FIC: Midnight Smoke (2/2) [Alex Rider/Yassen Gregorovich, NC-17]
Title: Midnight Smoke (2/2)
Author: Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Alex Rider series by Anthony Horowitz (set between Skeleton Key and Eagle Strike)
Pairing: Alex Rider/Yassen Gregorovich
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, underage/chan (Alex is eternally 14)
Summary: Alex Rider investigates a spate of teen abductions and runs into an old enemy.
Note: Birthdayfic for the incomparable annephoenix. Thanks to Thea for test reading. And I swear I had no clue about the theme of the most recent novel when starting this - still haven't read it :). The title comes from Mike Batt's "The Hunting of the Snark" album.
Part 1
When the door had shut behind the assassin, Alex let out a sob that was half rage, half despair. For a long moment, he crouched on the bed as if frozen and stared at the closed door. Then he let his face crumble and sank onto the bedclothes. He curled up in a tight ball, feebly hiding under the coverlet. It took no effort to let his shoulders shake with sobs - the problem was to stop his body from taking over and racking him with the after-effect of shock as it wanted. Despair and shame tore at him, and the barriers between real and pretence breakdown were altogether too fragile. He forced himself to stop trembling and finally just lay there face-down, cheek pressed into bedclothes that smelled of lemongrass and Yassen Gregorovich and his own come. He didn't move for what felt like eternity - fifteen minutes, perhaps thirty, praying that whoever had been watching him would get bored observing a boy who had fallen asleep or unconscious. If someone had been watching him; if it hadn't been a lie Yassen had told to enforce his compliance.
At last he got up and crept to the corner of the bed where the chain was tied to the foot end. A lance of pain shot through his abused arse at every move. Alex whimpered, then bit his tongue. He couldn't afford weakness, not now. Brushing his hair back, he unclipped the silver stud in his left ear. Of course it wasn't made of silver, although it looked the part. During his first 'assignment' for MI6, Smithers had supplied Alex with a tube of 'zit cream' that would eat through metal. Since then, the substance had been refined until all that was required was a few drops of colourless liquid.
"It isn't acid, Alex, never fear," Smithers had hastened to explain when Alex had first held the ear stud with a very doubtful expression. "It won't harm skin or fabric or wood or plastic at all - only metal. I wouldn't outfit a teenager with something dangerous!"
Now, Alex twisted the ear stud at the thorn and pulled the chain taut with one hand. With the other, he let the fat drop of liquid fall onto a metal link. It took effort to keep his hand from shaking. The substance didn't hiss or foam, but instead turned brittle right before Alex's eyes, as if exposed to intense cold. Alex pulled, and the link came apart in his hands like stale bread. The end of the chain tickled against his chest. Alex dropped the other end as if it could burn him.
He started up from the bed and dragged himself over to the door, moving like a steeped old man. Hardly daring to hope, he touched the green button on the touchpad, and it opened in front of him. Not believing his luck, Alex peered outside. There were no guards, only an empty corridor. Had Yassen truly thought him so broken that he didn't even have to take the elementary precaution of locking him in? Alex's mouth twisted grimly. He would regret that error of judgement.
Retreating back into the cabin, he walked over to the silver case on the table and pushed the lock. It snapped open under his fingers. Alex gasped. At the left-hand side, a small gadget ticked away softly - probably the jamming device Yassen had mentioned. It was the parcel beside it, however, that drew Alex's eyes. Why would Yassen Gregorovich bring a bomb with him to conduct negotiations? The telltale timer with its blinking green zeroes left no other interpretation, though. Alex had seen similar - had been taught to disarm similar during his month in the SAS training camp. Two leather straps on the inner wall of the case held a long-muzzled submachine gun, the other a light-metal crossbow with a liquid-filled dart. Wolf and his men had used something like it when they'd stormed Point Blank Academy - anaesthetic darts. Yassen's weapon, however, looked even more futuristic.
Alex lifted everything out onto the table, then reached for his trousers. And paused. He couldn't bring himself to put them onto his soiled body. Berating himself, but unable to do anything else, he fled into the shower. He took the MP with him and left the shower curtain and the door open, just in case.
When he stepped into the shower cabin, the spray closed around his abused body like a blissful curtain, soothing and cleansing at once. He turned his face to the showerhead to ensure he couldn't feel any tears, and rapidly scrubbed every dirty and aching part of himself with Schola-provided shower gel, trying to ignore that Yassen Gregorovich had used it before him. Thankfully, it wasn't lemongrass.
The water pulled at him, making him want to sink onto the tiled floor until he could lose himself in the spray without having to think another thought. He dragged himself out with effort. If he broke down now, he'd never get up again. And there was no time! The guards might come back to check on him. Yassen might return. The last thought almost drove him to his knees.
He rubbed the towel over his body and hair, trying not the feel the low ache in his behind. MP in hand, he went back into the cabin and forced himself to put the silk trousers back on. Shivers ran over his damp skin, so he pulled open Yassen's travel bag under the desk, upending it on the floor. He pulled out a thin black turtleneck that hung loosely over his chest. It smelled of Yassen's subtle aftershave, and Alex almost tore it off again. But black would allow him to blend in with the ship's crew and guards. The spare pair of boots, however, was too large to fit him.
Finally, he lifted the explosive device into the bag. It had shoulder straps and looked way easier to carry than the heavy metal case. The MP's handle was riled and seductive under his palm, and when Alex let go of it, it was with regret. But he hadn't been taught how to shoot with it - MI6 always stopped short of giving him guns even if they might keep him alive. Still, an MP would be risky and loud fired on a ship, especially if Alex was planning to rescue people. For a second, he wondered if that really was what he was planning. Then he picked up the crossbow. One dart was already loaded, and he found three more packed at the bottom of the case. Well, he could always anesthetise Yassen Gregorovich, then strangle him with his bare hands!
The darts went into the outside pocket of the bag, the bag itself over Alex's shoulder. The bomb was heavy, and the shoulder strap cut into the skin of his shoulder through the thin turtleneck, deepening the marks Yassen's hands had left there.
Again, Alex hit the door button, and looked out into the empty corridor. The Schola didn't seem to waste time worrying about its 'fledgling whores'. There was the door to an emergency staircase next to he lift, but Alex's legs felt too rubbery to go for it with the heavy bag. Luck favoured him once again. The lift cabin arrived empty. For a moment, Alex just rested his forehead against the gleaming wall. His entire body hurt and his head spun. Then he hit the button conveniently labelled 'Main Deck'. He needed to get an idea of the ship's layout.
The vessel, it turned out when Alex stepped out of the lift, had a narrow upper deck only - two storeys containing the bridge and above it, he assumed, an observation deck. Everything else lay below.
The main deck and the ship's hull were painted in a light blue-green that must make it hard to spot despite its size, even in daylight. Now, it was wrapped in dusk that was about to turn into night. A row of signal lights illuminated the deck, a few more the railing, but otherwise, it was quite dark. Dark and empty. For an ocean cruiser, the ship was small, but it could have easily carried a hundred passengers with crew and personnel to match.
Alex crept along the railing, eyes searching for the emergency equipment he hoped would be there. A passenger vessel this modern, of this size, had to carry lifeboats. And then there they were, towards backboard on the left-hand side: four dark blue boats, upended and nestled outside the railing like beetle shells, each anchored by a modern hydraulic system that would lower the little boats down to sea level.
Behind the ship moored a sleek, stylish motor yacht, looking like a toy compared to the cruiser and the expanse of ocean beyond. Yassen's boat, no doubt. A black scorpion had been painted on its deck, visible only from above. Now that was a fitting symbol, Alex thought bitterly. He'd experienced its sting firsthand. His fingers itched with desire to make his way down to the boat and plant the bomb there. Except that he had no idea when the man would come back, and not quite enough knowledge of explosives to improvise a tripwire. And it wouldn't help the Schola's prisoners. Alex caressed the bag at his feet, then turned back to the lift.
The cabin had gone while he'd been on deck. He pressed the call button, nervously aiming crossbow when it reappeared, announced by the sound of the bell. Luck held true for a third time - it was empty. He hit the same button that the guards had used when taking him down to the pool deck, and grabbed his weapon more tightly. Adrenaline surged through him and dulled the multiple aches in his lower body. The first time, Alex and his guards had rounded the corner before arriving at their destination, which meant that the elevator wasn't in plain sight. But the door had been guarded, and there was no reason to assume that had changed. The chirpy "ping" that rang out as the lift stopped made Alex flinch. There was no way anyone could overhear that - he had to move fast.
Alex marched around the corner with the crossbow over his shoulder. He hoped that his black clothes would mislead the guards into thinking him one of their own for the second's surprise he needed. They turned, stared, and Alex fired at the closer one of the pair before the man's submachine gun could come up. The dart embedded itself in his middle and he dropped like a stone.
Alex threw himself to the side and towards the second man who had to jump back to avoid being bowled over by his collapsing colleague. A burst of machine gun fire howled over Alex's head, bullets ricocheting off the metal floor and wall. Then Alex was on the guard and his kick hit the man's knee before he could fire again. He screeched and stumbled. A karate chop to the throat sent him crumbling to the ground next to his unconscious comrade.
