
his ear and Alex found himself sprawled on the sand-covered flagstones of the
courtyard in a jumble of limbs. In confusion, he reached for his neck. The
noose was still around it. Perhaps the cord had snapped under his weight...
A hand clamped around his upper arm and pulled him to his feet. Gloved palm,
bare fingers... He stared into Yassen's face, at the Grach in his other hand,
and finally realised that he was still alive because the assassin had shot
through the rope that had been strangling him.
As luck had it, Alex's own realisation was as slow as everybody else's. His
struggles against gravity had focused the attention of everyone present,
allowing for Yassen's shot to fall almost unobserved. Almost.
"Gregorovich!" Klaus yelled.
All eyes turned from Alex to the Russian, and although Yassen's face was as
expressionless as ever, Alex could have sworn his eyes smiled. He fired. Klaus
actually jerked back and touched his chest.
What did explode, however, was the small camera-style box that the Accountant
had looped around his wrist. Black metal and plastic shards sprayed in all
directions, shattered by the bullet. The splinters ripped St Helier's perfect
shirt cuffs to shreds and left bloody scratches along his perfectly manicured
fingers, Alex saw with satisfaction.
For an endless moment, Yassen and St Helier stared at each other across the few
feet that separated them, oblivious to the Frenchman's guards scrambling for
their weapons. Then Yassen's Grach barked again, and the shoulder of St
Helier's white suit turned into a red hole soaked in blood. The Accountant was
thrown back by the force of the bullet just as his bodyguards surged forward to
catch him.
The olive-complexioned young man who'd brought Alex his last meal was dragging
St Helier backward into the archway and towards the main building while trying
to apply pressure to the hole in his shoulder. Half a dozen guards were
surrounding the two like human shields.
Alex found himself pulled backwards, and Yassen pushed the Grach into his hand.
Without thinking, Alex closed his fingers around the ribbed handle. Yassen
himself had produced a fully loaded semiautomatic pistol from the small of his
back under his jacket that made the bystanders delve for cover.
"The side exit – down to the harbour," Yassen hissed into Alex's ear. "Cover my
back!"
Without waiting for Alex's response, his gun sprayed a string of bullets at the
feet of the guards, causing little explosions in the sand. The men stumbled
backwards, realising that there wasn't much cover in the near-empty, sun-
flooded courtyard. Some made for the main building and gateway through which St
Helier's minders had taken him; some recovered enough presence of mind to
return fire.
Yassen's right foot came up, kicking up the leg of the metal stool Alex had
struggled on for his life. He easily caught it in his free hand, and ducked
behind it as if hiding behind a metal umbrella. Alex heard the bullets slam
into the metal circle with a series of hard cracks, but all they left were
dents. Yassen threw the stool at the marksmen like an added insult, then turned
and raced across the yard to the small north wall archway Alex had escaped
from. It felt like years ago.
Recalling his instructions, Alex pulled the trigger of the Grach twice to add
to the confusion, aiming just over the heads of the Scorpia men. Then he threw
himself after Yassen, reaching the safety of the archway just in time to see
the Russian fiddle with a keypad he hadn't even noticed during his nightly
flight. A final code, and a metal-mesh gate started to roll down from the top
of the archway, if far too slowly for Alex's taste.
"We'll have to reach the Delphyne," Yassen announced, "but there will be
perimeter security on the beach now. Stay behind me, stay covered, and make
sure nobody gets through this door – can you do that?"
Alex nodded, then pressed out, "Yes," so the assassin wouldn't think he was too
scared to speak or something.
"Good." Yassen didn't hesitate. Still ducked like a hunting cat, he raced down
the stairs, occasionally firing a bullet over the hip-high stone wall that drew
increasingly energetic fire in return.
Alex cast a nervous glimpse at the metal mesh that ambled down on what looked
like rather rusty hinges. Several Scorpia guards had reached the other end of
the archway, pressing themselves against the wall for cover and firing at Alex
in frustration. Alex returned their fire with an occasional shot from the
Grach, more in order to keep them at a distance than hoping to hit anyone. He
still wasn't sure he could, not in cold blood.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the short metal spikes of the gate slammed
into the sand and sealed off the doorway. Making a quick decision, he took the
Grach by the barrel and slammed the handle a couple of times into the keypad to
make sure the door couldn’t be lifted as easily as it had come down. Then he
leaned forward, carefully peering down over the wall to check Yassen's
progress.
