Roll of the Dice - Wolfeschatten - Alex Rider (2024)

Chapter 1: The Die is Cast

Chapter Text

All too soon, nothing would be left of the fire but faintly simmering embers and charred remnants of an evergreen log. The smoke, tinged with the essence of fir, wafted through the intricate metal grate into the room beyond. The study was peaceful and impersonal, imbued with a sense of tranquility that was heightened by the dim lighting and dark upholstered furniture. It, like the mansion in which it resided, was designed in the classical style of Napoleonic era, when the Russian aristocracy thought it modish to emulate the sophistication of the East. Of course, only the frame itself remained of that time, as the walls had burned with the rest of Moscow when the French army invaded.

Whatever had been housed inside had wither been lost to the flames or absconded with by those fleeing the oblast. The current possessions and furnishings—from the musky tomes lining every inch of the oaken shelves to the trodden wooden slats that illustrated the path dozens had walked before—were similarly antique, although had been gathered from all around the world. The grandest addition, and only one to house any form of sentimentality, was the writing desk. It was a simple bureau Mazarin, with faded wood and a rickety foreleg. The bureau had been owned by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, one of the most renowned poets to ever live, founder of Russia’s contemporary literature, but now, nearly two centuries later, a man of a different renown sat there. His name was Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov.

His bright eyes had been gazing fixedly at the dying fire, but as the last of the flames barely warmed the blackened bricks of the hearth, they moved to the thick folder laying before him. He knew already what the file entailed. His decision to go through with the project was not without regret, but the costs were necessary; Nikita had instilled that in him long ago, infixing the sentiment in between glasses of vodka, and in place of hollow utterances of condolences, which had been everyone else’s answer.

Tsel’ opravdyvaet sredstva.

Zharkov had no other choice but to believe the words with his whole being now. He and Nikita had come too far—cast their die and crossed the Rubicon so long ago that they had no choice but to continue onward. It would be a betrayal to her memory to do anything less, but even this conviction could not ease the guilt that clawed its way into his head. How many more sacrifices would this voracious endeavour demand?

He could only hope that success would find him some release.

Artyom traced a finger delicately around the rim of the charka—a lavish, gaudy crystal glass that Sergei had gifted him as a joke—and watched with disdain as the clear liquid rippled as a result. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to say exactly when the habit developed. He was only cognisant of the fact it happened every day, regardless of the day’s events. Like clockwork, the moment he sat down at his desk, he poured himself a glass and set it to the side, and on occasion, drew a finger across its faultless edge. Never once would he take a sip. It was a ritual that baffled many of his guests and amused his friends—the few that he had, and the even fewer he allowed into his home. His staff had long since grown accustomed to tossing away the untouched spirits the next morning.

Artyom, again, traced his finger along the edge and flipped open the first of the files. A girl, twelve years old with sharp brown eyes and blonde hair plaited messily over one shoulder, stared back at him. The slight flush around her nose and cheeks, the puffiness of her eyes, and sheen of her skin all suggested she had been recently crying. She might have even been crying as the photograph was taken, but perhaps had realized that no amount of tears would change her situation.

It was not a new development that had Zharkov’s men searching abroad for new subjects, although the frequency and number of new additions had increased vastly since the project’s inception. In the first months, the atomograd had only boasted five residents, and they hadn’t lasted long. It had been less of a risk back then; his agreement with the Solntsevskaya grupirovka meant he had access to subjects as soon as he needed a replacement, but as his research developed, their needs became more specific.

Young. Healthy. Resilient. It all pointed to more pubescent, when their bodies were already undergoing vast changes and would be more receptive to suggestions.

Yes, there were dangers, and Bradlik had become bold and hubristic, but the recent disappointments left him with no choice. His operation had to adapt if they were to succeed. If he were to become too exposed, there were measures he and Danya could take. He could always call on old friends, allies. Seryozha had been reaching out recently, feeling sentimental no doubt as the anniversary approached, but Artyom couldn’t deny the timing was perfect…

A knock brought Artyom’s focus away from the files and to the mahogany door at the entrance of the study. Without waiting for a response, the door opened. A young man strode in, confidently, and bowed his head in a small gesture of respect. Daniil Danis was younger than most would expect of the head of security for such a prestigious institution, at only twenty-nine years old, but he had quickly proved himself more than capable of maintaining the security of Institute im. Nenavos and—more importantly—willing to do anything to ensure its success.

He was a handsome man, and would have been more so if it weren’t for his taciturn, affectless bearing, a personality that had been drilled into him since childhood, and then praised during his years in the military. Although he had retired from his service years ago, his brown hair was still trimmed short, nearly to the scalp in a true military fashion. His clothes, dark trousers and a simple dress shirt, were always pristine and impersonal. Artyom rarely saw the young man without an austere expression, and even then, it wasn’t happy or relaxed.

Danya stopped a few feet away from the desk and held himself stiffly at attention, shoulders back, arms at his side. His steely eyes waited for a flicker of acknowledgement from the older man before speaking.

“Prosti, chto tak pozdno,” he said, in his low voice, “no iz Londona pozvonili.” I’m sorry for the late hour, but London called.

Artyom’s hand twitched, his nails scratching the paper softly. He flicked the file shut. “Chto proizoshlo?” What happened?

“Kazhetsya, chto bylo narushenie bezopasnosti. Bradlik garantiruet mnye, chto svoi bratki s ehtim—spravyatsya.” It seems there has been a security breach. Bradlik ensures me his men are—handling it.

“Znaem kto?” Do we know who? Artyom ran a finger along the edge of the glass again, straining not to disturb the vodka inside.

“Zhurnalist,” came the curt reply. A Journalist. Danya watched the repetitious motion, fixedly. Artya had offered him a glass in the past, but Danya almost always declined. It had never felt right to drink when his host never would. “Vidimo, on kakoe-to vremya rabotal volonterom v odnom iz predpryatii Bradlika. Neyasno, kak on voobsche ustanovil svyaz’.” Apparently, he’d been volunteering at one of Solntsevo’s businesses for some time. It’s unclear how he made the connection in the first place.

Artyom stood abruptly, knocking his chair away as he struggled to control his anger. He approached the bay windows behind him. A gentle snow fall cascaded down from the dark December sky, hardening into a frigid, silver shell once it reached the ground. The only illumination was the refracted lights coming from the manor itself, and had there been no storm, he would have a perfect view of the stars; the freezing cold only serving to emphasise the burning fires from billions of miles away. Zharkov had shut the velvet curtains as soon as the sun set in an attempt to stave off the cold seeping through the glass, but a thin gap had stubbornly refused to remain closed.

Artyom tugged them closed now, and with his back still turned, said, “Priskorbno, a ne neozhidanno. Ubedisya, chto s zhurnalistom razobralis’. Nam nuzhno kak mozhno dol’she ostavat’sya vne polye zreniya. Nash srok snova byl otlozhen, i pryamo seichas my ne mozhem pozvolit’ sebe razoblacheniya.” Unfortunate, but not unanticipated. Make sure the journalist is dealt with. I want this to remain quiet for as long as possible. Our timeline has been delayed again, and we can’t afford any kind of exposure right now.

Danya bowed his head in agreement. He paused briefly before adding, unable to keep the sneer from his voice, “i chto s Bradlikom?” And what of Bradlik?

Artyom turned to him questioningly.

It was rare for Daniil to speak openly, and even rarer for him to express open contempt in a business matter. Although Artyom had given him permission to use the familiar only after a few months after hiring the young soldier, he did so sparingly. Whether this reticence was due to nearly a decade and a half of military training or out of tenacious admiration for Zharkov, Danya typically agreed wordlessly then acted in the best interest for the company through silent, yet efficient, means.

Danya Danis adjusted his stance, gripping his wrist tightly. Meeting Zharkov’s gaze evenly, he said, “ehto ne pervyi raz, kogda Bradlik i evo lyudi sovershayut oshibky. On nebrezhnyi i gordyi. sh*taet, chto yevo semejnye uzy delayut yevo neprikosnovennym.” This isn’t the first time Bradlik and his men have made an error. He is negligent and prideful. He believes his family ties make him untouchable.

“Ehto pravdo.” Artyom nodded, turning back to the curtains, and pushing them aside incuriously. “A on sygral vazhnuyu rol’ v tom, chto nabrat’ novyx ispytuemyx. S takim zhe oxvatom i vozmozhnostyami ne tak mnogo lyudei.” But he’s been instrumental in attaining new subjects. There are not many with the same reach and capabilities.

Danis visibly fought back his displeasure, setting his jaw, and casting his glare to the floor. Adam Bradlik was insufferable—although, Zharkov knew that Daniil found very few people sufferable—and often acted like a petulant, spoiled child when it came to money, likely a result of trying to prove himself in one of the largest and profitable criminal organizations in the world, only worsened by the fact that the pakhan was a blood relative. It was even more unfortunate that it was his faction whose international reach was almost unparalleled, and that his morality was easily swayed by the number of zeroes present in a bank transfer. Danis would have to suffer Bradlik’s existence—at least, until he outlived his usefulness.

“Znayu,” Daniil acknowledged grudgingly, grimacing as if the words left a bitter taste behind. “Mozhet ya nanesu yevo vizit. Vozmozhno, chto on pozvolyaet proisxodit’ podobnomu, chtoby trebovat’ bol’shei oplaty.” But maybe I will pay him a visit. He might be allowing this sort of thing to happen so he can demand more money.

Zharkov didn’t respond. Kneading the palm of his hand methodically, he watched as the last bit of snowfall danced in the wind. A flash of light peaked through the palisade of birch, pine, and spruce trees. It blinked in and out in an unintelligible sequence, starting in the East and gradually crossing the length of the property until it vanished for a final time—undoubtedly a patrol making their rounds. Zharkov checked his watch. They were seven minutes late.

Good, he thought, pleased. Timeliness in a security team meant predictability, and predictability meant faults that could be exploited.

Danya shifted, and his reflection ghosted across the windowpane. He glanced subtly over his shoulder, almost as if impatient to leave, although Artyom knew this wasn’t the case.

The Abramov Manor was located well outside Moscow, over two hours by the motorway, and longer when there was snow and ice on the ground. It was unlikely for Danis to drive all this way, only to leave a few minutes. This news concerning the blunder in London, although worrisome and infuriating, could have waited until the morning or even given over the phone. Which meant it wasn’t his only reason for coming here…

Artyom let slip a small smile. As expansive as Daniss’s set of skills was, subtlety had never been one of them, and his infatuation with a certain young woman who happened to work at the Zharkov residence was even less so.

Zharkov considered remarking on it but dismissed the idea almost immediately; Danya had never been one to talk about his personal life—or seemed at all capable of acting on his feelings in a competent, mature manner. Instead, Artya turned back to the matter at hand. “Poka Bradlik s problemoi spravitsya, menya ne volnuet. Yesli povezyot, skoro proizoidyot proryv, i nam bol’she nikogda ne pridyotsya rabotat’ s ehtim chelovekom.” So long as Bradlik handles the problem, I’m not concerned. With any luck, we will soon have a breakthrough, and we will never have to work with this man again.

“Ya proslezhu za ehtim,” Danya promised. I will see to it.

“Xorosho” Good.

Zharkov frowned as he reflected on the implications of a simple journalist meddling in his affairs. It was too soon for the project to come to light. Not only had the last batch been a failure, as the recent tests implied, but he hadn’t begun preparing the officials for such a concept. They would be reluctant at first, as was a natural response, but after reminding them of why it was necessary, they would come to accept it. However, it would take care and finesse—a steady hand guiding them through the process. If the unfinished results were dropped on them suddenly…

And all because a simple journalist and even simpler avtorityet. And how? The Englishman could have merely stumbled across the shipments. It was no secret that the Russian mafia had their hand in multiple criminal enterprises—trafficking and racketeering had all but become synonymous with Soviet organised crime over the past decades—so it was feasible for the reporter to have been looking into one matter and uncovered another one entirely. Only it shouldn’t have been likely for it to happen given the handsome figure donated to Bradlik’s charity. If he became any more careless, it was only a matter of time before someone more problematic, with more concerning allegiances than a news service, traced the Bratva’s dealings back to Zharkov.

“Vozmozhno,” Artyom said, almost to himself, “my sami stali nebrezhnymi.” Maybe we have grown careless. “Nasha rabota slishkom zametna.” Our work is too visible.

“Bradlik vinovat. Yevo proklyat—” It’s Bradlik’s fault. His blood— Daniil caught himself as Artya co*cked a brow in amusem*nt, then amended, “—duratskoe nastoichivoe trebovanie vklyuchat’ kazhdovo iz svoix bratkov. Dolzhen li ya priklazat’ yemu ostanovit’sya i skazat’ nemtsu, chto yemu pridyotsya dovol’stvovat’sya tem, chto u nevo est’?” –his foolish insistence on involving every single one of his men. Should I order him to stop for now, tell the German he will have to make do with what he has?”

Artyom hesitated. It would certainly be safer, but already they were facing significant delays after the recent failures. If one part of the operation was stalled, the other could move forward and make some progress at the very least. “Nyet,” he decided, no. “Skazhi im, chtoby oni podolzhali. Kak prezhde. Ya sam prosmotryu smes’ i—” Tell them to continue. As they were before. I will look at the formulae myself and—

“Tyoma?” A soft, melodic voice drifted down the hallway outside. “Artyomochka, ty sdes’?” Are you in here? The door swept open to reveal a small figure, silhouetted by the ornate sconces that lined the wall. The woman hovered in the threshold, surprised to find a second man, but the distant worry that furrowed her brow gave way to warmth as she recognised the young soldier. Mila stepped inside.

Artyom smiled, a stark contradiction to the calculative blankness that normally graced his features. He crossed the room in long, swift strides, enclosed Mila’s delicate hands with his cumbersome ones, and pressed his lips gently to her cheek. “Zolottse,” he murmured. He led her to the divan that stood across from the hearth and encouraged her to sit. She remained standing. “Ya dumal, chto ty zasnula.” My love, I thought you had gone to sleep.

Her fragile, loving gaze traced her husband’s face with a smile. “Spat’ ne mogla.” I couldn’t sleep. Mila’s lips tightened and, looking vaguely over Artya’s shoulder at the dark oak walls, she added quietly, “ne xotelos’.” I didn’t want to.

The first time Artyom had laid eyes on Mila, he hadn’t been able to turn away. In truth, it wasn’t because of her beauty—not at first at least—but because he mistook her for Tatiana Samoilova, an actress whom his mother had adored obsessively. Curious, daring almond eyes, perfectly curled black hair, a teasing smile that had only grown wider when she noticed his attention. The years had woven streaks of grey into her dark hair, grief and stress just visible behind her eyes, but it did nothing to diminish her beauty.

Mila extracted herself from her husband’s grasp and approached Danya, whom she regarded fondly, as parent would a child. She took his face between her two hands and pulled him close, so she could kiss him twice, once on each cheek. “Dobryi vecher, Danisha. Ty ostanesh’sya na chai?” Good evening, Danya. Will you stay for tea?

Daniil hesitated and glanced toward the door. Mila grinned knowingly; Artyom wasn’t the only one who suspected Daniil had ulterior motives for visiting the Zharkov manor.

“Prosti, Mila. Ya—dolzhen uidti. Vsyo zhe, spasibo.” I am sorry. I—should go. Thank you, though.

“Konechno, Danisha. Vsegda.” Of course, Danya. Always. Cupping her hand to hide the obvious words from her husband, she whispered loudly, “peredai ei privyet.” Tell her I say hi.

Danis’s lip twitched amusedly, and he nodded. “Peredam.” I will. He stepped back so as to not speak directly in her face and addressed Artyom in heavily accented English. “I will contact when I know results in London. Maybe after this problem, Bradlik will learn. Act smarter.”

“Maybe, but I doubt so. I believe you are right. We might need to—reevaluate our partnership.” Artyom turned towards the fireplace, only to turn around a second later with a frown. “Speak with Khuan tomorrow,” he added, remembering the bothersome email his head of staff had sent a few weeks prior, and the few follow-up notifications and moments in person he had managed to steal on the rare occasions Zharkov had gone into the office. “He is bothering me—something about he wants to allow for tours and other advertisem*nt opportunities.”

Predictably, Daniil glowered. “Of course.”

“Do zavtra.” Till tomorrow.

“Do zavtra,” Danis replied and addressed Mila politely, grimacing apologetically at her unamused frown. “Dobroi nochi, Mila.” Good night.

“Good night,” she retorted coyly, her words twisted by her unfamiliarity with English pronunciation.

The door clicked shut. In the silence that now encompassed the room, Artyom contemplated laying on a new log in the fireplace, but it was unlikely that it would catch and revive the fire. He didn’t truly need to rekindle the flames either; it was late enough in the evening that it would be more comfortable to move to the centre of the mansion, where it would stay warmer and was furnished in a way that was comfortable and meant to be enjoyed.

Mila had not yet moved from where she had embraced Danya and was now regarding her husband churlishly. “Pochemu vy govorili po-angliski?” Why were you speaking in English, she probed. Not only was it exceedingly rude to purposefully speak in a language she didn’t understand, purposefully in her presence, but she had also repeatedly told him in the past how frustrated she felt at being handled like a child. She narrowed her eyes at him. “O chyom govorili?” What were you talking about?

“O dele. Nichevo vazhnovo.” Business. Nothing important.

“Artyomka,” Mila chided.

“Milochka,” he mimicked. He drew his fingertips along her face, barely caressing the soft skin, reveling in the shiver coursing down her arms. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear, and whispered, “prosto o dele. obishayu.” It was only work. I promise. He kissed her temple.

“Pochemu ya tebe ne veryu?“ Why don’t I believe you?

Sighing resignedly, Mila slipped an arm through her husband’s and gave a slight tug towards the hall, sidling closer, fitting perfectly against her side. She had no desire to remain in the study, no more than he wished her too. The man she loved existed outside of his work, his devoted gaze seemingly always able to find her. Mila tucked her head against his shoulder and asked, “khochesh’ chai? V samovar eschyo dolzhna ostat’sya voda.” Would you like some tea? There should still be some water in the samovar.

The hall was shocking compared to the warmth of the study, but not horribly so. The walls were adorned similarly to the other rooms, but the parts of the mansion held more character, a more personal note, unlike the rooms that were solely left to Artyom to decorate. If it were up to him, there would be no portraits, icons, or kavyory—colorful tapestries meant to keep the warmth inside—on the walls, but Mila spent so much time within those walls, she had grown tired and sad of the despondent character. One day, Artyom had tasked Daniil with bringing back as many antiques and adornments as he possibly could, and the shine in Mila’s eyes had been worth it.

She beamed up at him then and glanced inside the kitchen, almost furtively. It was empty—not that Artyom had expected anyone there to begin with. The manor had very few staff to begin with, and those that did, with the exception of a few, lived in local villages. At his questioning gaze, she laughed, a soft melodic sound. “Slushai, ya ne dumayu, chto ty prichina togo, chto Danya priexal sevodnya vecherom. K sozhaleniyu.” You know, I don’t think that Danya came to see you. Unfortunately.

Artya hummed. “Anna.”

Mila turned on him, accusingly. “Ty uznal?” You knew? “I nichego ne skazal?” And didn’t say anything?

“Mozhet byt’.” Maybe.

Artya wandered about the kitchen, towards the corner of the small room where the two Windsor cabinets combined into one. He reached up past the top shelf and patted around blindly until his hand brushed a wicker basket, tucked just out of sight. Artyom had caught Anna Evgenevna Segal balancing precariously on a stack of thick cooking books and a pair of chairs, more than once, caching the basket away as if it were her most prized possession.

He pulled down the box and selecting Mila’s favorite out of the multitude of options. “I mozhet byt’,” he crowed triumphantly, “ya znayu, gde Anna pryachet shokolad.” And maybe I know where Anna hides the chocolate.

Mila laughed and set about making tea properly, humming a sweet song under her breath. Having lulled only minutes before, the storm outside regained momentum and hurled torrents of snow and ice through the wind and against the manor’s exteriors. It snatched away any trace of smoke from the fading embers in the study and sent the last remnants of evergreen aroma back throughout the room. On the bureau, the charka laid untouched, filled to the brim, next to the file filled with children who will never be found.

Chapter 2: The Courageous

Chapter Text

For a moment, Alex couldn't see. Then near darkness that followed the end credits gave way to the lights in the lobby, and he squinted in an attempt to limit the sensory input. Gradually, his eyes stopped protesting the artificial light. The others in the lobby had already begun to stream outside, and Alex found himself caught in a rather large group of friends. Briefly, he glanced around, but he didn't have to look long before he sighted a familiar mop of blackish brown hair. Tom hadn't felt the need to wait for his friend inside the cinema and waited—almost—patiently just outside the doors. He was still shoveling the last bit of popcorn into his mouth by the time Alex fell in step beside him.

Taking a moment to zip up their jackets, they set off down the street, occasionally dodging the other bustling pedestrians, who were intent on making their way to their next destination as quickly as possible. Already most of the shops on street Road were exploding with decorations for the holidays, despite it being the first week in December. The sweet aroma of roasting nuts wafted through the air whenever there was a breeze. A few strands of lights flickered on overhead as the sun inched closer towards the horizon, taking with it the last bit of the day's warmth.

Tom dug through his jacket pockets and produced a hat. "Did you see that move Tom Cruise's character did during that fight in the jungle?"

Alex was impressed the other boy had managed to get an entire block from the cinema before beginning his post-film rant. He didn't respond, but Tom never seemed bothered by the fact that Alex rarely did when it came to dissecting fight sequences. In fact, his friend seemed perfectly content to pick apart whatever film he had most recently seen, whether Alex knew what he was talking about or not.

"It was truly absurd. I mean, I know the director's want to capitalize on Cruise's famous stunts scenes and all, but I'm pretty sure kicking someone like that, in the jugular, would be a killing shot or something."

Alex hummed in agreement. In all honesty, he didn't care for the film. He had only agreed to go because it was somethingnormalthat he could do with his friend. He had returned from Australia, knowing exactly what his godfather had done, what had happened to his parents, and he was supposed to just go back to being a teenager. Walking down the street with his best mate, that was exactly how Alex felt.

He tilted his head back and sighed, finding mild amusem*nt in the puffy white cloud that dissipated as quickly as it appeared. He should be happy that he had the opportunity to do something as casual as go to the cinema, but somehow it felt…wrong. Alex had made an appearance on the last day of school before the break, played football with some of his old school friends, and had even had absolutely no contact with the bank. He should at the very least be content with the turn of events.

"Are we really supposed to believe that they just happened to stumble upon the one person who knew what the hell was going on?" Tom seemed to be oblivious to Alex's conundrum. He had found jellies from somewhere and was munching on them in between thoughts. "I mean I understand life is coincidental to a certain extent, and there's that whole 'nine degrees of separation' thing, but—"

Alex glanced at his friend. He couldn't tell if Tom was testing whether Alex was paying attention or if he truly thought it wasninedegrees. He shrugged. It was most likely the latter, if Alex were being honest; Tom hated reading.

"—definitely think the sidekick deserves more appreciation. We all know it's the little guy who comes to the rescue in the end."

"And you think that's you then, do you?" Alex grinned. "The little guy?"

Tom shoved him in retaliation.

The two boys continued their way back towards Chelsea. Neither of them had any reason to hurry home, so they leisurely navigated around straggling groups of tourists. Alex was making surprising headway in his coursework with the help of a new tutor—Mr. Grey refused to work with him after Alex's vanishing act in Italy—and Tom had no desire to spend more time than necessary around his parents, who, in Tom's words, were 'bloody nightmares.' They were still in the process of separating, but apparently hadn't gotten any better since the summer. It is entirely likely they hadn't notice Tom slip out earlier in the day during one of their more tumultuous screaming matches.

Alex didn't envy his friend. Whilst the fact that he never knew his parents pained him beyond measure, he didn't think he could cope with his mum and dad hating one another. Instead, he had to deal with the melodramatic reality of heinous psychopaths and plots to bring about the next Holocaust. And now that he was safe to walk down the street as himself and without fear that someone was about to do him harm, doubt and the absence of something were wheedling their way into his gut, like worms rotting an apple from the inside out. Alex supposed something had to be wrong with him.

Tom snapped his popcorn flavored fingers in front of his friend's eyes.

Slapping the offending hand away, Alex sent him a bemused glance. "What?"

"Are you okay?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his shoes resolutely. "Like, honestly though?"

The seriousness of the question brought Alex to a full stop. An annoyed huff of another pedestrian alerted him to the fact the two boys were blocking the majority of the sidewalk, but Alex didn't care. "Yeah, why d'you ask?"

"It's just—oi, watch it!"

Someone barreled between Tom and Alex. The man glanced back, but his gaze went through the two boys, focusing on something farther down the street.

The man had obviously been running for some time. Despite the deep chill in the air, beads of sweat trailed down the side of his face. His breath came in short, shallow puffs. His ears burned a deep magenta, the kind of color that meant, as soon as the appendages regained any bit of heat, they would begin to burn horribly. He blinked once, his eyes flooded with fear. Without so much as a mouthed apology, the man was gone. The only evidence of his presence were other angered exclamations as he bumped into even more people down the street.

Not a minute later, Alex felt himself once again shoved to the side as a second man rushed by. The new individual, however, had the complete opposite countenance. Where the first man was skittish, he was determined and apathetic.

Alex knew without a doubt that this second man was following the other. His pulse thrummed. The man had unmistakably been terrified of his tail. His mouth was suddenly dry in anticipation of a pursuit.

Alex shook his head. Whatever that was, it didn't have anything to do with him. He was a normal kid on holiday… Still, he found his eyes tracing the path both men had disappeared down. "Have you done any gift shopping yet?" he asked, wanting to forget.

Tom latched onto question gladly. He had no doubt seen how his friend had been staring after the two men. "Not at all," he admitted. "Though, I supposed I could always find something for mum and dad from Naples. Did I tell you I'm going to spend Christmas with Jerry?"

Alex shook his head.

"It was his idea actually. Probably figured he'd end up getting brained with a plate or something if he came home." He'd said it with humor, but neither commented on the fact that it had gotten bad enough that accidental impalement could be considered a possibility. "Mind you, I've now got to find something for Jerry. Don't suppose you could ask that Smithy bloke to send along a gadget for me?"

"Not unless you want it to explode in your luggage," Alex grinned shrewdly. Smithers devices had the unfortunate tendency to explode on occasion.

"Better not then," Tom smiled back.

Silence fell between them. Eventually, they passed fewer and fewer people until it was just the two of them walking along in the increasing darkness. By the time they reached the corner where Alex had to turn off onto King's road, it was completely night, and both boys had begun to shrink deeper into the jackets in order to limit the amount of skin exposed to the cold. Alex already regretted not bringing his gloves with him when Jack had suggested. He also already decided he wouldnotadmit that to her when he got home.

Tom stamped his feet to get the blood moving again. "Talk tomorrow, yeah?"

Alex nodded. He tried to shove his hands further into his pockets. "Tomorrow then." He didn't wait to see if Tom was going to say anything else, but rather turned on his heels and jogged home. Shutting the door behind him, he cursed and wrung his red hands together. In a moment, they would be burning and prickling painfully. He kicked off his shoes and hung up his jacket before wandering deeper into the townhouse.

All the lights were off except for those in the kitchen. A soft melody drifted down the hall, a slightly off-tune voice singing milliseconds too late. Coming around the corner, Alex was greeted with the sight of Jack swaying and bopping to the music, a ladle in one hand and a fierce glare set on her face. She hadn't seen him yet. She was staring at the pot on the stove, like the appliance had in some way offended her.

"Isn't there an old adage about watching pots?" Alex finally said.

Jack shrieked. "Damnit, Alex!" She brandished the ladle at him. "How many times have I told you not to sneak up behind me like that?"

Alex smirked. "Sorry. But you've got the best reactions." He slipped into one of the chairs at the island. "What are you making?"

"Soup." Jack stirred the pot, spooning some of the liquid with the ladle then watching it intently as she let it splash back into the pot. "It looks a little…chunky. I don't think it's supposed to be chunky." Jack let another spoonful plop back into the pot. Apparently satisfied enough that the chunks would not kill either of them, she scooped out two portions and handed one to Alex. "Want a grilled cheese to go with?"

Alex inspected the soup. Tomato. He smiled as innocently as he could manage, "if you mean a cheese toastie, then yes." A hot, buttery sandwich flew at him like a frisbee. He dunked it into the bowl and took a bite. Even after years of living in England, Jack had staunchly held onto her Americanisms, something that Alex reveled in poking fun at. He grinned. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack returned the sentiment brightly and dipped her own sandwich into the red soup. She moaned dramatically. “Just like Grandpappy Campbell used to make.” Through a few more bites of the sandwich, she asked, “so how was the film?”

Alex shrugged uncommittedly. “Bit overhyped, but Tom seemed to find it entertaining enough.”

“Yeah, well, Tom finds the Nyan cat entertaining, so I don’t exactly trust his judgment.”

Alex smirked into his soup but didn’t comment. It wasn’t too late in the evening; he knew he should be reading as he ate or putting his things in order so he could work after the meal; but the chill in the air, the mind-numbing film, and general lack of desire to be productive sapped away his willingness to do revision. Maybe, if he bribed himself with something, he would feel more motivated—he could always see if Tom could play footie tomorrow as a reward for finishing his maths. Or rather, if Tom was off to Naples soon, he could probably convince Jack to try, though she was completely abysmal at it.

“Weren’t you supposed to be out tonight?” Alex suddenly remembered. “With that bloke from the coffee shop?”

Jack groaned, “he was cute, but he was—too nice? Like, really sweet and nice in the ‘he has to be hiding some weird Oedipal complex’ sense or ‘I hide bodies in the closet’ kind’, you know” She dropped her head onto her arms melodramatically. “Apparently, I prefer unavailable losers.”

Alex stared owlishly and slowly dipped his sandwich into his soup again, wisely choosing not to comment.

“Besides, I don’t need no man, when I’ve got you.” Jack hooked her arm around Alex’s shoulders and steered him towards the tellie on the other side of the adjoining room. It was a challenge: keeping the blood-red soups and greasy sandwiches as she jostled her surrogate brother playfully towards the couch. Neither wanted to clean up the mess, but that didn’t stop their childish antics. “Want to watch a movie? I’m thinking Scrooged. Cause I’m scrooged in the man department.”

“I just got back from the cinema,” he reminded her, laughing.

Jack shrugged and dislodged herself from Alex’s side, tucking her legs underneath her on the sofa in an impressive feat considering she never set the dishes down. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She flicked through the options until she found exactly what she had been looking for. Alex followed her example and took his usual place on the sofa, fully content to waste more time on mindless distractions. He could always start his work the next morning; not to mention, he had an actual tutor to keep him on track during the holiday break. In no time at all, he was completely enamored in Bill Murray’s retelling of A Christmas Carol.

Alex stood in a large empty field. To his right, a shed, worn by decades of predictable English weather, towered over him. To his left, a long strip of asphalt stretched from the edge of the trees to the other. The sun was nearing its apex but did little to stave off the slight chill in the air. Dew from the early morning still clung to the blades of grass. Where was he?

A rumbling engine roared to life from inside the shed. The sliding shed doors opened. A plane, an Embraer Phenom 300, crept from its storage, rolling to a stop at the place where the grass met the asphalt. It was a small plane, meant for six passengers at the most, capable of international flights. The door released a set of steps in preparation for embarkment. Alex peered into the co*ckpit window. No one was at the controls.

A young woman appeared next to Alex, her arm reaching behind her. She caught the hand she'd been searching for and gave it a gentle tug. She smiled.

"Allons-y, mon amour."

She led a young man towards the plane, that still idled on the runway. The man had fair hair, longer than what some would consider stylish but not unkempt. He wore simple blue jeans and a collared shirt. A smile never left his face. Alex thought he finally understood what people about eyes glowing with unbridled love when he saw the man merely glance in the woman's direction.

"Where am I?" Alex asked. Or he tried to. His mouth formed the words, but nothing came of it. He tried to follow the couple towards the plane, but his legs refused to.

An inkling of terror wormed its way up his throat. Alexhatedbeing restrained. Hate was too simple an emotion. Loathing, terror, revulsion, anxiety. Hecouldn'tallow himself to be stuck in the same place, because that meant he'd been caught, or worse. He wanted to jerk, to thrash, but when the man and woman glanced behind them, sending a wave and smile to someone back in the hangar, all thoughts of escape vanished.

"Mum. Dad."

Helen and John Rider ascended the stairs and entered the cabin.

Alex's terror burned anew, but it was nothing to do with the fact he still could not move from his place by the hangar. He didn't want to see this. There was only one reason Helen would be accompanying her husband on a private plane.

A new man came to stand next to Alex. His unkempt curly black hair was brushed back like the first time Alex had laid eyes on him. His black eyes stared, pained and unmoving, at the jet that was running through the last few checks before takeoff. After sighting the two passengers through the miniature oval windows, Ash turned his distressed black eyes onto Alex. Blood oozed down the man's shirt from two distinct holes in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I didn't want you to know."

Alex tried to respond. He managed a muted sob, as if he'd been gagged.

Ash removed a device from his trouser pocket and fingered the smooth plastic. It was small and plain, unassuming. He pried away the red safety feature on the side. A silver switch rested underneath.

"I don't want to." He sounded tormented. "but it's a test."

Alex shook his head.Please, don't. Please.One word ripped from his throat: "no."

Ash flicked the switch.

Alex shot up from his bed. His breath matched his heart in speed and force. Sweat instantly cooled his back. His shirt clung to his skin tenaciously, and he swung his legs out from under the covers. That hadn't been the first time he had dreamt of Ash, but he had yet to dream of his parents' murder. Sometimes, he was back at Chada Trading Agency fighting for his life whilst Ash watched indifferently; other times, he was being bombarded with missiles, although not in the Australian jungle like he'd actually experienced. Instead, he was constantly surrounded by heat and shrapnel and smoke until finally he couldn't draw in breath and felt as if he were drowning, Ash's dead eyes piercing the back of Alex's skull.

Nightmares were not a novel experience. Ever since the first near-death experience, Alex relived many of the terrors he'd seen. It wasn't like what most films described; they weren't a replay of past events, but rather the dreams contained elements or feelings that lent themselves in the shape of a disturbing collage. Sometimes Alex's imagination painted an entirely new canvas of horrors, like the one he experienced last night about his parents.

Alex drove the heel of his palms into his eyes until he saw ethereal lights. The clock on his bedside table flashed the time is bright red digits: 09:02. Jack would be up by now. He threw on one his plain grey sweatshirts and padded down the hall, pausing only to listen for any telltale signs of life downstairs. Sure enough, he could hear the faint sizzling of the stove and smell the bitter aroma of coffee.

He walked downstairs and peeked around the corner. Jack was still in her pajamas: red and black flannel trousers and a black singlet. Her bright red curls were tied up in an artistically messy bun. Before he could go any further into the room, Jack threw a finger in his direction.

"I see you, mister," she said accusingly. She never even turned around to look at him.

He held up his hands in his defense. "I wasn't doing anything."

Jack harrumphed and turned back to her eggs, humming a song that suspiciously sounded like "Baby, it's cold outside." Alex grabbed a mug and set about making tea. The mini-TV played in the background on silent, the closed captions flitting by almost too fast for him to read. Ian had always been the one to turn the news on in the morning, and after nearly eight years of cohabitation, Jack had picked up the habit in his stead.

On an average day, the reporter would cover movements in Buckingham Palace, especially since the newlyweds had welcomed a baby into the family. A few photos of the child and smiling parents sped by, with a few shots of St. James's Park done up in Christmas lights. It didn't hold much interest for Alex, who watched the screen from behind his cup of tea. Unlike Jack and the rest of the Starbrights—Christmas starts the moment Turkey Day is over in the Starbright household, she'd once said—he found the holidays more enjoyable when done in moderation.

Alex was about to turn away from the television when a new picture caught his eye.

The segment on the current affairs was over, and a new reporter animatedly gestured with her hands, indicating to her left where the editors had inserted a photo, most likely taken from a work ID. The man in the picture had a naturally gaunt face and kind of scrawny figure someone would describe as toothpick-like. His casual suit hung awkwardly on his shoulders, indicating that it was not very expensive or tailored to begin with. He was baring his teeth in that stiff, inelegant smile most people adopted when getting their picture taken. His eyes didn't hold the same terror they had the night before.

Alex recognized him immediately. He grabbed the remote and flicked on the sound.

"—found late last night, stabbed to death in his flat. Neighbors reported hearing no disturbances around the suspected time of death. Hadley Sallows, forty-one, worked as a journalist at the Berrow's Chelsea Journal. Investigators are unable to say whether or not Sallows was a target due to his work or if his death was the result of a burglary gone wrong. Inspector Brandon, who is in charge of the case, has stated that he does not suspect this to be a serial event, and whilst the public should always be aware of their surroundings, there is nothing to indicate a pattern at this time. Sallows—"

The screen turned black. Alex spun in his seat and found Jack frowning at the telly.

"It's a bit too early for murder talk."

Alex didn't respond.Hadley Sallows. He'd known the man was scared and that he was being chased, but Alex hadn't contemplated the possibility of murder. If anything, he thought maybe Sallows had been running from a bookie or something. Alex stared at his reflection in the black screen.

"So, I was thinking," Jack leaned across the counter and absentmindedly fiddled with the spoon in her coffee. "What do you think of the idea of taking a bit of a vacation? Mama Starbright has invited all the aunts and uncles and baby cousins over for Christmas, so there's going to be this whole big to do in D.C. Could be fun."

Alex couldn't deny the burning in his gut. The only other time he had felt something like it had been in France, when he had abandoned Sabina on the beach in order to chase Yassen Gregorovich. But what was so special about the murder of an English journalist? What had he gotten mixed up in that resulted in his death? Alex thought back to Edward Pleasure. The older Pleasure had been investigating Damian Cray and had almost been killed, Liz and Sabina nearly collateral damage because of it. Months of villains and evil masterminds had tainted Alex's sense of perception. Whoever killed Sallows was more than likely a normal, unexceptional, commonplace killer, but on the off chance they weren't…Could Alex ignore the possibility and accept the consequences, whatever they may be?

"Alex?"

Without even knowing he'd decided to, Alex had already gotten to his feet and setting his mug in the sink. "I've forgot, I told Tom I'd help him shop for Christmas gifts." He'd slipped on his winter coat, stuffed his gloves in his pockets, shoved his feet in his trainers, and had one hand on the doorknob before Jack even had the chance too react. "I'll be back before dark," he called over his shoulder. With a last moment thought, he snagged his school bag and computer.

Alex breathed in and sighed. He'd learned long ago to trust his instincts. And right now, they were telling him that Hadley Sallows's death was more than a cut-and-dry murder. With only a slight feeling of guilt for what he was about to do, Alex hunched his shoulders against the wind and set off down the street.

"Yes, hello, is the editor-in-chief in?" He paused. "May I speak with him please? It's about Hadley Sallows." Alex waited again as the person on the other end covered the speaker with her palm. He could vaguely hear garbled words.

He had resolved to begin his inquiry at the most obvious starting point: what was the man investigating. He had wandered long enough to feel the biting cold despite his multiple layers and finally decided to take refuge in a café. Having ordered a hot chocolate and staked a claim on a table in the corner of the shop, Alex had sought out the business number for Crimson Comet. The newspaper was small and locally run. Already their website shared the death announcement, including a small obituary and past works Hadley Sallows had written, most of which centered on historical investigative work. Towards the end of the page, people had posted messages about having worked with the man or having read some of his pieces. None articulated overwhelming emotion, bereavement, or love. They expressed sadness and appreciation of his work, but nothing more. It was thoroughly depressing.

Alex had predicted the line would be busy with callers, at least with some curious individuals wanting to know more about the man who had met such an unfortunate end, but someone had answered by the second ring.

"Aaron Cassado speaking." A new voice came through the speaker. "Hello?"

Alex sat up straighter. A pencil rested in his hand, hovering over a notebook. "Hello, my name is Alex. I'm calling in regard to Hadley Sallows."

"Avery said." Mr. Cassado paused. "Well? If this is some macabre interest in the case, I can tell—"

"No, no, it's not," Alex cut in. "I, er, I'm—was—his cousin." Lying about a familial relationship was a bit of a gamble, but after the pathetic memorial on the internet, Alex was willing to bet Sallows kept his life as private as possible.

For a moment, Alex thought the editor had hung up on him. Then, finally, "I'm very sorry for your loss." He did sound sympathetic, or at the very least embarrassed. "I must apologize, but we have got a couple of calls already asking about the Police and their investigation. It's been a bit of a day already." Mr. Cassado spoke with a vaguely Mancunian accent, dulled from years living in London. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I was actually hoping to ask you a few questions about Hadley? I, er—he was quite a bit older than me, so I didn't know him all that well. Mum is absolutely distraught over it all, and I don't have the heart to ask my aunt. And I know the most important thing to him was being a journalist, so I figured, if I wanted to learn anything new about him, I'd start there." Alex rushed through the explanation as best he could, pinching at his nose to add just the right amount of nasally whine to his voice. "I—" he cleared his throat, "I want to know what he was like, is all."

The next time the man spoke, his voice sounded even softer than before. "I'm not sure I could tell you much," Mr. Cassado admitted. "I'm sure you already know how quiet Hadley was. Whenever he dug his claws into a story, he rarely shared anything until it was ready for publishing."

"Do you know what he was working on when—before—he, you know?"

"Honestly," the man sighed. "No."

Alex held back a swear. Knowing what the man had got into would have been helpful, but there was more than one way to find the answer. He chewed on the end of his pen and tried to think of a way to ask for Hadley's address without sounding suspicious.

"I do know it wasn't exactly what normally did."

"What d'you mean? Was it not on something historical?"

"Not that I'd gathered. He was spending a lot of time out of the office, whatever it was." Mr. Cassado fell silent as a woman's voice resounded in the background, too far away to be more than garbled noise. "I'm sorry, Alex, but I've got a meeting now. I truly am sorry for your loss. Hadley was a great man and intuitive journalist."

Hadley had been working at the Berrow's Chelsea Journal for half a decade, and all the editor-in-chief was able to say was the man had been an intuitive journalist. Once again, Alex felt pity for Hadley Sallows. His sympathy only added to his resolution to see this to the end. Even if the death turned out to be a simple murder, Alex would see it through.

His hot chocolate had grown cold, but his focus stayed on his computer. He had hoped to get Sallows's address from Cassado; it would have been simpler. Lucky for Alex, since the advent of the internet, nearly everything was available with some effort. Smithers had shown Alex during one of his stays at MI6 headquarters, just how to make use of the internet. Legally, of course. Unless someone knew how to enable all privacy features embedded in every social media and web browser, then that information was somewhere in the digital cloud, and most people were inevitable ignorant of those options. Alex made use of the ignorance and inserted the key phrases Smithers had provided. To be fair, he reckoned Smithers had programmed a benign Trojan Horse in his laptop that did all the heavy lifting, but the gadget-maker hadn't mentioned it—and Alex wasn't about to check in case he got Smithers in trouble.

Sallows's flat ended up being just south of Chelsea, which made sense given he had literally stumbled into Alex whilst in the southern borough. The complex looked like any other in Battersea, slightly more industrial than those found in Chelsea but also with a distinct old-Victorian style. Sallows's was situated close to Battersea Park, tucked at the end of the street. With only three floors, it was on the smaller side of some of the other complexes, but that made Alex's job easier if he were to break in. A police car was parked across from the building. The officer inside reclined against his seat, having all the hallmarks of being both bored and relaxed, but Alex knew if he tried to break into a recent crime scene, through the front door no less, the officer would not be so remiss for long.

He shouldered his rucksack and tried to appear as inconspicuous and confident as he could. Ian had long ago impressed upon Alex the idea that trying to hide one's actions often led them to getting caught. True masters of the unseen knew to be confident and act as if they belonged. He strode past the front door to the narrow alleyway along the side. Sallows lived on the second floor in unit 8, which, according to the public construction records, was on the right side of the building. Alex really hoped there was easy access to a fire escape.

Fortunately, he lost sight of the candy car, which also meant he had disappeared from view for the time being. Unfortunately, the fire escape did not run down that side of the building and galivanting around to find a new access point would definitely draw unwanted attention. Alex had to manage with where he was. He took in the bricked wall that jutted out from the apartment building itself, probably fencing in a private patio for the ground floor flat. The wall stretched to a height of two and a half meters, with a few wooden slats that added another half meter. A drainage pipe followed the corner trimming, ending at the start of the wooden fence and traveling past the window to Sallows's flat. With a running start, Alex easily should be able to grab the wall's ledge and shimmy along the pipe to the window.

There were only two possible problems. The first being if the window were locked. Alex doubted he would have the leverage to break the glass, nor would he want to with the police around the corner. The second was if he had made a mistake. If he somehow managed to get in through the window but had misjudged which flat was Sallows's, then someone was about to get a real shock.

Alex flexed his fingers. He had come this far already. He bounced on his heels once then charged at the discolored brick wall. His fingers grasped painfully at the stone, and he scrambled for leverage as he strained to keep the meager grip on the ledge. Alex snatched at the wooden slats, mindful not to pull too much in case it had rotted over the years. Haltingly, he perched himself on the top of the wall, one foot on the outside of the wooden barrier, the other on the inside. He shuffled to the conjunction and pulled experimentally on the drainage pipe.

It creaked. Excess water and dried gunk dislodged and crumbled out of the opening, but the pipe itself held firm. One foot at a time, Alex wedged his hands behind the pipe and started to scale the metal. Uncomfortably aware of how horrible his prospects were if he fell, Alex refused to look down. He did not have far to go, and within a couple minutes, he was peeking in the window for any telltale signs of police or inhabitants. He saw nothing.

Alex nudged the glass pane. It gave way with a faint hiss. Alex felt like cheering but settled for heaving himself through the opening. He crouched on the kitchen counter and waited for any sign of life. Again, there was nothing. He hopped down silently.

Was that how the murderer had gotten in, Alex wondered. Or had Sallows opened the door and invited his killer in?

Glancing around the small flat, it was obvious the police had already looked around but not found much in the way of evidence. The tea kettle sat on the stove, entirely charred. Sallows must have been making tea when he was killed. Books and newspapers were neatly stacked on most flat surfaces, but the walls barely held any personal touches. One or two pictures rested in cheap frames that were pushed back behind a larger pile of history books; Hadley Sallows had an arm wrapped around another man's shoulders. They were both grinning broadly at the camera, standing on a nondescript bridge. If the resemblance was anything to go by, the other man was a brother or cousin. Alex hoped he wasn't the one to find Sallows's corpse.

He stepped carefully, not wanting to leave anything of himself behind, but stopped as soon as he saw the massive reddish-brown puddle directly before the front door. Alex swallowed back the sour taste in the back of his throat.

Knowing he was short on time, Alex started his inspection of the flat. He checked the obvious hiding places first despite the fact the police would have already done so. The draws held various takeaway menus and miscellaneous belongings. The seemingly endless piles of books, journals, and notes ranged from Nazi codes, to American spy rings, to correspondents that were recently released by the royal family. Nothing was overly controversial or explained why Sallows had been running for his life the night before. His freezer held only food, the small gap under his bed hid a large number of dust balls, and the tins in his cupboards stored coffee grounds and tea leaves.

As the obvious hideaways yielded no results, Alex switched his mindset to that of a spy, and a teenage one at that. Any place he had already checked, he examined again, running a hand under every draw, testing for hidden backs and clasps, scrutinizing every detail. Alex dropped to his stomach and laid his head against the floor, first in the living room, the bathroom, then the kitchen. The torch from his phone exposed more details about the carpet and hardwood floor of a flat than he ever wanted to see. He was about to move to the bedroom but paused. Something blinked back from under the stove. Alex waved his torch and saw the same glint again. He reached out blindly and bumped against something smooth lodged firmly between the floor and the stove. He tugged it free.

A black phone rested in his palm, the screen shattered in more than one place. Alex pressed the lock button, and the screen came to life. How had the police missed this? He swiped at the screen.Enter Passcodeblinked back at him.

Alex sent a cursory glance at his watch and swore. He'd been in the flat for fifteen minutes already. The policeman outside may do a check soon, or the investigator could come back, or something else could go wrong—with Alex's luck, the murderer could even make a reappearance. He slipped the phone into his rucksack and moved to the bedroom for a last look. Resolving to leave in five minutes no matter if he didn't find anything more, Alex pilfered carefully through the wardrobe along one wall. Nothing new. The bed was made, and all the corners were neatly tucked. The last place to recheck was the small closet in the hall leading back to the kitchen.

When Alex had first inspected the closet, he had noticed piles of spare linens, old trainers and winter boots, boxes of old knickknacks and clothes. He dug through one of the boxes of clothes on a whim. And grinned. It seemed Hadley Sallows had been paranoid and taken the precaution to hide his research where most wouldn't think to look. He'd taken care to disperse his files throughout worn-out shirts and jackets, taking deliberate care to re-fold everything as it had been before. The articles and reports were so well scattered, that they barely added to the bulk of the individual articles of clothing. Alex slid out every paper he could find and replaced them into his rucksack. He returned the boxes, shut the closet door, and made his way back out the way he had come.

Chapter 3: More Deceptive than Fact

Chapter Text

Alex let the latch slip shut. He waited, listening for the telltale patter of Jack’s slippers on the hardwood floor. Silence. He slipped off his shoes and crept further into the townhouse. It wasn’t that he needed to avoid her, but on the way home, Alex had suddenly comprehended what she had asked him over breakfast. Jack wanted to take Alex to America. For a few weeks at most, but that meant abandoning his investigation, allowing the leads to go cold and possibly vanish forever.

Alex couldn’t help but feel guilty and selfish. Although London may be Jack’s home now, her family still lived eight and a half hours away by plane. He was the only thing stopping her from hopping in a taxi to Heathrow and spending the holidays with her parents. He knew there was a newborn in the family too, and Jack had only been able to wave over Skype. But Alex didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to see the crushing disappointment in her eyes when he told her such.

And so, he resolved to put off the discussion for as long as possible.

Alex wanted to get to his room unchecked so he could spend more than a second on the papers he’d found at the journalist’s flat. He’d rushed home as soon as his feet touched the ground; the sun had already been low in the sky, and Alex was beginning to get cold despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The added weight in his rucksack chafed against his shoulders, but he’d had worse. Brecon Beacons had ensured that.

His foot had reached the third step, when Jack appeared from her room and stood on the landing. Aside from the raised eyebrow and co*cked hip, she didn’t acknowledge Alex’s obvious intention of sneaking past her.

“Have fun with Tom?”

The question felt like a trap. Did she know he’d lied? He shrugged noncommittedly. She didn’t move from her position of power, knowing full well that Alex wouldn’t push past her to get to his room. She was waiting for something from him, and Alex didn’t think it had to do with Tom anymore.

“I don’t want to go,” he admitted finally.

Jack sighed. “Can I ask why?”

Alex stopped himself from shrugging and settled for scuffing his foot on the stairs. He didn’t want to meet her eyes because he could already imagine the searching worry that simmered just below the surface. His hair trembled when he shook his head. “I just don’t,” he answered lamely.

He heard her shift and finally looked at Jack. She was staring into her room, or away from him, her hands resting on her hips. She was chewing on the inside of her cheek, something she always did when trying not to get angry or annoyed. Again, gnawing guilt ate away at Alex’s gut, but the pain was not enough to make him reconsider. The files seemed to be growing heavier in his bag. The straps burned into his shoulders. He couldn’t leave now.

“It could be good for us,” Jack pushed. “Get away from London, and the bank, and—memories. We could go to the Smithsonian and the Lincoln Memorial and all those clichéd sites so we can laugh at the tourists riding around on Segways.” A small sad smile brightened her face, hopeful.

Alex shook his head. “I don’t need to—escape from London, Jack. I’m fine. I’m happy here. —You should go, though. Spend the holiday with your family.” Alex pretended not to notice the sharp intake of breath or how her eyes shot to his face. “I can stay with the Harris’ or something.”

His voice sounded quiet even to his own ears. His feet moved of their own accord towards his room, and Jack stepped aside.

“Alex, honey,” she started.

He didn’t know why he had said that, but he meant it. She had given up so much for him; it wasn’t fair. She hadn’t asked for this when signing on to be an au pair to a seven-year-old. Alex closed his door, conveying to Jack to leave him alone for the time being, and dropped onto his bed. The school bag prevented him from collapsing all the way onto his back, though the draw of completely toppling over into the duvet remained. He sighed. It was too late to change anything now; he’d said it, and he might as well get some reading done before Jack refused to let him wallow in his room like a hormonal teenager.

Alex carefully took out the stack of papers he had found hidden in Sallows’s closet. Judging from the extra caution that had gone into its storage, the papers held something of value. Just what that value was, Alex was determined to find out.

The top few pages were revealed to be police reports for three missing British children, all under the age of fifteen: Arain, Zoya; Lloyd, Jonathan; and Vivier, Hanna. All three had disappeared within the past four months. Zoya Arain was the most recent.

Zoya had attended school the morning of her disappearance, left on foot in the direction of her home, but never arrived. Her parents, both Pakistani immigrants, usually worked late into the evenings, so the police reckoned she had been abducted—or run away—between the hours of sixteen hundred and twenty hundred. Neighbors described the young girl as quiet and sweet, always humming and waving as she walked by. A small hand-scribbled note appeared to be the work of Sallows and read: trusting, either knew abductor or fell for ruse? The police interviewed known pedophile offenders in the area. All had apparent alibis, none were suspected. The report went on to describe the background of the Arain family, detailing any xenophobic or racist interactions they had faced since arriving in the country. Fortunately, it seemed they had experienced very little and had quickly made amicable ties with their neighbors. A second note annotated this passage, written in the same hurried scrawl as before: Z targeted, not family. Same route home, predictable. A last missive decorated the bottom of the final page. He had underlined three letters multiple times. Went to ECO for food.

ECO. Alex had never heard the acronym before, but from his quick skim through at Sallows’s flat, he remembered seeing similar letters on other pages as well.

Jonathan Lloyd’s and Hanna Vivier’s reports were less so flattering. It seemed Jonathan, aged thirteen, had a penchant for fighting and truancy—that is, when he wasn’t suspended. Most recently, the month of his disappearance, Jonathan had been banned from school grounds citing a month’s suspension. He had beaten a fellow student into unconsciousness after, according to multiple students’ accounts, the boy had made derogatory comments about Lloyd’s homelife. Again, Sallows had hurriedly commented that no one would miss him. And the journalist had been correct. Jonathan lived with his father, who had not been sober enough to even notice his son was missing. It took three days after Jonathan’s last sighting for Mr. Lloyd to ring the police. The officer in charge suspected the boy ran away. To a place he thought was safe. Where had he thought was safe?

Hanna Vivier’s story rang similar. She spent more time away from school than in, and when she did attend, she occupied her time in various hideaways across the campus. All in all, the police did not suspect the two children to have been abducted. So why did Sallows?

Alex flipped through the first three reports again. He had to admit to being disappointed in the facts. Zoya’s, whilst including more investigative material, gave no suspects. It seemed the police threw up their hands once they had no more questions to ask, and when it came to Lloyd and Vivier, they quickly assumed that the kids had fled their unsatisfactory lives. Vivier had done so once before, so it made probable sense that she should do so again.

“Alex?”

Alex jolted. How long had been reading the police reports? Jack’s shadow passed under door hesitantly.

“Are you hungry? I was thinking of making fried rice, if you’re interested.” And if you want to talk.

“Yeah, er—” Alex shoved the papers in his hands roughly back into his bag. “I’ll be down in a second.” He swiped at the loose sheets that had managed to escape from the open pack. Regardless to their order and preservation, he kicked them under his bed in a flurry. Alex did not want Jack to decide he was taking too long and walk in to see why. Some documents resisted his efforts and stubbornly crumpled into a mess, catching on the cracks between the wood.

With an exasperated growl, Alex snatched them and intended to shove them with the others. But he glanced at it out of the corner of his eye. Unlike the other documents he’d looked at, this was hand-written in Sallows’s easily identifiable script and simply listed a dozen or so names: Hans Aker, Karl Bannister, Timothée Beville, Inez Eyer, Tom Goehring, Jonathan Lloyd, Mai Selig, Leonardo Spagnuolo, Erke Vikhrov, Hanna Vivier… Near seven of them, two abbreviations: PLS - ECO.

Dinner was a silent affair. Jack determined that Alex was not willing to discuss the prospect of America any more than explaining where he was all day. By the time they had cooked, eaten in silence, and done the washing up, it was late into the evening, and Alex barely had the concentration to go over more of the files. After all, his desire to do anything productive plummeted when Jack none too gently reminded Alex that his maths tutor, Ms. Addario, would arrive at nine thirty the next morning.

Alex fished the documents out from under his bed only to replace them into his school bag, resolving to find out more about ECO after his tutoring session. He climbed under the covers and was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes. Whatever he dreamt vanished with the rising sun.

Tom Harris lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in Chelsea. His townhouse sat in between two identical homes, indistinguishable from the floor plan to the worn brick that adorned the traditional English buildings. The only discerning feature were the personalized shrubbery that decorated the limited front yard and flower boxes that sat below the windows. As of the present, dead, scraggly twigs littered the flower boxes perched under the windows, Mrs. Harris either having forgotten to empty them before the weather became freezing or simply not caring enough to do anything with them. Tom’s bike was balanced to the side of the front stairs, the handlebar locked securely to the metal bannister. He was the only teenager on the block, which became one of the many reasons why Alex and he spent most of their leisure time together as kids. That, and Alex had had the profound insight to take on Tom’s childhood tormentors.

That sense of comfort and camaraderie is what brought Alex to his friend’s door once he was free from his maths tutor. It would have been easier to stay home and continue his perusal of the documents, but Jack’s incessant and hurt demeanor had quickly demolished that plan. So, Alex had collected anything he thought might be necessary and called out that he would be back for dinner before dashing out the door. Next thing he knew, Alex was standing at the base of his best mate’s house and glancing surreptitiously through the windows to see if anyone was home. A figure wandered past the living room window, and so he had no excuse to walk away.

He knocked. A minute later, a middle-aged woman with familiar black hair and bright blue eyes answered the door. She blinked at him once then seemed to finally recognize him.

“Alex, dear,” she smiled. Her young face had laughter lines, but the knowledge that Mrs. Harris spent more hours of the day raging at Mr. Harris sent conflicting messages. “Are you here for Tom? I doubt he’s awake yet, but feel free to go wake the lazy bum.”

Mrs. Harris led him inside, briefly waving in the direction of her son’s room despite Alex having been over countless number of times before. Alex jogged up the stairs and didn’t even hesitate in opening the door. They had long ago established an open-door policy; or rather Tom had assumed one when it came to the Rider household, something that had annoyed Ian to no end. Thinking back on it, Alex now understood why.

Owlish eyes blinked at him. Instead of suffocating underneath an unhealthy heap of blankets and pillows, Tom was sat on the carpeted floors, absolutely surrounded by stacks of crumpled clothes, trainers, and various belongings. A metal spoon hovered above the bowl of cereal in his hands.

“Owex?” Crumbs sputtered from his mouth, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand. Tom swallowed.

Alex stared at the bowl. “Where’ve you been keeping the milk?”

“I’ve been too scared to go downstairs today.”

Alex slipped of his bag. The confession did not overly surprise him, although he doubted, he would ever truly understand how divorce affected Tom and Jerry. He kicked a pile of—what he was hoping were clean—clothes out of the way and plopped down next to his friend, his back reclining against the bed. “Has it been that bad today?”

Tom picked at a thread weaving out of the carpet. “It’s worse. They haven’t been fighting at all.” He shoved another spoonful of Crunchy Nuts into his mouth. “When they’re fighting, I know what’s happening, you know? Tearin’ into each other I can understand, but this—this silence?” He scowled. “Dad left a half an hour ago. No slamming doors or anything. It was all very…civil.”

Alex had nothing to say. He settled for bumping Tom’s shoulder to try and get a semblance of a smile. “Took your mum all of fifteen seconds to recognize me. Think that sets the record.”

Tom grinned. “She’s always been rubbish at faces, hasn’t she?” He eyed the backpack. “Don’t tell me you came to mine to actually study.”

Alex laughed. In all honesty, he hadn’t thought much about what he was going to tell Tom. His friend fell in a slightly different category than Jack when it came to MI6 business. Jack required protection from the details, from the horrid realities of organ harvesting or sugar-mill grinders. Tom saw Alex’s escapades as real-life materialization of James Bond adventures. And that was something that would get him killed in Alex’s world.

He’d hesitated too long. Tom snatched the bag before Alex had departed from his musings with a prepared explanation. He immediately found the crumpled papers and sorted through them, batting away Alex’s attempts to grab them back. His eyes roved the pages. Growing confusion flitted across his face, and he threw a look at Alex. “What’s all this?”

A lie had already formed on the tip of his tongue, but Alex couldn’t seem to choke it out. “Do you remember that bloke from two nights ago? The one that shoved by us on Britten Street?”

A desperate part of Alex wanted to have help, but the rational part clawed through his brain, threatening to burn an image of Tom beaten and bloody into the backs of his eyes. The way Tom’s hands were holding onto the papers, crinkling and wrinkling the delicate pages, determined just how set he was in helping his friend.

At Tom’s halting nod, Alex continued. “I, er, Jack had the news on the morning after. I was barely watching, I almost missed it, but they showed his picture. I’d had this feeling that he’d been running from someone, and it turns out he’d been killed in his flat later that night.” A slight flush creeped up the sides of his neck, but he kept going. “I can’t really explain it, but something told me there was—that I had to check it out. So, I…I broke into his flat. I found his mobile wedged under the oven and a bunch of papers hidden away in his closet.”

“Let me get this straight,” Tom kept his gaze fixed on the documents in his hands. His voice was tight and restrained. “A random bloke runs us over, you find out he was then murdered, so you break into an active crime scene, steal a bunch of evidence, and take it to mine, where I’ve already spread my fingerprints and DNA all over it?”

Blood rushed to his ears and Alex bristled. He hadn’t told Tom to rip into his bag. He hadn’t even intended to share all of it, but now that the other boy had framed his actions in such an idiotic manner, Alex couldn’t help but feel a ringing of embarrassment. He scrunched up his face like he’d smelt something unpleasant. “That about sums it up.”

“Why didn’t you just leave it to the police?”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Alex tugged at the hair on the back of his head and stared resolutely at his crossed legs. “There’s this feeling I can’t ignore. It’s like a…a wave of pressure in my chest. This annoying sensation that gets stronger more insistent the more I ignore it. Saying that whoever killed Hadley Sallows wanted him out of the way for something much worse than not wanting his dirty laundry out in the open.”

“Yeah, but,” Tom shifted awkwardly, “shouldn’t the police handle it? I just mean, it’s murder, right? It’s got nothing to do with national security. Last time you looked into something on your own, you ended up on a train with no shoes, no money, and a stint in hospital!

Alex’s face burned. “And what am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry that I broke into your crime scene, but look, I’ve found the bloke’s mobile for you’?” He tried to snatch back all the papers, but Tom dodged the attempt. Alex sat back on his knees and met his friend’s eyes. He hid the fear and pain when asking quietly, “Do you want me to leave? Cause I’m not going to stop looking into this.”

“’Course not,” Tom sighed. A grin colored his next words. “Besides it makes sense you’d bring it here, what with my expertise in such matters.”

Surprise flushed the blood from Alex’s cheeks. He stared owlishly at his friend.

“I’ve seen all the series of Criminal Minds, Bones, NCIS—the original, mind you, not those adrenaline-filled Los Angeles or New Orleans series,” he explained further. Tom attempted to force out the crinkles he’d made and set about scrutinizing the pages more carefully. “What do you think happened, then? Was it some disgruntled celebrity who didn’t want his deepest, darkest secrets revealed to the world?”

Alex was so surprised by Tom’s sudden acceptance of his decisions he didn’t respond right away. The relief he felt almost completely counteracted the uncomfortable pressure that had been building in his gut since the disagreement with Jack. He found, despite the possible of it all, a smile forcing itself into existence. He pointed to one of the groupings of documents on the floor, still disbelieving at the sudden change of mind.

“Sallows, a journalist, was investigating the disappearance of a couple of kids, two from England, and one from Wales. He seemed to think that they were all connected somehow.” Alex dug through it all until he found the list of names and offered it to Tom. “There are a few others—and I’m assuming all of these are names of missing kids from all over—that he’s connected too. Look, he’s written PLS - ECO next to a bunch of them.”

“PLS. Isn’t that, like, the military, abbreviated way of saying ‘place last seen’?”

Zoya Arain: Place Last Seen - ECO. Alex could have kissed him.

“That begs one question then: what or where is ECO?”

Sallows would have answered that without a doubt. The question would be whether he felt it pertinent to provide others with that knowledge. Alex was willing to bet all of Smithers gadgets that the information he was looking for would be in the rest of the files he’d stolen from the journalist’s flat. He reached over, nudging through the mess of files and documents from where they’d spilled to the floor. Some concerned what appeared to be laws pertaining to organizations and charities, filled with tiny print and impossible to understand official jargon; those Alex disregarded completely but narrowed in on one of the few packets that were stapled together. He held it up for Tom to see. It was a printed copy of website, black and white, but clearly legible at the top were the words Elysian Caritas Organization. ECO.

“’About Elysian Caritas Organization: ECO has dedicated over fifteen years to bettering the lives of those in need, providing community centers in seven different countries. Our hundreds of volunteers spend countless hours prepping meals for families struggling to make ends meet, ensuring that no child goes to bed hungry. Adrian Meyer, a native Berliner who experienced the struggle and pains of a torn city, understands the pain and embarrassment of asking for food and assistance, and so he has made it his life’s mission to create a safe place for parents to send their kids, to ask for help, to find the aid that is all too often lacking in larger cities…‘” Tom stopped reading. “So…it’s a charity then?”

Alex shrugged.

“Well, that’s not too bad. It’s probably that some psycho had been staking out the community centers and pounced on the first defenseless kid they came across.”

Again, Alex shrugged. In his own experience, the more benign and charitable a person or company appeared, the more wicked and deadly it turned out to be in reality. Herod Sayle, Damian Cray. They had approached society with lavish gifts and winning personalities, but a corrupt, hedonistic monster coiled underneath, ready to set the world ablaze. Except, those men had had vast fortunes to throw behind their dastardly plots. Somehow a charity, even a very successful one, needed substantial backing to pull anything off.

Alex flicked through the rest of the ‘about’ page, but Sallows hadn’t annotated anything more than underlining a few words here and there.

“Oi, James Bond, feel like sharing?”

“Sorry, it’s just I don’t think that’s it.” Alex nibbled at his nail. “I think they may have had more to do with it; I just don’t know how or why. Sallows obviously thought it was important that these kids were last seen at or around ECO locations. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered. Not to mention, one guy staking out the community centers doesn’t explain how Akers disappeared from Russia, Beville from France, and Lloyd from Wales.”

Tom grudgingly nodded. “Was there anything useful on the bloke’s phone?”

Alex burrowed deep into his rucksack without looking. “It’s completely smashed, and password protected.” He found the object and offered it up. “I was actually hoping you may be able to get into it.”

Tom ran a finger over the shattered glass. More of the shards had fallen away, leaving behind a sandy residue. It was a definite health hazard and unsalvageable. After a few seconds, the phone came to life, once again prompting for the four-digit passcode. Tom grimaced.

“Sorry, mate. Even the rightful owner can’t get in without the passcode. Customer services would just offer to reset everything and wipe the data.” He laughed. “Maybe you could steal Sallows’s fingerprint or something. Sprinkle graphite on it and lift a thumbprint; it always works in the movies.”

Alex took back the phone. With no way of unlocking it, it was nothing more than expensive, shattered paperweight. Going to ECO’s London location seemed to be becoming the only option, after all. He glanced cursory at his watch and figured how much longer he could stay out without facing the wrath of Jack. Alex chewed at his fingernail again, feeling the slight sting when he ripped a hangnail. He hoped he would have enough time to go to the center, look around a bit, and make it back before dinner. Jack would not appreciate him being late.

“You could always take it to that gadget guy at MI6,” Tom added. “You always make it sound like he likes you a lot. I bet he’d be willing to help, and they’ve got to have ways of getting into a locked phone.”

Alex did agree, but he had no intention of looping MI6 into the investigation until he had no other choice. His bitterness still throbbed when thinking about their reluctance to even lead an inquiry into Damian Cray.

“Yeah,” he replied, knowing Tom was waiting for some kind of response. “But I’m going to ECO first, to see what I can find out. Who knows, maybe I don’t even need what’s on the mobile.”

Alex snatched up his bag and stuffed the papers once more into the pockets. He vaguely thought about asking for a sandwich before he left, but he could always grab something on the way. Already he was designing possible routes and potential methods of getting inside. If they functioned as a community or charitable center, then they would not hesitate to give shelter to a youth in need, especially with the freezing temperatures outside. The challenge would be to gain access to the more restricted areas, which were almost guaranteed to store the information Alex needed.

His hand landed on the doorknob to Tom’s door, when Alex heard his friend stumbling around behind him, almost as if he were getting dressed to come with.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming with obviously,” Tom responded pointedly. He sniffed at a shirt and shrugged.

“No, you’re not.”

Tom glared fiercely. He looked like an angry kitten. “I helped you in Venice, didn’t I”

“That was different.” Alex pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of just how it was different. “This could be dangerous. We have no idea how they’re taking the kids.”

“Oh, but you can handle it on your own?”

“Yes!”

Tom shook his head. He no longer seemed angry. He looked sad. “Why do you think you always have to do everything on your own?”

“You looking for the angsty teen response?” Alex grinned unconvincingly. He shuffled his feet and huffed. “I don’t know. It’s just how I was trained.”

"That still doesn't mean you have to do it all alone."

It took some convincing, but Alex arrived at ECO London alone. The center was larger than what he had imagined: a convention center turned office park set in the middle of a city block. The entire ground floor, decorated with expansive floor-to-ceiling glass windows, had been transformed into lounge on one side, a lobby in the center, and a kitchen complete with a dining area to the other. A long circular desk laid before the entrance of a hallway. Multiple workstations for volunteers outfitted the reception desk, although only two were currently in use. Every now and again, a phone rang, only to be answered cheerfully by one of the volunteers.

A few employees wandered the lobby floor, carrying a clipboard or undertaking some other official-looking task. They slipped behind the desk and left through a side door that revealed the location of the main staircase. A handful of teenagers were sprawled out in the massive, plush sofas in the lounge, whilst the younger ones were goofing off on the floor in a corner. TVs with game systems, billiard and foosball tables, and shelves filled with books of all genres filled the space. A mouth-watering smell wafted from the kitchen area, but only two people sat at the tables provided.

As soon as Alex set foot inside, one of the volunteers behind the desk smiled up at him. The man, probably in his mid-twenties, approached him with a slight swagger. He, like the other employees and volunteers, wore the same white polos and khaki pants, the same blindingly fake smile. Alex had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“Hey, mate!” he obviously spent a lot of time around the younger generation but had yet to grasp how to actually communicate with them. “What’s the craic?”

Alex adopted an insecure stance, tucking his shoulders and shifting his feet, but maintained a defensive glare in his eyes. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothin’.” He switched into a rougher accent, less precise than his native Sloaney-speak.

The man, Jeremy according to his nametag, nodded, quirking an eyebrow. “Needed a place to lay low? Stay warm, maybe get a sandwich and a brew?”

Alex scowled minutely but didn’t want to oversell his reluctance. ECO was unlikely to send away a hungry fourteen-year-old, but they may have regulations about trouble-starters. He stared at his feet and nodded.

A hand fell on his shoulder and steered him towards the other teenagers. “I think we can figure something out,” Jeremy said kindly, if a little airily. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, and I’ll find you sandwich. Hey, you lot—be nice, yeah?” Jeremy jokingly glared at each of the lounging teens and clapped Alex on the back, before disappearing off to the kitchen.

Alex almost felt guilty at how nice Jeremy seemed to be, but then the witch fattened up Hansel and Gretel before tricking them into the oven. He faced the openly staring group coolly. He couldn’t be the one to make the first move.

Finally, the girl, who appeared to be the oldest, smiled smally and waved. “You can sit down if you want.”

Alex nodded but simply perched himself on the armrest of the nearest chair. He hoped Jeremy would be back with his sandwich soon—to save him from the awkwardness, but also because Alex was suddenly keenly aware that he had skipped lunch. The other kids had apparently decided that the new arrival was no longer of any interest and returned to their prior conversation, leaving him to glance around and search for a way to look around.

Jeremy was out of view—how long did it take to make a sandwich? —which left only one employee left in the lobby. A young woman clicked away at the keyboard, her head propped up in her palm. This continued long enough that Alex was sure either nothing was going to happen, or Jeremy would return, and he would lose any chance at sneaking behind the desk. But then she stood up and jogged to the front door, stepping outside to catch someone’s attention.

Alex restrained himself from leaping off of the armrest. Instead, he rose and strut towards the main desk with no care in the world. To the kids in the lounge, it would look like he had grown impatient and decided to head toward the kitchen.

A little faster now, he ducked down the hallway and allowed himself to look behind him. He was alone.

Three doors littered the hallway, and Alex tested the handle of the first one he came across. Locked. He jogged to the next one and tried again. It opened soundlessly. Alex slipped in, shutting the door behind him. The room was a basic office, fitted with a few filing cabinets, a plain wooden desk, and an ancient looking computer. That was all he needed. He took one step toward the desk.

The office door opened. Within a blink of an eye, the newcomer had snatched Alex’s wrist, the grip agonizingly tight. The man snarled as he spoke.

“Who are you?”

“I—I,” his stutter was fake, but the unease was real.

“What are you doing in here?” He tightened his grip.

“I was just looking ‘round. I didn’ mean it.” Panic broke into his voice. He tugged on his wrist in a pathetic attempt to get the man to let go. In reality, he was testing the strength of the grip. Thinking up how to avoid a confrontation that would undoubtedly cause a scene. “The other kids dared me to!”

The man was pulling Alex closer now, which inadvertently brought both of them closer to the exit. All Alex had to do was release his wrist and escape the room before the man had a more compromising hold.

A scream came from the other side of the door. Something heavy and solid exploded, followed by even more yelling, from multiple sources and louder than before.

Taken by surprise, the man glanced over his shoulder, and Alex reacted. Leveling his thumb towards the opening gap between the man’s thumb and forefinger, he wrenched his arm. A simple movement, but effective. Alex brought his leg up and launched the man with a frontal kick, using him as a springboard of sorts.

He was out of the room and down the hall before the man regained his breath.

Alex distantly heard yelling behind him, but he kept running, reaching the lobby within seconds. The sight that greeted him caught him by surprise, but it was a welcome one.

Tom, his absolutely amazing best mate, stood in the middle of the atrium, tussling with one of the teenagers from the lounge. Water pooled everywhere. Jeremy laid on his back, his nose bloody. The other kids were off to the side, cheering. An empty bubbler container rolled to a stop against the main desk.

Barely slowing his pace, Alex drove into the other boy and snatched Tom’s sleeve. They launched into the glass doors, and suddenly they were surrounded by winter air.

Without any more prompting from Alex, the two boys flew down the pavement. Enraged calls followed them, telling them to slow down, to watch where they were going, but they didn’t listen. Their trainers pounded harshly. Their lungs burned from the cold air. Sweat tracked down their backs. But they couldn’t stop. More cries chased after them. One person didn’t move fast enough, and Tom clipped him on the shoulder. Shops passed in a blur. They didn’t care where they were running.

One glance over his shoulder told Alex that a very large man was keeping pace with them, even close to gaining on the two boys. His height served as a horrid advantage, despite both Alex and Tom being two of the fastest players on the football team.

Alex latched onto Tom’s jacket. He tugged once. He looked left. He lunged across the lanes of traffic. A taxi screeched and honked, a cooper swerving to avoid the cabby. Alex bumped the hood, but Tom and he survived to the other side unscathed. The driver stuck his head out of the window and cussed.

The ECO henchman attempted to follow them across the road, but a blazing lorry horn prevented another mad dash.

With a meager reprieve, Tom and Alex slowed their pace enough to catch sight of the street names. Hornton Street.

“I have an idea,” Alex gasped. “Follow me.”

He resumed his faster pace, taking the lead, winding down a few more blocks until he saw a massive red brick building. He tore into the courtyard, where he slowed down and signaled for Tom to do the same. Alex led them to the main door of Kensington Central Library, taking care not to make a sound. The librarian glanced up once with an evaluating glare. She raised an eye at the boys puffing for air, red in the face, sweat tracking down their temples.

Alex smiled and dipped his head politely. He nodded his head to Tom. The other boy followed wordlessly, not even questioning when his friend ducked behind one of the stacks. Alex put a finger to his lips and shifted The Great Mortality by Kohn Kelly so he could see the entrance to the library. He tried to control his breathing and the frantic beat of his heart. The thumping jolted with every uneven breath, the adrenaline sending tremors through his limbs. Beside him, Tom was similarly quaking, although he seemed to slow with every passing second. A quick sideways glance confirmed Alex’s suspicion; his friend’s eyes drooped slightly, but the jolt of tired muscles woke him back up almost immediately. As soon as adrenaline started to fade, fatigue was never far behind.

“Do you see him?” Tom hissed.

Alex shook his head.

Tom collapsed to the floor and raked his hands through his sweaty black hair. He huffed a laugh. “That was bloody unbelievable!” He actually grinned. The toothy grin combined with the adrenaline-fueled glint and fevered red cheeks, he looked certifiably insane. His breath still rattled unevenly.

Alex nodded and followed the example of toppling to the floor. His limbs ached. “How,” he croaked and tried to swallow away the dryness. “How did you know I’d got caught?”

Tom blinked owlishly. “I didn’t.” He seemed to be sharing the problem of being parched. “I followed you obviously, saw you sneak into that back hallway, then this large bloke went not long after. Reckoned, even if you weren’t in trouble, a little raucous might help.” Tom grinned deviously, but the expression slipped away as quickly as it had come. “If they sent that Jason Voorhees wannabe after us, does that mean they’re stealing kids?”

“I think so.” Alex pulled to his feet and fought to ignore the screaming discomfort in his legs. He really shouldn’t have sat down that long without stretching out the muscles. “Jason Voorhees?”

“Yeah…you know. The killer from Friday the Thirteenth? Did you not see how the guy ran? He looked like a lumbering gorilla.”

“A bloody fast lumbering gorilla.”

Alex once again took the lead in finding an alternative exit from the library. Even though Jason Voorhees had not burst into the library, it did not mean that he hadn’t followed them and was waiting for them to leave unsuspectingly. They slipped out the side emergency exit, and Alex watched after every corner for a consistent face. Luckily, they continued back towards Chelsea unhindered.

Tom remained uncharacteristically quiet all the way to his. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, occasionally sending glances at Alex but never voicing what was bothering him. It took until they were standing in front of his house, key in the door, for him to stare Alex straight in the face.

“I’m flying to Naples in two days.”

“I remember.”

Tom nodded. “Mum and dad have been divvying up the hours I have left in England. Acting like I’m never coming back at that,” he added darkly, then shook his head. “What I’m trying to say, is that I can’t really help you anymore. And before you say you don’t need help, you do—today proved that. And if you refuse to acknowledge that or do anything about it, I am telling you right now: screw mum and dad. Let’s go solve a murder.”

Alex wanted to smile or joke. Pressure had been building in the back of his throat, and he didn’t think he could say anything sarcastic—for once in his life—without the dam breaking. “I guess,” he muttered grudgingly, rubbing the back of his head, “looking into this alone was not the best of plans.”

He didn’t have to look at Tom to know that he was smirking.

“Promise you won’t go off alone?”

Alex met Tom’s eyes. “I promise.”

Alex walked slowly back to his house.

He may lie when working for MI6, but he never lied—about anything serious, that is—to his friends. He’d promised Tom that he would get help, but his list of allies was worryingly short. His list of capable allies was terrifyingly shorter.

Alex did not trust MI6, Blunt, or Mrs. Jones, so there was no way in hell he would ask them for backup. Wolf, the SAS agent he had trained with at Brecon Beacons and later met during the Point Blanc mission, had the physical expertise, and he and Alex had reached some kind of agreement after the initial distrust and unfriendliness. Alex wondered if that truce would extend to conducting an illegal investigation. He could picture the nasty sneer and condescending voice that had tormented him for ten whole days.

Then there was Smithers. He always provided Alex with life-saving gadgets, some of which had the potential to be used as ‘aggressive’ self-defense when Blunt and Jones refused to provide him with actual weapons. And, like Tom said, Smithers did seem to have a genuine liking for Alex, but the man was obscenely obese. Aside from providing useful tools, he would be of no use in the field.

He could not involve Jack, nor did he want her involved.

The last person he could fathom asking for help was Ben Daniels. Ben was as physically capable as Wolf and had the mental capacity to work for MI6 on assignment. They had worked well together in Australia, Ben saving Alex’s life twice in the process. He might be willing to help, if Alex asked, but there were a few problems. Just like with Wolf, Alex had no way of contacting him, and the last he had seen of the SAS soldier, he’d been bleeding out on the floor of an oil rig—after dealing deadly blows to Alex’s godfather. Would he blame him for the injury?

Alex made his decision and reached his front door.

Chapter 4: To Face Trouble Alone

Chapter Text

The Royal & General Bank was the same as it was when Alex had first laid eyes on it. The antique building was well-maintained, a union jack fluttering above the fifteenth floor, unassuming civilians parading before the entrance without a care in the world. None of them glanced twice at the grey building, for as far as they were concerned, it was an ordinary bank. It helped that MI6 had commandeered a fully functional bank to begin with—or they had established one after the fact. Glass, reinforced doors reflected the outside world almost mockingly; the organization inside anything but normal and ordinary.

Alex hesitated once inside. It was similarly inconspicuous, though not many clients ever wandered inside. The expansive, cold entrance hall echoed with every step, every whisper. The same expensive leather sofa leaned against the far wall, still empty and pristine. A young woman sat behind the glass reception desk, and he realized unpleasantly that he recognized the face: brunette, thick rimmed and bulky-lensed glasses, pinched lips. She had been there the last time Alex had come to the bank without a summons. She had also been the one to deny the existence of MI6 Special Operations headquarters and used security to send him and Sabina on their way.

“Brilliant,” he grumbled and wandered up to the front desk.

Alex swore he saw a flicker of recognition, and annoyance, flit across her face, but within a second she had tamed her expression into a friendly, business-like smile. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Smithers.”

“Smithers…is that a surname or…?”

Alex stared coolly and leaned against the desk with nonchalance he didn’t have. “Just Smithers.”

“I apologize, but I don’t believe anyone by the name Smithers works here. Perhaps you’ve mistaken us for another bank.” Her eyes roved to the older security officer who was stationed across the hall. She definitely remembered Alex’s frantic and livid attempts at reaching Mrs. Jones the last time.

His glare met her hesitant eyes. He was not at all surprised; he had been expecting some amount of resistance, and it only served to solidify his own reservations for asking for help.

Alex drummed his fingers against the glass desk, calculating his chances at success if he made a mad dash for the lift. It didn’t bode well for anyone involved.

The phone rang, and the receptionist breathed a sigh of relief for a distraction.

“Royal & General Bank, how may I help you?” A pause. Her eyes flicked to the boy in front of her. Another pause. “Of course.” Replacing the receiver, she smiled sweetly, grinding her teeth. “Smithers will see you know. If you could make your way to the lift, I will send you down to his office straight away.”

The lift dinged behind her.

Alex wanted to demand who had been on the other end of the call, but then a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered something about looking a gift horse in the mouth. He settled for boarding the lift and smirking victoriously as the doors slid shut. He just hoped his victory didn’t end with a face-to-face with Mrs. Jones.

But no one was waiting for him when he arrived on the sub-level. For an underground floor, it was surprisingly homey. Bright lights trailed the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the entire hall. It smelled faintly of popcorn.

Alex followed the aroma and was led to Smithers’s main laboratory, a vast open room with worktables, machinery, and gadgets filling every available space. The far wall was piled high with charred motherboards and torn metal shards, gadgets that had met their end too early. Smithers himself was currently intently immersed on a minuscule project, his swollen hands fiddling under a magnifying lamp, his face centimeters from the glass. He didn’t react as the boy approached. His fingers deftly constructed the casing and welded the tiny coils. Alex couldn’t help but be surprised that Smithers was physically able to work on such delicate, intricate wiring. Thin trails of smoke drifted upwards. A brilliant spark shot out and singed the metal table.

Smithers finally looked up from his project and smiled jovially. “Alex, my dear boy!” He rubbed at his hands with a soiled rag, smudging the skin with more black grease instead of cleaning it. “How’ve you been keeping? I must say I am surprised—pleasantly so but surprised nonetheless—that you would call on me.”

“I’ve been well,” Alex replied pleasantly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the newest invention. “And yourself?”

The gadget-man threw the grease-stained rag over the trinket with a smile. He spun on the stool, and the metal groaned in protest. “Oh, I can’t complain,” he replied but grimaced. “I was sorry to hear how the Snakehead operation ended. Bad business, that. I was pained to hear what you went through.” Smithers fixed Alex with a look, unreadable and unwavering. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to comfort the boy but didn’t quite know how.

Alex shrugged uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure so he wanted to talk about it. “Er—why does everything smell like popcorn?”

“I’ve found the smell often accompanies the making of such a snack," Smithers answered amusedly. "I would off some, but I may have finished it off already.”

He hobbled to his feet and gestured for Alex to follow him further into the lab. He wobbled over to a sofa that had once been upholstered in a light tan fabric, but after years of exploding devices and oil or soot coated hands, it looked like an art-student’s end-of-year project. The obese man collapsed heavily onto one side and indicated Alex should do the same.

A worried crease gathered between Smithers’s eyes. “Now, I assume you have not come all the way down to my little foundry to ask about the smell of popcorn. I must admit I’m glad it isn’t at Mrs. Jones’s behest.”

“…not at Mrs. Jones’s behest, but…” This felt like the discussion with Tom all over again. Alex rubbed at the nape of his neck before extracting the broken mobile phone that was primarily the reason for visiting Smithers. “I have been looking into something on my own, and, well, I’ve had a bit of a setback. I need to get into this phone, but it’s password protected.”

Smithers took the device.

“I’ve been investigating the death of this journalist—Hadley Sallows—and I think it might be connected to something worse.” He explained everything from the initial encounter with Sallows to the flat to the charity organization, without going too deep into the gritty details. To his credit, Smithers nodded on occasion, but his face remained impassive.

A strange feeling of nausea settled at the base of Alex’s stomach as he waited for some kind of reaction from the older man. He picked at his abused nails.

“I can’t say I’m not—disappointed that you would choose to get involved in this,” Smithers said finally. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to let this go?”

Alex shook his head. “But, my friend made me promise that I wouldn’t do this alone.”

“Smart friend, him.” Smithers sighed, and, with great effort, rose once again to his feet and lumbered through the labyrinth of workbenches where a computer stood on the one desk designed for an actual office. He connected the mobile with one of the many cables sprawled about and tapped in a series of commands, pausing when a loading bar appeared and vanished within seconds. Sallows’s mobile glowed. The generic home page occupied the screen.

Smithers returned the device but, when Alex took hold of it, held it fast. “I am doing this because you, no doubt, would find a way in even without my help. Though through much more…illegal, and potentially dangerous, means.” He released the phone. “But I do not think my bypassing the passcode is the type of help your friend had in mind.”

Alex flicked through the home screen absentmindedly. Once he asked Smithers his second request, his path was set. The older man would undoubtedly force his way into the know, whether that was through CCTV cameras, tracking the boy’s GPS, or something along those lines. Alex had made a promise, though, and one he meant to keep.

“Would you be able to get me an address? For an SAS soldier: Ben Daniels. I worked with him in Australia when he was seconded by MI6.”

“My dear old chap, are you suggesting I break into secure military personnel files and give out private details?” The mischievous spark Alex had first associated with the gadget-maker gleamed brilliantly. Barely a moment later, a hand-written note detailing the address of one Benjamin Daniels was firmly pressed into Alex’s hands with a wink. “I hear he’ll be nearing the end of his physiotherapy soon. And as far as I know, Daniels is headed back to his old unit in the SAS. Not for the lack of trying by Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones.”

“Thanks, Smithers.”

The older man waved away the gratitude and turned away, although not before Alex saw a faint cherry red creeping across his face. Smithers teetered away, shuffling around various objects on a nearby table. He moved to the neighboring one and tried searching there. “Now where did…”

The words were too quiet for Alex to make out, and he wasn’t sure if he should offer to help look. Where Smithers was involved, things tended to explode. Alex’s chest fluttered with a child’s excitement. Gadgets.

“Ah, here we are!”

Smithers brandished his fat arm proudly. He hobbled back to Alex and offered one of the two items in his hand. It was a black Tissot T-Touch, one of the best and most durable sport watches of the year. Coated in titanium, fitted with twenty different features—altimeter, compass, weather forecast—and solar rechargeable. Alex slid it on immediately. “It functions much as the last one did, with one or two improvements. Specifically, regarding the battery. Once you activate the emergency beacon, little less than a nuclear explosion would prevent the GPS from transmitting your location.”

Neither of them voiced what was going through their minds, just why that amendment was necessary. The stabbing anger behind Alex’s eyes was enough of a reminder.

Smithers handed over the second item. It was a coin, slightly bigger than two pound and completely silver. On one side was a man’s head and the word ‘liberty,’ on the other, a giant bird grasping an olive branch and scroll. A quarter.

“This twenty-five cent coin functions as an EMP. Simply rest it against whatever you are trying to disable for five seconds, and it will need a good jump start to ever work again. Now, it’s not quite powerful enough to take out an entire building, but it would certainly do the trick for a lorry, a single story flat, and so on.”

Alex made sure to put the coin in a different pocket from his mobile. That was the last thing he needed: to fry his only way to call for help and waste a particularly useful gadget. He smiled at Smithers.

“Thank you. Truly.”

Smithers cleared his throat and shuffled his way once more through the cluttered room, leading Alex back towards the lift. He clapped him once on the shoulder and steered him inside.

“Be safe, my boy.”

The door, Alex decided, was mocking him. The simple white door stood before him, taunting him, compelling him to knock and face the man inside. A few times, Alex raised his fist with the intention of knocking, but both times, with surprising, vehemence, he shoved both hands deep into his hoody pockets. Nothing—no lights or sounds or shifting shadows—suggested that Ben was even at home. Nevertheless, Alex couldn’t bring himself to check for certain.

The last he had seen the soldier, Ben had been prone on the floor, unconscious in an ever-growing puddle of his own blood. MI6 had whisked the young spy away without so much as a word as to the man’s condition. It wasn’t until the debrief that Blunt revealed that Ben had survived. Guilt and frustration simmered below the surface. Guilty that the man had been charged with ensuring Alex survived no matter what, and frustration that the man had burst into the room and put himself in the line of fire so recklessly—not that Alex hadn’t done the same countless number of times before.

But he didn’t blame or hate Ben for being the one to kill Ash.