Breathing heavily, Alex searched for the pulse on the guard he'd hit with his dart. Of course Yassen had packed a pistol and a submachine gun, and so would have had little use for deadly poison, especially with an unwieldy crossbow. But the man was a killer - you never knew. He was relieved to find the guard's heart still beating and forced his mind back to the task at hand. He retrieved his crossbow, loaded another dart, and punched the code number he'd seen the guard use a few hours back into the keypad.
The door opened, and the young boy Alex had encountered before jumped back from where he'd stood with his ear pressed to the metal. Alex put a finger over his lips and waved his crossbow in a threatening manner as he slipped in before the automatic door closed again. The boy cringed with his back to the wall, so white with fear that his freckles stood out; Alex felt like an utter heel.
Still, he hissed, "No sound!" before stepping through the glass-bead curtain. The beads clicked around him, and then he stood in the pool room with the familiar tang of chlorine, oil and some unnamed, intense fragrance assaulting his nostrils. At the other side of the pool stood Eloise Souterre, upright and with a frown on her face. She looked at Alex as if she was seeing a ghost. Beside her on a padded mat knelt Petra, the straps of her gown pushed off her shoulders until it barely held on over her chest. A bright red bite mark flared on her collarbone.
Alex fired, and watched with glee as the anaesthetic dart buried itself in Madame's stomach. Her eyes rolled up, and she fell without a sound.
Petra clutched at her shoulder strap as Alex hurried over to her. Her pupils were alarmingly wide, and she swayed a little when she stood up. Alex grabbed her arm as gentle as his high-strung nerves would allow.
"Are you ok?"
She nodded. "Just dizzy. I was in the orchid bath. Give me a moment." She paused, looked back. "You?"
"Fine," Alex ground out, aware of how much his tone alone exposed his words as a lie. "We have to get out of here," he insisted. "Are there others?"
She nodded, sucking in rapid breaths, then bit her lip so hard that blood surged to the surface. It seemed to bring a bit of her energy back. "Hamal and Li Ping." Her head jerked towards the back door. "In the cells, behind the orchid pool."
She made to take a step, stumbled, and Alex said, "I'll get them. Can you keep an eye on the kid outside and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid?"
She nodded, and Alex hurried over to the back door. It led into a small bath, barely larger than the entrance room. Taking it up almost in its entirety was a round pool in black marble. The water steamed gently, and there was an oily film on its surface. The indefinable smell that Alex had noticed before was overpowering here. Tubs with blooming orchids in all colours and shapes lined the walls, and barely left room for a large padded mat beside the steaming pool. Alex was overcome by a languid wave dulling the edges of his consciousness. The padded mat seemed to beckon, tempting him to lie down and drowse. He clamped his hand over his mouth as he ran to the door that led out into a short corridor. A few minutes in that tub, he realised, and the drug would have had him snuggling happily into Yassen Gregorovich's arms no matter what the man did to him.
There were six doors clustered together in the small corridor, leading into the cells Petra had mentioned. All had an opening button and lock on the outside. The first four rooms were empty, and all looked the same - walls, floor and ceiling made up in black enamel, a narrow bed, a drawer, and a sink with an oval mirror above on the wall.
The third cell on the right-hand side held Hamal, lying on his back on the bed with his head propped on his arms. He sat up when Alex appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes moved from Alex's face to the crossbow cocked in his elbow, and then back. A tiny, gibbering voice inside Alex's head remembered how - where! - the young man had touched him and screamed at him to pull the trigger. He forced himself to ignore it.
"You want to get out of here?" he spat, wincing inwardly at the aggression in his tone.
Hamal cocked his head. "Alive?"
"If we're lucky."
That made the boy's lip quirk; he slid off the mattress and stepped past Alex and out of the room.
"There's one more girl." Hamal pointed to the door opposite his, and Alex pressed the button that would unlock it.
The lights were dimmed almost completely in the last cell. On the same narrow bed as Hamal's slept a petite Asian girl - a young woman, really. Long black hair had tumbled out of two ornamental chopsticks and covered her upper body like a mantilla. Her eyes were closed. Alex touched her shoulder, then shook it, but she didn't wake.
"She's drugged - only just came back from her assignment." Hamal pushed Alex aside and lifted the girl into his arms. "She's Captain Anderson's favourite. He allows her an extra dose of the drug when he's pleased."
Alex bit his lip. He was about to follow Hamal and his load back through the cell door, but then paused. The steady throb of the ship's engines was louder here than in the corridor, or even in the first few cells.
Kneeling down beside the bed, Alex slipped the bag from his shoulder, pulled down the zipper and lifted out the bomb. The metal container felt cold under his hands. He examined the wires carefully, making sure that none of them had come loose. Then he set the computerised timer for thirty minutes. If they were lucky, they'd have a lifeboat in the water by then. Even if not, the charge would provide a distraction without being devastating enough to sink the ship. Grimly, he hit the switch that would start the timer, and watched the first few seconds run down. Then he pushed the device under the bed and out of sight.
Alex made his way back through the corridor and the orchid bath, pressing his hand over his nose to lessen the impact of the drug-laced steam.
In the pool room, Hamal had laid the Asian girl on one of the cots, and Petra was waiting for Alex with her hand around the upper arm of the young boy, who looked expressively miserable. Something was missing, and Alex noticed what it was when he looked down.
In the water of the pool, facedown with her skirts billowing around her like the petals of a water lily, floated Madame Souterre. Alex opened his mouth, and encountered Petra's hard eyes. He held them for a long moment, then looked away when her expression didn't change. He could hardly condemn her for murdering her tormentor, when all that was keeping him on his feet was the hope of doing the same.
"We have to hurry," he told the little group. "There are lifeboats up on deck, and we better get out of here before the guards wake up again."
"We can't!" the brown-haired boy protested. "They'll catch us and kill us!" From his frantic expression, it wasn't at all clear which option he found worse. "And even if we could get away - we wouldn't survive without the drug!" His round, boyish face showed a sheen of sweat as if he were experiencing withdrawal symptoms at the mere thought.
"Yes, you can!" Alex hissed, remembering that Yassen had escaped the Schola. Yassen must have shaken the addiction - otherwise there was no way he could be as fit as he was, even less a top-notch assassin.
"Do you want to stay behind, Achim?" Petra asked. "Alone?" The boy looked even more terrified at that prospect, and shook his head. "Good!" she snapped.
Alex looked at the door, and paused. He took Petra's arm and led her a few steps away from the others. "Your boyfriend..." he asked, searching his brain for the name he'd read in the files. "Oliver Ramsay - is he on board too?"
Her face crumbled as if she was going to cry. "He's not. He went... a bit crazy when they... well, you know. They said they transferred him to another vessel a few days ago, and said they'd kill him if I didn't... didn't-" She stifled a sob, and buried her face in her hands.
Alex put his hand on her arm, trying to be comforting. He recalled Yassen's comment about those who couldn't handle their first assignment being eliminated, and doubted that Oliver Ramsay would ever resurface. But he couldn't tell her that, not now. He needed her to be strong.
"The British Secret Services are already on this case," he said, hoping it was true. "We'll find him." Then inspiration hit. "Petra - you were here when they brought me aboard, right? Did they keep my clothes?"
Her forehead crumpled into a frown. "We're about to hijack a lifeboat and escape from a dozen or more crime lords and you're worrying about your clothes?"
For the first time that day, a weak grin tugged at Alex's mouth. "Only my boots, actually."
She shook her head, but flung herself down next to one of the trunks, throwing open the lid and rummaging through it for a moment. In rapid succession, she produced Alex's jeans, his Gap shirt, and finally, to Alex's intense relief, his high-tech trainers. He grabbed the shoes and pulled them on quickly, then reached for the crossbow again before punching the opening code back into the keypad and peering outside. Both guards were still out cold. With Hamal and Petra lending a hand, they were pulled into the entrance room before Alex locked the door behind them.
The young Asian woman - Li Ping - was still unconscious; Hamal threw her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing, then bent down to pick up one of the submachine guns the guards had dropped. His eyes briefly flicked to Alex as if asking for permission.
"Don't shoot unless you have to," Alex emphasised, patting his crossbow. "The noise would bring the whole ship down on us."
They moved out in single file, Alex taking the lead with his crossbow raised. Petra shoed the German boy, Achim, ahead of her with eagle eyes trained at his back. Hamal brought up the rear with Li Ping slung over his shoulder.
They made it back to the deck without meeting anyone. Rounding the upper deck, however, Alex suddenly found himself face to face with a black-clad guard coming from the other direction. It was hard to say who was more surprised. Behind him, Achim let out a hopeless wail, but Alex already had the crossbow aimed, which gave him a split-second advantage. The aesthetic dart buried itself in the man's thigh before his semi-automatic was off his shoulder. Petra was next to Alex in a heartbeat, and together they wrestled down the weakly struggling man until the serum kicked in. Then they pulled the sprawling body out of immediate sight. By now, it had turned quite dark - unless there was a search organised for the guard, or somebody literally stumbled over him by accident, he wouldn't be found any time soon.