That was when he heard the scraping of soles on stone and looked up, just in
time to see a figure fall down on him from the top of the archway.
Alex tried to bring up the Grach, but he wasn't quite fast enough. The impact
of a body slamming into him from above drove the air out of his lungs. He
screamed as the half-healed welts on his back crashed into the stone.
He didn't have to hear the satisfied laughter to know it was Klaus. Even a run-
of-the-mill Scorpia guard would not have gone for a mad climb over the castle
wall, even less jumped down two metres on a target perched on a stairwell. It
was the sort of thing you learned at Malagosto.
Despite the jolt of pain racing through him, Alex brought up his left elbow and
rammed it into the German's stomach. Klaus grunted and grabbed Alex's throat.
The man's weight had already squeezed most of the air out of Alex's lungs. Now,
he couldn't breathe at all.
Heat shot into Alex's face. His right hand jerked up the gun that was still
trapped between their bodies. He shifted his hip to give it more leeway. The
barrel moved. Alex's heart hammered, and red blots started to encroach on his
vision. He pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. In panic, Alex squeezed the trigger again, and this time, he
heard a dry click muffled against his stomach. The Grach's magazine was empty.
With a sob of despair, Alex arched up against the merciless grip, only to find
himself slammed back into the stone again. His vision flickered, and for a
fleeting moment, Alex had the impression that something dark was passing in the
air above them like a huge, silent sea gull.
Without even trying to hurry, Klaus reached for the sheath at his belt and
produced an US Army knife. Its blade was at least 7 inches long. Fear crashed
over Alex like a wave when the German smiled and leaned close to press the
serrated edge against his neck.
"Get down!" A voice that was lower than Yassen's screamed at him from beyond,
and Alex instinctively obeyed. He gave Klaus a final push, trying to propel him
backwards, then put his arms over his throat for protection and pressed himself
against the stairs.
He was looking up into the mercenary's face when Klaus jerked a couple of times
in quick succession. His expression froze in a grimace of shock, and a trickle
of blood started to spill from the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes broke,
and he fell forward, a heavy weight over Alex's chest.
With a noise of disgust, Alex crawled out from under the body and scrambled
away, still holding on to the empty gun. His eyes sought whoever had saved him
from having his throat cut.
A few feet down from him on the stairs stood a squat, muscular man in multi-
terrain patterned army fatigues. A MP5K 9mm submachine gun, still smoking at
the barrel, hung over his shoulder, and he was in the process of freeing
himself from the strings of a parachute that had landed like a huge dark
mushroom in the bushes beside the stairs.
Alex couldn’t make out a hair colour under the camouflage helmet, but he
recognised the compact body shape and the watchful black eyes at the same time
without even pausing at the SAS insignia.
"Wolf?" he gasped, staring at the shadowed face of the soldier. "What...? What
are you doing here?"
Wolf snorted. "Maybe you should ask Gregorovich? When we get a transmission
with your name in connection with his and one of Scorpia's board members plus a
set of naval coordinates, MI6 tends to take notice."
He stepped aside, and Alex looked down the slope. He counted at least five more
parachutes. Four had landed like ink dots on the small beach, while one was
hanging awkwardly in the bushes that covered the precipice.
The SAS men on the beach were exchanging shots with Scorpia guards that had
made it to the motor boats mooring at the harbour. Just as Alex watched, the
Scorpia marksman next to the driver in the nearest motor boat threw up his arms
and fell backward. The driver, too, jerked sideways, and the boat, on direct
course for the beach, impacted on the sand with a squealing noise that hurt his
ears. It somersaulted once while the closest SAS men raced away, ducking for
cover, then crashed into the bushes and exploded in a ball of fire. Even where
he stood, Alex could feel the dry heat on his face.
His eyes found Yassen, who'd taken cover at the bottom of the stairs and was
firing over the narrow wall at the riders of the second motor boat, who kept at
a respectful distance from the shore after witnessing their associates' fate.