The horror Alex felt when he thought of even thanking him was nearly catastrophic and painful.

Gnawing on his lip, he shook his head. Alex turned to walk away, intending to come back another day—maybe—and saw a familiar figure strutting towards him, his gaze set on the jangling key ring in his hands. A bag, filled to the brim with groceries, threatened to spill out of his arms. As soon as Ben glanced up, he stopped short with an incredulous expression.

“Alex?”

Alex waved.

Immediately, Ben broke into a smile. “I should be surprised,” he began, fitting the proper key into the door and walking in, “but running into you in unexpected places seems to be the norm. Least we’re in our home country this time.”

Alex cautiously stepped over the threshold. It seemed like an invasion of sorts, like he was about to see something he shouldn’t. After all, Ben had first been a soldier at Brecon Beacons then a spy in Bangkok. Both places were kept separate from Ben as an individual, but this place—this was the man’s home, an extension of who he really was, when not working as a cog in a machine or masquerading as someone else entirely. The flat was small and simple. Modest. Alex decided maybe it wasn’t so different from the man he knew.

He ventured in a little farther and noted only a few personal effects scattered across the various nooks and crannies. Most were framed photographs—and Alex was willing to bet at least one of them featured a certain unit from Wales—but the most unique and rather cool item was tucked into one of the shelves built into the wall. It looked like an old carryon luggage, ragged and busted along the edges; the entire inside was packed with electronics straight out of a 40s spy film. Dials and switches and cables cluttered the small space, but somehow it all fit perfectly.

“My grandad served in World War II under SOE,” Ben called over from the kitchen. He had placed his bag on the counter and begun to put the groceries in the proper place when he noticed where Alex was headed. “He was a radio operator in Vichy France.”

Alex studied the suitcase radio with closer inspection. It certainly looked haggard enough to have survived a few years dodging Nazis and the Carlingue, maybe even a few grenades to top off the experience. “And they just let him keep it?”

“According to Grandad, he simply forgot to return it. I think it was a mix between no one really caring about old spy tech that had seen better days and never wanting to see a reminder of the last four years ever again.”

“But he kept it.”

“That he did,” Ben agreed. “He never explained why. He probably had grown so used to needing it, he just couldn’t bear to part with it.” The slamming of cabinets came to an end, and Alex turned to find Ben reclined against the counter, arms crossed loosely. He seemed to be patiently waiting for Alex to explain why he was there, and probably more than a tad amused by his reluctance to broach the subject.

"Smithers." Alex chose the easiest to start with. “He gave me your address.” He rubbed the back of his head. He just felt awkward at this point, and Ben’s amused staring was doing nothing to assuage that. “I’m, er, sorry that I didn’t come see you in hospital. Mrs. Jones was pretty adamant about getting me back on British soil as quickly as possible.”

Ben shrugged. That was the first moment Alex realized that there was no sling or restriction of movement. The wound, while serious due to blood loss, didn’t appear to have done any permanent damage.

“I reckoned that was the case. Glad to see you made it back in one piece.”

Alex nodded absently. He was absolutely fine, if discounting the nightmares, throwing himself into danger every chance he got, and just generally having no clue how, and maybe no desire, to return to a normal teenage life.

A cup of tea suddenly appeared in front of him. Ben reclined against the kitchen counter, still regarding him in the amused, questioning manner. “So are you going to make me ask why Smithers gave you my address, or…”

Alex shrugged and sipped the tea. It scalded his throat pleasantly. “He thought you could help me with a project I’m working on.”

“What sort of project?”

“The sort that involves getting chased across London by a charity’s evil henchman.”

Ben sipped his tea. “I’m going to need a little more than that.”

So, for the third time in only two days, Alex found himself explaining Hadley Sallows’s investigation. The summary contained more specifics than the one Alex had given to Smithers, from descriptions to all the important characters involved to the layout of ECO headquarters, and concluded with the chase through London that ultimately forced him to search out reinforcement. Ben, throughout the explanation, had barely even twitched. Occasionally, his eyes drifted to the floor, of to the side, the movement people often do as if trying to contemplate possibilities.

When Alex fell silent, Ben placed his mug into the sink scrubbed at his eyes. “You’re a strange kid, you know.”

Alex bristled.

“Why do you even want to get involved in this?”

Alex didn’t have an answer. He set down his tea with more force than necessary, holding back the guilty flinch when the porcelain resounded with a sharp ding. “Never mind. Forget I even asked.” He turned to leave. It wasn’t like he even wanted help to begin with. He was doing perfectly fine on his own.

“Cub, relax. It was just a question.”

Alex heard a sigh and the clunk of a second coffee cup making its way into the sink. An exasperate voice came from behind him, “before you go off sulking, can you just tell me what you wanted from me? What you’re hoping to get out of this?”

Alex returned to the kitchen, the faint burning in his face the only indicator of embarrassment over his childish response. He dug into his back pocket for Sallows’s phone and held it up. “Smithers helped me get inside. Didn’t really give me anything new—except that the guy was really into shawarma—” Alex unlocked the mobile and pulled up the one thing that had caught his attention. A handful of candid photos taken in some car park at night. Most of them were horrible quality, half of them off focus or blurred, but two at least focused on four men with surprising clarity. “But I did find this. I want to go back and look around, but—it didn’t exactly go well last time.”

Ben took the phone and scrutinized the first photograph. He pointedly schooled his expression, but the minute pinching at the corner of his lips and the forced ease in his stance betrayed him. “And ECO is the charity you broke into?” The question didn’t require an answer; Ben already knew. He dragged another hand over his face. “Alex—”

“I’m not stopping.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. All I was going to say, is we should take this to MI6—”

“No!”

Ben swiped through the phone again until he found the photo library and shoved the evidence in Alex’s face. “Alex, the men in this photo are Bratva. Russian mafia.” He zoomed in on one of the men, magnifying his hand. Clear against the man’s pale skin was a black tattoo, inked letters atop his wrist: мир. World. “This, this stands for ‘menya ispravit rasstrel’—only execution will fix me. They’re killers.”

“Yeah, I got that bit, when I found out they killed Hadley Sallows!”

Ben growled and glowered. The muscle in his jaw convulsed. Alex met the glare evenly, challengingly. Ben may have the advantage in years, but Alex could out-stubborn the most murderous of masterminds. Many have tried and failed, and he’d be damned if a Liverpudlian fox would beat him at his own game. He co*cked an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Ben ground out.

Alex almost cheered in victory.

“But—” the triumph dimmed, “—I have two conditions, or I take this to MI6.” Ben held up two digits and began counting down, his eyes fiercely locking onto Alex’s. “You do not do anything without me or my say so. No more breaking into flats, no sneaking into possible criminal headquarters, no taunting henchmen into chasing you around the city.” He waited for Alex to nod grudgingly.

“And?”

“And you agree to taking this MI6 if I deem it too big for the two of us to handle on our own.”

Alex considered it. The whole investigation had begun with the murder of one man and quickly become a conspiracy of kidnappings and international criminal organizations. If the missing kids stood any chance at being found alive, eventually Alex would have had to bring everything to Blunt and Jones. He couldn’t put innocent lives at risk because of his pride and resentment.

Alex nodded. “Okay.”

The tension immediately seeped out of Ben’s frame. He breathed easily. “Okay. I know you probably want to get started right away, but we need to take a moment. Look at everything with a new set of eyes. I have a friend in MI5; she specializes in Eastern European matters in London, and I can see what she knows about local Bratva activities.”

As he was talking, Alex slipped off his bag and set the Sallows files, which he had taken to carrying with him everywhere, on the counter. Already, the pressure behind his eyes, the same strain that continued to build when he was on mission, began to ebb. He hadn’t thought that gaining Ben’s help would change anything, but hope and, dare he say, certainty that they would find the missing children flickered through his mind.

“I can’t do anything tonight, anyways. I’ve physio appointment to make sure I’m still on track to return to the SAS.”

Alex’s eyes involuntarily found the place where the bullet had torn through Ben’s shoulder.

He saw Alex looking and rolled the joint with barely any stiffness and gave a small smile. “It was a through-and-through. Bled a hell of a lot, but barely any real damage.” It was meant to be reassuring.

Alex nodded. “Tomorrow then?”

Alex was standing in a pool of ebony waters. There was nothing around him. No source of light. No sense of movement. And yet, Alex felt cold shivers coursing down his back.

“Hello?” He almost expected echoes to clamor back at him, but the sound vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Gasping sobs came from somewhere ahead of him. The voice wheezed and sniffled. “I want to go home.” It was small, feminine, and terrified. “I just want to go home.”

Alex raced forward into the darkness. He had to find Zoya. He didn’t know how he knew it was her. He just knew he had to find her before it was too late.

There was nothing in front of him but murk and frost.

Zoya screamed— “Ammi!” —and Alex ran faster. The black water latched onto his trainers, pulling him deeper into its embrace, and he fought to wade through it.

“Vas-tu me trouver?”A boy, younger than Alex, sat on the ground. His chestnut curls fell in his eyes and emphasized just how young he actually was. “Tu as dit que tu le ferais.”

“I’m trying,” Alex asserted. “But I don’t know where you are.”

Timothée scowled. “Tu es trop tard. Je suis déjà perdu.” Blood slipped down his face. One crimson tear at first, then a rivulet seeping from the corner of his mouth. He coughed and more blood coursed freely. “Et tout est de ta faute.”

Help! Please! Screams. Sobs. Spasi menya! Wailing. Sie tun uns weh, bitte—kann ich nicht mehr aushalten. They echoed all around him. Alex spun in terror, his hands gripping at his ears to block out the torment. The ink climbed past his knees, to his waist, to his chest. Alex was drowning.

He gasped for breath.

The water was crushing him.

He couldn’t breathe in. He was going to suffocate. A rasping, final breath rushed into his lungs. “—t’trouverai!” I promise. The oily depths crawled up his neck and took him into its deadly embrace.

His eyes ripped open; his body writhed. The normally comforting duvet felt as if it were smothering him, trying to snatch away his breath, even though he was certain that there wasn’t one to steal. The blankets and sheets encased him relentlessly. The more he struggled to break free, the tighter it wrapped around him. With a violent tug, Alex escaped.

The cool air barely soothed the nausea that had set in, but it was welcome, nonetheless. Un. Deux. Trois. Quatre… Gradually, eventually, Alex regained the capability to take in a full gulp of air and release it without wheezing.

That was unpleasant, he thought, and then huffed. Unpleasant barely even covered the feel of the inky water let alone the rest of it.

He glanced at the clock on his bedstand. Seven twenty-three. Jack wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours—she had progressively begun to sleep later and later over the years. Ever since Alex learned to wake himself up for school, she began to reclaim her leisurely mornings from her undergraduate days. A quiet morning to himself did sound nice, the more he thought of it.

Treading into the kitchen, shaking loose water from his hair, Alex set about making a pot of coffee and pouring a healthy-sized bowl of cereal. Then, with his laptop before him and a steaming mug in his hand, he began perusing every news site he could find. BBC, Tagesschau, Le Monde, Gazeta. All of them reported basic everyday news and wintery weather of their respective countries. Democrats in America were calling for more gun control while their opposition insisted rifles in schools would protect schools against armed intruders, and in England, conservative members of the public were attacking Meghan Markle for another royal faux pas. World-class judo wrestler Tato Grigalashvii claimed another trophy in Georgia. Russian scientists found a fully intact wolf head from 32,000 years ago. It seemed, however, that there weren’t any new kidnappings. Or, at least, none that anyone noticed.

Jack padded into the kitchen with a yawn, “mo’nin’.”

“Coffee’s in the pot.”

On her way to the coffee, she tried to peek at the computer screen, but Alex flicked it to some nonsense piece titled “Doing His Part: Kensington Man Spends Weekends Shushing Teens At The Cinema.” Jack snorted but didn’t comment. Instead, she deeply inhaled the rich, enticing aroma and sighed. It seemed at least she had gotten a relaxing night of sleep.

“So, what’s the plan for today? Anything fun?”

Alex hesitated. What could he say that wasn’t a complete lie? “Think I’ll give Tom a ring. Play some football or something.”

“Really,” she questioned, “’cause I ran into Mrs. Harris at the supermarket yesterday, and she said Tom was flying out to Naples today.”

Alex shrugged, frowning slightly. “Oh. Guess I forgot. Maybe I’ll head to a coffee shop to get some coursework out of the way, then.” He shut the laptop and thrummed his fingers against the casing. “What about you? Going to give that bloke—George? —a ring?”

She didn’t rise to the bait and looked at him skeptically. He could nearly see the cogs turning in her head as she tried to work through a way to confirm her suspicions. She actually looked faintly annoyed. Finally, she asked, “has the bank contacted you? Is that why you’ve been acting all weird these past few days?”

“I haven’t been—”

“Yes, you have been,” she affirmed forcefully. “Is this all because I suggested going to D.C. for a few days? What’s going on with you?”

Alex felt guilt burn his throat. He really couldn’t bring himself to lie, but he also couldn’t see her allowing him to continue his investigation. “No, the bank hasn’t instigated any contact,” he responded. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. The words still tasted rotten in his mouth.

She reached out and squeezed his arm. “I just want things to go back to normal, you know?”

No, he didn’t. That was the problem. Alex swallowed roughly and nodded. He couldn’t stay there anymore, not when he was lying to Jack, whether directly or by omission. Mutely, he gathered his things—anything that might be of use for what Ben had in mind for the night’s endeavors—and shoved them into his school bag. He tried to offer her a smile.

“I’ll be back later, yeah?”

“Alex—"

But he was already out the door. He was halfway to the nearest Tube station, when he realized he had left his winter jacket and he was absolutely freezing. A fine mist set across the city in tandem with its characteristic fog, forcing Alex to hug his hoodie closer around him and breathe into his hands to get some semblance of warmth. When he reached the station, the thick material was already soaked through to his skin.

By the time he arrived at Ben’s door, his whole body was trembling. It occurred to him too late how awkward it was, him turning up without warning—twice in two days, at that. And it would be truly unfortunate, if it turned out that Ben was out for the morning. What if he had company? What if—

Alex raised a shaking fist and knocked.

Thirty seconds later, the door swung open to reveal Ben, toweling his hair dry. A faint crackling came from the kitchen, the smell of eggs wafting into the hall.

“Alex?” he gaped. Taking one look at the drenched hoodie and shivering boy, he ushered him inside and closed the door behind them. “What are you doing here? And why are you soaked?”

“Sorry, I know it’s early…”

Ben led the way to the kitchen, where there was, indeed, a pan of eggs on the stove. The soldier automatically set the kettle to boil, grabbing an extra mug from the cupboard. He nudged the eggs and threw a worried glance towards Alex, who had edged awkwardly into the room and lent against the table along the wall. He handed over a mug of searing hot tea.

“Is everything okay?”

Alex nodded and chewed on his lower lip. “Didn’t much want to stay at home,” he admitted. “And my best mate’s already left to go visit his brother.”

Ben accepted the answer silently. “Do you want food or anything?” he asked as he shoveled the scramble onto a plate. “I’ve got eggs, toast and jam, makings for a sandwich…”

“No. Thanks. I’ve already eaten.”

“Right.” Ben sat at the table and awkwardly dug into his breakfast. Alex sat opposite him and gradually stopped shivering. It helped that he had slipped off his wet hoodie at some point, though all he wore underneath was a thin jumper.

They endured in awkward silence for what felt like forever. Alex wasn’t sure if Ben was usually laconic or if it was because the man was not used to being around teenagers. He surely hadn’t talked much when they had been training in Wales, and there wasn’t a lot of time for mindless chatter in Bangkok. It made Alex realize just how little he actually knew about Ben Daniels.

He gazed around the room for some sense of who the man was. Whoever he was, he didn’t care for many personal touches or extraneous belongings. The kitchen opened into a lounging room, with a sofa and television on the far side. A fair number of books filled the built-in shelves and a handful of pictures had been hung on the wall, but it seemed that was the extent of Ben’s personality. One unhappy looking plant stood on the windowsill, curling towards the glass as it searched for a better patch of sunlight.

“—been?”

Alex’s attention snapped back. “What?”

Ben grinned and asked again. “How have you been? How is everything? Life, school, friends, girlfriends? I can’t imagine your entire life revolves around solving random crimes you read about online.”

“That’s true. I usually find them just walking down the street,” he smirked into his tea, “and promptly drop them onto police headquarters.”

Ben looked torn between confusion of what Alex meant and suspicion that he was actually serious. He settled for grinning and shaking his head in disbelief. “So?”

Alex cleared his throat. “Everything’s—fine. My best mate just left to go visit his brother, so…” he pointedly didn’t mention that his best mate was also his only real mate after all the weirdness of this past year. His thoughts wandered to Sabina and the fleeting time she had spent in London at the end of November, to the more-than-friends kiss they’d shared. What were they to one another? “No girlfriend to speak of.”

“How about school?”

Alex shrugged and wrinkled his nose. “Fine, I guess. My year is taking the GCSEs this Spring, so it’s mostly prep and review.” He drew his finger around the rim of his mug, grimacing as if remembering something unpleasant.

“And they’re okay with you missing all those days in November?”

The question made him squirm. His grimace set further into face, and he refused to meet Ben’s eyes.

Ben tried another question. “Do your parents know what you were doing in Australia?”

“They—died, when I was a baby.” A pause. “But my guardian knows. She knows about everything—except this.” Alex waved a hand vaguely towards Ben and the pile of files in the center of the table.

“Is that why you ran out of the house this morning without so much as a mac?”

“I don’t want to lie to her.” He downed the rest of his tea and shook himself free of the gloom. “So,” he started readily, “we’re looking into ECO tonight, right? We’re going to have to figure out a better plan than last time. Running halfway across London being chased by an angry Russian isn’t as fun as it sounds.”

Ben chuckled slightly and scrubbed at his hair. “Alex,” he hesitated, apparently unsure of how to frame his thoughts. “I want you to be prepared for what we might find…” The man worried at a dark stain on the table, shifting to clasp his mug with both hands. “Cases with kids—especially if they’ve been missing for weeks—don’t often end well. Whatever ECO wants with them,” he exhaled roughly. “It’s going to be rough.”

“All the more reason to find them.”

Ben stared at him inscrutably. If he had been expecting a different response, he didn’t let it show. He nodded. “Alright,” he said, “we’ll head out at six; see what security is like and go from there. Though with your luck, you’ll probably be spending the evening in air vents trying to escape a hoard of radioactive mice.”

He ruffled Alex’s hair on the way to the sink, laughing as the boy ducked and swatted the hand away.

Kyra Vashenko-Chao hid her hands deeper in the pockets of her jacket. This time of night, the temperature was easily -17 degrees Celsius. Her breath sank heavily in the air, a clearly visible cloud of white and grey. The lights from the Summer Garden barely illuminated the pavement under her feet, but she preferred it that way. She could max out the volume of her music and just imagine something completely different.

Saint Petersburg was devoid of life. People tended to know better than to stroll along the Neva when it was this cold. Kyra’s face burned. Even with the extra layers she had forced under the jacket, she could feel the tendrils of frostbite creeping up the tips of her fingers, on the tip of her nose. But the pain was better than being back at the hotel with her parents.

They had rented the junior imperial suite at the State Hermitage Museum Hotel, whilst they themselves took the imperial suite. Not that there hadn’t been enough room for her in the multi-storied lodging. To give you your own space, they’d said. More so they wouldn’t have to see her. They had made reservations at Palkin, which meant that if Kyra wanted to attend, she would have to dress nicely and wash away the filth, what her mother referred to her makeup as, from her face.

And so, she had stared frostily at her parents and pointedly slipped in her headphones. Somehow, she had found herself along the riverbank, basking in the biting breeze. She didn’t hate her parents—they were all she had—but it felt like they were always disappointed with who she turned out to be. So, she removed herself from the equation and found respite in her music and computer.

Kyra buried her face deeper into her hood. She leant over the stone bannister to glance at the Neva and saw a surface of pure ice. Sometime in the past few days, someone had cleared a large patch to go skating. The white tracks almost glowed in contrast to the rest of the untarnished ice.

She traced the cracks that littered the barrier and glanced back toward where she’d walked from. Someone else had wandered down to the riverbank and was staring towards the other side. From this distance, the figure could be a man or a woman. The enormous coat obscured any kind of shape. A group of drunken men stumbled out from a side street, yelling and cheering unintelligibly. One fell to the ground and took out another by the knees, which only served to send the others into noxious howls of laughter.

Kyra scowled.

She turned back to the river and startled. The figure had moved; instead of standing at the start of the Prachechnyy Most, they were nearly at the first entrance of the Gardens, about nine meters from where Kyra reclined against the barrier. They still stared out towards the Peter and Paul Fortress on the opposite embankment.

Kyra removed her headphones and glanced around. The drunken party had moved on. Only she and the figure were on the Palace Embankment.

Suddenly, she didn’t prefer the darkened street.

Unease fluttering in the back of her mind, Kyra trudged toward Troitskii Bridge. It was the opposite direction from her hotel, but the extra few minutes were worth putting some distance between her and the disquieting figure.

Paranoia whispered that they were following, and Kyra walked a little faster. Her breath came faster. The biting air tore at her throat. She started to jog, nearly running now. Kyra tried to look behind her, knocking her hood away angrily, her breath catching at the sight of the shadowy form, and she collided with something solid.

Hands snatched at her jacket. She slashed out, driving nails into any exposed flesh she could find. Pain erupted behind her eyes. Her vision fell to black.

Translations and Transliterations:

Ammi! = Mama, mom, mum, mommy (Urdu)

Vas-tu me trouver? = Are you going to find me (French)

Tu as dit que tu le ferais. = You said you would (French)

Tu es trop tard. Je suis déjà perdu. = It's too late. I'm already lost (French)

Et tout est de ta faute. = It's all your fault (French)

Спаси меня = Spasi menya! = save me (Russian)

Sie tun uns weh, bitte—kann ich nicht mehr aushalten. = They're hurting us, please--I can't hold on anymore (German)

—t’trouverai! = je te trouverai = I will find you (French)

Меня исправит расстрел = menya ispravit rasstrel = only execution (shooting) will fix me (Russian)

Chapter 5: Skill against Skill Alone

Chapter Text

The street was bustling with even more activity than the past few days. The weather had improved greatly since the morning, rising a few degrees to make a stroll through the streets at least tolerable. More than a few families with little kids meandered past each of the storefronts, hot chocolate and coffee grasped tightly in stiff hands. Some of the parents had given up corralling the wayward children and made do with calling warnings about the dangers of passing cars. At least one rammed into an elderly couple who stood admiring the hustle and bustle of the plaza.

Two individuals leisurely ambled through the crowds. Between decorative lighting and winter apparel, they melded with the throng of people with ease, not warranting a second thought. To everyone else, they were two brothers shopping for the upcoming holiday. The taller of the pair, however, furtively examined the faces of every passerby. If anyone so much as looked twice, the mission would be over before it began. The other kept an eye on the shops, waiting for one in particular.

Alex deftly avoided trampling one of the rampant small children in favor of stumbling into someone taller and sturdier. The stranger gave a harrumph and continued on their way without so much as a backward glance; the girl giggled and skipped back to her father.

Alex righted himself and tried once again to unearth his hands from the mass of fabric concealing them. Before going out, Ben had insisted on giving the boy a jacket so he wouldn’t freeze, but it had resulted in an oversized blanket that reached just above his knees and swallowed his hands. Ben had cackled at the sight. It wasn’t fair; Alex wasn’t that sort and, in fact, was exactly average height for his age.

Halfway down the promenade, the familiar glass doors came into view, a faint glow broadcasting the fact that someone was still inside. Alex fought the urge to tug his hat further down over his fair hair. With the jacket shrouding his actual size and hat concealing the majority of his head, there was no reason to believe anyone in the area would recognize without getting close. Not to mention, only a few ECO employees had seen him in person, and only for a few minutes.

Alex nudged Ben.

The man nodded. He took in the rest of the street, looking just like a tourist, and grinned. “You hungry?” he asked, indicating with his head.

A new Indian restaurant was situated across the street, a few doors down from their target. Its windowed front allowed for a perfect vantage point, far enough away that security cameras or suspicious employees wouldn’t catch a glimpse of them but close enough that they would see any activity in the front of the lobby.

Without waiting for an answer, Ben set off towards Masala Dheli. The inside was muggy from the number of patrons in such a small space, but in a homely way. The smell of turmeric, cumin, and coriander had long since seeped into the walls, new aromas drifting from the ever-revolving door as more and more dishes were sent out of the kitchen. Voices ricocheted and amplified as everyone clamored to hear their dinner partners.

Alex’s mouth watered the minute he stepped inside. Ben communicated with the hostess, mainly through sign language, as he insistently pointed toward a window table, still full of used dishes and cutlery. The young woman shrugged and handed him two menus, clearing the table herself and flagging down a waiter.

He dropped off a pair of water glasses and a set of clean dishes and dashed away within seconds. Only one other server was working in the floor, and both never stayed in one spot for long before a new task demanded their attention.

Ben settled himself down with a menu, already perusing it with a grin. Alex sat down opposite and shrugged off the mountainous coat. The restaurant was so toasty he had begun to overheat. The waiter returned ten minutes later with a basket of papadum. He held his notepad expectantly.

Alex watched bemusedly as Ben ordered a few dishes for the two of them, when it became obvious Alex wasn’t about to do it himself. As a second thought, he ordered a couple lassis as well.

“I thought teenagers were always supposed to be hungry,” he mused, dipping a lentil cracker into the brown imli chutney. “I certainly was at your age.”

Alex elected not to point out he never actually told the man his age. He nibbled at a cracker of his own and found the hollow hunger deepen. He was starving now that he tasted food, but the prospect of fighting and running around full of heavy Indian food already induced a round of nausea.

Ben seemed to understand and gestured to the spread. “Might as well relax and dig in. We can’t go bursting in the moment the last employee leaves. This is as much a waiting game as an infiltration.” He made his point by taking a large gulp of his lassi. “Besides. If they’re as paranoid as you make them seem, there’s bound to be a security guard or two.”

Alex agreed. “Jason for one.” He hadn’t realized he said it loud enough to be heard until he saw Ben’s bemused expression.

“Who?”

Before he had the chance to answer, the waiter returned with their drinks. The tall glasses held a viscous frothy liquid, one a greyish white, the other a soft orange. Alex sipped his experimentally and grinned. Mango. He took a larger gulp and savored the sour sweetness.

“The other day, when my mate and I got chased by the guy from ECO—Tom’s a big movie buff, and he said the bloke reminded him of that psycho from the ‘Friday the thirteenth’ movie.”

“The one with the hockey mask?”

Alex nodded and smirked. “All shoulders and neck, looks awkward and uncoordinated, but is surprisingly fast. It just kind of stuck.”

Ben laughed and sipped at his own yogurt beverage. “I much preferred the psychological thrillers myself. ‘Silence of the Lambs,’ ‘Black Swan,’ ‘Sixth Sense,’ and the like.”

The waiter returned once again, this time laden with the entirety of their order: garlic naan bread, tikka masala, palak paneer, and another dish Alex couldn’t identify. It all smelled and looked heavenly. Without a second thought towards mixing food with athletics, Alex spooned a taste of everything onto his plate and took an experimental bite. It tasted as better than he’d expected. Apparently, his enjoyment was plain on his face.

Ben laughed and dug into his own food with an agreeing sigh of contentment. “Are you a big fan of horror films?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“Not as much as Tom. But every Halloween he comes round to mine, and him, me and Jack have a marathon of all the classics.” Alex grinned. “Jack absolutely hates jump-scares but insists on watching with us, so we don’t get scared. Tom’s tried pointing out that gingers never die in the films, so she has nothing to be worried about, but I find it more helpful to just warn her before the murderer jumps out of the closet. That way, I feel slightly less guilty doing a few jump-scares of my own.”

“How kind of you,” Ben remarked, shaking his head. “Jack’s your guardian, then?”

“I’ve known her since I was eight,” Alex confirmed. “My uncle traveled a lot, so he needed someone to help out around the house. She’s more of a big sister than anything.” Normally, he would have hesitated before sharing details about his life. But for some reason, he felt himself at ease in Ben’s company. Maybe because Ben was the first to actually show up in time when Alex called for help.

“My dad travelled a lot too,” Ben said suddenly. “He was a translator for a legal firm. Spent a lot of time in France and Spain.”

Alex listened in silence, wondering if Ben was experiencing the same sense of trust that Alex was and that was the reason for the sudden divulgence.

“My mum runs a restaurant with her sister. Best meat pies in Liverpool,” he added wistfully. He cleared the rest of his plate with a slice of naan, then stretched back and regarded Alex with a hint of amusem*nt. “She wanted me to take over the business at first, but—as it turns out—I’m a rubbish cook.”

Alex gave him lopsided grin. “So, you decided to join the army? Reckoned it was near impossible to ruin rations?”

Ben returned the smirk. “So, I went to university for linguistics. But I always knew I wanted to enlist. And as I’m sure you recall, if Eagle’s on meal prep, it is entirely possible to make rations inedible.”

“I remember that slop the mess hall served was enough to destroy even the memory of real food. You can’t blame Eagle for falling victim to that.” Alex thought about the unbearable ten days filled with taunts, glares, and hostile silence. Then again, maybe you could blame him for that.

The waiter returned and cleared the table. Ben ordered a coffee for himself, whilst Alex was content with the last of his mango lassi and water. They waited in silence, or what constituted as silence in the deafening ambience.

“Can I ask why?” Ben was watching him with the same evaluating expression as the other day.

Alex didn’t need to ask, ‘why what,’ —why Alex wasn’t leaving this to the police. He shrugged. “I’m not really sure why.”

He stared across the street. Although it was late in the evening now, it was still full of people wandering from shop to shop and admiring the front displays. ECO was no longer the only one to have turned off the lights and closed down for the day. The lamination from the other locations shadowed a number of windows and created a checkered line for as long as Alex could see.

Ben didn’t press the question and simply sipped at his coffee. The two sat in companionable silence until they both had finished and digested. Ben dropped a few notes onto the check and motioned to leave. It was quarter to nine. ECO had been dark lifeless for fort minutes already, and there were no signs of a security officer making rounds.

From what Alex remembered of his first visit, there were no exterior cameras, only a few inside that covered the majority of the floor plan. The security control panel hung on the wall, not too far from the door so that an employee would be able to disable the alarm before it goes off. The front door had an average lock, or at least one that nearly every other shop used. There was no hint of wires or electronic sensor; ECO most likely assumed no one would be stupid enough to try and rob a charity—or break into a place associated with the Bratva.

They walked up casually to the front doors, standing to the side as if trying to get out of the way of other pedestrians. Ben adjusted his scarf and hat, his eyes searching for a CCTV they might have missed.

“You sure you can handle the security system?”

Alex nodded. He rummaged through the pockets of his oversized jacket instead of correcting that he most likely could handle the system. Smithers had told him the coin would be able to handle a single-story flat, and all Alex wanted to take out was a single security device. Most systems, unless there was a backup installed, would go out alongside the power and only alert the police once it was back online. In theory, at least.

That only left the front lock, which was something Ian had taught him by the time he was eight. He’d given Alex a set of lockpicks and entertained his young nephew for months by randomly locking doors around the house. By the time Alex was eleven, there was rarely a door he couldn’t unlock given the right tools.

ECO’s lock posed no challenge, and wordlessly Alex fiddled with the levers until the tumblers fell into place. The moment the latch opened, the panel on the wall flashed its first warning. Alex wasted no time in fishing out the quarter and laying it against the electronic. The whole system flashed, the screen blurring and twisting with static, and then everything fell to black.

They waited. Nothing changed.

Alex grinned. Thank you, Smithers. He motioned for Ben to follow and made his way slowly across the lobby. Without the artificial bulbs humming in the ceiling and meager daylight streaming in through the windows, the entrance hall felt macabre and lifeless. Even the scant cheer of the identical volunteers hadn’t left an imprint on the place. Alex navigated the same hallway he had only two days prior, taking the time to unlock the offices he had been unable to access before.

Ben and Alex alternated in checking doors, careful to listen for any sort of movement or source of light that would signal a guard’s presence. They crept along in darkness, using their hands to guide them from one room to the next; once inside, they allowed themselves to view the contents with a small torch. The building consisted mainly of offices and meeting rooms, that probably functioned as community event spaces. Some had more personal touches, photos on the walls and desks, a few books and plants, but nothing that suggested a high position in the organization. Before long, they had covered all of the offices on the first floor with nothing to show for it.

They tried again on the second floor, finding an identical layout to the first. Doors littered both sides of the hallway, completely bathed in shadows. Exiting from the stairwell, they waited again for a sign of a guard, but when none appeared, Alex unlocked the first door. Instead of the expected desk and office chair, the room was filled with metal rails and file cabinets, complete with storage boxes and external data servers. A desk stood off to the side riddled boxes and papers, an old monitor resting in the center. Grinning in triumph, Alex tugged his accomplice in behind him and shut the door.

As Alex headed straight for the computer, Ben took the torch to inspect the labeled boxes.

The computer chimed and glowed blindingly in the pitch-black room. Alex froze, holding his breath because, with his luck, the entire building heard the telltale powering-up sound. The screen glowed blue, and no one came bursting into the room. The only sound was a faint shuffling as Ben leafed through various accounts and records and receipts. He removed a few pages and moved on to the next collection, wasting no time in between.

The desktop was littered with various folders, each one filled with more files and archives in a seemingly endless rabbit hole of records and documents. Alex disregarded more than half after a quick perusal; schedules of events and employee timesheets composed one file, a list of construction projects and drives in another. ECO was a charity organization that was known to host food drives, community fundraisers, and the like. Even with an illegal side business, they likely dedicated enormous amounts of pounds and hours to their philanthropic affairs.

Other files held spreadsheets filled with—presumably—budgets, international and domestic taxes, daily expenditures and rent, and other monetary numbers. Alex deciphered some of the information, drawing on the phrases he’d learned from Ian’s ‘work’. Some column titles were simply numbers and abbreviations that held no meaning to a teenager. What he did easily comprehend, was the large number of zeroes listed under those columns.

“Be—"

Alex choked back the word as a track of light danced under the storeroom door. Muffled steps followed not long after. Security—with only one torchlight, and the scuffing of two languid steps, it sounded like there was only guard. He looked to Ben, his heart jolting with an influx of adrenaline. The man shook his head, visible even in the meager light, and made a motion to stay completely still.

The steps continued to traverse the hall. Because of the grainy carpet, Alex couldn’t tell if they were getting closer or farther away; the only thing he knew for certain now was that it was only one guard. If the man decided to check inside, the two of them would outnumber him. Alex was prepared to spring at the door if that was the case.

The torchlight stopped its searching movement. Alex’s breath hitched. The glow swung under the door and vanished. The footsteps retreated. It grew silent. Alex released his breath.

Ben replaced the last of the files even more silently and cautiously than before and slipped over to the desk. He scanned the screen briefly, but his expression gave nothing away, except a slight twitch between his eyes. Alex wasn’t sure if that particular tell meant confusion or restrained suspicion.

He scrolled further down the pages, scanning the numbers and waiting for any reaction from Ben that would signal that they had found something worthwhile. He traced a row that specified the dates of monetary transfer and focused on the significant payments. The largest was for thousands of pounds, but the recipient was the British government—a culmination of taxes, rent, and fees for the entire fiscal year. Other smaller payments of around eight thousand pounds were spaced out roughly by a few weeks. 28 August, 13 September, 25 September. Each payment went to the same company: Istraflot.

Alex read the dates again. Why did they sound familiar? He hadn’t been in the country at the time, so it wasn’t something he experienced personally. Unless it was to do with Scorpia—but even then, he had barely paid attention to the passing time. If it was related to Zoya Arain, she disappeared on the 22^nd of September…and Jonathon Lloyd had “runaway” on the 10^th, Hannah Vivier on the 25^th.

They were payments confirming a job well done. Alex took a picture with his phone and turned to Ben—

The storeroom door burst open.

Alex felt the scowl slip across his face. The intruder was even uglier up close. Jason Voorhees, the thug who had pursued the two boys for city blocks and who had earned the movie villain moniker, sneered back from the doorway. Tom’s comparison of a gorilla was bizarrely accurate, with the man’s solid, round shoulders, broad abdominal muscles that bulged out from behind his shirt. His movements were inelegant and stiff, built for power, not grace or speed. Two friends of equal sized and aptitude stood on either side of him. Jason took in the two intruders with a simple, lazy glance, and the sneer transformed into a smile.

Alex took back his earlier thought. The man was even uglier when he smiled.

The three took a step forward into the room, just as Alex and Ben took a step back. The security—who were no doubt Bratva associates, if the tattoos were anything to go by—moved slowly and indifferently, their hands loose at their sides. Either they were unarmed or believed guns were unnecessary to overwhelm the two intruders. Or it would take away from the fun of beating us with their bare hands, Alex thought shrewdly.

He felt the rush of hormones coursing through his bloodstream, preparing him for a fight. Unlike before, when the guard had almost walked in on them, the thrill of adrenaline slowed his thoughts, calmed him. His breath quickened, but he wasn’t afraid. Ben was an SAS soldier, skilled enough to be requisitioned by MI6 for a high-risk operation; he could handle himself in a fight, no doubt.

The three men spread out, encroaching on the little open space there was.

Alex sidled to edge of the table and waited. Whilst he was confident in his and Ben’s ability to fight back, that didn’t mean that they were at a disadvantage. The three henchmen were massive and carried themselves as if they had proper hand-to-hand training, and Ben had been shot three weeks ago. The best strategy would be a distraction followed by a surprise strike—limit the possible immediate reactions and slow their defenses. His eyes found a small cardboard box of recycled paper rested on the far corner of the desk. Perfect.

“Sorry,” Alex said, hedging forward another step, “my friend and I are a bit lost.”

Ben shot him an incredulous glare. Jason and his friends paused.

Alex made it to the desk, his hand just centimeters from his target. He turned to Ben, said, “I told you this wasn’t Buckingham Palace,” and launched the papers into the air.

Loose sheets and torn pieces of confetti rained down on them, and Alex lunged at the one closest to him—Jason.

The man took a lumbering swing, striking with the top of his fist and drawing downwards. Alex ducked underneath and delivered strikes of his own. Left, right, an elbow to the solar plexus. He dashed away as his opponent countered with a fierce blow that sent the air whistling past his ear.

He kept his arms up and out, protecting his head, ready to deflect and defend like he’d been taught. The giant of a man was powerful, but Alex was smaller and faster.

Whatever style this man had been taught was brutal, meant to deal such a blow that their opponent could not possibly fight back. His ready stance was reminiscent of a boxer, back curled slightly, arms tucked neatly against the abdomen so as to absorb any strike. The offensive movements were exact and leaden but somehow still as quick as a scorpion’s tail. A fist went sailing towards Alex’s chest. He redirected most of the force, but the skin of forearms ached and pulsed from the contact.

In the background, Alex was vaguely aware of grunts and fists-meeting-flesh, but it was as if, the world had turned black and homed in on the one immediate danger he faced. Jason was advancing with an expression that could only be described as predatory. He showed no indication that Alex had even touched him.

Jason pushed forward, lashing out with those same odd, monstrous strikes. He targeted Alex’s chest and diaphragm—points that could prove fatal with enough strength. Alex raced in, striking with more desperation, targeting what should have been universally vulnerable, but his opponent’s body simply absorbed them. He might as well be hitting a statue.

The back of a fist caught Alex under the jaw. Speckles of light distorted his vision, and suddenly a wall crashed into his side. Alex thrashed out, trying desperately to hit something without aiming. His jaw ached and pulsed.

A thick hand wrapped around his throat and pressed him, agonizingly, deeper into the wall. Alex gripped the wrist, instinctively, desperately. A constant ring echoed in his ears. His fingers gouged into the skin, coloring it with white scratches and speckles of blood. Jason’s other arm was drawing back for a devastating blow—

Alex braced himself against the wall and kicked out, a clear target in mind. His aim was true. The arch of his foot caught his attacker’s knee at the place, where the ligament secured the bones. The man crumbled, howling; his leg bent under him at an unnatural angle. Alex, no longer pinned against the wall, latched onto Jason’s head and thrust his knee upwards.

Jason collapsed to the ground, a quaking breath the only indication he was not dead. Such a strike was one of the many reasons Krav Maga was considered among the most brutal self-defenses.

Alex couldn’t bring himself to look at the damage.

He sought out Ben and felt tiring relief that he was still standing. The taller of the two thugs laid on the ground, unconscious. The other was advancing towards the SAS soldier, whose hand grasped at his shoulder, breathing heavy. Despite this, Ben stood at the ready, balancing on the balls of his feet, his free hand outstretched in guard position.

The minute Ben fainted an attack, Alex lunged. He drove a fist, with as much force he could muster, into the right side of the thug’s abdomen, just below the ribcage, right where the liver sat. The reaction was immediate. The man curled to his side, driving his elbow to the wounded area, fully having the intention of continuing the fight. He spun but continued on his downward spiral. Even the most seasoned fighter couldn’t resist the body’s inherent instinct to protect its vital organs. He slumped to the floor. Surprise marred his face as he tried to comprehend what had happened. Then, Ben delivered a final strike to the temple, and his eyes rolled back.

Suddenly, the room was still.

Alex panted as he glanced around the storeroom. Three large, unconscious bodies covered the floor like dystopian human-skin rugs. Blood still coursed freely from Jason’s shattered nose. The scrap paper Alex had thrown laid haphazardly all around, an entire row of boxes had been knocked over at some point, and nearly everything was left in some state of disarray. Ben was breathing laboriously. His other hand still clasped at his shoulder, at the wound that had healed fully on the outside but not yet entirely on the inside. Other than a growing red mark under his eye, he seemed remarkably unharmed.

Ben grabbed Alex’s shoulder briefly. “You all right?” His eyes drifted over the boy’s face before landing on the crumpled form of Jason. As soon as Alex gave a small nod, Ben began rummaging through the unconscious man’s pockets, removing an old, shabby wallet and mobile. The ID certainly didn’t appear English, or like it was from any country Alex had even been to, but Ben had taken it and slid it into his own pocket so quickly, he’d barely seen a glimpse. The soldier continued sifting through the wallet and then onto the mobile, jamming a finger onto the home button to unlock it.

Alex took in the sight of the three men on the ground. None of them appeared to be security guards, and there had been only one set of footsteps earlier. How had they known where to find Alex and Ben? He voiced the question but got only a distracted hum in response.

Ben pocketed the mobile as well and rubbed at his face, taking in the mess around them for the first time. “We should go, before our friends come to.”

Alex hesitated but knew that was the wisest option. They had new leads to follow up, and if it turned out that ECO had more to offer, they could always return with MI6 firepower. Alex took the lead in making sure the hallway was clear. It was as dark and lifeless as it was when they had first walked through. Going back the way they’d come, Alex, with Ben taking up the rear, guided them down the stairs and into the foyer. If they hadn’t just fought three men, Alex wouldn’t have thought anything had changed since they broke in half an hour ago.

They made it halfway across, when they were spotted.

“Oi! Stop!” A new man dressed as a typical security guard stumbled in from behind. Compared to the three thugs upstairs, the man was laughably unthreatening.

“Not likely,” Alex grumbled.

Ben growled and burst into a run, dragging Alex out of the lobby and onto the street. A few straggling pedestrians leapt out of the way with a surprised cry. Others turned to stare at the sudden commotion, hesitating when a security officer emerged from the building in pursuit. The two alleged criminals moved so swiftly, so without hesitation, they were gone before onlookers even contemplated intercepting them.

The night air instantly bit into Alex’s skin, the chill burning in his lungs as he gulped air greedily. After the intensity of a fight and the beginning ebb of adrenaline, he found it difficult to keep pace with Ben’s longer legs, but he refused to slow. Alex put on a burst of speed and ignored the growing stitch in his side. They ran north, then west, down side streets and across pedestrian crossings, when, finally, Ben slowed down to a hurried walk.

“I—” Alex panted. His head throbbed with every heartbeat. “I don’t—see anyone.”

Ben didn’t stop or comment. His eyes landed on a silver Ford Fiesta parked off the side of the side road, exactly where he had left it hours before. Thank God. Ben had fished out his keys, unlocked the doors, and geared it to drive within seconds. The car shot off into the night.

Darkened shop windows, groups of pedestrians and tourists, and beaming headlights blurred into one. The consistent click of the turn signal set the pace for Alex’s heartbeat, the controlled gasps coming from Ben reassuring as they both fought to ease their breaths. Alex faced the rear window for the first five minutes. If anyone was tailing them, it would be painfully obvious at this time at night, but being careless could get them killed. So, he watched and mentally took note of any cars that stayed behind them after two turns.

Despite the stress and danger of the night, Alex found himself grinning. They actually did it. They broke into ECO and found potential evidence that they had paid someone to kidnap children.

Ben caught the maniacal look and huffed a laugh himself. “Buckingham Palace? Really?”

“I’ve found it helps if people are constantly underestimating you. Plus, it really pisses them off.”

“Noted.” Ben signaled another turn but kept straight. “Alex…I think we should take this to MI6.”

Alex had expected that. As soon as Ben had identified the Bratva tattoo, it was only a matter of time before the investigation reached an international level. MI6 had the resources and intelligence to follow ECO’s Bratva connections and find out just how the new organization Istraflot fits in.

Alex hummed in agreement. He took out his phone, re-enabling his alerts—something he had done after telling Jack that he would be out late with a friend. It took a few seconds before the device chimed repeatedly. The sudden alerts caught Ben’s attention, but he elected not to say anything, simply adopting a concerned expression.

Alex had multiple unread messages from Jack. “Where are you? It’s getting late.” “Alex?” “Alex, I’m getting worried. Can you just text me back?” He cursed. He hadn’t wanted to make her worry—he really hadn’t—but in trying to keep her out of it all, Alex had just made it that much worse. It was only around ten o’clock at night and he was on holiday, but clearly his actions the past few days had been too suspicious.

“Alex? What’s wrong?” Ben was shooting him worried glances in between trying to keep an eye on the road.

Alex knew it was time to tell more than just Mrs. Jones and Mr. Blunt. He heaved a sigh, promising to tell Jack the entire truth. “Nothing,” he answered. “Would you mind—could you drive me to my house? In Chelsea.”

Ben didn’t question it and immediately signaled for the correct turn. The ride fell silent, save for the muted hum of the car and click of the signal. Ben rubbed at his shoulder discreetly and occasionally looked over at Alex, who was resting his forehead against the cool glass window. It helped a little with the drumming and pressure building there. After the rush of adrenaline and sudden quiet of the drive, the soft hum of the engine lulled him into a light sleep.

The Ford pulled to a stop, and Alex blinked awake. The thrum in his head still pounded fiercely, his jaw stiff and tender to the touch. Although it had only been a glancing blow, already Alex knew it would be a mix of dark colors in the morning. And, there would be no hiding it from Jack. Jack. Guilt did not begin to cover how he felt.

Not able to put off going inside any longer, Alex exited the car. He swayed once or twice but managed to reach the front door without falling on his face, in part thanks to Ben following not far behind. The blow to the head in itself wasn’t so serious, but with everything of the day, it pushed Alex just over the edge. He was exhausted.

Under the light above the front door, Ben caught Alex’s chin, tilting it up to examine the boy’s eyes then to the side to take in the reddening skin. He winced in sympathy.

“You don’t look concussed, but you’re going to have some spectacular bruising tomorrow. How’s your head?”

“Hurts.”

Ben nodded. “Any nausea or disorientation?”

Alex shook his head but wished he hadn’t. Luckily, the action didn’t send the world into a spinning mess, but it didn’t do his headache any favors. He motioned at Ben. “Your shoulder alright?”

The man’s hand unconsciously rubbed at the old wound. “It’ll be fine. My therapist won’t be too pleased though.” He gently prodded Alex toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

The entrance was dark inside, but a bright glow from the kitchen provided enough light to see by. A constant flickering of colors and shadows emanated from the tellie in the adjoined lounge. There was no sound coming from anywhere in the house, but Alex had no doubt that Jack had stayed awake. He kicked off his shoes, dimly aware that Ben had followed him inside.

“Alex?” Jack’s soft voice drifted in from the kitchen. “That you?”

Her figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the light. Her feelings, countenance, and thoughts were completely masked by the shadows cast on her face, but Alex knew she was not going to be happy the moment she could see him in full. Something prodded him in the back and forced him to enter the house proper. He kept his head down to delay the inevitable.

“Where have you been?”

Alex stepped into the kitchen and saw the dishes from a dinner haphazardly thrown together from leftovers. A medical drama played on the tellie, close captions reading along the bottom of the screen. Jack is watching him expectantly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to get so late—"

“What happened to your face?”

Soft hands grabbed his chin, forceful yet gentle. Jack tilted his head, taking the same care Ben had just a minute ago, except there was worry brimmed with anger in her eyes. She prodded the tender skin, eliciting a slight hiss from Alex as she did so. Jack examined the rest of him for any other injury. She poked and prodded, and Alex let her, knowing she needed to make sure he was okay, but drew the line when the ministrations were getting a little hostile.

“Alex,” she crossed her arms, “what happened?”

Alex tried to swallow past the rock in his throat. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t drive her to fury. He didn’t regret investigating ECO, but remorse had weaseled its way in and reared its ugly head over how he’d been treating her. He opened his mouth to respond, but just then, Jack remembered they weren’t the only two in the room. Her eyes landed on Ben, who had silently entered the room. Alex reckoned the soldier wanted to ensure he was actually okay.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, sliding over the beginning of the bruises on his face as well. “Who are you?”

Ben cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “Ben Daniels. Alex’s, er,” he fumbled for a way to explain how he knew Alex, but Jack had already made her assumptions.

She walked right up to the soldier and hissed, “He’s fourteen!” Her fists were clenched, and Alex was nearly certain she would throw a punch—if she were one to express herself physically. Ben’s eyes went wide, and he held up his hands.

“Why can’t you lot just leave him alone?”

Alex jumped between them, his own hands up in a pacifying gesture. “Jack, wait. He’s not from the bank, or rather he doesn’t work for them. I’ve been looking into something on my own…and I asked Ben to help me…” his voice petered out under the blank, stony expression that had crossed Jack’s face with every word.

“What do you mean ‘looking into something on your own?’”

Alex swallowed. He almost would have preferred it if Jack were just blatantly pissed. Anything would have been better than trying to infer her thoughts from her inscrutable facial expression. He met her gaze evenly and spoke with more surety than he felt. “When I heard about a journalist’s murder, I had this—feeling. It was the same thing I felt with Damian Cray, and no one believed me. I knew something was wrong then, so, I started looking into this on my own.”

“So instead of telling me, you lied to me about it?”

“I—I didn’t want to, but I knew you wouldn’t let me. Not after what happened with Cray and then Venice. But, Jack, children are being taken, and no one’s doing anything about it! The police are barely even looking for them!”

Jack closed her eyes, trying to center herself with a deep breath. Her hand braced against her forehead, she stepped away. The conflict of wanting Alex to have a life of his own and harboring concern for the children played clear on her face. Alex didn’t move. His own war was tearing through his mind; he couldn’t let this go now but couldn’t see it through at the expense of Jack.

Finally, Jack broke the silence. Her voice wavered. “Why are you giving up, throwing away your chance at having a normal life?”

“That’s just it, Jack—I’m not normal! Ian made sure of that!”

“I know what happened with Ash on that damned oil rig was horrible. I know it’s been messing with your head, but, Alex, the man was a coward and a bastard! Whatever happened to him to make him that way had—has nothing to do with you.”

“This has nothing to do with him!” Alex forced himself to breathe. This wasn’t how he’d wanted this to go. Granted, he didn’t know how else it would’ve gone, but having a screaming match with Jack in the kitchen and Ben awkwardly staring at his feet pretending to be invisible was definitely not it. “I know you’re pissed ‘cause I lied about what I’ve been doing and you’re just trying to protect me. And I’m sorry that I lied to you—I truly am—but these kids have no one. I can’t just sit back and do nothing. Not when I can do something to help.”

Alex took another breath, nearly entirely calm and accepting of whatever Jack said in response. He caught her eyes with his. “I appreciate you fighting for me, but what I’m doing, it’s in my blood.”

“That may be so, sweetie, but that doesn’t mean it’s always up to you to save the world.”

Jack sighed, giving Alex a gentle squeeze, as if to say that she wouldn’t stand in his way. She ruffled his hair and gave his bruised chin once more look over. “Why don’t you go get changed? I’ll have some ice, Advil, and maybe some arnica gel once you come back down. Sound good?”

Alex nodded once.

He walked toward the stairs, sending Ben a quick, apologetic smile. With one foot on the first step, he turned to Jack, eyes set on her face. “I really am sorry I lied.” Then he turned away and disappeared.

Jack watched his back as he retreated and seemed to sink as soon as he was out of view. She drew a tired hand across her face. The oversized hoodie and sweatpants hung off her frame loosely, making her seem even younger than Ben had originally thought. Almost too young to be in charge of a teenager, who was more than half her age and had such an unfortunate knack for finding trouble around every corner. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat.

Jack drew herself back together and sent the man a tired smile. “Sorry—that I tried to bite your head off. It just pisses me off that first he gets thrown into these life and death situations. And usually, the people he’s with are the one’s responsible for it.”

Ben waved away the apology. “Believe me: I’m none too pleased with MI6’s use of him either.” He followed her gaze to where Alex had disappeared. “He’s a good kid.”

“That he is,” Jack smiled proudly, but the gesture was tainted with sadness. She opened the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas, tossing it to the soldier. She smiled again, only with humor when he seemed genuinely bemused at the offer. Jack tapped her own face, just below the eye.

Ben had forgotten about the punch he’d taken to the face. The two thugs he’d fought had quickly set their sights on his shoulder once they figured out it was an obvious weakness. But, as soon as Ben brought a hand to his face and prodded the stiffness, he gratefully held the frozen packet against his throbbing cheek.

“I just wish I knew what to do with him. I don’t want him to get hurt”

Ben looked at her from around the packet. “I’ll look out for him,” he promised.

“Why did he come to you? I mean, not coming to me for help, I understand. Somewhat. I’m not exactly the James Bond type. But, how do you even know each other?”

“He was—kind of dropped on me and my unit last spring. I’m in SAS.”

Jack thrummed her fingers against her crossed arms and nodded with a sudden realization. “Right. Alex told me about that place. And how miserable this unit of asshat soldiers made his life.”

“…asshats?”

“My word, but the sentiment was the same.”

Ben felt his cheeks burn. He had to admit they weren’t the most welcoming to Cub, although he had been more willing to train with the kid. At least, he had helped Alex move the manhole cover during the RTI exercise. He also hadn’t been as rotten as Wolf, so he counted that in his favor. Ben rubbed at the back of his neck and said, “yeah, not our finest moments, but I’m willing to admit Alex is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. I was there in Thailand, and then Australia.”

“So—you know about Ash?”

Ben nodded slowly. He had heard about the man and that he had turned out to be a mole for Scorpia, as did everyone on the mission. He had also been the one to kill him.

Jack’s eyes flitted back to the stairs, an inscrutable expression swirling across her features. “I can’t stop Alex from doing what he’s doing, but maybe you can…be there with him. To reel him back if it goes too far.”

Ben nodded. “I don’t intend to let him out of my sight.”

Satisfied, Jack nodded herself and tried for a smile, tugging at her hoodie’s sleeves. “Look, it’s getting late. You’re welcome to check in tomorrow, but I think you should probably go. Besides,” she grinned cheekily, “you’re looking a little worse for wear yourself.”

Ben had to agree. He felt like sh*t.

Alex collapsed onto his bed, not bothering to climb under the covers. The ice and Advil had helped ease the ache, but his body still groaned in protest. This was not surprising given the fight and subsequent escape. Just thinking about the events of the night made Alex gag. He could still feel the impact, the roll and collapse, of Jason’s nose as the cartilage and tiny bones gave way under Alex’s knee. Phantom pressure still bared down on the delicate construct of his throat. Alex rubbed at his eyes until phosphenes danced before him. The second time, he heard the unforgettable wheeze after he delivered a liver shot, he snatched up his phone and scrolled through till he found Tom’s number.

Hey, you still up?

A response came seconds later. Course! Livin the italian vida ;)

Alex smirked and shook his head. Mate, thats spanish…

Semantics. Sooo hows the investigation?

Good. Found new leads. Jack knows…

Tom took longer to respond this time, making Alex wonder if his friend fell asleep. He gazed around his room, too exhausted to do anything more look at the wardrobe holding his night clothes. He was just about to convince himself to get changed, when his mobile rang, Tom’s face flashing across the screen.

Tom didn’t even bother with hello. “So, how’d Jack take it then?”

“Not great at first, but I think it’s okay now.”

Tom hummed. “Wait, are you goin’ to tell me who’s playing the Watson to your Sherlock?”

“Fox.”

The name took a moment to sink in. Even though Alex had filled his friend in on all that happened the past year, he had kept Ben’s identity a secret. After all, it wasn’t his to tell.

“Fox. As in Fox from ten days in hell, stalking you around Thailand, then getting shot whilst preventing a nefarious plot to sink all of Australia into the Pacific Ocean? That Fox? What, are you guys like mates or something now?”

“Best of mates, actually. We’re thinking of getting t-shirts.”

“I’ve been gone all of two days, and I’m already being replaced?” Tom whined.

“What can I say? He made an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Just a few words with Tom, and he could feel himself letting go. Not that the horrid memories wouldn’t make a reappearance, or that he couldn’t see Jason’s sneering face as he prepared to beat Alex into unconsciousness, but his friend’s voice reminded Alex that that is all they were. Memories.

“Well, you tell Fox to get ready. Cause the battle to the death is on.”

“The battle to the death for the title of my best mate?”

“Yep.”

“As soon as you’re back on English soil?”

“Naturally.”

Alex laughed. “I’ll be sure to let him know.” He paused. “Thanks for calling, mate.”

“Anytime, Alex.”

Chapter 6: Journey of a Thousand Miles

Chapter Text

Daniil Danis never liked the doctor. Not only inept at any sort of physical challenge, but the man thought he was irreplaceable, his contributions invaluable. Even though that currently held true, no one was irreplaceable forever, and Danis was looking forward to the day when that became true for the dear doctor. Following Leichenberg down the nondescript hallway, the same simmering annoyance arose at the man’s pompous scutter—it seemed he was also incapable of a regularly paced walk. The length of the hall only served to emphasize that particularly obnoxious trait.

Doctor Thomas Leichenberg was not a short man, nor very tall, and of very average girth. As he scurried to keep pace with Danis, he brushed a heavy line of sweat from the side of his face. His straggly black hair was combed over the top of his head, awkwardly trying to compensate for the loss he had experienced after an unfortunate experiment whilst at university. He insisted on wearing thick black rimmed glasses too large for his face, which resulted in them slipping down the rather short nose. His lab coat was the only article that was properly tailored to his form. Danis, on the contrary, maintained perfect posture and a consistent gait—something that had been drilled into him since the age of fourteen, when he had enrolled in the Suvorov Military School of Moscow. The instructors there did not tolerate lassitude in any sense, and neither did he.

Dr. Leichenberg sniffled and sent the head of security a disdainful look. “Like I said, Daniil Maksimovich,” his voice was pinched and nasally, likely a result from a poorly healed break as a child, “I cannot just speed it along, as you so articulately put it. Artyom Zharkov is well aware that these experiments take time.”

The doctor inspected the chart in his hands as he walked, once again returning his glasses to their place on the bridge of his nose. These particular pages detailed the biographical information, academic evaluations, and results of the medical examinations that took place upon the subject’s arrival to the compound. A picture of the subject, a young boy with mousy brown hair and blank eyes, was pinned to the upper corner. They had taken the photograph the day David Iokhannen was brought in. The boy had been crying, tears rolling freely but silently. He had since completed everything required with acceptance and malleability—an encouraging start.

Leichenberg nodded to himself; the preliminary medical results were promising as well.

Danis kept his gaze level, unconcerned with the details of the project. He walked with his hands loosely at his sides. His fingers twitched. How he hated Leichenberg. “You must understand his discomfort. Every day, this project gains more attention, and you have nothing to show for it. Now, we have to deal with the fallout of the most recent acquisition out of Petersburg.”

The doctor bristled. “That—blunder has nothing to do with me. It was those inane, incompetent fools sent by the mafia. Who were hired by you, I might add. My instructions were plain and simple: bring me a pubescent child of good health. Where and from whom they get them does not concern me.” Leichenberg’s callused finger thrust his glasses back into place, his face flushed with agitation. “She is here already. It would be a waste to kill her now.”

He stopped before one of the few doors that lined the hall, all identically grey and decorated with a single, small window at eye level. The room beyond was simple and filled with only basic furniture—a single cot, a wardrobe, a desk and bookcase. A hazy light glowed from the center of the ceiling, casting an ashen fluorescence around the room. The only occupant was a young boy. David Iokhannen laid atop the meager bed; a glossy-covered book balanced on his knees. He glanced up once from the pages, when he caught sight of movement, but returned to reading disinterestedly. Danis glanced at the title and raised an eyebrow. It was obviously one of the Harry Potter novels, but Danis hadn’t realized publishers had even bothered with financing a Kazakh translation. After all, Russian was still used as much, if not more, than Kazakh in Kazakhstan.

Dr. Leichenberg consulted the chart and noted down a few observations. Iokhannen had already completed all of the necessary evaluations and preparations since his arrival. The day prior, he had undergone the precursory dosage, a co*cktail of proteins, beta blockers, stabilizing agents that would encourage the body’s acceptance of the next stage. After the preparative dose, he showed no adverse side effects. It appeared the most recent adaptations were effective. Iokhannen would be ready for the first of the new trials once they arrive from Moscow.

“This process is exceedingly delicate,” Leichenberg remarked angrily, stepping away from the door and attempting to look commanding and fierce before the soldier. “If we move too quickly, your men will just continue amounting corpses and needing to find me replacements. I believe Zharkov will be even less pleased with that prospect.”

“Quite.”

“Until your men deliver the new formula, I am unable to do anything more than run tests on our newest arrival.” The doctor flipped shut the metal chart and gave an owlish stare, as if Danis had simply misunderstood the undeclared dismissal. When Danis simply stared back, Leichenberg harumphed and turned on his heels, scurrying away like always, muttering in his native language irately.

Danis caught a one word in particular—Volltrottel—and longed to strangle the loathsome man. The rope-like scar that marred the skin of his neck twitched uncomfortably. A single blow would deal with the irritation, but unfortunately, the German doctor was the only one able and willing to lead the experimentation. But as soon as a possible replacement was found, the doctor did not have long to live. Until that time, Danis was forced to work with Dr. Leichenberg.

He pulled out a mobile phone, bulky and ancient, and punched in the number. Danis had been to the compound since its conversion, so he knew the exact turns that would lead him back to the entrance, despite nearly all the hallways looking identical to the last. The maze-like appearance hadn’t been intended originally—rather the Soviet tendency to produce exact copies in abundance was the reason for it—but Danis couldn’t deny its advantage. If they were ever to be attacked, the invaders would have a difficult time in navigating the labyrinth.

“Allo.”

“Artyom Nikolaevich, the doctor refuses to accelerate the procedures. It seems he wishes to wait for the new formula.”

Artyom Zharkov hummed. He had expected as such, but merely the presence of his second in command would be enough to impress upon the researchers the danger of Vashenko-Chao’s arrival. “How does he seem?”

“Defensive, but optimistic.” Danis turned yet another corner, the material protecting the compound left bare at this side of the building. The initial construction had taken months longer than anticipated, and Zharkov had elected to move forward without the cosmetics and protection from the material itself. “Those dosed with the second-generation compound are not improving.”

“Unfortunate. What of the other training?”

“Adequate.” Danis had hired the instructor himself and knew they were well versed for the task, but the subjects’ compliance and abilities—or lack thereof—slowed the progress detrimentally. He reached the entrance of the main building. Two guards with automatic weapons stood by the inner doors. None of them acknowledged the head’s arrival, but the one that was stationed to the left automatically radioed for Danis's car to be brought around and warmed.

“No matter. The continuation of the evaluations is merely to establish baselines throughout the different stages of the experimentation.”

Danis recognized a softer voice in the background and heard a subsequent chuckling sigh from Zharkov. Mila was one of two people able to elicit such a response from the older, stone-hearted man—adoration mixed with acquiescence. He caught a few exchanged words, but Mila, in her soft dulcet voice, spoke too faintly to ascertain the specifics.

“Mila asks if you will return in time for benefit dinner tomorrow. She rather hates attending them on her own.” Zharkov’s voice took on a slight teasing tone by the end, aimed no doubt at the subject herself.

Danis nearly smiled. “I am heading back today. Please, tell her I will provide the necessary distraction for her to slip away unnoticed.”

Artyom Zharkov hummed approvingly. “Poedite ostorozhno.” Drive safely. Zharkov ended the call.

Danis exited the building, turning up his collar even for the short journey from the door to his car. The interior was kept warm for him, not too much so that wearing his underlayers would make him sweat. The chauffeur glanced in the back mirror once before pulling away and driving away through the empty streets. Identical grey buildings surrounded them like Minos’s labyrinth, indistinguishable, inescapable, and exanimate. Graffiti and shattered windows were the only attributes that distinguished one decrepit shell from another. The company had commandeered a few of those buildings for their own purpose, but even then, the exteriors remained interchangeable, seemingly dilapidated and uninhabited. The drive did not take long until the abandoned city gave way to trees and the overgrown forest that persisted for hundreds of kilometers. After that, there was nothing to indicate the presence of civilized life in the vast, frozen wilderness.

Alex was awake before the sun came up. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t even had a bad dream that forced him into consciousness, but no amount of pretending would allow him to fall back asleep. Stubbornly, he laid on his back, inspecting the smooth white ceiling for any blemishes he might find—there were a few from when he and Ian had stuck glow-in-the-dark stars in the shape of constellations, but the plastic had long since fallen away—and witnessing the first strokes of light creep across the blue walls of his bedroom. When he couldn’t take the immobility any longer, he got dressed and wandered into the kitchen.

Unsurprisingly, Jack was not awake yet, or at least was not willing to admit she was. Alex set about the kitchen quietly, brewing a large pot of coffee and exploring the fridge and cabinets for something that would inspire a tasty feast. His usual choice of cereal was less than appealing for some unknown reason. After waking up in a very conventional way, the morning felt too much the same. Maybe, Jack was onto something. Maybe he was becoming addicted to his abnormal life.

Alex pulled the eggs out and beat them with fervor, dropping a dollop of butter in a pan and watched entrancedly as it melted rapidly and bubbled. The eggs sizzled and crackled, and he added enough milk, chives, and other herbs that would have made any French chef proud. He was just heating up some slices of bread, when Jack appeared, rubbing the last bit of sleep from her eyes. She gave a small smile and mussed his hair as she walked past to get a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

“Want some eggs?” Alex offered. Any excess anxiety from the night before had vanished the second she tousled his hair—a simple but significant gesture. The normal, comfortable atmosphere—the same one that always filled the townhouse whenever Ian was away on a business trip, leaving Alex and Jack alone to each junk food and watch films with dinner—settled over breakfast, albeit a fraction more muted than usual. Still, it was calming and long overdue.

Alex waited until they had both finished their coffees—Jack already on her second cup—before he explained what exactly had gone on the past few days: Sallows, Tom, ECO, Ben. Instead of sitting under the questioning eyes of his guardian, Alex had busied himself with cleaning the dishes, fiddling with his mug, or brushing away non-existent crumbs on the counter. Her silence had been unnerving, the atmosphere too homey and normal. Usually, when he described things like this, he had just returned from a mission, and Jack had demanded to know just he had gone through. This time, he was voluntarily debriefing her about something he had thrown himself into, which he hadn’t done since the business with Damian Cray…and suddenly—a little embarrassed at how long it had taken him to do so—Alex realized why Jack was so averse to him investigating another incident on his own. He apparently did have a tendency to throw himself into dangerous situations, even without Blunt’s prodding.

Jack, to her credit, listened silently, wanting to hear everything before giving her two cents worth. When Alex described Tom’s part in it all, she bit her lip but, otherwise, accepted his actions. It was clear that she didn’t approve of it, however; after all, what parent, or in her case parental figure, would want their charge to willingly put themselves in harm’s way. But the absurdity of it all aside, she was proud—proud that he so selflessly sought to protect those who had no one to do so in their own lives.

An inkling of something else laced her expression, but she didn’t put it to words. Alex suspected it had to do with why he chose to involve himself. After Cray and then Scorpia, Jack supposed he had learned not to stick himself into other’s affairs, but apparently that was not so. He had too much of Ian, of his father, in him to let things go.

Alex was scrubbing at the stubborn remnants on the bottom of the pan when the doorbell rang. Jack pushed away from the table with a sigh. Both she and Alex knew who it was likely to be. He had left with the promise of checking in the next day, and there was no way he would leave Alex alone long, not when there were new leads. Sure enough, when she returned, a familiar black-haired soldier followed not far behind. The night’s rest seemed to have done him some good; only a slight red tinged his cheek where he’d been struck, and he moved easily, unrestricted and unaching.

“Mornin’.” He sent Alex a wide grin.

“Morning. Help yourself.” Alex sent a vague hand towards the coffee pot still half full of the morning’s brew and the mugs stacked next to it before returning to the dishes and watching Ben out of the corner eyes. The soldier hadn’t had the time to take in the details last night, and he was making up for the fact this morning. He openly examined the photographs and collection of books on the shelves, picking up one of the few standing frames. That particular photograph had been taken on Alex’s twelfth birthday, when the boy still possessed that innocent, childish glint in his eyes. Ian had just gifted him the Condor Junior Roadracer and insisted that Alex try it right away, unable to contain his own youthful glee. Jack had managed to capture the moment when Ian and Alex shared identical smiles, equal parts excitement and mischief. The rest of the room held miscellaneous souvenirs from the infamous Rider family adventures, each object carefully dusted and maintained despite having been in the same location for years. Ben took in the young boy in the pictures then discreetly compared the one setting the kitchen back in order. The difference was shocking.

Ben gestured to Alex’s jaw after finishing his quick round of the adjoining room. “Doesn’t look so bad today.”

Alex rubbed the skin unconsciously and nodded. It was a little puffy compared to the other side, but all things considered, the blow hadn’t done as much damage as he expected. Jack didn’t share the sentiment and huffed from her place at the table. She was regarding Ben with a uniquely-Jack expression, one that Alex was certain that only he truly understood the nuances of. Despite wanting to reproach and yell at the man who had accompanied Alex throughout the endeavor of the past few days—presumably encouraging the stupidity—she couldn’t completely disregard the fact that he had ensured Alex was not alone and, relatively, protected. Ben twitched uncomfortably nonetheless and settled himself awkwardly between the two inhabitants.

“Right, I’ll just get to it then,” he began, glancing at Jack to judge her level of knowledge and participation in the matter, “as I said last night…I want to bring this to MI6. The mafia is not a group we want to take on, not on our own.”

Alex nodded as if it were obvious. “I know. I knew I’d have to, eventually.”

“Sooner than later would be best.”

“Okay. How about this morning?”

Ben dipped his head once and raised an eyebrow at Jack, enquiringly. She shrugged and waved a hand dismissively.

“I think it’s pretty clear where I stand with MI6, but,” she eyes trailed over to Alex, and she sighed reluctantly, “I hate the idea of Alex pissing off the Russian mafia even more.” She brought her mug up to her lips and muttered so quietly, so underneath her breath, that Alex would have missed it had it not been so dead-quiet in the room, “just wish you would drop it off, and leave Alex out of it all.”

Jack knew—and Alex did too—that as soon as he set foot in the bank, he wouldn’t be coming home until the mission was complete. The difference between them, however, was the dread that had settled within Jack, had yet to come to Alex. Possibly, he didn’t regret his choice in getting involved, and because this was voluntary in the first place, he wouldn’t come to regret it. Thankfully, Jack left her objections mostly unsaid.

“Whatever does end up happening at this meeting, I expect to be in the know.” She pierced them with angry glares to prove her point then excused herself to get dressed for the day. She sent Alex one last imploring glance, squeezed his shoulder as she passed, and disappeared upstairs.

Ben visibly relaxed, and Alex bit back a laugh. The soldier most likely wasn’t afraid of the petite ginger, but Jack did not bother to conceal her anger at all things related to the world of espionage—even if one of those things had saved Alex’s skin more than once. That fact merely gave him points, moving towards a more neutral standpoint and away from the automatically negative score. Ben reclined against the back of the sofa, arms crossed, and hesitated. He wanted to ask something, and Alex could see him working through formulating a proper sentence but failing.

Finally, he gave up on tact altogether. “Last night, Jack mentioned Ash.”

Alex immediately knew where this line of questioning was going and deliberately withheld any sort of reaction. He shrugged with one shoulder and replied, “We worked together on the Snakehead op. He’s the reason I was sent to that—facility in the jungle. He was a mole for Scorpia.”

“He was also the reason you agreed to work for ASIS. That’s what you told Mrs. Jones at the temple in Bangkok.”

Alex couldn’t quite hold back the small flinch this time. The pain of it all was too fresh, and he was only willing to share it with Jack—he hadn’t even told Tom about the traitor that was his godfather. “No offense, Ben,” he snapped before he could regulate his tone, “but it isn’t really any of your business.” —That was a lie. Two shots, and Ben had killed the coward, taken away Alex’s chance at closure. “Ash is dead, and it has nothing to do with ECO or the mafia. Can we not talk about it? ...please.”

He carefully controlled his movements and forced himself to breathe, nodding toward the front door. “Shall we go to the bank now?”

Ben held Alex’s gaze for a second more before nodding himself. His curiosity was, no doubt, far from satisfied. “Yeah, okay. Meet me in the car when you’re ready.”

Alex found Jack was waiting for him on the bottom step of the stairs. He didn’t know how long she had been sitting there; it is possible she had heard Ben’s inquiries, but her expression was preoccupied with something else. Her arms were crossed, her teeth pulled at her bottom lip, the oversized hoodie swallowed her like a child masquerading in their parent’s clothing. Not for the first time, Jack looked like an older sister, not a full adult charged with his care. She didn’t want this for him. Her face said everything, so she didn’t have to.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

She worried at the hoodie’s sleeves and nodded. “I know. You always try to be.” She ran her hands roughly against her hair, pulling straight any loose strands that had made their way out of captivity, then continued, “do you trust him? Like—just…I don’t know. Do you trust him to watch your back?”

Alex cast his mind to the man currently waiting in the driveway. Even with a shoulder wound, he had broken into a facility possibly run by the Russian mafia just to make sure Alex didn’t do something stupid on his own. This coming from the same man who had sat by whilst Wolf tormented him for days. It was conflicting and confusing on its own. And then, the Chada fight club, the organ-harvesting facility, and, of course, Ash thrown into the mix, and that storm of emotion transformed into a destructive, chaotic hurricane. Alex had gone to Ben because he needed someone, and out of all of them, he’d wanted to trust Ben. We were getting worried about you! Ben’s voice had been clear despite the thundering blades of the helicopter, and Alex remembered why he’d wanted to.

“Yeah,” he answered finally. “I trust him to have my back.”

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

He gave Jack one last reassuring smile, “I know. I’ll call you when I know what’s going on. Promise.”

Alex turned away after because if he stayed any longer, he wouldn’t be able to face her. He was afraid that she would be able to see the kindling of excitement that had sparked to life ever since breaking into Sallows’s flat that first day. How could he look at the worry in her eyes when he felt that traitorous, addictive thrill in his gut? So, he gathered all of the documents and evidence he had accumulated and walked out the front door without looking any deeper.

The 2015 Ford Fiesta was idling in the driveway. The trip to the Royal and General Bank would normally take around thirty minutes from the Rider house in Chelsea; that is, if there were no traffic. Despite the fact it was already late morning, cars and lorries choked the tight London streets. They formed a constant construction through one of the main roads leading out of Chelsea and must have been caused by some kind of accident or construction. A few impatient drivers turned off, and soon another congestion formed along the side roads. It would be faster, however intolerable, to drive along the Thames and through Kennington on the A3.

Alex leaned against the window as the Ford inched along painfully slow. He felt marginally guilty for snapping at Ben but had zero interest in revisiting the subject. So, he stared out the passenger side window and studied the various shops in detail. They were all ones he had seen before; One was selling corny trinkets, everything bedecked with stereotypical English sayings or swathed in the Union Jack. A flower shop, that stretched out onto the pavement every Spring and Summer, had retreated indoors and now offered hollies, roses, and snowdrops in elaborate winter bouquets. Each passing block was so typically English, so purely London, Alex found himself enjoying the peace—especially that he didn’t have to answer any questions.

After the traffic stopped yet again, somewhere near Elephant and Castle, Ben broke the silence. “So, back at Brecon Beacons…”

Alex glanced at the man and tried to gauge just what it was he was going to ask. Ben looked relaxed, his right hand lazily up against the window, tracing mindless designs on the glass. Then, the slightest twitch of discomfort and embarrassment flitted across his face and shattered the nonchalant mirage.

Alex co*cked an eyebrow and waited for him to elaborate.

“I never actually apologized for how we—I—acted,” Ben admitted haltingly.

Alex held back to see if more was to come. After a minute of more silence, he bit his cheek to keep from smiling. “And technically, you still haven’t,” he pointed out.

“I don’t remember you being this cheeky back then. But, well, I am sorry.”

“Jack have a go at you, then?”

“Apparently, we were real asshats…”

Alex cackled. “I believe I used the term gits.” He squirmed awkwardly and said, “apology accepted. Besides, you weren’t entirely a prat. I mean, you did lend me a hand during RTI. And, I think burning down an underground fight club and finding me in the middle of an Australian jungle kind of makes up for most of the unpleasantness.”

“Good to know there is a road to redemption in your books,” Ben laughed.

Alex smirked and returned to the distraction of scanning his surroundings. More of the shop exteriors had taken on even more lights and decorations over the last few days, intricate displays designed with luring in tourists and customers. A few parades of shoppers ambled from one exhibit to the next with steaming cups in their gloved hands. One or two trinket shops posted vibrantly colored signs in their windows, advertising wonderful and unique gifts for significant others or distant relatives. One store in particular had hung an advent countdown outside its door, and with a start, Alex realized the holiday was just over a week away. Stuck in his own mysterious world, he had yet to buy any gifts, or even contemplate the thought that he needed to. Alex nibbled on his nail; it wasn’t that he had many people to shop for, anyways. There was Tom, but he was already in Naples visiting Jerry; Alex reckoned he could easily find something once his friend was actually back in the country. Then, of course, there was Jack. She hadn’t made her yearly list yet, but she was one of the easiest people to shop for. It was Ian who was the true nightmare—

Ian.

Alex’s breath felt like lead in his chest. How had he forgotten? His uncle had died last March; it hadn’t even been a full year yet, which meant that this holiday would be the first without the man who had raised him.

Alex swallowed despite the dryness in his throat. He took shallow breaths, pressing back against the seat in an attempt to make more space. Had the car always been this warm? He forced his eyes to the gaze out the windscreen and continued those awkward, insufficient shallow breaths. He needed something—anything—to distract him. Alex didn’t want to think about Ian, or the holidays without him, or anything relatively introspective. The first thought he could find, he forced out as normally as he could: “Why were you seconded to MI6 in the first place?”

Alex was relieved his voice didn’t sound tight or wavering at all.

If Ben found the question too random or out of place, he didn’t let it show. His eyes never left the road as he answered, “Six needed a new face essentially, and mine fit the bill. Plus knowing some Thai helped a bit.”

Up ahead, the reason for the tailback became obvious; a construction crew was positioned in the center of the lane, tending to a massive hole right in the center of the asphalt. An officer, completely swaddled in winter layers, minded the scene with disinterested eyes, waving forward each car in turn. Ben painstakingly circumnavigated the blockage, and then suddenly, it was like there had never been any traffic to begin with. They passed onto the London Bridge.

“You might not know this—you came and went so fast during training—but I’m the linguist of the unit,” he continued on unprompted. Maybe he had realized the change in Alex’s demeanor. “Each of member of a unit has a particular skill they excel at—languages, field medicine, weaponry, and the like.”

Alex had admittedly already been aware that SAS units had specializations, something the sergeant at Brecon Beacons had informed him of when first becoming Cub, but he had never put too much thought into what K-unit’s skills had been. Certainly, hospitality hadn’t been one of them.

“Snake’s the medic, Eagle’s skilled at sharpshooting and weaponry, and Wolf’s—”

“Good at pissing people off?” That earned him a dry smile.

“—close quarter combat.”

“Originally the SAS was founded as a regiment for World War II, but after that it developed into a specialized corp. I’ve trained in hostage rescue, engaging in raids, and covert surveillance—which is essentially why Six brought me in. I’d already done everything in preparation for the mission in Bangkok.” Ben sent over a lopsided grin. “I’m guessing your classes didn’t go over specific regiments from the World Wars?”

“No,” Alex admitted. “Mrs. Jones did explain a little once I got to Brecon Beacons, but nothing more than ‘the SAS is the British Army's most renowned special forces unit.’” His tone was only slightly dry; he didn’t want to inflate Ben’s ego after all.

The seemingly endless line of cars from earlier was nonexistent as soon as they passed the construction, and now, they were minutes from the center of London, minutes away from seeing Blunt’s ever-emotionless, plastic face. As much as Alex wanted to go through with this, the prospect of dealing with the grey man made him want to gag. He glanced furtively over at Ben; at least, the soldier would be there to break the monotony of the briefing—between Blunt’s greyness and Jones’s propensity for black, there was little opportunity for color.

Ben signaled a turn, and suddenly, the antique building came into view.

Alex searched for his favorite receptionist, when he and Ben entered the bank, only to be disappointed to find a new bloke sitting behind the front desk. He almost looked forward to forcing his way into an unscheduled meeting with the heads of Special Operations under her watch. Alex never said he was above pettiness. But, taking in the serious, concentrated frown on this new man’s face, he felt uninterested in such antics, so he plopped down on the black leather sofa, succumbing to its plush depths. Ben approached the receptionist—obviously able to provide some kind of official credentials that gave him access to the bank’s alternative side—but planted himself on the other side of the sofa after a curt exchange of words.

“Let me guess: this is just a bank, and they’ve never heard of Blunt or Jones.”

Ben huffed a laugh but shook his head. “No, but Jones is in a meeting at the moment. It’s not entirely unexpected. We didn’t have an appointment.”

Alex scoffed. Had they had an appointment, Blunt would have doubtlessly still made them wait. Usually, Blunt had all the power and control; Alex showing up unbidden with a mission of his own would have skewed that dynamic. The fact that Ben was there too would further tip the balance, which was partially why Alex had agreed to go with Ben in the first place. Having the soldier there gave him more leverage than the previous times. A leverage he was very willing to draw on.

Whatever specifics the receptionist had given Ben, it seemed they had a while to wait, judging by the way the soldier stretched out against the sofa and rested his head in what looked like an almost comfortable position. Within a second, his breath had evened out tellingly. Alex resisted the urge to poke him, to see if he was actually dozing in the lobby of MI6 Special Operations headquarters. Given that Ben had done something very similar in the Chinook helicopter on the way to prevent a tidal wave disaster, Alex was willing to bet that he was, in fact, asleep and expecting to stay that way for a fair amount of time. Rather than follow that example—although he was a little envious of the ability—Alex entertained himself by guessing whether certain customers of the bank were agents of true civilians. Only seven other individuals were currently in the lobby, disregarding the employees, who doubtlessly knew about the upper floors of the Royal and General.

Three were well dressed men, wearing woolen overcoats in order to protect the expensive fabric of their two-piece suits. They queued up for the receptionist and, in turn, held laconic conversations before taking an offered document and leaving. Like clockwork, another customer joined the queue and followed the same sequence. A woman entered and similarly stood patiently in the back. A small, swaddled bundle bounced gently against her hip. Alex genuinely wondered if the baby was an undercover ploy or simply well-behaved and silent. Out of the original seven, he reckoned five were at least aware of foreign intelligence operating above their heads.

After hypothesizing the newest arrival, Alex was debating trying to sneak up to the higher floors, maybe even leaping out of another window like he had nine months earlier. The line of clocks on the far wall, displaying the time from five different zones, suggested that only fourteen minutes had passed, but that couldn’t be correct. It felt like at least an eternity, and no one new had come in since a very short, very espionage-ignorant and disgruntled grandfather character snapped at the poor receptionist.

At ten past eleven, seventeen minutes after having claimed the sofa, Ben coughed himself awake and immediately swiped a fist against his mouth, which was wise. Alex had been betting against himself at how long it would take for the soldier to notice the slight drool slowly leaking out of the corner of his mouth; the guess was three and half more minutes.

Ben pushed to his feet and stretched his undoubtedly aching back. If it weren’t for the soft clicking of her heels, Alex wouldn’t have noticed Mrs. Jones’s arrival thanks to his lumbering form. This was only the second time the deputy head of SO had openly communicated a strong emotion. The first had been when Alex was in hospital after his shooting. Then, grief and unease had played plainly across her sharp features, pain etching itself deep into her jaw. This time, it was surprise that brought her up short.

“Mr. Daniels? —Alex? What are you doing here?”

The receptionist noticed her arrival and appeared before her within seconds, leaving an agitated customer at his recently vacated post. He leaned in and whispered a few words to Mrs. Jones, who sharply took in the two young men before her.

“Thank you, Roger.” Mrs. Jones fished a peppermint out of her pocket and popped it into her mouth; Alex was starting to wonder if his presence was the reason for the sour taste in her mouth. “It seems you and I have an appointment.”

She gestured for them to precede her to the lift, and within a minute, they had traversed the familiar hall that led to the head office. Mrs. Jones knocked once and entered. Alex forced a deep breath into his lungs, knowing the following moments would be tainted with the staleness and dreariness that always accompanied the head of MI6 special operations. Ben nudged him in, and the door fell closed.

Alex shouldn’t have been surprised. Mr. Blunt was sat behind his simply bare desk, dressed in drab greys and looked as colorless as the day they had met in the cemetery. Distantly, Alex wondered if the man wore makeup so as to appear so close to death—a somewhat similar tactic of using sarcasm and humor to disconcert his own enemies—but more than likely, life was simply trying to escape, one morsel of color at a time. Blunt barely even glanced at the SAS soldier and teenager as they entered the characterless room, Alex unceremoniously plopping down into the nearest chair. Mrs. Jones, always the sentinel, stood to the side and overlooked the dreary office. Ben remained standing, halfway between ease and attention.

“Alex,” Blunt remarked tonelessly, “I must say I’m surprised to see you here again. Willingly, no less.”

“Funny,” Alex responded. “You don’t look it.”

He saw Ben bite the inside of his cheek in order to keep a neutral expression. It wouldn’t do to mock the man who could assign you the dregs of all assignments. Ben cleared his throat and offered over the collection of documents detailing missing children, the history of ECO, and the theories of the late Hadley Sallows. On the way into the bank, they had unanimously agreed that Ben should take the lead. As a soldier, he had been trained to deliver briefings concisely, and—given how they had reacted to Alex’s thoughts on Cray—Blunt and Jones may be more accepting of the findings if they were given by another adult and professional. Jones took them wordlessly and cast an eye over the first of the pages.

“Five days ago, Alex discovered that a journalist, who had been investigating the disappearance of a handful of children, was murdered. Hadley Sallows, the journalist, believed that Elysian Care Organization had been the last point of contact for these kids, three of them British citizens, and Alex took it upon himself to investigate.”

Mr. Blunt leafed through a few of the documents, his characteristic grey glasses flashing.

“Alex made initial contact and found evidence of involvement from members of the local Bratva chapter. Last night, we went through the charity’s records and found that they had transferred large sums of money to a shipping company known as Istraflot, three times in the past four months, all three days after the initial disappearances. We were then attacked by three men, likely mafia given their proficiency in systema.”

Although he had given his own debriefs in the past, Alex was impressed by the sudden change in Ben—succinct and sombre. He had now seen three sides to the man: Fox the soldier, Daniels the spy, and Ben the average bloke. Would Alex have multiple facets the longer he spent in this world? A hand on his arm brought him back to the present, and Ben was looking at him expectantly.

“The photos,” Ben prompted again.

Alex hummed and handed over his phone. Again, Jones took the evidence and examined it first. There was no obvious change in her demeanor as she swiped through Sallows’s photos first and then Alex’s own, but she passed it on to Mr. Blunt. The silence of the exchange was infuriating. Alex just wanted a response—a sign that they believed him or that he was wasting his time sitting in the dreary office. Then, almost imperceptibly, Blunt nodded. He slid the documents away and back towards Mrs. Jones, who gathered them all together but made no move to return them to their owner.

“We, alongside MI5, have been keeping tabs on Elysian Care Organization,” Mrs. Jones admitted. “They are so large and involved in so many different countries, it would be unwise not to. Other intelligence agencies, DGSI and BND to name a few, have had similar concerns, but, as far as we can tell, there has never been any evidence of high-level criminal involvement.”

“Hadley Sallows found some, and it got him killed,” Alex said hotly. How is it an average journalist had been able to find such a connection when English, French, and German intelligence agencies had not? Had they even wanted to find something? “The three kids from the UK were last seen around ECO community centers. Three days after they go missing, the same charity sends large sums of money to a shipping company. That has to mean something to you!”

“The evidence does seem to indicate ECO is involved in the disappearances, although I suspect that the charity is merely a middle company.” Mrs. Jones scanned the photo of the records a second time, as if to confirm her hunch. “Which would make sense if it is, in fact, a Bratva operation. After all, Istraflot functions as one of the bases for the local operations. A fully functional shipping company based out of Moscow but completely run by the mafia.”

Alex barely believed what he was hearing. Jones knew the exact company that was probably trafficking kids out of England, one known to be run by a criminal organization. They had kept the malevolent charity under observation, and still this conspiracy had managed to go on for months, if not longer. Alex ground his teeth but forced himself to shove his frustrations to the side; losing it on the people he was asking support from wouldn’t do him any good.

“So, someone else entirely is paying ECO, which may or may not be run by the mafia, to kidnap children,” Alex said slowly. “The organization then pays Istraflot, another mafia front, to ship them out of the country, presumably to wherever the third party is from. All the while, the money is going into new accounts, all of which are under control of the Bratva.”

Blunt nodded approvingly.

“If you’ve suspected ECO and known for a fact that Istraflot was a front for a criminal organization, why haven’t you, the police, MI5 even, put a stop to it?” Alex was furious. All of this could have been avoided had they just done their jobs. Those kids might not be terrified or lost, if MI6 had simply done what Alex, a fourteen-year-old, had a few days prior.

Beside him, Ben shifted uncomfortably. “Alex,” he begun slowly, guiltily, “it’s sometimes better, if intelligence agencies know where the criminals are. They can—keep tabs on them, gain intelligence, develop contacts within the organizations. It’s better, easier, than taking one business down and searching around for the next one to pop up.”

“It’s a better business arrangement, you mean,” Alex shot back.

