Disclaimer: I do not own the 39 Clues series. All rights go to Scholastic Inc.
A few notes:
-Day of Doom spoilers! If you have not read up to Day of Doom and you do not want spoilers, I would suggest that you do not read this.
-The rating is T because there will be a few events relating to the use of alcohol *coughcoughthefirstchapter*. However, there will be no cursing (except for mild ones, such as "damn" and "hell"), and I think anyone who has read stuff like The Hunger Games and Harry Potter can certainly read this.
-This is my first original, multi-chapter adventure story! I have a vague outline in mind about the plot and characters (especially original characters), and I think the writing process will be an adventure, since there are a lot of things in the 39 Clues world that I get to explore. :) I'll try my best to have timely updates, but ah, I expect that there will be occasions where I abandon this story for a few weeks (or maybe even months).
Chapter 1
In which Ian has an unfriendly meeting with a childhood foe.
Like all pubs on a Friday night, Old Cat Head was crowded. Young men in their late teens flirted their way in through the giggling barmaid, young women wearing too much eyeliner eyed the room for potential hook-ups, and men in dirt-specked, dusty overalls doused their economic troubles with a single glass. Bars attracted the lonely and those in trouble with the promise of a night of another life. A night where one could forget and stop thinking, even if just for a moment.
In a darkened back corner, a young man sat hunched over a table. His long, slim fingers were curled around a cup, his index finger tapping against the glass. His face was cast half in shadow. His eyes, behind contacts, were fixed past the unruly crowds, focused on something in the distance—the pub door. Every few minutes it would open, more often letting in newcomers than letting out those wary of drunkenness.
The young man had sat there for nearly half an hour, unmoving, before he found something worth his notice. His eyes widened for a second and he muttered something under his breath before his lips tugged up in a small, humorless smile.
If there is one fact certain about cove-ops, his first MI6 instructor Officer Wilkinson had once said, it is that, like life, they run in unpredictable courses.
A dark-haired man in a gray dinner jacket had made his way to the nearly empty table. His face was narrow and pale. His eyes were slant-eyed, showing his Asian descent. The newcomer slid into the seat opposite the young man already there without waiting for an invitation and waved to a nearby waitress to bring him a drink.
The eyes of the two men met. Old memories surfaced, old feelings returned, and challenges were thrown into the air. Yet, on the outside, both faces remained impassive.
It wasn't until the waitress came back and set down a glass of crimson liquid before the newcomer that the first man spoke. "Hello, Delun." His words were cool. "It is a surprise to see you here."
A condescending look had made its way across the newcomer's face as he eyed the cup lying in the other's hands. "I could say the same to you, Ian Kabra. I reckon your parents would be rather ashamed of you if they could see you now, mingling among drunks?"
"I doubt either of them would really care, seeing as my father is hiding in who-knows-where, and my mother is dead," Ian replied carelessly. "But you know that already, don't you?"
Delun simply smiled, revealing perfect white rows of pointed teeth. His dark amber eyes—a similarity he and Ian shared that people had often remarked upon when they were little—were glinting in the darkness. "We have not seen each other in a very long time, Cousin Ian. I had hoped to see you at the funeral held for the Cahills who died during Doomsday."
"I did not want to see the body of my sister," Ian said bluntly.
"My apologies and deepest sympathies," Delun said, lowering his head. "Natalie, wasn't it? I heard she grew up to be as beautiful and cunning as your late mother."
"She was," Ian acknowledged, feeling his chest tighten. Under the table, his right leg had started palpitating—a nervous habit. Damn it. He'd rather not Delun think that he was unnerved by the topic of his dead sister, as the other boy was attempting to do.
"I'll confess I was rather intimidated by her those times we met," Delun said. "Her and you both, at those gatherings your mother hosted. Do you remember those? My aunt always said Isabel hosted the best social events."
Images flickered in Ian's mind: the contrast of his mother's pale hand against his father's dark suit sleeve, the warmth in his mother's voice as she greeted the guests, the rays of light that illuminated smiles and bright colored dresses as sunlight was caught in the hanging chandelier. Ornate chairs, pint-sized drinks decorated with tiny umbrellas on top, laughter, saccharine perfume.
It wasn't until years later that he recognized forced chatter and laughter, subtle hints hidden under social niceties, the smile his mother wore only for strangers.
"You and your sister were always so detached," Delun said. "As the Kabras always are."
Ian did not reply, distracted by loud yells and catcalls from a different part in the bar. A group of people had gathered near the left center, where a fight seemed to have started. As common in bar fights, a few tables had been toppled over and there was the shattering of glass.
Ian watched with a disinterested expression. These were drunkards and poor folk, away from a Kabra's mind and concern.
"They say she died a heroic death," Delun said quietly. When Ian looked back at him, the boy was studying him closely. "Tried to fight the Vespers, didn't she? Shame such a talented girl's life had to be sacrificed." Delun raised his glass in the air. "To Natalie Kabra." He took a large swig.