"Let's go," Wolf said. He shot a dark look at Yassen's back before shooing Alex
down the stairs towards him.
"You're late," the Russian commented without turning around when they ducked
behind the wall next to him.
"You can be fucking glad we turned up at all," Wolf growled.
"I know you wouldn't have come for me." Yassen pointed out. "But the boy...
that's different, isn't it?"
The second motor boat raced past in a sweeping curve, spraying the sand with
bullets before shooting along underneath the cliffs and out of sight. Alex was
about to rise when the sound of a distant explosion ripped through the air. Or
at least it resembled an explosion, followed by a gush of water. Alex could
feel the ground tremble under his feet, even though he could see nothing.
A moment later, a different boat shot out from behind the island and into the
open sea on a south-east-bound course. It was considerably larger than the
motor boats, larger even than the Delphyne, and lay deep in the water, leaving
white spray in its wake. And it was incredibly fast for its size.
"An Ultra-Fast APV4 patrol craft, custom-made," Yassen commented with a sense
of appreciation. "I conducted Scorpia's purchase of it years ago in Alborg in
Denmark, but I've never seen it in action. 55 knots top speed – impressive."
"That's St Helier, isn't it?" Wolf seethed. "He's getting away!"
"You knew this was a top Scorpia installation." Yassen shrugged. "They tend to
come with emergency evacuation facilities. What did you expect?"
Wolf replied with a bitten-back curse and waved his men over to him. One of
them had a superficial graze across his upper arm, but nobody seemed seriously
hurt. Wolf nodded at a tall black soldier with close-cropped dark hair. "This
is Lion. He's a member of M Squadron in the Special Boat Service, and a medic.
Go with him now. He'll look after you."
There was something in Wolf's voice that set Alex's nerves on end. The man
didn't quite manage to look him in the eye. Lion put a hand around Alex's arm
and started to lead him towards the far end of the beach, away from the dock.
Alex's neck prickled. He stopped, and turned.
The soldiers had somehow managed to surround Yassen in a loose half circle
without seeming to move towards him at all. Wolf was looking at the Russian
with a bull-headed stare. He didn't look happy. Then Wolf's MP5K moved up.
"No!" Alex screamed, lunging forward. Lion's grip on his arm stopped him.
Wolf looked over at him for a second. "I'm sorry, Cub. I have my orders." He
shrugged as if trying to offer an apology. Then he returned to his target. At
least three of his unit followed suit. The clicks of machine gun safeties being
removed rasped loudly across the beach.
Yassen stood on the sand, a few crucial footsteps away from the gangplank. His
silhouette was half averted as if to offer as small a target as possible. He
hadn't even bothered to draw his semiautomatic again. It would make no
difference. At this distance, four submachine guns would rip him apart before
he could get a shot off.
"Don't watch," Lion said, trying to intersperse himself between Alex and the
scene on the sand. "Gregorovich is too dangerous to take prisoner. He's killed
three good men when he escaped from MI6 the last time."
Icy clarity descended upon Alex. He could not let this happen. Yassen had
risked his bloody life and shot his former lover to rescue Alex. He'd nearly
died for Alex before – it couldn't happen again.
With strength Alex hadn't known he still possessed, he tore his arm from the
SBS man's grip and leapt forward, throwing himself between Yassen and the
soldiers and racing towards the assassin.
"Get down!" Wolf screamed behind him. Alex ignored him. "Stop, Cub!" There was
a note of real panic in the SAS commander's voice. Alex had no time to worry
about whether Wolf's orders had been sufficiently explicit to gun him down as
well just to take out Yassen.
He threw himself forward once again until he veritably barrelled into the
Russian. Yassen's arm came around his hip, pulling him close against his front
like a shield. An instant later, the cold muzzle of the assassin's gun touched
Alex's temple.
"Let him go, Gregorovich!" Wolf yelled. "This isn't going to help you. You
can't get away."
Out of the corner of his eye, close as he was to Yassen's face, Alex could see
the assassin smile. Yassen didn't bother to answer. Instead, he pulled Alex
backwards with him, face hidden behind Alex's neck and his cheek pressed
against Alex's to leave as small a target as possible. A shiver ran through
Alex at the intimate closeness. Yassen went backwards and up the plank almost
provocatively slow, leaving Wolf's squad ample time to fire if they chose to.