Blunt sighed, and if he were capable of expressing human emotion, he would have rolled his eyes. “Yes, it is beneficial to us when we are able to contact them if necessary. Not to mention, Istraflot is a legitimate business that pays taxes and as well as significantly large tariffs.” Blunt sifted through his desk before abandoning the endeavor without finding whatever it was, he had wanted in the first place. “And, if we had dismantled this particular front, we wouldn’t have known where to go for more information on the missing children.”

“Or they wouldn’t have had a way to traffic them in the first place,” Alex muttered under his breath.

Blunt fixed him with an unemotional stare. “Mrs. Jones will arrange for a team to prepare for a raid on Istraflot Shipping Co. As you have followed it this far, Alex, I assumed you will see it to the end?”

The team Mrs. Jones assigned to the operation was headed by a man named Albert Trescott. An average looking agent with an unimposing demeanor, he greeted both Alex and Ben with an amicable nod and began to assemble the necessary equipment. Already prepping the plumber’s van that would transport them all to the warehouse district and ensuring the quality of the equipment were four other men, all enormous and towering in their combats and customary gear of an SAS soldier. Alex didn’t recall seeing any of their faces from his brief time spent at the training ground, but he recognized the same evaluating and reproving scowls when their eyes fell to the boy who would be joining in on the operation. Two nodded at Ben, the slightest shift in their expressions as they did so, and returned to their preparations. Ben joined them and fitted himself with similar equipment—a black Kevlar vest with only the smallest identifiable patch on the upper right and a Sig Sauer P226. A holster sat on his hip, easy to access within a second. He held out a similar vest to Alex, only there was a distinct lack of weapon. Once again, Alex was to take part in an operation without a gun. He for once didn’t comment on the fact and wordlessly slipped on the vest, finding it surprising light and well-fitted to his smaller frame. He suspected Smithers had something to do with the change and that such a reduction in weight had no effect on its durability.

Mrs. Jones didn’t expect there to be much resistance, which was why, only a single agent and SAS unit was accompanying them. Istraflot Shipping Co. was a side business, an operation that acted on its own with only a single brigade. They still paid tribute to the pakhan, the equivalent of a capo dei capi, in London and answered to the avtoritet in Moscow, but in all other respects, they managed their own actions. Past intelligence reported that this particular brigade consisted of six men, a mix of lower-level members. If they were indeed the ones trafficking the stolen children, the brigadier would be the main target, the most likely person to have the information they needed. Otherwise, Mrs. Jones had said, MI5 would have to wage war on each brigade and operation until they found the right one.

Alex shrugged his shoulders and bounced on the balls of his feet to test just how free his movements were. The plan may be for him to hang back until the Bratva members are subdued, but where Alex was involved, things rarely went according to plan. He planned to be prepared for just such an occasion. A few minutes later and with a signal from Trescott, the agents and soldiers crammed themselves into the back of the van. Luckily, the destination was not too far away, as immediately, the interior of the van swelled with congested air and uncomfortable heat. With every turn, Alex was flung into either Ben or one of the unnamed SAS men, who was less than pleased with being used as a buffer.

The exterior of Istraflot Shipping Co. was a shabby brick that had been weathered from years exposed to the briny salt of the Thames. An unkept wired fence used to run the perimeter but had long ago been ripped to shreds as a result of storms, meddling teenagers, and simple rust. Compared to other warehouses along the bank, it was on the smaller side, probably only able to fill a few storage containers at a time. Three cars, all old models and all having seen better days, were parked directly in front of the warehouse entrance.

Trescott parked the van on the far side of the neighboring building, out of view from the street and any wandering eyes. If it were seen, they would most likely assume the company had a burst water pipe, a common and disastrous problem in winter. The SAS unit trotted off immediately, taking a circuitous route to the opposite end of Istraflot, whilst Trescott, Ben, and Alex approached from the east. They had come prepared with a thermal imaging camera, but now, seeing that the building was made of brick, the device was rendered useless. The three men moved quickly across the yard, to the backdoor, and pressed against the freezing brick exterior. Ever present, frozen vapor floated in the air after each breath, collecting as a fine mist the longer they stood in the same place. Trescott held a hand against his commlink, waiting for the signal that would alert them to D-unit’s position. But, they would be unable to breach until they had an idea of how many targets were inside and where they were located.

Alex searched around the yard for any way to see into the warehouse and landed on a commercial-sized window, about two and a half meters above their heads. Unfortunately, there were no oil drums, wheely bins, or collection of discarded lumber to stand on. He tapped Ben and pointed at the window. The man understood and lent back against the bricks, bracing for the added weight and helping to maintain balance as Alex hefted himself up. The added height boosted him higher than necessary, and he ducked his head instinctively before slowly peeking through the grimy window. The filth clouded the glass pane, but Alex could make out five lounging figures, all men. Two were sprawled across a nasty, tattered sofa in the far north wall, whilst the other three sat adjacently. A large-screened tellie was playing a football game.

“Five men, northwest side,” he reported, though he stayed where he was.

Brigades generally consisted of five to six men, but if one of the lounging men was the brigadier, that meant there were only four subordinates in the squad. A flash of movement caught his attention, coming from just below him, and a sixth man strut out into the open room. Alex ducked again.

“Sixth man, east side but moving towards the others. No weapons visible. They’re watching a match on the tellie.”

He tapped Ben’s shoulder to indicate he was getting down. Both men had obviously done the maths of the possible missing man, but just because they usually had six boyeviki, didn’t mean that there would be this time. The comms crackled to life.

“In position. Only three targets in sight.”

Trescott relayed Alex’s report, contemplating the odds of breaching before knowing all the facts. Raids normally took a lot of preparation, especially if there was no immediate life on the line, but Mrs. Jones had made her orders clear: breach as soon as possible. The head agent nodded at Ben, who responded similarly. They removed their pistoles from the holsters and disengaged the safeties. Trescott unlocked the back door with a practiced flick of the wrists.

“Prepare to breach on my word,” he uttered into the comms.

Ben pushed Alex farther back from the door.

“Stay here until I give you the ‘all clear’,” he ordered and grasped the door handle with his nondominant hand.

“Breach!”

Ben yanked the door back, the hinges screaming in protest, and the agent and soldier burst in. There was shouting and cursing. A chair clattered to the floor and shattered. Alex could hear the practiced steps of the SAS soldiers charging across the concrete floors as they yelled for the occupants to get on the ground with their hands interlaced behind their heads. Countering yells clashed with the orders, and then there was single, loud bang.

Three more shots followed.

Before it even registered that he was moving, Alex burst into the stock room. A man was supine on the cold concrete, already a steady stream of dark crimson staining the grey floor. Ash—no, not Ash—a stranger, a young man with dark brown hair, choked once and stilled. Alex searched the room frantically for Ben and felt a hand land on his shoulder. He jerked away, but the hand held firm. Ben was frowning at him, the emotion etching into a permanent line on his forehead.

“I thought I told you to wait until I called,” he chided.

“I got impatient,” Alex lied.

Along the far wall six men rested on their knees, their hands already cuffed behind their backs. Alex glanced back at the dead man and scoffed. Apparently, there had been a seventh one after all. The six, live, gang members were scowling, sneering, radiating barely restrained rage but strangely silent. Trescott was asking them questions but may have well been talking to stones. Two of the boyeviki, necks and arms covered with tattoos, were two of the same men from the photograph Sallows had taken in the car park. Another one, sporting a horribly swollen nose and two purple eyes, followed Ben’s movements with murderous intent. He had been the first one to go down in the fight on the second floor of ECO.

Alex wandered further into the warehouse, away from the cluttered corner that served as a lounge and was littered with empty bottles, crushed bags of crisps, and mashed cigarette butts. The rest of the room was in similar disrepair. Bruised boxes with shipping labels to and from London were stacked on a dysfunctional conveyor belt, which probably hadn’t been used since the warehouse had first been built. Larger wooden chests laid about, unsealed, the straw packaging escaping into the open air. Alex navigated through the mess toward the east, where the sixth man had appeared from. A door led away from the main room, but whatever was beyond was shrouded from the lack of light. He felt along the wall until he came across the light switch. The room was an office, or should have been, but every corner and surface was blanketed in more boxes and loose papers. The swivel office chair held mountains of old newspapers, coiled tightly by plastic ribbons. Underneath sprawling receipts and records hid one of the oldest computer’s Alex had ever seen. He weaved his way through the mountains of disarray, wincing when he bumped into a pile and sent it sprawling across the floor. The system was already running, the monitor simply hibernating, but when he shuffled the mouse around, the computer automatically prompted him for a username and passcode.

Alex cursed. He hadn’t thought to bring a gadget that would hack into system. After ECO leaving their records unprotected, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. It was possible Ben or Trescott had the ability to circumnavigate the security, but Alex could still hear the fruitless interrogation happening in the next room. Alex resolved to look around on his own first; if he didn’t find anything useful, then he would find a way into the computer files. The documents and receipts on the desk were telling in how recent and useful they would be. Those crumpled and tarnished by mysterious stains had been there for some time and had no apparent use for the employees, given how little care they were given, so Alex disregarded most of them almost immediately, especially if they lay close to the surface of the desk. He tossed away receipts from restaurants and local shops, as well as any takeaway menus. Records and documents towards the middle of the piles Alex scrutinized with care, humming as he scanned the words.

He nearly cheered when he found papers that seemed to be shipping records, written half in English, half in Russian. With his limited knowledge of the language—he had started learning it on his own after the incidences with Sarov and Drenin—he knew that the record was explaining the dates certain shipments arrived, the registered sender, and the final destination. Whilst it wasn’t a smoking gun, Alex had an idea of where to start his search: 28 August.

Дата: 28ого августа

Адресант: Истрафлот, Лондон, Англ.

Получатель: Истрафлот, Москва, Р.Ф.

Alex read other dates as well to make sure his suspicion was founded. Other dates and shipments listed either a company or a person’s name. Some packages would eventually make their way to Moscow, Ekaterinburg, Kiev, or some other far away city, but three shipments—one made on the 28^th of August, another on the 13^th of September, and the last on the 25^th of September—only listed Istraflot as the sender and receiver.

“Cub?”

“Here,” Alex responded, though not loud enough to be heard. He gathered up all of the shipping records from the past four months in his arms and wound his way back through the office and out into the storeroom. The soldiers had already forced the six men onto the feet and were marching them toward the exit at gun point. Ben and Trescott stood off to the side, watching it all.

Alex cut towards the prisoners, needing to keep them in his line of vision for what he was about to do. He gestured to the papers and called over to Ben, loudly and confidently. “They’re shipping the kids to Moscow.”

The soldiers stopped and looked at him, expressions caught between confusion and vexation. One of the boyevik, however, stilled.

“They listed their own company as the sender and receiver. Discreet, could be an honest, mistake or someone sending a package to a local who could pick it up themselves. Except we know the day those three kids went missing, and that someone paid you,” Alex stared straight at the man in cuffs, “and ECO a lot of money to get them out of the country.”

The pulsing muscle in his jaw betrayed their silence. The boyevik, or more likely the brigadier, jerked against the zipties and the arm holding him back, but there was nothing he could do. He had inadvertently confirmed a suspicion, at least a hope, that the Bratva were on both ends of the journey. After the children arrive in Moscow, they may as well disappear to some other, far away location, but at least Alex had a new place to search. Where they are kept and who it is funding the kidnappings were still out of reach.

Ben grinned and proudly ruffled Alex’s hair before pulling out his mobile.

“This is Daniels,” he said. “We have something.”

Transliteration:

Volltrottel = idiot / Dumbass (essentially) (German)

Братва = bratva = Russian mafia (lit. brotherhood) (Russian)

Пахан = pakhan = boss (lit. godfather) (Russian)

Авторитет = avtoritet =authority / absolute head of Bratva (Russian)

Боевик (боевики) = boyevik (plural = boeviki) = hitman / middle level member of Brava (lit. thriller, hitman) (Russian)

Дата: 28ого августа = data: 28ovo avgusta (date: 28th of august) (Russian)

Адресант: Истрафлот, Лондон, Англ. = adresant: istraflot, london, angl (sender: istraflot, london, eng) (Russian)

Получатель: Истрафлот, Москва, Р.Ф. = poluchitel': istraflot, moskva, r.f. (recipient: istraflot, moscow, r.u.) (Russian)

Chapter 7: To Moscow!

Chapter Text

For the second time that day, Alex found himself sitting across from a man he absolutely detested. The darkening sky did nothing for Blunt’s complexion; instead, an ominous shadow seemed to envelop the man from behind. Alex absently envisioned black wings sprouting from the man’s back, and judging from the stern, scar-like frown etched into his face, Blunt was well aware that the boy’s mind had wandered far from the discussion at hand, though he didn’t comment on the fact. Alex rationalized that it wasn’t entirely his own fault; Blunt had recalled the team immediately after the discovery at the warehouse, with no regard to the time of day or the fact that Alex hadn’t properly eaten since the morning. The surges of adrenaline, periods of rest, and pure vexations of the day were wreaking havoc on his body, and hunger pains were frustratingly pulsing in his gut, to the point that he was even contemplating asking for one of Mrs. Jones’s peppermints. Instead, he sunk lower into one of the chairs and crossed his arms.

Alex had allowed Ben to take the lead again upon their return, preferring to participate with only half of his brain. Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones agreed rather quickly that Istraflot were taking the kids to Moscow, delivering them to the main facility and then whisking them away once again. The theory was that they were kept elsewhere in Russia; after all, why would the Bratva bother bringing them to Russia in the first place, when there would be far easier ports in other countries. Admittedly, Alex wasn’t as distracted as he appeared. As soon as Blunt concurred with the findings, which were speculative to begin with, he snapped to full alertness. The head of SO knew something they didn’t—something that corroborated or, at least, gave weight to the theory.

Blunt adjusted some files on his featureless desk and reported, “whilst you were at Istraflot, we reached out to other intelligence agencies and encourage them to do some investigating of their own. It seems there have been quite a few more disappearances than we were first led to believe.”

Mrs. Jones offered Ben and Alex a list that, at first glance, looked very similar to the one that had been found amongst Hadley Sallows’s research. She continued once they had had a moment to glance over the list. “After you figured out the connection, Alex, we were able to attribute many more disappearances to ECO, as well as to other known Bratva associations. Over the past two years, dozens of people have been disappeared. Systematically, like clockwork—and all with similar typologies as Arain, Lloyd, and Vivier. There is one difference, however: the first few missing persons were much older.”

Alex read the names, all of which were ordered by the date of their disappearances, a note besides their names indicating the country of origin. It was amazing that no had put it together before now; it was as if a wave had swept across Europe and those unfortunate enough to be caught in the riptide vanished along with it. There was a clear path the kidnappers had followed, starting in eastern Siberia, cruising through the old Soviet bloc, ending in England.

“It wasn’t until more recently that the victims started to get younger. It seems the ideal target now is around puberty.”

“But why?” Ben had been silent up until then. “No one’s found any bodies, none of the victims have turned up anywhere. No one even noticed they were gone, or weren’t able to do anything about it. Why go from taking university students to children?”

“We don’t know.” Mrs. Jones unwrapped a mint and popped it into her mouth, though the acrid expression pulling at her face didn’t disappear at all. “Even the more recent victims still vary in age, gender, ethnicity. The youngest we know about was eleven, the oldest sixteen. Aside from usually being those who would generally go unnoticed, there is no way to predict the next victims, or how many there will be.”

“Which is why, the intelligence community is—concerned, to say the least. And why,” Blunt’s grey, conniving eyes landed on Alex, “we have decided to send an agent to Moscow and find out just exactly who is paying the Bratva to take these children and for what reason.”

Alex knew exactly why the man was looking at him. After all, wasn’t that exactly why he had begun looking into the disappearances in the first place? He had known that investigating it on his own then taking it to MI6 would result in him being sent on another mission. Still, Alex felt a flicker of surprise and apprehension—how could he not, with all that he has been through on each of his operations? But then they were overshadowed by the familiar thrum and beat of anticipation, a hum of excitement and addiction to the clarity that accompanied it—

“I’ll do it.”

Alex didn’t think Ben would support his decision right away. He expected the soldier to fight him on it, given how Ben had wanted to leave Alex out of the oil rig operation, but he didn’t anticipate the confusion tinged with annoyance. The soldier regarded him with that assorted expression, which transitioned to restrained anger as it moved to the head of SO. Ben was shaking his head grimacing as he answered, “no. Not an option.”

“Officer Daniels—” Mrs. Jones began.

“No, I brought this to you because I didn’t want Alex in more danger than he already was.” Ben tore a hand through his hair, barely restraining his words. As much as he wanted to yell, Blunt and Jones were still his superiors, and he was still a soldier. “And your solution is to send him to investigate the very people who are kidnapping kids in the first place? It was one thing for him to be involved when no one else was, but the FSB—hell even Trescott—can handle this. Without Alex.”

Alex bristled and remarked defensively, “it’s my decision to make.”

Blunt leveled the soldier with an unamused stare. “On the contrary, an agent, even one as unassuming as Trescott, would immediately raise suspicions. No one would suspect a mere schoolboy of investigating the Russian mafia. It’s what makes Alex such an effective agent in the first place.”

Ben scoffed.

“You didn’t object to Alex’s participation in the raid against Istraflot.”

“That’s different. I was there, and it was in England. Send him on this mission, you may as well wrap him in a red bow whilst you’re at it.”

Whilst Alex acknowledged Ben had a point, he didn’t entirely appreciate the conversation carrying on as if he was not in the room at all. He had been the one to make the connection, been the one to follow through, recruited Ben, and brought it all to MI6’s attention. He was capable of making his own decisions regarding the risks he took, and Alex had long ago resolved to see this through. Blunt and Alex had used the ruse of a schoolboy in the past, and whilst it was not entirely effective all the time, there was a reason he was such an effective agent.

Blunt never looked away from Ben and appeared faintly annoyed at being challenged. Apart from Jack, who had never been in a position to do much, no one had ever been able to oppose or prevent Six’s requisition of Alex’s services. “Be that as it may, it does not change the fact that Alex is the only one able to go to Russia and look around without raising any alarms. Russian agents would be identified within minutes of their own attempt. The FSB have graciously agreed to MI6’s involvement. More than a few Russian citizens have gone missing, most recently Kyra Vashenko-Chao, daughter of a prominent businessman from Moscow.”

Somehow Alex wasn’t surprised. Blunt had never waited for Alex’s consent in the past, why should he start now? Of course, the man would have contacted Russian intelligence about a possible operation; though, Alex reasoned, Blunt was the type of man to send an agent regardless of having permission to be there or not. The fact that the Russian intelligence agency was giving their blessing to a foreign involvement spoke to how serious the issue truly was. Alex wondered if they would have been so acquiescing had Kyra Vashenko-Chao not been taken.

Ben had gone very still. “You’ve been planning on sending Alex since we walked in this morning.”

Blunt didn’t bother to answer. It was clear enough that Alex was his first choice in agent whenever it came to anything remotely disastrous. The fact that Alex had investigated it all to begin with and then brought it to MI6 was pure icing on the cake. Blunt just didn’t realize, or at the very least acknowledge, that this was a one-time event—Alex was not about to go jumping off a bridge just at the man’s say-so. Not anymore. Ben’s support—whilst not appreciated in its entirety at the present moment—proved that Alex wasn’t stuck treading water in the tumultuous sea that was British intelligence. But for now, he was willing to follow Blunt’s lead, with a few adjustments of his own. He wasn’t about to agree to go in blind and unprepared.

During his past assignments, Alex had played the parts of an American or Englishman, where he had known the language and had easily been able to investigate without much suspicion. With ASIS, he had had to rely on Ash and the man’s translation—something that had nearly gotten him killed. If Alex were to go to Moscow, it would be obvious he didn’t belong. He had begun to learn Russian after the Sarov incident, but he was nowhere near fluent. Whilst he could pass as a Russian by appearance, the language barrier would instantly label him a foreigner. There was no way around that, unless Smithers had invented some futuristic translation implant. The thought in itself was terrifying—knowing Smithers’s inventions, it would most likely have a secondary explosive function.

Alex cleared his throat. “How would this work? I can’t exactly pass as a native speaker.”

Mrs. Jones nodded, heaving a breath that was almost a relieved sigh. She had been chewing at a peppermint candy, appearing almost hesitant and reserved, but when she spoke, her voice was as calculating as it always was. “No,” she agreed, “however, it is very convenient that you will be going to Moscow. It just so happens that it is home to some of the best international schools in the world, and the population itself is only circa sixteen percent native Muscovite. We have already begun building you a cover story. Although in theory, you could go under cover as an English citizen, we think it would be safer to put some distance between you and what’s happened in London. You are fluent in German,” she glanced at him as if to confirm what she already knew, “so we will put that to use. Depending on your fluency, I’m sure the FSB would provide you a tutor to ensure your Russian has the proper accent.”

Alex nodded. That was more preparation than they had afforded him in the past; they hadn’t even thought about accents until he’d opened his mouth in front of the CIA agents, and he’d been forced to adapt in the moment.

Ben grimaced, his obvious dissensions going unnoticed or disregarded. He opened his mouth, set on arguing for the sake of Jack, but Alex broke in before he had the chance, addressing him as if they were the only ones in the room. After all, he didn’t need to explain himself to Blunt and Jones. They didn’t give a damn about his reasonings, so long as he complied with their orders. Jones may have an inkling of remorse as to how MI6 had treated the young spy, but it didn’t prevent them from employing his skills to their own end. Ben was the one Alex needed to convince—to clarify the confusing whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and desires that clamored constantly through his head.

“Ben,” Alex stared at his hands, torn and almost uncertain how to frame his own thoughts, “I want to do this. I know that there are others—that it’s not only just up to me to find them, but no one was even looking before. Not really. If I have the capability to do something about this—find the missing kids, or stop the people who are doing this, I’ve got to do this. If my being there saves at least one of the missing kids, I’ve got to do this. Not because they,” Alex nodded towards the emotionless figure across from him, “want me to. This is my decision.”

Ben’s hands clenched and unclenched rapidly as he bit back his words. His focus moved from Blunt, to Jones, to Alex—the muscle in his jaw twitched like it had when he had given Alex the two stipulations for his help, which had come back to bite him only two days later. No doubt, Ben was revisiting the conversations he had had with the young spy, trying to see whether he could be convinced to say no. Already, Alex had refused to back down and be left behind every chance the option arose; now, he was offered the funds and opportunity to officially see this threw. Ben searched Alex’s face and exhaled grudgingly, grinding his teeth. He fixed his glare on the two MI6 heads. “He’s not going alone.”

“I expected nothing less,” Jones responded easily.

“And we get backup. A support team from the very start.”

Alex’s jaw nearly dropped when Jones nodded. Never had he ever had backup before a mission. Having a partner to begin with was a novelty of its own, but the prospect of a team already in position, with the primary purpose of keeping him alive was inconceivable. Alex had been prepared to see this through on his own—maybe with the help of a Russian intelligence agent at the very most—but now he would have FSB support, Smithers’s inventions, Ben and a backup team? He almost smiled. Only the seriousness of Ben’s expression, which was still not pleased to say the least, and being in the presence of Blunt stopped him from doing so.

“So, you want me to go to Moscow,” Alex deliberated, “to look around Istraflot’s center and investigate the Bratva members involved?”

“Essentially. The FSB have already provided us with fundamental intelligence regarding the Bratva in control of the shipping company. What you might not know is that Bratva is actually a blanket term for the Russian mafia, when, in fact, there are quite a few groups that form their own brotherhood of sorts, much like the Italian mafia. After the fall of the Soviet Union, such organizations became much more prominent. Whilst the government was thrown into chaos and struggled to maintain control, the mafiya filled that void. They essentially created their own society, the leaders of which came to be known as vory v zakone.”

Alex didn’t recognize the phrase, but it must have meant something significant.

“Thieves in the law.” Mrs. Jones translated. “They controlled everything from the black market to even certain positions within the government. At one point, intelligence reports suggested that the various prestupnye controlled up to two thirds of Russia’s economy. What I am getting at is they are exceedingly powerful and well-resourced. There are four major Bratva factions based out of Moscow. The, for a lack of a better word, gang operating out of Istraflot is part of the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, which is run by a man by the name of Pavel Bradlik, the successor of Sergei Mikhailov.”

“If the FSB know so much about Istraflot’s criminal activities, shouldn’t they be able to figure out who’s funding the kidnappings?”

Blunt clasped his hands in front of him. “As we explained earlier today, we have to maintain a careful balance with these criminal organizations. It is impossible to completely dissuade their activities, and simply attempting to do so is a waste of resources. The situation in Russia, you’ll find, is quite similar. If the FSB showed an increased interest in their enterprises, they would tip the scale out of their favor.”

“Which is where I come in.”

“Precisely. Surveil Bradlik’s faction and identify who is funding these kidnappings, or where they are being taken once they arrive in Russia. Once that is accomplished, we will go from there and arrange an infiltration.” Mrs. Jones checked her watch and pursed her lips. “I do believe Smithers will be done with his preparations. Unless there are any questions, I suggest you go meet him for your cover identities and equipment.”

Alex didn’t miss the fact she said ‘identities,’ and neither did Ben, judging from the twitch at the corner of his eye. It seemed he was getting a crash course in Blunt’s capabilities in manipulation, and he was aggravated by what he found. Ben was a soldier through and through; his secondment as a spy probably served to solidify that conclusion. He wasn’t built for a world that was constantly trying to screw and manipulate you back.

Alex stood, knowing a dismissal when he saw one. He stopped with his hand on the door and looked back at the heads of Spec Ops. “This doesn’t mean I work for you,” he said slowly and clearly. “I’m choosing to do this. You’re the best bet at getting those missing kids back alive.” Alex paused a second longer to ensure that the message was clear, and then he walked out the door without looking back.

Smithers was waiting for them in an office down the hall. It was a basic room that void of any personal touches and evidence that it was actually in use. A long table sat in the center, perfectly ordered with a neat pile of papers and box in the center, a carefully folded black cloth pooling from the top. The man himself was sat in the corner and fiddling with a long, dainty rope. He wore his usual pin striped suit, this time a light tan and deep-set brown. His face broke into a jovial smile, the lines setting deep in his face, when Alex and Ben entered. Alex couldn’t help but smile in return. He really did like the gadget-maker, and not just for the cool inventions that had a pension for saving his life in dire situations. Smithers heaved to his feet and clapped the boy on the shoulder, the cord swaying loosely from his fat fist.

“Alex, my boy,” he exclaimed, “I’m glad to see you went through with finding someone to watch your back. I’ll say I was caught by surprise to hear from Mrs. Jones about another mission.” His bright eyes dimmed with veiled disappointment, although he brightened considerably, when his gaze shifted to Ben. “And, Officer Daniels, I was pleased to hear you were accompanying our dear boy. How is that shoulder healing up?”

“Well, thanks. Well enough to go chasing after Alex, that is.” Ben punctuated the remark by throwing a dry grin towards the young man in question.

Alex huffed, just as Smithers let out a hearty laugh.

“Indeed.” The Irishman sobered a moment later. “Apologies, old chap, we didn’t mean to talk as if you weren’t there. In fact, you are most likely wanting to know just what I have for you today. You already have the watch in your possession, but where to start…” He rubbed absentmindedly at his chin, scanning the items piled high on the table. Electing to begin with the most accessible choice, Smithers offered the cord clasped in his hand to Alex, who let it rest judiciously in his palm. The object, as it turned out, was a necklace—a silver hammer with intricate woven vines engraved all along the edges. A triskele, a three-pronged spiral, was melded into the center, an infinity knot encircling the metal loop around the cord. Even after he weeks of school he missed, Alex recalled the name of the symbol immediately—Mjölnir, Thor’s Hammer. To the Norse, the centuries-old symbol represented heroism, self-reliance, and honor, worn by thousands during the Age of the Vikings. The craftsmanship of this particular pendant was incredible and painstakingly precise. Alex slipped the cord over his neck and was surprised by the minimal weight of it.

“This is one of my proudest designs,” preened Smithers. “Even to the most analytical eye, this is an ordinary pendant, but to you…” He took the small charm between his fingers and ever-so-slightly twisted the spiral engraved in the center. With a faint click, the tip of hammer’s head revealed a USB drive. “This drive will hack into any secure system within minutes. Should there be any resistance, although I highly doubt there will be as I programmed it myself, simply rotate the ivy etching at the neck three times. It will send an alert to my personal computer, and I will take it from there.”

Alex thumbed the intricate patterns appreciatively. The appearance itself was pleasant and at the same time unassuming, even if the gadget hidden inside was as stereotypically James Bond as you could get. Knowing the care to which Smithers designed his inventions, it would stand up to any inspection—be that by an enemy agent or Xray—so unless Alex were to be put in a position where he was relieved of all his belongings, the pendant would prove useful. Already a locked computer system had hindered the investigation; who’s to say that it wouldn’t again?

Alex grinned and went to thank the man, but Smithers had already moved onto the box at the corner of the table. The black cloth Alex had noted earlier was actually a black nylon jacket with white strips that began at the shoulder and ended at the wrist. A white, three-petaled flower design was fashioned on the upper left chest. Smithers held it up now with a proud flourish, and the material hissed that telling, shimmery sound that was typical of all nylons. Alex took the proffered clothing, letting the fabric run through his hands loosely. He had an idea of what it might do and was hoping that a familiar texture would prove him right. The perfect replication of the nylon felt nothing like the bullet-proof trail rider jersey Smithers had provided for the fiasco with Cray, but when Alex glanced up from the jacket, the man was nodding encouragingly.

“As much as a stereotypical joke as it has become, Adidas is a very popular company in Russia,” Smithers said, gesturing to the logo. “Of course, you will be provided with an appropriate wardrobe to go along with your German identity, but I thought you might benefit from one of our bulletproof jackets.”

“Bulletproof jacket?” Ben demanded incredulously. He regarded the thin fabric dubiously, comparing the weight and thickness of an average Kevlar vest to the infirmity of the nylon. “Where’re my bulletproof clothes?” he asked, jokingly petulant.

Alex smirked and held out the jacket, which was very evidently meant for someone his own size. “You’re welcome to try mine, but with your abominable height, I doubt it’d fit.”

Ben wrinkled his nose but chose not to comment.

Smithers once again tottered to the table and shifted through the objects within the box. He produced two little booklets and a pair of generic manila files, confirmed their contents, and handed one of each to Ben and Alex. “As Mrs. J probably mentioned, we have already created cover identities for the two of you. They have enough clout to stand up a certain amount of inspection, but do try to avoid any unnecessary scrutiny. There was simply not enough time to provide all the proper documentation,” Smithers explained apologetically. “Alex’s has a bit more given he is younger and had fewer years to fill with documents and records. Yours, Mr. Daniels, only has the barebones, I’m afraid.”

Alex flipped open the maroon booklet, an authentic passport from the Bundesrepublik Deutschland. His face stared up at him, taken from his own official passport; the picture was already a few years old, back when he still had a slight softness in his cheeks and hair cut shorter than it was now. Only here, it wasn’t Alexander Rider in the photograph, but rather Alexander Eliasovich Adler from Berlin. He was the same age as Alex, with a swirling script that spoke to years of dictation and practice. A quick skim through the folder he had been provided showed that it was a fundamental backstory of a fourteen-year-old leaving behind his friends for an entirely new life.

Alex snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye at Ben’s own documents. It didn’t miss his notice that, although red, Ben’s was a brighter shade, suggesting that was from an entirely different country, and not one that belonged to the European Union. If they were headed into a foreign country, it made sense that at least one of them would be a citizen—and Ben had also proven himself at least knowledgeable of the Russian language. Alex tried to catch the front of the passport, searching for the telling Cyrillic lettering and two-headed eagle that was the official emblem of the federation.

“When do we leave?” Ben asked as he tucked the documents securely under his arm.

“0900 hours tomorrow,” Smithers answered. “You will be flying into Berlin first then onto Moscow in the early afternoon. From there on, the FSB will be managing things.”

“Too bad I won’t be getting one of your Gameboys,” Alex grinned in jest, “however will I entertain myself?”

Smithers let loose a jovial laugh. “I’m sorry, old chap, but we didn’t think one would apply in this situation.”

Belatedly, Alex realized just when Smithers said they were leaving. If they were leaving the next day, then that meant he would have time to return home and explain everything to Jack, face-to-face instead of the usual silence that accompanied his missions. He would be able, or at least try, to express just why he was agreeing to do this in the first place. Something he didn’t think he would be able to do but avoiding it even less so. Aside from wanting to save those missing kids, and anyone that was made a victim by these people, he didn’t really know why he was doing this. At least Alex would have time to contemplate it on the way home.

Kyra glared at the men fiercely. She doubted it affected them in the slightest, but she either gave into the terror that endlessly threatened to consume her from the bottom up or displayed as much fury and hatred as she could. So, she clenched her jaw and stared, wishing she could sink into the ground under her feet. The doctor, a squat man of tiny stature, hovered in the door to her prison and impatiently forced the circular glasses back on his face. This was the second time she had made the doctor’s acquaintance. The first had been upon her arrival, when she had regained consciousness in a hospital-esque room. The nasally man had been hovering over her, his inhumanly piercing gaze scrutinizing every aspect of her unconscious face, and in blind terror, Kyra had struck out with as much strength as she could muster. Looking now, her chest warmed with pride at the sight of the yellow-purple mottled bruise on the side of his face.

The doctor huffed and flicked his wrist in order to check his watch. “Ms. Vashenko, you can either do this willingly or be brought forcefully.” He spoke with a strange accent, one that Kyra could almost place. Certain vowels were tainted by German pronunciation, but he could easily be Austrian or a native speaker of some other Germanic language. “We have a strict schedule to keep.”

Kyra crossed her arms and leaned back against the white plaster wall. Her neck bent forward awkwardly and uncomfortably, but she refused to adjust her position. If she shifted now, she relinquished any defiant power she had. “I don’t very much care about your schedule,” she responded dryly.

The doctor sighed, but he had not expected her attitude to change after a few words. She didn’t understand the need for her sacrifice, didn’t comprehend what they were trying to achieve. “Bring her.”

He left, infuriated and defiant screams following in his wake. The doctor set off down the hall alone, as he knew the men would deliver their patient to the examination room in due time. Until then, he would prepare the tests. The girl threw herself, attempted to use her weight to slip from the double-handed grasp of her captors, and thrashed with all the savage ferocity of a caged animal. The actions did nothing, of course. She was a mere child, and the two guards on either side outweighed her in nearly every relevant capacity. A wild kick caught one of the men in the shin. Halfway down the featureless hall, they had had enough. They transferred their grip, restraining her in completely and leaving her with no physical outlet to her terror. She writhed and screamed, but the guards carried to the end of the labyrinthine halls, through the open grey door, to where Doctor Leichenberg waited.

Examination Room 330 looked just like any other doctor’s office. Sterility clung to their air with a pungent acridity. BP cuffs, stethoscopes, and biomedical bins lined one wall; other medical paraphernalia cluttered an otherwise orderly table. Unlike other contemporary office, this particular room, and all the other rooms for that matter, were worn and stained, telling of years of disuse. The company had spent millions modernizing the necessary equipment, even more on the security and protective measures, but almost nothing was given to repair the peeling paint and damage that had occurred during the evacuation.

The portly doctor gestured to the medical chair in the center of the room. It was fitted with leather restraints. When Kyra took in the room and the medical instruments laid out pristinely on a sterile cloth, ready for use, she renewed her thrashing with increasing hysteria.

Dr. Leichenberg clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Really, Ms. Vashenko, if you do not calm yourself, I will have to resort to measures you will not enjoy.”

If he were any closer, she would have spit in his face. However, locked tightly to the medical chair, she felt her face twist into something unrecognizable, disgusted and furious, and terrified. She watched as the monster’s hand roved over the tray of instruments, choosing a nylon tourniquet. He drew it expertly around her upper arm. It pinched her skin when he pulled it tight. Now that she had no way out, no means to escape, she sat unnaturally still and regarded the process with fascinated horror. The doctor brought a needle to the crook of her arm, glancing at her from over his thick-rimmed glasses.

“This will only hurt for a moment.”

Jack was waiting for Alex in the kitchen, staring absently into a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. Although she heard him come in, she didn’t react, simply took a sip and grimaced at the taste. Jack knew, or at least she guessed what was about to happen, and had no desire to prove herself correct. Alex had rung earlier to tell her he was still in the country—delivered it in a joking tone, but neither of them voiced that it was a viable occurrence—and that the Bank was taking the case seriously. He hadn’t mentioned the raid on Istraflot, not wanting to worry her more than she doubtlessly already was, but compared to what he was about to tell her, taking part in a SIS-sanctioned assault was a drop of anxiety in the barrel of panic that was Alex’s life. Now that he had the opportunity to explain things himself, he wasn’t about to waste it. Alex came up behind his guardian and bumped her shoulder affectionately, resting his forearms on the island counter.

Jack glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. “I’d offer to make tea, but I have a feeling this will be a hot chocolate kind of conversation.”

Alex watched as she set about the familiar routine of making hot chocolate: first heating the milk on the stove then slowly pouring in the chocolate slivers and stirring until it was the perfect, uniform dark brown. When he was younger, he had thought that was such a complicated process—finding the perfect balance of chocolate to milk and limiting the amount of that nasty milk skin that always stubbornly collected on the surface—but Alex came to realize that the deliciousness stemmed from the fact that someone else had made it for him.

Her back was still to him, when he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

Alex saw rather than heard the sigh. Her shoulders, usually so poised from her childhood years as a dancer, collapsed, and the ladle clanged against the side of the old pot on the stove. She wasn’t shaking, either out of anger or fear or tears, but the rigidity in her frame was not an improvement. However, Jack didn’t confront him immediately; she ladled out a couple of servings of hot chocolate and slid a mug over the counter. Her face was blank.

“Do I get to know where you’re going, or is the answer classified?”

Alex didn’t sip his cocoa but swirled the dark, frothy liquid around the inside of his mug. “I’ve never used classified as an excuse with you.”

Jack’s expression softened, ashamedly. “I know.” She ran a tired hand over her features and stared into her cup. “I just hate this, you know? I’m lucky to even get a phone call saying where you’re off to, and now that you’re here telling me yourself, I don’t know what to expect.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Honey, no. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. I mean, neither of us, but I’m not upset for my sake.”

Alex didn’t voice that twice now he had deliberately and knowingly involved himself in high-risk, life-threatening matters. Even when he had a choice, he still threw himself headfirst—sometimes literally—into them. Instead, he sipped his rapidly cooling drink, the sweetness almost overwhelming and sickening. It tasted perfect. “Still,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

All of a sudden, Jack was by his side, drawing him in for a side hug, hand tousled in his hair. Alex was never one for open displays of affection, but even Ian had discovered that his nephew found such an expression comforting. Neither his uncle nor Jack patronized him by cooing or overcompensating with nonsensical sounds, and even now, Jack settled for combing her hand gently through his hair.

“I can’t explain why,” Alex uttered quietly.

“Can you try?”

Alex pulled away and gnawed at his lip. The entire trip home, he had tried to think of words that would explain his sudden desire to accept a mission from the people who forced him into danger. He traced the fielded marble of the counter, as if he were painting the mottled stains with his fingertips. “It’s just—this feeling. I know it’s dangerous. I know I’ve spent months hating Blunt and MI6 for forcing me into this life. But…this time it’s—I’m in control. I took it this far, I have a chance to save them, and I’m the one in control.” He scrubbed at his forehead, distantly aware that his explanation was lacking in many regards but lacking any way to improve upon it. He already felt like he was pitifully echoing Spiderman’s mantra. “So, I agreed to go to Russia, to Moscow. But I won’t be alone.”

“Oh?”

“Ben. Asked for another secondment so he could go with me.” Alex paused thoughtfully, “and demanded we get a support team.”

Jack pursed her lips, tapping her finger on the counter. “I guess he can’t be all that bad,” she admitted. She sighed and wandered to the stovetop, pouring what was left of the hot chocolate into a third mug. Her movements were crisp and resigned, much like her attitude had been when Alex had followed through with his investigation of Damian Cray. That was how he realized she wouldn’t fight him on going—as much as she detested the situation, she wouldn’t stand in his way, knowing that Alex would go through with it regardless.

“I called my mom,” she said, leaning against the sink, “I’m not going to D.C.”

“Jack…”

“If you think for one minute that I’m gonna go flit off to Neverland while you’re off fighting some Russian bear, think again, mister.” She grinned at him, trying to alleviate any guilt he may have on the subject. “Nope, I’m gonna be right here, a crappy cup of tea waiting for you and many, many bad Hollywood movies to boot.”

A smile fought its way across his face, and he sipped at the lukewarm chocolate. “Sounds perfect.”

She co*cked her head musingly. “So, Russia?”

Alex hummed. “Maybe this time I’ll be able to get you a proper souvenir. A nestling doll or one of those fur hats.”

Jack huffed a laugh and moved from the kitchen towards the sitting room. She plopped down onto the sofa and gestured for Alex to join her. Since he wouldn’t be leaving until the next day, they had the time to relax and pretend as if they were anybody else. It did no good to dwell on future worries, and Alex was all too happy to joke instead of giving out the specifics of the mission.

“Oh, maybe you can try borscht too. I’ve always wanted to try it, but I hate beets. And turnips. And sour cream.” Jack grinned.

Burrowing deeper into the sofa cushions, Alex snorted. “Somehow I don’t reckon you’d like borscht.”

Jack shrugged and followed his example, sinking into the corner and throwing a plaid blanket over herself with a flourish. They spent the rest of the night aimlessly chatting, eating frozen pizza, and amusing themselves with a Russian film—to get Alex in the right frame of mind, Jack had stated. The movie they decided on was called The Irony of Fate, a comedy that was equal parts hilarious and absurd. Three hours later, the credits rolled around, and neither wanted to get up from the sofa. Jack made the executive decision of sleeping there for the night. She flicked off the lights and threw an extra blanket over Alex, putting on another old classic and muting it. Alex fell asleep to the calming flashes of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.

When he woke up eight hours later, just shy of seven o’clock, he was shocked to find he slept the whole night without a single bad dream. In fact, he couldn’t recall what his dream had been. Careful not to wake Jack, who was sprawled out awkwardly with one arm brushing the floor, Alex stretched out the cricks and cramps from sleeping on a couch all night.

Ben, after Alex had declared he was going home for the night, agreed to pick him up at 0700 hours, so Alex had only a few minutes to quickly shower and change into a jumper and blue jeans. The Mjölnir necklace hung underneath the knitted fabric, a cooling touch against his skin. He slipped on the bulletproof jacket, and he was ready. Alex inhaled. Simmering nerves burned in his gut, but it wasn’t fear—not entirely. It ate away at his hunger, even though he knew he should eat something as his missions rarely gave him the opportunity to sit down for a proper meal. Although, it was entirely possible this one would be different; Ben had made sure of that.

Someone knocked on the front door.

Alex checked the time and was unsurprised to find that the soldier arrived exactly on time. He had probably been waiting on the doorstep waiting for the right moment, Alex mused dryly. However, he didn’t take long to open the door and gesture that he’d be outside in a moment. MI6 was supplying everything—a car, the tickets, as well as any clothes and equipment they may need—which meant that all he had left to do was say goodbye to Jack. Alex walked silently back to the sofa, perching on the edge, and gently shook her shoulder.

“Jack?”

Jack hummed, half awake.

“Jack, Ben’s here. I have to go.”

Green eyes blinked up at him, slowly coming back to the conscious world. She stared uncomprehendingly at first, then quietly and alertly. She sat up and threw her arms around him tightly. “Be careful,” she whispered. She brushed a few loose strands of hair away from his forehead and smiled sadly. “Try not to do anything too stupid?”

Alex grinned lopsidedly. “No promises.” He squeezed her hand once and stood up. “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you in a week or two.”

She bit her lip, following behind him with padded footsteps. Alex didn’t turn back, not until he had slid into the black Ford Fusion Hybrid. He watched her remain there on the threshold until they turned the corner, and his house in Chelsea vanished from view.

“How’s it coming along?”

Alex glanced up from the files he was reading to see a takeaway cup of coffee in his direct line of sight, and behind the proffered beverage was Ben’s overly bright face. The two were sat at the gate for their plane, awaiting the time when the flight attendants would announce their boarding section. After the car had dropped them at Heathrow, Ben and Alex had made their way through security without so much as a second glance, leaving Alex to briefly wonder if SIS regularly interfered with British Airport Security in order to ensure agents were left unhindered. Having passed through security with enough time to have a proper sit-down, Alex had settled into a rather uncomfortable chair and opened the papers containing the details of his alias, whilst Ben wandered off to find food that at least appeared edible.

Alex shrugged. “Fine. It’s not the first cover I’ve had to learn.”

Ben collapsed into the neighboring chair and groaned. Even Alex found the seats too small to find any semblance of comfort, and he was a good half a foot shorter than the soldier; he must have been miserable. Ben shuffled unhappily for a moment before resignedly digging through the paper bag for whatever he had purchased. He took out two pastries, those puffy squares filled with various fruit jams and sweet cheeses, and held one out to Alex, who took it gratefully. However, unwilling to admit it, he regretted not having eaten anything earlier. Alex nibbled at the red conserve curiously. Cherry.

Ben took a bite of his own, washing it down with gulp of black coffee. “Did ASIS actually give you an alias? It seemed like you and Ash were simply pretending to be run-of-the-mill refugees.”

There were barely a handful of other passengers at the gate, all of whom were so scattered about the clustered rows of benches that there was no fear of being overheard. Still, Alex glanced around once, confirming no one had shifted since he sat down. The family of five he had noticed earlier were crowded in the corner, the youngest two children using their parents as pillows whilst the eldest played on her iPod. A few lone businessmen were scattered around the terminal, each trying to maintain as much distance as possible from the others. None had moved any closer to the two spies, and there was enough white noise echoing the hall that, as long as their voices stayed at a whisper, the conversation would remain unheard.

“No,” Alex admitted, “but my first mission with MI6, I had to pretend to be this kid who’d won a competition. I may have butchered that, come to think of it.” He was loath to remember how horribly he had blundered his first meeting with Herod Sayle. All that time spent memorizing the details of Felix Lester’s life, and he automatically had resorted to his own name. “But the second time around, I managed well enough.” The trouble at Point Blanc had certainly not been caused by a mistake with his alias, he remarked darkly.

Ben swallowed the rest of his pastry and looked longingly at the empty bag. “Do I want to ask?”

Alex shrugged. “Probably not.”

“How many missions have you done for SIS?” Ben tapped his cardboard cup absently, trying to appear casual, indifferent.

“A few,” he responded and pointedly returned to his reading. He had it memorized completely already; Smithers hadn’t been lying when he’d said the covers were the bare minimum. With the FSB on their side, there wasn’t much reason to go too far into depth. Any official documents were barebone or nonexistent, and they most likely wouldn’t stand up to intense examination. Sasha Adler was a normal fourteen-year-old boy, with mediocre marks, a small group of friends, and an adorable dog—a husky-shepherd mix named Ritter. He, his father Elias Adler, and his mother Elena Ilyinichna Solokova traveled to a different country each year, taking care to teach him English. Until recently, he attended Muse International School in Berlin and was the captain of the football team, but a week ago, his parents were killed in an automobile accident. Alex concluded that perhaps Blunt did have a sense of humor, only not one that most people would approve of. Due to the death of Sasha’s parents, he was forced to move in with his only living relative, his uncle, who was a lawyer in Moscow.

“Who is this uncle I’m supposed to be moving in with?” Alex asked, taking a sip of his own coffee.

Ben quirked an eyebrow. “Kak ty dumaesh’?” Who do you think? He dug through his jacket pocket and offered a bright red booklet. The front was decorated in fine gold writing that read Russkaya Federatsiya, a double-headed eagle stamped in the center. So, Alex had been correct in thinking that at least one of their alias’ had to be a Russian citizen. He flipped open the passport to the ID and saw Ben’s photograph next to the name Venyamin Illyich Solokov.

“I couldn’t’ve let my only nephew deal with moving to a new country all on his own, now could I?” Ben grinned.

“S’pose not.” Alex gestured bemusedly, “I don’t usually have a partner on my missions, is all. This is all sort of new territory for me,” he explained. He handed back the passport and tucked away the files into his bag. He took another sip of coffee, the cooling temperature making the liquid bitterer and less palatable than it had been before.

Ben regarded him strangely. “What, never?”

“Not usually,” Alex shook his head. Although he had worked with the two CIA agents at the start of the mission in Skeleton Keyes, but their untimely deaths quickly left Alex on his own. Wishing to move away from anything relating to his past missions, Alex asked, “also…kannst du Deutsch?” So…do you know German?

Ben faltered at the sudden change but, to his credit, didn’t question it. “Ja, ein bisschen.“ Yes, a bit.

His accent, from the few words spoken, sounded native enough, but Alex was willing to be that German was not Ben's preferred foreign language. He grinned wryly. "Wie vie ist ein bisschen? Ehto wichtig zu wissen potomu, chto kogda wir v rossiyu ankommen, my irgendwann in der Öffenlichkeit govorit' nuzhno werden." How much is a little? It's important know because when we get to Russia, we're going to have to talk in public at some point. Alex watched humorously as Ben worked through the mismatch of German and Russian. Although his Russian may be at a fairly low level, he knew enough to adapt both to the corresponding German grammar rules. If he was going to play at a native German speaker in a foreign country, he had a reasonable guess as to how to maintain that mirage.

“My nye dolzhny govorit’ po-angliiskii,” Ben enunciated the words carefully. We shouldn’t speak any English. “Versuch auf Russisch zu sprechen, aber wenn du ein Wort nicht weiss…dann sag mir es auf Deutsch.“ Try to speak Russian, but if there is a word you don’t know…then say it in German.

Again, Alex noted that the pronunciation was perfect, if a little Swiss, but the stilted manner of figuring out the correct words and proper syntax gave him away.

“I’m much more comfortable in Russian,” Ben conceded. He absentmindedly checked his watch and glanced at the boarding doors, which had recently opened for the flight crew. “Now if they had made you French, I’d have no problem keeping up with your code-switching.”

“Ou as tu appris le français?” Where did you learn French?

Ben laughed. “Of course. Pourquoi je ne suis pas surpris?” Why am I not surprised?

Heat rose to Alex’s cheeks. It wasn’t often he allowed himself to show off; he didn’t like that sort of attention, but this felt less like boasting to schoolmates and more like a friendly competition, like the ones he used to have with Ian. Alex scrubbed at the back of his head and admitted, “my uncle really pushed for me to learn foreign languages. Made it a sort of game, when I was a kid.”

“C’est chouette. Utile. Alors, euh, combien connais-tu le russe en fait?” That’s cool. Useful. So, er, how much Russian do you actually know?

“Probablement, nicht genug…” Probably, not enough… He may not have been facing Ben, but he could imagine the slight frown that pulled at the man's face. Alex had grown accustomed to being at a disadvantage on his missions—having had to rely on Ash the entirety of their journey through Southern Asia—but Ben didn't know that. He seemed to have developed a need to protect Alex. Although to be fair, Alex thought, that probably stemmed from having lost track of him for three days on their last mission only to find him, looking like a beaten and drowned cat.

Overhead, the flight attendant announced that Lufthansa flight 6143 was now boarding. Immediately, the other passengers gathered their belongings and swarmed the desk. Over the last few minutes, more people had arrived for the 09:13 flight to Berlin, but still the aeroplane would be flying below capacity. Not that any of the passengers would mind; there were so few people that they would likely be able to spread out. Alex sent a cursory look around the area, making sure nothing had fallen from his rucksack, then fell in line behind Ben. The queue progressed quickly, and soon enough, Alex and Ben were seated toward the middle of the aircraft, uncomfortably warm in their winter gear and close quarters. As he had predicted, the plane was barely over half-full, most of the individual passengers scattered among the various window seats, the families with young children already deeply enthralled in their electronic devices.

Alex searched each of their faces instinctively, just as he had done in the terminal. Ben saw him looking and guessed the thoughts that were clamoring through the young man’s head. He nudged his shoulder, then again but hard enough to gain his attention. “Sasha, beruhig dich. Vsyo xorosho.” Sasha, calm down. Everything’s okay. Now in such a confined space, they were forced to maintain their cover for the duration of the flight, possibly even until they arrived at their safehouse in Moscow. For the foreseeable future, Alex was now Sasha Adler.

Alex nodded, gnawing at his thumbnail. “Ich weiss.” I know. The pressure to check for familiar, threatening faces still present in the back of his mind. It would take a while for him to get used to the fact he was not alone, that he had someone watching his back.

At the front of the plane, a blonde flight attendant began to go through the motions of the safety protocol disinterestedly. Her eyes stared sightlessly down the aisle as she over exaggerated the action of tugging on a floatation vest. Her colleague gave the instructions first in German then in English, but it was clear no one was actually listening. Ben had reclined further into his seat, his eyes already shut, and Alex was tempted to do the same. He knew from past experiences with Ian that a flight to Berlin only lasted about two hours. After that Berlin to Moscow would then be another two to three hours. If he spent the flights sleeping, however, he would unlikely be able to sleep later that night, but then again, there wasn’t much to do on the flight when he could only speak Russian and German. MI6—or more likely Smithers—had provided him with a German-Russian textbook, but that was even less appealing than staring out the window for the duration of the trip. So, Alex compromised: he would sleep the first flight and stay awake the second. After all, he reasoned, he would have still been sleeping had he been home in his own bed.

He burrowed deeper into the grey seat, rested his head against the cool cabin wall, and closed his eyes, eventually drifting off to the lulling sound of the engine.

Transliteration and Translation:

Мафия = mafiya = mafia

Воры в законе = vory v zakone = thieves in law

Престунпые (Пресутпная група) = prestupnye (prestupnaya grupa) = criminal group

Александр Елиасович Адлер = Aleksandr EliasovichAdler

Ирония судьбы = ironiya sudby= The Irony of Fate

Как ты думаешь = Kaktydumaesh' = (lit. how do you think) who/what do you think

Русская Федерация = RusskayaFederatsiya =Russian Federation

Венямин Ильич Солоков = Venyamin Ill'ich Solokov = Benjamin

Wie viel ist ein bisschen? Это wichtig zu wissen потому, что когда wir в Россию ankommen, мы irgendwann in der Öffenlichkeit говорить нужно werden =

Wie vie ist ein bisschen? Ehto wichtig zu wissen potomu, chto kogda wir v rossiyu ankommen, my irgendwann in der Öffenlichkeit govorit' nuzhno werden =

How much is a little? It's important know because when we get to Russia, we're going to have to talk in public at some point

Wie viel ist ein bisschen? Es ist wichtig zu wissen, weil, wenn wir nach Russland ankommen, wir irgendwann in der Öffenlichkeit reden müssen werden =

Сколько это мало? Это важно знать, потому что, когда мы прилетаем в Россию, в какой-то момент нам будет нужно говорить публично. =

Мы не должны говорить по-английски = Mynye dolzhny govorit' po-angliiski = we shouldn't speak English

Chapter 8: The Darker the Night

Chapter Text

By the time they arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport, the sky had darkened to a deep indigo, faintly illuminated by the city's inhabitants. Flurries of sparkling snow drifted down from the sky, although it did nothing to add to the icy banks already strewn across the ground. Between the constant sweeping and care of the ground crew and the heat from the planes arriving and taking off, the snow never had a chance to build on the tarmac. Long tendrils of ice hung dangerously from the eaves and ledges of the expansive glass wall that comprised the entrance of the lobby. Dozens of passenger cars, chauffeurs and taxis, and public busses loitered in the drive, adding to the billowing cloud of exhaust and frozen condensation. Inside the arrival hall, Alex was forced to stand in a corner of the grand atrium for fear of being trampled by unconcerned travelers determined to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible, no matter who or what was in their way. Ben, as tall as he was, was similarly huddled off to the side, flipping through his phone whilst at the same time scanning the lobby. When Alex had asked—in Russian as they still maintained the ruse of Sasha Adler and Veniamin Solokov—the soldier responded that the bank had arranged transport for them. Sheremetyevo Alexander S. Pushkin International Airport, one of four international airports in Moscow, was located outside of the city proper, and as tolerant as the Russian intelligence agency was of the operation, they were not entirely inclined to allow foreign spies free range of the country.

Alex had nodded and returned to listening to the conversations around him, trying to acclimate to the Russian way of speaking. To his frustration, he found he had to completely focus on the words in order to understand, something he hadn't had to do since he was a child. Russian had no similarities—aside from the occasional transplanted word—to the other languages he had studied, and according to various linguistical experts, it would take 1100 hours, or roughly six years, of studying to become fluent. Alex had only started six months ago.

Ben tapped Alex's shoulder and gestured to move toward a larger crowd of people gathered tightly near the front entrance, most of whom held white placards up above their heads. Alex trailed behind him, playing up the tired teenager forced to endure the tedious formalities of entering a new country. Not that he had to pretend too much; they had spent the entire day traveling and maintaining their aliases, more often than not resorting to code-switching when either of them was unable to continue in their primary language. Ben headed along the outskirts of the throng of individuals towards a young woman, whose own sign was clasped tiredly in one hand. It read in bold hand-written letters СОЛОКОВЫ.Solokovs.

The young woman looked to be mid-twenties, although Alex reckoned, she could probably pass for someone older or younger depending on how she presented herself. A dark, fitted blazer, her hair pulled back in a show of professionalism, she blended in well with the other individuals, whose jobs it was to disappear into the foreground, except for the fact that she had yet to remove her anorak. That was odd in itself given the stifling, swampy heat of the airport atrium, but if she had, everyone would have seen the telltale bulge of a holster and service pistol. Her eyes locked onto the two men as they approached, her lips twitching slightly, as if to smile or scowl.

"Good evening," Ben said, and Alex focused on the words intently. Between loud the collective din and chatter of the lobby, he doubted he would be able to understand the following conversation, but that didn’t prevent him from trying. Ben, for his part, sounded the part, spewing the words effortlessly, swallowing unnecessary vowels lazily like any native would. “Ya dumayu, vy nas ischete. Menya zovut Veniamin Ilyich Solokov. A ehto plemyannik moi,” —He grabbed Alex by the shoulders, and Alex got the impression that was for his sake; this was an introduction— “Aleksandr Adler.”

Alex offered a small, timid smile as the woman’s piercing gaze shifted from Ben to Alex appraisingly. "Ekaterina Nikolaevna Azarova."A small flush colored her cheeks, the only indication that she was uncomfortably warm in the atrium. Her lips twitched in that same small movement, and this time it was clear she felt some amusem*nt. "Vy znaete,” she stepped closer conspiratorially, "chto,'vse schastlivye semi poxozhi drug na druga'?"

Ben didn’t blink. "A 'kazhdaya neschastlivaya sem'ya neschastliva po-svoemu.'"

They exchanged the words so smoothly and rapidly that that Alex stood there helplessly lost. He recognized a handful of words—vy znaete and sem’i—but even so, he was beginning to realize that his skill was nowhere near the level he would need if he wanted to help on this mission. Blood rushed through his ears deafeningly, and for the first time, he felt prickling doubt pounding in his gut. What had he been thinking? How could he discover what happened to those kids, when he couldn’t even understand two phrases between allies?

Ekaterina Nikolaevna nodded approvingly, her face falling back into a blank expression. She adjusted the thick overcoat before ordering, “poshli,” and spinning on her heels. After a moment’s pause, Ben nudged Alex, gently indicating that they were supposed to follow, and guided their way through the collection of individuals loitering just inside the atrium. As they were about to exit into the dark, Moscow night, Ben leaned over and said in a muted tone, “eine Passphrase. Wir wollen nicht, dass ein paar Zivilisten unseren Platz nehmen, oder?“ A passphrase. We wouldn’t want a couple of civilians to take our place, now would we?

It was not as cold outside as Alex had expected for a December evening in Moscow, but after the stifling heat of the plane and suffocating mass in the lobby, the fierce drop in temperature had him burrowing deeper into his jacket and tucking his chin into the collar. The air burned as he breathed in. Alex wished he had put on a hat before leaving the building, but then again, he wasn't entirely certain what MI6 had packed in his luggage. Maybe Sasha Adler wasn’t the type to wear unfashionable beanies. Thankfully, they hadn’t thought it necessary to plie him with any more piercings.

Ekaterina Nikolaevna crossed the pavement and led them to a compact SUV parked between a pair of taxis. A thin dusting of snow had drifted down from the roof and garnished the Lada Xray, but already the residual heat from the engine had turned it to spattered drops of water. Alex hopped into the back and immediately secured his seatbelt. With barely a cursory glance out the window, the Russian agent pulled out of the airport drive and sped off to the nearest motorway entrance. After the first particularly sharp turn, Alex's hand shot to the doorhandle and refused to let go.

Soon, they were cruising smoothly, and quite possibly at illegal speeds, down the M11, an enormous motorway stretching all the way from Saint Petersburg to Moscow. Only a few headlights beside their own lit the dreary road, and they were soon left far behind as glowing specks in the rearview mirrors. "Tak, ladno, my doberyemosya do yavochnoi cherez minut tr—"

"Prostite, eh, Ekaterina Nikolaevna,” Ben cut with a quickly apologetic look, and gestured to the backseat, where Alex was attempting to hide his lack of discomfort. “Vy ne govorite na angliiskom? Prosto ehto,Alexmalo govorit po-russkii.” Excuse me, Ekaterina Nikolaevna, do you speak English? Alex doesn't speak a lot of Russian.

"Oh, eh,” she glanced fleetingly in the rearview mirror and gave Alex that same twitch of a smile. “Of course,prosti.” The SUV barreled past an old car and weaved perilously back into the right lane. Alex wished she hadn’t risked the seconds looking in the back mirror. "Eh, we will arrive at the house in around thirty minutes. It is in Krasnogorsky district, so not too close to the center."

Ben seemed to share Alex's discomfort at Ekaterina's driving style, although he hid it well. He had experience driving under fire during his days in the army. His outward demeanor was relaxed, but his knuckles were bloodlessly white from gripping at the seat. "Right. And where is Istraflot's headquarters?" he asked his voice tighter than normal after a slick patch of ice managed to catch the back tires.

"About fifteen-minutes from the safehouse. In Yuzhnoye Tushino District, on the right bank of Reka Moskva."

Another motorist failed to yield and came onto the motorway far slower than the others. Ekaterina handled the SUV deftly into the parallel lane, swearing profusely under her breath. Alex couldn't deny she knew how to handle a car at high speeds under icy conditions; however, that didn't stop the queasiness that arose from being in said car. Her eyes flickered to her passengers, but thankfully, stayed firmly on the road ahead. "You were briefed on the Solntsevskaya Bratva?"

Ben nodded curtly. "Only on the branch operating out of Istraflot and the Vashenko-Chao case. Were you part of any of the original investigation?"

"No." Ekaterina grimaced as if she tasted something bitter. "That was investigated by local police."

"Why do you think Vashenko-Chao’s case is connected then?" Alex asked, sliding towards the gap between the front seats. "She didn't seem to fit the profile of the other victims." Upper class, involved parents, foreign to the city of the abduction, a far cry from little Zoya Arain.

"We cannot certain if it is, "she admitted. "The cameras only caught unclear images of the attack, and physical evidence was minimal. However, Andrei Vashenko is very powerful and very influential man." It was clear to Alex exactly how Ekaterina regarded Vashenko, from the way her nose scrunched slightly and the near acidity in her voice at the mention of his name. "When he learned FSB was looking into the kidnapping of other children, he—made his wants known. We have found some evidence in support of the theory, although it is—circ*mstantial at best. When your MI6 brought Solntsevskie to our attention, we were able to confirm the presence of some members around the area where Kyra Vashenko was taken. That, and her father has yet to receive any ch-chantage," she frowned. "Shantazh— no contact or demands for money. She simply vanished.”

“Like the others,” Alex muttered. “Have you been able to link any other kidnappings in Russia to ECO?”

“Echo?” Ekaterina frowned in confusion, as if working through the wording to confirm she had understood the question.

“E.C.O.—Elysian Care Organization,” he elaborated. “It’s this international non-profit that is supposed to be helping low-income families but were actually snatching their kids. They had chapter back in London and all over Europe as well. They’re what led us to Istraflot in the first place.”

“I am not familiar with ECO, but it is probable that there are more cases in other republics. Russia has a significantly high rate of kidnapping and human trafficking overall, so it is difficult to differentiate such cases. After Kyra Vashenko went missing, FSB focused much attention on any kidnappings in Piter and Moscow.”

The Lada pulled off the M11 motorway, and then they were in Moscow. Tall residential buildings, colorless and unsightly, stood in clusters, interspersed with streets, desolate strips of construction, and flashes of miniature parks. Gradually, more and more cars and lorries joined them on the road, causing more than a few swerving maneuvers on Ekaterina’s part. As they left the more industrial setting, and with it the cloudy light that provided the means to take in the scenery, she hummed thoughtfully. “Before MI6 made contact, we were drowning in cases, but with their suggested suspects, it became much easier to—cut back unrelated ones.” She shrugged, resting an arm against the driver side window. “At first, Vasil Aleksandrovich refused MI6 request of sending their agents to continue the investigation, but then they promised Alex Rider’s involvement…”

Alex pretended to stare out the window and ignored the sharp glance Ben shot him. The incident with Sarov had led to a sort of infamy in the Russian government, regardless of MI6’s attempts to smother the gossip. He shouldn’t have been surprised that his name had trickled down to the sublevels of different agencies. However, that was another event from this past year he did not want to revisit with a complete stranger, probably not even with Ben. To his immense relief, Ekaterina didn’t delve on the subject, and Ben didn’t force it. Instead, they were left in unpleasant silence, Ben’s eyes flicking to the mirror every few minutes, narrowing at the young man in the back seat.

Eventually, after they had passed a residential neighborhood with quiet roads and more snow-coated forest than buildings, Ekaterina broke the stilted atmosphere to roughly outline the rules and regulations for their stay in Moscow, so Alex allowed his mind to drift, listening unconcernedly. Nearly all of them were intuitive and agonizingly obvious, he couldn’t figure why they had even bothered. Under no circ*mstances were they to steal state secrets, trespass onto government properties, or abscond to a location without first alerting their supervising agent; put simply, any indication that they had become a perceived threat to the Russian Federation, any protection and cooperation they had enjoyed would be null and void. Alex never had much luck with following rules, but he reckoned those, he could follow.

When the car pulled down a road of dirt old asphalt, Alex stared out his window, not that he could see much with the looming trees and seemingly endless mountains of snow. They passed by a handful of homes, small cabins that ranged from the size of Russian dachas to full-blown hunting cabins with multiple stories. With each passing moment, the surrounding trees, which Alex was beginning to realize was more a forest than a mere spattering of foliage, grew thicker and denser until he barely saw the sky. He wondered why they had chosen this particular safehouse, since it was so far from the centre of Moscow, but then again, it was probably one of the more secure locations. He didn’t have to wait long to satisfy his curiosity.

Ekaterina slowed to a stop in front of a compact, two-story cabin. The exterior was quaint, like someone had pulled it from the pages of a storybook, with dark oaken walls, a sharp-angled roof, and shutters that were reminiscent of a cuckoo clock. Ekaterina waited for them to collect their luggage before trudging through the thick snow towards the side of the house, where a few steps led up to a shielded porch. She eased a key into the rusted locks and pushed open the door. "Dobro pozhalovat' domoi."Welcome home.

Alex was the first to step inside, expecting the air to be frigid and musty given the log exterior. He, however, was pleasantly surprised by the slight fir flavor and crisp air. It was cold and dark, but not depressingly so. Flicking on the lights he was greeted with a modernly furnished cabin, complete with a collection of sofas and armchairs laden with piles of warm blankets and throws. A television stood atop a small, wooden table; books, their spines creased and worn into oblivion, lined its shelves. Along the far wall was a brick fireplace, logs and kindling already stacked pristinely on the stand.

Ben wandered in quietly, taking in the picturesque interior with an appreciative expression. He had slipped his heavy boots off on the porch, and Alex followed suit before he dragged slush and dirt all throughout the cabin, noting Ekaterina had done the same, although she now sported a pair of moccasins. Right next to the threshold were a collection of similar looking slippers, and Alex distantly remembered tapochki from the clothing chapter in his Russian textbook. Many Russian households offered their guests slippers, serving the dual purpose of keeping the house clean from a constant parade of slush-laden boots and their guests’ feet warm. Alex slid on a pair oftapochkiroughly his own size and reveled in the immediate warmth.

He roamed through the lounge, drawing a hand along one of the softer looking blankets, and walked into the kitchen. Everything, from the floor to the individually carved cabinets in the kitchen, was made from the same lightly stained wood. Alex opened a few of the drawers and cupboards experimentally and found that nearly every one had been packed with foodstuffs and non-perishables. Canned goods and jars of pickledeverythinglined the shelves. The fridge was similarly stocked but with fresh, packaged meat and bundles of vegetables. If it weren't so cold inside, Alex would have thought the cabin was already inhabited.

"FSB owns many apartments and houses throughout Moscow," a softly accented voice stated. Alex spun to find Ekaterina kneeling in front of the fireplace, gently encouraging the kindling to catch. “When it is known that one will be used, food and basic supplies are provided before their arrival.”

Alex took a moment to study the FSB agent; between Hollywood vilifying the intelligence agency and his own first impressions after the events involving Sarov, his concept of Russian agents was unfairly biased. And now that he had his own tarnished James Bond experiences, he knew for a fact that media was rarely fair to reality. The first thing he noted was that Ekaterina was younger than he had first assumed. At Sheremetyevo airport, she had held herself with complete stolidity and professionalism that she had appeared to be in her late twenties, but now, with her dirty blonde hair threatening to escape from a messy bun and the soft smile as she nurtured the fire into existence, she looked closer to Ben's own age.

With a triumphant hum, Ekaterina sat back against the stone hearth and slid the protective grating before the budding flames. She caught him looking, and the smile shifted into curious frown. Alex quickly turned back to the cabinets and picked up a bag that was filled with what looked to be mini bagels about the size of a shilling. The label read sushki, but it wasn’t anything he was familiar with. Looking at the variety of food, though, made him painfully aware that the stuffed Bretzels he and Ben had bought in Berlin had been many hours ago.

Ekaterina joined him in the kitchen, settling herself on the other side of the table, and gestured to the bag in his hand. “You should try some. I believe you call sushki, eh, tea cookies. Vkusno.”

Alex ripped the bag and took one hesitantly, nibbling the side; it tasted sweet, like pound cake hardened into a biscuit. He held out the bag to her, and Ekaterina took one for herself. Her gaze trailed over Alex’s shoulder, down the hallway, which presumably led to the stairs and bedrooms, then back to his face. “So, you are Alex Rider?”

The question was asked just as he had shoved the last of his sushki into his mouth. Alex paused, fighting to keep the curiosity and hesitancy from showing on his face, and swallowed. He nodded.

“You aren’t what I expected.”

Alex gave a gruff laugh. If he got a penny every time that he heard that phrase… “Let me guess. You were expecting someone older?”

She hummed thoughtfully and shook her head. “No, the rumors were clear enough. A boy brought General Sarov to the knees and, with him, plans to destroy almost the whole world.” Her finger gently traced the inside of her wrist, habitually. Alex didn’t think she knew she was even doing it.

“Then what is it?”

“Honestly speaking, I don’t know. I guess you cannot really have expectation of a child spy, Alyosha.”

Alyosha. The name gave him pause. He knew the basic convention behind Russian names, that Sasha was a diminutive of Aleksandr and generally reserved for friends and family, but he’d never heard Alyosha before. Alex scoured Ekaterina’s face for a hint, but her features were schooled, if not a little appraising. Her blue eyes were pensive, distracted. Her brow was furrowed, drawn in with an emotion Alex couldn’t identify; it was almost as if she were searching for something. Then she straightened, and the tension vanished, like it had never been there at all. She took another biscuit.

“MI6 mentioned that one of you would need help with an accent, but I do not think Veniamin is in need of it…”

Right. His accent. Alex had almost forgotten, with all the traveling and battering of the day. “I—Yeah. I'm meant to be a German native. So, they thought I should I have the proper accent in Russian as well…" He didn’t mention that since arriving in Russia, he didn’t think it would matter what his accent was if he couldn’t even hold a basic conversation.

"And you speak German, yes?"

“Yes…”

Ekaterina rested her forearms against the table as she regarded him contemplatively. "Naskol'ko ty znaesh' russkii?"

If he hadn’t been expecting the switch in language, Alex imagined his expression would have revealed just how little Russian he actually knew. However, he had anticipated the question; it was the first step in any type of instruction—what his starting point was, his baseline of knowledge.

“Malo. Ya znayu padezhi, no ne znayu mnogo slov. Mne trudno potomu, chto ya khochu…” he growled in frustration when the word he needed was missing. “Ich will in der Lage sein, so zu sprechen wie ich auf Englisch.“ A little. I know the cases, but I don’t know a lot of words. It’s difficult because I want… I want to be able to speak like I do in English. He hated how strange and cumbersome it felt to create the unique sounds of Russian, especially in comparison to the ease with which he was able to replicate those in French or German or Spanish."Ben, or Veniamin Solokov rather, is a native Russian speaker, so I've got to be able to speak with him in public. Or at least, not oust us as spies the moment I open my mouth."

"Your pronunciation is not horrible," Ekaterina mused out loud. "For your ability, not bad at all. You do sound like anglophone. But…I do not think that will not be difficult to change."

"What won't be difficult to change?" Ben asked, appearing in the hallway.

"My accent. Were you aware that I sound like an anglophone?"

Ben’s lips twitched, but he answered in all sincerity. “Funny enough, the thought did occur to me.” Ben turned to Ekaterina, his tone taking on a more professional edge, much like the one he had used when speaking with ASIS soldiers on the Dragon Nine raid. “We appreciate your company’s hospitality. Mrs. Jones asked me to pass along her thanks.”

Ekaterina bowed her head in acknowledgement, the previous reserved demeanor sliding back into place. “They were happy to oblige.” Her eyes flicked to Alex, and he read the underlying message: because of me. “The sooner we find the person responsible, the better.”

Ben nodded gravely and glanced over the kitchen with mild interest, his eyes settling on the open but forgotten bag of biscuits. He dragged a hand across the nape of his neck. “So, what is your role in this? Are you going to join us in the field, or…?”

Ekaterina gave a one-shouldered shrug. “As I said, I am your liaison. When you make a discovery, you tell me, and I tell my superior. Other than this, you are free to operate as you would normally. The car”—she rooted around her trouser pockets, coming up with two sets of keys, and offered them out to Ben— “is for you to use, within reason. As agreed by our superiors, your men are permitted to bring their own equipment, but if there is anything else you need, just tell me.”

Alex started. He had honestly forgotten that he would be getting backupbeforesomething went wrong—a novel concept. He wondered vaguely if Ben already knew who would be joining them, given that the older agent seemed to have access to more of the operation’s details. Alex figured it would be most likely one or two SIS agents whom he had never met before. Despite his many past assignments, he never really came into contact with many other British agents before Ben. That, and most other agents he did work with had the misfortune of being shot or meeting their end in very nasty ways.

“Tomorrow morning, I will take you to Istraflot so you may—eh, as you say—comb the area. Then—” The chiming of a mobile cut through whatever she was going to say. She frowned and fished through her jacket until she found the device. “Prostite. Eh, after Istraflot, I will leave you to do what it is you do. Do you have questions?”

“Would you be able to teach me systema?” Although not exactly what she was asking for, the question gave the perfect opening for a thought that had first occurred to Alex all the way back in London, after Ben had put a name to the unique style of fighting Jason and his lackeys had used. The strange bend to the arms and unwieldy movements—none of which tracked with what he had learned from his years studying Karate. Alex had replayed the fight over and over in his mind, analyzing each of the strikes and stances, and had quickly decided that if he wanted to know how to defend against it, he had to learn the fundamentals.

Alex watched as his request caught both Ekaterina and Ben off-guard. Ekaterina blinked with a thoroughly bemused look, a slight part to her lips. "Eh, systema is not something you learn overnight, Alex,” she responded haltingly, the same time Ben protested, “I don't think that's such a good idea…”

Alex felt a spike of irritation at the words. Either Ben wanted Alex to be able to protect himself or not, he couldn’t have it both ways. "You said it yourself, systema is brutal," he pointed out, "and if I'm going to fight someone with that type of training, I need to understand the basics. I’ve studied Karate and Krav Maga, so I’ve got a base to build on."

Ekaterina pursed her lips but nodded nonetheless, catching the sharp look Ben threw her way. "I can teach you some,” she responded slowly. “I am not a expert, but I know it well enough to give some instruction in fundamentals.”

Alex wondered if requesting a gun as well would push his luck. He took in Ben’s slightly furrowed brow, crossed arms, and forcibly relaxed stance, and he mentally shook his head. Not only was MI6, for all intents and purposes, running the op, but Ben would never let him keep it. He didn’t even know Alex was proficient in firearms, so there was no reason for him to believe that Alex wouldn’t accidentally shoot off his own foot.

Ben shook his head with a disbelieving, sardonic smile but didn’t press the issue. “I’m assuming the safehouse has all the latest security measures?”

“Yes,” Ekaterina replied. She shuffled around the kitchen briefly and rooted through a few of the drawers until she found a pad of paper and pen. She scribbled down a few notes, spun the pad around on the table for Ben to see. “Here is the code to the system. It activates movement sensors around the property and sends the alert to FSB headquarters. That,” she pointed to the second line of numbers, “is my number.” With a wry smile, she added, “try not to call unless absolutely necessary, yes?”

She met Ben’s eyes questioningly, and he shook his head, silently confirming he didn’t have anything more to ask. Ekaterina moved towards the side porch, where they had entered from, and knocked aside one of the unexceptional landscapes that dotted the walls. Behind it was a small electronic panel—controls to the security system. Letting the painting fall back to its place, she slid on her shoes and her enormous jacket. “Spokoinoi nochi, Veniamin, Lyosha."Goodnight, Benjamin, Alex.

Ben waited until the door latched shut before letting out the heavy sigh he'd been holding back, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Systema, really?"

Alex shrugged, undeterred. His reasoning was sound, and Ben knew that. If Alex was going to survive this world of spies and villains, he was going to do all that he could and learn every trick in the book. Ben shook his head with an amused smile and turned to peruse through the kitchen cupboards, though he seemed less than thrilled by what he found. "Everything's pickled," he muttered peevishly.

Alex laughed. He gestured to the fridge with a wave of his hand. "There's some fresh meat and vegetables in the fridge. Probably have the proper ingredients for borscht."

Ben grimaced. "That might be even worse."

"Or…" Alex went about the different cupboards, trying to relocate the bags of pasta he had seen earlier, "…we could make pasta?" He found them on the second try, humming in satisfaction when he came across a few jars of tomato sauce as well. Plain pasta and tomato sauce might not be the most nutritious meal, but Alex found the idea of cutting up and preparing vegetables rather unappealing given how tired he was feeling.

“That sounds good,” Ben agreed and tiredly dug around for a pot, filling it with water and flicking on the stove. The entire scene was just so domestic and foreign at the same time, Alex barely held back a smirk. He cracked open one of the jars and poured the contents into one of the smaller pots that hung on the wall.

"You know," Ben stated casually, leaning over the water, watching the mass of baby bubbles simmer on the bottom of the pot, "eventually you're going to have to tell me."

Alex co*cked an eyebrow. "Tell you what?"

Ben copied the movement dryly, shaking his head as if it should have been obvious. He gestured widely to the cabin that was theirs for the time being, eerily silent aside from the faint crackling emanating from the hearth. “Take your pick, Cub.”

Alex stirred the red sauce distractedly and watched Ben out of the corner of his eyes. Already, he had turned back to the stove, mindfully lowering the temperature when the foaming water had begun to reach for the brim of the pot. Ben opened the fridge and rooted around the inside curiously. He pulled out a few bottles with a frown as he read the labels, putting them back in their place then repeating the process, doing anything to avoid staring down Alex. He was curious, undoubtedly, and probably more than a little frustrated by the enigma that was MI6’s youngest spy, but he wasn't going to force it aside from prompting him every now and then.

Alex felt the odd prickling of guilt in the back of his throat. Ben had willingly followed him around London on a hunch then volunteered for another secondment while still on medical leave, all without knowing anything about Alex. Sure, he trained with Cub, rescued him from an underground fight club, but there was nothing in those experiences that would create more than a deadly curiosity. At first, Alex had thought Ben was just invested in keeping him alive, wanted to satisfy the burning curiosity, but a faint tingling in the back of Alex’s mind told him differently.

"They,” Alex cleared his throat harshly. His eyes never left the stove. “They sent me to Brecon Beacons before my first mission. For training.”

Ben wanted to say more, opening his mouth to do just that, but thought better of it. He knew he couldn’t demand answers all at once, and it came as a surprise that Alex divulged the information for begin with. Instead, he moved on and accepted the information with a nod. The corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Bet you a fiver you can’t find the bowls on your first try.”

Alex took in the wall of cupboards and cabinets and scrounged his memory from his first purview of the kitchen. He grinned. “You’re on.”

True to her word, Ekaterina came knocking early the next morning. By half past ten, they had parked their car, a different one than what Ekaterina had given them the day prior, in an abandoned shed that thankfully allowed for a passable view of Istraflot. It was a much larger operation than that in England, the building itself an enormous storage facility capable of housing thousands of shipments to and from Moscow. The land-based loading bay was a constant flurry of commotion as workers trudged through the snow, packing lorries and emptying even larger freight trucks, whilst the dock, covered with snow and ice, was stationed in the back. As it was winter, the only workers putting it to use were those looking for a place somewhat protected from the wind and snow where they could smoke uninterrupted. A group of men were already crowded off to the side by late morning, wrapped in bulging jackets, but none of them seemed overly bothered by the freezing temperatures or the fact that a dusting of snow drifted down atop of them every time the wind blew.

The shed Ekaterina had commandeered stood on the edge of the embankment of the Moskva. It had probably been a storage or maintenance shack for the ancient railroad bridge that stretched across the frozen waters, but the tracks had fallen into disrepair, the metal rusted and eaten away. Judging from the deep tracks carved into the snow, however, locals still traversed it frequently. Inside the shed, Alex huddled on top of the old Lada, which had probably had its prime back during the Soviet Union, and clasped his hands under his arms. A compact portable heater stood in the corner, but the winter air tore through the pathetic wooden walls and stole whatever warmth it managed to create. Not for the first time that morning, Alex wished he were still in bed. He huffed silently, counting the seconds it took for his clouded breath to disappear.

Ekaterina was leant against the far wall, comparably curled in on herself from the cold, and was peering through the dusted window. Whilst they didn't expect to find anything incriminating on their first surveillance, they had come prepared with a Panasonic LUMIX camera, capable of taking 30 frames per minute. Already, the FSB agent had taken a few shots, the shutter fluttering impossibly fast as it captured crystal clear images from 500 meters. Ben stood beside her, a pair of binoculars nearly glued to his face.

"There. Look," he said. He jabbed a finger against the glass, but Alex didn't budge from his spot on the bonnet. Between the three of them, they only had one camera and set of binoculars, all of which were in use. "I count seven armed guards."

"Eight," Ekaterina corrected. "Red jacket by the trolly."

Ben swore, although neither he nor Alex were at all surprised. There had always been a possibility that more than half of the employees were armed and weren’t even the designated security officers. Criminal enterprises tended to stay within the family, meaning, in this case, many of Istraflot's personnel belonged to the mafia. Guns and knives tended to be a given.

"You know," Alex proposed, "if you're worried about being outnumbered, you could always give me a gun."

Ben snorted from behind the binocs. "I'm fairly certain the sarge didn't even let you near the firing range, let alone handle a gun."

Alex huffed; he hadn't entirely been joking despite his flippant tone. Not to mention, he was very proficient at many different types of firearms; Scorpia had seen to that. Every shot he had taken had found its mark—that is, as long as it wasn't shaped as a human.

"Right." Ben finally dropped the binoculars and blew into his hands harshly. "I'm going to walk the perimeter and see if there's anything on the other side we should know about." He gave Alex a meaningful look, one that he met with owlish, innocent eyes. "Don't wander off and do something stupid, yeah?"

"I take offense to that."

With an amused shake of the head, Ben slipped out silently, the door left quaking in his wake, allowing short bursts of frigid air to taint the slight warmth that had begun to collect inside the shed. Alex drummed his fingers along the metal of the ancient bonnet, wondering if the FSB had a garage full of archaic vehicles to fit every occasion. The model was ostensibly inconspicuous, much more so than the larger, official-looking SUV that they had used the day before; the Lada Xray would never have been able to fit inside this shed, anyways.

Alex tore at the jagged end of his thumb nail. He felt like he should be doing something to help but doubted Ben would appreciate him wandering off their second day. With his luck, he would probably come across a trigger-happy guard on patrol. Instead, . Ekaterina had yet to move from her post by the window, using the camera to examine the workers and security measure at the warehouse. She shifted her weight, stamping her feet to return some warmth to them and ease the tightness from standing in one position for so long.

"Ekaterina Nikolaevna?" Alex waited to continue until she acknowledged the fact he had spoken, even if just momentarily. "Do they, the Solntsevskaya, know about what happened to the Istraflot in London? Won't they know they've been compromised?"

Ekaterina tilted her head and pondered the question for a moment, letting the camera fall away from her face. "They do know," she answered slowly, "that their people in London are arrested. However, the police stated that they intercepted an illegal shipment of weapons. Companies, like Istraflot, know the risks of their trade, so when one of their companies are exposed, it is not such a surprise. And likely, they have many more—eh,” she scrunched her face in an irked pout, squinting out the window as she wracked her brain for the correct word. She clicked her tongue. “Front companies—in England. In any case,” she continued, waving a hand dismissively. "I doubt Pavel Bradlik cares much for the loss."

"Pavel Bradlik? Isn't he the head, or godfather or whatever, of Moscow?"

Ekaterina hummed affirmatively. "Thepakhanof the Solntsevskaya, yes, but he is currently somewhere in Southern Italy, entertaining his most recentdevushka—A gymnast," she added dryly. She rested her back against the wooden wall despite the slight, worrisome shudder it gave at the movement. Alex watched her hand slide to her wrist, hypnotically tracing a circle against her skin. "No, Istraflot is operated by Pavel’s cousin, Adam Bradlik. He is who we callavtorityet. So, he head of his own faction, but he answers tothe godfather of Solntsevskaya. The loss of Istraflot is…an inconvenience to Adam’s gang, but it is unlikely he thinks it more than unfortunate.” Ekaterina’s gaze returned to the warehouse down the bank, too distant to see any specifics without the help of her camera. “After all,” she muttered bitterly, her lips twisting fiercely, “pakhan doesn’t care where or how money is made, only that he receives payment.”

The tone wasn’t lost on Alex. She must have had a personal encounter with the mafia, if not Solntsevskaya then one of the other brotherhoods. He was surprised the FSB assigned her to the investigation if that were the case; an emotional investment was a double-edged sword, and it rarely turned out well for anyone involved in the end. Had there been a tactful way of asking about her involvement, he would have, but every scenario he came up with was likely to receive defensiveness or dismissal, rather than an answer. Alex resolved to bring it up with Ben later on when they were alone.

Until then, he could ask about the FSB’s connection to the mafia without crossing into questionable territory. "Ekaterina Nikolaevna, —?" He broke off, when he saw she bit the side of her lips with amusem*nt. He quirked an eyebrow at her in question.

Ekaterina shifted again along the shed’s wall and tucked her hands inside of her jacket, driving her toes into the dirt-covered floor. "As much as I appreciate sentiment, Alex, you don't need to be so formal,” she explained. “I am not that much older than you, and if we are to work together, you may call me Katya.”

“Is that why you call me Alyosha?”

Ekaterina’s expression didn’t change, not really, but the amusem*nt vanished, along with the eased countenance she’d had the entire morning. She furrowed her brow, ticking her head to the side as if confused, before shrugging one shoulder. “No,” she responded lightly, though the muscle in her jaw twitched. Ekaterina activated the camera’s digital screen and toggled through the photographs she’d taken, and a whispering voice in the back of his mind told Alex to let the subject drop; he’d be a hypocrite if he forced the issue, when he himself barely revealed anything about himself.

Alex rubbed his jacket arms roughly, exhaling a warm breath into cupped hands. His choice to sit on the car bonnet was turning out to be a bad one as the metal sapped away any body warmth he had. He slid off the hood and wandered over to the window, narrowing his eyes to see the details of the building far down the riverbank.

“Who do you think is behind the kidnappings?” he asked. He saw Katya shrug out of the corner of his eye.

“The Bratva always have been involved in human trafficking.” The carefully restrained tone made him look. It was reminiscent of what Ben had told him all those days ago in his flat. Cases with kids don’t often end well. Katya must have shared those sentiments. “However, usually, they are not brought to Russia, but rather out of Russia.”

Not long after Ben reappeared, they decided to return to the loft. After all, there was only so much they would learn from their surveillance. It wasn't as if an organization as competent and resourceful as the Bratva would parade their illegal activities out in broad daylight. The only benefit of the entire venture was the rough outline they were able to compile. Between the photos taken from the meager shed to the ones Ben had taken whilst traipsing through the snow, they had a basic idea of the security layout, as well as photographic evidence of where the personnel liked to spend their smoke breaks. All in all, the mission was going much slower than Alex had anticipated, especially given the speed to which he'd attacked the first half.

Entering through the side door, Alex was hit with a wall of cold air. Not knowing how long they would be out for, they had turned the heat down low, which meant that after nearly half a day of inactivity, the entire cabin had grown uncomfortably cold. Alex kicked off his shoes, shedding his thick overcoat, and headed straight for the fireplace on the opposite side of the room. Although the cabin did have a heating system, the fire last night had been pleasant, the cabin small enough that the heat had quickly spread throughout the entire first floor. Ben walked in not long after and planted himself on one of the sofas. He booted up his laptop wordlessly, though judging by how he had yet to take off his jacket, he was thankful Alex had started building a fire.

Once the kindling caught and he had replaced the grating, Alex sat against the hearth, basking in the budding warmth. He waited silently and listened to the pop and crack of the fire and the halting clicking of the keyboard. Just like earlier that day, Alex found himself with nothing to do, but he felt less inclined to sit back and whittle away this time. Simmering annoyance told him that Ben had planned it that way—that his leftover guilt over losing Alex in Indonesia or reluctance to put him in danger meant assigning him a role as a bystander. Alex cleared his throat pointedly and waited.

Ben leaned in closer to his screen.

Alex crossed his arms, wrapping them around his knees whilst trying not to look like a petulant child. He knew huddling on the ground didn’t help that image, but until the heat spread into the rest of the cabin, he didn’t plan on moving. Instead, he co*cked an eyebrow and leveled Ben with an even glare.

Finally, Ben looked up over the edge of the laptop and met the glare, unperturbed and unsurprised. “What?”

“What’s next?” Alex prodded.

Ben gestured to the computer, giving a slight shrug. “Until backup arrives, there isn’t much we can do.” He fell silent, though he didn’t return to whatever it was he was working on. He could see the tension in Alex’s shoulders, the way his eyes restlessly searched for something to occupy his mind, and sighed. “Why don’t you brush up on you Russian or practice your German accent.”