Alex led his little group all the way back to backboard until they reached the last lifeboat in the row. He swallowed dryly before uncovering the Plexiglas lid of the gearshift lever. If activating the mechanism raised an alarm on the bridge, they would be discovered immediately. He could only hope for the best.
The lowering device shrieked in protest when Alex pulled the lever. Metal arms lifted the small blue boat up to the railing, then upended it until it hovered right outside, waiting to be lowered.
"Get in!" he commanded, grabbing Achim under the arms and lifting his light, reluctant body over the side and into the boat. Hamal handed Li Ping's unconscious body to Alex before swinging himself over the railing after the boy. The girl was as light as if she had bird bones in Alex's arms. As soon as Hamal had regained his footing, Alex lowered her body into the young man's waiting arms. Petra went last, climbing down skilfully and with surprising grace.
Alex stabbed his thumb down on the yellow button that said 'Descend', and a second mechanism took over. Two thick metal ropes unwound from the metal arms, lowering the boat gradually towards sea level.
Petra looked up. "Get in, quick," she cried.
Alex just shook his head and bent down to pull off his left boot. Crouching above it, he pressed his finger onto the red logo on the ankle - once, twice, three times. With the third time, he felt something hard shift under his thumb, and the faintest hum emanated from the fortified sole. He threw it down to Petra, who caught it with a look of utter confusion on her face.
"It's a transmitter!" he shouted. "Hold on to it, and someone will come to pick you up." With that, he hit the lowering mechanism again, praying that it wouldn't jam it on its way down.
"Don't be stupid!" Petra yelled, but Alex caught Hamal's eye and felt as if he saw understanding glimmer there. He still couldn't forgive the boy for touching him, not so soon after being raped by Yassen, but he couldn't hate him any more either.
He tore off the second boot and slung it over his shoulder along with the crossbow. The steel floorboards were icy under his bare feet, but at least he'd be able to run unencumbered. He turned towards the cabin deck and started to jog.
Behind him, he heard Petra scream, "Alex! Come back!"
It washed over him with all the temptation of a siren's song, but he'd already reached the stairs to the lower deck and didn't look back. There was something he still had to do.
As soon as he'd retraced his steps to the main cabin, Alex realised that something was wrong. He barely needed to see the familiar pair of black-clad figures lying motionless in the corridor. He bent down and touched older minion's neck. The man was still breathing, but the fist-size bruise on his collarbone showed that he'd been taken out of commission by a karate strike. Younger minion had fallen next to him with an arm slung around his stomach. Neither of them looked as if they would wake up any time soon. The door to the cabin stood half open.
With his back against the wall, Alex peered through the doorway over the dart of his crossbow. The lights were still dim, but he could see Yassen's silhouette standing in front of the table with his back to Alex. His Grach was out, aiming at the old Japanese man - Lord Harada, Madame had called him.
Right inside the door, only inches away from Alex, lay the ship's captain. Just as Alex's eyes ghosted over him, he began to move again. In petrified fascination, Alex watched him rise painfully to his knees, saw him free his gun from his uniform holster and aim it straight at Yassen Gregorovich's back.
"Behind you!" The scream tore out of him before he had time to think.
Yassen threw himself to the left just as the revolver spat its bullet, and a thin line ripped across the back of the Russian's upper arm as Yassen twisted round and returned fire. The Grach barked once, and the captain fell back with a blooming red stain right in the middle of his dapper white uniform shirt. The man's fingers twitched once, then lay still, the revolver still smoking in his lifeless hand.
Alex felt a shudder racking him. He'd screamed the warning without a thought, and had caused a man's death just a second later. He'd come here to kill his tormentor, hadn't he, and all he'd have had to do was to keep silent...
He felt Yassen's eyes on him and wanted to curl into a ball on the floor. Then something changed in the assassin's expression, and he raised the Grach. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for another crack and for the bullet to tear into him.
Instead, he found himself grabbed by the scruff of his neck like a kitten, then banged head-first into the doorjamb. Pain stabbed through his face and neck from temple to chin. He cried out, the crossbow dropping from his paralysed fingers. Like a rag doll, he was dragged back and pressed like a shield against a wide chest.
"Well, Gregorovich," Blackbeard boomed, "you almost had me fooled, you and your little slut here."
Again he shook Alex by the neck, and this time Alex could practically hear his vertebrae creak. "A great performance, that. We should have suspected it was a setup when the little bastard strutted around the London docks practically asking to be plucked. I have to hand it to you, Yassen - you were always a sneaky shite, even way back when I was still fucking you." Alex could see no reaction on Yassen's face, but it felt as if the temperature had dropped a few degrees. "But it's over now."
Out of the corner of his eyes, Alex saw the giant raising a submachine gun in his free hand, as effortlessly as he held Alex with the other. "Put down your weapon, Yassen, and step away from Lord Harada before I snap your little fucktoy's neck and blow you to bits after."
A bubble of mad laughter welled up in Alex's throat, convulsing him in Blackbeard's grip; tears burned in his eyes, and he knew he sounded more than a bit hysterical. It was a superb sort of irony for Blackbeard to think that Yassen would hesitate for one second to kill Alex. He'd not hesitated to rape him, after all.
Blackbeard looked down at him in confusion. A second later, an explosion rocked the deck. The force of the blast hit the ship like a titan's fist, making the lights flicker and shaking maps and pictures off the walls.
The man's hold loosened in surprise. Alex twisted and sunk his elbow into Blackbeard's stomach with every bit of force he could muster. At the same time, he kicked out at the man's kneecap and threw himself to the side. His blows weren't hard enough to damage a body as steeled by martial arts as the giant's. Blackbeard's hand closed around Alex's arm with crushing force, but at the same time a shot rang out and hot metal hissed past Alex, only just grazing the skin of his neck as if to mock the scar Yassen Gregorovich bore there himself.
Alex barely felt any pain, just an impression of heat and speed that took Blackbeard right in the chest and knocked him backwards. The grip on Alex's arm intensified for an instant, almost crushing bone, then Blackbeard let out an agonised, blood-filled gurgle and let go. Two hundred pounds of bone and muscle hit the ground with a fleshy thump. Alex scrabbled free of the bulk, trying not to look at the blood.
Yassen raised an eyebrow as if to chide him for his squeamishness, then turned his back on Alex as if he wasn't there. Or didn't matter.
Alex crawled backwards, strangely hurt, and held his breath when his fingers encountered cold steel. Blackbeard's submachine gun might be half buried below the giant's corpse, but now Alex's hand closed around the captain's revolver, discarded and forgotten on the floor.
"Am I to congratulate you on your deviousness, Yassen?" Lord Harada asked.
He hadn't risen or moved in his chair during the shooting, and still sat straight-backed, hands neatly folded before him with the air of a distant observer.
"I'm not interested in your praise," Yassen said coldly. "Scorpia will pay me - that's enough."
"I doubt that." Lord Harada steepled his fingers on the mahogany tabletop before him. "Hatred is a sweet incentive, isn't it? Even if it is aimed at those who made you what you are."
"Scorpia made me what I am after they bought my freedom from you. You just made me a whore."
Alex felt a splinter of ice in his stomach at the coldness of Yassen's voice.
The revolver burned in his hand - he knew he should fire now, while the assassin's back was turned, his attention perfectly occupied. But he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. Not yet.
"Ah, Yassen, do you truly believe that selling your body to the highest bidder to bring death instead of pleasure makes you less of a whore?" The old man looked down at the body of his fallen comrade. "Poor Mareem... a good man, but still not one of us. There was a time when I had such high hopes for you. A Guards-Master from our own ranks... You could have been the second most powerful man of the Schola, if you had not thrown yourself into the arms of Scorpia to become a second-rate murderer."
A soft gasp escaped Yassen. "You thought I'd consider becoming one of you? Join the Schola voluntarily, after what you did to me?"
"It is not so rare, boy." Lord Harada's voice softened. "I did. For one and a half millennia, the Schola provided what its patrons demand - our oldest tradition. And if those with money and influence in the East and Middle East seek revenge by defiling the children of their decadent enemies, and the Western elites find their thrills in turning on their own, we'll provide what they desire. We provide. We do not judge."
If Alex hadn't known it was impossible, he'd have thought he saw Yassen's fingers tremble on the Grach as the old man shook his head.
"Do you think that anything will change if you take your vengeance? That Scorpia has sent you to purge the blight of the Schola? All they want is to remove an ancient obstacle to the cartels their own business partners are forming. The Russian Mafia, the Triads... destroy the Schola, and all that's left will be terror, drugs and slavery."
Alex lifted his head, hiding the gun behind his back while rage tugged at the lining of his stomach with invisible teeth. "All you are about is terror, drugs and slavery!" he snarled.
