Don't own Alex Rider Yada yadda yada, blah blah blah. There, now read.
The man climbs up the stairs, slowly pulling his suitcase with him. Getting to the top floor, the assassin unpacked the suitcase. Taking out his handgun, assembling it, and finally adjusting his aim, he waits, on the top of a building, by Pennsylvania Street, behind the White House. The meeting just getting out, the current president walks out of the front of the White House, smiling and waving to the press. Unaware of the man on the top of the building, the president walks farther out, his last steps. The assassin takes aim and the bullet spats out of the gun. Traveling faster than the eye could see, the bullet imbeds itself into the president's chest, killing him instantly, then silence. All at once alarms go off and guards surround the fallen man. The assassin smiles to himself. Another job done well done and 15,000 more dollars to his overseas bank account. He climbs down the steps he had climbed just seconds before he walked out into the sun, blinking at the sudden brightness. The assassin walks away from the rising chaos calmly. Ambulances were being called, but by the time they got there it would have been too late.
Fourteen Years Ago
"John." The graceful women turned to her fair-haired husband, her blue eyes pleading silently. The man sighed and shook his head again. The women's lower lip trembled and she looked out the window of the black Rolls Royce. The soft wheels hit another pot hole in the seemingly never ending road. A sign passed, but to Helen Rider it was only a blur. She sat with her back strait, her shoulders squared, fighting against the growing emotions inside of herself. She managed a glance back at her husband's hard brown eyes. All at once they overtook her and the motions were too much to handle. She collapsed into the oh so familiar broad build of her love. The salty tears streamed down her pale face and she was enveloped in her memories.
The building was cold and faceless, much like the employees. The doors were glinting in the slight sunlight. Very few people ever crossed them. The bank had been sitting there for more than ten years, less and less costumers and yet it still stood. People hurried on their way to work every morning passing it by without a second glance. It was just a seemingly ordinary bank. Now a young couple walked through the close to useless doors greeted by a cold rush of air. The two waited for nothing in particular just stood there. A woman came up, greeted them, and led them on their way. Taken up thirteen floors, they walked into the office of their condemner. A man sat behind the desk, his face void of emotion so much like his surroundings. He had no defining feature, no special quality just a blank, cold stare. Curt nods were a silently spoken greeting.
'Do we really have to do this?' The woman asked desperately. The cold man sitting behind the desk nodded grimly. The woman sighed and tried to hold back her tears.
'As you know the plans are still arranged as they were before. Doubles will get on the plane, the staged explosion, and you two will be on a car ride to France. Clear?' They nodded their consent and the man seemed content. The two were led out of the cold building. The man climbed into the waiting car and helped his wife in. She gave one last look behind hoping for a savior, but one never came. It never would.
Once again Helen looked out the window. The countryside couldn't be more beautiful than ever, but to her it should be painted gray. Her life was in tatters, she was leaving the only home she had. Then Helen sat up strait, mentally chiding herself, she wasn't a child, she was older now. She could better the worst, she would. Nobody could take her down, she was herself and she would always be.