"What, that's it?"

Ben frowned and closed the computer slowly. “We’ve already got somewhere to start and some preliminary knowledge of the area, but generally, a support team has to be present in order to provide the support.” He hadn’t said the words in a condescending tone, but it didn’t change the fact that the words in of themselves were. Alex bristled, but Ben continued on regardless, “you know, not every minute of an operation should be filled with spectacular explosions and fire fights. I'm almost worried to ask what your other missions have been like."

Alex dragged himself away from the fire, brushing off the previous comment in favor of hiding behind an act of nonchalance and humor. He filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. “Or,” he offered, slipping into a crisp accent, one suitable for a German Sasha Adler, more out of boredom than the need to practice—and to needle Ben with the fact that he didn’t have to practice if they were speaking English— “have you considered the possibility that you’re the one doing something wrong on your missions?”

Ben snorted but otherwise didn’t deign to give a verbal answer. He tracked Alex’s movements methodically as he scoured through the drawers looking for tea or coffee. He sighed, dragging a tired hand down his face, and wandered to the kitchen. Alex glanced at him once before wordlessly pulling out a second and filling it with water.

“Look,” Ben started. “Sorry, I know this isn’t your first mission, but honestly, there’s not much to do until the team gets here.”

“We could try to find more intel on Adam Bradlik,” Alex pointed out as he added a dollop of milk to the dark, steaming liquid. “Katya said Adam Bradlik was the avtorityet in charge of Istraflot, so if someone there is in communication with the benefactor, it would be him.”

Ben was fixing his own tea to his liking, when the words registered. He threw Alex a teasing grin, leaning back against the wooden counter lazily. "D'you mean Ekaterina? So, she's Katya now? " He took a sip of the scalding liquid and hissed. "I was gone, what, twenty minutes?"

"Shove off. I'm being serious." Alex scowled and refused to acknowledge the slight heat that made its way into his face. "She told Pavel Bradlik has recently gone off galivanting around Italy, so it’s likely he’s not involved at all. It’s more likely that whoever is paying them to kidnap kids isn’t going to be anywhere near Istraflot, so staking out the place isn’t going to help much.”

Ben was nodding before he had even finished speaking. "You have a point, Cub, but until we have a plan—an informed and well-thought-out plan, it's bestnotto go running around, chasing after high-ranking mafia members. Once backup gets here, we can start on more practical surveillance, but until then…"

"D'you know who they are?" Alex asked. “The team, I mean.”

Ben's face was curiously blank. "They never told me," he answered earnestly and picked up his mug, taking a long draft. Alex didn’t believe him; it was something to do with the extra verve in the man’s step as he returned to his spot on the couch and logged back into his laptop. Alex glared at the back of his head but finally accepted the fact that they wouldn’t be venturing out again for the time being. Which meant that he would have to entertain himself. He grabbed his cup and meandered up the creaking steps to the second floor.

It was much more cramped than the downstairs, which helped to contain the heat, although what resulted was a stuffy, sweltering atmosphere that smelled overwhelmingly of fir trees. Alex didn’t mind it though. Every other floorboard creaked and something in the walls moaned each time the wind blew a little stronger than normal, but it was comforting in its own way. He walked over to the arched window that looked out onto the driveway. Deep tracks carved a messy circle past the porch and off towards the main street, the snow stained a nasty grey-brown from the kickback from the tires. He sat down on the window seat, squirming against the wooden lining that dug into his back. Alex nestled himself into the rug-like blanket that had been thrown there haphazardly sometime in the past and fished out the phone MI6 had provided him.

It only took a few searches to find what he was looking for, and before long, he was completely immersed in the competitive world ofsystemaand ARB—armeisky rukopashny boi, a martial art that had similarly been developed for the Soviet army. Nowadays, it had evolved into a competitive sport, much like Karate and BJJ. Both specialized in striking and grappling aimed at downing an opponent as quickly as possible. The video compilations Alex found were fascinating: the strikes fast and brutal, seemingly gaining their power from sheer force of mind. There was barely any twerk or twist from the hips, despite the universal agreement in MA that that was exactly where the power comes from. Even so, in one specific fight, one kid, Alex's own age or younger, viciously pounded and thrashed another, twisting his arm and throwing him bodily to the floor. Neither wore much in the way of protection. The smaller of the competitors curled in on himself and threw up his arms in a meager defense. The other threw strike after strike, battering the boy until finally the fight was called in his favor. Alex sifted through similar videos for what felt like hours. He focused on the posture and the fight stance, noted the differences and similarities to Karate and Krav Maga, but one thing that took his interest above the battering cork-screw strikes. The fighters endlessly trained to take punches—to the gut, to the sternum, even to the face. Massive blokes thrust all their power behind these strikes, and they just took it.

Alex thought back to his fight against Jason, the thug he had faced back in London. If he were trained like this, and he undoubtedly was if his countenance and confidence was anything to go by, it was pure luck that Alex had been able to deliver the crippling blows he had. He dropped his phone onto the sofa and dragged a hand down his face. He really needed instruction insystemaand maybe ARB as well; at least Katya had agreed to show him the basics, even if Ben wasn't entirely pleased with the fact.

Alex checked the time: 15:07. No wonder it felt like needles were piercing the backs of his eyes. He had been unblinkingly staring at his phone's screen for hours, between reading the history and scrutinizing the videos. And yet, according to Ben, there still was nothing to do besides practice his Russian and review the schematics of Istraflot's building, neither of which were entirely enticing. Nevertheless, he flipped to his place in the German-Russian textbook, choosing to remain where it was comfy and warm, and halfheartedly scanned the section on verbs of motion and their perfective/imperfective implications. He made it three pages before the letters began to blur together.

Das Russische unterscheidet bei Verben, die sich auf die Fortbewegung beziehen, ob diese Bewegung zielgerichtet oder nicht zielgerichtet verläuft.

His eyes blinked lethargically, the bright white of the pages swirling with the black lettering.

Die unvollendeten Verben stellen eine Handlung aus der Sicht ihres Verlaufs dar. Die vollendeten Verben deuten auf die Ergebnisse einer Handlung.

He was fluent in German—Ian had seen to that by the time Alex had been eight—but it still took a few passes to understand.Russian distinguishes between verbs that relate to movement, whether this movement is purposeful or not. The basic verb of motion 'idti' and 'khodit'' stated the subject goes somewhere by foot. He let the book fall flat on his stomach, closed his eyes.The unfinished verbs represent an action from the point of view of its course. The completed verbs indicate the results of an action.

Die Verben idti und ekhat' bezeichnen eine Bewegung zu einem Ziel, entweder hin oder zurück. Deswegen werden sie auch „zielgerichtet" genannt und mit diesem Symbol markiert.

Alex closed his eyes once more—the verbs'idti'and'ekhat' denote a movement towards a goal, either there or back. That is why they are also called "targeted" and marked with this symbol—feeling the alluring, fuzzy whiteness of sleep creeping through his brain—

—he shot up from the window seat. His mind flashed white and spun uncomfortably as he fought to catch his bearings. How long had he fallen asleep? Had he been asleep? His hand rummaged blindly around the blanket for his mobile. The world outside had turned dark, with only a faint glow emanating from the snow as if the sun had charged it full of luminescence. Alex blinked furiously when the phone’s screen flashed on, tortuously bright, but he managed to catch the time before tossing away the offending device. 16:50. Alex was about to wonder just what had knocked him from his sleep, when an impressive amount of cursing erupted from the kitchen, and the answer revealed itself.Ben.

Alex cautiously stepped down the stairs, noting an ever-increasing smell of smoke, so thick that the pungent scent was actually a flavor that settled in his mouth and coated his tongue. He coughed and waved a hand to disperse the cloudiness. It curled around his hand, spiraling upwards toward the ceiling in a grotty, dark fog. Walking down the hallway, Alex saw Ben frantically waving a tea towel through the air. The door was wide open, and Alex thought it a fair bet that the windows would be as well.

“Are we under attack?” he coughed. Stepping further into the room, he saw the culprit: a smoking charred rock of something sat in the sink, the only non-flammable surface in the kitchen. Alex stared at the meat then turned his expression of pure incredulity on Ben. “What did that ever do to you?”

"Piss off," Ben grumbled. His voice was noticeably more husky than usual. Alex wandered over to where the cooked atrocity was soaking in a few inches of water. The flaking char and deformed callused meat made it impossible to tell just what it had been before being set on fire.

“What did you do to it?” He poked the surface experimentally and was thoroughly disgusted by a texture that was somewhere between a slimed lump of charcoal.

“I…got distracted. I think I used too much oil.” Ben pointed a finger warningly at Alex. "Just don’t.”

Alex blinked back at him innocently and frowned. "I was just thinking about your poor mum wanting you to take over the family restaurant." He caught the towel aimed for his head with a laugh and picked up a towel of his own, encouraging the smoke out through the kitchen windows. “What were you trying to do anyways? You told me you were rubbish at cooking.”

"Ekaterina texted an hour ago, saying our team would be getting in around five," Ben shrugged. "Reckoned they'd be hungry, but we may need to get takeaway…"

Alex agreed, although he wasn't sure why Ben had insisted on cooking in the first place. There were plenty of restaurants in their district, and MI6 had graciously supplied them with the necessary funds. Alex shook his head, smiling incredulously. “Fancy some Chinese?”

“I’d be down for anything not-Russian,” Ben retorted. He threw the towel down and closed the front door, leaving the windows for the time being. Although the hazy gleam had improved tremendously, a smoky mirage still clung to the air. Ben swore again and, remembering the active burner in the stove, peeked into the pot. He frowned slightly and nodded. “Looks like the rice is okay, at least.”

Alex snorted and raced back up the stairs, once again rooting around the scratchy knit blanket on the window seat. A flash of lights traveled down the main road, and he froze. The car was turning onto their drive, but the make and model was indistinguishable in the shadows of the surrounding trees. It stopped right before the house, left idling as three men exited the vehicle. The car, now visibly another larger SUV, waited a moment longer before reversing and leaving the way it came.

He glanced at the time. Ben had said the team would be arriving around five, and Alex watched the men, laden with bulky duffels, march through the snow until they passed out of sight. He snatched his phone then paused on the second-floor landing. He listened to Ben's padded footsteps and a muffled greeting. Alex inched closer, but he couldn’t decipher anything they were saying, aside from the fact that it sounded like English. Any apprehension Alex had been harboring fell away—the support team. He walked down the stairs, clenching and unclenching his fist, anticipating having to meet another group of agents that would underestimate his capabilities, but he stopped short. He made it three-quarters of the way down, when the muffled words became coherent, louder.

“What did I tell you,” a voice laughed, “nothing can keep our Fox out o’ action, the stubborn bastard.”

Whatever followed was lost to the roaring in Alex’s ears. Fox. Any intention he had to go and greet the team imploded with that one word. He inched around the corner, wincing at the groan the board gave under his weight. Three men stood in the threshold; one was a tall, wiry man, with short blond hair and faintly annoyed frown; the man next to him was even taller, broader, and judging by the way he was smiling and slapping the shoulder of the first man, he had been the one to speak. The last was the shortest among them and was distressingly familiar, someone he had not seen since France, when he’d nearly been vivisected by a homicidal, racist maniac.

Alex bit back a growl. Of bloody course, they would be his backup.

Wolf, aside from being dressed in civilian clothing, looked very much the same. The same permanent harshness set into his face, the same military cut to his fair, the same imposing stance that screamed of competence and self-assurance. Alex noted the only difference was he seemed almost at east, now that he was surrounded by his unit—confident and reassure in a way that he hadn't been at Brecon Beacons, even in France.

"Seriously though, Fox, you're meant to be on medical till the end of December," Snake said, speaking in a level concern that Alex had never heard from the soldier. "Are you alright to be in the field?"

Ben rubbed the back of his neck and nodded distractedly. “Yeah, I’m fine to be here. Something came up—or rather, someone did,” he offered vaguely. He stepped back out of the threshold to allow K-unit access to the cabin, and as he passed the hallway, he caught sight of a flash of blond hair peeking around the corner. Alex put every ounce of vehemence and ire into a glare he could manage, stating very clearly that he did not appreciate the surprise. The man had the audacity to smirk, albeit tinged with a modicum of guilt.

K-unit marched inside, bringing a fair amount of snow and ice with them, glanced around the small interior with only mild curiosity. As soldiers, they were sent to new locations all the time for their assignments, and unless they were stationed at the Ritz-Carlton, they likely wouldn’t care at all. Wolf stalked to the center of the room and dropped his bag loudly onto the floor.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded gruffly. “Quit being so bloody cryptic.”

Alex sighed. Knowing that he would have to confront them eventually, he preferred to do it on his own terms. He took the last step, crossed his arms, and, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, said, “delightful as ever, I see.”

To his credit, Wolf didn’t jump. He jerked towards the new voice, as did the others, his eyes flicking from Alex to Ben and back again. Eagle and Snake stared, eyes comically wide and confused, as if they didn’t recognize the new arrival, who seemed to have recognized them. Admittedly, Alex mused, he had only been at the training camp for a very short fortnight, and he had grown a substantial amount over the past nine months. Still, how many teenagers did they know who had trained at an SAS camp? Alex co*cked an eyebrow and smirked at them, challengingly.

Eventually, the surprise wore off. Snake, the first to recover, squinted his eyes and exclaimed, "Cub?" He turned to his unit members as if to confirm Alex’s identity. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

Alex didn’t respond. His own gaze had fallen on K-unit's commander, his chest falling with every passing second. An unreadable expression had taken over Wolf’s face—one that could be anything from shock, to incredulousness, to anger. Apparently, their tenable truce after Point Blanc and the parachuting incident was anything but, if his reaction was anything to judge from. Alex tried to brush away the disappointment. Wolf's attitude was reasonable in a way. His last mission with Alex had ended with him being shot multiple times. And yet, so had Ben's…

Alex lasted a few seconds of silence before he couldn't take it anymore.

"Hungry?" He spun on his heels before the soldiers even opened their mouths to respond and marched into the compact kitchen. He ripped open the fridge and started pilfering through the various ingredients, while listening to the members of K-unit hiss at one another. Unfortunately for them, the cabin was not large enough for it to be an entirely private conversation. He caught snippets of words aimed at Ben, putting two-and-two together that they were just about as happy to see Alex, as he was to see them.

"Look," Ben hissed back. He lowered his voice marginally, but his words were still audible, "I don't know much more than you. I volunteered for another secondment cos Cub would have been here on his own, if I hadn’t."

Alex fastidiously ignored the sudden looks the unit sent his way. The idea of takeaway—and therefore, sitting and staring in silence at one another while waiting for it to arrive—was no longer as enticing as it had been. Whilst Jack more often than not resorted to meals that took less than ten minutes, Ian had ensured that Alex could at least make a decent meal if he were ever to be alone, so he knew the basics of how to make a palatable dish. And anything would be better than whatever Ben had attempted to make. Settling on a basic stir fry, Alex began chopping and dicing vegetables and heating oil in a pan, all the while keeping track of K-unit, who were still hovering just inside. He raised an eyebrow at them then pointedly at the collection of bags and duffels still grasped tightly in their fists.

"Are you planning on staying, or what?" Four heavy thuds followed the statement, andstillthe soldiers remained where they were. Alex stopped mid-cut. "What," he demanded.

Eagle waved a hand at Alex, as if that were explanation enough. "Honestly? We figured we'd never see you again."

Alex was surprised to hear a Lancashire accent, though he realized he shouldn't have been, given that may have well been the first time he heard Eagle say anything. They had avoided him like the plague during training, leaving the majority of the derogatory comments and taunts to Wolf.

"And even so," Snake added. "This is just about one of the last places we'd expect."

Ben snorted, "I think you'll find that's typical of him."

Alex threw him a silencing look, thoroughly unamused, and returned to slicing up vegetables, with more force than was strictly necessary. He regarded the soldiers warily out of the corner of his eyes. Wolf was uncharacteristically silent. He should have snorted and incessantly groused about having to babysit a child whilst on assignment. Instead, Wolf and Ben stared at one another intently, holding a silent conversation, that Alex could only speculate on.

Eagle sauntered around the kitchen and probed and prodded absently at the stuff that laid on the counter. The scorched roast still rested in the sink but didn’t give him pause. No doubt, he must have seen worse attempts, between both his own and Ben’s lack of cooking talents. Alex moved on from one vegetable to the next, scraping minced garlic into the pan, anything to keep his hands busy.

"So, Cub," Eagle drawled, "what are you doing here?" He rested his forearms on the counter as he talked, rolling a loose pepper between his hands. Alex snatched the pepper back—an action that made Eagle smirk puckishly— and shrugged.

"You can thank Alex for this assignment, actually. He's the one who figured out what was going on in the first place." Ben threw a final look at Wolf and joined the others around the kitchen table.

"What? You serious?"

Again, Alex shrugged and dropped the chicken into the pan as well before Ben got the idea that he should help.

"So, France wasn't just a one-time thing, then?" The question came from Wolf; it was the first time that he addressed Alex since entering the safehouse. Eagle and Snake glanced questioningly at their commander, and this time Ben joined them in their confusion. Wolf had been the only member of K-unit present at Point Blanc, and up until that point, Alex hadn't thought much on it, that the details may have been so classified that Wolf wasn’t even permitted to tell his own unit.

Behind them, the chicken and vegetables spit sprays of scalding oil into the air, from where it had been cooking unsupervised. Alex swore and reset the heat to a more appropriate level, and even with his back turned, he could feel the prickling awareness of intense stares. "So, what are you doing here exactly?" he asked, stirring the vegetables. "You're not exactly spies." It would have made more sense if Blunt had assigned them more SIS operatives, people who were used to masquerading as someone else in order to obtain information.

"No, but SAS do take part in covert intelligence," Ben reminded him. "They’re here to help with recon and offer support wherever needed. Like when you inevitably manage to burn down another trading company.”

Eagle choked on a carrot he’d been nibbling at. "Sorry, what?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “That was one time, and if you remember, I wasn’t the one who started that fire.” He added a few final touches to the stir fry and popped a piece of chicken into his mouth experimentally. Not exactly restaurant quality, but it would do.

“Why are you here, Cub?” Snake asked. Alex was somewhat pleased to note that he hadn’t been mistaken in remembering the man was Scottish, though the accent was not as noticeable after years of living in England.

He fetched some bowls from the far cupboard and left them stacked off to the side before answering. “To look around. No one would suspect Sasha Adler of working for British Secret Service.”

“Sasha? I thought your name was Alex?” Wolf broke in.

A pounding was slowly growing behind Alex's eyes, and he reckoned frustration was the primary cause. When he'd volunteered for this mission, somehow, this wasn't what he had had in mind. "It is. I'm here undercover, as Alexander Adler," for added emphasis, he allowed a slight German lilt to enter his voice, "and Russians don't really use the name Aleks.” Alex grabbed one of the bowls and filled it to the brim with a mix of stir fry and the rice Ben had made earlier. It looked a little on the crunchy side but edible, nonetheless. "What about you," he asked. "What do I call you, lot?”

Three of the soldiers glanced at one another uncertainly. Not for the first time since seeing them again, Alex realized that they were exceedingly less intimidating than before. He wondered if it was because they were dressed in something other than military greens, or if after everything he had seen and done, they simply weren't anymore. The scowl was back on Wolf's face when he grumbled, "on assignment, we go by our call signs."

Alex bit back a scowl and picked up his plate. "Fine. Whatever. Help yourself," he muttered, waving at the pan and stalking away to one of the sofas.

He heard Ben respond, but frustration drove him past the point of caring. He plopped down on the floor, his back pressed against the hearth. Alex flicked on the tellie and, mindlessly, began flicking through the channels, shoveling spoonfuls of food into his mouth. After jumping through a news channels, it landed on an old-styled Claymation background. He watched the opening credits curiously, the letters too artistic and the words too fast for him to comprehend, but as soon as a small creature with oversized, fluffy ears went spilling out of a box of oranges, he immediately recognized the beloved classic. He would have continued to flip to the next channel, but a pair of legs appeared in his periphery.

Eagle sunk onto the sofa beside him, followed by an uncomfortable, pregnant pause filled with Soviet styled music. Alex got the feeling that he was being examined. Sure enough, glancing over at the other man, Eagle was watching him appraisingly.

Alex paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "What?"

“It’s not a matter of trust,” Eagle said. At Alex’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated, “the name thing. Or it is, kind of. We don’t know you, so it’d be kind of weird if we already trusted you…”

Alex swallowed another mouthful and shrugged, turning his gaze back to Cheburashka. If they didn’t want to establish any kind of rapport with him, that was fine. They hadn’t made an effort—or rather had done the opposite—to get to know him all those months ago in Wales, at a time when that was an encouraged part of Selection, so there was no reason to expect it of them now.

Snake and Ben came over next and squeezed together onto the other sofa, Wolf falling in next to Eagle. They ate silently, the only sound coming from the occasional clink of metal on porcelain. Amusingly, none of K-unit complained the choice in show, although when Eagle actually looked at the screen, his face morphed into one of bemused horror.

"What the hell is that thing? And why does it look so…sad?”

“Cheburashka.” Alex scraped his bowl clean and set it off to the side. “You'd be sad too, if you were found in a box of oranges and no one wanted you."

Eagle jabbed his fork him. "Point, but that doesn't explain what the hell itis. It's not normal." And neither is this conversation, Alex thought. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that these guys, the ones who had made his life a living hell, were sitting around a television watching a Soviet cartoon. Absurd didn’t even begin to cover it.

Snake shoved his empty dish away and rolled his eyes. "What, and giant alien puppets with tellies on their stomachs are? I'm sure it's—a…it's got to be a…monkey of some kind. Right, Cub?"

Alex shrugged. "On Cheburashka. Er weiss nicht, was er ist." He’s Cheburashka, He doesn’t know what he is.

Ben cracked a grin, though he tried to smother it in his bowl, and to Alex’s surprise, he saw the barest of twitches come from Wolf. From then on, the rest of the evening went well, if not a little stilted. Alex wasn't sure what to make of K-unit, but they weren't acting outwardly hostile or completely indifferent like in the past. Instead, they were actually attempting to be amicable. When the episode of Cheburashka ended, a different Soviet classic rolled around, but it played in the background, disregarded. Alex listened and observed silently as the soldiers eased into a comfortable rhythm, catching up with Fox after his time spent on medical leave. Apparently, the rest of the unit had been stationed in France for the duration. Not on active missions as they were a man short, but they had other duties to fulfill whilst on various bases. It had been a shock receiving new orders to ship out to Russia, still missing their fourth man, and even more surprising to hear that the FSB were not only willingly allowing the intrusion but also providing equipment and housing.

When Ben began to detail the investigation prior to MI6's involvement and fill in any gaps left by the operation briefing, Alex decided it was time for him to take his leave. He wasn't all that tired given his nap and the fact that it wasn't that late in the evening. However, now that all parts of their team were present, the real investigation could begin, and his gut told him that after today, there would be far less downtime to be had. Alex slowly got to his feet, cracking loose his stiff limbs from his perch on the floor. He took one look at the dishes and sighed. Although he had cookedandsaved them from having to chip away at the burned scrap leftover from Ben's cooking attempt, he felta littleguilty at just leaving it. They had just flown in from France, after all.

He had just reached the bottom step, when a hand caught his shoulder. Alex stepped back down and watched as Ben shifted and glanced behind him at his lounging unit-mates. He looked hesitant, reluctant almost.

"Just—give 'em a chance, yeah?" Ben said finally. "I know it was rough back at Brecon, and I don't know what happened between you and Wolf in France. But you can trust them to have your back."

Alex bit the inside of his cheek but nodded, nonetheless. "I'll give them a chance, but they have to trust me too."

Fox ran a hand through his dark hair and closed his eyes. "It's not that they don't like you, or don't want you around, Cub." He sighed heavily, trying to put his thought into words. "They—they're SAS; they signed up for this. When they look at you, they see a kid on an assignment that can get dangerous real fast. It's not something we're used to."

Alex did understand. He'd seen the same quandaries in all of his past allies, but he couldn't help but think he wasn't so much a kid anymore. Kids didn't do what he did. Kids didn't keep doing what he did and go back looking for more.

Alex nodded once. "I'll give them a chance," then with a fierce look, he added, "but if it's anything like Brecon Beacons, I'm not gonna take it lying down."

Ben smirked, equally as fierce but also slightly amused. "I expected nothing less."

Translation and Transliteration:

СОЛОКОВЫ = SOLOKOVS

Добрый вечер…Я думаю, вы нас ищете. Меня зовут Вениамин Ильич Солоков. А это мой племянник — Александр Адлер = Dobry vecher…Ya dumayu, vy nas ischete. Menya zovut Veniamin Ilyich Solokov. A ehto plemyannik moi Aleksandr Adler = Good evening…I think you are looking for us. My name is Veniamin Ilyich Solokov. And this is my nephew Alexander Adler.

Все счастливые семи похожи друг на друга; каждая несчастливая семья несчастлива по-своему = "Vse schastlivye semi poxozhi drug na druga; kazhdaya neschastlivaya sem'ya neschastliva po-svoemu" = "happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" (opening lines of Anna Karenina)

Пошли = Poshli = let's go

Так, ладно, мы доберёмся до явочной через минут тр— = Tak, ladno, my doberyomosya do yavochnoi cherez minut tr— = Alright, we will get to the safe house in around th—

Простите, Екатериниа Николаевна, вы не говорите на английском? Просто это, Alex мало говорит по-русски = Prostite, Ekaterina Nikolaevna, vy ne govorite na angliiskom? Prosto ehto, Alex malo govorit po-russkii = Excuse me, Ekaterina Nikolaevna, do you speak English? Alex doesn't speak a lot of Russian

Прости = Prosti = excuse me

Река Москва = Reka Moskva = Moscow River

Пахан = pakhan = godfather

Шантаж= Shantazh = blackmail / chantage

Добра пожаловать домой = Dobro pozhalovat' domoi = Welcome home

Тапочки = tapochki = tapochki / slippers

Сушки = Sushki

Насколько ты знаешь русский (язык) = Naskol'ko ty znaesh' russkii = How much Russian do you know?

Мало. Я знаю падежи, но не знаю много слов. Мне трудно потому, что я хочу… = Malo. Ya znayu padezhi, no ne znayu mnogo slov. Mne trudno potomu, chto ya khochu… = A little. I know the cases, but I don’t know a lot of words. It’s difficult because I want…

Спокойной ночи = Spokoinoi nochi = Goodnight

Девушка = devushka = young woman / girlfriend

Авторитет = avtorityet = authority

Конечно = konechno = of course

Армейский рукопашный бой = armeisky rukopashny boi = army hand-to-hand fighting

идти / ехать = idti / yekhat' = to go (by foot, unidirectional) and to go (by car, unidirectional)

Он Чебурашка. Er weiß nicht, was er ist. = On Cheburashka. = He is Cheburashka. He doesn't know what he is. (play off his tagline Я Чебурашка. Я не знаю, что я)

Chapter 9: Was mich nicht umbringt

Chapter Text

Ben propped up the SUV’s bonnet and waved a hand dramatically. With any luck, anyone that happened to look their way would have surmise the two men, sitting creepily in their dark Sudan, were simply having engine troubles. Add to the fact that Ben had poured in a fair percentage of diesel—it was his car after all—and the engine puttered angrily, releasing a small flurry of dark smog. As absurd and cliched the act was, it did have its uses, such as warding off curious members of the Russian mafia. Ben hopped back into the driver’s seat, roughly rubbing his hands together and throwing his unit commander a lopsided grin. After all, what was the point of being a spy if he didn’t get to act like James Bond once or twice.

Wolf rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the tablet in his hands, swiping through the various photographs, schematics, and profiles that the FSB had provided them. The files were surprisingly thorough, complete with known contacts, frequented bars and restaurants, and presumed aliases. Ben had already perused through it all earlier that morning; Katya had sent the files earlier that morning—far too early to be considered a civilized hour—and he had to admit, however grudgingly, that the Russian agency had been rather forthcoming with their intelligence. A fact that starkly contrasted nearly every interaction he and any other soldier had had in the past; and Ben had a rough idea as to why they were suddenly so loose lipped; and it had everything to do with a certain fair-haired enigma with a penchant for finding trouble.

Ben drummed his fingers against the steering wheel whilst he waited, watching the warehouse with only half of his attention. Istraflot’s activity was much like the day before: a particularly large lorry had arrived and quickly cut the engine whilst workers stacked large wooden crates along the loading dock. One man yelled across the yard to someone out of sight and slapped his friend on the shoulder, laughing raucously. It had been Wolf’s idea to return to the location, insisting on getting his own idea of the ins and outs, although he hadn’t forced the other two members of K-unit to join. He would have denied it, of course, but Ben knew it was to let them catch up on lost sleep after a few grueling tasks in France.

He glanced over to the screen and saw Wolf passing through the surveillance photos of three men. Most were taken from some distance away, the background blurred into nothingness so as to focus on the subject in question, although a few were taken from official documents judging from the universal scowl that accompanied passport photographs. Wolf paused on one particular photo of three men. It must have been captured months ago as they were sitting outside a restaurant, squinting against the warm sunlight, their sleeves rolled halfway up their arms. They were Adam Bradlik, Andris Kozlovsky, and Gleb Melnyk. The avtorityet, the bratok, the obschak. The inner circle of Bradlik’s operation. Ben had to admit, if he didn’t know what he was looking at, he wouldn’t have been impressed. Bradlik himself had the appearance of an oligarch’s son, with light brown hair, dark eyes, and an air of nonchalance and ease, undoubtedly confident of his place in the world. Whilst he wasn’t exactly unfit, he had trained for aesthetic purposes, and the care that went into his wardrobe spoke measures about his priorities. His second-in-command, Kozlovsky, looked more the part of a member of the Russian mafia, capable of holding his own in a fight. The third man, Gleb Melnyk, was the bookkeeper for the entire Solnetsevksaya Bratva and, judging from his appearance, had no intention of doing more than punching numbers.

Wolf huffed and closed the tablet. “Don’t think they’ll be much of a challenge if we ever had to engage,” he muttered dismissively, scowling at the building across the street.

Ben threw him a look out of the corner of his eyes but quickly went back to staring absently out the driver’s side window. “We thought the same thing about Cub,” he pointed out and fidgeted, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the stiff seat. Not that there was much to be had; the only consolation was the fact that Ekaterina hadn’t left them with the tiny, rundown Lada they’d used the day before. Ben wasn’t sure his legs would have survived reconnaissance in that thing.

A middle-aged man stepped out from the main door of Istraflot, yelling something over his shoulder with a course laugh and slamming the door behind him. He strutted off to the side of building, where he struck a match and hunched his shoulders around the delicate flame in order to keep it alive long enough to light a cigarette. He flicked it away after a moment and glanced lazily around to entertain his mind whilst the nicotine began to course through his bloodstream. By pure, unfortunate chance, the spot he’d chosen afforded him an unobstructed view of the SUV parked across the street. He didn’t appear overly concerned by its presence, but that was not to say he wouldn’t begin to wonder why the disabled car never received any help. Ben checked his watch; if the man didn’t return to work anytime soon, they would have to leave.

Wolf made a sound in the back of his throat, which could have been a noise of agreement, but Ben couldn’t be sure. The commander’s eyes were set on the building across from them with his usual intensity, except…there was something else. Perhaps it was the time spent in MI6, the extra training dedicated to reading past the surface of situations they had insisted on, but Ben felt something was off, knew it instinctively. Wolf was not the most expressive, or open, with his emotions, never had been, and that had been a welcome change during Selection when a fellow soldier would be training with you one day then gone the next. Reservedness and aggravation were Teo’s default settings—a defense he had developed over the years with his family—but it made deciphering his inner turmoil difficult to say the least. It meant Ben couldn’t tell if Wolf was aggravated because he hadn’t slept long enough or was stuck in Russia on an assignment with Double-o-Nothin’.

Ben kept his eyes on the worker leaning against the wall as he asked casually, “what happened in France?”

Wolf didn’t outwardly react to the inquiry. He was sat there, mutely, watching the latest lorry lock its doors and pull off down the road. The silence lasted so long that Ben didn’t think Wolf would do anything but glare and grind his jaw, as if that wasn’t answer enough, but then he broke it with growling sigh. “I was part of an extraction team. One of Six’s agents had sent out a distress signal, and we were waiting for orders to go in, when all our sensors started going crazy.”

“Alex?”

Wolf nodded. “Kid was flying down the mountain on an ironing board of all things.” He delivered the line so indifferently, his voice so methodical and toneless that he sounded like he was debriefing a superior. “Hours after waking up in hospital, Cub leads me and the team through the facility he’d just escaped from. I caught two slugs saving him from this beast of a woman, and next thing I know, he’d run off to try and stop the mastermind of the whole thing.” Wolf maintained the apathy up to the point of getting shot, was careful in withholding any outward tell that would betray his thoughts, but Ben could see the building tension in his hands that screamed how much effort was going into not clenching his fist. Wolf was furious. And not because he’d been shot.

“What about you?” Wolf asked after a long silence. “How’d you get involved with the kid?”

Ben huffed a sound that could have been a laugh. “My experience is somewhat similar, if you’d believe it. I ran into him whilst I was on secondment.” He rubbed at his shoulder, almost absentmindedly. He still couldn’t comprehend the amount of chance that had been gone into him seeing Cub again. So much about that operation still made no sense, the most pressing being why Alex had been involved with ASIS in the first place. He knew from the meeting with Jones that Alex had agreed entirely specifically so he could meet Ash, Scorpia’s double agent, but when pressed on the matter, Alex had reacted defensively. Ben couldn’t deny he was curious, but he was more concerned with the total lack of self-preservation that Cub put into satisfying his own curiosity. And it wasn’t just having a vested interest in making sure the kid survived.

Wolf caught the motion, and his eyes softened, slightly. “It still causing you some trouble?”

Ben dropped his hand and gave a single nod. Across the street, the main door slammed open, and two men rushed out, one trying to catch up to the first. They stopped in the loading bay, garnering curious looks from the workers in the vicinity, although they quickly returned to their tasks at hand. It didn’t do well to stare at the men with many nefarious connections to the Muscovite underworld. Andris Kozlovsky had caught Adam Bradlik by the arm and was carrying the conversation with more restraint than the former. Bradlik pulled his arm free, throwing a warning gesture to his bratok, and proceeded to ring someone, the same irate sneer on his face. Kozlovsky snapped at a few employees who hadn’t been fast enough in hiding their interest.

Ben idly snapped a few new photos of the interaction, heaving a sigh when he confirmed he wasn’t capable of lip-reading Russian. He let the camera drop and settled back further into the driver’s seat. A dull ache had begun to spread from his knees, seeping down his legs the longer he stayed in that position. Even if no one grew suspicious of their presence, they would have to leave before there was a need to amputate some of their lower extremities.

“I never thought I’d see him again,” Ben said suddenly. “Then a week or so ago, he turned up on my doorstep with a story about missing kids and getting chased around London by some Bond villain lackey.” He laughed humorlessly. “I couldn’t very well let Six send him here alone.”

Wolf grunted what Ben reckoned was assent.

The smoker, who had stamped out his cigarette, straightened himself up, brushing off residual ash. He paused before he set off for the main building, throwing one last look over his shoulder in the direction of their SUV. Ben opened the car door without hesitation. It was time to go.

Alex refused to admit he was hiding. He may have been in his bed, in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but he refused to concede to the fact that he was purposefully concealing himself from the view of others, specifically the view of K-unit. The bedroom—which was no longer simply his, but rather split between him, Ben, and Eagle—provided a refuge of sorts from the awkwardness and stiffness that reigned downstairs. He had woken up to Ben already gone, disappeared off somewhere with Wolf in tow, and had wandered into the kitchen to find anything containing caffeine, but what he found instead was Eagle and Snake conversing quietly over some eggs. They’d fallen silent upon seeing him, as if they hadn’t thought he’d still be there the next morning, that he hadn’t actually been there in the first place. It was so stilted and pained that, after finishing his first cup of coffee, Alex had gathered a healthy collection of breakfast items—the bag of sushki among them—and the largest mug he could find and retreated back the way he’d come.

It wasn’t that they had reverted into the prats he’d known from Brecon Beacons, but rather they were attempting to be cordial with him. Hesitantly so and uncertain, but nearing on amicable as they’d bade him good morning. Alex didn’t know what to make of it.

Resting back against the headboard, Alex flipped through the files on all the parties involved in the investigation, though it was doubtful that it would provide anything new. Both Katya and Ben had alluded to the dark reality to human trafficking and the fate the missing children faced. With every passing day, the chances of recovering even a body dropped significantly, something that did not bode well given how long Zoya Arain, Jonathan Lloyd, and Hanna Vivier had been missing for. According to every crime statistic website, they were most likely already dead.

Alex tore at his nailbed till it bled. He refused to accept that. Something about this case, the inconsistencies and difference, didn’t line up with what the experts were saying. It didn’t make sense that the benefactor, whoever they were, was going through all that trouble, financing ECO’s operations all over Europe and delivering them to God-knows where. If this were a conventional human trafficking syndicate, there would have been no reason to go to such lengths and bring them back to Russia. Even Katya had been confused; Slavic women and children—even travelers sometimes—were imprisoned then shipped out of Russia, not in….

Whatever the benefactor wanted them for, Alex doubted, and hoped, that it was to do with sex-trafficking.

The front door slammed shut, and muted voices drifted up through the floor. Pushing away the papers, Alex sat up straight and strained to identify just who was speaking. The distance garbled the sound enough that the words were indiscernible, much like the night before, but one voice stood out from the rest, higher in pitch and distinctly feminine. So, not Wolf or Ben, he figured with a grin. Alex flung away the bed covers and trotted down the stairs, curiosity simmering at the forefront of his mind. Whilst Katya had mentioned that she would be operating as a liaison during the investigation, he hadn’t expected her to drop by so soon seeing as they haven’t really had time to find any new leads, and he hadn’t done anything that would have violated the FSB’s regulations regarding MI6’s presence there—not yet at least.

He came around the corner to find a rather amusing sight: Katya and a young man stood opposite Snake and Eagle. Aside from the man Alex had yet to meet, all of them were silently regarding one another, coolly and defensively. Katya stood in the middle of the kitchen, her arms crossed, her head co*cked to the side, eyes narrowed as if trying to discern if the two opposing men were worth the introduction. Snake and Eagle, for their part, appeared equally unhappy with her sudden arrival, although they had to show a certain amount of tolerance as they were members of special forces operating in a foreign country—Snake was managing the polite tension better than Eagle, who was grinding his jaw in lieu of stoic blankness. The stranger was leaning back against the threshold, arms similarly crossed. His eyes were set on the wooden floor resolutely, but, as much as he seemed to be fighting it, his face was twitching with amusem*nt. He glanced up in time to make eye contact with Alex, and the man threw him a wry smirk, rolling his eyes, as if to say idiots.

Alex liked him immediately.

“Why are you here?” Snake asked patiently to offset the bluntness of the question, and elbowed Eagle subtly when the man muttered something under his breath.

Katya’s eyes fell on Alex, and she nodded to him in answer, visibly trying to release the tension in her shoulders, her face falling into a more neutral expression than the thin-lipped frown from a moment ago. She shifted closer to the door, somewhat unconsciously, until she was almost bumping shoulders with the stranger. Partner maybe? The other two solders spun around, taken unawares by Alex’s sudden appearance. They each gave him a small, amicable smile, and copied Katya’s attempt at appearing neutral and completely at ease in the company of a foreign agents. He sent them an amused smirk to say he knew exactly what they were trying to do—and failing to.

“Hello, Katya.”

“Sasha,” she greeted, her eyes flicking to the two soldiers. “How are you?”

“Well, thanks.” Vaguely, Alex wondered if he should bother with introductions. He didn’t think Katya had been the agent in the car the night before, so she probably hadn’t met the other half of his team yet. That being said, it was likely they had already done so the moment they arrived. Instead, he said, “Ben’s not here at the moment. But I don’t think there’s anything new to report…”

Katya almost smiled but shook her head with a small laugh. “No, I am not here to check in.”

“Oh. Then…?”

“I have some information you might have interest in, and,” Katya gestured to the man at her shoulder, “I wanted to introduce you to Yakov Mikhailovich, my partner at FSB. Yakov, Alex Rider.”

Yakov stepped out of the threshold and offered out his hand. The man was tall, nearly a head above Alex himself, but not brawny and imposing like most special agents were. He was dressed casually, wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, which couldn’t have provided much in the way of warmth. He must have been in his mid-twenties, with short dark hair, sharp features much like a hawk’s, and although he wasn’t smiling, his face was too kind and carefree to take his austere expression seriously. If Yakov recognized Alex’s name, he didn’t show it. His grip was strong and unyielding.

“Nice to meet you, Alex.”

“You too,” Alex managed politely, fighting the flinch that wanted to make itself known. After getting used to Katya’s accent being a mix between English, Italian, and German, hearing one so Russian and familiar took him by surprise, icy blue eyes flashing through his mind. He swallowed back the odd scratch in his throat and tried to offer a smile.

Katya and Yakov stepped further into the cabin, trading their shoes for slippers out of habit, much to the dismay of Snake and Eagle, who had undoubtedly hoped that this was simply a fleeting introduction. “Do you remember you have asked me about the organization called ECO?”

“That’s that charity, right?” Eagle asked. “The one that was snatching the kids in the first place?”

Katya nodded and wandered unconcernedly to the kitchen, nudging a few of the items out of the way until she found the kettle. It was easy to make yourself at home, when your bosses opened the place, it seemed. “Sasha, you asked me, whether they exist in Russia, or if FSB can link other disappearances to the organization,” she elaborated as she peeked into the spout to judge the level of water.

“Did you find anything?” Alex asked, tracking Yakov’s movements from the corner of his eyes. The agent was peeking out the kitchen window into the back yard then around the inside of the cabin without any obvious intention, simply examining the provided space. Alex wondered what he was looking for.

Katya placed the kettle on the stove before answering, leaning back against the counter. She shook her head. “They do not operate in Moscow.”

The statement sent a small pang of disappointment through Alex. Although it didn’t affect the investigation much considering they had moved their focus onto Istraflot, it still would have been useful to have another connection in Moscow, if only as a backup. Alex nodded his head, biting his lip, and fished through the cabinets for any extra mugs they might have, when the kettle whistled shrilly.

“We do know, ECO was found in Berlin by Adrian Meyer during the 80s.” Katya proceeded to methodically prep the teapot she’d pulled out of seemingly nowhere. The amount of tealeaves to water was somewhat concerning—Alex could have made fifteen or so strong cups with the same amount—but he wasn’t about to criticize her brewing abilities. Katya wrapped a towel around the pot before she clarified, “East Berlin.”

The explanation seemed to hold more significance for Snake and Eagle, and Alex looked between the two pointedly. He had, of course, learned about the Berlin Wall in school—when he actually managed to attend chis courses, that is—and knew that the city had been torn in two. West Berlin, effectively a democratic island in a communistic sea, was controlled by the Western Allies, whilst East Berlin and half of Germany was under Soviet control. The country remained torn in half until 1991, when East and West Berliners alike stormed the wall and tore it down, brick by brick. What this had to do with an evil charity organization, Alex had no idea.

“Although Bratva come from gulags in Siberia, they—were very powerful in East Berlin,” Yakov explained, hopping up on the counter.

“DDR records show Meyer was detained by KGB for a time. Then, one day, he walked free.”

Alex stared at Katya. “What, they just let him go?” he questioned slowly, not for one second believing that the KGB, the security agency that was known for its extreme brutality and singular focus of achieving their objectives, would just let a prisoner go. Unless… “What did he do? Give them money? Turn someone in?”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “Probably both. But not long after his release, the local avtorityet met an unfortunate end. It is likely, he and KGB found an agreement that was to both their advantage. Such understandings were common.”

Alex accepted the information, storing it away into the back of his mind, if somewhat confusedly. As much as he appreciated her looking into it on his behalf, she could have easily said this over the phone, even simply sent a short text. His confusion must have shown clearly on his face, because Katya shrugged, her lips twitching in that small smile.

“This, of course, is not only reason for our visit.”

Yakov grinned and looked out the window again from his perch on the counter. He nodded to himself, as if to confirm whatever observations he had made from earlier, then regarded Alex, assessing and evaluating the teenager with a trained eye. “I hear you want to learn systemu?”

Alex started, then grinned widely. “Wait, seriously?” Maybe it was because he had suggested it so randomly that first day they had arrived in Russia, or that Katya hadn’t been sincere in offering to teach him, but Alex had just assumed that he wouldn’t end up learning the Russian fighting style.

Yakov co*cked an eyebrow bemusedly but nodded, nonetheless.

Snake shifted to the side and crossed his arms, his face falling into a small grimace. “The martial art? Why do you want to learn that?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“I’ve run into a few blokes who’ve used it, and I don’t really fancy going in blind again. Katya agreed to teach me some basics, so I’d have some idea on how to defend myself.”

“Honestly speaking, though,” Katya broke in, “I prefer other forms to systema and ARB—eh, which is army hand-to-hand fighting, because I only begin learning systema when I started at FSB. So, although I can teach you some, Yasha,” she gestured to her partner, “can show you much more.”

Yasha—or Yakov, Alex wasn’t sure what he should call the man—hopped off the counter and clapped his hands together excitedly. “Poidyem? The—the yard is ideal. Snow will be good, and less painful.” Let’s go? He didn’t smile, but his eyes glowed in exhilaration and delight, as if he had been waiting all day for the opportunity to dance around in the snow.

Alex paused. The thermometer just outside the window, which was covered in icy stalactites, read – 3 degrees. Whilst the snow might pad their falls—which seemed to be over 80% of ARB and systema—the freezing cold and iced surface of that snow wouldn’t be so pleasant. When Alex pointed this out, Katya threw him a wry grin.

“It could be much colder, Sasha.”

Alex furrowed his brow slightly. That was the second time she had called him that. He didn’t think Alyosha and Sasha were interchangeable—not like how Alex and Al were in English—but then again, he wasn’t entirely familiar with Russian naming nuances. He vaguely wondered if that was because he had asked about the use of Alyosha the day prior. Alex shook off the thought; it wasn’t exactly the most pressing matter.

Alex followed Yakov out the side door to the back of the cabin, the snow crunching and caving in under each step. It definitely would not be less painful to get thrown into the snow, Alex thought after finding a rather sharper section of snow. To his amusem*nt—and bemusem*nt—Snake and Eagle appeared shortly after Katya, though they found a protected nook along the side of the cabin wall and watched attentively. Although they didn’t appear as against Alex’s curiosity in systema, at least not as obviously as Ben had been, they weren’t relaxed either, their bodies tense and guarded. Did they think that Yakov was about to skewer Alex with an icicle? The thought almost made him laugh darkly—to think that they appeared protective when they had actively shunned him months ago. Or perhaps it was concern of what Ben would do if he came back to find Alex bent in half like a pretzel, but they didn’t think they had the authority or prerogative to forbid Alex from training. —Not that Alex would have listened, if they’d tried, but he’d have been amused had they attempted it.

Yakov took up a basic fight stance in the center of the yard and gestured for Alex to do the same. The stance was reminiscent of Krav Maga with a few adjustments: hips squared off to the opponent, feet shoulder width apart, weight evenly distributed, head was up. He looked completely relaxed. Alex copied it instinctively, and Yakov nodded his approval.

“Now, before we start. This is very important. If you do not remember nothing of training, remember this,” Yakov said, enunciating slowly and clearly. His face grew serious, fatally so. “The only rule is there are no rules.”

Alex stared at him owlishly, wondering if he was meant to laugh or take the statement at face value, but within a few seconds, the veneer cracked. Yakov grinned wolfishly and shook his head disappointedly. “Chyort voz’mi. You Brits have no humor,” he disparaged wistfully. He heaved a dramatic sigh and returned to his fighting stance, adopting a more realistic, practical tone that better suited an instructor. “It is true—there are no rules, but because it is—tool to survive. Systema is not only fight style—poznai sebya. Know yourself. Know your strength and your weakness.” He struck at an invisible opponent, fast, brilliant strikes that were aimed at the chest, throat, and temple. “You are small, but you are also fast. With systema, use opponent’s strength against each other. If you control six—eh, six parts of opponent,” Yakov gestured to his neck, shoulder, elbow, waist, knee, and ankle, “you control them. I will show you, yes?” The more the Russian spoke, the less familiar his accent became. It was thicker and more pronounced than Yassen’s had been, and Yakov had nothing else in common with the assassin.

Yakov waved him on. “Strike once,” he ordered.

Whilst he didn’t think Yakov would appreciate a telegraphed punch, he also didn’t want to risk hitting the man, who was gracious enough to be teaching him in the first place, in the nose. He settled for a proper strike, but one that was much slower than he could have thrown. Alex aimed for Yakov’s face, his fist driving for the man’s nose. Then, the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, uncomfortably sharp snow biting into the back of his neck.

Yakov offered out a hand and pulled Alex to his feet with a grin. Alex blinked.

“How did you do that?”

Yakov gestured for Alex to strike again, and he did so, albeit slower. This time, Alex saw what happened before he felt it. Yakov moved, just enough to redirect Alex’s fist past his head, then he struck the back of Alex’s head, drove the other hand against his face, elbow to his chest, and dropped him into the snow for a second time. Again, Yakov helped his opponent to his feet.

“In systema, when we have opponent with bigger strength than our own, we use intelligence and, ehm, fill the brain with too many strikes. Protect and strike, at same time.” He performed the motions in the air, one arm blocking his face. “Protect, strike, strike, strike.”

Over the next few minutes, Yakov delivered more instruction in the proper technique of ARB and systema, and Alex found himself grinning, despite the harsh burns and bruises from repeatedly getting thrown into icy ground. Yakov was a strong fighter and, despite the height and obvious strength difference, was able to show Alex key targets to aim for, telltale warnings of someone going in for a throw, and a few proper defenses. Most takedowns involved multiple strikes, one incrementally harder and more controlled than the last. Much like with the first throw Yakov had demonstrated, he used Alex’s forward momentum, letting him walk into his own demise. He took Alex through it step by step, often using tapping or clipping the appendage that wasn’t quite right, after they had run into a language barrier. Yakov’s English was immensely better than Alex’s Russian, but a few times, Alex had simply stared uncomprehendingly till Katya called out the instruction again.

Yakov demonstrated another take down, lifting Alex up like a puppet and insinuating the devastation of throwing an opponent into a wall or onto an otherwise painful object. Thankfully, he didn’t actually drop him and set him down in order to show the technique more slowly.

By the time Alex brought Yasha to the ground—he knew the man had overreacted to the pretend strikes, but he still felt a glimmer of pride at correctly maneuvering the takedown—he was panting, his cheeks a deep crimson from a mix of exertion and cold. Somehow, completely unfair in Alex’s opinion, Yakov seemed unperturbed by the freezing temperature, still with complete control over his appendages to deliver precise strikes to devastating areas. If he hadn’t been pulling them at the last moment, Alex wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Neplokho, Sasha,” Yakov complimented, brushing the collection of snow off his trousers.

Alex grinned broadly. It was rare for him to fight for fun these days; the last time he had been to his Karate dojo had been the week of Ian’s death, and, of course, after that, fighting had become a tool of survival rather than entertainment. Practicing with Yakov, though, feeling the exhilaration and rush of power that came with blocking a strike then delivering one of his own was unparalleled. He missed it.

White clouds danced before his face as he fought to catch his breath. “Could you show me how to throw a strike? I’ve watched some videos, and they look…different from how I’ve learned,” he said in between gulps of cool air.

Yakov pondered the request momentarily, then nodded, sinking back into a fighting stance. He threw a single strike, as if deciding how to actually describe what was so different about it. “You are right. It is different. Ehm, power systemy is—eh, she comes from—eh, blyad’. Katenka—” he broke off into a flurry of Russian that didn’t seem to have any sort of inflection whatsoever, at such a speed Alex could barely tell where one word began and another ended.

Katya pulled a face, leaning against the cabin wall. “Ne znai. Eh, emotional is closest, I think,” she yelled back with a shrug. Don’t know.

Yakov shrugged unconcernedly. “The strength is here,” he said and jabbed at his own body to indicate just where the focus should be. “But more than strength of the body. It is emotional—dushevnaya—strength. Breath, thoughts, dusha—all give power to your strike. I forget how to say it, but hit with all of the fist, not just these—” Yakov went on to show the nuances of a strike, that were so unlike anything Krav Maga or Karate had taught him. You struck with the entire fist, not just the knuckles. You stood relaxed, free of tension—in other words, seemingly open to all sorts of attacks.

It was uncomfortable at first, but Yakov shadowed a few parries with him to get used to the feel. They had moved onto brief contact strikes, Yasha offering an outstretched hand as target, when Alex heard it.

“Lot of good this is gonna do when Cub goes against someone twice his side. They’re not exactly just gonna roll over for him, are they.” Eagle might have intended the statement to be a comment to Snake, but he delivered it loudly enough for it to cross the short distance from the cabin to the middle of the yard. Alex bristled, despite knowing that he had no hope in hell to actually be able to throw someone Yasha’s size; still the open acknowledgment of the fact stung his pride.

Yakov had also heard the sentiment, though it took him longer to put meaning to the words. He paused, exchanging a glance with Katya, who was stood off to the side, arms crossed nonchalantly, and shrugged. “True,” he admitted. “But only if you fight honest.”

“Except no one fights fair in a real fight,” Snake added evenly, though his tone and forcibly relaxed posture suggested he wasn’t just playing at being the devil’s advocate.

“Look, I’m not saying it’s a useless skill to learn. I’m just saying one afternoon isn’t going to help much when Cub goes up against a guy who got a hundred pounds on him” Eagle maintained, his tone defensive.

To Alex’s surprise, Yakov nodded in concession. It shouldn’t have been too shocking, the agent had been working with Alex so as to give him a feel for the correct movement, but at the same time, he had also emphasized the possibility of a smaller fighter taking on a larger adversary.

“Then take them by surprise. Strike first and hard.” It was comforting in a way to hear Alex’s own strategy reflected in Katya’s words, from someone who undoubtedly faced opponents disproportionate to her size during her own altercations. Katya turned to the soldiers beside her, straight faced, and nodded toward the center of the backyard, where Yakov and Alex still stood. “If you are so confident in your opinion, perhaps let Alex try.”

Snake raised an eyebrow stoically and regarded Cub, recalling the past hour and the training that would still be fresh in the boy’s mind, then he shook his head with a small smile. Eagle had the grace to grin sheepishly, but it was too late to back out after he had raised the concern in the first place. He shrugged and marched his way through the snow, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. As he grew closer, Alex felt little spikes of doubt riddle his systema training—as minimal and hurried as it was already—with holes. Eagle was built for strength, his years of army training adding to his muscular frame. He was a prime example of an opponent Alex wouldn’t use unfamiliar techniques on in a real situation.

As Eagle came to a stop a few steps away, he threw Alex a toothy, apologetic grin. Alex wondered vaguely if challenging him to a spar was Eagle’s odd attempt to make up for being such an arsehole in the past, or if he truly was concerned that Alex would be disillusioned from his hour of systema training and actually try and throw an adversary in a real fight. It didn’t help that the soldier’s expression gave away nothing but sheepish amusem*nt.

Yakov had called Katya over as well, conversing with her in that same rapid, incoherent barrage of Russian. Katya’s lips twitched blithely, but otherwise she remained as stoic as she had always been. She grasped Alex by the shoulder, drawing him away from the two other men, and said in low, conspiratorial tones, “Strike as Yasha taught you and aim for here,” —she tapped just above her navel— “then to try to take him down. Do you remember?”

Alex nodded, though he didn’t bother pointing out that there was a big difference between remembering how to do it and actually executing the move.

“Remember to hit his face softly. Or you might break a hand.”

Katya nudged Alex back towards the two men, where the snow had been trampled into one hardened clump of ice and ravaged grass. The two men, aside from the brief near-animosity that had existed earlier, were stood next to one another and exchanging a few muted words. Snake had ventured closer to the battleground—looking almost as if he were entirely amused and exasperated by the situation.

Alex took up position across from Eagle, who stood at the ready as well. He knew in theory what he had to do in order to succeed in bringing the soldier to the ground— Take them by surprise. Strike first and hard—but Eagle was also aware of what was coming, which meant that genuine surprise was out. Luckily, brute force wasn’t the only way to knock someone down. All Alex had to do was offset his balance and let gravity do the rest, but that still required some surprise or providence to be on his side.

Yasha had backed away a few steps, out of range of any errant punches or thrown bodies, and bumped shoulders with Katya, who pointedly caught Alex’s attention. She held his gaze, flicked her eyes to Eagle, then…winked? Alex forced himself to concentrate on the man in front of him; he knew Eagle wouldn’t attack until Yakov called it—that was a courtesy drilled into every martial arts training session, regardless if it was in the military or some after-school program—but he had to focus.

Yakov gave them the signal to begin, but immediately after, he continued on in a sober tone, made that much solemn by his intense accent pulling at the vowels of his words. “Vy znaete, masters of systemy can take even strongest fighters to the knees with single strike.”

“I know another strike that can bring any fighter to his knees,” Katya said offhandedly.

Alex knew it was a cheap shot, knew that in any other sparring situation he would never attack a distracted opponent, but just moments ago Eagle and Snake had been debating the finer points of a real fight, and Alex had been known to use ‘dirty’ tactics in the past—he was definitely not above crying and playing the lost child card. Not to mention, he still held a bit of a grudge against K-unit.

So, when Eagle’s eyes widened in horror and his focus shifted, Alex struck.

He drove his fist into his solar plexus. Eagle grunted, arching forward instinctively. Alex came in, hooking an arm and pressuring the nape of Eagle’s neck, and thrust him downwards, flipping the man to the ground and retaining a grip on his wrist. The sound of Eagle’s impact was immensely satisfying.

It was entirely possible that Alex enjoyed that a little too much, he thought.

Someone laughed loudly, but it didn’t come from his left where he would have expected. Alex glanced up from where he still had Eagle posted to the ground and found that at some point within the last minute, Ben and Wolf had reappeared. And they were both looking highly amused by what they found, not bothering in the slightest to mask it.

“Alex, if you’re done beating on Eagle, we have some things to go over,” Ben grinned.

Alex, still pulsing with pride from actually bringing Eagle to the ground, smiled broadly, his breath coming in shallow, short bursts. He held out a hand to Eagle, who took it immediately and hefted himself back to his feet, grumbling under his breath. He was smiling, though, a sardonic, self-depreciating little expression that grew wider as he rubbed at his chest. Eagle winced exaggeratedly and reached out, almost hesitantly, to clap Alex on the shoulder.

“Not bad, Cub,” he said and headed off towards the cabin. Again, pride swelled in his chest.

Another hand landed on his shoulder. This time it was Yakov. “Prosto blestyaschiy,” he managed to say around the humor that threatened to strangle his words. Simply brilliant. “Not move from systemy, no vse zhe polichilos’. But it worked, nonetheless. Alex couldn’t hold back the pull of pride and satisfaction at the words as they traipsed back across the snow.

A wall of stifling heat surrounded them the moment they passed over the threshold, enveloping them in the pure hominess of the cabin. Someone had already revived the fire, which was crackling lazily in the hearth. The paltry scent of stir fry drifted in from the kitchen, where Wolf was assembling a hasty lunch, curiously unwrapping the teapot that had been abandoned in favor of training. Snake and Eagle had taken over the sofa nearest to the fire and lounged patiently whilst recovering movement and warmth in their extremities. Eagle, and even Snake, offered Alex a small friendly grin, as if he, Alex, hadn’t just sucker punched him in the gut and thrown him into the snow. Alex wandered in, much slower than before, meticulously brushing himself clear of any remaining snow and stripping off the extra layers he’d accumulated. The hum of exhilaration was rapidly fading into the background as one question echoed in his mind: was this how missions were supposed to be?

Even when he had been undercover with the Friends, learning how to emulate the mores of a gentile family, he hadn’t experienced…this. His missions included being thrown into the deep end, occasional downtime that still required him to upkeep the imposter’s guise he had been forced to embody, and eventual spectacular explosions that resulted in his near-death. K-unit, the FSB agents, a safehouse—none of it tracked with what he knew from MI6 operations.

Alex, with jerking movements, took a seat on the hearth and waited, hating just how fast this confusion coupled with uncertainty snuffed out the miniscule amount of comfort he’d managed to find since K-unit’s arrival.

Ben suddenly appeared, claiming one of the comfier armchairs as his own, and then with some unspoken announcement, the others gathered in the lounge as well. Yakov placed down a tray, laden with mugs, the teapot, and kettle, and began pouring a few servings from the pot. Alex took the one offered out to him, watching as Katya mixed some water from the kettle into her own. That explained the frightening amount of tea leaves, Alex realized with half-hearted interest.

Alex sipped carefully at the scalding liquid, holding the mug just so, as the ceramic leached off a portion of the tea’s heat. “Did you find anything new while you were out?”

Ben shook his head. “Wolf wanted to get an idea of the area for himself,” he explained, “but, now that we’re all here, it’s time we make a plan on how to move forward.”

Finally. Alex all but physically shoved away the annoyance and discomfort. Although it had only been less than two days since their arrival in Moscow, it had felt as if they’d been wasting away weeks whilst the bastard who paid for the lives of children continued on whatever it was, they had planned. Alex perked up visibly, leaning forward in anticipation.

“We saw Adam Bradlik today,” Ben continued. “He looked…on edge. Now, it could be because he lost an entire operation in London, it could be because he didn’t get paid for nabbing Kyra Vashenko, or maybe some legitimate business deal fell through. Whatever the actual reason, I think we should follow him tonight, see where he goes.”

Wolf, who didn’t seem bothered by the fact Ben had taken the lead, nodded.

“And what if he’s just heading home to watch the tellie? What good is that going to do?” Snake asked. “We can’t exactly just sit around every night hoping that the benefactor to make contact.”

“No,” Wolf agreed. “Which is why we’re splitting up. Half of us will follow Bradlik; the other half will break into Istraflot.”

“And what do we do about the fact that Fox is the only one fluent enough in Russian to be of any use?”

“I can go with you,” Katya volunteered, and Yakov frowned. He wasn’t the only one to do so; the FSB had been clear in not wanting to upset their tenuous equilibrium with the Solnetsevksaya mafia, and that meant avoiding direct confrontation with one of their agents. More to her partner than to the British soldiers, she argued, “it will not be a problem with FSB as long as we are not caught by Istraflot guards.” Yakov still did not look happy with the decision; her pursed his lips but said nothing to the contrary.

Wolf nodded again, however more reluctantly than before. “Alright. Me, Snake, and—”

“Ekaterina.”

“—Ekaterina will break into Istraflot and see what we can find there. Fox, you and Eagle will shadow Bradlik.”

Alex scowled, his teeth grinding painfully. It didn’t miss his notice that he had been blatantly left out of both halve of the plan, just another nail in the coffin that was his and Wolf’s relationship. He would’ve thought skiing down a mountain and getting thrown into a train would have proven his capabilities, but apparently that wasn’t the case. “What about me?” Alex demanded. “I should go with Ben and Eagle; two guys out with their kid brother or something would be way less suspicious than the two of them by themselves. They obviously look like they’re in the military or something.”

Eagle scratched at the back of his head. “You know, Cub does have a point,” he admitted. “Especially if Bradlik’s already gone a bit spare.”

“Fine,” Wolf growled. “You’re with Fox and Eagle.”

Alex knew better than react more than a simple nod, but he itched to remind them that this was his mission. They wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for him. He had done all the legwork in England, and he didn’t need their permission to go along. Especially not Wolf’s.

Sensing the sudden turn in atmosphere, Katya cleared her throat and rose to her feet gracefully, glancing at her watch as if just realizing how late it had gotten. “I will return later to go over plan for Istraflot, around 6:00.” She nudged Yakov, nodding towards the door. “Yasha?”

The man nodded, somewhat less in tune to the tension between Alex and the K-unit leader, and clambered to his feet, disentangling himself from the collection of legs that crowded the small sitting room. He gave Alex one small grin in parting and followed his partner. Then suddenly, Alex was, once again, alone with K-unit.

Ben dragged a hand down his face then checked his own watch with a sigh. “We’ll head out at 16:30. Catch Bradlik before he leaves for the day.” He pushed himself to his feet, cracking his back as he did so. “Find something to eat beforehand, yeah?”

Alex shrugged halfheartedly and headed to the kitchen, not really feeling hunger yet but knowing he would very soon if he didn’t eat. He fixed himself a bowl of leftover stir fry and rice, sticking it in the microwave long enough to cook it through all the way. He was about to go and retreat back into his room for the time being, maybe look over the files again to see if he missed anything, maybe even study some Russian if he couldn’t, but as soon as he turned around, Wolf was stood between him and the hallway. He and Alex stared at each other, neither saying a word. Wolf didn’t move around him to get to the kitchen but didn’t move out of the way either. Alex felt annoyance burning in the back of his throat, wearing away at his patience.

Finally, Alex had enough. “What?” he snapped.

Wolf didn’t seem shocked by the tone—not that he wasn’t known for his own briskness—but something else was underneath the surface of his expression. He scratched his face, now looking anywhere but at Alex, and muttered, “how’ve you been?”

Alex was so taken aback that he opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Wolf, sensing the awkwardness, cleared his throat and amended, “last I heard, you’d been in hospital.”

“Oh.” Alex blinked. So much had happened since the hospital that he had nearly forgotten about the postcard from Baghdad. Guilt, instilled in him by proper British society, crept up the sides of his neck, but, at the same time, Alex refused rectify his curtness, just because Wolf had had the decency to send him a get-well card. He was having trouble keeping track of the two sides of the man: one moment, the soldier was taking the time to send him get-well cards from a warzone, and the next he was scowling about having to hold a kid’s hand through another op. It seemed the caring, or protective at any rate, Wolf had come to the surface.

“Er, I’m fine,” Alex responded slowly. “I—er, thanks. For the card I mean. It was…thoughtful.”

A shadow shifted behind Wolf’s shoulder, and Snake stopped in his tracks. He had obviously heard the brusque exchange and was failing to hide his curiosity, although he evidently knew it was none of his business. Wolf caught sight of him to, and under Alex’s nonplussed and Wolf’s gruff glares, he backed away, suddenly deciding he could get lunch in a few minutes.

Wolf nodded, still definitely out of his element, leading Alex to wonder just why he was putting himself in this position. He bit back any bemusem*nt or lingering annoyance in favor of being cordial with the commander of his support team. They would be working together, after all. The two stood in silence for a moment longer. Shifting on his feet, Alex stared anywhere but at the soldier. He cleared his throat.

“Er, how’ve you been? How’s your arm? …and leg?”

Wolf rubbed at the sight where Mrs. Stellenbosch’s bullets had pierced his skin, almost unconsciously, then shrugged. “Nothing a bit of physio couldn’t take care of.”

Again, they both fell silent, but Wolf gave no sign that he had any intention of moving or breaking off the conversation that had yet to even really begin. Alex may have imagined it, but he swore he heard Snake and Eagle snickering somewhere in the back of the room, muffling the sound with a muted conversation of their own. At least, Alex wasn’t the only one to feel at odd with Wolf’s sudden interest in Alex’s wellbeing.

Alex, gazing owlishly and pursing his lips, hedged slowly around the commander. “Was there something else you wanted to…”

Rather hurriedly, Wolf shook his head and stepped back to give the boy space to get by without shimmying along the wall. Alex gestured his goodbye with a spoon, almost tripping up the stairs in his hurry to be away from Wolf’s askance manner and Snake’s own curious stare.

The Hotel National, located on Mokhovaya street, hosted a very specific kind of clientele. Being within distance of all the grand sights of the city, like the Bolshoi Theatre and Saint Basil’s Cathedral, attracted the affluent travelers looking for a cultural experience, whilst the legacy and reputation of such a luxurious hotel lured in those who like to flaunt their wealth and enjoy the finer aspects of traveling to a foreign city. One allure in particular, and the very reason for Artyom Zharkov’s own visit to the hotel, was the Beluga. The restaurant and caviar brasserie, found on the second floor, was adorned with masterful portraits and gleaming crystals, the walls accented with gold trim. Much like the hotel that housed it, the Beluga reflected the architecture of Moscow in 1903, although a few additions had been made over the years that only added to the ambience and comfort. Large windows afforded a nearly unparalleled, panoramic view of the Kremlin and the historic Red Square below.

There were only a few patrons inside, although this was not surprising given the late hour. They sat quietly, sipping at their drinks and chatting lightly with their companions. Artyom took in the main room of the Beluga disdainfully. It wasn’t the first time he had been to the brasserie. As it was so close to the governmental capital, many officials took their more informal meetings over dinner, often choosing the historic National Hotel for its location, and Artyom had been present for more than one of those gatherings over the years. Still, he thought the lavishness and exorbitance pointless.

A server, a young man dressed impeccably in black and white, respectfully took Artyom’s overcoat and inquired about him wanting a table, but Zharkov’s gaze slid over the other patrons appraisingly. He found them inconsequential. They were completely satisfied with discussing the latest, valueless rumors and indulging in rudimentary pleasures, having no regard for anything but the present. The server had paused uselessly and shuffled to the side, when Zharkov had neglected to answer.

“Sergei Kuzhugetovich?” Artyom asked.

The young man started but nodded quickly enough, setting off immediately. He led Artyom to the back corner of the restaurant, where an older man sat staring idly out one of the large windows. He was older than Artyom Zharkov, his hair already heavily grey and beginning to retreat from his forehead; his dark eyes tracked Zharkov’s arrival steadily.

“Artyom,” he exclaimed, standing to grasp the newcomer’s hand tightly. There was slight tinge of red gracing the man’s portly cheeks, the easy smile that pulled at his face and spoke to just how long the man had been waiting at the restaurant.

“Sergei. Thank you for meeting me.”

Sergei Kuzhugetovich Oorzhak dismissed the statement with a small wave of the hand. “I was all too happy that you called. Boris has been more trying than usual.”

Artyom simply nodded. Ever since the incident in Murmansk—the details of which still eluded Artyom Zharkov despite his numerous contacts and near desperation to learn about the radioactive graveyard—the president of the Russian Federation had become particularly active in departmental affairs, much to the annoyance of his cabinet, who much preferred the laissez-faire attitude of the past. After their few meetings, Artyom, personally, had taken a disliking of the man. He had an inexplicable complacent regard for the future.

“Are you hungry, Tyoma,” Sergei inquired. Ignoring the slight shake of his friend’s head, he caught the attention of the nearest waiter, the same young man who had taken Artyom’s overcoat upon his arrival, and beckoned him to the table. “A bottle of Stalichnaya, two glasses, and the double serving of kaluga caviar.”

Artyom caught the boy’s arm. “Tea. With jam,” he ordered stiffly.

After the young man had gone, Sergei watched his friend with open amusem*nt. Neither had change much since their deployment, least of all Artyom. He never did understand why Artyom refused a drink and looked strangely at those who enjoyed the more indulgent parts of life. Sergei had asked numerous times only to be rebuffed every time. Eventually, he accepted the oddity for what it was and approached it teasingly. “You really should try the caviar,” he mused, fishing out an old Cuban cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket pocket. He didn’t light it; smoking was strictly prohibited indoors, and in any case, the National Hotel was too old and fragile to withstand the damage from frequent violations of that law. Instead, he drew the cigar under his nose appreciatively and sighed.

Artyom raised an eyebrow pointedly.

“Dahlia has been nagging me again about quitting,” Sergei admitted. “Something about cancer, but what doesn’t kill me…And after all we saw in Afghanistan, cancer is the least of my worries.” He took one last whiff and tucked it back into his pocket. “How is Mila?”

The waiter returned then with their drinks carefully balanced on a silver tray, a second server carrying the roe, and Artyom waited silently. He spooned a precious amount of jam into the cup before answering. “It has been a difficult week.”

Sergei nodded knowingly. He filled both glasses, took one for himself, placed the other before Artyom, and raised it in a toast. “Za nashyx zhen i ix schast’ye.” To our wives and their happiness.

Artyom raised his tea and took a small sip. Artyom could remember the last moment Mila had been wholly—in every respect—happy, could picture her standing before the bay windows in the office, encircled by the ambient sunlight. She had smiled at him and wrapped her arms around her belly, proudly, protectively, fiercely. When Artyom set the teacup down, it clattered angrily against the saucer.

Sergei watched Artyom grip his arm in an attempt to control the jerking movement but didn’t comment. He knew all too well the cause of the damage, and Artyom detested any indication of sympathy. Instead, he spooned olive-colored roe onto a small piece of bread and savored the flavor. He took another bite then cleaned his hands on a serviette. “So, why did you want to meet, Tyoma? You aren’t known for seeking out company.”

“You already know why, Seryozha.”

Sergei sighed heavily, suddenly losing the carefree demeanor that accompanied shots of alcohol, and shook his head. “How long has it been? Since you started all this.”

Artyom sipped at his tea and frowned. It was already lukewarm. “Forty-two years. I came under Nikita Aslanov a year before we were drafted.” His hand drifted unconsciously to arm, massaging the trembling limb with surprising gentleness.

“Nikita Aslanov,” Sergei reminisced wistfully. “That is a name I have not heard in a long time.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, and took in the sight of his friend with obvious intent. “Even he, with all the backing of the Union, couldn’t achieve what you are trying to do.”

“That is because he didn’t know what we do now. The advances in science in the past decade alone would be unfathomable for him to even comprehend. It is no surprise he wasn’t able to succeed. His theory, however, is still sound.”

Sergei dug out another spoonful of caviar and carefully laid it across the black bread, almost artistic in its placement. The man admired the morsels spread liberally over the crème fraiche, but, instead of indulging on the delicacy, he placed it back on the plate. “This was nearly impossible to get during the Union, do you remember?” he commented offhandedly. “A single tin of caviar cost more than a day’s work. Now, I can get it with every meal if I so choose. How times have changed.” He brushed off his hands again and reached for the untouched glass of vodka that sat in front of Artyom, knocking it back in a single gulp.

Artyom didn’t mention that he and Seryozha had vastly different experiences growing up; whereas Sergei was born and raised in the capital, Artyom had lived in Kiev until relocating to the poorer neighborhoods of Moscow. Although Sergei had faced certain bigotries due to being a Tuvan, he had not wanted for much as a child—at least, no more than any other children of high-ranking military officers.

“You have achieved so much in Aslanov’s name, Tyoma. The advances you’ve made in preventing what happened to Lyubov—” Sergei caught himself too late and sent an apologetic frown to his friend, not before seeing the well-disguised flinch. “I am sorry, my friend, but even if I believed you could succeed, Boris will not approve of a grant. You know better than most, what happens to a person who spends their entire life chasing after a far-fetched dream.”

Artyom scowled. They may be friends, but there were things Sergei didn’t—couldn’t—know. Aslanov’s failure was one of them. He may think he knows the details of the man’s downfall, but in reality, only Artyom and Daniil did. He tamed his expression into a mask of criticality. “You are the Minister of Defense, Sergyozha,” he reminded firmly. “It is your decision who receives such grants.” He reveled in the tight pull on the man’s lips and the twitch in his neck. Hubris had always been his weakness. “In any case, I am making significant progress, far more than Nikita could have ever dreamed of.

Sergei froze, his glass of water halfway to his lips. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer, conspiratorially, arms resting on the table. His eyes flicked over Artyom’s shoulder, into the dining room to ensure there were no curious ears. The last few patrons had long since trickled out, and now it was just the two men in the corner of the restaurant. The servers stood behind the bar, sending occasional glances to the pair, but only with mild interest. They had enough work to prep the dining room for the dinner rush, in any matter.

Satisfied that they would not be overheard, Sergei continued, “what do you mean ‘significant progress?’ Tell me this is all theoretical.”

“Of course, Seryozha. One must perfect the research first before conducting such experiments.” Artyom’s face never changed from same blank, analytical expression he almost always wore. Most people, upon meeting him, found the inexpressive, impassive nothingness disconcerting, but Sergei had long grown accustomed to it, had even considered it a comforting constant when they’d been in hospital all those years ago.

Now, it was not so comforting. Sergei held Artyom’s gaze for a long moment then shook his head. “I am sorry, Artyomka, I truly am, but I cannot help. Boris wishes to play allies with the rest of the world, and research such as yours will not be looked upon kindly. Maybe someday.” He waved at one of the servers and handed over a rather thick stack of rubles. He stood up, collecting his belongings, but Artyom didn’t even twitch. Sergei sighed. “Send my love to Mila. I know Dahlia would love to see her at the New Year’s celebration, as would I. I know the timing is not ideal, but perhaps it would do both of you good.”

“I will pass it along,” Artyom agreed distantly. “Do svidaniya, Seryozha.” Goodbye, Sergei.

“Do svidaniya.”

Artyom drew his finger along the brim of his teacup, the porcelain growing warm under his skin. He watched the ripples race across the surface, heightened by the ever-present quake in his arm. Sergei would have no choice but to agree once Artyom provided him with irrefutable proof. Tsel’ opravdyvaet sredstva, he promised himself.

Translation & Transliteration

Браток = bratok = bro / brother (lit. brother with cutsie suffix)

Яков "Яша" Михаилович = Yakov "Yasha" Mikhailovich

Пойдём = poidyem = let's go

Чёрт возьми = chyort vozmi = f*cking hell (ish)

Познай себя = poznai sebya = know yourself

Неплохо = nyeplokho = not bad

блядь = blyad = whor* but used like f*ck

Катенька = Katen'ka = close nickname for Katya

Не знай --> не знаю = ne znayu = don't know

вы знаете = vy znaete = do you know

но все же получилось = no vse zhe polichilos’ = but everything worked out

Душевная = dushevnaya = relating to the soul

Просто блестящий = prosto blestyaschi = simply brilliant

До свидания = Do svidaniya = goodbye (lit. till next meeting)

Chapter 10: Catch the Conscience of the King

Chapter Text

In the end, it was late evening by the time Bradlik departed from the warehouse. At first, Alex had feared that they had missed him somehow, that yet another day had been wasted, but the silver BMW parked alongside the building spoke differently. Ben had assured them that that was in fact the man’s car, so unless he had decided to leave it overnight, he was more than likely still inside. It was sometime after six, when the employees had long since begun to trickle out, when Bradlik slammed out the front door, a second man following not far behind.

Alex had to agree with Ben’s assessment of the man. He was definitely upset about something, and whatever it was, it wasn’t a simple mix-up with the inventory. Bradlik shrugged off his friend’s placating hand and swore—at least, Alex figured he was swearing given the vehemence in his voice—though it seemed to be aimed at the world in general and not his friend. The other man, Andris Kozlovksy, threw up his hands and responded more collectedly, gesturing to the car. Bradlik glared up at the darkening sky before he blew out a heavy breath, the cloud of condensation almost glowing under the streetlamps. The intense ire broke, if only partly, as the two men exchanged words in a more civilized tone, Kozlovsky wrapping an arm around his avtorityet’s shoulders and leading him to the car.

Ben waited until the BMW was almost out of sight before flicking on the headlights and pulling out onto the road. As soon as they entered a more populated area, he dropped back, allowing one or more car to sidle in between their car and Bradlik’s. Alex studied the technique out of curiosity. Whilst he was too young to pursue or tail someone by car, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t need to do so in the future.

Bradlik drove erratically, with disregard to pedestrians and cars alike as he sped towards the center of the city. Ben grimaced but didn’t give any indication that this was in any way suspicious, that Bradlik had realized he was being tailed. In fact, Alex reckoned that it was more likely the man just was a sh*t driver.

He inched forward as much as his seatbelt would allow. “When we do figure out where Bradlik’s going, how are we going to play it?”

Ben’s eyes flicked out the rearview mirror, and they changed lanes smoothly, closing the distance between them and their target. “Covert surveillance. You’ve done it before, right?”

Alex rolled his eyes lightly, despite knowing neither Ben nor Eagle had a chance of seeing it. “Yeah, I got that bit, but say I have to tell you something. Do I speak to you in English or keep the German routine? —Do you speak German? Or French?” Alex addressed the latter part of the question to Eagle, who coughed into his fist to hide the obvious smirk.

“Let’s just say I don’t know anything that would be of use in this situation…”

Alex didn’t have to ask what kind of situation it was he could manage.

Ben apparently didn’t either as he rolled his eyes and snorted. “Eagle speaks French well enough. If we need to talk, we’ll stick with that.” Suddenly, their SUV pulled up perpendicular to Bradlik’s car, and Alex had to force himself not to shrink away from the passenger side; their windows were heavily tinted, and someone would have to be directly against the glass in order to see in. It made a weird, and risky, sort of sense—driving next to your target. Who would suspect the person next to you was in fact tailing you?

Luckily, there didn’t seem to be much in this part of Moscow—at least, none in the sense that would attract a mafia boss late on a Thursday night. There were a few scattered shops: a dry cleaner’s, a couple petrol stations, and many residential buildings. Still, Alex found himself staring out the windscreen with morbid fascination. What was it about these streets? Yassen. Sarov. Hell, even Drevin, without whom Alex would never have gone to space, would never have washed up in Australia, and would never have been betrayed by Ash, like his father. Three critical people—just from the last nine months alone—all came from Russia, all of them bringing their own death and destruction of their own design. Yet, looking at Moscow now, having met Katya and Yakov, he couldn’t connect the devastation he experienced because of those three men with what he was seeing. It was simply a city. A coincidence. An association by chance.

His chest burned. With disappointment, confusion, or something else, he didn’t know.

“Alex?”

He blinked. Ben was leaning against the arm rest and regarding him, brow furrowed. Alex hadn’t even noticed that they’d stopped moving, let alone parked along a street full of restaurants, shops, and bars. Eagle was already out of the car, shuffling his feet and staring idly down the street, but to the trained eye, he was full of tension, his mind calculating the possible places Bradlik could disappear into by the time he, Ben and Alex managed to catch up.

Alex scurried out of the car in time to see Bradlik and Kozlovsky—or who he assumed were the two men as everyone was similarly bundled up in large coats and hats—duck into a doorway and vanish from sight. With more restraint and pretense than he expected, Eagle and Ben ambled down the pavement, looking already as if they’d had a few glasses of something to ward off the winter chill. Alex plastered on his own nonchalant act and kept pace with them, pausing only to read the glowing cursive letters plastered above the door, which took him frustratingly longer than he would have liked: Салон-Баюн. Salon Bayun.

Alex was accosted with an acrid smell the moment he walked in, and if it weren’t for Ben and Eagle trudging forward, he would have stopped short. But he pushed past the tightness and slight burning growing in the back of his throat and forced himself to act with casualness he didn’t feel, and with every step, he felt his usefulness as a cover fly straight out the window.

Salon. As in lounge.

He half-expected the bar tender, a middle-aged man who’d raised a brow as soon as he caught sight of Alex, to start yelling profanities and throw the group out on the street. Instead, he beckoned Ben, or Eagle, forward with a jerk of his head and began speaking to him without any outward display of anger or irritation.

Alex used this time to take in his surroundings, looking like any teenager would in a new, previously restricted curiosity. It was dark and smoky, but almost immediately, he spotted the purposefully ruffled hair and pretty-boy face of Adam Bradlik. He was lounged in one of the side booths tucked away in the corner, one leg propped up on the cushion. A scowl still marred his features. Opposite him was Kozlovsky, similarly reclined, nursing a tall glass of what was most likely beer. Neither of them paid any notice of the three new arrivals.

Many of the other patrons were older than Alex by at least ten years, with dark expressions, blurred by alcohol. A thin haze drifted down from the ceiling, and many of the tables were decorated with odd centerpieces made of glass and metal. Some were tall and thin, others plump like a genie’s lamp, but all of them had thick black cables spouting out of the metal cylinder near the middle of the vase. Alex recognized the piece for what it was—a hookah pipe—from one of his trips to Spain with Ian. He remembered walking past a shop window filled with intricate glass-blown jars and other long, and often cartoonish, pipes. As a kid fascinated by anything that caught his eye, he had dragged Ian over to ogle at the pieces, and not without a glimmer of humor in his eyes, his uncle carefully explained what they were used for. Of course, he had then proceeded to warn Alex of the consequences if he ever caught his nephew experimenting with nicotine or other harmful substances. Not that it had been all that necessary; Alex had never been interested or even tempted to try a cigarette. He never understood how purposefully inhaling smoke was appealing in the first place.

A hand nudged him further into the room, towards a table that was a few down from Bradlik and Kozlovsky. An older man glanced interestedly at Alex, but after taking a long drag on his table’s cable, he promptly lost any pressing interest in the boy. Apparently, they didn’t care about a fourteen-year-old in a smoking lounge, Alex mused.

Once again, Eagle prompted Alex forward and tried to wash away the disdain he had for the communal pipe. Ben followed not long after, sliding three drinks in the center of the table. Alex took the one nearest him, humming gratefully when it turned out to be co*ke. The other two glasses were similarly dark, although the lighting in the restaurant was meager at best, and Alex reckoned it was beer. There had to be a fine balance in maintaining cover and surveillance in the open. Men didn’t often go to alcohol and hookah lounge to not drink or smoke and doing so might draw unwanted attention. Then again, agents also couldn’t risk getting pissed on assignment. That was one benefit to being underaged, Alex thought amusedly as he gulped down another bit of his co*ke.

Eagle took a deceptively small gulp of his drink and flicked away some of the condensation along the edge of the glass. They were sat in silence for a few minutes, looking as though they were a couple of blokes showing their youngest brother the more fun parts of city night life. At one point, Ben left, only to reappear with a basket of what looked like long croutons.

“Vous savez,” Eagle said casually after munching on a handful of bread bites, “peut-être que Snake avait raison.” You know, maybe Snake was right. “Peut-être, notre ami était ennuyé et voulait juste boire.” Maybe our friend was upset earlier and just wanted to drink.

“Peut-être.” Ben threw an arm casually over the back of the booth and grinned lazily. He shrugged. “Alors nous espérons que nos vrais amis trouveront quelque chose d’intéressant.” Then we hope that our real friends will find something of interest.

Alex only paid attention in part, trying his hardest not to stare at Adam Bradlik. He knew doing so would be so painfully obvious, but that didn’t prevent the temptation from rearing its ugly head. He could not convey the hope he had that Bradlik would do something to warrant following him all night. Already so much time had been wasted on running around London, and then a few more precious days in Moscow, and he couldn’t—not for the lack of trying on his mind’s part—contemplate the possibility this all could be for naught. Instead, his gaze ventured softly around the room, never coming to rest on Bradlik and Kozlovsky, but looking at them through his periphery.

The constant haze of smoke stung at his eyes annoyingly, but he resisted the urge to rub at them like a child.

“Pensez-vous qu’ils trouveront quelque chose?” he asked, letting his face fall disinterestedly as if he were just inquiring about something as banal as a curfew. Do you think they will find anything?

Bradlik was still slouched in his booth, running a finger across the smooth wooden surface. He threw back the dregs of his drink and slammed the glass onto the table, running a hand harshly through his hair and grimacing like a petulant child when he realized he had actually finished his beer. His friend, Kozlovsky, regarded him coolly and indifferently. He may have been similarly annoyed, but no amount of emotion crossed his face.

Alex wondered if they were even friends.

“Franchement…non.” Honestly, no.

Alex’s head snapped back to Ben, surprised. “Bon, pourquoi…?” Then, why…?

“Nous avons eu de la chance à Londres,” Ben elaborated, popping a crouton into his mouth and sipping at his beer. “Je ne pense pas qu'ils seront si négligent pour laisser plus de piste de papier cette fois-ci.” We were lucky in London. I don’t think they’ll be so careless so as to leave a paper trail this time around.

Alex agreed, however reluctantly. It had been stupid of the men in London to leave so many clues pointing back to their bosses in Moscow, but that didn’t stop him from hoping they would be so again. He didn’t have a chance to respond as the bartender strolled up to their table. He clapped Alex once on the back, said, “s dnyom rozhdeniya. Rasti bol’shoi i ne bud’ lapshoi,” and set a small shot glass right in front of Alex. Then he left without any further explanation. Alex blinked.

Whilst Ben broke out into a large grin, almost cackling, Eagle grabbed the shot curiously and sniffed at the liquid.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il a dit?” Alex demanded, taking the small glass from Eagle’s outstretched hand, understandably put-off by the wry smirk he’d made upon smelling the contents. What did he say? Alex sniffed at it, huffing when he inhaled vapors of pure ethyl. Vodka.

Ben bit back another laugh and took the excuse to check on their targets, both of whom were back in their respective spots, nursing a new set of drinks. They didn’t seem to be speaking, one was merely sulking whilst the other picked at a plate of something. Turning back to his team, Ben shrugged. “Je lui ai dit qu'aujourd'hui c’est ton anniversaire. Félicitations pour avoir 18 ans, au fait—l'âge de boire est de 18 ans.” I told him today was your birthday. Congratulations on turning 18, by the way—the legal drinking age is 18.

Alex knew he may not still look like an average fourteen-year-old, but he definitely didn’t think he could, in any capacity, pull off being eighteen. Maybe it was that the man didn’t really care to enforce that rule. Or maybe Ben had offered a little extra persuasion in the form of discreetly exchanged colorful papers. Whatever the explanation, it had worked in their favor.

Eagle jokingly slid the shot of vodka a little further away from Alex, tutting as he did so. Alex merely watched him do so. He was slowly getting used to Eagle’s strange antics, having been stuck in a cabin and then a car with him for hours on end, and even stranger, Alex found he didn’t all that mind the man. So long as he didn’t patronize or otherwise antagonize Alex, that was. He was starting to think that having them around might not be so bad after all…

Not two minutes later, a young woman burst into the bar, casting only a cursory glance at the man behind the bar before setting her sights on the two men in the corner. Alex’s throat clenched. She didn’t look like a threat, but Alex was proof enough that looks weren’t always a good indication of a person’s abilities. She was young, early twenties at most, with long black hair and innocent face. She held herself with confidence, the slightest pull in her shoulders and restrained, prided smile indicating that she was the bearer of good news—or, at any rate, news that she didn’t regret sharing.

The girl skirted around the collection of tables, and although Bradlik barely acknowledged her presence, she leant in closely to keep her voice low but still audible over the faint music in the lounge.

Alex’s eyes tracked the progression of reactions to whatever news she bore. Surely, catching three intruders in your warehouse where you conduct international criminal activities would invoke fairly strong emotions. Anger, pleasure, curiosity, something more than the blatant eagerness and satisfaction playing out across Bradlik’s face.

The moment Alex saw Bradlik and Kozlovsky begin to move, he did as well. He had to. The thrumming energy was back in the back of his mind, telling him that if Bradlik left now, so at full tilt, then he would be gone without a hope of following him without being seen. Ringing pressure started to echo in his ears, and all he could think about was where are they going to go?