They didn't, and only Yassen heard the sigh of relief that escaped Alex when he
realised that he still seemed to be worth enough to MI6 to not sacrifice him
along with their target. Maybe they thought he suffered from Stockholm
Syndrome. Wrapped inside Yassen's arms, Alex let himself be dragged down the
stairs and into the cabin. Perhaps he did?
As soon as they were out of the SAS's line of sight, Yassen released Alex and
grabbed his shoulders, shaking him once. "Are you holding up, Alex?"
Alex nodded, only to receive a push towards the ladder up to the bridge. "Go to
the instrument panel and hoist anchor. The override key is…" Alex did his best
to commit the series of numbers and letters to memory and pulled himself up the
ladder.
The Delphyne's cockpit looked more like an airplane's than a boat's. Alex slid
into the pilot seat and frantically searched the controls. Thankfully, the
functions were labelled clearly, and Alex hit the button labelled 'anchor'. A
password request popped up on the screen, and he reeled off the code Yassen had
given him.
The Russian leapt in behind him and threw himself into the chair of the second-
in-command next to Alex after discarding his gun on the table.
"Activate the emergency engines," Yassen ordered, and Alex's fingers obeyed
without pause. Something raw and powerful sprang to life below their feet,
purring like a hunting cat waiting to prowl. It didn't sound like a motor yacht
engine – it sounded like sheer power.
Alex threw a look over his shoulder, and saw that Yassen had settled in front
of an instrument panel that didn't look like a navigation console at all. Then
he caught sight of the twin machine guns rising out of the deck on both sides
of the cockpit. Yassen pulled a lever, and the barrels swung towards the shore.
"Don't kill them!" Alex screeched. He hadn't wanted Wolf's men to gun down
Yassen in cold blood on the beach, but they didn't deserve to die for it!
"I'm not planning to," Yassen snapped without moving his eyes from the
crosshairs. "But I've crippled the fortress' autocannon defences, which means
they'll be trying to move a ship close to pick them up. We want to be out of
here before they do that."
He hit the fire button, spraying the beach with bullets. Alex could see Wolf
and his men jump back and race for cover among the bushes and behind the wall
of the stairs. Wolf ended up slung behind one of his men, who was ducking
behind the stone wall and yelling into a radio transmitter.
"Move us out of the harbour," Yassen instructed just as Wolf jumped up,
machine-gun raised, and gestured to his troops. "Outside their line of fire."
Alex obeyed. His fingers found the right buttons after a moment's deliberation,
and the powerful engines shuddered under his feet as the Delphyne drew away
from the shore. The SAS bullets fell short and landed splashed harmlessly into
the water. Through the retreating Plexiglas canopy, Alex could see Wolf's lips
move and knew the soldier was cursing.
Yassen sunk the machine guns back into their sockets and nodded at Alex, who
slipped gratefully out of his chair. Under the assassin's hands, the yacht
turned in an elegant narrow circle and shot off towards the open sea. Yassen
drew the face of the navigation computer towards him and bent over it, fingers
dancing over the keys.
"So when did you decide you weren't going to kill me?" Alex ground out when
Isle de la Picaterre had disappeared on the horizon, and the only thing within
view was the bow of the Delphyne cutting through the calm waters.
Yassen threw him a quizzical look, then returned his attention to his computer.
"Actually, I never actively planned to kill you at all," he said, typing
calmly.
"You could have told me!" Alex yelled.
Yassen looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "No, Alex, I could not. I saw you
come apart after the whipping. Your fear of death had to be real to be
convincing."
Alex looked away, only to find the assassin's hand close around his upper arm,
shaking him once for emphasis.
"It doesn't make you weak, you stupid child!" Yassen said, speaking slowly as
if trying to get through to a toddler. "Just human. You did extremely well
today."
Alex couldn't remain still any more. He jumped up from his swivel chair and
made for the cockpit door. He needed fresh air; he needed to deal with the
anger that was boiling inside him.
The Delphyne's deck was sun-flooded when he stepped out of the cabin. A brisk
wind hit his cheeks, and left the taste of salty spray on his lips. Alex leaned
against the wall of the cabin and closed his eyes for a long moment.