The look shot at him by Lord Harada was almost petulant. "You are too young to make any judgements in this matter, boy!"
"I think he's the only one who can judge this properly, Harada-sama," Yassen said coolly.
"You expect pity for your accomplice?"
"Rider isn't my accomplice," Yassen said. "He's been sent by MI6."
"A spy? This child?" The old man laughed, a high chuckle that turned into a shrill cough. "And you come here accusing me?"
Yassen's shoulders stiffened. "A small price, to be free of you at last."
"Ah, poor Yassen... if you were truly free of us, you would not be here today."
Yassen cocked his head as if listening to a faint voice only he could hear. Then he bowed his head. "Perhaps, Harada-sama. But after today, it won't matter."
He fired as soon as he'd stopped speaking, as if desperate to have the last word. Lord Harada's face remained as unperturbed as before; only his eyes widened a little as if in surprise, then widened into glass.
For an instant, Alex saw a hole in his robe right over the heart, then the old man's upper body slumped over the table, the long silver braid slithering down over his shoulder like a snake.
An involuntary gasp escaped Alex's lips. He saw Yassen's back stiffen at the sound, and fear surged in his stomach. He raised the gun, aiming between the assassin's shoulder blades. His hands trembled like sheets of paper in a gale.
Yassen hit the safety switch and slid the Grach back into its shoulder holster before turning around. Alex's stomach flip-flopped; the assassin had seen that he was armed; he knew what Alex must have come for... And Yassen might be a master martial artist, but even he could not outstrike a bullet.
Being once again made the focus of those emotionless blue eyes threw Alex back into memory - taut, bare skin against his own, hands roaming all over his body, pain, dull at first, then spiking deep inside him. His fingers twitched.
"You'll have to shoot now if you're going to, Alex," Yassen said, as if chiding a lazy pupil. "There won't be another chance."
A sob welled up in Alex's throat. The gun in his hand was as heavy as stone. He hated Yassen Gregorovich, so much that he was starting to shake. Bile rose in his throat whenever his memory strayed to what had happened between them, but he couldn't pull the trigger. Somewhere during the Stormbreaker affair, he had forgiven Yassen for murdering his uncle. Now, it seemed as if he couldn't even take revenge for this.
He suddenly felt too heavy to remain upright and dropped to the floor, hiding his face against his knees. A keening noise escaped him as pent-up tension and horror welled up inside him, shaking him like a storm front. He'd been stupid to hope being able to stave off the breakdown until nobody could see him, or even vaguely wishing that the ship would explode with both of them aboard before he cracked.
Yassen crouched down before him. His hands came to rest on Alex's shoulders very lightly, pulling him to his feet.
"Was it worth it?" Alex ground out.
"It was necessary."
Which wasn't the same. The terrible thing was, of course, that Yassen was right - the Schola was too monstrous to be allowed to exist. Then again, what Yassen had done to Alex was no less monstrous.
He could piece it all together now with hindsight: Yassen's final mockery, the open door, the case full of weapons, left unlocked and unattended. Yassen had played him like a chess piece, relying on the fact that Alex would do whatever it took, that Alex would have the strength to do whatever it took. Weak, bitter laughter welled up inside him. There had been more than a bit of a compliment in Yassen's actions. Alex just wasn't sure he still cared.
"You enjoyed it!" Alex hated the high, hurt sound of his voice, like tears made sound.
"I've been taught to find pleasure in almost everything, Alex. I enjoyed your body - it's pleasant enough. I did not enjoy forcing you."
Alex stumbled and Yassen moved as if to catch him.
"I can walk!" Alex snarled, and revealed himself as a liar by crumbling into Yassen's arms when his knees buckled.
To his credit, the assassin didn't snort. He scooped him up without visible effort, and while Alex tried to recoil, his legs refused to support him any longer. Part of him wanted to be left here, because being left to drown or explode with the dead seemed kinder than to bear Yassen's hands on him again. But the largest part of him was exhausted to the bone, content to let his head fall against the only supporting shoulder there was. The Russian stepped over Blackbeard's body and past the still-unconscious guards without a look back. If Alex banished memory as far as possible, being carried was almost comforting.
Another explosion rocked the ship and made the corridor shake. Yassen braced himself against the wall for balance, then sped up when the first tendrils of black smoke started to sneak around the corner and curled around his feet.
As soon as he'd reached the deck, he abandoned Alex under the cover of the railing in favour of the Grach with a low, "Don't move."
Crouched under the railing, Alex heard the weapon's rough bark and struggled to pull himself up onto wobbling feet. He hated being this weak but somehow shock had finally caught up with him, turning him into a useless, trembling mess.
When Yassen reappeared around the upper deck, Alex flinched so hard he nearly collapsed again. The Russian shot him an exasperated look.
"Did you get them? The other prisoners?" For a moment, Alex pressed his lips together, then he faltered under Yassen's impatient glare. If Yassen was determined to eliminate witnesses... But then he hadn't killed Alex either - yet.
"They escaped in a lifeboat." He could only pray that they had.
"A good choice. You... did very well, Alex."
You did not, Alex thought and looked away. When he didn't receive an answer, Yassen picked him up again.
Amazingly, the three remaining lifeboats were all still in place when Yassen let Alex slide from his grip in front of them. He didn't seem worried about potential pursuers, which made Alex wonder how many guards had been aboard, and how many the assassin had killed during his little excursion. Then Yassen reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and produced a hypothermic injector. A colourless fluid swirled inside the glass body.
"What's that?" Alex asked, too exhausted to care much.
"A Scopolamine derivate."
Alex had read about Scopolamine in one of the scientific magazines Ian Rider had subscribed to - a drug popular in the South Americas, inducing retrograde amnesia in its victims, wiping out their memories practically beyond retrieval. Often used as a date rape drug, the article had pointed out - appropriate, wasn't it? His eyes wandered to the Grach in Yassen's hand.
"Wouldn't this be simpler?" he asked bitterly.
"Cheaper, perhaps, but I told you that I won't kill you unless you force my hand."
Alex pondered the injector as if he had all the time in the world while the deck groaned and trembled beneath him as another explosion rocked the engine room. He could almost feel the drug in his brain already, soothing and erasing the horrors of the last few hours. A part of him wanted it very badly. Finally, he shook his head.
"No. You said yourself that reality is preferable to an illusion, no matter how comforting."
"I needed you awake and clear-headed to provide a distraction then," Yassen said. "And you performed more spectacularly than I'd dared hope for."
Again, Alex shook his head. "I don't want it." Somehow, not remembering was scarier even than the full force of the images he was still barely holding at bay.
"As you wish," Yassen stated calmly.
Alex turned and took a step towards the nearest lifeboat, when he felt a sharp sting in the bruised flesh of his shoulder. The hypothermic needle released the drug into his bloodstream with a hiss, and then Yassen caught him around the waist as Alex's knees gave out under him as if his legs had been turned into mist. A moment later, his brain followed.
* * *
Yassen lowered the boy's body into the front seat of the lifeboat, arranging his limp legs in the most comfortable position while avoiding Rider's slack face.
If the boy, and the other escaped teenagers, were rescued, MI6 would undoubtedly discover that Alex had been drugged, perhaps even that he'd been molested. The drug would be hard to circumvent, however, and any attempt to break into Alex's brain to restore his memory would endanger the fragile mind of a child. It wasn't that Yassen placed any faith in the British Secret Service, least of all in those who had, in cold blood, arranged the murder of Yassen's mentor - Alex's father. But Blunt and Jones would not, well, blunt or destroy their favourite weapon. Not if the boy could just be allowed to forget, and remain useful.
At last, he looked down at the white, bruised face whose eyes moved below their lids under the force of the drug coursing through the boy's bloodstream. He brushed a few sweaty strands of hair out of Alex's forehead.
"Good-bye, little brother."
He swung back the Plexiglas protection that covered the navigation console and set a course that would take the lifeboat away from the ship as far, and as quickly, as possible. The vessel was too large to explode altogether, but he'd spent too much effort on getting the boy out of harm's way to take risks now. Finally, he activated the SOS signal that would, eventually, bring rescue ships. Thankfully, like everything aboard a Schola vessel, the lifeboats packed the latest state-of-the-art technology. Then his finger stabbed the downward button that would set the hydraulics into motion which would lower the boat on the water.
As the motor creaked to life, Yassen swung himself back over the railing, eager to make it back to his motor yacht before it could take damage.
A huge explosion on the upper deck ripped a hole into the bridge and showered the lower decks with shrapnel. Air and sea lit up with an orange glow just as the little lifeboat hit the water, where it bobbed gently on the waves as if not to disturb its sleeping passenger. The fire shine illuminated the boy's quiet face below.
Alex Rider slept on, rocked gently in his metal shell as the lifeboat tuckered away from the ship, and the electromagnetic SOS signal took up its inaudible screams across the ocean.
He never knew that behind him, Yassen Gregorovich closed his eyes against an onslaught of emotion he hadn't experienced in fourteen years, and the knowledge that, today, he had incurred a debt to young Alex Rider that would have to be paid in full should they ever meet again.