Alex snatched up the shot of vodka without thinking. He swished the sharp liquid around his mouth, fighting the severe flinch as it burned going down, then he timed it as best he could. As soon as Bradlik came close enough, Alex stumbled to his feet and threw himself in the way. Whilst they didn’t fall down, the collision knocked both of them off balance, Alex wobbling a little more than necessary to convey just how drunk he really was, and among the confusing mass of flailing limbs, he slipped his hand neatly into Bradlik’s pocket. Ben and Eagle shot to their feet, just as Bradlik righted himself and snatched hold of the teen’s shirt. His breath was an acrid mix of vodka, beer, and pickled fish. Alex did his best to cow fearfully, playing the intimidated child he hoped Bradlik would see.

“Pros—prostite,” he stuttered. I’m sorry.

Kozlovsky whispered something to his boss, and Bradlik shoved Alex away with a sneer, throwing him into Ben and cursing out all three of them. Alex didn’t have a hope of understanding the majority of what the man was saying—not that he really needed to; he was perfectly capable of getting the gist of it all—but he did manage to catch one single word: yeben-something. Tom, the epitome of a teenage boy, had spent many hours tutoring Alex in the various curses and profanities he managed to find as soon as he discovered Alex was trying to learn Russian. Apparently, Russian was similar to German in that using roots to compound meanings was extremely common, and the verb ebat’ was very useful in regard to swearing. Suffice to say, it was not flattering by any means.

Ben held out his hands placatingly, subtly pushing Alex back towards Eagle, who looked ready to do whatever was necessary if it came to it. Alex just hoped to hell he hadn’t misjudged the burning need to leave as soon as humanly possible. It had been a gamble to begin with, but he knew it’d been necessary. He swallowed thickly. Drumming pounded in his ears as he waited for the next move. Just go, he pleaded. Anywhere but there.

Kozlovsky tugged on his boss’s shoulder, muttering inaudibly as he glowered at the group before them. Bradlik scowled, but, after a few painful, thundering heartbeats, he shoved past them, the door slamming shut behind him. Kozlovsky sent one last warning look at the three men before silently tailing after the girl, who had similarly shot out onto the street.

The pressure in Alex’s chest came to a head, and the breath he hadn’t known he’d be holding burst free. A hand came down on Alex’s shoulder, squeezing painfully, pushing him towards the exit. Irate calls—probably from the bartender for causing the scene in the first place—followed them out onto the street, the hand never once loosing from Alex’s shoulder, but he never saw whom it belonged to; his gaze, narrowed and steady, was latched onto an unfamiliar car idling along the curb. The car that Bradlik and Kozlovsky were currently clambering into. And suddenly, the pressure in his ears was back. Where are they going?

Someone swore, and whoever it was, herded them a few doors down so their intention was not as blatantly obvious.

Alex turned around, trying to form the words before they could round on him, but Eagle beat him to it.

“What th—qu'est-ce qui t'a pris?” What the hell got into you?

“Sash, —”

Alex tried not to glower; he really did, but they were wasting whatever time he had managed to gain thanks to his little stunt. If they squandered it tearing into him or demanding an explanation, he was going to have to rethink the whole backup thing.

“I’m sorry, okay!” he shouted, then flinched, checking to make sure no one was close enough to overhear them. They really didn’t have time for this. He held out his hand to Ben. “Donne-moi ton portable.” Give me your mobile. At Ben’s hesitation, he huffed impatiently and motioned for it again, promising himself that the slight tremor was just the beginning dregs of adrenaline.

“Pourquoi n'utilise-tu pas le tien?” Why don’t you use yours? Ben asked exasperatedly, nevertheless handing it over, unlocked. In lieu of answering, Alex flipped through desperately for the familiar radar icon, tapping at the screen multiple times as his finger continued to slip, already walking back towards where Ben had left their vehicle. The pounding of footsteps confirmed that Eagle and Ben were not far behind, but his mind was so singularly focused on confirming that it wasn’t headed there that he missed the identifiable click of the car doors unlocking. Icy relief flooded through his lungs when he didn’t recognize the location or direction.

Alex hopped into the back seat. “I would, but mine is currently heading down…” he doubled checked the name of the street and that Bradlik’s party was still on the move, “Ulitsa Svobody.”

Comprehension dawned on their faces, and without further hesitation, Ben turned the ignition, glancing around for the nearest street sign. Alex handed the phone to Eagle, who was in a better position to navigate, but Ben took one look at the general direction and executed a very unsafe U-turn. Alex scrambled to lock in his seatbelt as his stomach attempted a violent escape by way of his mouth.

“I would have told you,” Alex apologized, once he was able to settle safely in the middle seat without careering to either side. “He was in such a rush to leave; I knew there was a chance we’d lose him, so I just…”

“Not bad, Cub.” Eagle threw a tight, fleeting grin into the rearview mirror. “But maybe next time, try not to purposefully piss off a mob boss, yeah?”

Ben grunted his agreement but, otherwise, focused on not running over any desperate pedestrians with the FSB’s car. Alex smirked in response, feeling the tension and slight hiccup to his breath ebb away as it gave way to relief that Wolf and Snake were—relatively—safe.

“Pissing people off happens to be my speciality,” he retorted dryly.

Eagle snorted.

More than once, Ben executed questionable driving maneuvers in order to catch up to their quarry—no doubt, a few of which they would be hearing about from Katya sometime in the future. Alex kept track of Bradlik’s location over Eagle’s shoulder, still silently reassuring himself that Wolf, Snake, and Katya weren’t in danger of an ambush. Instead, Bradlik was heading along the Moskva river, winding along some back road in the Pokrovskoye-Streshnevo District, and thanks to Ben’s creative driving skills and alternative routes, they didn’t seem to be too far behind.

They pulled off the Volokolamskoye motorway, down a street that grew narrower and narrower with every passing second, until the SUV spanned from one shoulder to the next. The sudden shift in setting—from the center of Moscow to the deserted reservation land away from any main roads—was disconcerting and more than a little worrisome. Although Alex was relieved that they weren’t headed toward Istraflot, he couldn’t help but be bothered by the real reason as to why Bradlik had decided to come here so late at night.

“Pull over up ahead,” Eagle ordered, his eyes glued to the screen. “I think they’ve stopped.”

As Ben drove deeper off the shoulder of road, behind a handful of trees, he flicked off the headlights, casting their surroundings into sudden twilight. Alex was sure that, had there been no snow on the ground, it would have been impossible to see a few feet in front of him. There was nothing to see, nothing to say that Bradlik had any reason to come down this street.

Eagle blew up the map and compared what he saw to what was outside. “I can’t tell what it is, but it looks like there’s some kind of building up ahead. This can’t be where he lives, could it?”

Ben shook his head, already unclipping his seat belt and opening the car door. “No, he’s got a flat in one of the high-rises.”

Alex hopped out of the car as well, drawing his jacket closer to his body and examining the area. As far as he could tell, the street ended in the middle of nowhere, away from anything and everything civilians would be interested in; there was even a wide turn-off so that anyone who was lost could easily change directions and go back the way they came. The asphalt was poorly plowed, clearly displaying a couple sets of tyre tracks, all of which had to have been made that day or else the snow would have erased all trace of them. So, Bradlik was meeting with someone.

Eagle came up behind Alex and pressed a rectangular object into his hand: Ben’s phone. Alex bit back a sigh, resigning himself to the fact that no matter the progress he made with members of K-unit, they would never go against MI6’s orders and give him a gun. Ben nodded at Alex, as best he could in the meager light, then at Eagle. Both soldiers had removed their guns from their holsters, the cold metal reflecting the fractured light of the moon. Despite himself, Alex felt his lips twitch from the familiar thrill, and they began their approach.

Alex didn’t see Bradlik at first. He was so intent on following Ben and actively choosing where his next footfall would be that it barely registered what he was looking at, longer for him to realize why it brought up feelings of dread and grief unbidden. Wherever Bradlik had arrived, it was surrounded by a ramshackle old wall, reaching barely a few centimeters above Alex’s head, and the sun-hardened snow had seen to that particular problem. He, Ben, and Eagle crept up to the edge and peered over yard.

The plot was, in essence, a huge labyrinth. Junk of all sorts—shipping containers, old and new vehicles, construction equipment, everything—was strewn haphazardly across the yard with no regard to its order or placement, and yet clean pathways remained in between each immense pile. Mangled, dilapidated cages constructed a sad attempt at a trough meant for holding crushed cars. A soaring crane seemed to reach high past any scrap mountain or tower of metal containers, its massive hook ready to latch onto the roof of its next victim and deliver it to the next heap of rejected debris. At the far end stood a complex of wooden buildings, windows alight with life. Alex could see the shadowy outline of multiple men—or what he assumed were men, going by their bulking figures—pass by and darken the distant glow that managed to escape from the red barn.

Thousands of miles away, filled with vehicles and transports from another century, and run by completely different organizations, the wasteland was eerily similar to the auto-wrecking yard in Vauxhall. Alex almost expected to see the crusher, already loaded with on old Ford that was about to become a dented cube. Instead, the only sound he heard was the controlled breaths of his team members to his right, and he didn’t see any machine that could mangle his body into something unrecognizable.

The floodlights burst to life and the lot became all that more discernible. Four men poured out onto the snow-laden ground, staggering as they laughed uncontrollably. One man grabbed onto his friend in an attempt to stabilize himself but only served to knock both of them into the wall. The other two laughed harder. Whatever they were saying was lost on Alex, but he watched for a moment longer, hoping to discern one of their faces or catch sight of someone he did know.

One of the drunker men struck up a match and offered out the pack. His mates, however, never got the chance to take him up on it. All four of them froze as a new pair of lights lit up the yard. A car rolled in, pulling up in front of the building and four men, and three figures stepped out.

Alex was too far away to see details, but the new arrivals had an immediate effect on the four drunk men. The one offering a pack of cigarettes spoke first, addressing the driver, whilst the others attempted to appear less inebriated than a moment ago, pulling themselves up straight despite the obvious loss of equilibrium. The conversation lasted less than a few exchanged pleasantries, and then the man who had been in the back seat took a step towards the building. Alex watched with keen interest as one of the men held up a hand almost immediately, halting him in his path. An outsider then?

They pointed towards the other end of the lot with clear intent, and the newcomer bristled, his entire body shaking with tension. The driver and other passenger said a few parting words to their friends and gestured—waiting for the man to make the first move—to accompany them to the actual intended location. Alex knew, without a flicker of a doubt, that they would lead him to Bradlik. He turned to get Ben’s attention and froze. The world swayed under his feet.

Ben was gone.

Alex spun fully around, scouring the sparse trees around him for any sign of danger, but all he found were tracks, hard to discern in the night, running along the length of the concrete wall. Ben was gone, and so was Eagle. Alex had to stop himself from swearing out loud. How had they moved on without him noticing? He scowled; how had they moved on without him? Alex tried to ignore the burning in his gut. He wanted to fight the childish disappointment that once again he was let down by his backup.

He glanced over the wall again in time to see the three men walking out the far end of the junkyard. He knew he should follow whatever tracks Ben and Eagle had made, go along in the same direction that they had been going, but what were the chances that they would find anything useful? The new arrivals had to be what Bradlik came here for. They were begging to be followed. Alex knew all too well that he didn’t have a gun or one of Smithers’s useful gadgets, but that had never stopped him before. Being alone and approaching an unknown was what he did every time…

Alex made his decision. He raced along the outside of the wall, back towards the street, sacrificing stealth for speed. The only sign of security they had seen had been the wall itself, and the men had seemed content enough to remain inside the barn-turned-office building, so he most likely wouldn’t run into anyone on the outskirts of the property. And if he had any chance at tailing the new arrivals to the meeting place, he had to take the risk.

The snow crunched loudly under each step and Alex winced at just how echoic the sound was in the silence. He continued jogging until he came across a red iron gate. Crouching low among the scraggly bushes, which probably wouldn’t actually offer any real cover, he crept around the edge of opening, cheering silently that it had been left unlatched. No one was on the other side. Just a little further in, there was another break in the wall, although this one was smaller, more like the kind that led out onto a lawn or into a backyard garden.

Alex slipped in and through the gate, letting it latch silently behind him. Immediately, it any sliver of light was swallowed by the fir trees that surrounded this side of the property. He paused, breathing heavily through his mouth to mask any sound he might make. There—up ahead, the crunch of snow, deep echoing voices muffled by the distance. If he squinted, Alex could even make out fleeting flashes of torchlight breaking through the trees.

He took more care with his footsteps as he followed their trail. With the added danger of tree branches and uneven ground, he didn’t want to take a header and give himself away because he couldn’t walk properly. Luckily, within a few minutes, the forest fell away to a new building, this one built entirely of brick. If it weren’t in the middle of nowhere, Alex would have thought it was a fully functional Soviet-era factory. It was three-stories high, its walls decrepit and misshapen from years of neglect and harsh weather. An entire tree had collapsed against the far wall, threatening to cave in the already crumbling bricks. Artificial light shone from the first floor and illuminated the second and third with an eerie overcast. If Alex had to guess, the building was missing more than a few floorboards.

Just as the three-man group was walking through the doorless opening to the ground floor, Alex paused to take in the best place to watch and listen in from. If they continued onwards to the next floor, he would have to risk going inside; there was no way he would be able to see what was going on otherwise, and he doubted they would switch to English for his benefit. Hopefully, the disrepair of the factory would force them to remain on the ground floor, and Alex could manage with a window or backdoor. He dashed across the small clearing and scurried along the side of the wall, keenly listening for any sign that the meeting had already begun. Not too far down the right side of the building were three grimy factory windows, with long metal bars lining a quarter of the glass panes, and all of them were in poor repair, the second of which had shattered along the ledge.

Alex crouched below the second one down and then, cautiously, rose just until he could peer through. Whilst it didn’t afford the most panoramic view of the interior, he was able to form a viable picture of what was going on, and given that no one was facing in his direction, Alex maneuvered himself so he could stand and observe without twisting painfully. Bradlik was stood in the center of an open-floored room, empty save for a table and a collection of chairs. Completely unlike his disposition whilst at the Bayun Lounge, he was entirely at ease, a lazy, triumphant smirk playing across his features. Kozlovsky towered to his right, silent and imposing, his arms crossed, his expression like stone. The two Solntsevo members were sentinels on either side of the third man.

As cliched as it was—and Alex held back a laugh at just thinking how cliched his life actually was—it was clearly an intimidation technique. Drag the man to the middle of nowhere, where no one would hear him scream, and the river was within reach to dispose of any evidence left behind…but despite the attempt, this man didn’t look at all in fear for his life. He appeared angry if anything.

Bradlik sent a cursory jerk of the head towards the door. “Uidite.” Leave. The two sentinels nodded and sauntered away without a second glance, disappearing back the way they came.

Alex swore under his breath, or rather caught himself before he made that mistake. He hadn’t even contemplated the issue that he wouldn’t be able to understand 95% of the conversation. But there wasn’t time to ring Ben, and even if he did, Alex still had his mobile—

His mobile. Doing the only thing he could, Alex fished it out, fumbling with the device as his fingers had long since fallen numb to the pins and needles brought on by the cold. He activated the camera, cupped his hand around the speakers, and rested it against the cement ledge, ignoring the painful biting sensation that accompanied it. His heart was pounding so forcefully that he was certain it would show up in the recording.

Bradlik smiled blindingly, spreading his arms in a wide embrace, as if they were old friends reuniting after years apart. “Danilka,” he crowed.

The third man—Danilka—didn’t react, aside from a flicker of movement in his fingers. The muscle in his jaw jumped as he channeled his frustration into a physical release, and Alex caught sight of a hideous, rope-like scar crawling down the side of his neck and disappearing behind his collar. Whatever happened must have been agonizing; he was lucky to have survived.

“Chto ty xochesh’?” What do you want?

“Chevo zh ya xochu? Dumayu, ehto bylo by dovol’no ochevidno, ne tak li?” What do I want? I think, it was...? Although the question was aimed at Danilka, Bradlik had turned to Kozlovsky, whose scowl set somehow deeper into his face. He sauntered closer to Danilka, that same predatory, triumphant smirk returning in full force. Only this time, it held a nasty edge, full of scorn and disdain. “Tvoi…proektik oboshelsya mnye v Londone, i ya ozhidayu nekotoroi kompensatsii za moi problemy.” Your…in London, and I…my problems.

Alex was quickly losing the ability to understand what they were saying, but still he strained to catch any word that he might recognize. It seemed that Danilka had made some kind of deal with the Solntsevskaya—whether that was working for them or hiring their services for his own. Alex hoped it was the latter.

“Chto by ni sluchilos’, vy s shestyorkami vinovaty. Ne ya.” What … Not me.

Kozlovsky snarled. “U nikh vsyo bylo khorosho, do tovo, chto ty ne privyol gryobanykh mentov k nashei dveri. Ehto bylo iz-za tebya i tvoevo chertovskovo bossa!” We were fine, until you…It was…

Danilka hesitated, the words finally catching up with him. He narrowed his eyes at the two men. “Chto na samom dele proizoshlo v Londone? Chto znaet politsiya?” What actually happened in London? What do the police know?

Bradlik barked a laugh. “Teper’ ty zainteresovan.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Oni nichevo ne znayut. Solntsevo ne stuchit.” They don’t know anything. Solntsevo don’t…

There was long silence. The muscle in Danilka’s neck convulsed, the only outward sign that the words had any effect on him whatsoever. When he responded, his tone was flat, goading. “Poslye insidenta s zhurnalistom vy prostite menya, yesli ya somnevayus’ v vashikh sposobnostyakh sdelat’ tak, chtoby ehto tak i ostavalos’.”

Whatever Danilka said sent Kozlovsky’s meager control over the edge. Fury flashed across the bratok’s face, showing the first actual expression of emotion Alex had seen on the man. He threw back the flap of his jacket to reveal a pistol—an antique Makarov meant more for intimidation that practical use—slipped it into his hand with practiced ease, and stalked forward, only to be brought up short by a curt gesture from Bradlik. His superior shook his head once. Kozlovsky’s breath hissed as he brought himself back under control. The gun remained in his hand, in sight.

Bradlik lost any pretense of amicability he’d been tenuously holding onto and scowled. “Kto by ni byl vinovat, tvoi boss i evo oberzhitost’ oboshlis’ mne v tysyachi. Moi lyudi byli arestovany. Melnik zayobyvaet menya vznosami za ehtot god.” He had taken a few steps forward as he spoke, close enough to jab his finger against Danilka’s chest.

Danilka—somehow—managed to suppress a reaction to the patronizing gesture. He laughed. A cold, unfeeling sound that shattered through Bradlik’s fragile hubris. The avtorityet drew back half a step, for once seeing his opponent’s dangerous poise, like a snake coiled to strike. Danilka’s hands had gradually tightened into fists, the blood draining from his knuckles until there was nothing but flesh and bone, the muscles quaking from the restraint. His voice was strained with the effort of staying in control. “My zaplatili tebe za tvoi uslygi. Ehto vsyo. Chto by ni sluchilos’ posle ehtovo, ty za ehto otvechaete!” We paid you…

Kozlovsky, with his great lumbering steps, approached them as well at, his hand still loosely grasping the Makarov pistol as he returned some of the lost confidence to Bradlik’s shaken form. After all, they were two men against one, and they had the gun. Bradlik attempted to smirk nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t backed away after simply looking the man in the eyes, but it came across as a haphazard sneer.

“Skazhi Tyomke, chto yesli on khochet, chtoby moi mal’chiki rabotali eschyo, to v sleduyuschii raz on luchshe saplatit nam vdvoe. Poskol’ku FSB raspravlyaetsya s postavkami narkotikov, a britantsy presleduyut moix lyudei, im nuzhno nemnogo bol’she motivats—”

“Khvatit!” Danilka hissed, leveling a hand under his chin. “Tvoi lyudi sdelali svoyu rabootu, i oni oblazhalis’. My ne zaplatim dvoinuyu i takzhe bol’she ne nuzhdaemsya v tvoikh uslugakh. My rasstalis’.” Your people did their job, and they… We will not pay…and also…

He turned his back on them and walked, forcibly slow and in control, towards the door. Alex angled the phone meticulously, trying to catch any view of Danilka he could manage from the awkward positioning of the window. He was fairly certain he had at least a clear shot of the man’s profile, and hopefully that would be enough to run against FSB records.

Before Danilka reached the threshold, however, Bradlik called after him, tauntingly enunciated and falsetto. “Da, ponyatno. No, ya uveren, kremlyu budet ochen’ interesno uznat’, chem zanimaetsya Artyom – Nikolaievich – Zharkov. O yevo interesye k dyetam.” Yes, understood. But I am sure…very interested to know, what Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov is doing. About his interests…

Danilka stopped. Then he turned, slowly. “Chto skazal?” What did you say?

Kozlovsky snorted. “Ty chto, gluxoi, Labas?”

If Alex were to explain how he knew what was coming after the fact, he wouldn’t be able to. It could have been the way, Danilka turned back to the two men—who had pushed a little too far—with such deadly control and asked in a cool, emotionless voice, void of anything more than a plea for confirmation that they had said what he thought. It could have been the twitch and pull at his lips that almost resembled a smile when he took that first step forward. Whatever it was, it culminated into the same deadly, antipathic grace he had seen in Nile all those months ago.

Danilka lunged. He struck Bradlik first, driving his fist into the man’s gut; he crumbled to his knees, wheezing for breath. Kozlovsky brought up the Makarov pistol without hesitation—only he wasn’t fast enough. Danilka had sprung forward and twisted his wrist to a point beyond tolerance. The piece fell the floor, unfired, and Danilka struck him once to the face, all the while keeping a grip on the man so he couldn’t get a decent blow in edgewise. Try as he might. Danilka spun him around, wrapping his thick upper arm entirely around Kozlovsky’s neck, bending the man backwards until he was almost parallel to the wooden slats. Kozlovsky’s hands scrambled to the arm holding him hostage, his nails tore into the jacket’s fabric, and he gurgled gasping breaths. His leg stomped fruitlessly in front of him, trying to gain leverage. Then Danilka tightened his grip and jerked.

Alex heard it break. Flinched as his mind envisioned the grinding crunch as the bone ripped against the cartilage and muscle, drawing the bare animalistic resistance and instinct to survive to an end. The body falling to the floor—lifeless, soundless—was nothing compared to the echoing crack of his neck.

Acrid pressure intensified the need to retch.

Alex’s hands wouldn’t move.

Bradlik wheezed, and Danilka kicked a puppet-like leg out of the way and stepped over the body—crumpled on the ground—and Bradlik threw a weak, rampant fist. Danilka caught it easily and twisted it—

Crack.

He screamed.

Alex’s vision flashed black, and white, and grey. He swayed and swallowed thickly. There was a faint roaring in his ears, and Danilka was crouched next to the man, whispering something in Bradlik’s ear.

Alex blinked. He wanted to leave, or move and get rid of the acidity in the back of his throat, or even just tuck the phone—the evidence—safely in his jacket pocket, but his feet were stuck in the snow. Like vines of ivy creeping up his legs and around his arms, the cold was preventing him from moving. If he didn’t leave now, he’d have to dodge both Danilka and Bradlik, and maybe other members of the mafia if Bradlik rang for help.

Danilka let go of the broken wrist and let the man curl around it protectively.

Alex had to leave. Now. He forced one leg out of the imprint he’d created from standing in one place for so long, then he lifted the other. They were stiff, and numb, and hurting, but he had to find Ben and Eagle. He had to go.

He ran.

Alex flew through the trees, no longer caring about the silence. The two escorts had probably long returned to the warmth of the office building, which meant that there was no one around to hear him. As long as Danilka—Alex shivered just contemplating what he might be doing or saying to Bradlik—took his time leaving the abandoned factory, he had no reason to waste time and mask his escape. He reached the first metal gate, and the unwelcome thought of how he would find Ben and Eagle sprung into his mind.

Alex bit his lip until his brain registered the stabbing pain, and he forced himself to stop before it began to bleed

He slowed himself down, taking more care in opening and then latching it than he had making his way through the woods, all the while contemplating what he should do next. If he had his own mobile, then he could have called Eagle, but, of course, he couldn’t because Ben’s phone—and subsequently his contact list—was locked and Alex hadn’t memorized their numbers yet. Something he would have to remedy once they got back to the cabin. He could try to follow their tracks and hope they hadn’t doubled back or done something to cover them, but that would not only take more time, but it would also be the riskiest.

“blyad’,” he hissed and raked his hands through his hair, trying to bring his pulse down within an acceptable range, forcing his breaths to regain a sense of evenness. Given the amount of time that had passed, his best bet would be to return to the car and wait; and hopefully, they would come to that same conclusion and come looking for him soon.

Alex passed through the red iron gate, too preoccupied with his thoughts to hear the hushed crunch of boots behind him.

“Ei! Kto ty, chyort voz’mi?” a young voice cried, and a hand came to grip Alex’s forearm. “Stop—”

Alex reacted before his thoughts caught up to his actions. Sharp talons of pain shot up his arm as he struck and misjudged their height and speed. The person, who he now saw to be a young man—still young enough to retain some of the gangly awkwardness from his teenage years and not quite used to the muscle of adulthood—had attempted to dodge the attack and, in so doing, put his jaw in the path of Alex’s swing. The kid stumbled back and clutched at his face, feeling the flushed skin with surprise. He looked at Alex, and Alex looked back, somewhat surprised at himself.

Then the kid lunged, already throwing a jab and cross combination.

Alex jumped back, then again to the side, arms up and tucked attentively to the sides of his head. Although initially his opponent had been taken by surprise, he had quickly come to terms with the idea of a confrontation. He held himself like a boxer: stance turned in, shoulder tucked against his ear, arms up and weight on the forefoot. Alex jerked away from the first thrust and batted away another. He twisted on his left and kicked out, dancing out of the way of a jab thrown at his face. They were equally matched, if not for their vastly different styles.

Alex had to end this quickly. If Danilka made his appearance now of all time… He had to break through the man’s defense, sooner rather than later. Panic was tangled and mixed with adrenaline. His eyes tracked the movements and anticipated a necessary tell…

If you control one of six parts of your opponent, you control them.

When the shestyorka threw another strike, a wide, curving hook, Alex stepped in and caught the arm, his hand shooting in pain as it slipped down to grasp the crux of the arm. The Russian’s eyes widened marginally in surprise—

Levering himself in closer, Alex drove the blade of his elbow into the kid’s chest. He pushed further, tugging on the arm and thrusting with his own shoulder, until his opponent toppled backwards, his center of gravity shattered. The kid’s breath left him in an audible gasp as he thudded, flat backed, onto the frozen dirt. Alex pitched forwards with him, scrambling to catch his footing before he too reached the ground. His right knee struck hard, but before either could recover, Alex threw one last fist. It caught the kid in the temple this time, and his eyes rolled back.

Alex held his breath, ignoring the drum of his heart muddling his attempt at ensuring he was actually alone. As far as he could tell, there was silence.

Alex exhaled and fell the rest of the way to the ground. His throat was dry, burning and aching, and his knees stung from where they had scraped the pavement. He knew he should run, get to his feet and go find Ben, but…he didn’t want to leave the kid there, in the cold and snow, all alone. If he stayed there long enough, it could be deadly or devastating in other ways—but he couldn’t exactly drop him off at the mafia’s front door either. Alex dragged a quaking hand down his face and made up his mind. Heaving him across the ground by the underarms, he laid the boy up against the outside of concrete wall. With any luck, someone would soon wonder where the kid had gone and go looking for him. –and Alex, Ben and Eagle would already be long gone.

Alex was about to race off but hesitated. The cloud from his heavy breathing was thicker, more visible and nearly tangible in the dark. Alex looked back at the Russian, who was only a few years old then himself, and cursed at himself. He took the kid’s hands and slipped them into his coat pockets, pulling the cloth in an attempt to cover any exposed skin. Finally, he rushed off, following the narrow trench he’d made just an hour before.

He made it to the corner of the lot, where he had lost track of Ben, when he heard the footfalls behind him. Prepared this time for a fight, Alex spun, his hands already rising to protect his face—

“Cub, wait! It’s me.” Ben hissed and held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Fox.”

Alex dropped his hands. A leaden, shaky sigh broke through before he could catch it, and Ben tensed. He stepped closer, checking over his shoulders for any sign of pursuit, and reached towards Alex, though he didn’t quite make contact. Alex realized the soldier was scanning him in the meager light for any telltale signs of an injury, and he shook his head briskly. “I’m—fine. But we need to go.” Alex searched behind Ben. “Where’s Eagle?”

Ben narrowed his eyes but didn’t comment further. “At the car, in case you headed there first.”

Alex nodded languidly. His limbs were growing heavier and more unresponsive with every passing minute, and he worried that if they stayed there any longer, he wouldn’t make it back to the car on his own. His stomach rolled uneasily.

Ben broke off his stare, cast one last, cursory look around the immediate vicinity, and wrapped an arm around Alex’s shoulders. “Come on,” he whispered, and they crept back along the pathway they’d drawn in the snow.

All the way, half of Alex’s attention refused to drift away from the junkyard and the people there, agonizingly latching onto any flitter of movement or whisper of sound—any resounding crack. He fought the urge to recoil and impulse to search behind him. At some point along the way, Ben had let go and taken the lead, although he undoubtedly was still tracking Alex’s movements to make sure he didn’t manage to vanish into thin air again; not that Alex had any plans to. He knew that as the adrenaline ebbed, the residual alertness would transform into paranoia…

When they came to the road, Ben whistled suddenly—two short flat tones—and Eagle stepped out from a tree, his gun held loosely in his grip. His face relaxed when he caught sight of Alex, who spoke before either of them were able to question him.

“I got what we came for.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Distant. “We need to go.”

Eagle and Ben exchanged glances, but Alex didn’t wait around to decipher them. He went straight for the back seat, grateful for the uncomfortable stiffness of the seats. He didn’t want to be comfortable. Not now. Two doors slammed shut, and then the car was pulling out onto the road, lurching smoothly as Ben turned it around. They drove on in silence, and as much as Alex couldn’t contemplate making conversation, the silence was worse.

Alex ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, crushing his temples in an attempt to drown out the ceaseless playback of Kozlovsky’s neck. Like a morbid puppeteering rehearsal, his body jerking one final time danced through his mind. He had seen people die before, caused more than one of them, but it didn’t make it any easier, any less infectious. In a sick, backwards way, he was almost grateful he hadn’t grown accustomed to the deaths. It meant there was still a difference between him and people like Danilka. Between him and Yassen.

Alex brought his hands down deliberately to smother the need to worry at his eyes; instead, he rubbed at his right hand until the throbbing turned into needles shooting through the fragile bones.

“Alex?” Ben was catching glimpses of him in the rearview mirror in between watching the road. “What happened?”

Alex huffed humorlessly. “Kozlovsky’s dead.”

The SUV swerved, and Ben swore, trying to balance looking over his shoulder at Alex and managing to stop himself from crossing into the left lane. If they hadn’t been within a few minutes of the safe house, he probably would have slammed on the break altogether. Eagle twisted in his seat.

“Are you sure? How?”

Alex swallowed back the anger that threatened to break out. “I saw it. He’s dead,” he answered shortly. His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, reassuring him that the phone and the video were still there and that they hadn’t somehow fallen out during his escape.

Something about his response or his tone warned Eagle and Ben off from commenting further. It was better that way. They would have to go over everything again with the others as well, and Alex didn’t think he would be able to go through it again. His mind was torn between pure numbness and anger. Distantly, he recognized this as shock—he had just witnessed a murder so cavalier that it could have been sociopathic—but that didn’t diminish his feelings of anger and betrayal at Ben’s disappearance. He was supposed to be Alex’s team, his backup, and once again he was forced to defend himself. What was worse was he’d been starting to believe that Ben was different.

As soon as the front lights of the cabin shone through the windscreen, before Ben or Eagle could ask another question, Alex jumped out of the car and made his way inside, as fast as he could without running. Already the cabin lights were on, a small fire crackling in the hearth, but his feet carried him straight for the kitchen. His stomach was rolling traitorously, but the burning dryness in his throat and the urge to do something with his hands won out. He snatched the first carton he saw. Colorful berries and the word Baikal decorated the container, but Alex didn’t really care what it was. Anything that would wash away the acrid aftertaste coating his mouth would do. He gulped down his first glass without tasting it, only to set down the cup and find Wolf and Snake watching him from the couches.

They exchanged hesitant, awkward looks with one another.

“How’d it go?” Wolf asked.

Just then Ben walked in, Eagle a step behind. He searched the room almost frantically for the youngest member of their team, uttering a few words in greeting when he met Wolf and Snake instead. Alex poured himself another glass and sipped it more conservatively. Whatever Baikal was, the almost medicinal herb flavor and soft carbonation eased the rolling in his stomach. His hands refused to stop their trembling, but at least he didn’t feel like his stomach was about to decorate the kitchen floor.

“What happened?” Ben demanded, not unkindly or accusatory, but also not quite gently. He was watching him with a furrowed brow, openly concerned, but somehow that just annoyed Alex even more.

He leveled a glare at Ben from over the glass. “D’you mean before or after you ditched me?”

Ben stopped short at the vehemence in his voice. “We di—I didn’t ‘ditch’ you, Alex. We thought you were right behind us—”

“I was! It’s not like I just ran off at the first opportunity! There weren’t a lot of choices at the time, especially when my only defense was a locked phone. Unless you forgot that I don’t have a gun.” Alex felt a flash of pride when he saw the guilt written on Ben’s face.

Ben dropped his gaze to the table, shaking his head. When he brought his attention back to Alex, whatever he was about to say was cut off by a growl. Wolf had pinched the bridge of his nose the moment their voices began to rise in volume.

Ben dropped his gaze to the table, shaking his head. When he brought his attention back to Alex, whatever he was about to say was cut off by Wolf growling, “anyone want to tell me what the hell going on?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought you were tailing Bradlik and Kozlovsky downtown.”

“We were. We did.” Eagle raked a hand roughly through his brown hair. “We followed him to some scrapyard looking place after he all but ran out of the bar. Then we…got separated from Cub.” He sent Alex an apologetic, though that did nothing to make up for the fact they had simply forgotten about the third member of their team; Alex clenched his jaw but knew better than to comment. “Fox and I made it to the back of the property, where there were a few, er, shers—er, shes…?”

“Shestyorki,” Ben supplied. “Kids who want in on the mafia-life basically. They were just messing around for the most part. Either they didn’t know anything about what was going on, or they didn’t feel the need to shout it from the rooftops.”

Alex supposed that was only natural. Real villains and their henchmen didn’t normally repeat their plans to one another without good reason, despite Bradlik and Kozlovsky having done just that an hour before. It just meant that whatever the Solntsevo had been trying to do had been calculated—however wrongly, in the end—to get some kind of reaction out of Danilka.

“Which begs the question, what happened after we got separated. How did Kozlovsky die?”

Again, Alex found himself under the scrutinizing gaze of every member of K-unit, only this time he didn’t feel defensive. He felt nauseous and angry. “When we stopped to look over the wall by the corner of the yard, a group of guys stumbled out. I wanted to see if one of them was Bradlik, so I stayed.” Alex stared at Ben flatly. “This car pulled in with three new guys, and when I couldn’t find Ben or Eagle, I followed them.” He dug out the phone from his jacket pocket and shoved it across the table. “Bradlik was meeting with a man named Danilka. Whatever they were talking about pissed him off, and he killed Kozlovsky for it. I recorded the whole thing on here.”

Alex had never seen K-unit so hesitant. Their attention was still locked on their youngest, temporary member as Ben picked up and unlocked the mobile. As soon as it started playing, Alex tried to identify the flavor of juice, decipher the illegible ingredients on the back of the carton, and focus on anything but the audio. It was playing at full volume in order to catch each and every word that was exchanged, the speakers crackling and popping from the strain.

Alex flexed his hand about halfway through and finally took note of the damage. He must have struck the kid’s face, although not the jaw as that surely would have resulted in a break. As it was, the first and second knuckles of his dominant hand pulsed white and red, swollen just enough to give it a misshapen appearance.

Crack.

He knew it was coming and fought with every fiber of his control to stop himself from flinching. When he looked up and caught Snake watching him evenly, Alex wondered if he’d succeeded. Wolf and Eagle turned to him in time as well, although this was probably more to do with the fact neither of them spoke a word of Russian. Only Ben’s attention remained fixatedly on the small screen. He rewound the video to the moment before Danilka attacked, holding the speakers right next to his ear. No, ya uveren, kremlyu budet ochen’ interesno uznat’, chem zanimaetsya Artyom – Nikolaievich – Zharkov. O yevo interesye k dyetam.—Kak znat’? Vozmozhno, Gazeta poluchit anonimnuyu informatsiyu o svyazyax Nenavosa…

Setting the mobile down, Ben scratched at the back of his head and huffed humorlessly. “It sounds like Bradlik was trying to blackmail Daniil” –he waved a hand at the phone— “and his boss. Apparently, he was threatening to tell one of the biggest Russian newspapers about Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov’s interest in kids.”

Snake hissed, drowning Wolf’s explosive swearing. Eagle didn’t react much differently, folding his hands around the edge of the counter and gripping it until his knuckles burned white.

“Guess it’s safe to say they’re the ones we’re looking for,” Alex surmised.

Ben rubbed at his eyes harshly but nodded. He was close enough to Alex that he reached out, as if to clasp his shoulder reassuringly or ruffle his hair, but he caught himself and dropped his hand stiffly. Ben backed away unperceptively and settled against the fridge, phone in hand.

The lapse in conversation didn’t last long, however. Snake nudged Alex’s hand, just enough to bring it to the boy’s attention, but not enough to overstep. “What happened here?”

“I, er, got into a fight. Back at the junkyard.”

“You alright?”

Alex nodded. “It was too dark to make out any details. Even if he did see my face, it’s not like I’m likely to run into him again.”

Ben huffed from the side. “Are you alright, though? That looks pretty nasty.”

To prove his point, Alex tensed and released his fist a few times, holding it up for them to see. “It’s fine. Nothing’s broken.”

None of them seemed overly convinced, but it was Snake who broached it again, this time prodding the empty glass. “You sure you’re fine? Cos that’s the third glass in the last ten minutes.”

Alex wanted to scowl. Bloody medics. Instead, he snatched up the glass with a shrug and smirked—at least, he hoped the expression passed as a smirk, but he was too tired to try any harder or care any more. “Just hate the taste of vodka,” he retorted.

After a beat, Eagle mimicked the grin, seemingly catching onto Cub’s hesitancy. “Least we know he’s not gonna throw a rager on us.” Snake’s glare, and everyone else’s for that matter, could have rivaled that of Wolf’s on a bad day. The medic slapped his friend’s shoulder with a look, but Alex was already turning away and putting the glass in the sink.

“So, what now?” he asked.

“I’ll send what we have to Ekaterina, see what the FSB knows about Zharkov.” Ben turned to Wolf expectantly. “I assume your night was slightly less worthwhile?”

Wolf huffed in agreement. “Nothing but old records showing the packages arrived in Moscow. Wherever they went afterwards, it wasn’t through Istraflot. Or they weren’t stupid enough to write it down.”

Ben and the others made it clear that nothing new would come out of standing around. Katya wouldn’t deliver a briefing on Artyom Zharkov and Daniil in the middle of the night, and Alex had nothing more to add to what went down at the abandoned building. So, he slipped away the moment he could, hoping to get a few minutes sleep before Eagle’s snoring caused his dreams to go off the rails. More than anything, he wanted a moment by himself, to breathe and cope without the watchful eye of K-unit.

Before he made halfway up the stairs, however, Ben caught his sleeve. He watched Alex mutely, almost as if he hadn’t expected him to actually stop. His face had dropped the professional mask that usually took over—Alex first having seen it during his stay at Brecon Beacons then when they were storming Dragon Nine—and perfectly disguised his inner thoughts. Now, it was torn between concern and guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a rushed exhale. “I shouldn’t have put you in that position without a way to defend yourself.”

Alex swallowed thickly. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.” He stepped away, leaving Ben downstairs. Maybe tomorrow he could deal with it, but for now, the only focus in his mind were the echoing snap of Kozlovsky’s neck and the name Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov.

Translation & Transliteration

С днём рождения = S dnyom rozhdeniya = happy birthday (lit. with day of birth)

Расти большой и не будь лапшой = Rasti bol’shoi i ne bud’ lapshoi = grow big and don’t be a noodle

Что ты хочешь = Chto ty xochesh’ = what do you want

Чего ж я хочу? Думаю, это было бы довольно очевидно, не так ли. Твой…проектик обошелся мне в Лондоне, и я ожидаю некоторой компенсации за мои проблемы = Chevo zh ya xochu? Dumayu, ehto bylo by dovol’no ochevidno, ne tak li. Tvoi…proektik oboshelsya’ mnye v Londone, i ya ozhidayu nekotoroi kompensatsii za moi problemy. = What do I want? I think that would be pretty obvious, wouldn't it? Your ... little project cost me in London and I expect some compensation for my troubles

Проектик = проект = project with a cutsie suffix but sounds more like a joke/derogatory

Что бы ни случилось, вы с шестёрками виноваты. Не я. = Chto by ni sluchilos’, vy s shestyorkami vinovaty. Ne ya = Whatever happened, you and the shestyorky (low level members) are to blame. Not me

У них все было хорошо, до того, что ты не привел грёбаных ментов к нашей двери. Это было из-за тебя и твоего чертовского босса = U nikh vsyo bylo khorosho, do tovo, chto ty ne privyol gryobanykh mentov k nashei dveri. Ehto bylo iz-za tebya i tvoevo chertovskovo bossa = They were doing fine, until you brought the bloody cops to our door. It was because of you and your f*cking boss

Что на самом деле произошло? Что знает полиция = Chto na samom dele proizoshlo v Londone? Chto znaet politsiya = What really happened? What the police know?

теперь ты заинтересован. Они ничего не знают. Солнцево не стучит. = Teper’ ty zainteresovan. Oni nichevo ne znayut. Solntsevo ne stuchit. = now you are interested. They don't know anything. Solntsevo does not snitch

После инцидента с журналистом вы простите меня, если я сомневаюсь в ваших способностях сделать так, чтобы все так и осталось = Poslye insidenta s zhurnalistom vy prostite menya, yesli ya somnevayus’ v vashikh sposobnostyakh sdelat’ tak, chtoby ehto tak i ostavalos’ = After the incident with the journalist, you'll forgive me that I have doubts regarding your capabilities of making sure it stays that way

Кто бы ни был виноват, твой босс и его одержимость обошлись мне в тысячи. Мои люди были арестованы. Мельник заёбывает меня взносами за этот год = Kto by ni byl vinovat, tvoi boss i evo oberzhitost’ oboshlis’ mne v tysyachi. Moi lyudi byli arestovany. Melnik zayobyvaet menya vznosami za ehtot god = Whoever is to blame, your boss and his obsession cost me thousands. My people were arrested. Melnik is up my arse about this year’s contributions

Мы заплатили тебе за твои услуги. Это все. Что бы ни случилось после этого, ты за это отвечаете. =My zaplatili tebe za tvoi uslygi. Ehto vsyo. Chto by ni sluchilos’ posle ehtovo, ty za ehto otvechaete = We paid you for your services. That’s all. Whatever happens after that, you are responsible for it.

Скажи Тёмке, что если он хочет, чтобы мои мальчики работали еще, то в следующий раз он лучше заплатит нам вдвое. Поскольку ФСБ расправляется с поставками наркотиков, а британцы преследуют моих людей, им нужно немного больше мотивации. = Tell Tyomka that if he wants my boys to work some more, then next time he better pay us twice. Since the FSB is cracking down on drug shipments and the British are harassing my people, they need a little more motivation…

Хватит! Твои люди сделали свою работу, и они облажались. Мы не заплатим двойную и также больше не нуждаемся в твоих услугах. Мы расстались. = Khvatit! Tvoi lyudi sdelali svoyu rabootu, i oni oblazhalis’. My ne zaplatim dvoinuyu i takzhe bol’she ne nuzhdaemsya v tvoikh uslugakh. My rasstalis’ = Enough! Your people did their job and they screwed up. We will not pay double and also no longer need your services. We’re done.

Уверен, кремлю было бы очень интересно узнать, чем занимается Артем Николаевич Жарков. O его интересе к детям. = Ya uveren, kremlyu budet ochen’ interesno uznat’, chem zanimaetsya Artyom Nikolaievich Zharkov. O yevo interesye k dyetam = I am sure the Kremlin would be very interested to know just what Artem Nikolayevich Zharkov is up to. About his interest in children.

Как знать? Возможно, Газета получит анонимную информацию о связях Ненавоса с бесчестным Солнцево. = Kak znat’? Vozmozhno, Gazeta poluchit anonimnuyu informatsiyu o svyazyax Nenavosa s beschesnym Solntsevo. = Who knows? Maybe, Gazeta gets an anonymous tip about Nenavos's dealings with the infamous Solntsevo

Кто ты, черт возьми? Стоп = Kto ty, chyort voz’mi. Stop = Who the hell are you? Stop

Chapter 11: A Hero in His Own Mind

Chapter Text

Alex’s eyes shot open just as the hand withdrew from his shoulder, leaving an absence of warmth in its place. His heart thundered from the phantoms left over from his dreams. Sleep still blurred the edges of his mind, leaving him in a state of limbo, somewhere in between dreaming and consciousness. He stared uncomprehendingly at the wall across from him because, as far as he could remember, he should have been looking out of a window onto King’s Road. An annoyingly placed streetlamp should have been edging its way around the curtains he and Jack had installed for that very reason, but instead there was a complete lack of those two things.

The recollection of the past three days came flooding back. Right. Moscow.

Alex flipped onto his back. At some point during the night, someone had opened the door, and now light from the hallway streamed into the bedroom, washing the room in a stream of half-light. In between blinking away the sudden needles stabbing at his maladjusted eyes, he noticed that the other beds were empty of any SAS shaped lumps and that, despite that, he was most certainly not alone in the room. A backlit figure hovered to the side of his own bed, just out of arm’s reach.

Alex jolted back, but when they didn’t make to lunge at him or do some other nefarious deed, he squinted at them. He would have thought they were either Ben or Eagle, but the silhouette was too compact and looming to be either of the wiry men. Within another second, Alex recognized the outline, having seen it enough times in Wales when they’d had some onerous training that required they be up before the sun.

“Wolf?” Alex croaked.

The figure grunted. Definitely Wolf.

There was no clock on the nightstand, but it had to have been at least a few hours since Alex had crawled into bed. “What…? What are you doing in here?”

“You were, er, talking in your sleep,” he responded haltingly, his voice tapering off at the end.

Alex hummed. He racked his brain of all the possible things he could have been saying—and just how loudly—that Wolf had felt the need to physically pull him out of its clutches. His dreams nowadays had taken on a life of their own, and while they tended to taper out when he was on assignment, it was no guarantee.

Had his calling out woken all of K-unit, or just Wolf? Had any of them even gone to bed yet?

“Thanks, I guess,” Alex offered after a moment and watched a quick bob of movement that suggested Wolf had shrugged.

As his eyes adjusted to the meager illumination, Alex regarded the unit commander openly. Wolf was still stood at the edge of the bed and didn’t appear to be moving any time soon. He was dressed for bed, in plain t-shirt and loose trousers, looking all the bit a normal twenty-something year-old man, which shouldn’t have been odd, but everything seemed peculiar where he was involved now. Alex was starting to adjust to Ben and Eagle—when he wasn’t holding a grudge against them for abandoning him without a weapon in enemy territory—and even found Snake to be nice enough, if quiet. But Wolf. He was an enigma. At least, he appeared to be just as much at loss with Alex, as Alex was with Wolf. Now they were on a level playing ground.

“Do you get nightmares a lot?”

Alex shrugged, needling at the scratchy quilt with his nail. Neither a confirmation nor a rejection, but it was telling enough.

Wolf waved at the edge of the bed. “D’you mind…?”

Alex pushed himself up against the headboard in answer and drew his knees in to make room, feeling a flicker of amusem*nt when Wolf perched himself on the absolute edge of the mattress. He couldn’t look more uncomfortable and out of his element if he tried, which given he normally exuded a deluge of self-confidence and certainty, it was an impressive, although slightly off-putting, feat. They stayed like that for an eternal minute, stewing in one another’s apprehension and malaise, until Alex surprised even himself by being the one to break the silence.

“I’m assuming Ben asked you to come talk to me or something?”

Wolf frowned and shook his head. “No. Should he have?”

Alex could list a few reasons for doing so. Ben could have requested that someone with a veritable rank make sure Alex followed SAS training for one, scold him for running off and chasing a potential murderer for another. His money was on ‘giving the teenager distance after pissing him off but also making sure he was okay after witnessing a murder’.

In the end, he simply shrugged his indifference and said pointedly, “I mean, last night didn’t exactly go smoothly.” Pausing, Alex recalled the rest of his missions over the past few months and added, “although, all things considered, it could have gone much worse.”

Wolf snorted. “Bit of a magnet for trouble then, are you?” Alex supposed the man was almost smiling, given the quick flash of bright teeth. His voice surprisingly didn’t carry the same derisive tone Alex had come to expect from him, at any rate.

“When the mood strikes,” he muttered. “And from what I remember at Point Blanc, you weren’t so lucky either.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Wolf had been shot saving his life, after all; however, Wolf didn’t seem to be bothered. In fact, it was the opposite.

The man started, caught off guard, then he began to laugh. It was over quicky and more of a chuckle, but it was genuine. “Fair,” he admitted.

Alex cracked a smile himself, however more reservedly. “So, why are you here, then?”

“I was going to wait until tomorrow but…” Wolf worried at the palm of his hand instead of looking at Alex directly. “How did you get separated from Fox and Eagle?”

Alex flushed with a mix between anger and guilt. “I got—distracted. By something in the yard. There were these guys, and I wanted to see if I knew any of them. Then when I turned back to Ben—Fox, they were gone.”

Wolf accepted this silently, as if that had been along the lines of what he’d been expecting. Ben and Eagle had probably given a similar retelling of the events, only it wouldn’t have included how Alex had gotten lost in the fray.

“I know Ben thinks I should have tried to find them, or something, but when I saw this guy with an armed escort, I couldn’t walk away.” Funny, how often he was saying that particular phrase, but he couldn’t convey it any other way. When Wolf was still frustratingly silent, Alex rushed to defend himself. “It’s not like I was trying to lose Ben and Eagle. I literally stopped for a few seconds, and they’d gone and vanished into thin air.”

Wolf grimaced and rubbed at his bare arms, the mechanical gears smoking as he tried to put his thoughts to words in a situation where he was already vastly out of his comfort zone. “SAS train in squads.”

Alex blinked. “What?”

“When we train and go into the field. We operate in squads, who’ve had the same trainin’ we have.”

“I know…” All of them had been present for that woeful experience, but Wolf was already shaking his head before Alex had even finished saying those two short words.

“Fox and Eagle were operating as if you knew our protocols,” he held up a hand to cut off Alex’s protests, “meaning that you’d’ve known what to do if you got separated.”

Grimacing, Alex plucked at a loose thread. The justification made sense, irritatingly so, but at the same time, he felt his anger was warranted, all things considered. The adults in his life were either patronizingly specific in their instructions or assuming he had all the knowledge and experience of a real-life James Bond. Apparently, it was too much to ask for a happy medium. It didn’t help the fact that even Alex was painfully aware that knowledge and abilities were checkered, given that he was still only fourteen.

“I’d like to point out that Ben didn’t have this issue in London or in—on our last mission.”

“Yeah, but you two weren’t exactly on a sanctioned mission in London. From what he’s said, it was the two of you running around wreaking havoc on some charity run by the mafia.”

Alex relented to the fact that that held a grain of truth.

“Here, he’s got to follow protocol as a spy and an SAS member.”

“So, you’re saying he’s rubbish at multi-tasking? Not exactly prime spy material, is he.”

Wolf actually snorted. “Ben can explain his inability to multitask when we’re back on friendly territory. Right now, we just…need to make sure you aren’t left to fend for yourself again. Figure out a plan with contingencies. You may not be a bona fide member of K-unit, but you’re still my responsibility.”

The implication of the statement brought a thought to mind; it might be a long shot, but Wolf had certainly seen him in action before to know what he was capable of. Alex leveled his best imitation of Wolf’s unyielding glare at the man, rather hoping he didn’t look as foolish as he thought it might, and said as evenly and reasonably as he could, “if you really are concerned…want me to be safe, or something, then I should get a gun. Next time we go somewhere, where I’m going to be the only one unarmed, going up against who could care less about shooting a fourteen-year-old, I want a gun.”

It was a relief that Wolf didn’t snort or laugh at the idea, both of which were probable reactions, but he didn’t agree to it either. Even though every time he had made the request in the past, he had to try. If Wolf was more sympathetic and trusting of him now, and Ben was contrite and feeling protective, then maybe there was a chance. Maybe…

“I know how to shoot,” Alex continued.

“How? You weren’t allowed at Brecons.”

Alex hesitated. Wolf probably wouldn’t react well to learning about Alex’s history with Scorpia, even if he was the one to bring about their downfall. Not to mention, his reasoning behind his defection—as temporary as it was—was too personal to share just yet. “Whilst on a mission.”

“What, another terrorist headmaster gave you a beretta and told you have at it?”

“An FN semi-automatic actually, but yeah.”

Wolf shook his head and gave a self-deprecating huff of laughter, but it didn’t escape Alex’s notice that he had yet to give a straight yes-or-no to his request.

“I’m a good shot, too.” Even by Ross’s standards—though that only held true when they weren’t using human-shaped targets, but Alex was willing to bet he would be able to adapt in a life-or-death situation. “You wouldn’t even have to worry about me shooting off your foot or something.” Alex tried for humor, but his ingrained English wryness was to his detriment and had no effect on the man. He still didn’t respond verbally, and it was too dark to make out a micro-expression that would give Alex a hint.

Alex fell silent, not willing to push the subject in case badgering drove him into rejecting it outright. Hopefully, his past competence in a dangerous situation and the most recent turn of events regarding the mission would provide much needed support for his cause. Pure speculation of course, but Wolf might not have been shot during the raid at Point Blanc, had MI6 saw fit to give Alex a gun in the first place, barring the fact Alex hadn’t had training at that point yet. However, now that he has the training and is once again in the situation where his enemies are armed whilst he is not, Alex decided that this should be one of those times he would appreciate the less patronizing, coddling approach to his spy-life.

The silence lasted long enough that Alex resigned himself to the fact he wouldn’t get an answer that night—or morning, technically. He fell back against the headboard, letting his eyes drift shut. The mattress dipped, signaling Wolf’s

“Was it the sound?” Wolf inquired unexpectedly.

Alex blinked at him, confused. “Was what the sound?”

Wolf was leant forward, forearms resting on his knees, kneading his fisted hand into the other. “It’s not quite a crunching sound. An arm or a leg is a sharp snap, God-awful on its own, but there’s something about the neck. It gives a pop first, then grinds until...It’s hard to get that sound out of your head.”

Alex tensed, and for a second, he could hear the wretched grind of cartilage just before Daniil jerked Kozlovsky’s neck one final time. He clenched his jaw to fight back any instinctive flinch or outward reaction; he didn’t want Wolf to think he needs to hold his hand.

The words had struck a chord though, no matter what, and even as Wolf continued, his resolve to stay unresponsive was dwindling.

“Soldiers go through it to, you know. Playing it back in your head like a recording. All the sh*t we see every day, there’s just no way you’re leaving without some of it sticking with you.”

Soldiers. We. Alex regarded Wolf with narrowed eyes, but the man was determined to stare at his hands. Did Wolf have nightmares about twisted necks and deaths he failed to prevent? Alex swallowed past the thickness that had lodged in his throat. “I’ve seen people die before,” and I’ve killed, he wanted to add but couldn’t.

There was a moment of silence before Wolf nodded distractedly. “I know. I remember how you managed France.” His voice took on a tight, odd tone. Almost as if he felt guilty for some reason. Wolf finally tore his eyes from his hands and settled them on Alex, but the light from the hall wasn’t far-reaching enough to reveal anything about the emotion or thoughts hidden there. He weighed his words carefully. “But it’s not something you get used to. Or should. We all deal with memories we get on the job. There’s nothing wrong with letting it bother you. Just don’t let it consume you.”

Alex accepted the advice with a jerking nod. “I’ll be fine,” he asserted. “I can handle it.”

Wolf responded in kind with his own bob of the head and pushed to his feet. “Get some sleep, Cub.”

“Wolf—”

The commander turned around slowly, silently prompting Alex to continue.

“I was serious about the gun.”

Wolf’s outline moved, and Alex could picture him driving a fist into his eye socket. “I know. Get some sleep.”

Only the smell of hot coffee managed to persuade Alex to abandon the warm confines of his bed upstairs, no matter how stiff and scratchy it was. His disloyal mind had decided all too early that the unfulfilling and fragmented hours of sleep he’d managed were enough to sustain him for the day, and so after a solid half hour of staring at the ceiling, he trudged unhappily down the stairs, taking care to do so noiselessly so as to not wake up Ben. He may be petty at times—he was a teenager after all—his grudge toward the man wasn’t so much that he’d willingly rob him of sleep when it would negatively affect the rest of them.

Stifling a yawn, Alex padded into the kitchen and headed straight for the wonderfully steaming pot of coffee. It was only after fixing himself a full cup that it registered there were the others in the room; Eagle, with his feet kicked up on the side table, was slouched in what looked to be an incredibly uncomfortable position on one of the sofas. He had managed to balance his mug precariously on his legs and was using it to prop up a well-loved novel, flicking through the pages lazily. Wolf, however, was dutifully tending to the stove and making something that actually smelled like it could be edible; thankfully, Ben had agreed to stay far away from anything to do with food preparation since the disaster on the second day.

Alex considered Wolf from over the rim of his mug curiously, still thinking about the night/morning before. The man was completely engrossed in his task for the morning, whisking up the eggs into a frothy batter, flipping the bangers to equally brown every side, and chopping a few vegetables for good measure. Nothing about him indicated he had taken the time to reason through his soldiers’ actions the night before or hinted to the fact he suffered from his own nightmarish demons. He didn’t even look like he even realized the youngest member was in the room.

Alex felt the desire to needle the man to give him a gun when the time came to make a move. However, doing so before a decent hour came with a high possibility of outright refusal. He contemplated it for a second longer before discarding the thought with a shake of the head. Instead, he leveraged himself up onto the counter, hissing when the movement sent scalding coffee spilling out over his hand.

Wolf threw a glare over his shoulder. Alex sipped his coffee innocently.

“Off.”

When he didn’t move, Wolf swatted Alex’s leg and jerked the egg-covered spatula towards the other half of the room. “Go bother Eagle or something.”

Alex shrugged and hopped down, choosing to collapse onto the sofa that was unoccupied. A fire was already crackling away in the hearth, not that it was really needed. The cabin had electric heating, and despite the stereotype of a Russian winter, it wasn’t all that much colder than London during the day; it was only when the temperature plummeted at night that it became bitterly cold and dangerous.

Eagle peeked at him from over the top of his book. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Alex yawned halfway through, and it came out more as a string of incomprehensible vowels. He had toyed with the idea of ignoring the man, and while it would most likely give him an odd sense of satisfaction, it was no doubt childish and more than a little dangerous given why they were in Russia.

Eagle hummed, letting the book to fall open on his stomach. “Er, how’d you sleep?”

“Fine. You?”

He hummed again, noncommittally.

“What’re you reading?” Alex asked and co*cked his head in order to read the title. “I didn’t peg you for someone who’d bring a thriller along as your one personal item.”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended by that or not.” Eagle shrugged and glanced at the creased, faded cover with a frown. “It’s not mine. Found it over there on one of the shelves. As ominous as the title The Possessed is, it’s not so much the thriller I was expecting.”

Alex peered at the cover. Bold red letters splayed across the front, readingThe Possessed by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Demons. The name sounded familiar, if only the author. One of Ian’s favorite pastimes during their summers abroad was to drag Alex to as many stuffy antique bookshops that smelled so thickly of must and mold that Alex would choke, and his eyes would water. Ian had stocked both his office and the sitting room with more than a few armfuls of classic novels from such shops, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky among them, and even went so far as to try and bribe Alex into reading Crime and Punishment—which failed utterly when his nephew had simply fallen asleep after an enormous glass of hot cocoa.

“I’m pretty sure Dostoevsky isn’t exactly known for his action sequences.”

Scooting himself into more of a sitting position, Eagle studied him skeptically. “How would you know that?”

“He’s one of the most famous Russian authors,” Alex pointed out, although he wasn’t entirely sure it was common knowledge to people whose uncle hadn’t enforced global appreciation on them at a young age. “You know, Crime and Punishment, Brothers Karamazov,” he flicked the book in Eagle’s hands, “The Possessed.”

“Huh. I didn’t peg you for a Russophile.” Eagle combed through his short hair and grinned lazily. “You’re, like what, sixteen? You should be out playing footy and chasing after girls or—you know, guys. Not cooped up reading this rubbish.” To emphasize his point, he tossed the novel to the other side of the room, onto one of the armchairs.

“Encouraging the youth of England to skive off on their education, are we?” Snake inquired, coming up next to Alex, a look mixed between amusem*nt and disappointment painting his face. He shook his head dramatically and proceeded to shove Eagle’s legs out of the way so he could claim a spot on the settee. The other man obliged grudgingly, not looking at all contrite for his statement.

Alex snorted. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He shrugged behind his mug. “For instance, I’m not sixteen. I’m fourteen.”

Snaked choked into his coffee. “What?”

He was saved from answering by the front door slamming into the wall.

Immediately, Alex sprang to his feet, his mug crashing to the floor without a second thought. Already, strategies and counteractions were flying through his head—

And Katya took one halting step inside.

Alex relaxed, only for his stomach to clench almost immediately after as he registered that she looked absolutely livid.

The further she came into the room, the more evident it became. A rosy flush was creeping up the sides of her neck, brightening her cheeks as well. She was trembling slightly, too, as if her whole body was coiled like an overwound spring, her jaw clenching. Except there was something off about it. She was no doubt angry, but even though Alex had only met her a few days ago, he had grown familiar with her small range of expressions—neutral, annoyed, and wry smirks. This loose torrent didn’t seem like it was coming only from anger.

Not even taking the time to shed her winter coat and boots, she tore inside, scouring the small cabin and setting her burning gaze on the three men sitting on the sofas in seconds. She set her jaw. “What the hell you do?”

Before anyone could answer, the side door once again opened; this time it was done with more restraint, and Yakov slipped in wordlessly. He wore an expression not unlike Katya’s, although more drawn tight with concern as his eyes tracked her movements carefully. He didn’t acknowledge anyone, or the fact they had barged in unannounced and confrontational, but latched the door and remained by the threshold.

Logically, Alex knew their arrival had to do with the events of last night, but since they had arrived back at the cabin so late, he had simply assumed that they would fill the Russian agents in the morning after. The news was such that it would be better to deliver in person, rather than over text. Maybe they had found out on their own and were upset by the delay? It wasn’t as if Alex and Ben had done anything to Bradlik and Kozlovsky, merely followed them as they had planned.

Eagle and Snake exchanged a look that reflected that of a field mouse about to be snatched up by a hawk. Snake slowly set his mug on the stone hearth, his eyes flitting from Katya to Wolf. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific, lo—. What d’you mean, what did we do?”

Katya’s mouth twisted. She scanned the room impatiently. “Where is Veniamin?”

“Who?” Wolf squinted. He had stepped away from the stove the moment the door had collided with the wall, and was now standing, arms crossed, challengingly at the intruders. “The hell you on about?”

Katya neglected to answer and charged across the room towards the hallway. “Veniamin! Ven’ka!” Her voice was uncomfortably sharp for so early in the morning. “Come down! – pryamo ‘chas!”

“Katya,” Yakov admonished stiffly.

Katya rounded on her partner. “Chyo? Ty Kostyu uslyshal —”

“Hey!” Wolf interjected, voice rising to match theirs. He strode in between them, drawing himself up in an attempt to exhibit authority and a sense of command. “What the hell is going on?”

Katya’s next words were drowned out by clumsy steps stumbling out from the stairwell. The next moment, a very bedraggled Ben banged into every wall along the hallway as he rushed in. He leant against the wall, blinking rapidly as he fought to adjust to being awake and take in the turn of events. To his credit, he processed the scene within a few seconds of his arrival and managed to find his footing, though he still swayed slightly. His gaze landed on Katya first, to then moved to Wolf, and finally Alex and the others. “What’s happened?”

Katya actually growled. “You tell us. Last night. What did you do?”

“Last—” Ben broke off, driving a hand into his eye. “—We, like we agreed. We tailed him across town—”

“Then why the hell it is that I get call from my boss this morning, saying Solntsevskaya are on war path?”

He stiffened. “What?”

“So, I ask again, what did you do?”

Slowly, the words registered in Alex’s mind. War path. They should have expected Bradlik wouldn’t take the death of his bratok lying down. Even if he did fear reprisal, Bradlik simply didn’t have the option of letting this go. Not after Daniil had murdered Kozlovsky and crippled Bradlik on their own turf, where everyone had seen the fallout. If he did, he would lose not only his men’s respect, but maybe even his bratva’s support—if they thought him incompetent and cowardly. Which meant, Bradlik had to react exponentially out of proportion, and even though he had threatened to oust Zharkov and Daniil through the press, Alex doubted they would do something so nonbelligerent.

Alex spared a glance at the other men and saw they had drawn the same conclusion.

“We didn’t do anything to the Solntsevo,” Ben asserted. “He and Kozlovsky went some place downtown. Only after an hour or so, they went rushing off, so we followed them.” He held his hands out placatingly and sent a pleading look to Wolf, hoping for the commander to reaffirm that what he was saying was true. Only, since Wolf had been breaking into Istraflot at the time, anything he had in their defense was hearsay. “Alex videoed what went down. We’re not sabotaging Moscow, or whatever it is your bosses think we did.”

Katya’s expression shuttered briefly, but she gave a terse nod.

“What exactly is going on?” Alex broke in. “What do you mean war path?” His mind was helpfully providing numerous possibilities, all of which were inspired by more than a few Hollywood films and gimmicks, none of them good for the city or their operation. Guerilla strikes in the heart of Moscow with civilian casualties, a full-on raid on Zharkov’s house or businesses, a scorched earth approach. Considering the Russian mafia’s modus operandi of intimidation and violence, the hope that this wouldn’t end violently was the blackest of dark horses.

“Vot tak,” Yakov said. He stepped further into the room and pointedly gestured to Katya to take a deep breath. Closing her eyes to center herself, she retreated a few steps. “Konstantin Rybak, eh, the supervisor of our department at FSB, called everyone this morning. Solntsevo are meeting and gathering the arsenal. Cutting ties with our people, when we try to speak with them.”

Eagle frowned. “I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘on a war path’. Bradlik’s got, what, thirty men?”

Katya scoffed sharply. “That is one—one gruppirovka. Usually, bratvy consist of at least four, and those of the Solntsevskaya bratva are much more powerful and established than Istraflot. There are hundreds of members in Moscow alone. So, yes, I consider hundreds of angry, heavily armed mafiosi who have orders to cut all ties to FSB and politsia ‘on a war path’.” She forced herself to breath, if only to let the information sink in, before adding acerbically, “and very few of them care if they are arrested or if civilians are caught under the crossfire.”

Wolf swore. Dragging a hand roughly over his hair, he paced the length of the room.

“Our people in Italy even say Pavel Bradlik, the pakhan, is on his way back to Russia,” Katya continued on, studying his reaction. “What is worse, other brotherhoods, bratvy, are starting to act out, as well. They think Solntsevo are coming for them, so they are—preparing their own weapons for a fight. All since last night.” In the heat of it all, Katya’s accent began to slip, trading grammar and pronunciation for speed.

Alex couldn’t prevent the scowl that broke across his face. Leave it to him to find himself in the middle of a possible gang war. Not only that, but they were being blamed for it!

Wolf cursed, just as Ben pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, “are they going after a man called Zharkov? Do you know?”

For the first time since she burst in, Katya faltered. “Zharkov? I don’t—we don’t even know what is going on or what started this. Our contacts completely refuse to cooperate, and even blatnye who are not involved with Bradlik do not dare talk to FSB.”

“So, naturally you assumed we were to blame,” Eagle drawled, flopping back against the back of the sofa.

Yakov raised an eyebrow in answer. To be fair, it had been a perfectly reasonable assumption. “Who is Zharkov?”

Holding up a finger, Ben scanned the kitchen until he caught sight of what he was looking for. He crossed the room quickly and snatched up his phone, where they had left it the night before. Fortunately, it had kept its charge overnight, and as he went through the process of unlocking it, Wolf took over, “last night, they figured out that a man named Artyom Zharkov might be the one responsible for the missing kids. And my money’s on him and his man being the reason the mafia are up in arms now.”

Alex watched as Katya met Yasha’s gaze, a wordless understanding passing between them in those few seconds. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

Katya exhaled and drove the palm of her hand across her brow. “I don’t know. Maybe,” she hedged. She seemed to be beating back the initial anger from before with difficulty. Her breathing shook. “Zharkov is a common name, as is Artyom. But…”

“Alex recorded a meeting between Bradlik, Kozlovsky, and man they called Daniil. Bradlik threatened to bring what he knew to the police, even the press, if he wasn’t compensated for the loss in revenue.” Ben held out his unlocked phone, the video already loaded and primed for viewing. “He said that Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov was doing something involving kids.”

The two FSB agents didn’t comment. Yakov took the device out of the soldier’s hand and held it between the two of them so they could both hear and see it without interference. Alex observed them from his place on the settee, and within a few seconds of the recording, he had confirmed his suspicions. Yakov grew more reserved, however was incapable of holding back the urge to clench his jaw. His eyes flicked across every detail on the screen, shooting from side to side as if reading closed captions. Katya, though, was harder to read. Already struggling to keep her breathing under control, the only change in her position was her hand. It snaked towards her wrist and latched on, her thumb drawing tiny circles along the inner skin.

Alex had seen her do this before, last time being when she had been explaining the dangers of the bratva.

“Pizdets,” Yasha hissed through his teeth. “Neudivitel’no, solntsevy…”

Katya’s eyes snapped towards Alex. “Did anyone see you? Any of you?”

“Me,” Alex admitted, confirming that he was the only one of them with a quick glance. Both Eagle and Ben gave minute shakes of the head. “A guy only a few years older than me. And…and my phone was in Bradlik’s jacket pocket.”

“Chyort.” Katya closed her eyes. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

“How does this affect things now?” Wolf prodded. “What happens with the Soln—Solntsevo-skaya? And the other gangs?”

“And who is Artyom Zharkov?” Snake added. “He’s got to be someone important if you already know who he is.”

Katya shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Chestno, ne znayu. I didn’t think Pavel Bradlik was stupid enough to wage war on someone like Zharkov.” Honestly, I don’t know.

After a moment, Yakov wandered over to the side table in between the sofas and moved Ben’s laptop to where he could easily access it. He turned to the room in general, waving a hand at the device. “Can I, eh…?”

Ben booted it up and perched on the armrest of a nearby chair.

“Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov is, eh—” Yakov broke off, his eyes intent on whatever he was doing on the computer. “well-known man in Moscow, and a true friend of Minister of Minoboron.”

“Minister of Defense,” supplied Katya. “He saved Sergei Oorzhak’s life when they were in arm, in the army together.”

“Therefore, if they attack Zharkova, they attack Kremlin, as well.” Yakov hit a final key and turned the laptop so Alex, and everyone else gathered in the small sitting area, could finally see what he was searching for. It was a website for a company as far as Alex could tell: a picture of a modern facility expanded the top of the page, the name Nenavos in elegant Cyrillic cursive tastefully written below it. A pair of black die, one stacked on top of the other, were clustered to the side, looking as if someone had rolled them onto the website itself. The page Yasha had landed on must have been the ‘about us’ or personnel site because as he scrolled down to show a photograph of a serious, unsmiling man. Alex deciphered the name next to the portrait: Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov.

He was fairly average, neither handsome, nor ugly; someone Alex would have paid no attention to had he passed him in the streets. With greying black hair and vacant blue eyes, he looked to be in his late fifties, early sixties. He wore an expensive, pinstriped Saint Laurent suit, although the style fit him oddly, like he should have been wearing anything other than formal wear. Zharkov was staring at the photographer dead on, without any hint of emotion. No flicker of happiness, dread, impatience, joy. Nothing. He was the embodiment of those Victorian stylized portraits, where the camera managed to capture their image but left behind any sense of their being.

Alex didn’t find it hard at all to believe he was behind dozens of disappearances; he’d met plenty more sympathetic-looking people who were true monsters underneath it all.

“That’s him?” Eagle sounded skeptical. Alex would have thought he’d learn from his comment about the unimpressive numbers of the bratva.

“He is the gendirektor of National Institute imena Nenavos—a biological, eh, gene-ial research center. One of the best of their field in all of Europe.”

“What kind of research?” Ben pressed. “Maybe whatever’s going on has something to do with what they’re working on now.”

Just as Yakov started scanning through the information on the site, Katya glared at him warningly. “Just because there is corruption in Russian government, does not mean we turn blind eye to the Geneva Convention.” Her gaze softened slightly, when Ben held up his hands contritely. “If Zharkov is behind this, he will not do so at Nenavos. Not only is it in the center of Moscow, but there are frequent checks by the government employee. Any—experimentation on humans would not be tolerated.”

Alex gnawed on his lip. If Zharkov was using the kids in some sick experimentation, Nenavos would be the place to do it. Not only did he have access to some of the top genetic experts (according to Yakov), but the equipment was already there and prepared for such experiments. Then again, there would also be many, many people who would not condone human experimentation. So, the questions remained: what was he doing, and where was he doing it?

“If it is him, what do we do about it,” he voiced. “I doubt just waiting around outside his house is going to lead us to their lair, and if that Daniil bloke is willing to kill someone just because they mentioned Zharkov’s name, then they’re going to be a lot more careful than Bradlik was.”

Ben grimaced. “Don’t suppose the FSB are going to swing in and take over, are they?”

For a moment, Katya didn’t answer. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and, slowly, shook her head. She met Yakov’s eyes as she answered, searching for a sign that he disagreed. “It would not be a good idea to tell them of Zharkov’s involvement.” Yakov jerked his head once.

“Not yet, at least,” he added. “If he is vdoxnovitel’, or, eh, if he is behind this, and we tell FSB, it is possible he will hear. Minister of Minoboron is only one of many friends. We must be prepared, that if he learns of this—” he gestured to everyone gathered around him, “he may kill the children.”

“If he hasn’t already,” Wolf muttered under his breath, only not quietly enough for it to go unheard. Ben hissed through his teeth, askance.

Fixing his commander with a level of reproach that could rival their sergeant’s, he turned to back to Katya and Yakov. “How serious is this going to be? This fallout with the Solntsevo and the other gangs.”

For a moment, neither agent responded, and the silence did nothing for Alex’s growing nerves because nothing could complicate matters more than a gang war, one party of which had a blood feud with their primary suspect. Wolf wasn’t wrong in that if it got too dangerous or the exposure was too high of a risk, Zharkov might decide to protect himself and destroy any and all evidence of the crime. And that meant leaving no witnesses.

Faltering, Yakov shook his head. “We cannot know. It is not good, but if nothing doesn’t—” Yakov’s eyes bulged in frustration, and he corrected, “—if nothing does happen, it may help us. He will have to focus on the bratve, so there will be less attention on us, you.”

“For when we break into Nenavos,” Alex inferred. When everyone turned to him, he shrugged. “Zharkov might not be taking the kids there, but it has to be involved, right? He’s the head of an international genetics research facility and kidnapping children for a reason. It can’t be a coincidence. You said it yourself,” he argued, gesturing to Katya, “he would be more likely to traffic them out of Russia, not in.”

Ben grudgingly agreed. “It might be the best place to start, if anything. I doubt he’s bringing them back to his house, at any rate.”

Katya considered them, her face stuck somewhere between irritation and disquiet as she struggled to relent to the possibility. Shaking her head, she knelt down next to her partner and uttered a few words to Yakov, gesturing to the laptop. He complied and began shifting through the various subsections of Nenavos’s website.

“If you want to do this, you must be smart about it—”

Yasha landed on a new page and flitted through candid photographs in labs, well-dressed individuals posing in front of the building, and groups of children in a vast, glass-filled atrium. All of them were smiling, exuberant, photogenic—every positive expression to convey just how wonderful a company Nenavos was. At first, Alex didn’t understand the connection between these pictures and what Katya was trying to express. Did she want to prove that they were a good company? That they couldn’t have anything to do with the missing children?

Alex glanced at the others in case he was missing something, but they seemed equally confused. But then, then, as Yakov stopped occasionally on ones that gave more of a view of the building, of the outside and entrance hall, it clicked. This would be their only view of the inside, if they were to break in and investigate. If they weren’t going to the FSB for help against Zharkov, they wouldn’t be able to request the blueprints or briefing on the company’s security.

“Nenavos is one of the top research facilities in Europe. Security is extremely high and will not be easy to deceive.”

“Maybe we could go in at night?” Eagle suggested. He was leaning forward, arm balanced on his thigh as he traced the photograph of the outside of the facility with his finger. “Go through a backdoor or something. Not ideal, but that way, we’d only have to avoid the night guards and the security system.”

“The night guards who are most likely retired Spetsnaz?” Katya inquired flatly. “Even I do not want to chance that.”

“Alright, then what do you suggest?”

Without an immediate answer, Katya clenched her jaw and studied the photographs, which Yasha was continuously scrolling through. Starting from the beginning, they cycled through scientists with lab equipment and exceedingly expensive technology, the same scientists with more men in suits at some gala, and more and more. Alex was tracking any in he could find from the various photographs, but it seemed that even the neighboring buildings weren’t close enough or tall enough to be of any use. Maybe if they spent a day or two scouting out the layout…

Alex looked up just in time to see Yakov studying him closely.

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“I have a thought.” Yakov consulted the screen again and found one of the first few pictures on the slide show. “There may be a way that you can pass security…”

By now everyone else had fallen silent. Alex looked at the photograph. Specifically, the children in the photograph. But that would be too coincidental, he thought…

Yasha had already turned to Katya. “You still talk with—kak yeyo zovut— Maya somebody? Direktrisa.” Katya nodded, looking just as lost as K-unit at the exchange. “You can call her and ask her to make plans with Nenavos. This way, Sasha goes in with invitation and—”

“Hang on,” Wolf broke in. “How is this Maya lady involved with Nenavos?”

“She is not involved with Nenavos,” Katya corrected, although she was nodding slowly, taking in the photograph herself as she caught onto his plan. “She is headmistress at a school. It might be possible to arrange a…an excursion to Nenavos. There is not much time, and it will take money to do so, but it would get Al-ex inside.”

“I see two problems with this plan,” Snake voiced. He held out finger as he listed, “one: say he does get in, then what’re we gonna do? Everythin’s in Russian. Does he find somewhere to hide until night, so he can let us in? Fox’s the only one of us who can read Russian, unless you two are coming along. Not to mention, we’re also back to facing off with ex-military and a security system to boot.” He flicked out the next finger. “two: it’s the 20^th of December. If school hasn’t ended yet, it will be soon. How are we going to convince a school and Nenavos to plan a field trip in less than a few days?”

Alex started. He hadn’t even realized that it was even close to Christmas, what with everything that was going on. It wasn’t the most pressing matter at hand, but it still sent a painful shock through his chest. Alex did his best to force it back, ignoring it until ostensibly, it was a faint thrum in the back of his mind.

Yakov squinted at Snake, mouthing a few of the words he managed to catch. Although not incomprehensibly strong, the Scott had enough of an accent that it must have made understanding him difficult, especially if Yakov wasn’t as fluent in English as Katya. After a moment, he shook his head and waited for his partner to take the lead.

Katya considered it before rolling her shoulders. “That must be up to Alex. It is most likely that the research will be both in English and Russian. Because many of the scientists will not be from Russia, they will often communicate in English. If not, you can take pictures of whatever you find.”

“And the school holiday?”

“Autumn semesters often end a day or two before New Year’s.”

Ben, who had been suspiciously quiet for the entire discussion, broke in, “and if we offer some motivation, we just might be able to schedule a field trip for the 25^th. If Nenavos is as international as you say, a lot of personnel are going to want to take that day off. It might not be an official holiday here, but to a lot of other people it is.”

So, he could either break away from his class field trip and scour the facility for some hint of a nefarious plot—reminding him of a rendition somewhere between his Stormbreaker mission and his time spent at Point Blanc. Or he could tuck himself away in a closet for hours, hopefully not getting caught by a cleaning crew or, worse, on CCTV, and somehow let K-unit into the building. Not the best options, but then again, sitting around in a van and waiting for a better opportunity to come alone was much worse.

Suddenly, Alex realized everyone was waiting for his take on it all. He cleared his throat. “I think we should do it. I can climb in an air vent or a supply closet until after hours, then let you lot in through the backdoor. Smithers gave me this,” he dug under his collar for the hammer pendant he had taken to wearing every day. “It hacks through almost any passcode or encryption on a server.”

A smirk pulled at the side of Yasha’s mouth. “Svoya angliiskaya troyanskaya kon’ka.”

Alex might not have known two of the words for certain, but the pronunciation was similar enough to German for him to get the gist of it. Our own English Trojan horse. Strangely accurate.

Alex looked to the other members of K-unit. Whilst Katya thought it his decision, if they vetoed it, he couldn’t very well do it alone. Snake and Eagle, in turn, deferred the decision to their commander.

Wolf gave a curt nod. “Cub, you go in with the school, you won’t be able to have any weapons on you.” He waited, looking for confirmation.

Alex blinked. Did that mean Wolf would have given him a gun otherwise? It hardly mattered now, but maybe once he let them into the facility, they would hand him one then. He shrugged. “What else is new?”

Alex slipped out onto the back porch as soon as the debate turned to the technicalities of continuing their operation without the oversight of FSB, per their original agreement with the agency. Sloppily kicking away the snow on each individual step, he collapsed onto the middle step and fell back against the railing. He sucked in a deep breath, savoring the relief of it. The air was cool and crisp, tinged with the tanginess that proceeded snowfall. Peaceful. The complete opposite of the air inside, where the not-quite-cohesive group of intelligence agents were hashing out how best to dupe Big Brother.

Although he appreciated having the support, it was rapidly becoming overwhelming and stifling. Alex hadn’t missed the furtive glances Ben threw his way, a frown tugging at his lips. It might have been that he wanted to apologize or check on Alex himself, but the distraction of it all was the last thing they needed. Especially if Alex was to go undercover into the lion’s den.

A flicker of color flashed out of the corner of Alex’s eye. Curious, he leant forward slowly and peered as best he could around the wooden post so as to not make too much movement. At first, all he saw was the white and green and brown of the yard, a shaggy, unshorn bush blocking the majority of his view to the right, nothing moving more than a minute sway of a branch. But then, with precise, delicate steps, a cat padded out atop the snow.

He wasn’t an exceedingly cute cat. Bright orange, wooly fur, puffy to the point of fat, but his most particular feature was his face. Much like a cartoon, it looked like someone had taken a frying pan and violently smushed his snout back into his skull. The cat gaze up at Alex with an endearing frown and mewled plaintively.

“Hey there, little guy. Where’re you from?”

Alex held out his hand, coaxing the furball closer and cooing at it invitingly. The cat studied the outstretched hand and rubbed lazily against the bottom step. It circled in the snow, rubbing and dancing in that indecisive yet almost taunting manner cats managed to embody.

“Privyet, koshka,” he whispered, keenly aware of what K-unit might think if they overheard him wooing a cat in Russian. Hi there, kitty.

The cat purred. Then its coyness vanished in a blink of an eye and padded straight over to him. Alex kept his hand steady and allowed it to sniff him first, telegraphing his movement towards its back. The muffled, mechanical purr continued, the cat’s mossy green eyes considering him madly, and yet, he took that as an invitation to stroke its wispy fur.

The cat hummed.

Then it struck, twisting furiously and wrapping its front paws around his forearm, and gnawing on his hand or wherever it could hook its teeth into. Alex yelped and jerked away, swearing.

The fluffy demon, having skittered away almost immediately, clunk back towards him and purred. It blinked at him innocently, or as innocently as it had looked before trying to eat him.

“Psychopath,” he muttered, studying his arm. Raised, red and white lines crisscrossed the skin from here the claws had needled through his jumper.

“I call her Uyobka.” Katya voiced from somewhere behind him. She found a relatively clear place to sit on one of the steps, one leg tucked close, the other stretched out before her, and scowled at the beast. Now outnumbered and its true intentions revealed, it pattered away across the yard and vanished into the trees.

Alex watched it go, absentmindedly brushing off a few rogue drops of water from the icicles hanging from the cabin eaves. “What does it mean?”

Katya grinned, although still tighter than her usual smirks. “sh*thead, I think,” she pondered, tilting her head. “Although po suti, the English translation can be much worse. In Russian, it can be said almost lovingly.”

Alex snorted. “Noted.”

“She has been here for as long as I remember.” Katya picked up a stray pine needle and began to methodically disassemble it. “I still don’t know to whom she belongs. Though I suspect an agent fed the suka once, and now, whenever the izba is in use, she comes prowling back for more.”

Alex thought back to the solid mass the cat sported. It wasn’t an illusion created by the sheer amount of fur, or compensation for the winter, either; he’d felt the full weight hidden under her coat right before she’d lunged. There was no way she was surviving off field mice and squirrels or whatever she managed to catch in the woods. She probably ventured around to every one of the surrounding houses and demanded payment in exchange for not attacking the inhabitants. A proper feline mafioso.

Alex jerked his head toward the safehouse. “How is it going in there?”

Katya squinted against the harsh light reflecting off the snow, brushing away strips of the pine needles. “Fine. We will not tell Konstantin Rybak about Zharkov’s involvement, only that you witnessed the death of Kozlovsky. They need to know why Bradlik—Pavel Bradlik is suddenly returning, and why his men are—how you say, with weapons in arms?”

“Up in arms?”

She shrugged a shoulder, uncertain.

“What about who killed Kozlovsky?”

“Yasha and I will put his photo through our computers. Maybe we will get a name, maybe not, but it makes no difference to what we tell Konstantin. At least, until we explain why we neglected to inform him of our plans.”

Alex nodded, rubbing at his arms. He hadn’t planned on how long he would be sitting outside and now regretted not wearing out something warmer than just a jumper. Least, he hadn’t been wearing Smithers’s armored shirt; it didn’t exactly provide protection from anything other than physical threats.

“Are you heading out soon?” he asked. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see Yakov waiting patiently in the window.

She hummed noncommittally. “Probably.”

Alex considered her from the corner of his eyes, tearing at a sharp nick in his thumbnail. There were a few questions simmering in his mind, but he doubted she would answer. As straightforward as Katya had been with him, they weren’t exactly friends, and questioning her emotional response to a possible gang war in her hometown was not exactly pertinent to their investigation. Still, she had reacted so strongly, significantly more upset and angrier than Yakov had been, that he wondered about the cause.

Katya gave a light-hearted huff and ordered, “just, ask Alyosha.”

Flushing at being caught, he sought through his list for something slightly less personal. “Why—Why don’t you like Ben?” He had suspicions since the first night, whenever she went from talking to Alex on his own, to with Ben as well. Tinged with either vexation or reservedness.

That earned him an amused smile, not even bothering to disguise itself as bewildered. “I am not…fond of socializing,” she admitted. “Perhaps, it is stereotypical of me.”

“What, that’s it?”

“Yes.” Katya co*cked her head and amended, “and also, that he is a soldier of a competing agency. It is a stupid bias, I know, but,” she waved her hand dismissively, “FSB does not encourage friendships with other spies unless it is for our benefit.”

Had he not been gazing vacantly at the space in front of them, Alex would have missed it. When Katya had waved her hand, her sleeve fell back just enough to put her wrist on display. Jagged, glossy whiten lines marred the skin there. Not straight or deliberate, but messy and painful as if someone had held on too tight and ripped away the skin with their nails. The few times Alex had seen her methodically tracing the skin, he had assumed it was an anxious tick or she had been massaging an old injury.

He averted his eyes almost instantly and concentrated on his hands. One of the worst things about his own missions were the scars and when kids at Brookland brought them up. Alex wasn’t about to do the same to her.

“What is your clothing size?”

“Uh…”

“For the school uniform,” she laughed. “If we are to do this, you will need to look the part.”

He had to think about it and ended up giving her a range of sizes. Luckily, he wouldn’t need to interact with the teachers at all, if all went to plan, so an ill-fitting uniform was the least of his worries. That was, until their conversation was interrupted by an abrupt, harsh ringing.

Katya dug through her pockets and withdrew her phone. “Allo.”

There was an incessant voice on the other end, loud and urgent. Whoever it was continued without letting Katya get a word in edgewise, but even from the start of the conversation, she grew stiller, paler. Alex wanted to ask what was happening, but anxiety gnawed at his stomach, stealing his voice.

“Kodga? Gde?” When? Where? The person rattled out an answer. “Nyet, poyedu. Skazhi Kostye, chto my s Yashei s ehtim spravimsya.” No...Tell Kostya, that we…

Katya shot to her feet before she had even ended the call, and Alex followed immediately.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

She was already reaching for the door handle but stopped long enough to turn to him. Her face was pinched, like she was overcompensating on controlling her reaction. “There’s been a shooting. Apparently, the Lyubery did not want to wait for Bradlik to strike first.”

Before Alex could process what that meant, the door behind Katya was ripped open, and Yakov jerked his head over his shoulder.

“Vova pozvonil. Nam nado uexat’.” Vova called. We need to go.

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time Katya and Yasha arrived at the Pasternaka 43 residential building. The multi-storied complex was much like the others all throughout Moscow, built during the Union when everything had the same exact layout and supplies so as to imply equality. This one, however, had fared better than most; ironically, it was because of one specific woman. A fearsome old woman who put Baba Yaga to shame, between her legendary switch and unforgiving nature. Anya had been a driver in World War II, having survived the first year in Leningrad and then making more than a dozen trips across the Road of Life after she escaped. Spending the last of her working years as a teacher and feeding two generations of gang members, she was both loved and feared.

A good portion of the Solntsevo’s revenue went into maintaining Anya’s residential building, and more than a few members had moved in over the years, which had inadvertently turned it into a stomping ground of sorts. Exactly why the Lyubery had decided to target it in the first place.

Pulling into the car park, Katya could make out the pock marked walls and darkened paint, just a little bit more of a rusty brown than the rest of the exterior. Five federal SUVS surrounded the entrance in disorderly increments, the flashing flights arbitrarily signaling the presence of the police. The dvor was completely empty, save the heavily armed officers, who had no doubt evacuated the civilians from the nearby buildings.

Yasha glanced over at her, not bothering to hide his concern. Her lapse in control hadn’t done her any favors in convincing him she wasn’t perturbed by the entire situation. Konstantin didn’t care about the personal conflicts as long as his agents completed their jobs in a satisfactory manner.

“You okay?”

Katya gave a terse nod and tried to smile reassuringly. “’Course.”

Yasha raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment; he knew by now that it wouldn’t be a problem until Katya stopped moving. He scoured the various officers for the telling patch of the agent in charge: four stars with two stripes. Only instead, he spotted a rather large, heavyset man charging past a group of cadets, his bulletproof vest emblazoned with the insignia of a senior lieutenant. Yasha let out a heavy sigh. “Brilliant,” he groaned.