Ian inclined his own glass, though he made no movement to drink from it. "If you've come all the way from China to give me your sympathies, a card would have cost much less time and effort and would have done just as nicely."
The older boy laughed softly. It was a dark and slightly gleeful sound, as if there was something Ian did not know and it amused Delun. "As sad and touching as your sister's death was, I'm afraid we have other matters to discuss. You see, this meeting between you and me has been arranged for a long time by no other than your father."
Ian was silent. Delun Hollingsworth's visit had been a surprise and yet his timing was impeccable—Delun would've known that Ian's defenses would be softer under the alcohol. He also knew Delun's background and the Hollingsworth family history well enough to be wary of truth imbedded with lies and secret motivations hidden under a pretense of oblivion. But there was no time to figure out Delun's intentions and Ian could not afford to be distracted. He glanced at his watch. Sixty seconds now.
"Your father was quite impressed with your promotions up the British Intelligence Service. He said to offer you his congratulations for the success of the Green River Operation."
When Ian finally spoke, it was the abandoned and bewildered fourteen-year-old boy in him that asked, "You know where my father is?"
"Of course." Delun offered another mocking grin. "You don't?"
He didn't, and Delun clearly knew this. "The last time I heard, he was in South America."
Delun waved his hand dismissively. "Rumors."
The conviction in the way he spoke, as if he was now Vikram Kabra's closest confidante, invoked something nasty in Ian. "So you're part of his group now?" he said, leaning back. "One of his followers? Or, more accurately, one of his henchmen?"
Delun's jaw tightened and Ian felt a smidge of satisfaction. "I think I hear jealousy there, Kabra. You know, your father would take you back if you'd just kill Fiske Cahill."
The last sentence was slipped out so casually that the retort Ian was about to deliver disappeared into thin air.
"You heard correctly," Delun said, his mouth once again curving into a predator's grin. "It's killing off two birds with one stone for your father. He is willing to give you another chance and at the same time, he'll be getting rid of a little nuisance."
In his peripheral vision, Ian saw a group of high-school kids doing what looked to be a keg stand. "Ten! Nine! Eight!" they chanted, and he blocked the sound before the numbers ticked down any further. You just have to kill one of the hostages, he remembered his mother's saccharine voice coaxing him five years ago. Under the table, Ian's leg was shaking beyond his control.
"What, he has no one else to be his killing machine?" he said, the words coming out sharply.
"He has no one else close to the Cahill family," Delun replied. "He says that for some reason, the old Madrigal trusts you. So all you have to do is fly west to Cahill Mansion, come up with some crack story to soften the old man's heart, and then go for the kill."
"Even if I were to do it, it would be a crack job," Ian argued. It was always easier to focus on the technical details. "It would be impossible to go unsuspected and I would end up incriminating myself."
Even as he said it, he could see that that was what his father wanted. If he was to do this, none of the Cahills would ever trust him again and he would be forced to hide for the rest of his days, just like his father. He would eventually be forced to turn to his father for protection.
It was a masterplan, nothing short of Vikram Kabra's genius.
"Your father has safeguard measures set in place after the completion of the job," Delun said, confirming Ian's thoughts. "So you agree to take this proposition?"
Ian cast a final glance at the rest of the bar. He let the shouts, the clinking of glasses, the laughter, the curses overwhelm his mind. Through it all, he could hear the faint wail of a siren, gradually increasing in volume with every second.
"You're an MI6 agent, Kabra. You've killed other people before. I don't see what the problem is here. Your target is one measly, old man. If I were you, I wouldn't even have hesitated to say yes."
Ian looked back at Delun. "Well, there you have the difference between you and me. Tell my father I say for him to go to hell."
The siren was now screaming so loud that there was no doubt it was stopping right at the bar. Dozens of conversations were halted and even the bar fight temporarily stopped. The lack of noise in the bar was almost discomfiting as everyone waited.
The door burst open.
The barmaid screamed. The sound of glass shattering filled the room. Swear words that would have been unspeakable in the company of gentlemen, gentlewomen, and young children were screeched.
Dozens of men dressed in black swarmed into the bar. There was the sound of transmitters crackling. One tall woman, whom Ian recognized immediately as Officer Renkle by her unusually round face, barked at the people in the Old Cat Head, "No one move!"
Ian Kabra pushed himself of his seat, away from the glass that he never touched, and made his way past groups of wide-eyed, bewildered people. His eyes were on the two men who had moved before the order not to move and had been the source of the ruckus. They had been caught before they reached the door. One of them carrying a large, rectangular suitcase, and Ian had only one guess what it was.
"You're under arrest," Ian said, as he approached, "for illegal purchase and possession of uranium. You have the right to be silent."
There were a couple of smiles from his fellow agents at the cheesy line, and a few slaps on the back for a job well done. As usual, he felt the pride and satisfaction following the closure of a successful operation the MI6 had planned for months.
Nevertheless, this was tainted by the feeling of dread of Delun's message and what was to come next.