~ finis ~
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine!
Author: Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Alex Rider series by Anthony Horowitz (set between Skeleton Key and Eagle Strike)
Pairing: Alex Rider/Yassen Gregorovich
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, underage/chan (Alex is eternally 14)
Summary: Alex Rider investigates a spate of teen abductions and runs into an old enemy.
Note: Birthdayfic for the incomparable annephoenix. Thanks to Thea for test reading. And I swear I had no clue about the theme of the most recent novel when starting this - still haven't read it :). The title comes from Mike Batt's "The Hunting of the Snark" album.
Part 1
When the door had shut behind the assassin, Alex let out a sob that was half rage, half despair. For a long moment, he crouched on the bed as if frozen and stared at the closed door. Then he let his face crumble and sank onto the bedclothes. He curled up in a tight ball, feebly hiding under the coverlet. It took no effort to let his shoulders shake with sobs - the problem was to stop his body from taking over and racking him with the after-effect of shock as it wanted. Despair and shame tore at him, and the barriers between real and pretence breakdown were altogether too fragile. He forced himself to stop trembling and finally just lay there face-down, cheek pressed into bedclothes that smelled of lemongrass and Yassen Gregorovich and his own come. He didn't move for what felt like eternity - fifteen minutes, perhaps thirty, praying that whoever had been watching him would get bored observing a boy who had fallen asleep or unconscious. If someone had been watching him; if it hadn't been a lie Yassen had told to enforce his compliance.
At last he got up and crept to the corner of the bed where the chain was tied to the foot end. A lance of pain shot through his abused arse at every move. Alex whimpered, then bit his tongue. He couldn't afford weakness, not now. Brushing his hair back, he unclipped the silver stud in his left ear. Of course it wasn't made of silver, although it looked the part. During his first 'assignment' for MI6, Smithers had supplied Alex with a tube of 'zit cream' that would eat through metal. Since then, the substance had been refined until all that was required was a few drops of colourless liquid.
"It isn't acid, Alex, never fear," Smithers had hastened to explain when Alex had first held the ear stud with a very doubtful expression. "It won't harm skin or fabric or wood or plastic at all - only metal. I wouldn't outfit a teenager with something dangerous!"
Now, Alex twisted the ear stud at the thorn and pulled the chain taut with one hand. With the other, he let the fat drop of liquid fall onto a metal link. It took effort to keep his hand from shaking. The substance didn't hiss or foam, but instead turned brittle right before Alex's eyes, as if exposed to intense cold. Alex pulled, and the link came apart in his hands like stale bread. The end of the chain tickled against his chest. Alex dropped the other end as if it could burn him.
He started up from the bed and dragged himself over to the door, moving like a steeped old man. Hardly daring to hope, he touched the green button on the touchpad, and it opened in front of him. Not believing his luck, Alex peered outside. There were no guards, only an empty corridor. Had Yassen truly thought him so broken that he didn't even have to take the elementary precaution of locking him in? Alex's mouth twisted grimly. He would regret that error of judgement.
Retreating back into the cabin, he walked over to the silver case on the table and pushed the lock. It snapped open under his fingers. Alex gasped. At the left-hand side, a small gadget ticked away softly - probably the jamming device Yassen had mentioned. It was the parcel beside it, however, that drew Alex's eyes. Why would Yassen Gregorovich bring a bomb with him to conduct negotiations? The telltale timer with its blinking green zeroes left no other interpretation, though. Alex had seen similar - had been taught to disarm similar during his month in the SAS training camp. Two leather straps on the inner wall of the case held a long-muzzled submachine gun, the other a light-metal crossbow with a liquid-filled dart. Wolf and his men had used something like it when they'd stormed Point Blank Academy - anaesthetic darts. Yassen's weapon, however, looked even more futuristic.
Alex lifted everything out onto the table, then reached for his trousers. And paused. He couldn't bring himself to put them onto his soiled body. Berating himself, but unable to do anything else, he fled into the shower. He took the MP with him and left the shower curtain and the door open, just in case.
When he stepped into the shower cabin, the spray closed around his abused body like a blissful curtain, soothing and cleansing at once. He turned his face to the showerhead to ensure he couldn't feel any tears, and rapidly scrubbed every dirty and aching part of himself with Schola-provided shower gel, trying to ignore that Yassen Gregorovich had used it before him. Thankfully, it wasn't lemongrass.
The water pulled at him, making him want to sink onto the tiled floor until he could lose himself in the spray without having to think another thought. He dragged himself out with effort. If he broke down now, he'd never get up again. And there was no time! The guards might come back to check on him. Yassen might return. The last thought almost drove him to his knees.
He rubbed the towel over his body and hair, trying not the feel the low ache in his behind. MP in hand, he went back into the cabin and forced himself to put the silk trousers back on. Shivers ran over his damp skin, so he pulled open Yassen's travel bag under the desk, upending it on the floor. He pulled out a thin black turtleneck that hung loosely over his chest. It smelled of Yassen's subtle aftershave, and Alex almost tore it off again. But black would allow him to blend in with the ship's crew and guards. The spare pair of boots, however, was too large to fit him.
Finally, he lifted the explosive device into the bag. It had shoulder straps and looked way easier to carry than the heavy metal case. The MP's handle was riled and seductive under his palm, and when Alex let go of it, it was with regret. But he hadn't been taught how to shoot with it - MI6 always stopped short of giving him guns even if they might keep him alive. Still, an MP would be risky and loud fired on a ship, especially if Alex was planning to rescue people. For a second, he wondered if that really was what he was planning. Then he picked up the crossbow. One dart was already loaded, and he found three more packed at the bottom of the case. Well, he could always anesthetise Yassen Gregorovich, then strangle him with his bare hands!
The darts went into the outside pocket of the bag, the bag itself over Alex's shoulder. The bomb was heavy, and the shoulder strap cut into the skin of his shoulder through the thin turtleneck, deepening the marks Yassen's hands had left there.
Again, Alex hit the door button, and looked out into the empty corridor. The Schola didn't seem to waste time worrying about its 'fledgling whores'. There was the door to an emergency staircase next to he lift, but Alex's legs felt too rubbery to go for it with the heavy bag. Luck favoured him once again. The lift cabin arrived empty. For a moment, Alex just rested his forehead against the gleaming wall. His entire body hurt and his head spun. Then he hit the button conveniently labelled 'Main Deck'. He needed to get an idea of the ship's layout.
The vessel, it turned out when Alex stepped out of the lift, had a narrow upper deck only - two storeys containing the bridge and above it, he assumed, an observation deck. Everything else lay below.
The main deck and the ship's hull were painted in a light blue-green that must make it hard to spot despite its size, even in daylight. Now, it was wrapped in dusk that was about to turn into night. A row of signal lights illuminated the deck, a few more the railing, but otherwise, it was quite dark. Dark and empty. For an ocean cruiser, the ship was small, but it could have easily carried a hundred passengers with crew and personnel to match.
Alex crept along the railing, eyes searching for the emergency equipment he hoped would be there. A passenger vessel this modern, of this size, had to carry lifeboats. And then there they were, towards backboard on the left-hand side: four dark blue boats, upended and nestled outside the railing like beetle shells, each anchored by a modern hydraulic system that would lower the little boats down to sea level.
Behind the ship moored a sleek, stylish motor yacht, looking like a toy compared to the cruiser and the expanse of ocean beyond. Yassen's boat, no doubt. A black scorpion had been painted on its deck, visible only from above. Now that was a fitting symbol, Alex thought bitterly. He'd experienced its sting firsthand. His fingers itched with desire to make his way down to the boat and plant the bomb there. Except that he had no idea when the man would come back, and not quite enough knowledge of explosives to improvise a tripwire. And it wouldn't help the Schola's prisoners. Alex caressed the bag at his feet, then turned back to the lift.
The cabin had gone while he'd been on deck. He pressed the call button, nervously aiming crossbow when it reappeared, announced by the sound of the bell. Luck held true for a third time - it was empty. He hit the same button that the guards had used when taking him down to the pool deck, and grabbed his weapon more tightly. Adrenaline surged through him and dulled the multiple aches in his lower body. The first time, Alex and his guards had rounded the corner before arriving at their destination, which meant that the elevator wasn't in plain sight. But the door had been guarded, and there was no reason to assume that had changed. The chirpy "ping" that rang out as the lift stopped made Alex flinch. There was no way anyone could overhear that - he had to move fast.
Alex marched around the corner with the crossbow over his shoulder. He hoped that his black clothes would mislead the guards into thinking him one of their own for the second's surprise he needed. They turned, stared, and Alex fired at the closer one of the pair before the man's submachine gun could come up. The dart embedded itself in his middle and he dropped like a stone.
Alex threw himself to the side and towards the second man who had to jump back to avoid being bowled over by his collapsing colleague. A burst of machine gun fire howled over Alex's head, bullets ricocheting off the metal floor and wall. Then Alex was on the guard and his kick hit the man's knee before he could fire again. He screeched and stumbled. A karate chop to the throat sent him crumbling to the ground next to his unconscious comrade.