“Come on.” Katya led the way towards the man. “This should be fun.”

A cadet saw their approach immediately and held out a hand. “Police business,” the young man was lowering his voice in a wayward hope that he sounded more intimidating than he did. “You need to vacate the area—”
Katya flashed her badge, carefully wiping her face of any possible emotion. “Agent Azarova and Vorobyev. Where is your oberlieutenant?”

Cadet Suzuki faltered. Either he didn’t believe their badges were truly genuine—a possibility given the far-reach of most of the gangs in Moscow—or his senior lieutenant was even more delightful than dealing with two agents from the security bureau. Katya was willing to bet on the latter.

“Now,” Yasha prompted.

Suzuki’s gaze swung between them once more then landed on the golden badge. Options weighed, he bobbed his head and searched around him, gesturing for them to follow. It didn’t take long to locate the imposing man; he had proceeded to the makeshift command tent set up a few yards away and was having a heated discussion over his radio, most likely with his superior. Katya steeled her eyes and adjusted her holster, drawing herself up as much as she could. Her father, despite condescendingly disapproving of her career choice, had always emphasized the need to project power; it didn’t matter how tall you were, if you could fight back with words and wit. Of course, strength and added height didn’t hurt.

The oberlieutenant turned his sneer onto the two agents as soon as Suzuki was able to alert him to their presence. He took fifteen seconds to evaluate their worth and wasn’t impressed by what he found: two young agents trying to usurp his control. “What do you want?”

Katya didn’t blink, didn’t react. “Adam Bradlik. He’s connected with a case we’re working on, and we plan to get to him before the Lyubery can finish the job.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” He waved a meaty hand at the scene playing around him, although since the initial confrontation with the Lyuberetskaya bratva, the officers had retreated into a defensive position around the residential complex. Car doors were splayed open, ready for the instant another firefight to break out. “I still have active shooters inside the Pasternaka, even if they were the targets in the first place. I don’t have time for you and your little—”

“Our little what, lieutenant?” Yasha interrupted, his eyes flashing. “We require Bradlik alive. He’s no use to us dead. You have him and his faction to thank for today, so unless you want another repeat shooting on your watch, you’ll work with us.”

“Or we call Konstantin Rybak,” Katya offered, pulling out her mobile, “and take control of the entire situation here.” It was a gamble, she knew. Whilst Yakov was technically the superior officer—even to her, in terms of years of service—the oberlieutenant did hold his own clout. Not to mention, Konstantin would not be pleased to hear about her pissing contest, nor appreciate being dragged into the middle of it.

A vein popped in the lieutenant’s neck, his skin flushing crimson. Katya could nearly physically see the man calculating the chances that these two young agents would be able to overturn his orders, considering his chances of what would happen if he pushed her to make the call to their superiors. “He’s on the seventh floor,” he bit out finally. “A few Lyubery made it to the hallway before they were killed.”

“And?” Katya pressed.

“And nothing,” his eyes raking down her. “Their bloody reinforcements showed up and forced my men to pull back. This is the third skirmish we’ve had to deal with today.”

Katya exchanged a look with Yasha. That corresponded with what Denis and Ilija had told them when they rushed into the office that morning. Between the Lyubery, Solntsevy, and a few unaffiliated gangs trying to make a name for themselves in the chaos, there had been violent bursts spattering up all around Moscow Oblast. All it takes is a spark, and a wildfire catches of gang members striving to prove their merit, earn their marks.

It had taken Vova’s gift at persuasion for one such member to reveal where Adam Bradlik had scurried off to in the meantime. That was when another report reached their department of a deadly shootout at Anya Yaffe’s residential building. Katya had been hard pressed to get Konstantin’s approval to take it alone—after all, he still blamed the Brits for their part in the sudden bloodshed.

“Are there any Lyubery left inside?” Yasha asked.

“Not that we know. The few Solntsevo living there shoot at anyone who comes close. Two of my men found out the hard way, when we tried to evacuate the civilians.”

Katya caught a few of the officers in the tent looking their way. They may have been cadets, the lowest rank of the federal police force, but they were not amateurs. The way they held themselves, the stance that was never quite relaxed, the neutral to pinched expressions all pointed to them being ex-military. Even after experiencing half a day worth of skirmishes, they were literally trembling with the adrenaline, waiting to go back in and do their jobs.

“Oberlieutenant …?”

“Norov.”

“Oberlieutenant Norov, with your permission,” the emphasis Katya laid on the last word implied how little his permission meant to her, “agent Vorobyev and I will lead a small group of men to the seventh floor, where we will extract Bradlik. He will then be taken into FSB custody.”

The vein in his forehead was beating in time with his breath. But there was nothing he could that wouldn’t eventually amount to insubordination, and the chief of police, his direct supervisor, would not take that too kindly. He jerked his head once in agreement and called out four names.

With a flicker of approval, Katya noted that all four were the ex-military. Maybe they would manage to take Bradlik alive, after all.

~.~

The seventh floor smelled of blood. The moment Katya stepped into the hallway, the fetor hit her with a wave of nausea. She moved in further, cautiously slow, her PYa service weapon extended in front of her. The vest dug into her shoulders, but she resisted the urge to adjust it. Yasha tapped her shoulder, signaling his approach to her left side. The four cadets flanked them, visibly unperturbed by the three bodies crumpled along the floor.

One by one, they cleared the hall, starting at the first flat and methodically moving down until they ensured no civilians would catch a stray bullet. Katya heard one of the cadets, Perelman, order someone to move into their bath and hide there. Another flat hid the corpse of a Solntsevo member, shot through the door.

Katya skirted around an older man collapsed against the bare grey wall, now painted red. One hand was reaching out still, towards a younger member, whose face was an ashen white. He’d been dragged there, away from the flying bullets, though it hadn’t been enough to save him.

Katya swallowed, fighting back the ghost grip squeezing her wrist in desperation, and readjusted her hold on her grach. It’s not him. She nodded at Yasha, and they surrounded the final door on either side. Exhaling to gain control, Yasha signaled to Hansen.

The door exploded inwards, Hansen dodged out of the way, and they surged in.

Bullets impacted the wall to her right. Katya flinched but kept her aim, taking in the sight of two men in the room. A second later, one of them fell with a cry. His hand scrabbled weakly at his shoulder as blood already began to seep through his shirt. The second man ducked, his instincts screaming at him to get as low to the ground as possible. He swung his arm up, his gun following his sight, but he was already too late. Four guns were traced on him before he could steadily hold the piece, a store-bought brace thwarting his grip.

Her ears were ringing, and distantly, Katya heard herself yell over the aftereffects of close-quarter gunshots, “try it, and you’ll be leaving in an ambulance yourself.”

Bradlik hesitated a second before the pistol tumbled out of his grip, gasping breaths wracking his frame.

Three cadets raced in and, whilst Katya held Bradlik at gunpoint, cleared the rest of the flat for possible hostiles. She stayed steady as Yasha rushed forward, kicking the pistol to the other side of the room, and wrenched his arms behind him. The fourth officer checked on the man bleeding out over the carpet. His chest rose and fell jerkily, but he was alive, nonetheless.
“Seventh floor is secure. One hostile entering FSB custody. Another has been shot—send up the medics,” the officer called into his radio. “Be advised, there are civilians in 705, and a DOA in 708.”

Yasha looked at Perelman, who was leaning his whole-body weight onto the gaping hole in the gang member’s chest. “Can you handle this here?” He shoved Bradlik in front of him, closer to the door.

Cadet Perelman didn’t hesitate and nodded.

Together, Katya and Yasha frog-marched Bradlik down the hall; only this time, instead of taking the stairs as they had going up, they led him straight for the lift. Bradlik hid his emotions well. If her training hadn’t covered reading individuals and discovering their tells, she wouldn’t have seen the occasional jolt run through his chest, the way his pupils were just slightly too large to be normal. He was scared.

As soon as the lift descended two floors, Katya pulled the emergency stop. She turned slowly, bleeding the silence and intimidation for all it was worth. “I’ll give you once chance to answer my questions.”

Bradlik’s eyes flicked to her lazily, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips. “You don’t even have to ask, devonchka. I’ll let you do me any way you want.”

Yakov did something behind Bradlik’s back, eliciting a hiss of pain. Katya could see the disgust play out on Yasha’s face, could feel it weigh in the back of her throat like a stone lodged there, but this was par for the course in their line of work. A tightrope they had to walk between losing themselves and being effective agents.

“Artyom Zharkov,” Katya articulated slowly.

Bradlik set his jaw and suddenly refused to look at her. Yasha stepped out from behind him and shoved him back against the lift wall, holding him in place with an apathetic hand. “We know that Zharkov hired you to kidnap children all over Europe—hey, look at me,” he growled, snapping his fingers in front of the man’s nose. “We know you worked for him, we know Daniil is your go-between, and we know that last night—he snapped your bratok’s neck like a twig.”

Bradlik stared down his nose impassively. Then his breathing hitched. “Sounds like you have it all worked out.”

“Almost.” Katya crossed her arms. “Where is he keeping the kids?”

Bradlik worked his jaw, torn between the immutable vorovskii zakon and bringing furious revenge down on the man who killed his friend.

“Are you actually going to protect him, after what he did?” Katya pulled out her phone and flipped through until she found a screenshot of the brick factory building. Heartlessly, she thrust the screen right before his eyes, making the crumpled, broken body of Kozlovsky unavoidable. “Do you think anyone will actually care that you gave us information? How many of you make deals with the police to get the upper hand on the other bratva? Tell us—where—they are.”

Bradlik’s eyes were set on the photograph, and he had begun to tremble under Yasha’s hand. “Poshyol na zhopu,” he hissed, though after a moment, Katya realized he had aimed it at the phone, at the electronic copy of the murderer.

“I tell you; you make sure the ublyudok dies.”

“Where are the children?”

“I don’t know.” Bradlik tried to right himself on the wall and relieve the pressure that was no doubt building in his wrists, but a little extra weight behind Yasha’s hand halted the movement immediately. “I swear I don’t know where the brats end up. We only ever dropped them off at Nenavos Corp. Sometimes, Danis would pick them up at the shop if it was during the day. We never talked about where they went after that—it’s not what he paid us to do, and honestly, I could care less.”

Katya growled. Unfortunate, but at least, breaking into Nenavos might offer more than she had originally thought. “Danis. That’s Daniil’s family name?”

Bradlik jerked his head with a glare.

“And don’t bother asking me why Zharkov wanted the kids in the first place, cos I don’t know. I didn’t care then, and I don’t care now.”

Yasha pressed just a little harder against the man’s chest, glancing at Katya out of the corner of his eye. “All I’m hearing, is that you don’t know anything useful.”

“Not my problem.” Bradlik shrugged, or at least as much as he could with the handcuffs. “The agreement was to deliver him kids every few weeks. No contact except to tell him that we had a new one, then we would schedule a meet. Danis would shove the brats into a van, and I get paid.”

“Did he ever mention what he wanted them for?” Katya demanded. Her patience was quickly evaporating, not that today had granted her an abundance of it to begin with. A traitorous part of her wondered why she had even requested the case once she found out about it; certainly, Yasha hadn’t held back the harsher questions when he’d been dragged into it as well, but the rest of her knew she wouldn’t have allowed it to go to anyone else.

“Didn’t ask.” Bradlik had the nerve to smirk predatorially. “It’s not the first time some old man requested a kid. Only…”

“Only what?”

“His—preferences were unusual. Said to grab them from all over, not too many from one country at a time, avoid attention—that was not so surprising, but it was the other request…How he prefaced it that was, strange to say the least.” Bradlik paused lazily, dramatically. “He said to bring him the greatest variety we could find.”

Names and their variants:
Aleksandr: Sasha, Sashechka / Sanechka (endearing), Sashka / Sanka / Sanyok (pejorative), Aliks (less common)

Veniamin: Venya, Venechka (endearing), Venka (pejorative)

Ekaterina: Katya, Katyusha / Katenka (endearing), Katka (pejorative)

Yakov: Yasha, Yashenka (endearing), Yashka / Yakovka (pejorative)

Artyom: Tyoma, Artyomochka (endearing), Tyomka (pejorative)

Daniil: Danya, Danisha (endearing), Danilka (pejorative)

Lyudmila: Mila, Milochka (endearing)

Translation and Transliteration

Бесы = becy = demons / possessed

прямо (сей)час = pryamo ‘chas!” = right now

Чё (что)? Ты Костю услышал = Chyo? Ty Kostyu usyshal = what? You heard Kostya

Вот так = Vot tak = just that

группировка = gruppirovka = group, faction, branch, gang

блатные = blatnye = criminals, career criminals

Пиздец. Неудивительно = Pizdets. Neudivitel’no = sh*tty/f*cked situation. No wonder/ not surprising

Чёрт = Chyort = hell

Честно, не знаю = Chestno, ne znayu = honestly, I don't know

Гендиректор = gendirektor = CEO

имена = imena = by the name of / named after

Вдохновитель = vdoxnovitel = mastermind

как её зовут. Директриса = kak yeyo zovut. Direktrisa = what is her name? the director

Своя английская троянская конька = voya angliiskaya troyanskaya kon’ka = our own little English Trojan horse

Привет, Кошка = Privyet, koshka = hi there, kitty

Уёбка = Uyobka = little f*cker / sh*thead

По сути = Po suti = essentially

Когда? Где? Нет, поеду. Скажи Косте, что мы с Яшей с этим справимся. = Kodga? Gde? Nyet, poyedu. Skazhi Kostye, chto my s Yashei s ehtim spravimsya = When? Where? No, I will go. Tell Kostya, that Yasha and I will deal with it.

Вова позвоонил. Нам надо уехать. = Vova pozvonil. Nam nado uexat’ = Vova called. We need to go.

девчонка = devchonka = little girl (pejorative)

Воровский закон = vorovskii zakon = theives' law (code of conduct for the bratva and early gangs that developed out of gulags

Пошёл на жопу = Poshyol na zhopu = go to hell (worse than English expletive)

Увлюдок = ublyudok = f*cker

Chapter 12: K Chertu

Chapter Text

Driving around the streets of Moscow, Alex couldn’t help but notice the change. It was quiet, reserved. Too withdrawn and pained from what Alex had come to see of the proud city. Having not been old enough to see the outcomes of the Troubles, he supposed this was what happened when one’s city becomes a war between underground syndicates. After Katya’s visit, he had delved deep into Russia’s known crime syndicates, and it seemed the various Bratvas in Moscow smelled Solntsevskaya’s blood in the water. The largest and most powerful group suffered an attack, a murder of a close family friend, and now there was an opening.

People were still walking the streets, doing what needed to be done, but there was a hesitancy to it. They didn’t meander outside, kept their heads down, and watched every car with suspicion. The politsia, which were apparently a federal force in Russia, made a point to be always visible, cruising around in their heavily armored vehicles, patrolling on foot with massive assault rifles and thick Kevlar vests. If anything, the increased presence just made matters worse. The city’s anxiety was stifling, smothering Alex and threatening to crush him under its weight.

He was just thankful he was in a car and not walking through it all.

Alex sent a sidelong look at Ben and wondered if he felt the same sweltering apprehension. It wouldn’t be surprising; he was both a soldier and a spy. Neither profession would lead him to the undercurrent threat of violence, and he probably wouldn’t be capable of brushing it aside.

Whatever Ben was feeling, however, he hid it well. His face had remained impassive the entire morning, since he had collected Alex in the late morning. Katya had sent them a message, giving them a time and place and the name Maia Peris. Apparently, the condition for allowing Alex, or Sasha Adler, into the school for the one day was a meeting. Alex kept picturing this intense, angry Russian babushka staring him down, demanding to know his secrets, holding her agreement just out of reach until he presented her with the perfect Russian sentence—or something equally absurd.

All he knew, was this had to work. He couldn’t wait for another opportunity, and already they had agreed that simply breaking into the institute would be the absolute last resort. If they were caught by either Zharkov’s men or the FSB, the ruse was up.

“Say Maia Peris doesn’t let me in, or she wasn’t able to arrange a school trip. What then?” Alex asked, resting his forehead against the cool window.

Ben risked a fleeting glance at him before staring resolutely at the road ahead. “We’ll figure something out. It might take longer, but it won’t be the end of the line.”

“That’s if they don’t kill the kids first.” He felt it, rather than saw Ben’s shocked expression. “Wolf said it first.”

“Yeah, well Wolf is a cynic. I didn’t take you for one.”

Alex bit back his immediate response. He didn’t want to be that moody teenager who held a grudge. He needed to grow up and get past his lingering annoyance at Ben. It wouldn’t help and might possibly get either of them killed in a fight. But he was still so bloody pissed. Mostly at the fact that Wolf had been the one to explain the situation so logically, and that it hadn’t been Ben who did it.

Their car notably decreased in speed, and Alex felt a flash of anxiety that Ben would address the issue then and there. But a second later, he realized that Ben had just missed the green light. Or rather, had purposefully missed it, if the resentful honking and irate swears coming from the car behind them was anything to judge by. Alex studied the soldier suspiciously, with a tinge of amusem*nt, as Ben frowned at the intersecting street signs.

“Are you lost?”

Ben tried to look affronted. “No. ‘Course not.”

“Mhm.” Alex didn’t even bother trying to figure out where they were for himself. “Are we at least in the right district?”

Ben scowled in response and unlocked his phone, furtively examining the map as best he could without being obvious about it. It was such a piteous attempt, Alex couldn’t fathom how MI6 thought Ben would make an excellent undercover operative, if that was the best he could do. Merely holding the mobile low out of view and peeking at it whilst keeping his chin up.

“That’s illegal you know. And dangerous.”

Ben hummed, eyes still on the little screen. “Which is why you should never do this. Besides, we’re parked. Technically.”

“Tell that to the police,” Alex muttered offhandedly and turned back to his side window. He hadn’t meant any one officer in particular, but apparently Ben thought he had. The man comically whipped around in a panic, dropping the mobile onto the console and gripping the steering wheel with both hands. After all that though, he was greeted with nothing but more inimical honking, as the light had turned green.

“Brat,” he mumbled good-naturedly. Their car shot forward, and Ben shoved the phone towards his passenger.

Alex glared at him. “What am I supposed to do with this? It’s in Russian.” By the time he deciphered the words, they would be halfway to Siberia. Words, he could do. Directions on a short time frame, not so much.

“As you so aptly pointed out, using a mobile and driving is stupid and dangerous, so you can do it for me. Just open the chat under K. Azarova. The last message or so should be the address. Just put it in and tell me if I’m at least in the vicinity.”

Alex did as he was asked and found they weren’t as lost as he’d thought. In fact, they were even headed in the right direction, with a bit of course correction. He heard Ben let out a huff of air.

“Look, Alex—”

“Turn right, then the next immediate right—though it could be more of an off-straight turn,” he interrupted. Mostly because they would have missed the street entirely if he hadn’t. “After that it’s straight to the end of the street.”

Ben followed the directions silently. Preferably whatever he was going to say could wait until after they’d solidified their plans for commandeering a class trip. Or better yet, after the mission entirely.

Maia Peris was waiting for them inside the front entrance. Unlike what Alex had pictured, she was an older Hispanic woman, with silver hair pulled back into an immaculate chignon. Everything about her breathed respect and elegance, from the way she held herself, to the pristine condition of her clothing, although currently she wore a rather intense, disapproving stare. The moment Ben and Alex set foot in her school, she studied them flatly and remarked, “you’re late.” Then she spun on her heels and glided off down the hall, without a second glance.

“Least we know where Katya got it from,” Ben muttered under his breath and set off after her.

Alex peered in through a few of the classrooms as they walked past, nearly all of them deep into the hour’s lesson. A wave of dispayesment washed over him. The other students looked exactly like him, which was why MI6 found him so suitable for their needs, and yet he could never just go back to being a simple schoolboy. He didn’t think he even wanted to, anymore. A girl, head in her palm, droning out in her maths lesson, caught his eye and smirked.

“Sasha,” Ben hissed, jerking his head.

“Rightig, t’mir Leid,” Alex muttered and jogged after them. Right, sorry.

Maia Peris, Direktor shkoly as it read on her office door, had already perched herself stiffly behind her desk, when Alex stepped in. She watched him intently, her eyes never leaving his face, and almost completely ignored Ben’s presence in the room. They sat in silence. The only movement came from Alex, who shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and finally, Director Peris took pity on him.

“When Ekaterina reached out to me, I admit I found her explanation of the situation somewhat lacking.” Her gaze shifted between the two of them, unblinkingly. “Perhaps you would like to enlighten me as to why the FSB is so interested in a schoolboy. And why they would like me to sneak this boy into a research facility under the guise of one of my students.”

“It’s complicated,” Ben hedged. Alex hid his surprise at the change in his accent.

The headmistress raised a manicured eyebrow at him, completely unamused at the attempt. “I would like to remind you that I spend my days around some of the best and worst con artists in the world, Mr. Solokov. Please do not try play me.” Director Peris reached out an adjusted a pile of documents at the corner of her otherwise immaculate desk. “Either you are not with the FSB,” her eyes roved up and down Ben appraisingly. “Or this ‘operation’ is happening behind the FSB’s back. I do not particularly care which it is. However, I do care that you are using a boy to do so.”

“It was my choice,” Alex argued, slipping into his German accent. “I don’t know how much we can tell you, but this is the fastest solution we could come up with.”

“Fastest. Not best.” Director Peris occupied herself by straightening a few files at the corner of her desk and shook her head “Bozhe moi.” My God.

It took everything Alex had not to look to Ben. He barely breathed, working his hand against the side of his leg to expend some of his nervous energy. She had to agree to this. Why else would Katya have sent them there, if it weren’t a near guarantee? He felt the director’s scrutiny and met her gaze evenly. Her eyes narrowed just so, her face oddly emotionless and controlled.

She clicked her tongue. “Nenavos will be expecting our arrival at 13:00, Friday afternoon. Whatever happens afterwards, will in no way reflect back upon my school. Am I understood?”

Alex nodded vigorously before she had even finished speaking. “I won’t get caught.”

Ben shifted uncomfortably, an imperceptible readjustment. Alex hadn’t pegged him for superstitious, but granted, with his own luck, saying something so cavalier might have just taunted the fates. He looked down at his hands and amended, “they won’t know I used the school as an excuse to break in.”

“It took just about every favor and connection I had to make it happen this Friday. And quite a bit of money.”

“We can reimburse you for any—” The scathing glare from Peris was enough to cut Ben off halfway. He cleared his throat and adapted his approach. “Is there anything more we need to do? Anything Sasha would need to know or have in order to pass as one of your students?”

“Our lessons are taught in English, and from what I have heard, you are fluent enough to not raise suspicion.” The headmistress sorted through the top drawer on her desk and removed a business card, offering it to Ben. It was simple cardstock, white, with only a name, company, and address printed below a cartoon spool: Inezh Zenik, Atelier, Leninski Prospekt 23. “You will need a uniform tailored. Inezh is employed by the school and will have spares to work with.”

As Ben tucked the card into his jacket pocket, Alex realized one possible, glaring problem. They had a way in now, clothes to blend in, but none of this mattered if his cover was blown before he even got on the bus. “What about the other students on the trip?” he asked. “They are going to notice that I do not go to their school. What do I tell them when they ask why I’m there?”

Director Peris considered him for a moment and waved her hand toward the room in general. “The International School of Moscow has two campuses. Tell them you go to Rosinko.”

Alex repeated the name to get a feel for it. He could manage that; hopefully, he could fly under the radar long enough to disappear entirely. “Is there anything else I should know?”

The director shook her head, although she reached for a collection of papers stacked on top one of the file cabinets. She handed them over, their glossy sheen nearly erasing the smiling faces on its front. It was a basic brochure for the school, Alex realized as he thumbed through it, containing information regarding teacher to student ratios, curriculum and special events that occurred over the course of the semesters, as well as ecstatic testaments singing praise of the school’s ability to cultivate the mind, body, and soul of a child. It was typical propaganda, true in part, and grossly flattering.

Director Peris rose to her feet, signaling the abrupt end to their meeting. She saw them to the school entrance, as wordlessly as the first time, with one exception. As Alex was about to pass through the front doors, Peris reached out and snatched his arm. Ben, unaware, continued on to the car.

Her eyes flicked back and forth between Alex’s own, but she didn’t say anything for the longest time. “Bud’ ostorozhenym, mal’chik,” she enunciated clearly. “V tihom omute cherti vodyatsa.”

Although he had no idea what the words actually meant, it was the look in her eyes and the tone of her voice that clued him into the warning. A warning about whom or what, Alex had to discover on his own.

After they had visited the tailor’s—and Alex had become a human version of a pincushion—Ben led them straight to a quaint, little restaurant on the corner of a street. Olya’s kafeshka was old and warn, although in a way that spoke of comfort and being well-loved. Only three other patrons were inside, and all three of them were sat in the small alcove in the far corner of the room. Their low, humming chatter never faltered once carrying on like bees in a hive. The lighting, although weak and rather useless if someone had intended to get any work done over a cup of tea, added nicely to the soothing ambience. As soon as Alex stepped inside, the luscious scent of fresh bread, flaky pastries, and savory pies encompassed him in their warmth. His stomach growled.

Ben ushered him further inside and said quietly, “Find a place to sit. I’ll order us something.”

Alex claimed the long bench by the window and pushed away the series of string lights that covered the pane. The sky had been threatening to storm all day, but as of yet, it was still too warm for snow. Instead, a wall of hazy mist hovered in the streets, a constant dreariness to an otherwise dreary day.

Two mugs clanked against the table behind him, and Ben slid onto the chair opposite. “They’re cooking up some blinchiki for us. You’ll like them. They’re like crepes.”

Alex looked at him askance from around his coffee mug. “Why aren’t you speaking German?”

“I don’t suspect the grandmas over there will sell us out,” Ben said dryly but then gave a half-shrug. “But seriously, the German is more of a tool to put as much distance between us and whatever suspicions may be lingering from the raid in London. As long as we’re careful about what we say, we’ll be fine.”

Alex didn’t respond. He didn’t look at Ben either. The flash of annoyance stubbornly refused to go away, despite his recent resolve to work with K-unit (Ben included) regardless of past unpleasantries. Of course, that would be easier if it involved less downtime and more chaotic moments of being shot at or thrown into hundred-gallon aquariums.

The tension continued until Alex had gulped down the last of his scalding beverage. It had served well as a distraction, a barrier to a conversation, but as soon as the empty ceramic met the table, the hollow clink gave him away. Ben drummed his fingers against the side of his own mug and glanced around. One of the babushkas in the corner had pulled out a laptop, and the others were cooing away at something on the screen, completely absorbed in their own business.

“Wolf,” he stated suddenly, turning back to watch Alex’s face carefully, “he told me you had asked for a—ein Gewehr. After what happened the other night.” A gun.

Alex gave a small nod.

“You realize, you wouldn’t be able to take it with you into Nenavos, right?”

Again, Alex nodded, although this time he added, “I don’t care. I’m sick of not having a way of defending myself, wann die Kugeln fangen an zu fliegen.” When the bullets start flying. “Cos in my experience, the bad guys rarely give a damn about my age.”

“The Bank gave me specific orders about giving you a Gewehr. Or rather, not giving you one.” Ben threw him a humorless grin. “But I suppose what they don’t know, won’t hurt them.”

Alex blinked in surprise, and then narrowed his eyes. That was too easy; there had to be a catch. Even Wolf at Point Blanc, who had been adamantly against dragging Alex back through the hellish academy (with good reason), had refused to violate his orders. So why would K-unit now?

Alex waited for the ‘but’ statement, only instead of any conditional attachment, Ben’s carefully constructed mask fell away. For a blink of an eye, his jaw was set, his face wrought with guilt. “I didn’t mean to abandon you back there.”

Alex fiddled with his mug’s handle. “So, you thought you’d bribe me with a gun as an apology? Not exactly the safest solution to your problem.”

Ben leaned back in the chair and rubbed at his eyes, chuckling roughly. “Except, according to Wolf, you know how to shoot. Want to tell me how?”

“Not really.”

“Fine. As long as you don’t tell Wolf before me. Then I know, I really screwed up.”

Alex huffed, smirking. “I dunno. Snake’s looking pretty good in my books, right now. He hasn’t done anything too bad recently. Even said six words not completely derogatory back at Brecon.”

The soldier pondered the thought for a moment before sulking wryly. “I guess I can accept that. Snake’s helped me out of a few tight spots. But in seriousness, Cub—I am sorry. You can trust me to have your back—going forward. All of us.”

Alex hesitated before he said, “I’m going to hold you to that.”

It was Ben’s turn to blink, but the relief was evident on his face. Maybe he had been feeling worse than he’d let on about the whole thing. Or, maybe he was more afraid of what Jack might do to him, if she ever found out about it.

“Aber ich will immer noch eine Waffe,” Alex added, earning an amused chuckle in return. But I still want a gun. Whatever he would have said next was interrupted by the youngest server carting over a tray filled with paper-thin pancakes stacked atop one another next to jars of different colored confitures. Alex sniffed at one, nibbling its edge, and found it to be quite plain. He followed Ben’s example in loading his up with as much jam—strawberry and what looked to be blueberry or blackberry—and cream as he could possibly fit, rolling it up into a baby burrito, and then he proceeded to swallow a quarter of it whole. Alex reckoned a bit of Nutella or chocolate would be an excellent addition, but otherwise the Russian pancakes weren’t too bad.

“So, I’ve been wondering,” Ben began, starting in on another crepe, “what happened between you and Wolf? He hasn’t once called you ‘Double O Nothing’ since he got here. Was it cos of what happened in France?”

Alex shrugged noncommittedly. “Partly, I guess.” Then the words, “and partly, cos I kicked him out of plane,” slipped out.

Ben, who had just shoved an unhealthy portion of food into his mouth, choked. The wheezing cough caught the attention of the two servers behind the bar, who looked like they were debating whether they had to call 999, or Russia’s equivalent. Alex waved them off, as Ben thumped himself in the chest a few times and gulped down some coffee. His face was only slightly more red than usual. “The hell d’you mean you kicked him out of a plane?” he rasped, squinting in discomfort.

Alex meticulously spread the red jam along the inside of another blinchik and pointedly ate it more civilly. Was he beyond holding the story over Ben’s head? The answer was no.

“Fine,” Ben grumbled and rubbed at his sternum with a grimace. “Then I guess I won’t tell you about Eagle getting murdered by the drill instructor…”

Now that story was tempting. But was it enough to want to trade? It wasn’t like Alex had anything to hide, and it didn’t really affect Wolf as of now. “It was on the parachuting exercise at camp. Wolf froze, and I just gave him a little help is all. Your turn.”

Ben swallowed completely to avoid a repeat of earlier, because he was already finding his retelling, which had yet to start, quite hilarious. Alex hoped that it wasn’t a ‘you had to be there to be funny’ kind of story. “This probably happened a few months after you’d left. We’d just done our mountain training and were set to ship out for the jungle portion the following week. In the meantime, we get assigned different tasks, keep up with basic training, try not to get binned and the like. So, the day after we get back from a night excursion, we get assigned watch—which is beyond pointless cos we’re in the middle of Wales, but whatever. We’re all completely shattered, slapping ourselves in the face, patrolling, and basically doing whatever we can to stay awake, but Eagle—the idiot—falls asleep. For some reason, the DI comes to check on us, finds Eagle sleeping upright in a chair, and screams in his ear: bang, you’re dead.”

“Murdered by the DI,” Alex grinned. Not exactly what he’d had in mind but humorous, nonetheless.

Ben shook his head and laughed. “Not only did we get punishment duty for the week, but anytime Eagle was addressed in any way, he had to say that he’d been killed for sleeping on duty. ‘Course he took it further and acted like Casper for the rest of the week. I swear Wolf was ready to actually murder him by the end.”

“That’s just stupid,” but Alex found himself entirely amused by the situation. Maybe if they had been like that when he’d been dropped on them in the first place, it wouldn’t have been the Hell on earth that it was. “How come they didn’t bin you for that?”

Ben gave a shrug and pushed his empty plate away. “If they binned everyone they ever found passed out from exhaustion, there’d be no one left. Plus, it helped we were one of the top-ranking units at the time.” He fished his phone out of his jacket pocket. “Got any more stories you want to share? We’ve still got a lot of time to kill.”

Alex fiddled with the burnt crumbs left on his plate and pursed his lips. So much of his missions involved absolute absurdities that he could probably tell Ben, and the man would barely believe him. From the convoluted attempts to kill him to the actual mastermind plots he went up against, he had a plethora to choose from. “Back in April, there was this drug dealer who used to sell behind my school. His name was Skoda…”

By the time Ben and Alex arrived back at the safe house, it was dark out. The tailor had taken much longer than expected in preparing his uniform—a blue blazer and tie with yellow and blue accenting—and Ben had insisted upon completing other innocuous tasks in the meantime: driving by the research facility, stopping at some shops, and wandering around the block until they received the call from Inezh Zenik.

Alex ambled up the steps to the cottage. That tiredness that came from constant awareness and an itching for something to happen had left him exhausted. The fact that it was Christmas Eve, however, pushed him over the edge. All day, he had managed to keep the pain at bay, focusing on getting prepared for the day to come, but now that he had nothing but K-unit and his thoughts to keep him occupied, Alex found himself acknowledging it: this was his first Christmas since his uncle died.

So much had happened over the past nine months, how could he not feel like his insides had been put through a meat grinder?

When Alex opened the door, he nearly walked into a tree. It was a short, fat fir tree, that someone had hastily rammed into a metal stand and stuck just outside the entryway. Its scraggly tip was crushed against the ceiling pitifully. Alex shoved its over-extending limbs out of the way.

“Why is there a tree in the doorway?” he asked of no one in particular.

“One of the Russians dropped it off earlier,” Wolf grumbled as he strode past him. He was carrying a tray full of mugs and a plate of biscuits to the sofas, where the other members of K-unit were sprawled. The other two gave a small wave in greeting.

Alex flicked one of the branches. “Okay…but why?” No one had mentioned they were celebrating the holiday, nor did he particularly want to,

Snake shrugged as he took the green ceramic from Wolf’s tray and sniffed at it dubiously. “They thought it’d be a nice gesture. Which it was,” he added pointedly, glaring toward their captain. “A lot of soldiers and covert agents on duty at least acknowledge holidays, if it won’t expose their cover.”

Wolf didn’t bother to respond and blew on his own steaming beverage. “I still don’t like ‘em.”

Alex walked over to his usual spot by the fire and was mildly surprised to find Wolf had set out five mugs to start. He reached for the one closest and co*cked an eyebrow at the man. “Do you even like anyone?”

Wolf grunted.

“Why is there a tree in our doorway?” Ben stopped, just as Alex had seconds before, and tugged on one of the branches.

Eagle chuckled into his tea as Wolf’s scowl deepened into his. “Better leave it alone, Benj, or else our dear commander might have an aneurism.”

Alex couldn’t help himself. He muttered under his breath, “too bad the title of Casper is already taken.”

“What?” Eagle’s eyes narrowed. His burning, slightly confused gaze dragged away Alex and latched directly onto Ben. “You told him about that? Where’s the trust? The dignity?”

Snake glared at him flatly. “When your inability to keep awake lands us on kitchen duty for a week, you don’t get the dignity of keeping your embarrassments a secret.”

Ben fell down next to Snake and slapped him appreciatively in the shoulder. “Exactly. Besides—without your great sacrifice, we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to learn about Cub, here, tossing Wolf out of a plane back in Brecon Beacons.”

There was a pause.

Eagle and Snake looked between all three of them for a hint that it was an inside joke or mistake. Then Snake snorted. Eagle cackled and aggressively ruffled Alex’s hair, finding great amusem*nt picturing what had been, in actuality, less eventful than they were making it out to be. Alex swatted the offending hand away.

“I didn’t toss him out,” he clarified. “I just gave him a bit of a push, is all.”

“Is that why you looked particularly disheveled when you landed?” Snake questioned evenly.

“We’d just jumped out of a plane,” Wolf objected. “We all were a bit disheveled!”

Alex cracked a hesitant smile but glanced toward Wolf. He expected the man to be furious, to return to the nasty figure he’d known at camp. Instead, Wolf looked to be actually…smirking? He blocked his face immediately with his mug, so Alex couldn’t be sure, but the corner of his mouth definitely twitched. Alex was so occupied with the continuing banter between K-unit that he nearly jumped into the furnace when a small box landed in his lap.

“Merry Christmas,” Ben said, moving to sit beside him. It was a phone, the same model he’d slipped into Bradlik’s pocket, in its original packaging. “Our numbers, and the Bank’s emergency number, are already programmed in. The code’s 2663.”

Alex unlocked it and immediately opened their contact pages. He wasn’t going to take any chances this time; he read and re-read their numbers, committing each one to memory. Now, even if the phone was smashed into a million pieces, Alex wouldn’t be stuck alone. He smiled in thanks.

The rest of the night continued on in a similar manner to the first night K-unit had arrived. The only difference was that they included Alex, or Cub as they called him, in on everything. Much of it revolved around stories from training or their army days, but occasionally, they steered the conversation towards the odd fourteen-year-old tagged onto their unit. To be fair to them, Alex knew they’d been curious about him, ever since the sergeant had thrust him into K-unit.

Alex managed to divert the attention away from the more serious questions about his life, not quite yet ready to reveal everything to men, whose real names he didn’t even know. He trusted Ben, and he supposed the others, to have his back, but his life…that required more than half a mission of decency. Instead, he ate their impromptu Christmas Eve dinner, drank hot chocolate, and asked for the last-minute clarification on the plan for Nenavos.

“Go through with the tour, get every bit of information you can on the layout and security in place,” Ben said. “Once you can, slip away and find somewhere to hide. If you can’t—or if you’ve got a bad feeling about it—pull out. We’ll pick you up at the school and figure something else out.”

“But if you can,” Wolf continued, throwing Ben a warning look, “wait until they lock down for the night. Use your special Q gadget thing to unlock the doors. Get us in, and we’ll take a look around.”

Ben reciprocated the captain’s look with one of his own. “And be careful, Cub. This isn’t our only shot at figuring out what’s going on. Don’t do anything stupid; not unless it’s absolutely worth it.”

As the bus drove past the line of trees that separated the main road from Nenavos campus, Alex was afforded his first clear view of the entirety of the facility, and he couldn’t help but be impressed. Whoever the architect had been, they’d clearly spared no expense in its design: floor-to-ceiling glass windows that formed geometric patterns, polished stone pillars supporting a grand façade, solar panels woven into the eaves of the corrugated roof seamlessly. The main building itself was absolutely enormous; if Alex had to guess, it covered at least half a city block, while the property claimed the other half. Pressing his face against the window, he could only just make out a where the center building ended and where another began.

The bus pulled up to the front of the building, where a man had rushed out to greet them. Alex was among the first of the students to spill out onto the pavement and immediately drifted off to the side, ducking his head further into his jacket. It wouldn’t completely dissuade the other kids from approaching him with more asinine inquiries, but he at least hoped that ‘out of sight, out of mind’ held some semblance of truth to school children. They weren’t exactly known for being difficult to distract.

The ride over had been tortuous enough. Naturally, the moment their intrusive, beady-eyed gazes had fallen on Alex and taken in his uniform, the students all but lunged at him, battering him relentlessly with questions and suspicions. Director Peris had been there in the beginning to fend of the worst of the Inquisition and sent most of them scattering with a single raised eyebrow, but as soon as the bus pulled away, they were on him again like hyenas to prey. Mr. Pak, the supervising teacher, had done nothing to stop this either; he didn’t even seem to notice that he had gained a student. So, Alex—or Sasha rather, as he had repeatedly introduced himself as—had endured it the best he could and prayed they would arrive sooner, rather than later.

Mr. Pak clapped his hands loudly to gain everyone’s attention, looking less than enthused about the situation. The man to his left, however, appeared absolutely delighted at the group of twenty-four children on his doorstep. He smiled widely at each and every one of them, making pointed eye contact to an unnerving level. He towered over most of them, like a withering stalk of grass—he was about as thin as one too. His hair was perfectly coiffed, his face clean-shaven. Everything—from his chic button-down shirt, his tailored jeans, to his expensive leather shoes—was pristinely maintained. His classic white lab coat shone with bleach.

“Zdravstvuite!” Hello! The man cried loudly. He clapped his hands together, nearly bouncing in excitement. “Welcome! I am Dr. Russo, and I will be your guide today. I am so pleased y—”

As soon as he launched into his introduction, Alex tuned the doctor out, sincerely doubting that the overzealous man had anything more to offer him than a headache. Instead, he allowed his eyes to roam along the outside of the institute for anything of note. From where he stood, there wasn’t much. The exterior walls were faultless. The ledge from the stone façade barely protruded enough for the tip of one’s boot, and the overhanging eaves would make belaying down complicated. It would be too exposed for an aerial assault anyways—not that he envisioned K-Unit needing to do so, but it never hurt to be prepared. The sides of the building were likewise too far away to make out anything in detail, but given the carved pathways in the snow, it was fair guess that there was some kind of side door, a fire exit most likely. Maybe, Alex could disable the alarm from the inside…

Suddenly, the other kids were shuffling forwards, and Alex scrambled to catch up. He squeezed past Dr. Russo, who was awkwardly propping the door open from the inside, and joined the queue behind the other students waiting to step through the security gantry. The entire security check was reminiscent of an airport, although Alex was willing to bet everything that the detector and x-ray were just the visible security measures. The windows and doors were probably armed with pressure sensors, surveillance cameras doubtlessly covered most (if not all) corners of the building, and the security guards (Ivan and Vlad, Alex mused) were just two cogs in a multi-manned machine.

Ivan and Vlad looked on with unveiled irritation and loathing, throwing the various purses, totes, and rucksacks onto the conveyer belt roughly, much to the chagrin of more than a few of the students. Katya had been right in assuming the guards would be ex-military. Not only were the men the epitomal stereotype of a soldier—the short-trimmed hair, packed muscles, solid stance—but the pistol secured to their belt indicated that they were more than just your average security guard. Alex copied the other boys as he passed through the security gantry, ogling the guards’ weapons reverently and a tad fearfully. It never hurt to play the adolescent card.

He followed the flow of blazers to the center of the atrium, where the rest had begun to gather impatiently. Three students had triggered the alarm, and currently Ivan was dumping the contents of a girl’s purse out onto the table. In the meantime, Alex took in every little detail he could find about the layout of the building. He tried his best to look absolutely enthralled by the facility, playing up the idea that Sasha had come on the trip due to his extreme interest in biology.

Nenavos’s main building reminded Alex a little of an octopus: the atrium being the animal’s mantle while the corridors were its tentacles. The atrium was spacious and grand, ending in a glass dome at the top. Open walkways crisscrossed each of the floors, while vines and plants with leaves the size of pans spooled over the glass railings. He counted at least five cameras in the entrance hall alone. Brilliant.

“Right,” Dr. Russo called over the increasing din of adolescent voices. “This way please!” He ushered the last of the stragglers into the extensive, high-ceilinged atrium, where he paused long enough to capture everyone’s attention. “First things first, I will ask you to remain with the group the entire duration, and please do not touch anything. Many of our experiments are very sensitive. Our scientists have spent countless hours on them, as well as many millions of rubles, so again: keep your hands in your pockets, if you feel the overwhelming urge to poke something. Because if you did, I’d have to kill you.” Dr. Russo laughed. Alex didn’t.

The doctor waved them on towards the first hallway on the right, spinning dramatically on his heels and carrying on seamlessly as he led the group backwards. “I always like to start my tours off with a little history lesson. Delve deep into Sebilisled’s tragic past.” He grinned deviously, and Alex had the distinct suspicion that the man grossly overestimated their interest in the matter. “Founded all the way back in 1970, the geneticheskii nauchnyi institut Nenavos, or as it was known back then Sebilisled, headed the Soviet Union’s research into biological advancements. Although Sebilisled dealt with all kinds of biological research, Nikita Aslanov, the founder of Sebilisled, specialized in genetics, and more specifically, manipulation of DNA. It is really quite fascinating. Aslanov dedicated much his work to the study of DNA and evolutionary traits of species, and much of his methodology was along the lines of controversial Lysenkoism.”

The first-floor hallway looked much like any other scientific research facility; it even had some quality reminiscent of Brookland’s science building before it met its unfortunate, fiery end. Four sets of laboratories, with floor to ceiling windows and glass doors, lined each side. They were filled with all the usual lab equipment, and all of them were completely dark, save for a line of purple UV lights directed over a series of plants in the center of each of the rooms. The students milled about the glass walls disinterestedly.

Dr. Russo jabbed a finger against the glass, roughly pointing at one of the many jungle plants inside. “Here we have our agronomy labs. Dr. Loren Mikhaelsson has been crossbreeding genes found in dinoflagellate Pyrocystis fusiformis with amaryllis flowers.” When no one did anything except blink at him, he elaborated, “he wants to make the flowers glow. Among other things.”

One of the kids frowned. “Why would they want that?”

“Cos it’s cool?” Dr. Russo offered. No one laughed; a few cringed. “In seriousness, crossbreeding certain traits, especially those with DNA sequences as easily identifiable as bioluminescence, allows us to determine certain genetic markers within a given species. Many of the projects here are interconnected; their findings impact the research of others here at Nenavos.”

He waved them on to the next hallway, which was much like the previous: white halls, linoleum floors, and half-wall, half-glass hallways. Nearly every other floor was much of the same, the only difference being the numerous plants that decorated the walls and the names on the doors. Less than half of the laboratories had occupants, and those that did were operating on the bare minimum personnel. Alex wondered why they hadn’t simply closed everything down for the day and saved the energy it took to keep Nenavos running. At least, the lack of employees would be to his benefit. The fewer people he had to dodge, the better. It was only a matter of timing, now.

Dr. Russo was very thorough in his tour, explaining the basic focus of every hall, which was categorically separated by specialization. It seemed that most of the research in the Eastern wing was geared towards genetic adaptation, no matter the specialization. Agronomy? Transfer of genetic sequencing. Zoology? The evolutionary traits left over from nuclear disasters. Neurology? Identifying and attempted elimination of genes that caused fatal mutations. Alex supposed this had to do with the fact Nenavos was a biological research facility with two head scientists—that guy Nikita Aslanov and Artyom Zharkov—who specialized in genetics, but he couldn’t help but wonder why such a man with an obsession for genes would be kidnapping kids. The last crazy scientist he had an encounter with had perfected the art of cloning and plastic surgery, and Alex was not looking forward to a repeat of something similar.

Because every floor basically held similar research, he was no closer to limiting down his search. Alex had to find not only a place to hide until night fall, but also figure out where Zharkov might be hiding the key to his master plan. If it was at Nenavos to begin with…

The fifth floor was where Alex finally caught his break. Despite Dr. Russo’s constant calls to stay as a closely knit group, most of the students had fanned out to cover the entire hallway. A group of five friends lagged so far behind that Mr. Pak stood in the stairwell door to make sure they didn’t get off on the wrong floor. One idiot had even come close to falling over the side of the bannister, taking a five-story fall onto the marble tiles below. Alex had taken the opportunity to slowly separate from the main group so that it wouldn’t be odd when he finally decided to break away for good. Unfortunately, another boy had decided to follow his example.

He was the boy from earlier, one of the only ones to have ever asked a question. He offered Alex a shy, friendly smile. “I’m Viktor,” he introduced. “Viktor Sim. You’re Sasha, right?”

“That’s right.” Alex didn’t make eye contact and focused purposefully on their tour guide. Please go away.

“D’you like Kino?”

“What?” Alex turned to him in surprise. “Do you mean, do I enjoy the cinema?” he asked bemusedly.

Viktor shook his head. He glanced around covertly, wrinkling his nose at the good ole doctor still blathering on about the latest brain surgery done on a field mouse, and tugged at his shirt collar. Just peeking out of the white fabric was a thin white wire curling up into the boy’s dark hair. Vik’s hair was just long enough to conceal the cord. If he concentrated hard enough, Alex could hear the odd hissing whisper of a voice.

“Kino,” Viktortor reiterated. “One of the best rock bands in all of Russian history. They wrote songs like Kukushka, Good Night, Pesnya bez slov, and like, 90 others. Them and Zoopark basically started the rock movement in the Soviet Union. I’ve been listening to their re-released classics all day. Anything is infinitely better than listening to him prattle on.”

Alex had to agree as he ambled across the open-air walkway, although he hadn’t been really listening anyways. He had tuned in every time the scenery changed in case Dr. Russo revealed something of import. Currently, the tour had led them to the heart of the genetics lab, surrounded on all sides by those working on genetic mutations, the outcomes of splicing certain animal genes, and the in-depth records of an old Soviet genome project.

Viktor jogged after him to catch up. His eyes were set on the floor as he himself prattled on without pause for breath. “What kind of music are you in to? Viktor Tsoi is my favorite—my dad’s too; me and my brother were named after Tsoi and the Zoopark singer Mayk Naumenko—but I know tons of other artists too, if you like non-Soviet bands. You’re from Germany, right? You’ve got the accent for it. Nena’s a classic, 99 Luftballon and the English remake; Mark Forster, more modern but still quite good; Merlene Dietrich, if you’re looking for an Edith Piaf kind of feel. I’ve noticed a lot of German singers sing in English, but that’s not so bad. Lots of times you can find new perspectives on things. New ways to describe the world."

Alex couldn’t help the genuine smile. Viktor reminded him so strongly of Tom because of the way how both boys seemed completely oblivious or unbothered by the fact their interlocutor was more of an observer than anything. He may be a bit odd, socially awkward, but he seemed sincerely trying to make Alex feel included. Even if Viktor was a bit of an outcast himself.

“Sorry.” Viktor tugged on the leaf of one of the many plants lining the walkway. “Sorry, I tend to blather on a bit.”

Alex shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. Have you heard of Ben Zucker or Namika? They might be a bit different from what you listen to, but they’re good.”

Viktor immediately slipped his mobile out of his pocket and typed in the names, grinning. “Why are you here?” he asked. “I mean, like, are you new or transferring or something?”

“I attend the Rosinko campus. I want to study biology, so when I heard there was a trip to Nenavos planned, I requested to go.”

“But it was only scheduled a few days ago. Mum was livid about the missed courses. How come you’re the only Rosinko student on the trip?”

Alex hesitated before shrugging. “I don’t know. Maybe no one else was interested.”

Viktor didn’t look like he quite believed Alex, but Mr. Pak walked up behind them before he could comment further. The class was directed down the hallway that intersected the walkway. One end, where Dr. Russo had parked himself, was just like the others, but down on the other end, it was compellingly different. Two doors, with reinforced, frosted glass, abruptly cut the hallway short. A black panel rested to the right of it, with combination lock of a keypad, electronic swipe, and computer login. The most tantalizing part were the big black and red letters written across the glass:

Внимание: ограниченный доступ

Attention: accès restreint

Attention: restricted access. A pair of blurry figures passed behind the doors. Unlike the past dozen laboratories, this wing had no labeled personnel and no room numbers, nothing that would identify the lab’s purpose. Not only that, but there was a surprising lack of visible security cameras; the only one appeared to be angled directly on the keypad, so as to record the person entering. Someone didn’t want this hallway’s activities on the permanent record. Alex was willing to bet anything that whatever Zharkov was doing was hidden behind those exact doors.

“What’s back there?” His voice broke through whatever explanation Dr. Russo had been in the middle of.

The man faltered. When he realized just where Alex had meant, he shook away the unease and smiled. “Government-sponsored research. You need special security clearance to access it. Unfortunately, it is quite top-secret, so I can’t tell you about the latest projects.” He turned back as if to continue on down the opposite side, but Viktor called him back, watching Alex out of the corner of his eye.

“What clearance level do you have?”

“Not high enough to know about their current projects,” Dr. Russo’s voice, for the first time, sounded clipped and annoyed. “This room here is my lab, but I assure you, the work I’m doing is just as fascinating as what’s going on behind those doors.”

Alex highly doubted that but left it well alone.

The doctor unlocked his lab with a single swipe of his keycard. Which then returned to the clip on his belt, Alex noted. That would be helpful later on, especially if Alex’s hunch was correct. Long counters with machines and medical equipment divided the room, a hermetically sealed units and a refrigerator lining one wall. There were anatomical posters and charts with formulae or graphs on nearly every surface. Alex shuffled past a few of his classmates to get closer to the furthest wall. Horseshoe crabs—pictures, diagrams, and actual shells—were pinned into the pushpin fabric there, but what Alex was really interested in, was the length of the room. He had counted his steps along the hall, and again once he passed through the door, and now he was certain. Dr. Russo’s lab shared an inner wall.

"For the past five years, I have been studying Limulidae Xiphosurida, more commonly known as Horseshoe crabs. Their blood carries fascinating properties, and scientists have been using it for medical purposes for years now. For example, a chemical compound within their blood is able to detect a bacterial presence and trap them. Therefore, since the 1970s, it has been used as a key ingredient in many vaccines. My research, however, focuses on the clotting factor. Let me show—”

As Dr. Russo droned on about his research concerning the blue-blooded creatures, Alex studied the lab. It wasn’t exactly a broom cupboard. In fact, it was as far away from the front entrance as he could get, but if he had the chance to take a peek in the restricted sector of Nenavos, shouldn’t he take it? The ceiling was made of fiberglass tiles, which would be flimsy and possibly unable to support his weight, but if it turned out the crawlspaces were connected? Security systems, other than banks and museums, rarely think about entrances other than doors and windows. It was worth a shot.

Alex bided his time as perfectly as he could. Once Dr. Russo announced their return to the front entrance, as a conclusion to their tour, Alex hung towards the back of the group and, as he walked by, tripped. He collided with the man, slid his hand along the belt until he felt the retractable clip, and tugged it loose, tucking the badge into the palm of his hand. Alex backed away.

“Sorry,” he muttered, a flush running up the sides of his neck.

“No problem, kid. Just watch where you’re going.”

The tour began to retrace their steps back toward the ground floor, but Alex drifted to the back of the group. He kept his eyes on Mr. Pak and Dr. Russo, waiting for the absolute best moment to slip away. He had one shot at it. The progression from the fifth floor was slow and involved; as if someone had flipped a switch, all twenty-three adolescents lost the last of their attention span and joked and spread across the entire walkway. It was mid-afternoon on a Friday, at the end of a long, very academically dry tour, so they had little left to give.

Alex almost pitied the two adults. But the feeling vanished as soon as they’d reached the third-floor landing, and two boys got too carried away. The taller of the two wrapped his arm around the other overzealously, just as they had taken a step down. Overbalanced, they rocked into the wall, knocking a girl in the back of the head. Mr. Pak stepped in immediately, and Alex slipped away.

He couldn’t guarantee that no one had been looking his way, but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment. The exit he’d taken brought him onto the third floor, but from what he remembered of the layout, there was a second stairwell on the other side of the walkway. From there, Alex could sneak back up to the fifth floor and into Russo’s lab. The only problem would be staying off security’s radar in the meantime.

Alex walked normally, despite every instinct telling him to do just the opposite. Someone ducking around corners, checking for cameras, and simply looking out of place would draw attention to him like flies to honey, but acting confident and walking wouldn’t stand out at first glance. He just had to climb two flights of stairs, two walkways, and one hallway without being seen.

The moment the door latched shut behind him, Alex held his breath, resting his forehead against the wood. He waited. The clock on the wall ticked alongside his racing heart, but he caught every rushed breath in order to slow it down. If he had been seen, surely the security guards would have come racing in by now. There were stairs and a lift, not to mention Alex had yet to actually locate the main security office; for all he knew, it was located on the fourth floor.

No one came.

After considerable amount of time had passed, Alex surmised it was safe to go through with his plan. But first, he dropped Russo’s badge onto the floor, underneath the ledge of one of the counters. It should look as if it had fallen off innocently, rather than someone had taken it; if no one came looking for it, he could always pick it up again and fetch K-unit.

Alex climbed up onto the farthest counter in and reached for the ceiling tiles. He came up short. His fingertips barely scraped the rough material. He cast about the room for anything he would be able to use. Most of the stuff within the room was expensive, unwieldy lab equipment, which would give him the necessary height boost. But then again, Russo would definitely notice if they somehow moved all the way across the room.

Although…there was one piece of equipment that didn’t need to be on top of a counter in order to reach the ceiling. The hermetically sealed containers provided a step ladder for the refrigerator in the far-left corner. Alex just hoped the glass was reinforced enough to bear his weight. He climbed atop it attentively at first, listening for any sign it might give way, and then inched across to the fridge. Giant flasks and containers of pastel blue liquid and petri dishes sat inside.

Best not to knock it over then, Alex thought as he remembered how long Dr. Russo had been collecting crab blood. The fridge wobbled slightly but otherwise held firm as he hefted himself up the side. He knocked away the first tile. Fiberglass snow showered down over him. It was pitch black in the ceiling cavity. Grimacing, Alex pulled himself up the rest of the way and out of sight.

Compared to the underground pipe system in Venice, this was nothing Alex couldn’t handle. Although the condition of the crawlspace was a bit unsightly, he preferred the grime and dust over nearly drowning in boggy, slime underneath a Scorpia palace. That is, until the tile creaked underneath him and bowed.

Alex scrambled backwards, wriggling on his belly to evenly distribute his weight. His foot connected with something. Something hard and ungiving. He inched backwards, following the object with his shoe. Alex knew the basic general direction he needed to go, and hoped that whatever that thing was, it would lead him to the restricted section.

With every wriggle, crawl, and shuffle, the tiles moaned and shifted dangerously. Wooden slivers and fiberglass splinters worked their ways into Alex’s skin and clothes. His eyes adjusted steadily enough to reveal the thing his foot had been tracing was, in fact, wooden support beams. Just as the tiles underneath gave a deep, whining moan, he rolled onto the beam. He paused. His breath echoed in the small space.

It took longer than he would have liked, but Alex edged backwards as far as he dared, following the beam as it went straight down the line. When he thought he had gone far enough, he leant closer to the ceiling. Somewhere below, muffled voices wormed their way through the tiles. Bingo.

Alex pried away the nearest tile. There were two women below; Alex had only wandered a quarter of the way into the government’s lab, and so he was forced to angle himself awkwardly in order to gain a full picture. They were sat at a table with a collection of lab equipment and papers strewn all about. The brunette fiddled with the circular machine in the center, latching the lid and scribbling notes as it spun. Her coworker removed one of the pipettes from the centrifuge then proceeded to distribute the contents into a gelled panel.

From his position in the ceiling, Alex couldn’t understand anything they said, and only after a minute or so did he realize why. It didn’t appear that they were speaking a language he knew, but rather a mix of Russian and another Romance language, like Portuguese or Italian. The only thing he could understand was the tone. The scientists did not sound happy, but very disappointed.

They repeated the process a few times, observing through a microscope or inputting the results into the computer. Alex tried to see the specifics on the screen, but he was too far away.

The brunette scientist collected the gelled paneling they had created and slipped it all into an oven-like contraption. She traded a few words with her associate, and then they both left.

Alex waited.

Did they leave for the day? Probably not. The computer was left on, their equipment was still strewn about, and whatever she had placed in the oven probably needed proper storage for longer periods of time. A faint ticking was coming from the contraption, however: a timer.

Alex bit his lip. K-unit expected him to wait until nightfall before he did anything. But the computer was right there! There were plenty of counters and tables to climb on, so theoretically, Alex could go down, take a look around, and disappear before the women came back. He’d come this far; might as well see it through.

As Alex began to lower himself down into the lab, he couldn’t help but acknowledge just how stupid of an idea it was. Ben was definitely going to kill him.

Without wasting time, Alex produced his Mjölnir pendant from under his shirt and plugged it into the computer’s port. The files already open looked to be chemical formulae, equations, and test notes, all written in the Latin alphabet. Words like Beta Proteins, anabolic compounds, follistatin and myostatin were repeated constantly. There were comments about subjects, and genetics, and side effects.

What did any of this mean?

Alex barely knew what the teachers at Brookland were talking about, so how could he possibly understand scribbles made by scientists employed by a world-renowned facility. He snapped pictures of the screen, of the notes, of the leftover mess on the tables and immediately sent them to ‘Veniamin.’ Ben responded within seconds.

Nachricht von Veniamin: woher kommt dies?

Where is this from?

Nachricht von Veniamin: was machst du

What are you doing

Nachricht von Veniamin: wo bist du

Where are you

Alex would have responded, if he hadn’t heard the voices first. They were distant and muffled. Shouting. Alex’s breath caught in his throat; his heart pounded. He waited for the moment when the doors would burst open and Ivan I and II would tear into the room; he should try to climb back into the ceiling, or grab a syringe or microscope to fight them off with. The voices were getting closer and louder.

Nachricht von Veniamin: Sasha antworte

Sasha answer

“Otpusti menya!” Someone shrieked, and Alex froze. That cry was too young, too frantic to be a security guard. “I said, let go!”

Alex’s blood ran cold. It couldn’t be; why would he have…? Alex tore across the room without thinking and would’ve crashed into the entrance to the lab, had he not stopped himself at the last moment. The frosted glass masked most of the scene on the other side, but two obscure figures grappling with a third smaller one was clear enough.

Viktor. He must have noticed Sasha was missing and gone looking for him, only to find the guards instead. Guards who might have been responding to a security breach. Guards who might have been after Alex. Not that he would ever know which. Not that it was an important distinction. Alex couldn’t let them take another kid. Not Viktor. Not anyone.

Don’t do anything stupid; not unless it’s absolutely worth it.

He didn’t even have to think about it. He didn’t even look. Alex broke through the doors and lunged at the first person he saw. He rammed his shoulder into an Ivan’s back, delivered a snap kick to another, and latched onto Viktor’s jacket. Luckily, the boy was shaken and startled enough that he didn’t attack Alex in return.

Alex shoved Viktor in front of him, forcing both of them to move, and practically dragged him into a run. “Go, go! Run!” he yelled.

One moment, Alex was running behind the other boy; the next, burning pain lanced across his throat. A hand, locked onto the collar of his shirt, hauled him backwards, and he struck out blindly. Wildly. His elbow landed in soft tissue, but a furious grunt was the only response. The hand grew into an arm, and one of the Ivan’s took him into an unbreakable bear-hold. Alex kicked and bucked with his entire being.

He needed his arms free, at least one arm free, to even try to break the hold, but the man was built from stone. The second arm tracked across his throat, and Alex dug his chin into his chest as fast as he could. The pressure built beyond anything he could stand. His head thumped; his lungs burned; his eyes were literally pulsing and blinking with black spots.

A lumbering shadow strode away.

Alex tried to gasp. He hoped Viktor got away. The walls tilted, the floor dancing and swaying.

The world faded to black and white and grey.

Whining filled his ears. High-pitched and echoing.

Then everything faded away.

Alex gazed up at the ceiling languidly. Everything around him was blurred. Disconnected moments flashed before his eyes. A man with short black hair leant over him, his mouth moving.

Alex blinked. The man was gone.

Somewhere above his head, words danced through the air uncontrollably.

None of it made any sense at all. Alex groaned and tried to drown out the thundering in his head. He turned to look beside him—or he tried to. His head fell to the side heavily; his hand swatted his chest painfully. His body was responding to the commands sent by his brain, but it was as if the signal was getting lost halfway. Like it was lagging.

The droning sound came to a stop. A new buzzing took its place, but it was more mechanical and consistent than the one before.

Alex abandoned his attempt to search around him and laid there, apathetically.

A new face came into his line of sight. Alex watched as the face drifted away and as a fist took its place.

Then he saw nothing.

Transliteration and Translation

Боже мой = bozhe moi = my god

Будь осторожным, мальчик. В тихом омуте черти водятся = Bud’ ostorozhnym, mal’chik. V tihom omute cherti vodyatsa = be careful, boy. In a quiet lagoon, devils dwell / still waters run deep

Внимание: ограниченный доступ = vnimanie: ogranichenny dustup = attention: restricted access

Chapter 13: Peaceful Atom

Chapter Text

Through the reflection in the glass, Ben watched as Eagle and Snake exchanged what they thought were furtive glances with one another. He knew he was being obvious in his concern, staring out the window and worrying his hand repeatedly in an effort to avoid checking his phone again. Although, Ben conceded, it could be that they were worried for Alex's safety as well. Not that they would readily admit it because, apparently, neither could he.

It had only been a few hours since they'd dropped Cub off at the school, so there was no reason to be concerned. And yet, Ben couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. After all, it was Alex. He could find a murderer in a convent of ninety-year-old nuns given the chance.

Which was why the entirety of K-unit had rendezvoused at the Vagankovskoye cemetery in the Presnya District, only a fifteen-minute drive—if interpreting the speed limit very liberally—from Nenavos Institute. The exact location of the Church of the Resurrection had been Katya's suggestion; apparently, she had a connection with a priest there, one who would be willing to provide somewhere to stay. So long as they kept their weapons in the car, that is.

Eagle, however, was less than thrilled by that prospect. "It's just weird," he moaned. "Hanging out in a cemetery all day."

"We're in a church." Snake flipped another three cards with exaggerated fascination. "Not a cemetery."

"Yeah, a church in themiddle of a cemetery."

Eagle sunk down into his chair, drumming his hands and tapping his feet. Patience had never been one of his virtues, which made him absolutely intolerable during stakeouts. Although the oriental rug muffled the sound, Wolf managed to last four minutes before losing it. He snatched the nearest pillow and hurled it at Oliver's face.

Eagle caught it with a smirk but relented in his fidgeting. Tucking it behind his head, he remarked, "is anyone else slightly concerned about the contacts our little Russian friend has?"

"What d'you mean?" Ben, finally, turned away from the window.

"Doesn't it strike you as odd that they are all happily willing to comply with these odd requests? I mean, bringing some random kid along on a school trip, that this Peris person bribed someone to get in the first place? Asking a priest to house four obviously foreign men in a church?"

He was met with silence. Wolf looked disinterested entirely by the matter and had closed his eyes, his head resting awkwardly against the back of the sofa.

"What?" Eagle demanded incredulously. "No one else thinks that's suspicious?"

Ben shrugged and turned back to the window and the nothingness that had been providing a distraction. A meager one, but a distraction, nonetheless.

"She is a spy," Snake pointed out. Ben heard the fanning of cards and figured David must have won his game of Solitaire. "That's kind of what spies do. Not to mention, things run a little differently here. A little bit of money goes a long way—and will you stop that?" Snake broke off. "God, you're almost worse than Oliver."

Wolf readjusted himself in an effort to find a more agreeable position. He was sat vertically, but his neck hung painfully to the side now. "It's not my fault this is the most uncomfortable thing I've ever been on. Can hardly call it a sofa," he grumbled.

Shaking his head, Ben once again focused back on the window. It was stained glass, probably centuries old judging from the rest of the church, and it had been well cared for. Parts of it were frosted, adding to the kaleidoscope affect when the sun shone through at the right angle, but most of it was not and allowed for a clear view into the church'sdvor.

Although the Cathedral of the Renewal of the Church in the name of Christ's Resurrection sat directly at the entrance to the cemetery, there weren't any graves within sight. Instead, the side of the church let out into a traditional courtyard with Russian icons and murals decorating the walls and stone fences.

A priest, dressed in black garb and a kamilavka, treaded through the snow in the courtyard. He approached a large contraption standing in the center and threw off the black tarp, revealing a row of antique bells. They ranged in size, the largest nearly half the size of the old priest, the smallest barely the size of his fist. It seemed odd to leave them outside in the harsh temperatures, but they no doubt had seen many winters.

The priest struck them methodically. Their sound was beautiful, clear and distinct even from inside the church, until he hit one bell in particular, and it clang discordantly against the rest. The priest dropped his mallets, glanced around, then attempted a new tune.

"—you, renard?"

Ben blinked. "Huh?"

Eagle rolled his eyes, spinning a book between his hands. Hopefully, it wasn't a bible or some ancient, fragile text. "I was asking about your own collection of informants and sources from your time with Six. Recruit any priests or any other unsuspecting individuals?"

Ben shook his head without looking back. "I only worked for Six for two months. I'd hardly call myself a spy." Worrying his hand wasn't enough, and Ben soon found himself pulling out his phone. No alerts. That was a good thing, he reminded himself.

"Right. And you were doing what exactly?"

Wolf kicked Eagle's leg none too gently then called out to gain Ben's attention. "The kid's fine," he said, nodding to the mobile.

"Yeah," Snake offered. "He knows what he's doing."

"That's what I'm worried about." Ben tossed his phone onto the seat next to him and rubbed at his face, raking a hand through his hair. "He has a tendency to do something stupid, when he 'knows' what he's doing." Like programming his handprint into a nuclear warhead, Ben thought sardonically. Like getting involved in this world in the first place.

Despite Alex's persistence to throw himself into danger for the sake of others, since their coincidental meeting in Bangkok, Ben had an inkling that something was not quite right with the boy's involvement in the world of espionage. Something about the meeting between Alex and Blunt had set his instincts on edge—how Blunt had already assumed Alex's cooperation in an international operation. Then Ekaterina's knowledge of Alex prior to meeting him had sent Ben from apprehensive to suspicious.

After this was all over, Ben planned to push for answers. Whether it was from Jones, Smithers, or Alex himself, he would get his answers. Hell, even Wolf knew more than he was saying. The whole situation was bothering the hell out of him.

"Usually, it involves some display of pyrotechnics and many close calls."

"So, he's like a cat. Nine lives and the like," Eagle guessed. "I will say, he's probably the most resourceful kid I've ever met."

Ben snorted. That was an understatement, if Wolf's story was anything to go by.

Something must have been telling in Ben and Wolf's reactions because Snake narrowed his eyes at the two of them. "Eventually," he said slowly, "you two are gonna have to share what it is you know about him."

Wolf shrugged. A few unbearable, uncountable minutes passed without any more conversation. The priest in the yard had since gone inside, and there was nothing to break up the monotony aside from the occasional rustle of clothing and frustrated sighs.

Wolf was again the first to break. "God, I'm so bloody bored."

Snake took a break from shuffling through his playing cards to check his watch. "They should be nearing the end of the tour by now."

"Only six more hours to go, then," grinned Eagle. "Brilliant. Say, Davey, is your sister still planning on joining the army?"

Snake nodded, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Fi submitted her application to the RAF two weeks ago. Maw was not pleased."

Eagle snorted. "When is Maw Fletcher ever pleased."

Ben tuned out Snake's defense. They would have to send someone out for lunch soon; he doubted the priests would be offering any such refreshments. Despite them offering the back room, they hadn't been overly thrilled at K-unit's presence, although they did seem to relax once Ben conversed with them in Russian. Maybe he would volunteer to go pick up the takeaway—he would probablybevolunteered to do so because of the language barrier. It would give him something to do other than sit around, twiddling his thumbs.

Ben vaguely registered that Wolf had joined in on the conversation, when his phone vibrated. He almost missed it.

The screen flashed with a message alert from Sasha. Tapping in his passcode, Ben assumed it was Alex telling them that he'd successfully tucked himself away, as they'd agreed upon. Instead, however, he found a series of pictures. Chemical formulae, DNA in their double helix form, handwritten notes listing what appeared to be symptoms—half of the words, Ben didn't even understand, and they were in English. Bonding agents, beta proteins, follistatin challenged his minimal recall of his college courses. There were pictures of a table so laden with equipment and papers that Ben couldn't tell where one thing began, and another ended.

The talking around him fell silent.

"Fox," Wolf called. His voice had taken on that familiar tone, the one he only ever used out in the field.

Ben ignored him as he rushed through typing out a message. He bit back a few choice words when the first few letters were complete gibberish. Please don't be doing something stupid,he pleaded. 'Woher kommt dies'—where did this come from.

"Benji?" It was Snake's voice this time.

'Was machst du'—what are you doing, but there was still no response. No three frustratingly bubbly dots dancing in the corner. "Alex," Ben growled. His stomach was already leaping into his throat, but after all his time spent as a soldier, he managed to quash the nervousness and anxiety down into the farthest corners of his mind.

Barely a minute had passed since receiving the pictures, but Ben wasn't willing to wait any longer. "We're leaving. Now."

He probably hadn't had even needed to say it. Wolf, Snake and Eagle were already on their feet by the time he'd typed the second message. They snatched their coats and ran out through the church, which luckily was empty save for the handful of clergy members. Father Igor called after them furiously, but Ben's entire focus was on his phone.

He climbed into the passenger seat, trusting Snake or Eagle to handle the directions whilst Wolf tore out of the cemetery drive. Ben stared at his phone, watching the chat, waiting for something,anything, to appear after the words 'wo bist du'.

Alex first became aware of the cold. A persistent chill that had seeped through his uniform and settled across his skin. His forehead was pressed tightly against something, something that radiated aching warmth. His head pounded, and the pool of heat only made it worse. Every time his heart beat, his skull threatened to explode.

But that was only a portion of his aches and phantom sensations. His jaw, his neck, the tops of his shoulders, his entire left side. His wrists. That exact discomfort was distressingly familiar. Alex rocked forward, seeking a new patch of floor that would both provide a cool touch and ease the strain in his arms. It worked for a minute or two, before his own body heat sabotaged his efforts.

Alex cracked his eyes open marginally. Variants of grey played before his blurry eyes, and he realized he was staring at the colorless juncture between a metal wall and corrugated floor. He was laid on his side, his shoulder forced into itself by the ungiving surface, his hands wrenched behind him. Sharp wires cut into his wrist—zip ties, then.

Alex groaned and clenched his eyes shut. His breath jolted in his chest.

He remembered clearly what had happened at the labs and had to resist the urge to grind his head just that much further into the floor. It would be fine. Ben had to know something went wrong; he had already had an inkling that Alex was doing something stupidbeforehe had even contemplated launching himself at the guards, so theoretically, the calvary should be racing in any moment. And even if K-unit was delayed for any reason, Viktor would have called the police by now.

That is, if he got away.

The last Alex saw of the other boy, he had been taking off down the corridor, using the wall to propel himself further along. Hopefully, he had the common sense to find the first closet he could and ring the police. The chances of him escaping sunk that much lower every second spent running for the front door, despite that being everyone's first instinct. It was predictable. And predictability got you caught.

Alex rolled onto his back and gazed listlessly at the ceiling. God, he hoped Viktor got away.

The floor lurched below him—no, not the floor; the entire room was pitching to the right, sending Alex sprawling into the wall. Everything was vibrating, like it was humming with movement, and the chill and the odd, fluted metal surrounding him suddenly made sense. He was in a van. On his way to whatever fate the other kids shared before him.

At least, if they were moving him, they probably wouldn't mean to kill him right away. Probably.

Alex managed to prop himself up against the wall and properly sit. As awkward as it was with his hands clasped behind him, he was thankful that the van, which looked to be a mid-way sized lorry judging by the cargo bed, had leveled out and seemed to be headed down a straight road. Any more unexpected turns, and he would find himself reacquainted with the floor sooner than he'd prefer.

Inside, it wasn't cold enough to see his breath, but that didn't stop the shivers from wracking his frame. Long strips of dimly lit fluorescence lined the far wall, casting the space in an opaque light. The only cargo, aside from himself, was a large metal box held in place by a wooden-slatted crate. On the side were the words ''Предупреждение: горючие материалы' and 'сохраняйте хладнокровие'. Alex had no idea what the words meant, but he could be certain enough that he had no desire to experiment and find out.

He had just resigned himself to hours alone in the dark, to stew in self-blame and plot an escape, when a sound came from the other side of the crate.

Alex froze. It could have just been the wood shifting about, or even the car's ancient axles. A few of the lorries he'd seen on the outskirts of the capital had looked like they'd driven right out of a history book, so it stood to reason that they lodged a few complaints about their age.

"Mmmm…" There it was again, although this time there was no mistaking the human element.

Alex shimmied up the wall and squinted into the dark cargo bed. There, just barely visible, peeking out from the corner of the wooden slats, was a mop of straight black hair.

Viktor.

He didn't get away.

A knot curled in Alex's gut. Of course, he didn't get away. How could he have? It was a pipe dream to even hope that an average fourteen-year-old could have gone five floors without once coming across a security team composed of ex-military, let alone avoid the numerous security cameras. Even Alex hadn't managed to get away, and he was a far cry from an average teenager.

Alex drove his forehead into the metal wall, determined that its cool touch would drown out the guilt, that it would help center his thoughts. Think. He needed to think. Ben knew that Alex had strayed from the original plan when he'd sent those pictures. If Ben knew, then K-unit knew as well. They'd be looking for him soon, if they hadn't started already. They might've even called in Katya and Yakov to help in the search.

Not to mention that Smithers had gained access to the computer terminal thanks to the USB Mjölnir gadget, so the gadget man probably knew Alex had done something stupid in order to achieve that. And Smithers was one of the ones to genuinely have a vested interest in Alex's wellbeing.

Smithers.

Alex strained to look at his hands, flexing his wrists as much as he dared in order to get a glimpse of that beautiful device that had saved him from a crocodile-infested Australian jungle. Although he couldn't quite see it, he was certain he could feel the watch's clasp gouging the skin of his forearms.

Alex hissed as he tried to manipulate the dial. The ties were too tight, the plastic too sharp. He couldn't even see the numbers to properly orient the hands. The urge to kick something was quickly growing irresistible, and the constant hum and motion surrounding Alex only served to amplify the knot coiling in his gut.

He was restrained, helpless, angry, and afraid. Alex couldn't just sit and do nothing. Not when he was on his way to an unknown fate with a crate of tantalizing, possibly fatal, evidence taunting him with its presence.

If Viktor hadn't chosen that exact moment to stir, Alex might've done something stupid. Like kick at the wooden protection until dislodging it. With its size and weight, it would make a perfect battering ram for the back doors. But the mess of hair withdrew from sight, then reappeared. Viktor was struggling to regain consciousness, locked in an uncomfortable stage in between.

"Viktor," Alex whispered. His voice was lost among the miscellaneous sounds of the drive. "Viktor," he tried again, a little louder.

The lump twitched.

After a few more cajoling attempts to gain a conscious response, the black hair finally gave way to Viktor's face, although the relief was fleeting. Streaks of congealed, viscous blood covered one eye completely, and Viktor blinked and stared with a vacancy that left Alex's gut churning.

"Viktor," Alex prompted again.

In lieu of responding, Viktor's glassy gaze roved around the dark, cramped space, then lethargically crept back to Alex's face. He swallowed thickly. "Sasha?"

"Yeah, that's right." Alex tried to smile. "How do you feel?"

"My head—" Viktor went to sit up, only his hands refused to respond properly. Something was preventing the movement. He tugged once, and then again with more fervor. He stilled. His eyes widened and took in their surroundings with sudden alertness. Alex witnessed the exact moment Viktor put together the emptiness, the darkness, the subtle movement of the wall and floor, as well as the fact that his companion also held his hands behind his back—that he had no choice in the matter.

Scrambling backwards, Viktor jerked and tugged at his wrists. As if that would do anything but carve away his skin. He collided with the wall with a choked cry, pulling his knees up to his face. While it might hide the tears threatening to fall, it couldn't quite conceal the shaking in his shoulders.

Alex felt helpless as the other boy struggled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He fell to his knees and shuffled closer. Alex may not have been able to physically reach out, but he couldn't sit back and leave Viktor to cycle through the blind panic alone.

"Viktor—Viktor, you need to breathe, okay? Everything's going to be fine, but you need to breathe."

For all the good the words did, Viktor still gasped for a decent gulp of air. His breaths were too shallow, too fast, more closely resembling hiccups than anything. Swallowing gulps and holding them until he was forced to take in another desperate wheeze.

Alex remembered when he was maybe six or seven. For about a month, he experienced horrific dreams—night terrors, as Ian had called them. They were so bad and mind-numbing, that the first time Alex had had one, Ian thought someone had broken in, what with the amount of screaming and thrashing in the middle of the night. Even though Alex barely remembered the actual dreams, the terror was real, nonetheless. Night after night, his uncle coached him into breathing normally, once Alex finally escaped from its claws. Because that was the thing: you had to wait for the terror to run its course. He would sit on the bed, stroke Alex's hair calmingly, and demonstrate small breaths—Four-Seven-Eight. Four-Seven-Eight. Four-Seven-Eight—until Alex's hooded eyes fell shut peacefully.

“Viktor, I know it’s hard, but try to copy me, okay?”

Viktor’s eyes latched onto Alex, dazedly, but he gave the smallest acknowledgement. Alex inhaled exaggeratedly—four seconds to start—held it for seven, then blew it out loudly. Just as Ian had with him. Four-Seven-Eight. He did it again, and again. The first few times, Viktor mimicked him roughly, a jolt running through his chest, but around ten minutes later, he could do it smoothly and uninterrupted. They didn’t move from where they were—Viktor against the wall, Alex swaying slightly in front of him—but waited in case the panic returned in full.

After a few minutes of silence and swaying in time with the van, Viktor mumbled thickly, “sorry.” He sniffled and wiped his nose on his knees.

Alex would have laughed at the absurdity of the sentiment, if he hadn’t thought Viktor was serious. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’d say panicking a bit is a reasonable response to being kidnapped.”

“You’re not panicking.”

Alex shuffled around and leant up against the wall, his legs splayed out before him. Staring at his shoes, he gave a pale imitation of a shrug and said, “not visibly maybe.”

A side glance from Viktor expressed his disbelief. He sighed shakily. “Where do you think we are?"

“I don’t know. I only woke up a few minutes before you did.”

It had been sometime after 1:30, when Alex climbed into the ceiling tiles, and everything after had transpired within a few minutes. Five tops. Getting choked out and then knocked unconscious could only last for so long, he reasoned, so maybe it had only been half an hour since leaving the center ring of Moscow. It was possible that they were still within the city limits. Though of course, then there was always the possibility that they injected him with something after the fact. Or that all the times he’d been beaten unconscious this year were finally taking their toll…

They could literally be anywhere depending on how much time had passed. Which he couldn’t tell because he couldn’t reach his bloody watch.

“You were in that lab,” Viktor said suddenly. Thin tears carved tracks out of the dried blood, but he didn’t seem like he was about to fall back into the same severe panic. His voice was distant and too even, if anything. “The one with all the security.”

Alex tensed.

“And you attacked the guards. When the guards grabbed me. You didn’t even hesitate.” Viktor brushed the slats with the tip of his shoe, side to side, up and down. The movement must have a comfort because he kept at it methodically, carving out a square then retracing it in reverse.

Alex waited for inevitable questions about why he’d done it in the first place, only it never came. Instead, Viktor fell silent, his face pinched tightly. Alex wondered why he didn’t demand answers—why did you lie, why did you break in, what were you doing, who are you—but maybe the answers were better left unsaid?

“Do you think they’re going to kill us?”

Speaking of difficult answers. It honestly would have been easier to kill them and bury bodies than worry about their prisoners escaping, but alerting Viktor to that morbid reality would do more harm than good. “No,” he stated firmly, but that didn’t mean they wanted to arrive at their impending destination. Even if it did answer the question of this whole affair.

Maybe if Viktor hadn’t been with him, Alex would have gone through with it. Activated his watch and waited it out until K-unit arrived. But not now.

Alex rocked to his knees. “As soon as we get the chance, we need to run.”

“What?” Viktor’s head whipped to the side.

“When the doors open, we throw ourselves out and make a run for it.”

“Are you insane? Do you even know how large Russia is—how-how much open land there is? We’ll freeze before we find help!” he objected. “Our hands are still tied!”

“I know, but—” Alex broke off. There wasn’t much more he could say without giving himself away. Although Viktor already had his suspicions about Alex’s position as an average schoolboy, it was safer for both of them to maintain the illusion of Sasha Adler. “—but I don’t want to find out what they have planned for us at the end of this ride.”

Conflict played across Viktor’s face. “I—” He blew out his cheeks in an effort not to cry. “I can’t.”

“You can. They won’t be expecting us to fight back. And as for our hands…” Alex glanced at the wooden crate. It was finely made, the slats laid closely together, so finding leverage to break the links might be difficult, if not painful. “We can try to pry the ties off on that crate. Or find a tree branch, or something. But we have to try.” He watched Viktor closely. If he said no, there was no way Alex would leave without him.

“What if they catch us?”

They might think we’re more trouble than we’re worth. Viktor must have read it in his expression because he slammed his head back against the wall, blowing out his cheeks. Then he shook his head vigorously. “I don’t know.”

“Trust me. It’s better to run than wait.”

Viktor bit the inside of his cheek. “Okay,” he whispered.

Alex let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He gave his own small nod then set to work prying free his hands. Unfortunately, this was one skill Ian hadn’t seen fit to teach him. Leveraging his wrists against the sharp corner, Alex swore to ask Ben for a few tips that would come in handy in the future.

Alex rested his head back against the wall and wished for a third time that the emergency signal alerted him when active. After driving more than one splinter into his wrist, he had managed to dislodge the locking mechanism on the zip ties, successfully freeing both him and Viktor from their bonds. He wasted no time in dialing his watch to 11:00, and now, they were left to wait.

It wasn’t long before Viktor had begun to hum under his breath, which did well to calm his rising moments of panic and fill the dreariness. Alex was content to sit and listen.

“Gde zhe ty teper’, volya vol’naya? S kem zhe ty seichas laskovy rassvet vstrechayesh’?” Viktor picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his trouser and breathed heavily through his nose. “Otvet’. Khorosho s toboi, no plokho bez tebya.”

The van rocked to the ride, and Alex caught the writing on the side of the crate again. He thought again about asking Viktor what it meant, but given how the other boy was steadfastly fixated on anything but their current situation, he thought better of it. Instead, Alex listened to the words and tried to guess what they meant.

“Golovu na plechi, terplivye pod plet’, pod plet’.” Viktor trailed off, humming the same few notes as the rest of the song carried. His breathing and the worrying, twitching movements began to increase slightly. “…yesli yest’ porox…dai ognya. Vot tak.” His voice barely carried the tune, falling short of actual singing but more breathy than spoken word.

“What song is that?”

“Kukushka.”

“Is it by that band you were talking about?”

Viktor jerked his head affirmatively. “Kino. From their last album.”

“What’s it about then?”

“Mayk—my brother, thought it was about war and fighting for freedom—cause they used it in that movie about the battle for Sevastopol. And they called German and Finnish snipers Kukushki back in World War II. Did you know that? Cuckoo birds as a word for snipers.”

Alex shook his head. “What do you think it’s about?”

Viktor shrugged. “Freedom. Viktor Tsoi was all about change and freedom and enjoying life.” His voice still carried that detached tone, although he seemed more capable of concentrating than before. If he did have a concussion, it didn’t appear to be severe. Alex wouldn’t blame him, if the withdrawal was due to shock or fear.

“Know any other good songs?” Anything to keep their mind off of where they were headed. Not every kid was as used to being kidnapped as Alex was. The last thing they needed was to fall into another panic attack and lose their chance at escaping.

Viktor almost smiled. “By Kino or other rock in general? Cause you’ve got Khochu peremen, Gruppa krovi, Konchitsya leto. Then there’s Zoopark. My favorite of theirs is Leto. There’s actually a really cool—" He tapered off, as the van’s speed noticeably decreased. The gentle rocking that had been persistently in the back of their minds since waking up fell silent. “—film…”

Then they stopped moving entirely.

Immediately, Alex tugged the other boy to his feet and placed his ear against the back doors. They were impossibly thick, unnecessarily so, and Alex only knew the driver had exited the vehicle because the cab shook from the force of the door slamming shut. His throat was suddenly dry, his gut churning. He sent Viktor what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

They stood on either side of the doors and stared at them, ready for the flood of lights that would signal their escape. A minute passed—or maybe just mere seconds. Alex’s heart was pounding, messing with his sense of time—and still nothing. He almost gave up, when the doors shook. Clanging and rattling as the lever holding them shut was released. Then they opened.

Alex threw himself forward. His shoulder drove into the metal, which resisted for only a second before swinging wildly off to the side. He toppled through the opening but managed to catch himself before fully pitching to the ground.

Something hard and solid—and human—hit the side and grunted in pain.

As soon as his feet hit the ground, Alex took off running. The air was freezing, burning his exposed face and hands. The sky was grey. Dusk and darkness obscuring his sight so much so that he had no idea where his feet were falling, but the pounding of footfalls on asphalt told him Viktor was on his tail. That was all that mattered.

As someone screamed incomprehensibly behind them, Alex put on a burst of speed. A shadow of trees laid up ahead, blacker than the indigo, navy sky; they just had to make it twenty or so paces, and they could lose their abductors in the woods. His lungs felt like they were bursting—

A weight slammed into his side.

The ground rose up to meet him. His face smashed into the graveled road, his chest throbbed, and he rolled up and over the mass twice before being crushed underneath it. Hands roughly flipped him around onto his back. Alex’s head bounced off the pavement, but he was too busy fighting and jerking to notice. He grappled with everything he had with the man on top of him, but it was no use. He had to have had a hundred pounds on Alex. Within seconds, he was pinned, helpless.

The man shook him, spittle flying out of his mouth as he screamed words Alex had no hope of understanding. Alex bucked, straining to dislodge the weight. A burst of pain and stars flashed through his head, and the man shouted something else.

“Versteh’ ich nicht!” Alex cried. “Ich versteh’ nicht—ne ponimayu!” I don’t understand!

The man’s lip curled in disgust. He shook Alex again for good measure and spit out, “Englisch?”

“Yes. Yes!”

Behind them, the other obscure screaming grew louder, and Viktor appeared, his mouth muffled by another man’s hand. Alex’s stomach fell. He’d hoped that since only one had been there to check in on them, then only one had been in the vicinity. At any rate, he’d hoped that, at the very least, the second man was not in a position to react quickly. Clearly, he’d been mistaken on both accounts.

The man atop him dug his fingers in so deeply, Alex swore they’d already be bruised. “You try this again, and I kill you and your friend,” he growled. “Versteh?” Understand?

Alex nodded frantically.

“Vanya,” called the man holding Viktor, “davai. Nado potoropit’sya.” He must have been the one Alex had rammed with the van door because down the left side of his face ran a nasty red mark, his nose bloody. He was dressed in the same uniform as the guards from Nenavos. Black and navy tattoos crept up from under his shirt collar, winding around his neck. He released Viktor and shoved him forward, just as the other guard, Vanya, hauled Alex to his feet.

The world swum dangerously, but he managed to stay upright. Once his vision cleared, Alex took a look around and realized just how far they had actually come from Russia’s capital. They were nowhere near a city; there was no hazy light polluting the horizon. No noise or passing cars or anything that hinted at a large metropolitan, or even at a suburb. The only thing in sight was an old, ramshackle shop and petrol station with a single pump.

They were completely alone.

“Idyote.” Move.

Vanya shoved the two boys toward the shop, whilst his partner headed to the petrol pump. The attendant inside didn’t look at all concerned by the state Alex and Viktor were in. Beaten and bloody with dirty, torn uniforms, and the man simply raised an eyebrow at the odd group. Vanya exchanged a few words and tossed a handful of notes on the counter. A bribe evidently, as the man slipped the rubles into his shirt pocket and jerked his head toward the far end of the shop.