He felt the leather tong of the noose whipping in the breeze, still hanging on
by a thread. Alex tore it off and hurled it into the sea.
After a few minutes, the yacht's course shifted subtly, and her speed reduced a
little. A moment later, Alex heard the soft sound of Yassen's footsteps behind
him.
"What now?" Alex asked, still looking out over the railing.
"We will reach the coast of Brittany in a bit over an hour," Yassen replied.
"And go ashore at some tiny fishing port, I think. From there, you should be
able to make your way without much trouble." Through the hair falling into his
face, Alex could see the assassin lean against the railing next to him. "I'd
suggest you head for the British Embassy in Paris. There are sufficient sums of
money on board to get you a bus or train ticket."
"But Scorpia," Alex protested. "You betrayed them. You shot down one of their
board members, for heaven's sake!" Not to mention that said board member had
been Yassen's lover, once. Or so he'd claimed.
Yassen shrugged, an almost imperceptible little gesture. "I put a bullet
through Arsène's shoulder, not his brain. Once he stops raging, the
implications should be obvious."
"He told me that once you'd got rid of me, he was going to consider you for a
seat on the Executive Board of Scorpia," Alex said. Part of him knew he should
probably not tell Yassen as long as the Russian was still close enough to
strangle or drown him, but Yassen had saved his life again – the truth was the
least Alex owed him.
The assassin's face was unreadable as ever. When Alex had almost accepted that
their conversation was at an end, Yassen raised his head. "I'm not saying that
I wouldn't have been tempted, had I known. Or that I am unhappy to see you come
out of this alive once more. But I didn't do it for you, Alex."
"Why, then," Alex prodded softly.
The Russian sighed with more than a touch of self-deprecation. "I don't like
being manipulated. Even less being threatened, or blackmailed. It tends to...
bring out the worst in me."
Alex couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from quirking up. "Scorpia would
certainly agree," he said drily. Betraying and opening up one of the
organisation's top secret installations to the SAS would be memorable indeed.
"But they'll come after you."
"For a while," Yassen shrugged. "It will be good exercise. Then, at some point,
they'll realise that they'd rather have me working on a job for them than
losing their operatives to me, and make me an offer to work for them again."
"You trust St Helier that far?" Alex asked, doubt audible in his voice. "He
watched us, last night."
"I know," Yassen confirmed. "That's when he thought he had me."
"Are we going to talk about it?" Alex mumbled, eyes fixed on the horizon. His
face was going red again. He shouldn't have brought it up at all!
"Should we?" Yassen asked.
Alex whirled around and glared at the assassin. "What do I know?" he yelled.
"If it was just a pity fuck for a hysterical teenager who thought he was going
to die, then no, let's not mention it ever again." He felt something crack in
his self-control. Maybe the strain of nearly dying was finally catching up with
him.
He didn't expect Yassen to grace his childish outburst with a response. He
expected him to just walk away.
"What if it was an opportunity?"
Alex tilted his head, not quite turning around.
"One that would look good to Arsène?" Something changed in Yassen's tone – it
became lower somehow, darker. "And a bit of payback to your father, for
screwing me over?"
"That's pretty sick," Alex muttered. He was suddenly glad the Russian stood a
few steps away from him. He wasn't quite sure what might happen if Yassen
touched him.
"You asked." The assassin caught Alex's side glance. He sighed, and rubbed the
bridge of his nose. "Look, Alex... I wouldn't have done you if the situation
hadn't called for it."
Alex nodded, thin-lipped. Before he could turn away, Yassen closed the slight
distance between them and grabbed hold of his wrist to stop him. Alex's mind
went blank. He didn't move.
"I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't wanted to either." Abruptly, Yassen
released Alex's hand. "You'll have to make of that whatever you want."
Alex wrapped his arms around himself as if to protect himself against the
breeze. He didn't want Yassen to see that he was trembling. He nodded.
This time, Yassen did leave, walking back to the cabin with calm, measured
steps. Unshaken. Alive.
Alex slid down with his back to the railing until he sat on deck, and hugged
his knees tightly.
They had survived, against all odds. It would have to be enough.
~ The End ~
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