Breathing heavily, Alex searched for the pulse on the guard he'd hit with his dart. Of course Yassen had packed a pistol and a submachine gun, and so would have had little use for deadly poison, especially with an unwieldy crossbow. But the man was a killer - you never knew. He was relieved to find the guard's heart still beating and forced his mind back to the task at hand. He retrieved his crossbow, loaded another dart, and punched the code number he'd seen the guard use a few hours back into the keypad.
The door opened, and the young boy Alex had encountered before jumped back from where he'd stood with his ear pressed to the metal. Alex put a finger over his lips and waved his crossbow in a threatening manner as he slipped in before the automatic door closed again. The boy cringed with his back to the wall, so white with fear that his freckles stood out; Alex felt like an utter heel.
Still, he hissed, "No sound!" before stepping through the glass-bead curtain. The beads clicked around him, and then he stood in the pool room with the familiar tang of chlorine, oil and some unnamed, intense fragrance assaulting his nostrils. At the other side of the pool stood Eloise Souterre, upright and with a frown on her face. She looked at Alex as if she was seeing a ghost. Beside her on a padded mat knelt Petra, the straps of her gown pushed off her shoulders until it barely held on over her chest. A bright red bite mark flared on her collarbone.
Alex fired, and watched with glee as the anaesthetic dart buried itself in Madame's stomach. Her eyes rolled up, and she fell without a sound.
Petra clutched at her shoulder strap as Alex hurried over to her. Her pupils were alarmingly wide, and she swayed a little when she stood up. Alex grabbed her arm as gentle as his high-strung nerves would allow.
"Are you ok?"
She nodded. "Just dizzy. I was in the orchid bath. Give me a moment." She paused, looked back. "You?"
"Fine," Alex ground out, aware of how much his tone alone exposed his words as a lie. "We have to get out of here," he insisted. "Are there others?"
She nodded, sucking in rapid breaths, then bit her lip so hard that blood surged to the surface. It seemed to bring a bit of her energy back. "Hamal and Li Ping." Her head jerked towards the back door. "In the cells, behind the orchid pool."
She made to take a step, stumbled, and Alex said, "I'll get them. Can you keep an eye on the kid outside and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid?"
She nodded, and Alex hurried over to the back door. It led into a small bath, barely larger than the entrance room. Taking it up almost in its entirety was a round pool in black marble. The water steamed gently, and there was an oily film on its surface. The indefinable smell that Alex had noticed before was overpowering here. Tubs with blooming orchids in all colours and shapes lined the walls, and barely left room for a large padded mat beside the steaming pool. Alex was overcome by a languid wave dulling the edges of his consciousness. The padded mat seemed to beckon, tempting him to lie down and drowse. He clamped his hand over his mouth as he ran to the door that led out into a short corridor. A few minutes in that tub, he realised, and the drug would have had him snuggling happily into Yassen Gregorovich's arms no matter what the man did to him.
There were six doors clustered together in the small corridor, leading into the cells Petra had mentioned. All had an opening button and lock on the outside. The first four rooms were empty, and all looked the same - walls, floor and ceiling made up in black enamel, a narrow bed, a drawer, and a sink with an oval mirror above on the wall.
The third cell on the right-hand side held Hamal, lying on his back on the bed with his head propped on his arms. He sat up when Alex appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes moved from Alex's face to the crossbow cocked in his elbow, and then back. A tiny, gibbering voice inside Alex's head remembered how - where! - the young man had touched him and screamed at him to pull the trigger. He forced himself to ignore it.
"You want to get out of here?" he spat, wincing inwardly at the aggression in his tone.
Hamal cocked his head. "Alive?"
"If we're lucky."
That made the boy's lip quirk; he slid off the mattress and stepped past Alex and out of the room.
"There's one more girl." Hamal pointed to the door opposite his, and Alex pressed the button that would unlock it.
The lights were dimmed almost completely in the last cell. On the same narrow bed as Hamal's slept a petite Asian girl - a young woman, really. Long black hair had tumbled out of two ornamental chopsticks and covered her upper body like a mantilla. Her eyes were closed. Alex touched her shoulder, then shook it, but she didn't wake.
"She's drugged - only just came back from her assignment." Hamal pushed Alex aside and lifted the girl into his arms. "She's Captain Anderson's favourite. He allows her an extra dose of the drug when he's pleased."
Alex bit his lip. He was about to follow Hamal and his load back through the cell door, but then paused. The steady throb of the ship's engines was louder here than in the corridor, or even in the first few cells.
Kneeling down beside the bed, Alex slipped the bag from his shoulder, pulled down the zipper and lifted out the bomb. The metal container felt cold under his hands. He examined the wires carefully, making sure that none of them had come loose. Then he set the computerised timer for thirty minutes. If they were lucky, they'd have a lifeboat in the water by then. Even if not, the charge would provide a distraction without being devastating enough to sink the ship. Grimly, he hit the switch that would start the timer, and watched the first few seconds run down. Then he pushed the device under the bed and out of sight.
Alex made his way back through the corridor and the orchid bath, pressing his hand over his nose to lessen the impact of the drug-laced steam.
In the pool room, Hamal had laid the Asian girl on one of the cots, and Petra was waiting for Alex with her hand around the upper arm of the young boy, who looked expressively miserable. Something was missing, and Alex noticed what it was when he looked down.
In the water of the pool, facedown with her skirts billowing around her like the petals of a water lily, floated Madame Souterre. Alex opened his mouth, and encountered Petra's hard eyes. He held them for a long moment, then looked away when her expression didn't change. He could hardly condemn her for murdering her tormentor, when all that was keeping him on his feet was the hope of doing the same.
"We have to hurry," he told the little group. "There are lifeboats up on deck, and we better get out of here before the guards wake up again."
"We can't!" the brown-haired boy protested. "They'll catch us and kill us!" From his frantic expression, it wasn't at all clear which option he found worse. "And even if we could get away - we wouldn't survive without the drug!" His round, boyish face showed a sheen of sweat as if he were experiencing withdrawal symptoms at the mere thought.
"Yes, you can!" Alex hissed, remembering that Yassen had escaped the Schola. Yassen must have shaken the addiction - otherwise there was no way he could be as fit as he was, even less a top-notch assassin.
"Do you want to stay behind, Achim?" Petra asked. "Alone?" The boy looked even more terrified at that prospect, and shook his head. "Good!" she snapped.
Alex looked at the door, and paused. He took Petra's arm and led her a few steps away from the others. "Your boyfriend..." he asked, searching his brain for the name he'd read in the files. "Oliver Ramsay - is he on board too?"
Her face crumbled as if she was going to cry. "He's not. He went... a bit crazy when they... well, you know. They said they transferred him to another vessel a few days ago, and said they'd kill him if I didn't... didn't-" She stifled a sob, and buried her face in her hands.
Alex put his hand on her arm, trying to be comforting. He recalled Yassen's comment about those who couldn't handle their first assignment being eliminated, and doubted that Oliver Ramsay would ever resurface. But he couldn't tell her that, not now. He needed her to be strong.
"The British Secret Services are already on this case," he said, hoping it was true. "We'll find him." Then inspiration hit. "Petra - you were here when they brought me aboard, right? Did they keep my clothes?"
Her forehead crumpled into a frown. "We're about to hijack a lifeboat and escape from a dozen or more crime lords and you're worrying about your clothes?"
For the first time that day, a weak grin tugged at Alex's mouth. "Only my boots, actually."
She shook her head, but flung herself down next to one of the trunks, throwing open the lid and rummaging through it for a moment. In rapid succession, she produced Alex's jeans, his Gap shirt, and finally, to Alex's intense relief, his high-tech trainers. He grabbed the shoes and pulled them on quickly, then reached for the crossbow again before punching the opening code back into the keypad and peering outside. Both guards were still out cold. With Hamal and Petra lending a hand, they were pulled into the entrance room before Alex locked the door behind them.
The young Asian woman - Li Ping - was still unconscious; Hamal threw her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing, then bent down to pick up one of the submachine guns the guards had dropped. His eyes briefly flicked to Alex as if asking for permission.
"Don't shoot unless you have to," Alex emphasised, patting his crossbow. "The noise would bring the whole ship down on us."
They moved out in single file, Alex taking the lead with his crossbow raised. Petra shoed the German boy, Achim, ahead of her with eagle eyes trained at his back. Hamal brought up the rear with Li Ping slung over his shoulder.
They made it back to the deck without meeting anyone. Rounding the upper deck, however, Alex suddenly found himself face to face with a black-clad guard coming from the other direction. It was hard to say who was more surprised. Behind him, Achim let out a hopeless wail, but Alex already had the crossbow aimed, which gave him a split-second advantage. The aesthetic dart buried itself in the man's thigh before his semi-automatic was off his shoulder. Petra was next to Alex in a heartbeat, and together they wrestled down the weakly struggling man until the serum kicked in. Then they pulled the sprawling body out of immediate sight. By now, it had turned quite dark - unless there was a search organised for the guard, or somebody literally stumbled over him by accident, he wouldn't be found any time soon.