Vanya proceeded to jab Alex in the back. Tucked away in the back corner was a washroom, complete with a grimy mirror, an off-colored sink, and toilet. Alex had serious concerns about its sanitation.

“Clean up. Bystro,” quickly, and Vanya slammed the door shut.

In a trance, Alex wet a paper towel and offered it to Viktor. They didn’t talk. There was nothing to say. Alex had failed to help Viktor escape, and now they’d shown their hand.

Viktor dabbed at the blood on his face. “Sorry,” he moaned, eventually.

Alex swallowed thickly. “No—don’t b…I’m sorry. I wanted it to work. I thought it could.”

He gestured for permission to touch Viktor’s face, gently maneuvering him to see the broken skin. Thankfully, his fleeting training with the SAS had included basic first aid, and he recalled the instructor saying something about head wounds bleeding profusely, even if they weren’t critical. Something more than paper towels and water would have been good, but at least there wasn’t anything seriously damaged, it seemed.

Vanya returned not long after, shoving them back into the van with nothing more than a dirty look, a bottle of water, and a couple granola bars. The lining of the van, which Alex noticed whilst stalling as long as he could, was thicker and stranger than he first thought. The metal encased a sort of foam, making the walls and doors nearly four inches thick. If at all possible, his heart sank even further.

His watch’s signal might not make it through something that thick. If K-unit did receive his current coordinates, he would be long gone by the time they arrived. Who knew when he would get another chance? And why did the van need such a thick casing anyways? Was it purely soundproof, or did it serve another purpose?

There was no singing, or any talking at all, after the van pulled away from the station. Viktor fell asleep after fifteen minutes of silence. Alex felt the same pull of exhaustion, though, with the pounding in his head and grumbling stomach, he found it hard to sit in one place. Still, Alex forced his eyes shut. He knew from experience he would need to get sleep whenever he could, and oblivion was better than fretting about the future.

It was a few minutes after minute when the back doors were ripped open for the last time. The moon hung at its peak, their breaths floated in the air, and it was completely silent aside from the rhythmic fall of military boots. A new guard approached the new arrivals and looked the two boys over with a stony expression, unimpressed.

"Ehto vsyo?"This it?

Vanya growled and gestured to the cargo in the back of the van, launching into clipped Russian. His partner swung himself out of the driver's seat, ringing the keys round one finger habitually. Now that a few hours had passed, dark coloring had crept across his face, his left eye squinting past the swelling. The new guard snorted.

"Chto—chto s toboi sluchilos'?" he garbled through his laughter.What happened to your face, Alex assumed.

Vanya's comrade scowled at Alex but elected not to say anything in response. He shouldered past the two boys, hand on his gun with a clear message. Move and they'd be shot. Not that they needed a warning. Another attempt so soon after the first was paramount to suicide, and Alex doubted Viktor would be willing to try again any time soon.

Alex's mind worked furiously. He needed to remain calm, despite the same thoughts coursing through his head: He'd been in this position before, and each time there had been a way out. There would be again.

"What is this place?" Viktor hissed under his breath.

Alex broke from his thoughts long enough to actually take in their surroundings, then he shook his head. He didn't have an answer.

Flood lights from the surrounding buildings lit up the area brilliantly, but Alex almost wished they didn't. Instead of easing the anxiety that came with the unknown, they cast everything out of their reach horrifyingly. They stood in the center of a courtyard, surrounded on all sides by massive looming buildings made out of cement and brick. Their windows were either shattered or boarded up. Trees and bushes had long since forced their way through the pavement, vines creeping up along the walls and woven through the cracks.

The courtyard must have held residential buildings and offices at some point in time, but that to have been decades prior. In fact, there was nothing to say the city was even inhabited at all. It looked straight out of a dystopian novel—an abandoned city of accented shadows against the dark sky. Aside from their escort of Vanya and the two unnamed guards, there was no one outside.

Where were the people? The cars, the lights, and noise that pervaded through every city despite the time of day or night? Even if this was an isolated base of operations, why weren't other guards patrolling the area?

"You should think before you run," a voice warned. Smiling savagely, Vanya knocked Alex in the back, propelling him forward alongside the rest of the party. "If wolves don't kill you, radiation will."

Radiation, Alex thought incredulously.

The guards marched their two prisoners toward the closest building, the only one in sight that had any sign of life at all: flashes of light that flickered every time the wind blew. It was much like the others—dreary cement walls, multi-storied, characterless. Giant, dilapidated letters were perched along the roof: Gotel' Polissya. The closer they came, Alex realized it had been modified beyond simple reconstruction and restoration. Thick metal panels were nailed at exact increments along the outside. They checkered the entire front wall, and Alex was willing to bet they covered the other sides as well. The front doors were made from the same dense alloy. It looked like an entrance to a World War II bunker.

Radiation. Thick metal paneling. Russia.

"Are we in Chernobyl?" demanded Alex.

When no one even acknowledged that he'd spoken at all, Alex dug his heels into the ground, although to little effect. The three guards were all enormous, fully-grown men and properly trained to combat other soldiers. A fourteen-year-old boy, no matter his own training, stood a very small chance of resisting, beyond that of being a nuisance. They simply grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him forward without a response.

They passed underneath a dilapidated overhang, and one of the guards banged on the metal door. It swung open deceptively easily, despite its obvious weight. It revealed a grand lobby that had been cleared of anything that would have given it character. Three other guards were stationed at the base of a wide staircase. All of them nearly identical to Vanya and his companions: muscular, short-cropped hair, and armed with everything from a radio, a baton, to a service pistole. The youngest of the three glanced up from behind a desk and held up a hand.

"Zhdite."Wait, he ordered, typing away furiously.

Whilst he had the opportunity, Alex studied the entry. Fifty years ago, it could have been the entrance to a luxurious hotel, but the years and exposure had parred away the elaborate trims and coloring until there was nothing but basic architecture left. Someone had taken care to clear away the debris and dust and swept away the furniture and decorations as well. A few hallways splintered off from the main hall, the staircase leading off out of sight.

Aside from the three guards and the security desk, there didn't appear to be many defenses or precautions, nothing to prevent Alex from outwitting them and escaping. Or from K-unit barging in, for that matter. That is, except for the radiation and wolves. There had to be more besides the bare minimum guard detail, something that Alex didn't see. The computer had to be for monitoring security in the compound, maybe even around the entire city as well. But where were the high-tech defense systems and convoluted devices? Damien Cray had spent so much time and money building a room that could crush a man to death with quarters, so what did Zharkov have in store?

Finally, the guard at the computer appraised Alex and Viktor. "Imena?" When neither of them answered, he demanded it again, impatiently, "imena."

"Viktor." He said it so quietly, it was barely more than an intoned breath.

"I otchestvo i familiya."And patronymic and family name.

"Gregorovitch. Sim."

The guard typed in the information, and for a terrifying moment, Alex wondered if they were checking their identities in some database. Smithers had warned him that it wouldn't stand up to intense scrutiny; the aliases had only been necessary to get them in the country under the radar, in case the mastermind had been expecting police or international intervention. No matter what Alex answered now, though, the outcome would be the same.

Give them Alex Rider, and they would find that a British schoolboy mysteriously appeared in Russia without any records of his being there. Answer Alexander Adler, and they might discover that he doesn't exist at all.

"Oi," the guard snapped his fingers in front of Alex's nose. "Ty gluxoi? Kak tebya zovut, ah? Name," he pronounced thickly. …What's your name, huh?

"Alexander." Alex stated, hoping against hope. "Sasha Eliasovich Adler."

Alex counted the keystrokes. He studied their emotionless faces. And nothing changed. The guard inputted the information then gestured to the others without once taking his eyes off the screen. "Pomestitye ikh s rovesnikami. V chetvyortom ehtazhe."

It was a relief, however miniscule, when Vanya and his comrade once again ushered the two boys further into the compound. Into further imprisonment. They headed to the hallway on the right. Except as they were about to turn the corner, one of the guards called out to them. A hand on his collar brought them to a halt.

"Oi, Grisha," one of the men chuckled, the others stifling their own laughter. "Krasivoe litso."

Grisha growled and knocked Alex forward, handling him increasingly worse as they went on—a stiff hand at the scruff of his neck, gripping his arm tight enough to bruise, propelling him forward unnecessarily. They climbed four flights of stairs, each landing more frightening than the last. Even though someone had gone to great lengths to fortify the exterior of the building, much of the interior had been left forgotten to rot. Pipes were stained yellow and rusted at every juncture, holes spotted the walls and ceilings, and gaping tears ate away at the flimsy, rusted metal of the staircase. Strangely enough, however, they had taken care to replace and reinforce the doors and hinges with lead lining. Perhaps a built-in precaution from its time as a location for nuclear plant, if they were indeed in Chernobyl.

Viktor hovered by Alex's elbow the entire time. He hadn't said anything since giving his name, and if it weren't for his lips moving just slightly, Alex would have been concerned he had completely gone unresponsive. As it was, it seemed he was either singing silently to himself or praying. Given he'd already established that music was a refuge of sort, it was probably the former.

When they stepped onto the fourth floor, they were met with the same hallway as all the others. Ten doors, looking newer than the rest of the building, lined the bare walls on each side, breaking up the monotony of white with a flash of grey. A single window was placed in the center of each of the doors, and as he passed by, Alex peered through each one. The first two rooms were too dark to see anything inside, but the third was occupied by a girl.

She was sat on a cot, her back against the wall, her legs curled up to her chest. Her black hair was pulled back in a bun, the sides shaved, and even though she wasn't wearing the heavy, black makeup as she had in her picture, Alex recognized her immediately. She was Kyra Vashenko-Chao, the only reason Russia had allowed MI6 into the country in the first place.

Kyra's eyes met his, just as Grisha shoved Alex forward. They stopped at the sixth room down, the door to which stood ajar, the lights off.

"Vkhodi," Grisha growled and all but threw him in.

Vanya kept on walking with a hand directing Viktor to do the same. The boy sent Alex one fearful glance before the door fell shut and sent him into partial darkness. Alex didn't have to tug on the handle to know that it had been locked. He felt along the wall for a switch, though the weak lighting did nothing to dispel the gloominess. Peering out through the compact window, it offered nothing more than a limited snapshot of the hallway—a view directly into the room opposite, which was as unforgivingly dark and empty as the ones prior.

The lights in the hall blinked off, the only illumination now drifting away from the humming fluorescence bulbs in Alex's room. He waited for the two guards to pass by a final time, but they never came. There was nothing on the other side of the metal and glass. No movement, no light, no sound but the hitch in Alex's breath and the droning of the lights.

He was completely alone.

And finally, Alex's mask broke.

A shaking breath tore out of him, nearly knocking him to his knees. He struck out blindly, pain lancing through his already bruised knuckles. He growled and ground his forehead into the wall. The cool touch of plaster barely registered, as he fought to gain control of himself.

He couldn't do this. Not here, not now.

He was better than this.

Alex knew he was better than this.

He sucked in a breath by the count of four.

—Six guards that he knew of. No visible security measures. Two other kids, other than himself, were staying on the fourth floor—

Alex blew out a harsh breath by the count of eight.

Another four second breath.

—Wherever they were, it was roughly a twelve-hour drive from Moscow. It was cold outside, but not significantly different from the capital. Wolves and radiation were such a big threat that even the guards remained inside for the most part—

Another weighted exhale.

Inhale. Hold.

—Two times now, Alex had spent a few minutes outside the stifling reach of lead linings. If Smithers's gadget worked, that had to be ample time for a signal to go out and alert MI6 of his location. It had to be—

Exhale.

Ben would be looking for him by now. It had been nearly twelve hours since he'd sent those photographs, twelve hours since he'd ignored the soldier's frantic and more than possibly annoyed texts. Ben had found him once before, he'd find him again.

Pushing himself away, Alex tiredly examined his prison. There was nothing special about the room. It was certainly less lavish than his quarters had been at Point Blanc, but it wasn't a typical, empty jail cell. A simple cot laid against one wall, a desk and bookcase against the other. Two doors were at the back: a washroom and an empty closet. Despite having the space and the forethought of providing basic toiletries, all of which were in the original packaging, nothing had been added to any of the shelves. No books, clothes, sheets, or towels.

Distantly, Alex wondered if Grisha and Vanya would cater to any requests regarding entertainment.

Alex wandered over to the cot and collapsed onto the mattress. Although he had slept a few hours in the van, he was utterly shattered, but his mind adamantly refused to quiet. Chernobyl. Was it possible Zharkov had taken over a disaster zone still rampant with radiation?

Tom had been obsessed with the HBO series, when it had come out. He'd started it with Alex, then binged it as soon as he'd gone home—thoroughly unapologetic about it the next day, as well. To be fair, Alex had probably slept through at least a quarter of the first episode, so he couldn't hold it against his friend. What followed after, was typical of Tom. He fell deep down the rabbit hole of Wikipedia, becoming a self-proclaimed expert on nuclear disasters and the Zone of Radiation—or whatever the fallout zone was called—and deluged anyone who would listen in facts about the city.

Now, Alex wished that he had paid more attention. He remembered vaguely that people had begun to visit the city, even though staying there for longer periods of time were extremely harmful, but exactly how much exposure was too much? If that were the case, wouldn't that pose a danger to Zharkov's operation? Why would he need something so dangerous and isolated as a radioactive city in the first place?

Alex closed his eyes. He had a feeling the morning would only be worse than today.

Translation & Transliteration

Храм Воскресения Словущего на Ваганьковском кладбище = Church of the Resurrection of the Word at the Vagankovskoye cemetery

Где же ты теперь, воля вольная? / С кем же ты сейчас / Ласковый рассвет встречаешь? Ответь = gde zhe ty teper', volya vol'naya? S kem zhe ty seichas laskovy rassvet vstrechayesh'? Otvet' = Where are you now, freedom of will? With whom are you greeting the sweet sunrise? Answer.

Хорошо с тобой, но плохо без тебя = Khorosho s toboi, no plokho bez tebya. = good with you, but bad without you

Голову на плечи, терпеливые под плеть, под плеть = golovu na plechi, terplivye pod plet', pod plet' = head on shoulder, patience under the whip, under the whip

Солнце моё, взгляни на меня /Моя ладонь превратилась в кулак / И если есть порох, дай огня! / Вот так! = Solntse moyo, vzglyani na menya / moya ladon' prevratilas' v kulak / I yesli yest' porox, dai ognya! / Vot tak. = My sun, look at me / my palm turned into a fist / and if there is gunpowder / give fire! / like this

Кукушка = kukushka = cuckoo

Хочу перемен, Группа крови, Кончится лето. Лето. Khochu peremen, Gruppa krovi, Konchitsya leto = I want change, blood type, summer will end. Summer

Не понимаю = ne ponimayu = I don't understand

Давай. Надо поторопиться = davai. Nado potoropit'sya = Let's go. We need to hurry

Идёте = idyotye = walk/move

Быстро = bistro = fast/quickly

Это всё = is this everything/is this it

Что с тобой случилось = chto s toboi sluchiilos' = what happened to you

Ждите = zhditye = wait

Имена = imena = names

И отчество и фамилия = i otchestvo i familiya = patronymic and family name

Ты глухой? Как тебя зовут, э? = Ty gluxoi? kak tebya zovut, eh? = Are you deaf? What's your name, huh?

поместите их с ровесниками. В четвёртом этаже = pomestitye ikh s rovesnikami. V chetvyortom ehtazhe = place them with their yearlings. On the fourth floor.

Красивое лицо = Krasivoe litso = nice face

Войди = voidi = get inside

Names:
Eagle: Oliver Poirot
Snake: David Fletcher
Wolf: Teo Alvarez
Katya: Ekaterina Nikolaevna Azarova
Yasha: Yakov Mikhailovich Vorobyev
Viktor: Viktor Gregorovich Sim
Guards: Vanya (nn. for Ivan), Grisha (nn. Gregori)

Chapter 14: Justifiable Means

Chapter Text

New guards came for him in the morning.

At least, Alex assumed it was the morning. His watch still read eleven o’clock, and the windows in his room painted over with plaster and undoubtedly reinforced with some lead-lined material; the only light droned in the center of the ceiling, artificial, under his control. The hallway was similarly coated in manufactured light, which made Alex’s whole world feel like a dream. It was too bright, too loud to be the upscale facility of a real-life mastermind. Surely, someone as rich and powerful as Zharkov could have afforded better renovations.

Though, to be fair, if they were really in Chernobyl, Alex doubted anyone would want to spend more time than necessary, installing the bare minimum to make the compound functional.

The two guards, with their unsmiling faces and identical uniforms, added to Alex’s personnel count. Eight guards so far. Number Seven—probably the oldest of the men he’d seen there, with flecks of grey hair mixed in with the brown—thrust a bundle into Alex’s arms. Alex turned it over and frowned. It was a set of clothes—a matching pair of grey sweatpants and sweatshirt, a blue t-shirt, and cloth shoes—and even appeared to be relatively close to his size, if possibly too big.

“Pereoden’sya,” Seven ordered, promptly disappearing back into the corridor.

It didn’t take a genius to guess what he wanted. Alex was supposed to change and leave his belongings behind. He figured that wasn’t an entirely horrible idea. His uniform, which wasn’t even his to begin with, was all but ruined and caked with dirt and sweat, and the new clothes looked comfortable and warm. Even though the shoes felt shoddy, or at best flimsy, the soles were made of a felt-like material and would muffle his steps nicely. The only regret was Smithers’s watch.

Should he try to hide the gadget somewhere in his room? There weren’t many nooks or crannies, but he probably could get away with stashing it in the spacing between the bed and the wall. It was such an unassuming timepiece that the guards probably wouldn’t care either way, but then again, if they were providing him clothes and shoes, they might decide it shattered their monotonous illusion. That it offered him too much of a reminder of the outside world. Alex supposed it wouldn’t matter in the end what he did. If the building really was radiation-proof, the signal wouldn’t be transmitting anyways.

At this point, it only served one purpose. It was his lifeline, his only connection to K-unit.

Resolved, Alex changed quickly, tugging the sleeves down over his hands and effectively hiding the watch from view. The clothes were, as predicted, a size too big. The shirt hung off his frame like a child who’d sought comfort in his father’s clothing, and he had to roll the ends of the trousers twice before he could walk without tripping.

Alex cast a glance around the room one last time. He almost pathetically wished he had missed something of use, something that he could use for self-defense, but it was as empty as it was the night before. Sighing, he stepped out into the hallway, and to his surprise, the guards weren’t the only ones waiting. Four kids were gathered along the opposite wall, heads down, talking quietly amongst themselves, wearing the same sort of clothes Alex was wearing himself.

Alex scanned their faces, expecting to recognize at least a few of them. Except he didn’t. Kyra was stood off to the side, fiddling with the cuff of her own sweatshirt, willfully oblivious to everything around her, but she was the only one he knew. There was no Zoya Arain, no Hanna Vivier, no Jonathan Lloyd. No Viktor.

The only other boy, a tall and willowy kid with mousy hair and a sharp face, didn’t look surprised at all to find someone new had arrived overnight. He leant back against the wall and frowned, shifting to face the girl to his left. She was just as tall as him, if not taller, with long cherry red hair. As she spoke, her hands gestured and twitched more often than any words came out, making Alex wonder if they had any language in common. Judging from looks alone, it was impossible to guess, especially with how diverse Russia was in general, and how unspecific the kidnappers had been in choosing their victims. The last girl, hiding between Kyra and the redhead, had her eyes fixed on the linoleum floor, as if willing it to swallow her whole. She seemed to sense Alex’s attention and offered him the smallest wave, the gesture almost lost to her oversized jacket.

Guard Number Eight whistled and jerked his head toward the other children. “Idi. Stoi tam s drugimi.” Go…

Alex tugged on his sleeve one last time and joined the others by the wall.

At first glance, all four of them appeared to be unharmed, free of any bruising or telling marks of abuse. The grey emphasized the pallid color of their faces, the withdrawn and pulled expressions an expected side effect of being captives, but the closer Alex looked, the more off they appeared. The grey was too prominent, almost sallow in hue—

Sharp rapping knocked Alex out of his thoughts. Seven banged his fist on the wall again and yelled, “oi, mal’chishka, potoropis’.”

In answer, the door opened, and, to Alex’s immense relief, Viktor emerged. Bruises painted the entire left side of his face, one eye forcibly half-closed due to the swelling, but his shoulders sagged in relief as soon as he saw Alex. He ducked his head and dashed over, too relieved to show surprise at the presence of four others. Alex sent him a reassuring smile.

Viktor tried to return the gesture but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Ladno.” Eight rested his hands on his heavily equipped utility belt. “Poshli. Let’ go.”

With rehearsed obedience, the four original residents immediately fell into step with their escorts and began marching down the hall. Alex didn’t hesitate in following them, not that he had much choice in the matter. They walked through multiple corridors, some old, some new, all of them identical save for the painted numbers on the doors and varying degrees of dilapidation. Three floors down, a right, another right then a left. Alex fought to keep the path straight in his mind, though each new part of the building was as empty as the last.

Their journey revealed next to nothing about what else was hidden within those walls.

By the time they came to a stop outside two grand white doors, the tally of guards had risen from nine to fifteen. They hadn’t seen any other children, but the guards had become more frequent. They had even passed two orderlies, dressed in blue scrubs and hair nets, carting a portable refrigeration unit into the lifts. Alex hadn’t been able to catch anything special or unique about the delivery before Eight had suggested he kept walking.

Their final destination, as it turned out, was a tall, galleried hall, filled with clusters of tables and chairs. In its past life, it must have functioned as a commissary of sorts or dance hall, with empty curtain rods and tiled floors that must have been a soft tawny at one point but had worn away to a nasty faded mustard. Extensive bay windows constructed the far wall, but like everywhere else in the compound, they were covered with metal panels and edged with a strange, matted foam. In the middle of the room stood a long buffet. It was stacked high with foods of all kinds—breads and biscuits, fruit, steaming metal platters and crocks, and jugs of juice and water.

Alex’s stomach grumbled; the granola bar last night hadn’t exactly been a satisfactory dinner.

The other kids had already gone straight for the food, taking trays and piling them high with healthy portions of each dish, almost robotically in their movements and silence. A slice of dark bread, a scoop of eggs, a serving of oatmeal, a cup of fruit, some water. At the end of the table were six tiny glass cups, barely deep enough for a mouthful of water. Alex had copied the others’ movements up until then, his hesitation spiking when he reached for a cup.

“What are these?” Alex asked, grimacing at the contents. Gigantic, greyish brown tablets.

The boy in front of him, the one with mousy curls, didn’t say anything. He carted his tray over to one of the many tables and settled in next to Red and Kyra. He tapped the spot across from him invitingly, wordlessly.

Maybe he didn’t speak English?

Maybe they wouldn’t have any language in common, and Alex would have to rely on Viktor and gestures to get by. Not impossible, but it would certainly slow everything down.

Viktor had shadowed him so far, likely just as starving as Alex was, although he had only taken a few pieces of toast and jam. Alex slid into a seat, Viktor taking the place next to him, and Mouse gestured to his own cup of tablets. He tipped it back in one grimace-inducing gulp. His eyes jerked to the two guards, Seven and Eight, hovering by the entrance, with obvious meaning. Taking the pills were required.

Alex sniffed at the tablets. It smelled faintly of chalk and a distinct medicinal aftertaste. He grimaced.

“Vitamins,” Red supplied as she separated each of her pills onto her plate, burying them in a spoonful of oatmeal before gulping them down. “Nu, po krainei mere,” she shrugged, “they telled us they are vitamins.”

Suddenly not hungry, Viktor pushed his tray away and hugged his arms to his stomach, as the others downed their tablets, one by one. Alex understood why, even felt tempted to do the same, but it wouldn’t be long for the guards to notice two of their captives weren’t complying with their nutrition plan, something they were probably meant to strongly adhere to. This place was filled with contradictions: kidnapping kids, locking them up with threats of fatal radiation, then feeding them and ensuring they received the proper vitamins.

Red peered at Alex and Viktor through her bangs, when neither boy moved to eat anything. “If you do not eat now, they make you later. Pover’ mne, this is better.”

Alex stared at his plate. He knew he needed as much nourishment he could get, especially if he was going to spearhead their escape. He rolled one of the chalky pills between his fingers—even if he accepted the fact he had to eat the food provided, it didn’t mean he was going to blindly take whatever the hell these were. He tipped the rest of them into his palm and threw back his head, but the tablets never made it past his mouth. Discreetly slipping them into his pocket, Alex stabbed his eggs and gestured for Viktor to do the same. Surprisingly, it was edible—not that that was saying much considering edibility was a pitifully low bar—but at least, he didn’t have to plug his nose to swallow.

Around another bite, Alex said, “I’m Sasha, by the way. Viktor and I arrived last night.”

Red and Mouse exchanged apprehensive glances, but the guards didn’t automatically shut down their conversation or seem to be in any sort of a rush. They were reclining against the far wall, conversing in low tones without any apparent regard for their charges aside from keeping them contained in the banquet hall.

The black-haired girl poked Red in the ribs, and without any discussion or even eye contact, the girl handed over the orange on her plate, her other hand waiting patiently for the payment in the form of a biscuit. They both started picking at their newly procured food so fixatedly that it was as if Alex hadn’t spoken at all.

“What are your names?” Alex prompted. “Kak vas zovut?” What’re your names?

The other boy took pity on him. “Jan,” he sighed, pushing his empty bowl aside. “I am Jan.”

Red, with her head propped in her hand, dismantling her biscuit halfheartedly, shrugged. “Kseniya.”

The other girl peeled the fruit with a satisfied grin and popped a slice into her mouth. She pointed to herself and said, “Sveta.”

Everyone turned to Kyra, though she had yet to say a word, or even do anything more than glance in their general direction—not that Alex could blame her. Even being there for a few hours, he felt as if an inimical weight was clawing at the back of his mind, waiting for him to slip up and make a mistake. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like for those who have been there for weeks, if not months. Presently, she was concentrating on her plate, drawing faces with the fruit and mushy oats.

Jan frowned at her. “Kyra, can you say hello to Sasha?”

“Hello to Sasha,” she parroted then stabbed her spoon into the oatmeal’s eye without once looking up.

Despite himself, Alex smirked. “What even is this place?” he asked, scanning the commissary as furtively as possible. There were only two doors connected to the room, the one they had come in through and the other on the opposite side. More than likely, it led to the kitchen. Maybe if the guards were distracted, Alex could find a knife or something that could pass as a weapon—or maybe he would be able to use the ventilation system there to crawl around; restaurant kitchens tended to have larger vents in order to compensate for the volume of heat and steam.

Jan shifted in his chair, uneasy, and shook his head.

“Do any of you know where we are?” He wished he could see out of the bay windows now that it was daytime. He wanted to confirm that this was in fact the infamous abandoned city. Not that I know what it looks like, he remarked sardonically. There wouldn’t exactly be a flashing sign on every street corner.

Again, silence was his response. Sveta’s eyes flitted from Alex to Jan to Kseniya, but she didn’t say anything.

“What do they want with us? Chto oni khotyat?” what do they want, Alex tried. No response. “Are we the only ones here?”

“Hey,” one of the guards crooned. Alex turned to find Seven glaring impatiently. “Doyedai,” he mimicked eating with his hands, spooning an invisible soup hurriedly into his mouth, “ili ya zapikhnu tebe v glotku. Ponyatno?”

Comprehending without fully understanding, Alex stabbed the tiniest bit of egg and, with practiced slowness only a petulant teenager could manage, brought it to his mouth without breaking eye contact. He might have been poking the bear unnecessarily, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Seven scowled.

When Alex turned back to the others, they were watching him with an expression that was hard to place. Disbelief bordering on amusem*nt. Jan’s lips twitched.

“There are few younger than us,” he said slowly. His accent sounded roughly Scandinavian, inherently melodic. “They eat later, after we leave.”

That might explain Zoya’s absence, but where were Vivier and Lloyd? Both of them were a few months younger than Alex at most, so shouldn’t they be here? “Any others our age?”

Jan licked his lips, as if debating where to say more. “There were, but…”

“Were?”

Sveta tucked her legs underneath herself, picking at the already worn cuff of her sweatshirt. “Ikh zabrali,” she all but whispered.

Alex mouthed the words. They weren’t part of his limited vocabulary, although that wasn’t all too surprising. He turned to Viktor, the question on his tongue, but the boy beat him to it.

“Took them away?” he repeated. “Pochemu? Kuda?” Why? To where?

Again, no one seemed to want to answer. Kseniya traced a circle on the table from the condensation from her glass, whilst Sveta continued to worry at her sleeve, and Kyra finally glanced up and took an interest in the conversation. It seemed she wanted to know the answer as much as Alex and Viktor.

“Potomu chto, oni pogibli.”

Viktor’s breath hitched. When he made no move to translate or bring the conversation any further, Alex wracked his brain for the meaning of pogibli, but if their unwillingness to say was any indication, it didn’t mean they had simply gone home. He turned to the others, but the question died on his lips.

Instead, a thought sprang into his head unbidden. Ben, please hurry.

The door to the banquet hall flew open. Seven and Eight jumped to attention, both of them reaching for their pistoles in their holsters, only to relax the second they recognized the man in the threshold. Vanya, stony-faced and stiff, greeted to two others with a curt grin before setting his gaze on the group of kids in the center of the room.

“Adler,” he called. “Come.

Alex got to his feet, but before he could go any further, a hand latched onto his wrist. Viktor shook his head, nearly imperceptibly, eyes begging him not to leave. Alex tried to smile encouragingly, even as he felt like the floor had vanished from underneath him. The grave expressions mirrored on everyone else’s faces didn’t help the queasiness settled in his gut.

Alex shook his hand free. “It’s okay. I’ll see you later.”

Vanya escorted him back through the building, carving out yet another path for Alex to memorize. They didn’t return to the fourth floor or the main hall—a genuine fear despite Alex being nearly certain that the others had made the same journey when they had arrived here. Instead, they arrived at an unmarked door on the second floor.

No one was inside waiting for them. Instead, Alex found a spacious room, sparsely decorated with only the absolute necessary items. A desk stood next to a grey linoleum countertop, rows of cabinets above and below. Blood pressure cuffs, an otoscope, an oximeter, stethoscope and thermometer hung neatly on hooks along the wall. An eye chart and maps of the different body systems decorated any open space, undoubtedly concealing the stained, chipping paint that was present all throughout the building. It was both pristinely cared for and haphazardly constructed at the same time. A contradiction, like everything else in this place.

Vanya directed Alex inside and to the geri chair in the center of the room then leant back against the counter. He crossed his arms, waiting.

Alex lasted all but a minute before he started drumming his fingers against the armrests. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. The plastic stuck to his fingertips uncomfortably but emitted a sharp tick with each stroke.

A deep growl came from Vanya’s side of the room.

Alex paused, only to do it again, finding decent pleasure in the slight tick bulging out of the side of the guard’s neck. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

“Stop.”

His fingers stilled. Alex clicked his tongue only two times, when Vanya sprung to his feet and took a menacing step towards him. Alex threw himself out of the chair, effectively placing it between him and the Russian, his fists clenched. He knew he shouldn’t make himself stand out any more than he already did, but he almost couldn’t bring himself to care. Alex was too busy trying to ignore the creeping sense of déjà vu and genuine unfairness that he was in the grasp of yet another maniacal doctor.

“Sit, and be quiet,” Vanya ordered.

Alex settled back into the recliner and waited. The silence was stifling, every little creak and whine from the geri recliner setting his teeth on edge as he waited for Vanya to explode. The man seemed intent enough on ignoring Alex entirely and occupied himself by picking at his nails.

Finally, footsteps echoed from somewhere down the hall, and a man limped inside. His face was buried in a manila folder, but it was clear he was an older man, with heavily combed over hair. He was short and stoutly, wearing a white lab coat over a nicely tailored suit. Even as he crossed the short distance from the door to the desk, his glasses slipped further down his nose until he pushed them back into place.

The man didn’t acknowledge Vanya or Alex as he opened a cabinet and flipped through the files, putting one away and pulling out another. He muttered under his breath and fanned through another drawer. When he finally found what he was looking for, the man almost seemed surprised to find two people in his office. He regarded Vanya over the edge of his glasses. “Mozhno uiti.”

The guard huffed but pushed away from the counter. He disappeared out the door.

The man sat down on the little rolling stool and dragged himself across from Alex. Immediately, Alex disliked how the man was looking at him. He had seen many people look at him in the exact same way over the past year. Like he was a specimen in a jar, to be studied and disposed of.

“Guten Morgen, Alexander,” the man said. “Willkommen. Ich bin der Doctor Leichenberg.” Welcome. I am Doctor Leichenberg. He leant forward, steepling his hands, and grinned. “Ich muss zugeben, dass ich mich sehr gefreut habe, als sie mir von deiner Ankunft erzählten. Es fühlt sich wunderbar an, wieder Deutsch zu sprechen.” I must admit, when they told me about your arrival, I was very excited. It feels wonderful to speak German again.

His accent was thick—thick enough to easily identify him as a Swiss. His years forming Russian vowels might have morphed his pronunciation into something new, but his accented Hochdeutsch was still comprehensible, if a little difficult to understand at first.

If Dr. Leichenberg had expected Alex to respond likewise, he didn’t let his disappointment show. He consulted the folder in his hands, licking a finger to turn the page. “Der heutige Besuch ist sehr Standard. Werde ich, deine Krankengeschichte aufzeichnen, einige Vitalparameter nehmen, ein vollständiges Blutbild durchführen, und so weiter. Später am Nachmittag werden wir eine Grundlinie für deine körperlichen Fähigkeiten festlegen—obwohl du, wie ich höre, ein ziemlicher Läufer bist.” Today’s visit is very standard. I will take down your medical history, take some vital parameters, run a full blood-picture, and so on. Later this afternoon, we will establish a baseline for your physical capabilities—though from what I hear, you are quite the runner.

Alex clenched his jaw. He might not know very specific German vocabulary—especially medical terms—but it didn’t take too much imagination to hazard a guess.

“Ich verstehe, dass vielleicht du alles nicht weisst, fangen wir aber einfach an. Was ist deine Nationalität?” I understand you might not know everything, but we will start simple. What is your nationality?

When Alex didn’t respond, the doctor clicked his tongue impatiently. “Nationality,” the man tried again, as if just realizing that he could have been chattering incomprehensibly at the boy. “Natsional’nost’.”

Alex continued to glare silently. He hadn’t played the snakehead vultures’ games, he wouldn’t play Leichenberg’s either. Of course, the circ*mstances differed, and Alex had to find a balance between being defiant and being stupid.

Dr. Leichenberg’s face twitched. The wistfully friendliness that had accompanied finding a fellow German speaker vanished in the blink of an eye, and, as if someone had flicked a switch, there was no emotion left in his mask of a face. “Ich schlage vor, du antwortest, Bub.” I suggest you answer, boy. “Es gibt andere Wege für uns, diese Antworten zu bekommen, aber ich verspreche, dass die Soldaten hier nicht verstehen werden, dass ihre Zeit verschwendet wird. Ich werde es übrigens auch nicht.” There are other ways for us to get these answers, but I promise the soldiers here will not appreciate that their time is wasted. Neither will I, for that matter.

Despite himself, Alex’s heart raced, his breath hitched.

“Aber,” just as quickly as before, the doctor relaxed and even sent Alex a warm smile, “wenn du dich benimmst, wirst du belohnt. Möchtest du ein Buch oder etwas Besonderes für dein Zimmer haben?” But if you behave, you will be rewarded. Wouldn’t you like book or something special for your room? He nodded to himself, satisfied, even though Alex had barely even breathed, let alone responded. “Also, teile mir deine Nationalität mit. Und dein Geburtsdatum, dein zugewiesenes Geschlecht, und die Namen deiner Eltern und ihre Status.” So, tell me your nationality. And your date of birth, your assigned gender, and the names of your parents and their status.

Breathing heavily, Alex found his voice. “Where are we?”

The doctor canted his head to the side bemusedly. “You prefer English?” he droned in poorly concealed disdain.

Alex shrugged, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “You’ll have to forgive me, if I don’t feel the same sense of comradery as you. After all, you’re keeping me here against my will. Wherever here is.”

The doctor’s lips tightened. Not only was that nowhere near the response he had wanted, but he was not someone used to being challenged or disobeyed, if Vanya’s immediate compliance to such a dismissal was any indication. The papers rustled in Dr. Leichenberg’s lap, and Alex regretted saying what he had.

Swallowing back the bitter taste of revulsion, he bit out, “I’m German, born 13 February 2007. Are we in Chernobyl?”

“No.” The doctor recorded the information in his notes, and before Alex could consider whether or not the man was lying, he continued on to say, “we are in Pripyat.”

“Pripyat,” Alex repeated. He had never heard of it.

“Yes, Pripyat. It is a town three kilometers to the north of Chernobyl. Mirnyi atom—das friedliche Atom wurde es genannt.” The peaceful atom, they called it. “A mockery after the events 27^th of April. Assigned gender, name of your parents, and their status.”

“Male. Elias and Yelena Adler. Died in a car crash. What about the leftover radiation? Isn’t it dangerous?”

Dr. Leichenberg fixed his glasses again, sighing with annoyance. “The buildings are reinforced with lead and countermeasures. While inside, we are exposed to no more radiation than that of a microwave.” He paused and studied Alex carefully. The levels outside are only tolerable for a few hours before permanent damage sets in, and the Zone spans up to thirty kilometers. You would start to feel the effects of radiation sickness before you even reached the border. That is, if the animals do not find you first. Rauchst du? Alcohol trinken, oder an illegalen Substanzen teilnehmen?” Do you smoke? Drink alcohol, or partake in any illicit substances?

Alex shook his head mutely. His mind was burning, thrown into the past, back into the jungle that almost cost him his eyes. He tried to concentrate on the questions he should be asking, but the urge to resist and find a way out was almost overwhelming. “Why are you doing this? What does it matter if I’ve smoked or done drugs or—or if my parents are alive?”

An annoyed grimace broke out across the doctor’s face. “We must establish a baseline. Bist du mit deinen Impfungen auf dem Laufenden?” Are you up to date with your jabs?

“A baseline for what?”

“Deine Impfungen?” When Alex still didn’t respond, the doctor scowled. He slipped the page out of the folder and proffered it to Alex.

Alex didn’t take it. He set his jaw and folded his arms.

“For the experiments,” Dr. Leichenberg clarified with more than a growl. “Every scientist must have a reference point in order to properly understand the results. How else would we know if we succeeded or failed?” He waved the paper again impatiently. It was a form, scraggly pen marks answering barely a quarter of the questions and prompts. “I suggest you cooperate with me, Alexander. I will give you one more chance to complete this yourself. I have men who can find these answers, but I do not appreciate my time being wasted.”

“What kind of experiments?”

The doctor sniffled and threw the paper, as well as the folder, down on the desk. He limped over to the cabinets and began pulling out a tray and items sealed away in sterile packaging, sending them clattering across the counter. Alex couldn’t see everything that the man was doing, but he had an idea it had to do with the more intrusive aspect of his ‘baseline’. What was it he’d said? A blood-picture and vital-parameter?

“I understand that this can be frightening for you, but I assure you that it is necessary. You and the others are instrumental to our success,” Dr. Leichenberg said, his back still to Alex.

Alex glanced toward the door. Vanya had closed it behind him, but he hadn’t locked it. All Alex had to do was take the doctor by surprise and make a run for it—he didn’t even need to knock the man unconscious, if he was quiet enough, quick enough. He inched toward the edge of the chair, wincing at the faint whine the metal gave.

“Was wir hier tun, wird Leben verändern.” What we are doing here will change lives.

Alex froze the moment the doctor started to turn back around, but he didn’t have time to feel disappointed before the man spoke again, his voice soft yet enthused. “We are making the world stronger by purging weakness from our blood.”

Cold blood coursed down Alex’s spine.

“The process is not perfect. The injections have had many side effects after only a few doses, but success requires experimentation, which is your part to play in all this.”

“Injections,” Alex repeated hollowly.

“Der Zweck heiligt die Mittel.” Dr. Leichenberg almost sounded remorseful. “We cannot leave our survival to chance. We must rid our DNA of impurities and weaknesses, even if it means the death of a few.”

Disgust made Alex’s stomach roll. “You’re not the first one to use that to justify their actions.” He met Dr. Leichenberg’s gaze evenly. “The last one put a bullet in his own head as his empire crashed and burned.”

The doctor tensed. Deliberately controlled, he thrust his thick glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and took a steadying breath. “I would have hoped that you, more than anyone else, knew better than to think all Germans are Nazis.”

“Oh, I don’t.” Alex laughed mirthlessly. “It has nothing to do with the fact you speak German. You—you’re justifying human experimentation by saying your future depends on it. How are you any different from a Nazi? The fact that you haven’t said anything anti-Semitic yet?” Alex knew the moment the words left his mouth that he’d gone too far.

The doctor’s hand lashed out and caught Alex by the arm, bruisingly tight. “Du weisst nichts von dem was hier los ist,” he hissed, face inches from Alex’s. You know nothing about what’s going on here. “Tu nicht so, als ob du es verstehst. Diese Sachverhalte sind komplizierter, als du dich vorstellen könntest. Wir versuchen die Welt vor ihrer eigenen Zerstörung zu retten.” Don't pretend you understand. These matters are more complicated than you could imagine. We are trying to save the world its own destruction.

Dr. Leichenberg grabbed the blood pressure cuff and tightened it around Alex’s bicep. His own breath came in sharp, stifled bursts, although his were out of anger rather than fear. Moving on, he took all of the other readings that he had promised in the beginning—blood pressure, oxygen levels, reflexes, and even poked around in Alex’s ears and eyes—and the entire time, he refused to engage in any more conversation, only breaking the silence to growl orders that Alex had no choice but to obey.

Even if he wanted to, the doctor would have no doubt made good on his promise to involve the guards, and if Alex had any hope of getting away in the future, he had to appear at least somewhat pliant. No matter the disgust and revulsion telling him to do otherwise.

Ears ringing, stomach hollow, Alex allowed him to take blood samples, weigh and measure him, and do any test that the doctor deemed necessary for his work. The stiff silence continued throughout until Leichenberg decided to check Alex’s spine alignment and muscle mass and asked Alex to remove his shirt. Immediately, the doctor’s eyes were drawn to the scar that marred the skin right above Alex’s heart.

“Faszinierend,” fascinating, Dr. Leichenberg muttered, gently probing the scarred tissue. “Was ist hier passiert?” What happened here?

“Gang shooting in Berlin.”

“How long ago?” The man measured the length of the scar, the size of the entry point and the incision left by the surgery, tracing the presumed trajectory through the abdominal cavity to the exit wound with obvious wonderment. The doctors at St. Dominics had been just as lost in their amazement, except their sense of happiness differed from Leichenberg’s. Where they had been relieved and thankful that a fourteen-year-old’s life hadn’t been unfairly cut short, this man was glutinous and intrigued.

Making the world stronger by purging the weakness. If Alex’s miraculous survival was anything to go by, his body was anything but weak.

Alex told him and hoped the examination would be over soon. It took nearly thirty more minutes of suffering the doctor’s company before the guards returned. Leichenberg had watched over Alex’s shoulder as he filled out the form that had been pushed earlier. It turned out to be a comprehensive history, everything from the possibility of genetic mutations within the family to environmental factors that might have affected Alex’s health over the years.

It was so thorough that even answering it as Alex Rider would have been nearly impossible. Ian had never mentioned the possibility of a thrombilia gene mutation, familial comorbidities, or something of the like. Everyone in his immediate family so far had died of unnatural causes, which wasn’t exactly helpful to Leichenberg’s research. A dark part of Alex felt pleased that that was the case.

A sharp rap on the door drew their attention away from the paperwork, as a guard cracked it open to stand half in the room, half in the corridor. “Doktor,” he greeted. “Zakonchilis’?” Are you finished?

Leichenberg took the form out of Alex’s hands and looked it over with a frown. “Da, na dannyi moment.” Yes… “Drugoi gotov?” Is the other one ready?

In answer, the guard reached behind him and tugged someone into view. Viktor. He was hugging his stomach firmly, but his face brightened marginally when he noticed Alex in the room, seemingly unharmed.

“Er wird dich zu deiner Prüfung bringen,” he will take you to your testing, the doctor said, tapping Alex on the shoulder, but Alex was barely listening. He was focused on Viktor as the doctor beckoned him further into the room and gestured for him to take Alex’s place on the recliner.

“It’s okay,” Alex promised under his breath. “It’s just like going to the doctor’s.”

Viktor’s head jerked tightly. “The others…” he tapered off, watching the adults over Alex’s shoulder. “They’re not okay. They’re really not.” He swallowed thickly. “What about us?”

Alex was almost glad when the guard’s hand came to rest on his shoulder and began steering him out of the room. It saved him from having to lie and say everything would be okay.

Built in 1897, the Lubyanka has seen three empires fall, withstood two World Wars, and was home to not only the current intelligence agency for a major world power, but had been repurposed for the infamous Cheka and KGB in their time as well. It was an imposing building of yellow brick and grey stone, with four stately floors embellished with Soviet hammers and sickles. It stood apart from any other building in the square, wide streets bordering it on all sides, guarded by an 11-ton statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the Soviet secret police. With the exception of the Kremlin, it remained the most secure building in all of Moscow, if not Russia.

As a general rule, spies avoided strolling through the front door of foreign intelligence agencies. Resident spies faced the danger of imprisonment regardless of their actions, but those caught within the headquarters of a competing agency tended to never re-emerge. Unless they were invited and had the entire might of the Queen’s Royal Army behind them, which ensured that they could leave conducting their business, there was almost nothing that would convince an intelligence operative to walk through Lubyanka’s front doors. Especially since that particular building doubled as a prison for enemies of the state, political dissidents, and, of course, spies.

So, as Ben found himself leaning against the grey stone of the Lubyanka, he felt an undercurrent of apprehension coursing through his limbs, like the hum of electricity that permeated the air before a thunderstorm. As he, Oliver, David, and Teo tried to appear as least intimidating as possible, Ben had to concur that they definitely did not look suspicious: four massive men in thick winter coats lingering outside in the slush and snow, not talking, just staring. How could they be anything but soldiers or spies. The only consolation was that as long as they refrained from speaking, no one would be the wiser to the fact they weren’t Russian in the slightest.

Something that Eagle hadn’t quite put together. “Where is she?” he groaned. His face had started to burn red with cold.

“She said she’d try,” Snake responded. He cupped his hands and blew on them, trying to regain some feeling. “Give her a moment.”

Ben slipped his phone out again, in the off chance he had missed an alert, but somehow, instead of a Russian agent’s contact, he was looking at a series of photographs. The screen must have timed out on him the last time he’d pulled it out. Pointlessly. He and K-unit had scoured the photos so thoroughly that there was nothing left to learn from them. Ben had transcribed everything he could and counted on David to put his medical skills to good use, but apart from knowing the general function and meaning of words, they had no idea what was so special about them when put together.

And yet, Ben still checked them every couple of hours.

He was pissed. He was pissed at himself for agreeing to the plan in the first place, pissed at Alex for going off script (however predictable it had been), and pissed at the FSB’s sudden desire to abide by red tape.

Ben snorted. As if they ever cared about protocol and official procedure.

“But how long does it actually take to ask a question?”

Ben was already regretting reading in the FSB on the situation. It was taking too long.

Smithers had contacted them three times in the past 24 hours. Once to say that Alex had given him access to Nenavos’s systems, and a second time to tell him that the kid’s emergency beacon had been activated in the middle of nowhere. The signal had flashed across the screen, from somewhere a few kilometers south of Mtsensk, a small town in Oryol Oblast. For a total of five minutes, and then it was gone. The third time had been at one in the morning. Alex had registered as being in Ukraine, only to vanish a minute later. Give him another twelve hours, and he might turn up in Romania.

Wolf knocked Eagle in the arm and shot him a warning look. Ben was only somewhat surprised. Teo wasn’t exactly known for being the most patient person either, but it was no secret that he was feeling the pressure of the last day. Deny it all he wanted, Wolf was worried about the kid too.

The muffled crunch of boots on slush announced the arrival of someone new, and Ben straightened up to see Katya shuffling towards them. Just as everyone else on the street, her hands were stuffed into her coat pockets, her face buried in a scarf, and looked just as miserable and uncomfortable as Ben and the others. While it wasn’t exactly snowing or raining, a persistent mist had been drifting down from the grey wall of clouds for the better part of the day. Winter in Moscow at its finest.

Katya stopped a few feet away from them and nodded in greeting. “Konstantin has agreed to meet with you.”

The relief was near palpable, but Ben could sense that there was something else. “But?”

Katya bit the inside of her cheek and tamped down the icy slush under her boot. “But it is—complicated. He will explain. Come.”

The FSB agent led them around the side of the building, where they entered through an unassuming, unguarded beige door. As unostentatious and simple as the door had been, the interior was the opposite, though Ben’s attention went straight to the exhaustive configuration of security placed at the entrance.

The three guards tracked their movement from the very second they stepped inside. The eldest of the three, a stoutly man with a balding crown, softened marginally at the sight of Katya. She emptied her pockets, dropping keys, her phone, wallet, and sidearm into the bowl waiting beside the detector, then she scanned her badge and stepped through. She handed the older man a note and pointed to Ben and his unit, who were now hovering inside the Lubyanka. A change from hovering outside, where they had no doubt been on display for the dozens of CCTVs set along the outside of the building.

Ben wondered if the men had been placing bets on who would bite it on the ice first. He glanced at their grim, poker faces. Probably had done.

Without any trouble, they were waved through. They dropped their belongings into the same grey tray and collected them on the other side. At least, Snake had had the foresight to remind them to leave their weapons behind.

Katya led them across granite floors emblazoned with Soviet crests and through meticulously maintained corridors that had been decorated with art and sculptures from every decade. It was hard to believe that the Lubyanka housed one of the Soviet’s most brutal prisons within these same manicured walls.

They took the lift to the third floor, but the awkward silence inside was nothing compared to the confusion and disconcertion that greeted them when they stepped out. The handful of agents and intelligence officers in their vicinity seemed to turn at once and stare. How they knew K-unit was technically an enemy, Ben couldn’t fathom.

It did remind him why they had avoided interacting with the agency in the first place. So many eyes with unknown loyalties, and they had just strolled out in front of them. If their reason for being there somehow got out, Alex was in that much more danger.

“This way,” Katya prompted and walked down the hall to the right.

The corridor was peppered with doors, but only one stood out compared to the rest. Whilst the others were simple dark oak, the one at the end of the hall had been carefully polished and embellished with spiraling carving, the handle made of immaculate brass. Katya knocked once before entering.

A man in his mid-fifties sat behind a desk to the far end of the room. The office itself was large and tastefully decorated. The walls were painted a deep green, with dark wood trim. Bookshelves lined each side and were brimming with old books and pieces of art, and a heavy metal bust of some Soviet leader had been placed in the far corner, where the sun would reflect off of its polished surface. A few leather chairs and a lavish sofa were spread out across the room.

The man didn’t stand to greet them.

“Konstantin Arkadyevich,” Katya said. “These are the soldiers from SAS. Fox, Wolf, Snake, and Eagle.”

Konstantin was hard to read. After decades of working in intelligence, his face had been trained to remain carefully blank for that very reason, and since smiling without reason was typically practiced in Russia like it was in the West, his poker face came as naturally as breathing by now. He waved the men forward.

“Which one of you is the captain?

Wolf took a step head of the others, hands behind his back. “Sir,” he said with practiced respect.

Konstantin considered the soldier and, if anything, seemed less than impressed. “So, you are to blame for this debacle.”

To his credit, Wolf barely reacted. The twitch would have been imperceptible to anyone not trained to notice.

“Do you think differently?”

“I think it’s not as simple as it seems.”

Konstantin co*cked an eyebrow. He brushed his desk clear of exiguous dust as he intoned, “since you have arrived in my country, you have not only managed to instigate a gang war, but you have also disregarded our agreement by acting without our explicit knowledge or consent, trespassed one of the most respected research facilities in Russia, and lost you child soldier. All within twenty-four hours’ time. Is this accurate, Ekaterina Nikolaevna?”

Katya shifted. “Tak tochno,” she agreed reluctantly.

Ben bit back the desire to correct the fact that they technically hadn’t instigated the gang war with the Solntsevo. Their actions in London had started the domino effect which resulted in a gang war. Semantics. At least Konstantin didn’t look smug or self-satisfied at the admittance. He might actually be a good man, moral and competent, if slightly erroneous.

“And now,” Konstantin continued, “you want our help to rectify your mistakes.”

“Konstantin Arkadyevich,” Ben hedged. The director’s cool blue eyes examined him, and Ben took that as permission to continue. “We apologize for acting without your permission, but we had reason to believe that the children’s lives were in danger. We had to act quickly—”

“In danger from what?” At the lost expression on all four men, Konstantin splayed his hands and clarified, “What was so pressing that you could not contact my agents before? If it was so dangerous, why not request FSB support?”

Ben really did not want to answer that. There was no good way to tell a commander that their department might be compromised.

“I knew.”

Ben’s eyes widened, and someone behind him took in a sharp breath. Konstantin slowly turned toward Katya and regarded her coolly. “What?”

“I knew they planned to investigate Nenavos. I helped them,” Katya stated evenly.

The director levelled her with a withering stare that promised repercussions. “You better have very good reasons for this, Katerina.” He was frighteningly calm and controlled.

“Alex Rider witnessed that Kozlovsky and Daniil Danis talked of a deal between Artyom Zharkov and Solntsevskaya Gang, as well as of Danis’s murder of Kozlovsky. He capture it on video.”

Konstantin Arkadyevich remained as still as the brass statue on his desk, with the only exception of his fingers gently skimming the wooden surface as if playing out a concerto. The air in the room grew thick and unpleasant. The floor creaked as someone behind Ben—and his money was on Oliver—shifted their weight.

“When Yakov Mikhailovich and I arrived at Pasternaka sorok-tri, Adam Bradlik admitted to kidnapping, by Zharkov’s request,” Katya continued when no one else did. “We believed there a chance Nenavos was connected.”

“Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov.” Konstantin clasped his hands together.

“Yes.”

“The same Artyom Zharkov who saved the life of the Minister of Minoboron and was awarded the Order of the Red Banner for his service in Afghanistan?”

“Tak tochno.” Yes, sir.

Konstantin finished scouring his desk for a distraction and set his cool blue eyes on the four Englishmen who stood silently before him. They met his gaze evenly, as they had been trained to do despite their nerves telling them to act. Perhaps it was their resolve or their daringness to have done what they did in the first place, but when the director returned to look at his agent, it wasn’t to reprimand them. “And?”

Katya’s shoulders relaxed, and she exhaled with every bit of control. “Once we learned of Zharkov, we knew there was a chance he had connections inside Lubyanka. We agreed it was best to continue quietly. We arranged that Agent Rider hide away in Nenavos, so we could investigate ourselves, but something went wrong.” She fell silent and looked to the two leaders of K-unit, the commander and spy.

“Cub—Agent Rider,” the title tasted bitter if Wolf’s scowl was anything to go by, “managed to send photographs of one of the labs before he lost contact. We sent it along to our people at MI6, but so far all we know that it was a genetics lab. That they are messing with steroids and other compounds.” Wolf paused long enough to invite corrections or additions to his summary, but when none came, he continued, “Cub activated his GPS signal last night at 19:13, and then again at 1:05.”

“Where?”

“Ukraine,” Ben answered. “Along the Belarus-Russian border.”

Konstantin’s face had already been rigid and set in a perpetual scowl, but this news only deepened those lines. “Northern Ukraine?”

“Yes, somewhere called Pripyat.”

Konstantin co*cked his head to the side, just as Katya mirrored his confusion. Ben wished they had done more research into the town aside from its GPS coordinates. In their rush to figure out their next steps, they had stupidly ignored the specifics, figuring the blinking signal had simply been another pitstop on an evasive flight through Eurasia. For some reason, Pripyat rang strangely for the two Russians.

“You know it?” Snaked asked, though the answer was almost certain.

“You know its counterpart better,” Katya confirmed. “It was evacuated alongside Chernobyl in 1986 after the explosion. No one lives there. It is still too—radioactive, dangerous.”

“So, not somewhere to stop for petrol then,” guessed Eagle. Ben could tell from the tone of his voice that Oliver, although not actually grinning, was close to it. Ben felt the pull too. He knew better than to bring hope into his missions, though. One look at the director brought it all crashing down again. Ben wasn’t the only one to notice.

“You think it’s a false lead, sir?” Wolf asked.

Konstantin reclined further into his chair and shook his head. “I do not know the facts well enough to say. Zharkov was born in Ukraine. It is possible he still has ties there, and a—as you call, a ghost town would be an intelligent choice for a base of operations. But it is Ukraine.”

Wolf turned to the others for an explanation, but Ben was just as lost as his commander. The benefit of being a foreign intelligence agency was that borders didn’t tend to matter. And if they had a lead as to where Alex and the other kids were, they should follow it through.

“Sir?” Ben prompted.

“Our people have had limited access to Ukraine after the rebellion in 2014.”
Limited access was open to interpretation. If Ukraine was actively fighting against Russian presence and intervention, there was no way the previous capital of the Soviet Union was about to let it happen without opposition. Not that Ben could point any of this out and expect anything more than anger and refusal to help.

“An armed FSB team would be an act of aggression,” Katya clarified. “We can contact SBU for permission to enter, but there is no guarantee.”

And it would take time. It would involve sharing all of their intelligence so far, explain the presence of a British special ops team in Russia, and ask permission for both MI6 and FSB intervention. No, they couldn’t wait on the deliberate, apathetic pace of MI bureaucracies.

“You’re saying you won’t help,” Ben said, forcing them to spell it out.

Konstantin spread his hands regretfully but said nothing to the contrary. Katya met his eyes and then, almost too slow and minute to notice, nodded. “We’re saying officially, we cannot.”

“And unofficially?” Eagle prompted.

Konstantin stood abruptly and walked over to the door to his office, opening it in a clear dismissal. “I believe Ekaterina knows the risks, as do you. Officially and unofficially, I know nothing of your actions.”

Translation & Transliteration:

стой там с другими = stoi tam s drugimi = go stand over there with the others

Ой, мальчишка, поторопись = Oi, mal’chishka, potoropis’ = hey, brat, hurry up.

Ладно, пошли = ladno, poshly = okay, let’s go

Ну, по крайней мере = nu, po krainei mere = well, at least

Поверь мне = pover’ mnye = believe me

Как вас зовут = kak vas zovut = what are your names

Что они хотят = Chto oni khotyat = what do they want

Доедай, или я запихну тебе в глотку, понятно? = doyedai, ili ya zapikhnu tebe v glotku, ponyatno = eat up, or I’ll shove it down your throat, understand

Их забрали = ix zabrali = they took them away

Почему? Куда? = pochemu? Kuda? = why? To where?

Потому что, они погибли = potomu chto, oni pogibli = because they were dead (through unnatural causes)

Можно уйти. = Mozhno uiti. = you can go

Blutbild und Vitalparameter = blood panel and vital signs

Мирный атом = Mirnyi atom = peaceful atom

Der Zweck aber heiligt die Mittel = (german) the end justifies the means

Доктор, закончились? я привел другого, который прибыл вчера вечером = doctor, zakonchilis’? = doctor, are you finished?

Да, на данный момент. Другой готов = da, na dannyi moment. Drugoi gotov = yes, for the moment. Is the other ready?

Так точно = tak tochno = exactly so (semi equivalent to military jargon ‘yes, sir’)

Author’s note:

For example, the changes would be such: after the initial accident (1986), the radiation was fatal after about a minute. By 2005, it had decreased significantly, but was still quite harmful after long periods (evident in cancer studies from the area).

In regard to the Nazi discussion in this chapter, I wanted to include it because the similarities between Leichenberg and Nazi doctors are there, and although he is German-speaking (Swiss), it is not a statement about Germans/German speakers as a whole. Alex acknowledges this and puts it on the people who fall for the ideology and the rhetoric of charismatic speakers (and you will get a glimpse into this next chapter).

I have a head-cannon that Ian wasn’t really prepping Alex for MI6, but rather to protect him, and in one of his preparations, he taught a young Alex about how any group of people can become monsters with the right motivation (Germans and the Nazis, Ireland and IRA, Northern Irish and UVF, to name a few (this lesson was also very prevalent in the last airbender sequel, where no one element is the good guys or bad guys)). Since Ian wanted Alex to speak various languages, I feel like he would have begun educating Alex in the aspects of history that would have shaped modern countries (especially since learning about the Nazis and WWs are still a huge part of the educational system.) (also, since many terms in German have been permanently affected by past usage (for example, if Führer is said without any other context, it means Hitler and generally is in a somewhat positive light) so context is key)

Chapter 15: The End of the Road is Inevitable

Chapter Text

Cecilia Novak never wanted to be involved. She had never meant to fall so deeply, to get so entangled in the soldier’s plot that she couldn’t remember when her actions had shifted from questionable to treasonous. She had tried to back out once, as soon as the requests ventured from making a certain delivery disappear to a person, and then worse, a child. Then the soldier had showed her photographs.

She’d been naïve to think that someone willing to do what he’d done wouldn’t have taken measures to ensure her cooperation. Her loyalty.

Maybe if it had only implicated her, she would have let herself fall. But the photos hadn’t only been of herself. There were multiple shots of her father. Outside his house, at the market, in hospital getting treatment for the acute Myeloid Leukemia he’d been diagnosed with her second year on the job.

The message was clear enough: either continue to help their cause or the cancer wouldn’t be what killed her father. It wasn’t much of a choice.

Cecilia hated herself.

She hated herself even more when intelligence came across her desk that indicated one of their own people, alongside a motley crew of foreign agents, was headed toward the very place Cecilia had painstakingly made vanish from the books. When rumors of a joint taskforce of MI6 and FSB agents had begun to circulate around the office, she had regrettably informed her contact. As Cecilia had had only a vague notion that the operation had begun with Vashenko-Chao’s disappearance, the intelligence had been the bare minimum—some descriptions and recorded movement from the activity logs. A name.

Only one name in particular had surfaced during that time, and it had been surrounded with as much speculation as disbelief.

Alex Rider.

A rumor. And an implausible one at that. To think, a country as principled and moralistic as England claimed to be would be the one to create a child spy. It took considerably less imagination when she read of the Americans borrowing the boy. So long as it wasn’t their creation, why not put it to use? It fit well with their mentality and game when it came to who was the villain and where the morality laid in a world of grey.

Now, it seemed that it was the FSB’s turn.

If it weren’t for the fact that her actions were dooming the boy to a harrowing fate, Cecilia would have accredited their inability to put an end to Zharkov’s insanity to karma. In using him, they came close to bringing down Zharkov’s operation, but it was also because of him and his infiltration into the facility in Pripyat that she knew the MI6-FSB taskforce was headed there at this very moment.

The unit was comprised of four soldiers expertly trained in covert operations, and they were paired with a highly effective agent. They might have had a chance at succeeding. They might have extracted Alex Rider and collected enough evidence to destroy Artyom Zharkov and his dog, Daniil Danis. They might have even razed the city rubble, returned it to how it should have been after all these years. There was a chance.

But it was not one Cecilia was willing to take.

The thirteenth guard—or the guard whom Alex had dubbed Thirteen, as he had lost count after realizing all of the men were intentionally uniformed to prevent an accurate count—nudged Alex forward. He did so more gently than any of the other guards had in the past. Maybe he felt bad for the way the kid seemed to sway as he walked.

For Alex, it was the floor that was swaying. His limbs refused to cooperate beyond simple commands like walk and stand, punishing him for the exertion he had forced them through just minutes before. His eyes stung from the beads of sweat that coursed freely down his face and caused the cotton to itch against his skin. All he could picture was a refreshingly cold shower and a buffet on par with this morning’s breakfast. The protein bar and glass of water the nurse had given him after the last exercise had been less than satisfying, tasting of chalk and bitter vanilla.

Alex hadn’t faced that caliber of training since his first day at Brecon Beacons, when the training officers had wanted to see what a fourteen-year-old was capable of. This so-called testing had not been so different either, except the people behind the glass hadn’t been soldiers grinning savagely as they waited for the kid to ultimately fail. The lab coats had pushed him methodically. Never to the point of failure, just enough to see his limits.

For what felt like hours, he’d been training. Adjusting the slope and speed of the treadmill, increasing the amount of weight, demanding he hold his breath for just that much longer. There wasn’t a single pressure test they missed, and yet it never seemed to be enough. The orderly would stencil in the result without expression, listen to the new instructions given through an earpiece, and then instruct Alex to move on to the next task. They had given him time to recover between the various activities, checking his vitals and making sure he wouldn’t pass out in the middle of it all.

That would have just interfered with their results.

It had taken place in a neighboring building across the courtyard—this massive, slated structure of crumbling cement and rusted metal. The excursion hadn’t offered him more of a glimpse into the abandoned haunt that was Pripyat, but it was enough to solidify his opinion on the place.

The city was even more depressing than in the dark; The streets were strewn with the kind of disrepair and ruin that was only possible after years being exposed to the elements and, Alex supposed, a tsunami of radioactivity. If it weren’t for the reinforced concrete, the red-tinged evergreens would have reclaimed the land after a few years. Once or twice along the way, he caught a glimpse of civilization. Black and white faces of crying women, screaming children, shadows dancing on the walls—someone had been there in the past few decades, tagging corners and painting life back into streets.

Alex wondered what happened to the artists.

As they had begun their return trip to Gotel’ Polissya, the only benefit Alex could find from knowing the city’s name was if he got his hands on a phone or computer, and the guards were monitoring him too much like a terrified mouse for that to come to fruition. To be fair, Alex had already tried bolting the first chance he’d had. It was a fair assumption he would do so again.

But he was too tired to even think of trying on his way back to the fourth floor, stumbling up the stairs and over the threshold like a child. Thirteen stopped outside and waited. Alex hesitated as well, dimly wondering if he was supposed to be doing something in specific and that they had merely assumed he knew what to do, but then he shrugged.

He was too tired to care.

Alex made his way toward the room he knew to be his. Unlike the night before, the doors to the other rooms remained open, a few glowing with artificial light. The first few were unoccupied, unsurprising given there were more cells than there were prisoners, but in the third one down, he found Kseniya and Sveta. Both girls were sat on the bed, Sveta curled up against her friend’s side as Kseniya combed her hands through her black hair calmingly, hypnotically. They were whispering to one another quietly, but the rattling of the heat and the buzzing of the lights silenced the words. Sveta nodded, pressing a sleeve to her pink nose, sniffling back tears.

Alex ducked his head and kept moving, passing Jan, who was reading alone in his room, and Kyra, who had tucked herself so far into the corner that she was nearly completely hidden from sight.

Alex went straight for the sink in his own room, turned on the water, and began dowsing his face and neck in cool water. It helped some, to wash away the grime and shock him into semi-alertness. A shower would have been better, as would a change of clothes, but they had only provided him the one. He was willing to bet that someone had come and removed his tattered uniform at some point, as well.

Alex stared into the cloudy mirror above the sink. It was strange: to come to recognize his face more when it was painted in bruises and exhaustion than when it was normal and healthy. A dark patch of mottled blue and yellow covered one cheek, the same ugly colors threading across his throat from where the guard had choked him into unconsciousness. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was mesmerizing in a way. Alex leant closer and prodded the tender skin. On the bright side, it would lend itself to his persona of a scared, lost child, when it came time to escape.

The longer he stood there, the more his bed seemed to call to him, and if Alex had had a better understanding of the day’s schedule, he probably would have given into it.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t let his guard down like that. Not when he hadn’t seen Viktor in a few hours, or that K-unit could launch an attack at any moment. Or the worst possibility, that Leichenberg could send for him and make good on his promise to inject him with whatever poison it was they were developing.

Not for the first time today, Alex checked his watch. The hands hadn’t moved from the eleven and twelve. The screen didn’t blink, the mechanisms inside didn’t lurch with some encoded message that confirmed the device was doing what it should, and it didn’t even tell him how much time had actually passed since activating the alert. He was left hoping that the battery hadn’t died and that the radiation hadn’t scrambled the signal.

Alex blew out the breath burning in his chest.

He knew the wise move would be to wait. Keep up the charade of a scared, stubborn kid with a higher-than-normal level of curiosity. Wait for backup to arrive. It was the safest course of action, and the recommended if Ben had anything to say about it.

But when had Alex ever taken the safest course of action?

Before he knew what he was doing, he had left his room and gone the few feet to the right. Kyra hadn’t moved from her cramped position in the corner, but she eyed him almost curiously when he appeared on her threshold and gestured to the chair at her desk. Alex took the disconnected jerk of her shoulders as permission to enter and sat down less than gracefully.

If he were being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure why her in specific. Her room wouldn’t offer anything special, and she had been less than friendly at breakfast. Alex could have been doing something more productive like looking around, prying at ceiling tiles, or fiddling with vent covers as a means of escape. Only, he couldn’t escape yet. Alex still had no idea what Zharkov wanted to do with them, and what good would it do to provide K-unit with the same baffling riddles Leichenberg had been spouting?

“What do you want?”

“Eh,” he sputtered intelligently, suddenly brought back to reality. “Is—is it always like this?”

Alex examined her room. He had half-hoped that there would be a window with a spiderwebbing of vines they would be able to put to use later on, or something else of equal convenience, but it was just about as useful as his own. A bed, a desk, and a small alcove in the far corner that had been converted into a washroom. The only real difference in the layout was the far wall. The entire section of plaster was on a different level compared to the rest, geometrically indented despite the extra layer of material—the missing window Alex had been hoping for. It would have stretched from one side of the room to the next. The architects must have replaced it for added protection from rampant radiation and yet another barrier to the outside world.

There were no other additions or ‘rewards’ decorating her cell either. Not that surprising, considering she had only been there a week, and Kyra didn’t seem like a person inclined to play along with Leichenberg’s games.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Alex waved an arm broadly. “Sitting around until the doctor wants to check our blood pressure or see how long we can hold our breath?”

“It’s not as if there is anything else to do.” Kyra picked at her nails disinterestedly. “What else would you expect?”

Alex shrugged. “Films. Books. I don’t know—things that brainwash us into believing they’re our saviors or something stupid like that.”

“They’re sociopaths. Not villains out of a Cold War movie. They don’t care what you think about them.”

For a second, Alex was tempted to prove her otherwise. Of all the men he had gone up against, nearly all of them have tried to justify their motives to him with longwinded stories about personal slights or disillusioned beliefs of superiority. He was willing to bet his life that Zharkov wouldn’t be any different. Leichenberg had certainly wanted Alex to understand.

“Guess not,” he relented, “but it’s still weird that they just leave us alone like this.” Alex played the part of a bored, disinterested captive and rocked back in the desk chair. Disappointingly, the ceiling tiles looked like they would crumble from a simple touch, let alone under his weight. He wouldn’t be pulling that trick twice this mission.

The chair creaked in warning, and Alex dropped back to all four legs. “Have you been able to go anywhere beside the Leichenbergs’s office and the place where they did all the testing?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“About the compound?”

“And the city. I’d never heard of Pripyat before today.”

“Because it’s dead. Abandoned. Filled with radiation and wild animals. Not exactly the best place for a holiday.”

But apparently the perfect location for an illegal medical research facility, though Alex decided not to voice that particular comment. He preferred to follow along the lines of what she did know about the city, if she knew the geography, or if she had seen anything about how they got in and out. Shouldn’t there be governmental regulations about a zone as dangerous as Chernobyl?

He gnawed on the inside of his cheek. Echoes of painful blows to the head warned him against sharing certain details aloud. With the similarities between this place and Point Blanc, how could he not worry about the possibility of the rooms being bugged? He had shown his hand too early then and nearly been dissected alive for it. Although he’d manage to avoid, Alex didn’t want to try his luck for a second time.

And after the spectacular failure at the petrol station, it would be safer for everyone else to continue on his own, as well, he decided. All he needed was a little more information before then.

“So have you?”

“Been around?” At his nod, Kyra scoffed, fixing him with an impressive glower. “No. I don’t see why they would want us to see more than what is necessary.”

A fair point, Alex conceded, but one that was often moot. He had had enough experience to know that pride was a powerful emotion and was common in all the men and women he’d faced off against. More often not, it played a part in their downfall when Alex was there to help them along. He planned on doing that again here.

“Do you reckon the doctor was lying? About the radiation, I mean.” Alex may not have been a radiobiologist, but thirty-five years seemed a long time for there to have been zero environmental improvement. Surely, the city was far enough from the powerplant for the residual radiation to have dissipated enough that a few hours of exposure was not an immediate death sentence. They should be able to make it for some time before permanent side effects took hold. “Maybe he only said that to keep us from running.”

Kyra seemed to chew on the idea before brushing it off. “Even if he were, why would that matter?”

Alex feigned contemplation. He had literally just decided not to share his plans, and yet the conversation was headed in that very direction. His balancing act of learning more about the facility and keeping her in the dark was unraveling as he sewed, but was that a bad thing? It was possible that, out of the other prisoners, Kyra might be the most willing. She hadn’t been there long enough to completely give up on the idea of rescue, and she didn’t appear to be as sick as the others.

Even as Alex considered his moves going forward, Kyra had already pieced together some of it. She leant forward on her hands and knees, lowering her voice as if she had thought about listening devices as well. “You’ve been here less than a day and already have it all figured out.”

Alex didn’t respond.

“Alright, Houdini, say he has lied and the radiation will not kill us within an hour, where would we go? It’s cold and in the middle of nowhere. And that is not to mention the men with guns whose one job is to keep us from getting out. Even if we could escape, the others wouldn’t last an hour. You’ve seen them.”

Alex had. The more he pictured the sullen, bordering on jaundice, skin, the more it reinforced his original thought on escaping alone. It made him sick, to even consider leaving them behind, as one more dose of the doctor’s miracle poison might turn out to be the last.

“What’s wrong with them?” Propping his head up with his fist, he focused on the framed shot of the hallway. He could almost imagine what it would have looked like back then, before a catastrophic explosion had literally poisoned the very foundation. “What is actually making them sick? Are they side effects or this just some sick game to see how long we last, or what…?”

The shift in Kyra’s demeanor was immediate. Her expression shuttered, and she didn’t move respond, rather focusing intently on fisting her sheets into a spiral. Drawing in a measured breath, she prompted in a deceptively calm voice, “they already gave you one?”

“No, but Leichenberg…he was talking about injections and DNA and ‘purging weakness from blood’,” he frowned. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “And that that’s the reason we’re here. Why? What do they do?”

Kyra looked toward the door, fixing on the same view Alex had moments before. There was no one there; the guard had secured the floor as soon as Alex was inside, and it seemed the others were still tucked away into their own rooms. Coming to a decision, Kyra drew back her sleeve. Even before she held it out for better light, the discoloration was unmistakable. He shifted over to the bed and gently took her arm to inspect it closer.

The entire crux of her elbow was marked with the sickening greens and yellows of a bruise that sat much deeper than under the skin. The jab had inflamed the vein, almost tearing the thin wall, and making it impossible to distinguish the vein’s wall from the pooling of blood and inflammation surrounding it. The skin burned under his touch.

“What is it?”

Kyra took back her arm and rolled down the fabric protectively. “As if they would tell us. All I know is it hurts. More than an average jab.”

“But what is it supposed to do?” Alex pressed. “They must want something out of it. It’s not like they’re doing this just for kicks.” Baselines, tests, purging weakness from blood, it was almost like a villain’s scheme straight out of a comic book. “Are they steroids? Are they—is it supposed to make you stronger or something?”

“And something,” a quiet, melodic voice supplied from the doorway.

Alex and Kyra wrenched around, breathing a collective sigh of relief when it turned out to be Jan. He was hovering just outside of the room, his book tucked haphazardly into his trouser pocket. “I am sorry.” His hand braced against the doorframe, he offered them a weak smile. “I want to see how you are, Sasha. After, uh…” he trailed off, waving his hand to imply the rest.

“I’m just tired.” Alex shrugged, then amended, “really tired. But okay.”

Jan nodded and un-hitched himself from the doorway. He took a tired step inside and slid into the chair Alex had recently vacated. Whether purposefully because of what he had overheard, or because he was running hot, he wasn’t wearing a sweatshirt, and his arm was on full display. A dark kaleidoscope of bruising stained the skin, much like Kyra’s, except it didn’t limit itself to the injection site. It ran the course of his arms, from halfway up his bicep to his forearms.

Alex tried not to stare, but he could tell from Jan’s self-conscious frown that he hadn’t quite managed it. Though, the other boy had done little to hide them and, instead, looked down at his arm himself, flexing it experimentally. Jan was tall and willowy, his frame almost sickly so, but his arms were completely at odds with the rest of him. They were strong, corded with muscles and bulging veins. They looked odd on him, as if they were someone else’s limbs sewn on. Jan grimaced in disgust at the sight and wrapped his arms around himself.

“The—the, eh, in’’yektsiya. The doctor says he wants that it do—everything.”

“What do you mean ‘everything’?”

Jan hugged his arms tighter then forced himself relax his grip. “I asked, in place of a gift after…what they do. He says, to make you fast, strong, healthy—everything. It work sometimes. At first. But then, it make you sick—us, sick. Like this,” Jan prodded the inflamed skin for emphasis, tracing a raised vein along his forearm. “Or like Hannah.”

His eyes set on Jan’s arm, Alex couldn’t help but picture the after-effects of athletes who had turned to chemical enhancements in order to stay on top. It worked then too. They could push harder, run for longer, bare more weight, but then after a certain amount of abuse, or simply too many doses, the steroids and chemical compounds turned those advantages into harmful disadvantages.

“How many have they given you?”

With a grim sort of optimism, Alex hoped that it had been a lot. If it had been a lot, that meant that maybe the injections weren’t potent enough to be fatal after the first few doses. It meant that there would be time to get everyone out.

Jan contemplated the question before shrugging. “They give us a—a ruiske,” he mimed a needle jab, “every week. They wait and they watch.”

“How long have you been here?”

Again, Jan shrugged. “What is today?”

“26^th. Of December.”

Kyra’s face may have stayed the same, but Alex caught movement out of the corner of his eye as she clenched the sheets more tightly. He wondered if she and her family celebrated Christmas on the 25^th, or if she was only just realizing how much time had actually passed since she had last seen her family.

“Two month,” Jan recounted flatly. He swallowed thickly. “The doctor changed the—the recipes after Jonathan…I started after…”

Jonathan. That had to have been Jonathan Llyod, and he had also mentioned Hannah. Could that be Hannah Vivier? Alex wanted to prompt Jan into explaining what happened, though he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know. They weren’t here now; for now, that was he should focus on. There were five other kids to get out, more on another level if Jan was right in saying the younger kids were being held below.

Alex opened his mouth to ask just how many more there were, when someone screamed.

Danis had known it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. He’d known that from the start involving the avtorityet was a mistake. Bradlik had always suffered from a noxiously heightened sense of self-importance, despite his obvious failures and inability to instill even the slightest sense of competency in his men; his voracious appetite to rival his cousin’s power had been what drew Artyom to the man in the first place. A double-edged sword, it seemed.

As soon as Danis had been apprised of the situation regarding the journalist in England, he was merely waiting for the word that others had pieced together Operation Nenavos. There were too many players involved, too many moving pieces. He had never been one for chess.

It did come as a surprise, however, that the eventual error that toppled the house of cards came from inside. His money had been on Bradlik’s Solntsevskaya family and their need for revenge following Kozlovsky’s death—Danis admittedly knew he had lost control that night, facing Artyom’s disappointment with a twinge of regret; at the time, his actions had been irreplaceably satisfying—but to have it come from his own men bringing the Trojan Horse inside with open arms…

Once this new problem was dealt with, little would be able to stand between him and the two men who had fallen for this ill-conceived ruse. Ivan Zaitsev and Grigori Popov.

Danis readjusted the headset so that it rested more comfortably over his ears. It did little to cancel out the noise caused by the blades whirling at 450 RPM overhead, but there was little to be done about that; the rhythmic thrumming hammered his ears with concussive blasts, tolerable through its predictability. It served well to draw his attention back to the present.

The black and white Mil Mi-34 was only one helicopter that resided in Zharkov’s extensive repository, and it certainly wasn’t the most luxurious. Commandeered after the futile cleanup effort in 1986, it had made the trip to Kyiv Oblast more times than it should have, but first Aslanov’s money, then Ludmila’s family funds had ensured the motor’s longevity. It would survive at least one more.

It was over within seconds, but there was no denying the piercing terror in the indiscernible notes.

Alex lurched to his feet and stumbled to the threshold, where he nearly collided with Kseniya as she materialized before him. Her face was pale, spectral and ashen, except for flushed patches burning in her cheeks. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her words caught in her throat at as she took in Alex, and she pressed the back of her hand against her lips to try and regain her breath.

“Ksana?” Jan came up just behind Alex and reached out tentatively. “Chto sluchilos’? Kto zakrichal?” What…Who…

“So Svetoi,” she gasped, signing wildly behind her. “Chyo-to nye tak.”

Without another word, Kseniya turned on her heels and bolted back down the hall. Jan veered around Alex to race after her, Alex only hesitating a second before sprinting out as well. At first glance, he didn’t understand what was wrong: the corridor was as nondescript as it always was, with its pallid whitish grey paint and refurbished flooring. It lacked a familiar presence of emotionless eyes and an uncaring ethos, which in and of itself was remarkable considering how jarring the scream had been, but there was nothing to indicate that anything was out of the ordinary.

Until Sveta stepped out of her room.

She walked forward, drunkenly, lost in a trance, her gaze locked onto her hand, which was held out in front of her. Lethargically, her eyes dragged away from her hand and wandered about the hallway. The same distant and uncomprehending veil clouding her features. Finally, after far too long, recognition sparked across her face. Kseniya reached out but stopped hesitantly.

“Ksyusha,” Sveta whispered.

A cough wracked her frame, and a spray of crimson painted her outstretched hand.

A moment passed. Each one of them studied her lips coated in red, then the speckled inkblots discoloring her skin—not quite comprehending what it meant, not really knowing what to do aside from merely stand there. For Alex, it felt as if he were watching a film. The action playing out before him but a sense of detachment kept it from feeling real. Hushed thrumming suppressed every other sound, replacing it with its own quiet solitude.

Then Sveta coughed again, and the illusion shattered.

She coughed and collapsed to her knees, retching. Kseniya dropped to her side and drew Sveta back into her arms, rubbing circles into her back. What should have been a comforting gesture was what knocked the others back into reality. Jan took a hesitant step forward but couldn’t quite bring himself to touch either girl, as if they would otherwise crumble under his fingers.

“Ch-chto…” he stammered.

With a shrill whine, Sveta gagged and retched. Choking. Her hand lingered in front of her mouth, as her other arm wrapped around her stomach. “Ksana,” her voice was thick with tears, or blood. “Ksyusha, mamochku khochu.” I want my mom.

“Ya znayu—znayu. Vsyo budet khorosho, vot uvidesh’, vsyo khorosho,” Kseniya chanted, tucking Sveta’s head under her chin and rocking her gently. I know—I know. Everything will be okay…everything’s okay.

Alex didn’t need to be a doctor to know that when someone began coughing up blood, they needed medical attention immediately. He wracked his brain for anything Snake or the sergeants might have said that would be of any use. Words bounced around in his memory, but not once did he remember them mentioning what to do when the bleeding could be coming from anywhere, from the stomach, the lungs, the throat. What good was the SAS training, if he couldn’t do anything with it?

If they waited around long enough, eventually the guards would come back. They could bring Sveta to the good doctor, but Alex had a feeling that if they took her away, she wouldn’t be coming back at all.

Kseniya turned her desperate eyes on Alex and Jan and Kyra. “Pomogitye. Nye znayu chyo delat’. Skazhi chyo delat’.”

Alex didn’t understand any of what the girl said. Her voice was thick with tears, she choked out the words so quickly that it all melded into one, terrified cry, and an unsettling, gurgling cough was working its way up Sveta’s throat, drowning out everything else.

Thick ruby droplets painted Sveta’s lips and coursed down her chin. Suddenly, she was scrambling out of Kseniya’s arms and retched so violently, tears coursed down her cheeks.

Alex fell to his knees and helped Kseniya readjust Sveta, so she was reclining against a wall. Even through the thick sweatshirt, he could feel the heat pulsing off of her. His mind cast back to breakfast, when he had seen her in full, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember her appearing this badly off. Sure, none of them looked well, and Sveta had had been the worse off, but not anywhere near the point of coughing and vomiting blood.

“Sveta,” he prompted gently. He glanced up at Jan and Kyra, hoping they would recognize his plea to translate for him. “Has this happened before?”

Sveta’s eyes were closed, but judging from the terrified, pinched expression, she was fully conscious. Kseniya leaned in closer and gently stroked her hair. She murmured something quietly, and frowned when Sveta nodded once.

“Kogda?” When?

Sveta’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Swiping her hand across her mouth, smearing the congealing blood further across her face, Sveta tried again. This time, she spoke loud enough for even Jan and Kyra to hear. “Nye uznala, chto krov’ byla. Byla pokhozha na kofeinuyu gruschu.”

“She didn’t realize it was blood,” Kyra translated. Her voice sounded far away. “Said it looked like coffee.”

“Chyo delat’?” What do we do? Kseniya was trying to mask her fear for Sveta’s sake, but her voice still trembled.

No one answered.

Why would they? What could they possibly do to help? They were children, forced out of their depths with nothing but hope that either one of them knew just a little more about this than themselves. As far as Alex was concerned, they had two choices: call for a guard and let them take Sveta away—just like they had Jonathan and the others—or do nothing and hope this would pass on its own. Neither option was preferable.

The choice was made for them when the stairwell door opened and two guards walked through with Viktor in tow.

The men came to a halt almost immediately. From a certain distance, it was possible they hadn’t noticed the blood yet. Kseniya and Alex formed a human barrier between them and Sveta, one that wouldn’t provide any real security or defense if they chose to interfere. For all the guards knew, their prisoners had decided to convene in the hallway for some reason or another, and their owlish expressions were from being caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

Alex recognized the man in front. Short brown hair, slate grey eyes, a baby face that should have portrayed more sympathy than it did—this guard had been the one to escort Alex from the building next door and shown more care than Grisha and Vanya had in the few short seconds they’d interacted. Alex found himself almost considering that Sveta would be better off in their care. Almost.

Thirteen ventured forward suspiciously, his hand falling to rest on his holster. “Chto proizkhodit?”

Alex tensed.

Another step. “Chto dyelaetye?” What are you doing?

Thirteen was within arms distance now, and he peered around Alex and Kseniya, getting his first view of Sveta’s face. “Chto…” His eyes widened. “Aron. Krov’.”

The guard dropped to his knees and shoved both Alex and Kseniya roughly out of his way. He tilted Sveta’s face toward him, pressed a few fingers to her throat, and peeled back her eyelids and examined throat. He wasn’t pleased with what he found, if his expression was anything to go by.

The muted thumping of footsteps told Alex that Fourteen had decided to join them. “Naskol’ko vsyo plokho?” …everything’s bad?

A hand landed on Alex’s shoulder. Alex started, distantly recognizing that it belonged to Viktor. Tired and sweaty, he looked no worse for wear. There was worry in his eyes, but Alex didn’t have time to reassure him. Not that he could if he tried. His entire focus was on the two guards. They were communicating silently with one another, exchanging nods and glances. Alex felt a flicker of unease when, instead of calling the doctor or even trying to relieve the obvious discomfort, Thirteen shook his head. He bent down to take her into his arms.

“What’re—chto vy dyelaetye?” Alex demanded. What are you doing? He grabbed Fourteen’s shoulder and forced him around. “Du wirst ihr helfen, oder? Pomogitye? You’re taking her to the doctor to fix her?”

Alex got a sneer in response. Fourteen swiped him out of the way, only for Kseniya to step up and take his place. Fear still sparkling in her eyes, she balled her fists and stood her ground. It seemed Alex wasn’t the only one afraid of what might happen behind closed doors.

“Proch’ s dorogi,” Thirteen ordered, clutching Sveta closer to his chest.

Jan moved behind Kseniya. He shook his head. “Nyet, esli my nye poidyom s vami.” No, not if we don’t go with you.

“Proch’,” Fourteen growled. Something in his voice told Alex that this would be their last warning. When no one even twitched, he reached toward his belt. For his radio or a weapon, Alex didn’t know which. He hadn’t been planning to. He really hadn’t, but much like everything in his life, the provocation revealed itself. Alex reacted out of instinct.

For better or for worse.

Alex hurled himself at Fourteen, putting as much power behind his shoulder as he could. With an audible whoosh, the air left the guard’s lungs. Eyes wide, taken by surprise, he rocked backwards, and Alex went with him. He clung to the man’s arm with everything he had. A flash of black, and Alex held on tighter. Their momentum brought them scrabbling into a wall, ending their awkward dance, tilting the fight in the guard’s favor. He was taller and broad shouldered, and Alex had to strain to hold on.

Fourteen recovered some of his ability to breathe and returned to his senses in time to begin to fight back. He wrapped his left arm around Alex, still struggling to free his other hand and bring about whatever object was in his grasp. Alex stomped hard on the center of the man’s foot slammed his shoulder into his diaphragm. A forearm came up under his chin, and he fought back the panic that accompanied it. It came too close to Alex’s mouth, and he bit down hard until he tasted blood.

Vaguely, He registered the sounds of a struggle going on behind him, but he was more concerned with the burn and ache weighing down his own limbs. Alex was all too aware he had been pushed too far just an hour prior. He wouldn’t last in a prolonged fight, and even if he did, there would still be one guard left. A well-trained, possibly ex-special forces soldier who wouldn’t be caught off guard.

With a growl, Alex shifted his weight away, pulled his arm straight across his chest, sighted his target, and struck. True to his aim, the blade of his elbow caught the guard in the jugular. There was a sickening gulp, a choking gasp. Automatically, Fourteen toppled backwards, hands grasping at his neck in a futile attempt to reinflate the fragile cartilage tubes. His mouth opened in a soundless cry. Alex had almost certainly knocked him out the game for the moment, but he wasn’t about to take that chance. He wrapped one arm behind the man’s neck and the other under his armpit and kneed him, so that he bowed forward. Then, directing his head past his feet, Alex flipped him to the ground.

Before he could deliver one final strike, someone screamed Sasha’s name, and Alex dodged away. Just as hands snatched at the space where his head used to be, a towering shadow of black and blue flashing in his periphery. Thirteen had released his hold on Sveta and was swatting Viktor away like an annoying insect. Jan was crumpled against the wall, clutching his face after a brutal backhand. In pieces on the ground were the scattered remains of a radio. Compared to Alex, they were nothing but a distraction, weak children who barely knew how to grapple on a playground, whereas Alex had proven himself.

Element of surprise gone, Alex backed away, the bursting gasps of the second guard assuring him he still had time. Seconds, maybe even a minute, before the man would recover enough to call for backup. But seconds was all Alex and Thirteen needed. All they could manage.

