Author's Note:
If you read this to the end, you will notice this is a direct prequel to 'The Spy in 221B'. That is not the purpose of this story. Blame the fact that characters always take control of their own stories. At first, this was a little one shot for no reason other than I could. I started it weeks ago because I was exploring an aspect of Alex's character that intrigued me, then I heard the news. I got angry. This is now a thinly veiled politically charged story in (belated) honour of those who died in the massacre in Florida. If anyone reading this has been affected by the events in America, please accept my heartfelt sympathy. Keep on fighting.
I hope you enjoy this story. Please leave a comment below because I love everything you say (unless it's really horrible criticism but I trust you to be kind).
(The title is paraphrased from 'To Kill a Mockingbird' by Harper Lee)
Courage Isn't a Man With a Gun
Something about this mission made Alex uneasy. Probably it was because this was his first mission since his premature, and short-lived, retirement. He had returned from America under a fake name with a fake passport to help Tom out, been caught by Blunt, and was promptly plunged into the deepest darkest dregs of the espionage world head first. He had not landed on his feet but with a sloppy forwards roll so as not to break his metaphorical neck. At least this mission was in London. It had been two years since he had set foot on British soil but the streets of London were home in a way that America could never be. There were other problems with America, of course but he would ignore that for the time being. Focus on the mission.
They were in his sights now, the criminals. He watched as they shook hands and his target got into the van, ready to drive away. He had to act fast. MI6 wanted this man gone. It wasn't the first time he had taken a life but it would be the first time he'd done it on purpose and he was rather uncomfortable with the thought. It would prey on him, an unshakeable stalker, shadowing him from the dark corners of his mind for the rest of his life. Here lies the last vestiges of a child's innocence.
He was perched on the fire escape watching, waiting for some kind of sign. He knew it wouldn't come, that this was a test. What it was a test of Alex didn't know but he assumed it was to prove some kind of twisted loyalty. And there he went. His target was moving and Lex would have to follow. This was the part that he found a savage joy in despite himself. The thrill of the chase filled him and sparked long buried instincts as he raced over rooftops. Why had he not done this before? The San Fransisco skyline would be perfect for this. The van was turning, crawling through the traffic that oozed through London's clogged streets. He could pause for a moment to check his equipment: radio and earpiece, augmented watch, bulletproof jacket, swiss army knife, and Smithers' piece de resistance - the gun.
It was the first time he had used a gun legally, though not the first time he'd used one. Of course, after the incident with Scorpia and Mrs Jones, MI6 was wary of giving him such a powerful weapon. While he was in America, he was scarcely able to hold a gun to the immense amusement of his classmates. He wasn't supposed to have it. This was strictly off the books and, if he used it, it would not make its way onto his official reports. Field testing only and it wasn't even really approved for that. It was heavy in his hands. There was death built into its every facet, an explosion in every button. He would destroy someone's life with this. He wasn't a child to hide behind his fists and fancy gadgets anymore. He was an adult and a functional, practical man, the kind of man who would blend into a crowd. He was a spy.
Alex still followed the van from the rooftops, watched as the man pulled up beside a garage, and dropped down to street level. He had surprised his target. A palm strike to the face. A kick to the torso. The man fought back. Flailing out with one hand to get a lucky hit. Alex shook it off, bounced back easily. He grabbed his opponent's wrist and twisted it back. He was behind him and his adversary was stamping down on his foot. It hurt. It didn't hurt enough to deter him. He wrapped an arm around the man's throat. The kicking increased in intensity. He didn't notice the knife. Now he had a stab wound to the side. He had to let him go. The knife clattered to the floor, stained with dark crimson blood. He punched the man in the face. Blood trickled down his side and from the man's nose. His breath came in rasping pants. This had to end. A kick to the back of the knee. Arm around the neck, other arm to bring the gun to his opponent's temple. "I will shoot," he growled. "Don't think I won't." His target, bizarrely, laughed. There was something deranged about the situation: two men grappling in a back street with blood dripping, swirling together and soaking into tarmac. "So, this is MI6's pet. You grew up quick. Course, you've been missed the past two years. Where'd you go?" Alex didn't respond, only digging he gun in further. "Oh, I know you won't kill me, baby agent. You ain't got it in you." He snarled but inwardly the part of him that had never given up on a normal childhood screamed that this was wrong.
The gun was cold. It would offer a cold and quick death. But Alex didn't want to be a killer. Being MI6's assassin rankled him even as time slipped away in that darkening street. He couldn't do it. He couldn't execute the man like this. His fingers tapped a button hidden on the side. He remembered the mission brief. This man had been using kids as drug runners, abusing them, ruining them, stealing their lives away in search of a little extra money. He was as bad as the Bank but at least the Bank offered him a life on the right side of the law. And there was the crux of the matter: he could work for MI6 and ignore his morals or he could leave them and destroy the lives of countless children. There was no real question of what must be done. He closed his eyes.
He pulled the trigger.
Three hours later, on a cold, wet and utterly miserable evening in London, Alex Rider was found half dead on the steps of 221B. He healed, he lived, he worked. He didn't kill. He never killed.
Three hours later, in a cold, damp and utterly miserable cell under London, a prolific drug dealer and human trafficker woke up with a throbbing head. He healed, he lived, he festered in prison. He survived.
He survived because there is no courage in killing.