Alex led his little group all the way back to backboard until they reached the last lifeboat in the row. He swallowed dryly before uncovering the Plexiglas lid of the gearshift lever. If activating the mechanism raised an alarm on the bridge, they would be discovered immediately. He could only hope for the best.
The lowering device shrieked in protest when Alex pulled the lever. Metal arms lifted the small blue boat up to the railing, then upended it until it hovered right outside, waiting to be lowered.
"Get in!" he commanded, grabbing Achim under the arms and lifting his light, reluctant body over the side and into the boat. Hamal handed Li Ping's unconscious body to Alex before swinging himself over the railing after the boy. The girl was as light as if she had bird bones in Alex's arms. As soon as Hamal had regained his footing, Alex lowered her body into the young man's waiting arms. Petra went last, climbing down skilfully and with surprising grace.
Alex stabbed his thumb down on the yellow button that said 'Descend', and a second mechanism took over. Two thick metal ropes unwound from the metal arms, lowering the boat gradually towards sea level.
Petra looked up. "Get in, quick," she cried.
Alex just shook his head and bent down to pull off his left boot. Crouching above it, he pressed his finger onto the red logo on the ankle - once, twice, three times. With the third time, he felt something hard shift under his thumb, and the faintest hum emanated from the fortified sole. He threw it down to Petra, who caught it with a look of utter confusion on her face.
"It's a transmitter!" he shouted. "Hold on to it, and someone will come to pick you up." With that, he hit the lowering mechanism again, praying that it wouldn't jam it on its way down.
"Don't be stupid!" Petra yelled, but Alex caught Hamal's eye and felt as if he saw understanding glimmer there. He still couldn't forgive the boy for touching him, not so soon after being raped by Yassen, but he couldn't hate him any more either.
He tore off the second boot and slung it over his shoulder along with the crossbow. The steel floorboards were icy under his bare feet, but at least he'd be able to run unencumbered. He turned towards the cabin deck and started to jog.
Behind him, he heard Petra scream, "Alex! Come back!"
It washed over him with all the temptation of a siren's song, but he'd already reached the stairs to the lower deck and didn't look back. There was something he still had to do.
As soon as he'd retraced his steps to the main cabin, Alex realised that something was wrong. He barely needed to see the familiar pair of black-clad figures lying motionless in the corridor. He bent down and touched older minion's neck. The man was still breathing, but the fist-size bruise on his collarbone showed that he'd been taken out of commission by a karate strike. Younger minion had fallen next to him with an arm slung around his stomach. Neither of them looked as if they would wake up any time soon. The door to the cabin stood half open.
With his back against the wall, Alex peered through the doorway over the dart of his crossbow. The lights were still dim, but he could see Yassen's silhouette standing in front of the table with his back to Alex. His Grach was out, aiming at the old Japanese man - Lord Harada, Madame had called him.
Right inside the door, only inches away from Alex, lay the ship's captain. Just as Alex's eyes ghosted over him, he began to move again. In petrified fascination, Alex watched him rise painfully to his knees, saw him free his gun from his uniform holster and aim it straight at Yassen Gregorovich's back.
"Behind you!" The scream tore out of him before he had time to think.
Yassen threw himself to the left just as the revolver spat its bullet, and a thin line ripped across the back of the Russian's upper arm as Yassen twisted round and returned fire. The Grach barked once, and the captain fell back with a blooming red stain right in the middle of his dapper white uniform shirt. The man's fingers twitched once, then lay still, the revolver still smoking in his lifeless hand.
Alex felt a shudder racking him. He'd screamed the warning without a thought, and had caused a man's death just a second later. He'd come here to kill his tormentor, hadn't he, and all he'd have had to do was to keep silent...
He felt Yassen's eyes on him and wanted to curl into a ball on the floor. Then something changed in the assassin's expression, and he raised the Grach. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for another crack and for the bullet to tear into him.
Instead, he found himself grabbed by the scruff of his neck like a kitten, then banged head-first into the doorjamb. Pain stabbed through his face and neck from temple to chin. He cried out, the crossbow dropping from his paralysed fingers. Like a rag doll, he was dragged back and pressed like a shield against a wide chest.
"Well, Gregorovich," Blackbeard boomed, "you almost had me fooled, you and your little slut here."
Again he shook Alex by the neck, and this time Alex could practically hear his vertebrae creak. "A great performance, that. We should have suspected it was a setup when the little bastard strutted around the London docks practically asking to be plucked. I have to hand it to you, Yassen - you were always a sneaky shite, even way back when I was still fucking you." Alex could see no reaction on Yassen's face, but it felt as if the temperature had dropped a few degrees. "But it's over now."
Out of the corner of his eyes, Alex saw the giant raising a submachine gun in his free hand, as effortlessly as he held Alex with the other. "Put down your weapon, Yassen, and step away from Lord Harada before I snap your little fucktoy's neck and blow you to bits after."
A bubble of mad laughter welled up in Alex's throat, convulsing him in Blackbeard's grip; tears burned in his eyes, and he knew he sounded more than a bit hysterical. It was a superb sort of irony for Blackbeard to think that Yassen would hesitate for one second to kill Alex. He'd not hesitated to rape him, after all.
Blackbeard looked down at him in confusion. A second later, an explosion rocked the deck. The force of the blast hit the ship like a titan's fist, making the lights flicker and shaking maps and pictures off the walls.
The man's hold loosened in surprise. Alex twisted and sunk his elbow into Blackbeard's stomach with every bit of force he could muster. At the same time, he kicked out at the man's kneecap and threw himself to the side. His blows weren't hard enough to damage a body as steeled by martial arts as the giant's. Blackbeard's hand closed around Alex's arm with crushing force, but at the same time a shot rang out and hot metal hissed past Alex, only just grazing the skin of his neck as if to mock the scar Yassen Gregorovich bore there himself.
Alex barely felt any pain, just an impression of heat and speed that took Blackbeard right in the chest and knocked him backwards. The grip on Alex's arm intensified for an instant, almost crushing bone, then Blackbeard let out an agonised, blood-filled gurgle and let go. Two hundred pounds of bone and muscle hit the ground with a fleshy thump. Alex scrabbled free of the bulk, trying not to look at the blood.
Yassen raised an eyebrow as if to chide him for his squeamishness, then turned his back on Alex as if he wasn't there. Or didn't matter.
Alex crawled backwards, strangely hurt, and held his breath when his fingers encountered cold steel. Blackbeard's submachine gun might be half buried below the giant's corpse, but now Alex's hand closed around the captain's revolver, discarded and forgotten on the floor.
"Am I to congratulate you on your deviousness, Yassen?" Lord Harada asked.
He hadn't risen or moved in his chair during the shooting, and still sat straight-backed, hands neatly folded before him with the air of a distant observer.
"I'm not interested in your praise," Yassen said coldly. "Scorpia will pay me - that's enough."
"I doubt that." Lord Harada steepled his fingers on the mahogany tabletop before him. "Hatred is a sweet incentive, isn't it? Even if it is aimed at those who made you what you are."
"Scorpia made me what I am after they bought my freedom from you. You just made me a whore."
Alex felt a splinter of ice in his stomach at the coldness of Yassen's voice.
The revolver burned in his hand - he knew he should fire now, while the assassin's back was turned, his attention perfectly occupied. But he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. Not yet.
"Ah, Yassen, do you truly believe that selling your body to the highest bidder to bring death instead of pleasure makes you less of a whore?" The old man looked down at the body of his fallen comrade. "Poor Mareem... a good man, but still not one of us. There was a time when I had such high hopes for you. A Guards-Master from our own ranks... You could have been the second most powerful man of the Schola, if you had not thrown yourself into the arms of Scorpia to become a second-rate murderer."
A soft gasp escaped Yassen. "You thought I'd consider becoming one of you? Join the Schola voluntarily, after what you did to me?"
"It is not so rare, boy." Lord Harada's voice softened. "I did. For one and a half millennia, the Schola provided what its patrons demand - our oldest tradition. And if those with money and influence in the East and Middle East seek revenge by defiling the children of their decadent enemies, and the Western elites find their thrills in turning on their own, we'll provide what they desire. We provide. We do not judge."
If Alex hadn't known it was impossible, he'd have thought he saw Yassen's fingers tremble on the Grach as the old man shook his head.
"Do you think that anything will change if you take your vengeance? That Scorpia has sent you to purge the blight of the Schola? All they want is to remove an ancient obstacle to the cartels their own business partners are forming. The Russian Mafia, the Triads... destroy the Schola, and all that's left will be terror, drugs and slavery."
Alex lifted his head, hiding the gun behind his back while rage tugged at the lining of his stomach with invisible teeth. "All you are about is terror, drugs and slavery!" he snarled.
The look shot at him by Lord Harada was almost petulant. "You are too young to make any judgements in this matter, boy!"