As Thirteen approached, he reached into his belt and removed a thin silver object. A syringe. Even after the trouble Alex has caused, they were under orders not kill them then. If the syringe was a carefully measured dose—and it more than likely was, if it had been given to them by the doctor—then it also probably meant that they had to limit the amount of harm done to their prisoners as well; and that meant, Alex could use that to his advantage. Outweighed and outskilled, he had to take everything he could get.

Expressionless, the guard surged forward, and Alex leapt to meet him. He struck fast, clutching at the hand with the needle, refusing to allow himself to be stuck. Muscles screaming and spasming, he batted at the arm and wrenched at each finger individually, whilst struggling and heaving to throw the man off balanced. Thirteen swore and growled in pain as Alex managed to twist his thumb to an unnatural degree.

The syringe clattered to the ground somewhere underfoot. No longer limited to one hand, the guard caught Alex and tossed him into a wall. He cried out. Black dots pulsed in front of his eyes. There was a ringing in his ears, something was grabbing a fistful of his clothes, and Alex thrashed. He stomped, missing the foot but clipping what might have been the man’s leg, kneed, and clawed at any exposed skin.

Other, smaller hands snatched at Thirteen’s face, pulled at his arms that were crushing the boy into the wall. Alex managed to wriggle an arm free and thrust his open palm against the man’s cheek. His fingers met something moist and soft, and he pressed and gauged with his nails, deeper, harder.

Thirteen howled. Trails of red, raised, raw skin traced ridges in his skin. His left eye refused to open, but the sliver Alex could see was pooled with blood. The man was close enough that his hot, sharp breath was unavoidable. He sunk his forearm into Alex’s neck and pressed—

Then Thirteen jerked.

His one eye rolled back, he collapsed onto Alex, who did nothing to slow his descent to the ground, and fell still. A syringe was protruding out of his skin, at the juncture where his shoulders met his neck, but that wasn’t the cause of his fall from consciousness. That Alex learned when he looked up.

Kyra was stood before him, the barrel of a handgun clutched in her hand, the grip wielded like a baton. She was trembling. The gun tumbled from her hand, thudding into the ground but thankfully secured by the safety.

Alex gasped for breath, swallowing past the tightness. His head drummed. A phantom limb was still crushing his throat, even as he rubbed at it gingerly. Three times now in one day, it had taken a fair amount of abuse. At the rate he was going, he’d be lucky to be able to talk, let alone breathe by the end of the day. And that wasn’t taking any other injuries into account. No doubt, other aches and pains would make themselves known, just as soon as the adrenaline finished running its course. Not that Alex planned on stopping anytime soon.

Blinking away the patches still littering his vision, he limped over to the man on the floor, gurgling and gasping for his own breath.

Fourteen might have been bordering on unconsciousness, but he was still attempting to regain control of the situation. Impressive, considering he was curled in on himself and clutching at his throat, as if that would ease the discomfort. When it registered that Alex was coming for him, he scrabbled at his utility belt. With his gun now lying a few feet away, his neck still traumatized, there was little he could do. One hand encircling his throat, he snatched at Alex, who batted his hands away impatiently. Alex was able to lock down the flailing limbs without much resistance, pilfering through each voluminous pocket for one object in particular. If one guard had a sedative, it stood to reason that the others would as well. Sure enough, after the second try, he was successful.

Alex uncapped the protective sheath and jabbed the guard in the leg.

Unlike what the movies would have their audience believe, sedatives never had an immediate effect. Even the most potent drugs took a minute at least to run its course, and many had significant dangers if used on a regular basis. For Alex’s use though, he didn’t need it to take effect right away. His blow to the man’s jugular had been more powerful than he’d thought; inflammation had already begun to expand the size of his neck, his face flushed with a scarlet red as blood and oxygen tried to force their way through veins a quarter of their usual size. At this stage, the sedative would just be a contingency, ensuring them a few extra minutes to come up with a proper plan now that it had all gone to hell.

Unable to control the tremors in his legs, Alex braced himself against the wall. He needed a moment to think—there were too many cogs to this machine he needed to consider. The two guards were one; the others in their ranks would come looking for them eventually, and Alex and the others wanted to be miles away by then. But even that brought up its own issues. Ignoring the possible radioactivity and other nocent measures meant to keep them inside, there were his fellow test subjects to think about.

Alex had never had to worry about others before. Any time he’d had a partner, they had always had more experience than him. Troy and Turner, Wolf, Tamara, even Ash. Most of Alex’s own feats had been desperate and spur of the moment—and dare he say ill-judged—attempts at survival, and it had been a stroke of luck he had prevailed. Not to mention that fourteen years of questionable training and luck wasn’t exactly a trait capable of being shared.

And finally, there was Sveta.

Still distressingly ill, the bloody cough seemed to have stopped for the moment. Alex and the other kids still had no knowledge of how to help her, and any other guard, a nurse or orderly, and Dr. Leichenberg himself were out of the question. They needed to get her out of there. But how? Eyes closed, Alex ran his hands through his hair, sifting through the past year for anything that could help. Like always, ‘ill-advised,’ ‘reckless,’ and ‘likely to end in injury’ walked hand-in-hand with everything that came to mind.

Alex wanted to laugh.

If Zharkov’s men didn’t kill him, Ben definitely would.

There was more snow here than in Moscow. Without much else to do, Wolf watched the countryside meld into one, seemingly unending wall of white. Even the flashes of green and brown that managed to break through blurred into a weak echo of their once strong colors. It was like driving through a snow globe, with the cluster of icy snow perfectly dusting the tops of the trees, the ice at the top of the trees like thousands of tiny crystalline jewels. Even the road, which, after the friction caused by dozens of cars and lorries passing through, was the only segment not blanketed in perpetual monotony, added to the picturesque scenery.

Wolf despised it.

Russia had never been high on his list of countries to visit. Whether it was because of the food, the archetypal weather, or the fact that his country had never been on the best of terms with the federation, nothing about a holiday in the post-Soviet Bloc had seemed at all pleasant. This assignment has done nothing to change that.

Dropping his head back against the headrest, Wolf swore, the next time Cub decided to throw himself headfirst into danger, he was going to make damn-sure the heads didn’t pull his name to go rescue the brat.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that was false. As much as he wanted to deny it, as soon as MI had dropped the kid into their cabin, he became part of the unit. And Wolf never stayed behind when it was his men in the crosshairs.

The time in the French Alps had upset him more than he let on. Not only had he been ordered to sit back and watch as their agent flew down a mountain and ultimately collide with a barbed wire fence, but he had also played a key part in Jones’s manipulations. Inadvertent maybe, but that didn’t do anything to quell the anger he felt.

Wolf glanced over at the map on the dashboard, a blue triangle tracking their movement across the sea of white. The details were obscured by the indecipherable letters of the Cyrillic alphabet, but even he could interpret the spacing between their current location in Russia and the corner of Ukraine that was their destination.

They had discussed what they would do once they arrived in Pripyat during the first few hours, but after it had begun drifting toward a more heated exchange, they had settled for silence instead. It was difficult to plan for something when going in completely blind; too many parts were in constant motion, half of them hidden from sight, the other depending entirely on context. But this type of situation was exactly what Wolf had trained for. He and his men knew how to adapt, how to continue fighting, and how to approach the set of circ*mstances with the belief that they would succeed. But sometimes that wasn’t enough.

The road widened briefly. The pavement carved into a break in the forest, giving vehicles a safe place to pull off and take a break before continuing onto their final destinations. Mountains of snow formed a miniature gorge surrounding the car park. A handful of cars and a single cargo lorry stalled in front a blue-painted shack, a column of smoke wafting up from a metal cylinder on the roof. A few of the drivers lingered outside with their hands clasped around mugs and exchanged bits of meat and bread on a plate. Within seconds, the rest stop flew by and was gone from sight.

Ekaterina sighed heavily. “Welcome to Belarus.”

The lack of a checkpoint was surprising, but Wolf supposed the tensions following the Crisis with Ukraine in 2014 had dissipated between Belarus and Russia. Not to mention that there was little need for controlling the border, when you considered the country as an extension of your own territory.

“How much longer?” Ben asked. Out of all four members, he had spoken the least.

Ekaterina checked the dashboard, dragging her finger across the screen as it calibrated the inputted address. “Three hours.”

Wolf set his jaw and turned back to the wall of evergreens.

“What did we do?”

“Sasha—”

“Who are you?”

“What do we do?”

The voices washed over Alex. His very bones ached, his brain felt hazy, and all he wanted to do was slide to the ground and close his eyes until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. He was in a bad way, only he didn’t know quite how bad. It was like he was forcing every individual thought to cross his mind. Maybe the blows to his head had done more damage than he’d thought.

It certainly felt that way.

The bits and pieces he came up all depended on the highly unlikely possibility that there weren’t any cameras—or guards monitoring said cameras—overlooking this floor. But the barebones were simple enough: get out, find shelter, wait.

Detachedly, he felt someone shaking his arm.

With more energy than he had to spare, Alex jerked away, putting enough distance between himself and whoever it was demanding his attention. “I don’t know,” he snapped. Alex threaded his hands through his hair again, snagging fistfuls and pulling until it hurt, grounding him. “I don’t—just—give me a second. I need to think.”

Somehow, without being seen, or caught Alex needed lead six untrained teenagers out of a prison. Although the best outcome would be them hotwiring a vehicle and hightailing it out of there, that was one skill Ian had neglected to teach his nephew—probably simply because he couldn’t figure out how to justify that particular lesson, otherwise it would have been somewhere between picking locks and learning where to best hit a man to incapacitate them.

Since the most preferable option wasn’t likely, Alex figured the second-best outcome would be for them to hide out in some abandoned building and wait for his team to arrive—which also required the assumption his watch was still broadcasting his location. With a whole day having passed since he was taken, they should be within the city limits already.

Right?

So, in theory, all Alex really had to do was avoid a couple dozen guards, survive the bitter cold and possible toxic radiation levels, and hope K-unit found them first.

Alex huffed. The odds of that weren’t exactly in their favor.

Take it one step at a time, he reminded himself—literally one step at a time, then figure out what to do next, after. He’d done this before and survived; he could do it again.

So, what was the first step? The two guards?

They were lying unconscious in the middle of the fourth-floor hallway. A dead giveaway that something was not as it should be. If Alex and the others were going to last even five minutes, they would have to disappear. But first—

Alex dropped to his knees, sucking in gulps of air with the hope that it would restore some energy, and began to sort through everything the guards had in their belts. A pair of cuffs, one radio still intact, a set of keys, an ID card—no mobile phone like he’d been hoping, but the loot wasn’t altogether useless. Alex knew how to handle a gun, he could listen in on the chatter over the radio as soon as Zharkov’s men figured out something was amiss, and as for the keys, although they were ostensibly for a door, rather than for a vehicle, there would eventually be a locked door that needed unlocking.

Alex was just about to move onto the individual pockets sewn into the guards’ uniforms, when Kyra slammed her hands down the belt and glared at him fiercely. “It has been a second. Now, who are you?”

Withdrawing his hands, he met her gaze flatly. For a brief, manic second, Alex was tempted to tell them everything, just as he’d done with Tom in Italy. Tell them he’d run around London on a whim despite having promised himself he was done with the spy life. That not only had the off feeling held merit, but it had also led Alex and four other highly trained members of the British special forces across the continent and ultimately gotten him kidnapped by the very people he was investigating.

Sure, they might think he was mad, but at least they knew that, despite being insane, he could fight well enough to get them out.

Then again, their ensuing questions and incredulousness wouldn’t be worth the cathartic release; it would only waste precious time that was already chipping away. Like sand in an hourglass.

“I know you have questions, but we really don’t have time for a Q and A.” Alex set about collecting the keys and the radio he’d liberated from the men, but when he reached for the gun, he once again found his path blocked by Kyra. He shook his head in frustration. “We need to work together, if we’re going to get out of here.”

“Yes,” Kyra agreed crossing her arms. “And we will—as soon as you tell us who you really are.”

“What does it matter?” he said exasperatedly, stepping around her and retrieving the gun Kyra had used to bludgeon the thirteenth guard. With closer inspection, Alex recognized it as a Grach Yarygin pistol, colloquially known as a PYa, with 9 mm rounds. He had trained with a similar model during his time at Malagosto, although Gordon Ross had more often given him a Walther PPK due to its smaller size and weaker kickback. Either way, he knew how to handle it.

Alex fitted his hand around the grip. The texture was rough, the metal cool to the touch, but he couldn’t help but feel the flicker of apprehension at realizing this would be the first time he had a gun on a mission. The consequences of which did not go unnoticed.

“We trust each other, or we’re all dead. And right now, I don’t trust you.”

Had he not been holding a live firearm, Alex would have driven his hands into his eyes until he couldn’t see anything but the swirling sparks of phosphenes. Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath and tried to fight back the exasperation. How much time had already passed since they’d been standing there? Surely, not more than five minutes, but adrenaline and fear had a funny way of messing with your perception of time.

His insistence in keeping everything a secret for the sake of his cover was rapidly backfiring, and Alex felt the urge to beat away the pressure building in his temple.

“Look,” it took a significant amount of effort to keep his voice even, “long story short, I’m here to help you. Things got messed up, it didn’t really go to plan, so I ended up here with you. But I can promise you, people are coming to help. But in the meantime,” —Alex slipped the clip out of the grip and checked the ammunition, securing it back in place when he was satisfied by the count— “we need to get out and stay alive. Come with me, if you want, but I’m not going to force you, and I’m not wasting our chance by just talking about it.”

He stared at Kyra challengingly, then at the others for a moment longer, before tucking the gun into his waistband and grabbing a hold of Thirteen’s leg. To his surprise, Viktor stepped forward and grabbed the other one. He was biting his lip, looking all the bit terrified, but nodded anyways. Together, they pulled both guards into one of the empty rooms and closed the door.

When they came out, Jan and Kseniya were kneeling in front of Sveta, coaxing her up onto her feet. She was only barely conscious enough to walk. Kyra stood not too far off, the second gun balanced in both of her hands like a peace offering. Alex took it and performed the same preliminary checks. He unfastened the safety lock.

“Right.” The Grach felt heavier than it had before. “Are you all coming?”

All six of them nodded.

“What about others?” Kseniya asked quietly.

Alex shook his head. “We won’t make it if we go back for them. We’re not leaving them forever. Once my friends get here, we’ll get them out too.” Without waiting for a reply, he led them to the end of the hall, where he stopped and pressed his ear against door. The reinforced material was too thick to make out any sounds. Alex turned back to the others. “They’re probably going to see us the moment we go into the stairwell, but we just need to stay quiet and keep moving.”

Instinctively, they formed queue behind Alex. Directly behind him was Viktor, then Jan and Kseniya supporting Sveta, and bringing up the end was Kyra. A good an order as any, he reckoned.

Alex blew out a breath.

As terrified as he felt, a renegade spark of exhilaration burned in his blood. Intellectually, he knew it was because of adrenaline, the fight-or-flight instinct that flooded his mind with endorphins and noradrenaline and froze out the nerves sending pain signals to his brain. The same way, he knew he shouldn’t be reveling in the new-found strength and energy it gave him. Jack would be disappointed.

Alex opened the door.

The stairwell creaked knowingly as they descended the first flight. Sweaty, rusted pipes clanged, and drops of unidentifiable liquid rhythmically splattered against the marble steps and concrete sills. Every little moan, rattle, and crackle made Alex twitch. He clenched his fist around the pistole’s grip but checked himself. Gordon had reiterated the point enough times: having too tight a hold affected your aim; taught muscles would cause the gun to shake, nearly imperceptibly, but just enough to make you miss your target. It operated on the same principle as Olympic archers releasing their bows after every shot.

Alex loosened his grip.

Once they made it to the second-floor landing, Alex stopped.

“What is it?” Jan prompted. His face was strained from half-carrying Sveta.

“I don’t think we should go out the front door,” Alex answered honestly, gathering his bearings. They could continue to the front lobby—down two more flights, cross a hallway, then it was a straight shot out the front door. Assuming their assigned posts were on a set schedule, then there should only be three guards stationed there now. They had the element of surprise on their side, as well as two guns. Alex could sneak up behind them, disable one of them, hold the others at gun point whilst Kyra and Viktor relieved them of their belongings.

With any luck, there would be a mobile or car keys…

But then again, there was a big difference between mid-afternoon and midnight. Patrols, extra personnel on shift, unexpected arrivals.

“Come on,” Alex said. “This way.”

He held a finger to his lips then slowly pried open the door to the second-floor hallway. A few feet ahead, with his back to the stairwell, is a man in a blue and black uniform. He was completely alone.

Alex signaled for the others to wait where they were. Slipping into the hallway, easing the door shut, he edged along the wall. The floor was made of the same material as upstairs, a peculiar mix between linoleum and stone left over from the past. It masked the sound of each step, allowing Alex to approach in practical silence. He would have to send his thanks to Zharkov, when this was all over.

Sweat slickened Alex’s grip on the gun as he brought it out in front of him. He stole forward, concentrating on walking toe to heel, and dispersing his weight evenly. The man was only a few meters away now. Trimmed blond hair, pressed uniform in impeccable order, the only difference separating him from the others was his whip-thin frame. He stood at nearly six and a half feet. If Alex were to strike without stretching, and therefore risk losing the strength and power necessary to render him unconscious, he might end up killing the guard.

Alex tried to convince himself the man deserved it, no matter the outcome.

He tensed, prepared himself to launch his attack, and tightened his grip on the PYa. But he had waited a fraction of a second too long. The corridor flashed white and red, the lights rotating in their mounted metal frames. An electronic horn blared over unseen speakers, piercing enough that the source was probably from another hallway entirely. Before the first set even had a chance to echo along the corridors, another shrill cry rang out again. It seemed to wail more loudly than the first. Instinctively, Alex clamped his hands over his ears. This was an alarm he had heard before, in historical dramas about war: a warning to take immediate cover and brace for the inevitable. He didn’t have to imagine what the original danger these sirens had been warning about.

The guard flinched as well, reaching for his weapon, whilst also trying to protect his own ears. A garbled voice came over the speakers, “dyeti sbezhali. Vsye—”

Alex didn’t wait to listen to the rest. Taking special care with his aim, he swung the pistole in a downward arc. It connected with a fragile section of the skull, back behind the ear. The man jolted, crumpling to his knees then falling flat to his face. Alex felt sick to his stomach and pulled his gaze away from the fallen form. He wanted to check for a pulse, but that almost seemed worse. What if he couldn’t find one? A blow low along the skull, near the neck, could disrupt the brainstem enough to prove fatal—a strike that his Senseis had endlessly warned against whenever his class sparred—and Alex had just…

The flaring lights and deafening wail of sirens brought him back to the present.

Swallowing his nausea, Alex jogged back to the stairwell and collected the others. He completely abandoned any attempt at being quiet and stealthy. They ran. As fast as they could, they ran. A right, another right, then a left. At every corner, Alex peered around the edge with the gun at the ready. With the combination of the lights, the noise, and the team of soldiers on their heels, he wouldn’t be using it as a blunt object anymore. Don’t aim, just shoot.

“Wa—wait,” gasped Viktor, when they had reached the white French doors leading to the commissary.

Alex glanced back and realized that three of their party weren’t there. He could have sworn they were there at the last turn, though it hadn’t slipped his notice that Jan and Kseniya had been gradually slowing down. Before he could get too concerned, the two of them, dragging along Sveta, turned the corner. Jan readjusted his grip and grimaced a smile.

“Kuda?” Kseniya grunted. Where to?

Alex nodded to the double doors. “Every kitchen has to have a back door.”

Kyra squinted at him. “And you know this for sure?”

“Yes.” Whether that door still existed was another matter. So much of the building, which he had increasingly started to believe was, in fact, a hotel, had been renovated to best fit Zharkov’s needs, but even criminals had basic needs. The commissary was out of the way, with stairs and tight corners, so any large shipments of food had to come through a side access. Ignoring general fire safety, it just made common sense, and Alex was banking on the fact that the architects had thought that too.

If he was wrong, then it was a good a place as any to build a barricade. Maybe there would be chemicals with highly combustible tendencies, gas, and sharp implements to arm themselves with.

“Davai. Uvidemsya,” Viktor said assertively.

They swung open the doors. Alex entered first, recalling how K-unit had cleared the Kill House all those months ago. The dance hall was completely empty. Someone had cleared the buffet table from breakfast and left it and the rest of the setting in place for the next communal meal. With the eroded paneling forming a misshapen stage, the worn tables, and prevailing sense of emptiness, it was hard to imagine this place could have been anything but a haunted shell. Alex shook himself free of his thoughts and crossed the room, stopping in the center.

Right where he remembered it being was a pair of swinging doors, but along the opposite wall was a floor-to-ceiling bay window. He was suddenly torn between the two choices. Neither was certain. On the one hand, the kitchen likely had a backdoor. It might lead to a loading bay, but even that had to lead outside eventually. But what if it was secured from the outside, required a certain code or ID card, or had been removed entirely? On the other hand, the window was right there. Alex had no idea where it was regarding the layout of the city, but wherever it was, it was outside. Smashing through the glass was where the hesitancy laid. It had to be reinforced, like the plated glass in hospitals that protected radiologists from daily doses of extraneous radiation.

Alex didn’t know where to go.

“Sasha?” Jan had set Sveta down on one of the tables and was resting with his hands on his knees. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing.” Alex left it up to chance. “Come on. Kitchen’s through those doors.”

He made it back to the center of the room when the bay doors were thrown open. A man strode in steadily. He was young, with military styled brown hair, steel-cut eyes, and a broad frame built for fighting. Dressed smartly in a navy-blue dress shirt and dark trousers, chin raised and shoulders back, he was the picture of confidence and composure. A perfect soldier. But Alex had seen what happened when this man lost that composure. He knew what he was capable of, and now, Alex also knew his name.

Daniil Maksimovich Danis. Artyom Zharkov’s chief of security. Andris Kozlovsky’s murderer.

Danis’s eyes flicked between each of the six kids, finally coming to an end with Alex. He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. Danis simply regarded them evenly as five other guards rushed in behind him. Without a second of hesitation, Alex lifted the gun and aimed it between Danis’s eyes.

“You truly think you can escape?”

Alex backed up, feeling with his back foot for the table he knew to be there. Someone’s hand, Jan if he had angled himself correctly, crushed against his arm, and Alex gestured for the others to get behind him. When one of Danis’s men attempted to edge around to the side, Alex growled.

“Don’t.”

Danis flicked a hand, and his men slunk back in line. “Where will you go? You are in middle of nowhere. You will die, if you try.”

“So, people keep telling me, and yet, I’m still here.”

Alex hoped the others had listened to him and backed their way across the room. He felt his way around the short end of the table. All that stood between him and the kitchen door was fifteen feet of open space and the threat of six soldiers. Alex’s chest fell as realization set in. Even if they could make it through the doors, they could never outrun Danis’s men now. They were too close for them to have the opportunity to set up a barricade worth anything, as well.

“We’re leaving,” Alex stated. He reached behind his back and grabbed hold of the other gun.

Danis shook his head and took a step forward.

“Don’t. Don’t think I won’t shoot you.” He felt a flicker of pride at how strong his voice sounded. Alex, his hand still behind his back, edged back himself.

Danis narrowed his eyes at him, co*cking his head in thought. “No. I do not think you will shoot, Sanyok.”

Alex pulled the trigger. The floor at Danis’s feet exploded; a second shot, and one of the guards flinched back into the open door. A third shot, and Alex spun and trust the spare gun into Kyra’s hands, shoving her away. He didn’t have time, or the ability to hear past the deafening ringing in his ears from shooting in such close quarters, to wait for a response. He just hoped they weren’t stupid enough to protest.

When Alex turned back, Danis hadn’t moved. The head of security regarded the hole at his feet apathetically, the first flare of emotion in his eyes coming through when he stared over Alex’s shoulder. He twisted his neck, visibly fighting back a scowl. Alex kept his gun level, though he knew that by shooting the floor and the wall, he had proven Danis right. He wouldn’t shoot someone point blank.

Alex’s eyes burned. He so desperately wanted to shoot the man, wound them enough that he could get away, but his finger refused to react. Even if he could get it to work, Alex’s subconscious had already refused to aim at cardboard cutouts; there was no doubt that it would do so again.

Alex held them at bay for as long as they feared the trembling boy with a firearm, which he hoped was long enough. The next thing he knew, Danis was standing in front of him and plucked the gun from Alex’s hands.

“Alex Rider,” Danis drawled. “There is someone who wants to meet with you.”

Translation & Transliteration

Ксения (Ксана, Ксюша) = Kseniya (Ksana, Ksyusha)

Что случилось? Кто закричал Chto sluchilos’? Kto zakrichal = What happened? Who screamed?

Света. Чё-то не так. = Sveta. Chyo-to nye tak = Sveta. Something’s wrong.

Не помню. Не узнала, что кровь была. Была похожа на кофейную грущу = Nye pomnyu. Nye uznal, chto krov’ byla. Byla pokhozha na kofeinuyu gruschu. = Don’t remember. I didn’t realize it was blood. It looked more like coffee grounds

Маму хочу = Mamu khochu = I want my mom

Я знаю—знаю. Всё будет хорошо, вот увидишь, всё хорошо = Ya znayu—znayu. Vsyo budet khorosho, vot uvidesh’, vsyo khorosho = I know—I know. Everything will be okay, you’ll see, everything’s okay.

Помогите. Не знаю, что делать. Скажи мне что делать = Pomogitye. Ne znayu chto delat’. Skazhi mne chto delat’ = Help. I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.

Чё делать = chyo (chto) delat’ = what should (i/we) do

Что происходит = Chto proizkhodit = what’s going on

Что делаете = chto dyelaete = what are you doing

Арон. Кровь = Aron. Krov’ = Aaron (Russian sp.). Blood

Насколько всё плохо = Naskol’ko vsyo plokho = how bad is it

прочь с дороги = proch’ s dorogi = get out of the way

нет, если мы не пойдем с вами = nyet, esli my nye poidyom s vami = no, not unless we go with you

дети сбежали. Все = dyeti sbezhali. Vsye— = the children have escaped. Everyone—

Санёк = Sanyok = perjorative, insulting 'dog' name for Aleksandr when used by a stranger

Chapter 16: Roll of the Dice

Chapter Text

Another drop of water fell.

It inched its way down the cracked tiles that covered all four walls, or slipped from a rusty, exposed pipe in the corner, or from the crumbling cement ceiling and added to the ever-growing puddle somewhere behind his head. Alex couldn't see where.

Ting. Ting. Ting.

He had counted the drops at first, as a way of measuring how much time had passed since he'd been left alone, but the inconsistency of the sound had forced him to give up only after a few minutes. Or a few seconds—or a dozen minutes—he didn't actually know. In fact, the longer it continued, the more the quiet tick grew to be a clacket that needled away at his self-control. Alex could feel the annoyance, slowly evolving into hysteria, simmering under the surface.

Ting.

Alex bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to fill every bit of his lungs. He co*cked his head as he waited for the next drop to fall, then tried to locate where it was coming from. Maybe if he knew, it wouldn't be as maddening. He doubted it, but it didn't stop him from trying.

Ting.

This could be Danis's plan all along: drive him insane so that if he somehow escaped, no one would believe him anyways. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility where Alex's enemies were concerned. They tended to do just about anything once they learned MI6 had uncovered their plans. An act of desperation or anger.

Except, Danis didn't appear desperate or angry about Alex's presence. Impatient sure, but not at all concerned to have found a wolf in the henhouse. In fact, once the guards had grabbed hold of Alex and escorted him back through the compound, the man vanished. Alex hadn't noticed until after the fact—he'd been too busy trying everything in his power to escape from the guards' grasp to pay attention to when Danis walked away. He had been sound of mind enough to memorize the path they'd taken though. A couple left turns, down a few labyrinthine corridors that laid underneath the city itself, passing from one building to the next…

They had mounted one final flight of stairs when they came to their final destination: a room with a lone exam table in the center, fitted with restraints. Suddenly, how many square blocks the hotel occupied was the last thing on Alex's mind. He jerked and kicked, dropping all of his weight like a sack of flour, but the guards had lifted him up, pitifully easily, and deposited him onto the bench. Then they'd left. They hadn't even locked the swinging doors—Alex hadn't even heard them fall shut. Confident in his inability to escape, they'd left him alone.

Helpless.

Within minutes, he fell victim to the manipulation of solitude with only a watery metronome to remind him of the passing of time.

Ti-ting.

Alex swallowed past the dryness threatening to choke him and yanked at the cuffs, examining them in detail. They were made of thick layers of leather and reinforced canvas. A strap fitted to the sides of the examination bench gave his wrists and ankles only a few inches worth of movement. It was clear from the design that they were meant to immobilize someone much larger and stronger than him and yet cause the least amount of damage possible. Still, dull aches flared in his wrist. He preferred not to dwell on that, though. The moment he allowed himself to think about how thick his throat felt and the bone deep thrum that echoed through his skull, he was lost.

He could lick his wounds when he was out of this hell.

Again, a drip fell, then another, and Alex growled, twisting his arm to see if he could find any sort of give or release. Prying and leveraging beyond what was comfortable, but it was better than doing nothing. He wasn't about to just sit around while the resident maniacs were thinking up creative ways of killing him. Here, in the center of a radioactive zone, with nothing but barren land filled with snow and ice and wild animals, there were plenty to choose from.

He collapsed against the table and looked around the room for what had to be the tenth time. Thanks to his recent, and frequent, stays in hospital, Alex recognized it for what it was: an operation theatre—or at least, it had been one thirty-five years ago. Now, it was a tattered shell of what it used to be. Stained tiles covered each of the four walls, though many were missing in places, revealing the cracked cement foundation. A surgical light-head hung dead center, and judging from the rust and empty sockets, scavengers had found its parts useful elsewhere. The sharp smell of disinfectants and chemicals burned Alex's nose; it had been had sterilized recently. It was cold, too, and sparsely furnished, with none of the arbitrary fixtures that had been in Dr. Leichenberg's office. A metal tray stood to the right of the examination table. A blue sterilized cloth hid its contents from view, but Alex knew whatever it was it couldn't be anything good.

It was likely this was the hospital in service during the meltdown. Those unlucky enough to have been ordered to be part of the cleanup had probably been treated here. Had probably died here as well. Alex wondered how many had died in the exact spot where he was lying.

As soon as the thought occurred to him, he renewed his fight against the restraints. "Comeon!" he groaned, kicking and wrenching, throwing his entire weight behind the movements. "You—bloody—bastards, come on!Give!" With how ancient and broken everything in this city looked to be, something had to give eventually. Be it the chair, the floor, or the walls, Alex didn't care. He wantedout. He dragged himself to his side and folded in half, trying to reach the clasp with his teeth, but the angle proved to be impossible.

Sliding back up, Alex decided to try leveraging his wrist free. Again, the angle wasn't ideal—he couldn't hook the cuff on the edge of the metal bar that ran along the side—but he managed to snag it on the padding. He pulled.

"Enough," a voice snarled.

Alex wrenched around. His fingertips tinged from the pressure in his wrists, but no matter how much he stretched, he still couldn't see anything. The doorway stood too far to the right of the back wall, but the voice was one he recognized immediately, despite only hearing it twice in his life.

Danis.

How long had he been standing there? This whole time or had he just arrived? Somehow, having the man behind him, out of sight, was worse than not knowing where he was at all.

Daniil Danis didn't acknowledge him further as he crossed the room. A nondescript beige folder was tucked under his arm haph. So that was where he disappeared off to. Alex supposed that made sense; Zharkov would want to read all about the boy who managed to infiltrate his organization, especially after Leichenberg and the others had spent all that time assessing his abilities. He wouldn't want to put valuable time and effort to waste.

Danis settled himself in the corner, arms crossed, leg posted behind him, and regarded Alex with his detached expression. It seemed he wasn't all that interested in interrogating the boy before his master arrived.

Not that Alex was complaining.

Breathing sharply through his nose, it took all of Alex's self-control to ease back against the stiff padding and stay there. He didn't want the man to know that his mere presence sent blind panic clawing through his mind. It also didn't help that the image of Danis's arm wrapping around Kozlovsky's neck decided then to make its reappearance.

Driving his nails into his palms, Alex strangled the memory and let his anger and frustration rise to the surface. They helped to keep his head clear and everything else at bay—like the fact that Blunt's Russian equivalent was taking his precious time in getting there. If the watch failed yet again to broadcast his location, Alex was going to be having very sharp words with Smithers when he got back. If he got back.

Cutting his nails in deeper, he let the silence continue for forty seconds before it became unbearable.

"How did you know who I was?" Alex asked. His head bounced off the padded surface. "Did you run my DNA or something?"

Danis didn't answer.

"Find out that Alexander Adler doesn't exist?"

co*cking his head to the side, the muscle in his jaw twitched, but still he held curiously still.

A good distraction as any, Alex took the time to examine Danis at length. Whilst he was unmistakably the same man who had effortlessly snapped Kozlovsky's neck, he looked like an entirely different person. Reclined against the corner of the room leisurely, unarmed and in his civilian clothes, he couldn't have looked more ordinary. Strong and apathetic to a point that was bordering on sociopathy certainly, but he wasn't like one of the monstrous caricatures Alex had fought in the past. He wasn't horrifically deformed or maliciously awaiting the chance to torture his fourteen-year-old prisoner. Even the scar peeking out from his collar could have been explained away by some banal accident.

Alex turned his scrutiny to the patches in the ceiling, trying to decide if it was mould or not. "Did you come across my picture somewhere? Make a lucky guess?" Definitely mould. The silence was brutal. "I know you can understand me. I know youtalk. Can you just say something?"

Danis flexed one of his hands.

"What's the harm in telling me? It's not like it's giving away some big secret—" Alex broke off, recalling the exact reason why they had gone behind the FSB's back to begin with. It had always been a possibility, so maybe it was an actuality. "Unless it would be. I mean, it wouldn't do to out your man in the FSB, right?"

If he hadn't been studying the man's face, Alex would have missed the faintest indication that something had changed. Danis shifted, lifting his chin, and adjusting his posture unconsciously, as if it had been drilled into him since birth. Alex didn't have to think long or hard on why that was. There was only one person who could elicit that response, and it was only a matter of time before he arrived. Still, when an entirely new voice came from out of sight, he couldn't stop the catch in his breath.

"Molodets, Alex Rider," Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov commended. "I, however, warn against antagonizing Daniil." He stepped into Alex's line of sight and looked down at him. Hi eyes held no more emotion than a dead man's portrait. "He does not take well with annoyance."

Alex had the odd urge to laugh at such a gross understatement. He faced the man soberly.

"Many of your contemporaries would not have made it so far. I am impressed."

Artyom Zharkov was older than Alex expected, nearing his sixties, if not older. Where his hair had been a peppered black in the photograph, it was now nearly fully grey and surprisingly disheveled, as if he'd been standing in the middle of a storm. His suit was the same expensive, tasteful style, and still looking all the while ill-fitting. He held himself like a soldier, mimicking Danis's tight posture. Inhaling deeply, Zharkov clasped his hands behind his back. When he spoke, his accent formed thickly around the words.

"It wasn't that hard," Alex said with more bravado than he felt. He tracked Zharkov's movements as he drifted about the room. "I watch a lot of movies."

"Indeed." Zharkov held out his hand for the file and scanned the first page. "But it was not films that brought you to Russia. They are not what brought you to break into my facility and interfere with my work."

He returned to Alex and, his face brimming with curiosity, studied him. Examining every bit of his face in detail, searching for something that wasn't present in Leichenberg's notes. His gaze traveled down further, to around Alex's heart, and Alex bit back a disgusted scowl. It was like Zharkov was disregarding the fact that Alex was even a threat. As if the only reason he was just another one of his lab rats that was pinned underneath a microscope.

His skin itched, the urge to tug at the restraints nearly impossible to ignore, but one look from Danis stopped him short.

"When Daniil told me, one of our children is a spy, I found it difficult to believe," Zharkov said, having returned to scanning the rest of the file. "Seeing you know, this feeling has not changed. You are not what I expected."

Alex scoffed. "Funny. I've been getting that a lot lately."

In his first show of emotion, Zharkov's mouth twitched. Not a smile or a sneer, just a passing movement of emotion. "I suppose this is why your government chooses to use you. Although your existence is known, nothing prepares one for a child in the world of adults, filled with such dangers. Tell me, did they intend to send you to my lion's den, or is this, for you, an unfortunate turn of event?"

"Doesn't matter."

"No?" Zharkov sounded intrigued.

"No, cos MI6, FSB—they know exactly where I am. I've been broadcasting my location ever since Moscow." Vaguely, Alex felt a savage grin tug at his face. "They'll have this whole compound surrounded by now. It's just a matter of time before they breach, and take you and your little puppet over there down."

Danis huffed a laugh, and the conviction Alex had somehow managed to place behind his words slipped away just as quickly as it had come.

"Even if you manage to get away, your lives are over," he pressed. "As soon as they tell the other countries about what you've done to these kids—totheirchildren—there'll be nowhere you can hide."

"But you misunderstand, Rider." Zharkov studied him with vacant eyes for any kind of a reaction. He passed the file back to his man and began to pace. "We know all about your team in Moscow. Four soldiers and FSB agent, I believe? In fact, we know already that they are on the way to Pripyat, but they will not be here for hours yet. And they will be alone."

Alex swallowed back the numbness growing in his throat.

"They are denied support by FSB. So, you see, we have much time together, and when they do arrive, Daniil and his veritable army will be here to greet them."

Just like that, the air was crushed from his lungs. He didn't want to believe it; they had promised—Benhad promised—that he wouldn't be left alone again. Even if they were making good on that promise in part, they were doing so without proper support, which meant they would be outnumbered nearly ten to one. Alex'd been counting on Snake and Eagle to prove they weren't the same arseholes from Brecon Beacons. How could they do that if they walk straight into a trap?

Zharkov was lying. He had to be. And yet he knew the exact size of his team. He admitted to K-unit being on their way and that his operation had a least been partly compromised. Why would Zharkov lie? What would he gain, except maybe Alex's willing answers that satisfied his tiresome curiosity?

"It still doesn't change anything," Alex growled. "They know all about what you've done. People at the FSB know. They can still take you down."

"Perhaps." Zharkov waved a hand, unconcerned. "But I have many friends in powerful places. By the timeyourfriends come for me, I will have succeeded, and the world will understand that this unpleasantness was—how you say—unavoidable."

"'Unavoidable.'" Alex laughed. "Is this where you tell me about your dad abandoned you, or that your country betrayed you? Or how you were bullied as a child so now you hate kids so much you torture them?"

Zharkov co*cked his head to the side. "You believe I wish them pain?"

"You're keeping them prisoner in the middle of a radioactive wasteland and using them as lab rats, disposing of their bodies when they're no longer useful. What would you call it?"

For a moment, Zharkov didn't answer. He set his shoulders, readjusted his otherwise perfect posture, and gazed, unseeing, at the far wall. "Tsel' opravdyvaet sredtsva." It was just a sting of incomprehensible vowels and consonants to Alex, but to Zharkov it meant everything. His voice was controlled, but an underlying tone carried something else entirely. Pain? Grief? Pride? "'The end justifies the means.' Many credit this to Machiavelli and hisPrince, but they, in fact, are the words of Sergei Nechayev, the anarchist and revolutionary from early 1800s when fight for communism is only beginning. His work was just irreplaceable for many other important figures of Russian history, of some you may be familiar. Pyotr Tkachev. Vladimir Lenin. Ioseph Stalin."

"Thanks, but I'm not interested in a history lesson."

Danis broke from the wall, but Zharkov waved him back. "Nechayev' he continued, "understood that, in order to accomplish an impossibility, you must be willing to do anything."

"Even if that means torturing people?"

"If the end is our survival? Yes. I do not find pleasure in suffering, Mr. Rider."

Alex allowed the words to wash over him before responding. They sounded familiar. Familiar in a sense that the idea, in itself, wasn't novel or particularly innovative. So many flawed individuals had used it as an excuse for their actions before. The end justifies the means. Their suffering means our survival. It was all the same.

"Our survival," he repeated. "Do you mean yours? His?" Alex jerked his chin to the man, leering restlessly in the corner.

"Did you know it is not the strongest of a species that survive? It is not even simply the most intelligent. Rather it is the ones that chance to adapt to the environment in which it finds itself. Those that have luck to do so." A fire lit in Zharkov's eyes, and he could no longer stand still. He began to pace, at first by Alex's feet, though the errant path grew quickly wider and longer.

"So, what?" Alex shook his head and let the disgust show clear on his face. "You and Dr. Leichenberg aren't Nazis, you're just trying to cleanse your blood? Make yourrace superior?"

"Nyet!" Zharkov stopped cold and swung around. His right hand, clenched into a tight fist, trembled violently, quaking far more than someone who was lost to their emotions. He drove his thumb into the palm, working at the muscle until the tick subsided. "Why would you…" his furious mask fraying as he came to realize who was to blame. "Tot chelovechek otvratitel'nyi. Nadalyokii kretin," he hissed under his breath, still needing into his palm. "No, Rider, I am notcleansingRussian race. I do not care anything of race and blood."

"But the doctor said…"

The Russian scowled. "A brilliant doctor, but flawed in his interpretation. Unlike him, I do not believe in purity of race. I am a scientist. I understand the dangers of limiting our variation of genes."

"I don't understand. If you don't care, then who are you trying to save? What does this have to do with adapting to survive?"

"Everything." Artyom Zharkov exhaled, letting his eyes drift close fleetingly. He brushed back his hair with a trembling hand then turned to Danis. "Prinesi mnye vracha,"…me the doctor,he said in a calm voice.

Danis nodded and stalked towards the door, but before he could leave, Zharkov called, "I skazhi yemu prigotovit' novuyu smes'."And tell him….Again, Danis jerked his head, and then he was gone.

"You mentioned my childhood and father as—the reason for my work." Zharkov waited until Alex returned his entire focus to him, but as the silence stretched, it appeared he was waiting for something else as well.

Alex shrugged. "Seems to be a common theme with people like you."

"People like me?"

"Psychopaths."

Annoyance pulled at the man's face, but, surprisingly, he didn't react violently. He didn't hit Alex, didn't yell, or lash out in any way. The emotion flitted across his face, but that was all it was. A fleeting moment. "Think of me what you want, but all I experienced in my life has brought me here."

Alex wanted to object by saying this past year would have been enough to drive anyone to murder, and yet here he was. At the mercy of a killer because he had put someone else's safety before his own. He wasn't out in the world trying to bring about change through murder. It was funny how warped your reality became when you allowed excuses to shape it.

"You are correct," Zharkov continued. He had begun to pace again. "In part, at least. My father, Nikolai, was influence in my life, despite his inaccurate beliefs. He was scientist, like myself. After Great Patriotic War, he spent years of his life studying soldiers who returned from the front damaged and broken. Permanently in all but few cases. You have studied the Second World War?"

"The basics," Alex admitted.

"Then you know many soldiers did not return whole. Lost limbs, shattered bones without hope of healing properly, irreversible damage to nerves—I am sure it is difficult to truly comprehend the damage done in war. Facts, until witnessed personally, are just numbers on a piece of paper in a book. But for my father it was reality. It was his job to study these defects and, preferably, discover a cure. With fourteen million soldiers of Soviet Union wounded, many more dead, and a new war with the United States on horizon, Stalin needed to rebuild his army.

"Of course, doctors and scientists even now struggle with healing soldiers who are greatly damaged, so men in 1960s had no chance. A concept my father could not accept. He saw the lack of result as failure and chose to drown the shame with drink. It did not help he studied Lysenkoism. He was ridiculed by younger, less experienced workers, removed from projects—I do not blame him for his self-hatred. By the time I am in my secondary education, he is dead, and my mother takes me from Kiev to the capital of our great Union."

"So, you decided to finish your dad's work? Except there isn't an active war, so you had to make your own patients."

"You run ahead of yourself, Rider," Zharkov chided, drawing back his sleeve to check the time. He frowned. "Do not make assumptions of what you do not understand."

"Then explain it to me." Alex flexed his wrist. The discomfort from lying in the same forced position was starting to make itself known, and as Zharkov's back turned away from him yet again, he peeked at the locking mechanism to see if he had missed a simple release. He hadn't. The next best thing he could do was keep Zharkov talking. Distract him long enough to give K-unit just that much longer to get there. "You want the world to understand, so start with me."

Zharkov inclined his head. "You are quite calm for the child in your position," he remarked. "It is normal that you do not fear adversaries?"

"That's cos I'm not afraid of you. Disgusted. Revolted. But I don'tfearyou."

The man hummed. "Ponyal."Understood.Zharkov scuffed his shoes against a hole in the floor, weighing his thoughts. "I will do my best, then, to prove to you my reasons. How I came to see the world as I do. I already mentioned, my mother and I moved to Moscow, where I finish my studies. I did all that was asked of a young boy in Soviet Union. I was oktyabryonok as child, I took part in Young Pioneers and Konsomol, I achieved all perfect marks in my courses. Even mother was flowering at Central Clinical Hospital as a nurse, life was…ideal." His face at the comment implied that it was anything but ideal. His memory of the past seemed confused between expectations and reality. "As such, I had first choices of university, best opportunities for working with professors and experts in their fields. I could have gone onto very different path, is what I wish to say.

"But I chose Lomonosov University, where I chose to follow the footsteps of my father. He wrote widely on the limitation of healing and how Mendelian genetics is not the only way for a species to evolve, whilst my own thesis was on the process of adaptation and survival in its extreme. Although Trofim Lysenko is…joke in scientific community and his work rejected under threat of imprisonment in SSSR, his view on manipulating and inciting evolution intrigued me. You see, humanity are flawed, weak; our evolution has stalled, which leads to our suffering and death. There are natural—triggers for adaption,konechno, but we must wait for them. Meanwhile, we suffer damage from war and environment. Our own bodies fail us through defects and cancers. I wrote on this subject in detail; however, only in theory. On paper. Eventually, my work found a man by the name Nikita Aslanov, who at time was head researcher of Sebilisled—the Center of Biological Research of Moscow. It was with him, we tried to apply our common ideas to real world."

Lysenko, Aslanov, Sebilisled. The names rang familiar, in a once-mentioned, off-handed comment kind of way.Much of his methodology was along the lines of controversial Lysenkoism.Alex had never studied, or even heard of it before coming to Russia, but if the USSR threatened to throw you in a gulag for following it, it made too much sense for Zharkov to have gone to such lengths to hide his research.

"It was during my time at university that I began to see what my father had. You may think being called to the front in Afghanistan would be what brought me to my conclusion—it did leave its own lasting mark." Zharkov lifted his right hand. No longer fighting to keep them in check, he watched in intrigue as minute tremors coursed down his shoulder and spread to each of his fingers.

He let his arm drop and clasped them back behind him. "However, it is events of 1986 that is the conclusion to my story. Do you know to what I am referring?"

The answer came easy. "Chernobyl."

"Molodets. 26 April 1986. Many leading scientist were called to Chernobyl to deal with consequences of nuclear meltdown and do what was possible to save those affected. Nikita and I among them. We were given governmental funding to study and reverse effects of radiation, but after we saw survivors, we knew it was not enough. Understand, these were workers whom we treated. They were old, were women. Children." His face twisted in revulsion, and for a moment, a mere second, his eyes shone bright. Zharkov cleared his throat. "Survivor whose only fault was playing outside in streets as radioactive particles rain down on them. It was then we use this money for more than just radiation sickness.

"Once we shared our beliefs with Union officials, they even supported us. Much of our functional knowledge comes from those few years and experiments on rats, wolves, as well as other animals found in Zone of Exclusion. Of course, reason for their support was that they wanted to use our research for self-serving purposes—strengthen the Union, make Soviet army formidable—but as long as they provide money and—subjects, I did not care. But four years was all they could give.

"Perhaps, if SSSR had not fallen, all this," —he gestured broadly to their surroundings and resumed his pacing— "would not have happened. But with the Collapse of Union…Nu, you understand. Nikita—found himself unable to continue. I, however, came into money enough to keep Sebilisled above water. I found others with the same understanding as me, with skills and knowledge I needed. I was not ready to abandon our goal."

"Which is to make us stronger, eliminate weakness," Alex recalled the doctor's earlier words. "Chemically induce the next stage of evolution." He had known Zharkov was mad before this, but the frenzied state he had grown into over the last few minutes certified his apparent instability. "You're insane. You can't just inject someone with some formula, expecting it to change their DNA and not have any side effects. This isn't a comic book! This isn't how life works—you can't just—" Alex motioned with his hand, because how else could he describe this absurdity.

The muted clap of footsteps came to a stop. Alex tensed, waiting for the inevitable blow…but it never came. Instead, Zharkov reappeared in the corner of his vision and said, "tell me, do you know the meaning of 'na avos'?'"

Alex could only see the man out of the corner of his eyes. Arms taught in the restraints, he shrugged and settled for a glare. "No, but something tells me you're about to explain it to me."

"'Na avos''in its essence means to count on good fortune, to roll the dice and hope odds are in your favor." Zharkov completed his round and paused by the metal tray, brushing his fingers along the edge of the blue fabric. "It is down to luck and statistical odds whether a species overcomes difficulty, or if it dies. If we are to survive, our species cannot be allowed to hope and pray.'Nye na avos'. Ya vyzhivu."

'Nye na avos''. Nenavos.

Alex couldn't stop the cynical smile from spreading across his face. It wasn't funny, not in the least bit, but the absurdity of his life finally caught up with him. His life was truly a comic book.

Zharkov didn't share his humor. "When my formula is perfected, it will do much more than make you strong. It will target faulted genes, genomes that code for illness and defects. It may be like 'comic book', but we have no choice. The effects will be limited for first generation, but that is beauty of the idea of survival of fittest. Parents pass learned genes to children, and Nenavos Serum will be dominant."

"So, what, you succeed in creating your jab and then force the rest of the world to take it? They're going to ask where it came from, why it's necessary, how you perfected it. How do you see this panning out?"

Zharkov didn't answer. The reason for which presented itself in the form of two men stepping into the examination theatre. Danis, again, wasted no energy on Alex. He rushed to Zharkov's side and spoke in hushed, rapid Russian. Anger flickered across Zharkov's face and he responded in a single question, but Alex's focus was on the gun held loosely in Danis's hand. Blood roared in his ears. He tugged on his wrists even as they flared in protests.

They were going to kill him—

"Es tut mir leid, Sascha."I am sorry.

Alex dragged his eyes away aDr. Leichenberg gazed down at him with an expression that could only be described as hunger. He pushed his glasses back with a pudgy finger. "Ich hätte lieber gewartet, aber die Umstände schreiben etwas anderes vor."I would have preferred to wait, but the circ*mstances dictate otherwise.

Circ*mstances?Alex's breath caught in his throat. There was no reason for the doctor to be here for an execution unless he was taking part…Unless it wasn't an execution.Zharkov wouldn't want to put valuable time and effort to waste—wasn't that what Alex had thought only a few moments earlier. They hadn't hurt him because they needed a healthy test subject to see the genuine, untainted results. Zharkov's monologue had been to appease his curiosity, and maybe to play to the man's pride. But it didn't matter what he revealed to Alex because he would probably die from the injection anyways.

They weren't going to kill him; they were going to study him as he died.

"Unfortunately, our time is ended," Zharkov said. "I had wanted to see results for myself—it is new formula, untested—but it seems your friends are more…resourceful than I earlier believed."

Did that mean…

Ben. Wolf. Were they here?

Multiple thoughts raced through his mind at once, none of them positive or reassuring. Zharkov's men were expecting the small SAS unit and probably had scouted out the perfect vantage points for such an incursion as soon as the base became operational. They were walking straight into an ambush.

Even if they did manage to outsmart and outskill the Pripyat defense, they would have to search the entire city. Now that they had moved Alex out of the two main buildings, it was even less likely they would find him before the doctor could stick him with Zharkov's serum.

Breath coming in short gasps, Alex tried to laugh. "Fly all the way down here just to meet me?" —unable to resist, he tugged on his wrists— "I'm touched."

Zharkov smiled an empty smile.

"Sir," Danis pressed. He had his mobile in his hand. "Huzhno uletet'. Na ulitse Kurchatova est' dvizhenie."Need to… On the street…

"Ponyatno."Understood. Zharkov studied Alex one final time. He nodded to himself, then rested a hand on his shoulder. Another empty gesture. "Dosvidaniya, Alex Rider. You have defied all odds in past; let us hope you continue to do."

"I thought you didn't believe in odds," Alex spat.

Zharkov considered him with cool amusem*nt. "Soobschi mnye o rezultatatkh."… about the results.Then he was gone.

Only Alex and Dr. Leichenberg remained. The man seemed entirely unconcerned about the apparent threat looming around him. He had complete faith in Zharkov's private army, so long as he was able to finish his work. Humming to himself, Leichenberg brushed aside the sterilized cloth, and Alex got his first glimpse of the serum that has caused so much pain. Three simple vials. That was all it took. Two were clear enough it could have been water, but the last was a cloudy white.

Dr. Leichenberg had his back to Alex as he gathered everything he needed. Popping off the caps to the vials, drenching a cotton swab in a dark amber liquid, and ripping open a package. He removed an object smaller than the size of his palm. It was a white plastic cross with a green clip fastened around a short transparent tube. Alex swallowed. An IV cannula. A device that allowed for easy and sanitary access to a vein.

"I suggest you do not struggle." Leichenberg removed the protective sheath on the needle. "It will only hurt more."

As soon as the doctor took one step towards him, Alex lost all restraint. He wrenched his arm. Then the other. Then jerked and thrashed. He tightened his muscles until they quaked from the strain, knowing full well that it would only make the pain worse, but he couldn't stop himself. It was all he could do to fight back. A feral growl ripped from his throat when Leichenberg dared to grab his arm and tug back the meager protection offered by his sweatshirt. The doctor swabbed Alex's arm with a deep amber liquid. It chilled the skin and stunk of chemicals.

"Don't touch me," Alex snarled.

The doctor scowled, glancing briefly over his shoulder in the hope that a guard would be stationed there to help, but they had all been called away to prepare for K-unit's arrival. He huffed out a breath and clamped his whole hand around Alex's bicep. The tip of the needled rested in the center of the cubital fossa, approximately where the median cubital vein was located. Leaning in closer, he began to apply more pressure. Alex automatically tried to throw him off, but he bared his full weight down. It was useless.

"Hör auf,"stop, he snapped. "If I am not careful, this will rip through your vein."

Alex spat in his face.

The doctor recoiled. Blindingly fast, he lashed out and caught Alex across the face. Then he plucked his glasses free and wiped them clean with the corner of his shirt. "Do not do that again," he warned, holding the lenses to the light.

Chest heaving, Alex snarled, "Drecksau." Ian Rider had never liked it when Alex swore. He said foul language was for those who were too indolent to support their arguments with facts and rhetoric, but Alex didn't care. It was all he had. More curses and obscenities tumbled from his mouth, as the doctor grabbed his arm for a second time. Leichenberg took more care in searching for the identifying blue of a vein.

There was an explosion of sound. It was muffled by the maze of concrete and manipulated by the distance, but the popping and chatter of live ammunition was still unmistakable. Concentrated, shorter bursts of individual shots answered them.

K-unit had arrived.

Alex took a deep breath then opened his mouth and screamed. The force of it tore like knives at his throat, but he yelled louder, hollering over his shoulder, praying his voice would carry. Without conscious thought, his tongue formed the words his brain didn't know how. He was aware of only two things:

The gunfire becoming quieter, sparser, and the needle piercing his skin.

~.~

Nur noch zwei,Leichenberg had said. As if that were a comfort.Only two more.

Tears pricked at his eyes. He'd screamed until the doctor had inserted the syringe and depressed the plunger. His voice was raw and weak as a result.

Alex could already feel the dull ache radiating from the crux of his arm. A pulse of heat coursed outwards as his body realized a foreign substance had entered his blood stream and wasn't sure what to make of it. Friend or foe—in this case, a bit of both. The IV port did nothing but add to the pain. Although the needle had been removed and all that remained was a narrow tube, its mere existence was a reminder that there was more poison to come.

Alex clenched every muscle in his right arm and edged to the far side of table. It wasn't enough; it wouldn't stop anything, but the reaction was innate and irresistible. He yanked on his wrists with the desperate hope that one of those times, it would come loose.

It didn't.

"Mach das nicht," he cried, more so to make as much as noise as possible than believing that begging would break the doctor's resolve. The man had administered the shot countless times before; why should now be any different. "You don't have to do this."

Dr. Leichenberg flicked the barrel and thumbed down the plunger. Some of the syringe's contents dribbled down the side of the needle.

Alex forced himself to breathe, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. The pain helped to ground him and allowed him to think. Even if they gave him all three doses, it didn't guarantee his death; Sveta had gotten multiple injections before she'd gotten to the point of where she was no.

Except they hadn't been giventhisone.

His eyes sprang open in time to see the doctor stretch out a hand.

"No." Alex scrambled against the vinyl surface, but his limbs couldn't move enough to get traction. He was held firmly in place. "No, no,don't—"

A clap of thunder drowned out his words. It struck from behind, blinding and deafening all at once. A bang. A cry, a cacophony of metal and glass. Although the initial sound was over in milliseconds, the pain of it remained. It sent Alex's head reeling from the piercing reverberation as the walls of concrete refused to let the noise to die. Then there was silence.

Alex unfurled himself hesitantly. The ringing in his head blurred everything in sight, and he stared uncomprehendingly.

Where the doctor had been standing seconds ago, he was now unmoving on the ground. One arm lay splayed across his chest, whilst the other was thrown over the up-ended metal tray. A dark scarlet welled up through the pure white fabric of his lab coat. The last two needles had flown somewhere out of sight, for which Alex was thankful. Glints of a metal cap and the sheen of broken glass told him the vials hadn't survived the fall either.

Alex tore his eyes away and twisted his body around, frantically searching for the person that had to have been standing just inside the threshold. It didn't even occur to him that they wouldn't have shot the doctor if they meant Alex himself any harm. He saw the bare tip of a muzzle first. As he stretched and reached further, his wrist and shoulder popped in warning, but for some reason the throb of a strain wasn't there—not yet anyways. Alex's gaze traveled down the barrel, past the hand that blocked a quarter of the man's face. A familiar face with fair hair and an even more familiar scowl.

"Snake," he breathed. He all but collapsed back on the table. They'd found him. He almost choked on a laugh. They'd actually found him. "I didn't think you'd make it," he tried for a smile.

Silently, with steady steps, Snake cleared the room, the point of his gun held low at the ready. It didn't take long; the only people inside were Alex and the doctor, and Leichenberg had still yet to move. The pooling of blood grew steadily beneath him.

Alex flinched when a hand landed on his shoulder, and but it was still only Snake. Snake who had rushed to Alex's side as soon as he knew it was safe to do so. He faced the door, just in case guards came down to check on the good doctor, but his whole, undivided attention was on the kid who had gone missing under his care. He dropped his head, shaking it in disbelief. His hand cupped the back of Alex's neck.

"Christ, kid." The relief in his voice was tangible. "If you wanted to visit Chernobyl that badly, you shoulda just said."

Alex cracked a smile, but the barest movement over the soldier's shoulder caught his attention. The doctor rocked on his back, dazed and not quite fully conscious. His hand clapped his shoulder in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding, but the movement was uncoordinated and disjointed. So, he wasn't dead then. Dying, but not dead. With how fast the blood seeped out across the floor and how much had already soaked into his coat, he would only have a few minutes left. An hour at most. Alex couldn't find it in himself to care.

What did that make him?

"Alex?"

A hand tapped his cheek and redirected Alex's gaze. Snake was watching him with thinly veiled concern. He reached toward Alex again with telegraphed movements and maneuvered his head to get a better view of the damage. From the tightness along the left side of his face, the dull pressure in his throat, and general thrum of pain that was present in his whole body, Alex knew it wasn't a reassuring sight.

"You with me, Cub?"

Not trusting his voice, Alex nodded.

"Right. Come on, let's get you out of these—" Snake broke off. With more gentleness than Alex though the man capable of, he brushed back the sleeve. The sticky amber glaze still coated his skin in haphazard brush strokes, and blood—either from Leichenberg's botched job of finding a vein or from Alex's own struggling—wove underneath the adhesive and snaked down the sides of his arm. The cannula itself was filled with the remnants of the Nenavos Serum.

"What's this for?"

"A jab," Alex finally found his voice. He jerked his chin towards the doctor and the shattered debris on the floor. "It's what they've been doing—giving it to everyone here. Zharkov explained everything to me—he was here, just a few minutes ago. Admitted to the kidnappings, everything." He was distantly aware that everything tumbling from his mouth sounded like a single, unbroken word, but it had only begun to register what had happened. They had injected him with something that had potentially fatal side effects, something that hadn't been tested on anyone or anything else before. Nausea pressed at the back of his throat.

Alex swallowed it back.

Snake watched him for a second more. Then he reached for the right cuff and threaded the thong out from the deployant clasp. Alex tugged his wrist the moment air brushed the skin. The relief was incomparable, and he set to do the same thing on the other side. When his ankles were free, he went to hop down from the table, eager to get away as soon as possible, but Snake stopped him.

The soldier—andmedic, Alex amended—fished out a wad of gauze from his jacket pocket. He gestured for Alex's arm. Reluctantly, Alex handed it over. He would have preferred to deal with it himself—or better yet, ignore it until he couldn't any longer—but even he had to admit, the angle was too awkward to manage. Although the needle had just been a delivery method for the cannula, it wasn't safe to leave it in—especially since it was more than likely there would be at least one more fight in the very near future. It would have to come out.

Snake ripped away the exterior adhesive, retracted the tube and promptly replaced it with a patch of cotton, securing it with a roll of gauze. He bent Alex's arm back and said, "keep pressure on for a second."

Doing just that, Alex fidgeted on the exam table. The gauze was already biting into skin, tight and uncomfortable, and the entire area burned and itched. Was this how it started? Was it how all the others felt, or was this a sign that something was wrong? Alex wished he had asked Kyra and Jan for more specifics. The bruises would take a few days to develop and the vascularity, the prominent veins, would be sometime after that. But the rest? It all depended on what was in that first jab.

Snake pulled a small object out of his jacket pocket. It was bulkier than a mobile, but more compact than a radio, fitting perfectly in his hand. Whatever he read on the screen caused him to grimace. He slipped it back into his belt. "We should go."

"Where's Ben?" Alex looked to the corridor, half expecting a second member of K-unit to have materialized since the last time he checked. "And the others, are they alright?"

"They'll be fine; they know how to handle themselves." Snake threaded a hand through his hair. "We knew there'd be guards, but we hadn't expected a certifiable army. You alright to move?"

"They knew you were coming. How many of there would be and that you wouldn't have any backup." Alex slid off the table. The ground dipped underneath his feet, and he had to steady himself against the table. Half an hour. He just had to last half an hour. "We were right. They have a man in the FSB."

Jaw set, posture tight, Snake shifted his weight and jerked his head in acknowledgment. He was dressed in combat trousers and a dark winter jacket, nothing like the standard camouflage Wolf and his team had worn when infiltrating Point Blanc. The only standard issued article was his belt, and that had been something he and the others had brought with them in their personal bags. This truly was an unsanctioned mission.

Then a thought occurred to him: Since it was unsanctioned, maybe…Alex eyed the man's belt. A few hard leather pouches containing medical supplies, a handful of zip-cord ties, two extra magazines for the Glock 17 currently in Snake's hand. No backup firearm. Nothing for Alex to take for himself.

A part of him was relieved. He didn't think he could hold a gun, let alone aim and fire with any sort of precision at this point. Adrenaline might be keeping him on both feet, but it didn't erase the bone-tired ache in his limbs. The other part of him argued that, if he were to run into Zharkov again, he'd find a way to manage.

"Here." Snake shrugged off his jacket and held it out to Alex, who blinked at it then at the man himself. Sighing, he said, "you're shaking enough already, and we've got to go running around outside. Come on."

When Snake shook it again and made it clear they wouldn't be going anywhere until he did, Alex grudgingly pulled it tightly around himself. The sleeves swallowed his hands, but he couldn't deny the relief it gave him.

"Is it true?" Alex fiddled with the zipper under his chin. "The FSB wouldn't help?"

At first, it looked as if Snake wasn't going to respond. Probably out of a misguided sense of protection, one that had been ostensibly lacking the first time they'd met. When Alex didn't make to move, the soldier gave a curt nod, lips pressed into a thin line. His hand landed on the back of Alex's neck, squeezing lightly. "Come on. We can't stay here."

Alex resisted. His eyes drifted back to the doctor. "What about him?"

Snake glowered in disgust. He approached the crumpled form and dropped to one knee, pressing his fingers to the man's neck. Then, peeling away the soaked fabric, he inspected the wound's location. The bullet had hit below the clavicle. Likely, the bullet had lodged in the entry wound, which was the only reason he had yet to bleed to death.

"He won't be getting far on his own. If he's smart, he'll stay where he is." The vials were scattered about the corner, half broken, all of them cracked to varying degrees. Snake snatched up the nearest one and eyed it under the light. "This what they dosed you with?"

"One of them. I don't know which."

Nodding, the soldier gathered up the three flasks and secured them into one of the pouches on his belt. They would need them as a sample if they were going to reverse engineer it. Without knowing the exact compounds, Sveta and the others didn't stand a chance. Even with the difference in the formula, it should be similar enough to give the doctors something to work with.

Snake jogged back over and propelled Alex towards the corridor.

He had been dragged through here the last time, a hand on each one of his arms. Now, seeing it again, he couldn't remember which way they'd come from. Both ends were marked by light fixtures that flickered and hummed with static. The walls were covered in grey and white, uniform even in its decay. All the work he'd done memorizing the path back to the hotel, and he couldn't even remember where to begin. Brilliant.

Alex tugged the sleeves down over his hands and hugged his arms to his body. Had it been this cold a moment before? The sun must have set and, with it, drained away the lingering warmth. It had been late afternoon when he'd been caught—again—so it had to be well past sunset by now.

A light flared behind him. His torch in hand, Snake looked up one end of the hallway, then down the other. Right or left. He chose left, setting off at a light sprint. Alex followed without hesitation.

The corridor ended in a set of stairs. They had just exited onto the ground level when a new round of gunshots rang out in the distance. Alex flinched into the nearest wall, instinctively making himself a smaller target. Snake paused and listened. It hadn't concentrated like before, but rather focused aim and return fire. Almost as if it were a game of hide and seek, waiting for the enemy to step into your scope.

And just like that, Alex remembered. "We have to find the others."

Snake faltered. "That's what we're doing. Rememb—"

"No, I don't mean K-unit." Alex clutched his arm. The original pulse had steadily progressed into a wave of burning heat, the epicenter of which was growing and spreading. "I was with five other kids. I tried to get us out, but we got cornered, and I—they might have gotten away. Out through the kitchen door of Gotel Polissya, where they were keeping us. I don't know where they would have gone from there."

"Right," Snake sighed heavily.

"And there are others still there," Alex added. "Younger kids too, but I don't know how many or where they are."

"Right. We'll deal with it." He prodded Alex forward. "But first, we have to get to the RV."

Alex reluctantly allowed the man to lead him on. Consistent with the aesthetic of Soviet design, the hospital was just as uniform and nondescript as the hotel. Even with the peeling of the walls and the forgotten debris left behind from the evacuation was uniform in its own way. One of dozens of buildings left to slowly crumble away. Between the lack of light and the debris scattered about, he found it difficult to know where to put his feet. More than once, he kicked a chunk of wall of ceiling and sent it scattering into another like a row of dominoes.

Alex made the mistake of glancing into one of the open doorways as they passed. It had been a patient's room. Five by ten feet and furnished with a spring-coiled frame and nightstand, all of which still stood in their original places. It wasn't hard to imagine walls complete again, the pain a vibrant white and blue, cotton sheets laid out on a thin mattress. He could even picture the fireman lying there, having been burned by astronomically high levels of radiation, only to be soaking in more as the very same particles began to coat everything within a thirty-kilometer radius. He would have watched it happen through the window, unable to do anything but watch—

The window.

Alex stared at his reflection through the glass, able to see only a flicker of movement as the wind rustled the trees, but he couldseethe trees. It hadn't been boarded up like the rest. In fact, none of the building showed any sign of reconstruction or restoration. For some reason, Zharkov hadn't used the one building that was suited for his needs. Maybe the radiation levels made it too dangerous—all of the emergency responders would have tracked all the radiation they'd been exposed to back here, after all—so why did he bring Alex here? And how did Snake know where to find him?

"Cub?" Snake's worried gaze found him again. His furrowed brow deepened when he noticed Alex hugging his arms to his stomach. "You going to be alright till we get out of here?"

Alex dropped his arms and nodded.

"And you'd tell me if something was actually wrong?"

"I'mfine," Alex insisted. He brushed past Snake, leaving the hospital room, and everything in it, behind. They were so close now, they didn't have time to stop. Ben was out there, running around in the dark whilst Zharkov's men hunted him down. Wolf and Eagle too. God knew where Kyra had managed to drag the other four, assuming they even made it past the loading bay. Assuming there was a loading bay…

A hand caught him in the chest, and Snake signaled for him to wait as he peered around the corner. They had reached the hospital's entrance, a waiting room by the looks of it. A shiver passed down the back of Alex's neck, a feeling he had come to associate with seeing a world that had held tight to the past. Not preserved, as nothing in Pripyat was fully intact. Least of all the hospital's lobby, as the farthest wall was now only shards of glass. Moss and mould had crawled inside and claimed every bit of wood as its home; a lifeless sprig, tall enough to brush the ceiling, claimed the center of the room; and the chairs had been all but consumed by rust.

Beyond the walls, it was silent. At some point, the skirmishes scattered across the city had stopped.

Alex preferred not to consider why.

"Where are we going?"

Snake let out a breath. "The cultural center."

"Right." A pause. "And where is that?"

Shaking his head, Snake fished out his mobile again and gave Alex a glimpse of a white and grey networks crisscrossing the screen. Snake pointed to a cluster of oblong rectangles near the exact center then again, a bit to the South. "It's one of those blocks there, but we're down here."

"Can't we just—call them? Have them meet us here?"

But before he even finished, Snake was shaking his head. "We went dark as soon as we got here. Without a secure frequency, we couldn't guarantee no one would be listening. Hence the RV."

A good thing too, as it turned out someonewaslistening.

"Katya chose the spot. Said it'd be hard to miss. Energetik in big shining letters."

The words sparked a foggy memory of staggering back in the cold, a towering neon sign that flashed and flickered with faulty current. Had that really only been a few hours ago? "I've seen that place. It shares a courtyard with Gotel Polissya. They've been using them as a base. I counted at least twenty-three guards and two orderly types, unarmed."

Snake grinned. "Not bad, Cub. Now all we've got to worry about getting there in one piece."

They started across the lobby. The floor was slick and warped, covered in dreck that Alex couldn't identify and didn't want to. It squelched under his weight. Boot prints had carved pathways from the glass doors to the two other corridors that broke off from the main hall. They looked recent, but Alex had no way of knowing just how recent.

"Where are all the guards?" Alex kept his voice low.

Snake didn't respond but clutched his gun tighter. He carved a new path and stepped through one of the broken windows. Alex followed and was hit with a wave of crisp air. Without any streetlamps nearby, the darkness was all-encompassing the trees just blotches of even darker shadows dancing in the wind. The snow almost glowed in the light of the moon. Alex hoped that wasn't to do with it being enriched with residual plutonium.

Just like inside, it was absent of life.

Neither wished to spend more time there than necessary. Snake took the lead, following the path set by the least amount of snow. There would be no point in concealing their footprints; Zharkov's own men had passed by there recently enough, that a new set of prints would go unnoticed. Still, even as the snow had been trampled into a clear path, the cold temperature had left it frozen and jagged. Sweat dampened the hair on the back of Alex's neck as he focused on staying on both feet. It was a relief when they stumbled onto a paved road. It hadn't been plowed since the last storm, but it was smooth and level. Breaking from the trees' protection, however, left them exposed.

"I think we risk it." Snake had consulted his map again, zooming in on the microregion that separated them from the rendezvous point. "This should drops us right off at the Gotel and Energetik. It'll be faster than traipsing about blindly in the woods."

Alex resisted the urge to duck low as they trudged through the cold. It wouldn't make any difference if they were spotted, and possibly make it that much more obvious they didn't belong. He wasn't quite able to resist scanning for signs of movement, jerking around and jumping at every noise. Every sway of a branch, every crackle of frozen snow was one of Zharkov's men. Except it never was. He scrubbed the sleeve of Snake's jacket down the side of his face, trying to rub feeling back into his skin.

Wherewerethey?

The pavement grew thinner, the canopy of overgrown pines thicker. Like a tunnel leading to purgatory, cold, dark and unending. The subtle differences, discreet bends in the road made it seem like they hadn't even left the vicinity of the hospital, although, realistically, Alex knew they'd covered a couple hundred meters already.

He swung around as leaves rustled behind him. The pines carried a slight ginger hue here, swaying softly in a wind so gentle, Alex couldn't feel it himself. He paused, but the sound had been nothing more than a branch scrapping against another. Still, a needling though at the back of his mind swore something had been there, as if watching patiently, prowling in the shadows.

If wolves don't kill you, radiation will.

A comforting thought to suddenly remember, seeing as he was currently at the mercy of both. Alex shook himself and kept going, trudging along in the path Snake had carved. It was only a few minutes later that, without warning, a familiar building appeared from behind a curtain of pine trees.

Alex scowled. It was uglier than he remembered.

Catching Snake's arm, he pointed at the tower. "Gotel Polissya. I'm betting they have cameras set up all around the courtyard."

Snake agreed, as he started rummaging through one of his pockets. "We'll take the long way round. Katya said to meet in the back—" He removed the same handheld device from before and thumbed the buttons. The screen shone green. Black numbers fluctuated 3.2 and 4.7 just in the time the screen stayed activated. "We should hurry though."

Alex's mouth ran dry. He had a sinking feeling why Snake had taken the device out in the hospital and again now, and it wasn't to do with tracking the temperature. It had always been a possibility, always in the back of his mind, but seeing a Geiger counter didn't give him a sense of gratification for being right.

He was about to ask, but the words died in throat when a branch snapped in half somewhere behind them.

Snake shoved Alex behind him, his gun snapping into position, the device clutched awkwardly in his palm. There was a second crack, followed by a continuous crackling—the sound of a boot breaking through the hard shell of frozen snow.

Alex didn't move. Barely dared to breathe, as the shallowest breath glowed in the moonlight. Snow, caked to the fabric of his trousers, began to melt and cling to his skin. He fought back the shiver working its way up his spine.

The rustling started again. Quieter and more controlled, as they tried to conceal their movements. They knew someone was out there, as well.

The tip of Snake's gun tracked their general location, his eyes flicking back and forth as he tried to isolate their exact position. He shifted his weight, caught himself, and fell still again. Alex's whole body tensed, like a coiled spring wound too tightly, ready to strike.

A sound, similar to that of a branch whipping back into place, came from further left. They weren't alone.

But why bother with stealth? If they were Zharkov's soldiers, they should have attacked the moment they realized someone was out there. This was their home turf; they didn't need surprise on their side because they outnumbered the intruders.

Snake came to this conclusion at the same time. Keeping his gun raised should he be wrong, he whistled. Short and shrill. A second later, a similar call answered, and the ramrod tension melted out of Snake's stance. He lowered his gun. A few feet away, two figures emerged from behind the shell of an automobile left to rot on the side of the road.

"What happened to meeting at the cultural center?" The closer of the two grunted.

Alex nearly cried with relief. Wolf. But who was the other one? They were certainly too stocky to be Katya, even with the added weight of winter clothes.

"You're one to talk." Snake tore his boots free of the crevices he'd created and trekked across the street. Despite the crackle of each step, he kept his voice low. "I had four aiming for my head. Lost them over by the hospital. And it was a good thing too." He gestured behind him. "Look who I found."

Finally brought to their attention, Wolf and the other figure turned toward Alex. They must have assumed he was the other missing member of K-unit, as any details were near inscrutable in the lack of light, and none of them were willing to take out a torch. The second person moved forward hesitantly.

"Alex?"

Alex broke into a grin. There was no mistaking the second person's voice. "Ben."

Before he could go any further, the tree next to him burst apart. The bark splintered, blown apart by bullets 2,600 feet per second, thousands of shards flying outward. With a cry, Alex fell back, tripping over his own feet, as more bullets peppered space he had been standing. The sound of more gunfire rang out across the open street, and Alex scrambled back on his hands and feet.

Sparks flew when a bullet rebounded off the automobile and shot into the sky. He couldn't see the others anymore.

"Alex—"

His back met something solid and unmoving and cold. It seeped through the nylon, into his back. The hood of his jacket snagged on the hollows in the ice, like talons. He searched frantically for the shooter—or shooters, because the number of shots couldn't have been coming from one person alone—but he couldn't even make out where Snake had gone, and he had been only a few feet in front of Alex. He was sure the person calling his name had been Wolf—

A spark flashed to the right.

The mountain of snow next to his head shattered, and Alex dove to the side and skidded across ice. The skin of his hands grated painfully against the rough surface as he tried to find purchase and clamber to his feet. More and more shots followed his desperate scrambling, and he slipped and threw himself behind a scraggly pine. Pebbles of snow showered down over him.

They were targetinghim.

A flurry of shots and pinging and thuds told him that at least one member of K-unit was pinned between the car and the trees. The shooters had separated them from Alex, and once again Alex was left without a gun. His heart thudded in his chest so much that he felt it beating behind his eyes. His breath, a cloud of white in the darkness, burned in his lungs.

Alex braved a look around the side of the tree. Muzzle flashes cut through the night like a swarm of fireflies, burning themselves out of existence in milliseconds. He identified three concentrated flashes as K-unit, though each one of them had concealed themselves completely out of sight, until one of them fired off a shot. Someone—their face cast in shadows—inched around the side but didn't fire. Their arm waved desperately, but Alex couldn't tell what it meant. Run? But which way?

As the skirmish lulled, a shape detached itself from the far right and moved to the middle of the street unafraid. The man should have approached the automobile from the street whilst his men came at the enemy from the other side, effectively surrounding them. Depending on the number of men and their familiarity with the area, it should have been over quickly, but it wasn't. Because he didn't.

He was looking straight at Alex.

More flashes of fire exploded from the trees, his men letting loose a torrent of gunfire, leaving K-unit no chance of return fire. As soon as the man took his first step, Alex launched himself to his feet. He didn't hesitate. He ran.

The air screamed around him. Pine needles ripped from the branches, snow crashing down in cascades, as bullets whistled past him. Alex threw his arms over his head instinctively, barely able to see a foot in front of him as he tore through the thicket. There was a frantic cry, but it was immediately swallowed up by the thundering shriek of semi-automatics.

Alex didn't dare risk a glance behind him, as he ducked and wove around the outgrowth. There was no doubt in his mind that Danis was close behind. Only a few feet behind, the clap of footsteps on cement. The frozen soil had shifted to pavement at some point, Alex couldn't remember when. The courtyard between Energetik and Polissya a flash of memory, his shadow stretching under the floodlights that had burst to life, blinding him.

He careened through another coppice of trees. Branches scratched at his face, snagging at his clothes. He hoped they were grasping at Danis too.

The only reason he'd been able to last so long was because Danis had lost his footing. He'd hit the ground hard. Hard enough for his gun to misfire and go scattering across the courtyard. He might have gone after it, or abandoned it entirely—he'd proven himself capable of killing without a weapon before—but Alex didn't stick around to find out.

His chest burned. His head spun. The ache in his armpulsed, but Alex knew he couldn't stop. His best hope was to put enough space between him and Danis so he could hide. There were plenty of places to choose from—if he could calm his breathing, slow his body down, he could tuck himself under any briar large enough to fit him. Hide and wait for Ben and Wolf and Snake.

Just a little further—

Alex's foot caught.

He pitched forward, and the mass of snow he'd been about to hurtle over smashed into his gut. A metal clang rang out. Clutching his stomach, choking for air, Alex blinked. Metal? He traced the white hedge to a few feet away, and the thin, wisps he had assumed were trees turned into metal posts. They hosted a netting of dark vines that crisscrossed one another at equal distances. It was too uniform, its surface too reflective to be natural.

Alex hopped over the barrier and dropped to the ground, resting his back against what turned out to be a metal grated fence. It was completely rusted through, just like everything in this God-forsaken place, and from what he could see, it went on to encircle the entire space. Gulping in ragged breaths, he tucked his hands under his arms and curled into himself. His fingers burned as if he'd placed them on a stove top. His nose and cheeks weren't faring much better, but he didn't need those to fight.

Except he didn’t want to fight. He was tired. He’d been moving too long, awake and running on adrenaline and fear for even longer. There wasn’t much left in him.

Dropping his head back against the railing, and through half-lidded eyes, Alex examined the area before him. It was a rectangular structure about the size of the outdoor ice rink Jack enjoyed, the exposed flooring an odd mesh tarp that had sprouted a tenacious strain of lichen. A handful of oval-shaped lumps of metal were scattered around at random, each one boasting a new color, and each one more faded and sicklier than the last. A long black rubber tire ran along the bottom edge, white reflective circles installed on one side. Almost like headlights.

Bumper cars?

Alex didn’t have long to ponder what he was seeing. At that moment, Danis’s voice drifted through the trees. “Sasha,” he crooned. The way it was carried by the wind, he could be anywhere. “Gdye zhe ty?”

Alex cupped a hand around his mouth to stymie the sound of his breath. Through a gap in the fencing, he saw a flicker of motion, an alternating flash of black and a deeper blue. Danis.

"Sasha." His footsteps were slow, but he wasn't hiding. He was enjoying the hunt. "I know you hear me, Sasha. —You cannot have run far." His echoing voice waxed and waned, as if he was turning in a circle. "Vyxodi-vyxodi."

Alex pressed further into the fence, sinking lower and lower until he was nearly splayed out on the tarp.

"—You have nowhere to go, Sanyok. No one left to save you. —Your friends are dead."

Alex sucked in breath through his teeth. Danis didn't know that. He couldn't know that—he had run after Alex before anything had happened, and there hadn't been time to confer with his men. K-unit was fine. He trusted them. They'd be fine.

"My men killed them like dogs." His voice was muffled now. Far away. "And when I find other brats—they are dead too."

Alex drove his nails into his palms, hoping pain would be enough. He needed to stay—

"They were living on numbered days, anyway. The girl? The one you try and save? Leichenberg thinks she is dead within week. I think it much sooner than that."

Clenching his jaw, Alex rocked to his knees. The turf swallowed any noise he could have been making as he crawled along the fence and peered through the bars. The full moon had been somewhat of a curse earlier—how else could Danis and his men have found them so easily—but now it was a blessing. It washed the entire courtyard in an eerie white light, giving Alex an obscure glimpse of black and greys.

At first, he thought it was an open field, a hundred square meters of nothing, but as his eyes adjusted, he started to make out odd structures along the edge: one smaller circular web the size of a lorry, and a colossal wheel that rivaled the height of the Polissya. Directly in center stood Danis. His back was to the bumper cars, his hands loose at his sides. His head tilted back to look at the sky.

Alex could run. He should circle back, make his way back to Polissya. Even if Danis was only taunting him, the others had been pinned down, outnumbered, surrounded. He couldn't let them die. Knowing what he had to do, Alex crept away.

His shoe caught the one piece of metal not attached to anything. It clanged and spun away, flying toward the nearest car, and Alex lunged for it. His fingers only brushed the tip, sending it further away, but he scrabbled along the ground and managed to slam his palm down over it. Alex froze.

He pushed to his knees, clutching the rod in his fist. In his mind’s eye, he could picture the smile of amusem*nt plain on Danis’s face as he heard the clatter confirming Alex’s presence. There was no hiding it now. Alex got to his feet and turned around.

Like an apparition, Danis faced him now, stood in the exact same position, at ease. His face broke into a grin. It was a nasty, unfeeling grin, with teeth bared and gleaming.

Alex hopped the fence and approached slowly. He was tired of running, and Danis had been right. There was nowhere he could go. The man waited patiently, finally waving a hand at the rod still clutched tightly in Alex’s fist.

“What will you do with this?” he asked.

Alex looked down. The metal shaft was as long as his arm and jagged at one end. He set his jaw and met Danis’s gaze.

“I think we already know that you cannot hurt me. Your sovest’—” Danis tapped his head, the sneer clear in his voice, “—does not let you.”

The fury that had led Alex to confront Danis in the first place flared to life again. Alex would rather die because of his morality than live without one. Than be like the man standing in front of him. Than be like the cowardly shell of his godfather. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight to survive. Alex fixed his hold on the bar. It was so cold it burned, but he barely felt it.

Danis smiled. Then, with the speed of a viper, he struck. He snatched at Alex with both hands, snarling when Alex ducked out of the way. Alex gripped the rod in his hands and thrust it upwards and out. It missed. He felt the edge catch on the fabric of Danis’s jacket, snagging only a handful of threads and tearing a hole, then a vice grip seized his arm and hauled him in. The bar was ripped from his hands. Danis shook Alex hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

“Tyoma wants you to live,” he spat.

Danis tossed Alex to the ground, flinging the metal baton over his shoulder and out of reach, then stalked forward. He came to stand over him, chest heaving. His face twisted; his eyes were wild and blazed with scorn. “Zhal’—” Again, he snatched Alex up and hurled him through the air with barely any effort at all.

Alex crashed to the ground with a shout of pain. His elbow had clipped a stone, his shoulder taking the brunt of the landing. He tasted blood—he must have bit his cheek at some point, and now the bitter taste filled his mouth. Alex, favoring the left side, scrabbled backwards, hands grappling at the ground desperately.

“—I do not care.”

Alex’s fingers closed around a rock of solid snow. His gut told him to throw it, pelt it with all he had, but he waited. At this distance, it was unlikely he’d miss, but it was just as unlikely that Danis would dodge, and then where would he be? Danis crept forward, enjoying the feeling of dominance. He leant over Alex, tracing a hand down his jacket before grabbing a fistful. As he pulled back his arm to strike, Alex acted. He whipped his arm around and smashed and ground the icy clump into the side of Danis’s face.

Danis hollered in pain, dropping Alex, staggering back as he clutched at his eyes.

Alex stumbled to his feet and ran.

He ran past the rusted remains of a Paratrooper ride, slipping on patches of ice, and careening into the alder tree clawing its way through the cement. He swatted away the branches and glanced behind him to see a mass of shadows charging after him. The attack hadn’t done more than enrage the man.

Bracing himself, Alex took off again.

From across the square, the round structure had been large. Now, running towards it, Alex saw that the Ferris Wheel was colossal. Twenty-six meters tall, the cabins at the peak eclipsed the moon. The surrounding trees barely matched the height of the A-hinge at the center that held the whole contraption together, and the titanium alloy creaked and moaned from the sheer weight that stressed each and every joint, testing its lasting durability.

Alex skidded around the ticket booth, scouring the ground for a glint or bulge in the snow that indicated something he could use for a weapon. Nothing. Panic was building in his throat. He couldn’t keep running; even Olympic athletes had their limits, and Alex was no Olympic athlete. He couldn’t stay and fight either. He didn’t stand a chance against Danis.

Out of desperation, Alex leapt for slanted beam that formed the unilateral supports. Thin rungs climbed the side all the way to the center of the wheel, where a long pin connects the two bases. There was no railing along the first fifteen feet, no safety net, nothing to catch him if he slipped. One misstep, and he would be one more casualty of Pripyat.

Alex began to climb.

The metal was so cold, his skin burned and stuck to the bars. Rust flaked off in his hands, and he was all too aware how reluctant and heavy his limbs felt. His fingers refused to curl around the rungs, so he wrapped his wrists around as well, trying to ignore the vibration coasting up the iron beams.

A violent shake made Alex look down. He wished he hadn’t.

Danis had begun to climb as well. Blood, black in the light, streamed down the left side of his face. Gripping the rung with one hand, he launched himself up and snatched at Alex’s ankle. Alex cried out and hugged the bar tight against his chest, even as the sharp flakes grated against his hands. He kicked the hand away, climbing even higher. He was halfway up the support beam, trapped in the iron cage meant to protect him.

The back of his neck prickled, and Alex caught onto the railing, just as the bottom rung gave way under his foot. His grip slick with blood, he wriggled out from the gap between the cage bars and onto the maintenance platform. Wind whips through his sweaty hair, and Alex realized just how far he’d come.

The metal groaned. Wind whipped through his sweaty hair.

The prickling at the back of his neck was his only warning. Cold, stiff fingers snaked around his ankle, and all at once, Danis viciously yanked. Alex’s grip, slick with sweat and blood, was ripped away. It couldn’t stand the added weight of a full-grown man. But neither could the metal rungs, which had baked in the sun, and froze in the winter, all the while the rust rotting away to dust. As Danis threw his entire weight into his attack, the ladder gave way.

Both began to fall.

Alex screamed.

He flailed, pitching backwards, groping at the cage slats as he fell. As decayed as they were, they caught him under the arms, painfully but solid. His body crashed against the exterior tunnel, his legs thrashing and swinging madly. Alex stretched one hand out, his arm hooked precariously around a slat that was only five inches wide. He managed to grasp the nearest rung. He threw himself at the beam, wrapping both arms around the thin post, hoping his weight was evenly distributed enough that it wouldn’t collapse under him again.

There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t shaking. Heights had never bothered Alex before; he actually quite enjoyed them. But as the wind curled around him, the Ferris Wheel swaying under his hands, knowing that any step might just literally fall to pieces without warning, Alex felt afraid.

Hugging the crossbar tight, his face pressed against the rot, he glanced down. Alex had heard him yell. He’d also heard the impact. Staring down now, he could just make out the mangled form of Daniil Danus.

Translation & Transliteration

Молодец – molodets – well done

Цель оправдывает средства – tsel' opravdyvaet sredstva – the end justifies the means

Тот человечек отвратительный. Недалекий кретин – tot chelovechek otvratitel'nyi. Nedalyokii kretin - that horrid little man. Small-minded idiot

Принеси мне врача. И скажи ему приготовить новую смесь - Prinesi mnye vracha. I skazhi yemu prigotovit' novuyu smes' – bring me the doctor. And have him prepare the new compound

Понял - Ponyal - I understand

Октябрёнок, Всесою́зная пионе́рская,и Консомол - oktyabryonok, Young Pioneers and Konsomol

Конечно - konechno - of course

На авось - navos' - on a hunch, to count on fate, to roll the dice

Не на авось. я выживу - Nye navos' vyzhivu - Not by luck. I will survive

Сэр, нужно улететь. На улице Курчатова есть движение. - Sir. Huzhno uletet'. Na ulitse Kurchatova est' dvizhenie.

Понатно. До свидания - Ponyatno. Do svidaniya

Сообщи мне о результатах - Soobschitye mnye o rezul'tatatkh

Drecksau - Bastard, Motherf*cker, (dirty pig)

где же ты - gdye zhe ty - where are you

Выходи-выходи - vyxodi-vyxodi - come out, come out

совесть - sovest' - conscience

Жаль - zhal' - it's a pity