"I think he's the only one who can judge this properly, Harada-sama," Yassen said coolly.
"You expect pity for your accomplice?"
"Rider isn't my accomplice," Yassen said. "He's been sent by MI6."
"A spy? This child?" The old man laughed, a high chuckle that turned into a shrill cough. "And you come here accusing me?"
Yassen's shoulders stiffened. "A small price, to be free of you at last."
"Ah, poor Yassen... if you were truly free of us, you would not be here today."
Yassen cocked his head as if listening to a faint voice only he could hear. Then he bowed his head. "Perhaps, Harada-sama. But after today, it won't matter."
He fired as soon as he'd stopped speaking, as if desperate to have the last word. Lord Harada's face remained as unperturbed as before; only his eyes widened a little as if in surprise, then widened into glass.
For an instant, Alex saw a hole in his robe right over the heart, then the old man's upper body slumped over the table, the long silver braid slithering down over his shoulder like a snake.
An involuntary gasp escaped Alex's lips. He saw Yassen's back stiffen at the sound, and fear surged in his stomach. He raised the gun, aiming between the assassin's shoulder blades. His hands trembled like sheets of paper in a gale.
Yassen hit the safety switch and slid the Grach back into its shoulder holster before turning around. Alex's stomach flip-flopped; the assassin had seen that he was armed; he knew what Alex must have come for... And Yassen might be a master martial artist, but even he could not outstrike a bullet.
Being once again made the focus of those emotionless blue eyes threw Alex back into memory - taut, bare skin against his own, hands roaming all over his body, pain, dull at first, then spiking deep inside him. His fingers twitched.
"You'll have to shoot now if you're going to, Alex," Yassen said, as if chiding a lazy pupil. "There won't be another chance."
A sob welled up in Alex's throat. The gun in his hand was as heavy as stone. He hated Yassen Gregorovich, so much that he was starting to shake. Bile rose in his throat whenever his memory strayed to what had happened between them, but he couldn't pull the trigger. Somewhere during the Stormbreaker affair, he had forgiven Yassen for murdering his uncle. Now, it seemed as if he couldn't even take revenge for this.
He suddenly felt too heavy to remain upright and dropped to the floor, hiding his face against his knees. A keening noise escaped him as pent-up tension and horror welled up inside him, shaking him like a storm front. He'd been stupid to hope being able to stave off the breakdown until nobody could see him, or even vaguely wishing that the ship would explode with both of them aboard before he cracked.
Yassen crouched down before him. His hands came to rest on Alex's shoulders very lightly, pulling him to his feet.
"Was it worth it?" Alex ground out.
"It was necessary."
Which wasn't the same. The terrible thing was, of course, that Yassen was right - the Schola was too monstrous to be allowed to exist. Then again, what Yassen had done to Alex was no less monstrous.
He could piece it all together now with hindsight: Yassen's final mockery, the open door, the case full of weapons, left unlocked and unattended. Yassen had played him like a chess piece, relying on the fact that Alex would do whatever it took, that Alex would have the strength to do whatever it took. Weak, bitter laughter welled up inside him. There had been more than a bit of a compliment in Yassen's actions. Alex just wasn't sure he still cared.
"You enjoyed it!" Alex hated the high, hurt sound of his voice, like tears made sound.
"I've been taught to find pleasure in almost everything, Alex. I enjoyed your body - it's pleasant enough. I did not enjoy forcing you."
Alex stumbled and Yassen moved as if to catch him.
"I can walk!" Alex snarled, and revealed himself as a liar by crumbling into Yassen's arms when his knees buckled.
To his credit, the assassin didn't snort. He scooped him up without visible effort, and while Alex tried to recoil, his legs refused to support him any longer. Part of him wanted to be left here, because being left to drown or explode with the dead seemed kinder than to bear Yassen's hands on him again. But the largest part of him was exhausted to the bone, content to let his head fall against the only supporting shoulder there was. The Russian stepped over Blackbeard's body and past the still-unconscious guards without a look back. If Alex banished memory as far as possible, being carried was almost comforting.
Another explosion rocked the ship and made the corridor shake. Yassen braced himself against the wall for balance, then sped up when the first tendrils of black smoke started to sneak around the corner and curled around his feet.
As soon as he'd reached the deck, he abandoned Alex under the cover of the railing in favour of the Grach with a low, "Don't move."
Crouched under the railing, Alex heard the weapon's rough bark and struggled to pull himself up onto wobbling feet. He hated being this weak but somehow shock had finally caught up with him, turning him into a useless, trembling mess.
When Yassen reappeared around the upper deck, Alex flinched so hard he nearly collapsed again. The Russian shot him an exasperated look.
"Did you get them? The other prisoners?" For a moment, Alex pressed his lips together, then he faltered under Yassen's impatient glare. If Yassen was determined to eliminate witnesses... But then he hadn't killed Alex either - yet.
"They escaped in a lifeboat." He could only pray that they had.
"A good choice. You... did very well, Alex."
You did not, Alex thought and looked away. When he didn't receive an answer, Yassen picked him up again.
Amazingly, the three remaining lifeboats were all still in place when Yassen let Alex slide from his grip in front of them. He didn't seem worried about potential pursuers, which made Alex wonder how many guards had been aboard, and how many the assassin had killed during his little excursion. Then Yassen reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and produced a hypothermic injector. A colourless fluid swirled inside the glass body.
"What's that?" Alex asked, too exhausted to care much.
"A Scopolamine derivate."
Alex had read about Scopolamine in one of the scientific magazines Ian Rider had subscribed to - a drug popular in the South Americas, inducing retrograde amnesia in its victims, wiping out their memories practically beyond retrieval. Often used as a date rape drug, the article had pointed out - appropriate, wasn't it? His eyes wandered to the Grach in Yassen's hand.
"Wouldn't this be simpler?" he asked bitterly.
"Cheaper, perhaps, but I told you that I won't kill you unless you force my hand."
Alex pondered the injector as if he had all the time in the world while the deck groaned and trembled beneath him as another explosion rocked the engine room. He could almost feel the drug in his brain already, soothing and erasing the horrors of the last few hours. A part of him wanted it very badly. Finally, he shook his head.
"No. You said yourself that reality is preferable to an illusion, no matter how comforting."
"I needed you awake and clear-headed to provide a distraction then," Yassen said. "And you performed more spectacularly than I'd dared hope for."
Again, Alex shook his head. "I don't want it." Somehow, not remembering was scarier even than the full force of the images he was still barely holding at bay.
"As you wish," Yassen stated calmly.
Alex turned and took a step towards the nearest lifeboat, when he felt a sharp sting in the bruised flesh of his shoulder. The hypothermic needle released the drug into his bloodstream with a hiss, and then Yassen caught him around the waist as Alex's knees gave out under him as if his legs had been turned into mist. A moment later, his brain followed.
* * *
Yassen lowered the boy's body into the front seat of the lifeboat, arranging his limp legs in the most comfortable position while avoiding Rider's slack face.
If the boy, and the other escaped teenagers, were rescued, MI6 would undoubtedly discover that Alex had been drugged, perhaps even that he'd been molested. The drug would be hard to circumvent, however, and any attempt to break into Alex's brain to restore his memory would endanger the fragile mind of a child. It wasn't that Yassen placed any faith in the British Secret Service, least of all in those who had, in cold blood, arranged the murder of Yassen's mentor - Alex's father. But Blunt and Jones would not, well, blunt or destroy their favourite weapon. Not if the boy could just be allowed to forget, and remain useful.
At last, he looked down at the white, bruised face whose eyes moved below their lids under the force of the drug coursing through the boy's bloodstream. He brushed a few sweaty strands of hair out of Alex's forehead.
"Good-bye, little brother."
He swung back the Plexiglas protection that covered the navigation console and set a course that would take the lifeboat away from the ship as far, and as quickly, as possible. The vessel was too large to explode altogether, but he'd spent too much effort on getting the boy out of harm's way to take risks now. Finally, he activated the SOS signal that would, eventually, bring rescue ships. Thankfully, like everything aboard a Schola vessel, the lifeboats packed the latest state-of-the-art technology. Then his finger stabbed the downward button that would set the hydraulics into motion which would lower the boat on the water.
As the motor creaked to life, Yassen swung himself back over the railing, eager to make it back to his motor yacht before it could take damage.
A huge explosion on the upper deck ripped a hole into the bridge and showered the lower decks with shrapnel. Air and sea lit up with an orange glow just as the little lifeboat hit the water, where it bobbed gently on the waves as if not to disturb its sleeping passenger. The fire shine illuminated the boy's quiet face below.
Alex Rider slept on, rocked gently in his metal shell as the lifeboat tuckered away from the ship, and the electromagnetic SOS signal took up its inaudible screams across the ocean.
He never knew that behind him, Yassen Gregorovich closed his eyes against an onslaught of emotion he hadn't experienced in fourteen years, and the knowledge that, today, he had incurred a debt to young Alex Rider that would have to be paid in full should they ever meet again.
~ finis ~
Disclaimer: Definitely not mine!