Hey everyone! I'm trying out a new idea that I had though I don't know exactly where this will lead but I've learned to just go with it and let my creative juices flow. I'm debating on having Sarov in this story. I love his evilness and yet his need to be obeyed. Tell me what you think, but I know a certain Russian will definitely be in this story. I bet you guess who. Well, on to the story. If this idea is completely ridiculous, then I'll scrap it but I need you readers to let me know.
Disclaimer: I only wish I could come up with something so ingenious as the Alex Rider series. I have literary jealousy, which means I do not own these characters. I'm pretty sure that is self-evident.
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Prologue
The building sat isolated in the downtown district of Chicago, the city life just starting to appear as the sun began its decent. The smell of gasoline and garbage filled his nose, the hint of a breeze teasing in the humid air. He felt the knife in his belt, assuring himself it was there. If it came to a fight, he would be ready.
The shadow skulked to the side door of the warehouse, the look of abandonment apparent even as smoke rose from the pipe, gray swirls drifting effortlessly to the sky. There were no stars tonight; all the better for an operation.
Gently cracking the door open, his eyes took in the rusted machinery, broken lights, and dirty cement flooring. There was nothing of value in the main room, a football length at least. A perfect place for a covert meeting under the radar. Too bad it was not as secret as they believed.
He recalled the conversation he had overheard while on the plane landing in the windy city. All he had made out was that there was a meeting between two important, dirty figures tonight downtown. The minefield of forgotten warehouses was the only logical place for a meeting of such importance, or so he had bet.
He slid along the wall, its grimy texture rubbing uncomfortably against his back. His foot rubbed against a large metal container, the words fragile on the side. Placing a hand to the side, he found it cold to the touch. Placing that information to the back of his mind, he forged on, intrigued by the location and finding a cooled container in an abandoned building.
One door was shut in the far corner of the warehouse, light reaching from beneath.
This is too easy, he thought, his objective to uncover what some nasty Russians were doing in Chicago within his grasp. Upon reaching the door, he could clearly hear what was being said, taking him completely off guard.
"I meet your two hundred, and raise you three." The thick Russian accent was unmistakable, even through the door. Another man responded, this time in Russian, the anger easy to pinpoint in his tone.
He bent closer to catch what was being said, having been working on his Russian for a few months. Before anything else was said, a hand snaked around his middle as a knife was pressed to his throat. Someone spoke into his ear, telling him to not make a sound. Another man came from the right, tapping lightly on the door.
Light flooded the warehouse as two burly Russians sporting Glock 19s went into combat mode. He knew it would do nothing to struggle, but he would not be taken; he had a perfect record of living through every mission he undertook. He would not fail now.
Quickly sliding his knife from its holster on his hip, he jabbed at the man holding him, pulling the deadweight in front of him as the men started shooting. He noticed that they were aiming to disable, not kill, their shots heading for his shoulders and legs. Shoving the dead man towards the two in the room, he shut the door with his foot as his arm came up to deflect a blow from the third man. He was tall and heavily muscled, his face emotionless as he assessed the form in front of him.
The man attacked with ferocity, each blow powerful and direct. He knew he was outmatched against the older man and decided that running would be the best defense. Sending a roundhouse kick towards the man's middle, he sprinted to the nearest shelter, a wooden crate with the words USA Property printed on the side. He watched as the man straightened from his hunched position, recovering from the kick.
Muttering in Russian, he proceeded to pull out a Glock 23, used mostly by federal law enforcement officers and highly powerful in close range firing. He pushed over stacked crates, hoping for a response from the form huddled not more than 50 feet away.
Seeing an opening, he ran for the door, ducking and weaving between various machinery and wooden structures. Shots went off as he ran but none hit their target. Almost to the door, he fell into a rectangular crate, the same insignia printed visibly on the top. Clattering to the ground, rifles and various firearms fell to the cement floor.
Pushing the thought of Russians possessing American firearms away for the moment, he reached the door just as the man finished his magazine. The night air enveloped him as he ran, heading for the nearest street in hopes he could blend in to the crowd of downtown.
Never looking back, he faded into the crowd, his mission complete. American intelligence being shipped to the Russians was something he had not foreseen.
Technically, this operation was none of his business. But the fact that two Russians letting slip about a secret meeting in his earshot seemed too coincidental for it to not intrigue him. He had walked into what they had hoped would be a trap, but real business was happening in that warehouse, nefarious at it seemed.
Striding down the street, the only looks he attracted were from women in various states of dress, most having on little, causing him to turn his gaze to the ground.
The purr of a motor behind him caused him to slow, glancing in the windows to his right in order to catch the reflection. A sleek black car with its lights off followed a few paces back, matching his stride. Reaching a side alley, he sped into the blackness, his movement too spontaneous for the car to follow.
The mouth of the alley loomed before him. Upon gaining the side street, another black car halted directly in front of him. Choosing to return the way he had come, he turned only to find the first vehicle coming towards him. They had trapped him.
Guns drawn, they approached. One man stood out, his tailored suit ad authoritative attitude commanding.
"Hello, my name is Nikolea. I'm sure we will get to know each other well in the days to come but right now you need to come with me."
"Over my dead-" His words were cut off as he felt a feathered dart pierce his chest, his body going weak within moments. Two men approached to catch him before he fell, his eyes straining to remain open. The last thing he heard was an order for the men to deposit him the backseat of the nearest car. Then the world dissolved into an inky blackness.
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Nikolea Ivanov examined his short, brown hair cut military style in his full length mirror, scrutinizing his appearance with a critical eye. He had changed out of his business suit, trading it for a Russian militant uniform. He had more maneuverability and could deftly handle his own if anyone got near enough to him through his body guards. Yes, this was the life he had created for himself and had succeeded in becoming one of the most connected men in the world. He had ties into SCORPIA, the Triad, CIA, MI6, he people on his payroll in all of them. Not much slipped through his network of informants.
He thought again of the boy in his possession, the trick to get him to the warehouse a ruse to stop him from interfering with the actual meeting. His half brother had warned him about the boy and he had been right; he was too much trouble for his own good.
He knew he could not just let the Rider boy go; he would just show up at some other point and make a nuisance of himself. He could give him to his men, their skills involving teaching a lesson to pesky kids unchallenged, but then again, he did not want the boy maimed. Besides, his half brother had threatened anyone who especially hurt the boy. This had surprised Nikolea at first but he had resigned himself to the fact that contract killers often had no rhyme to their reason. No, he had a much better idea for his troublemaker. He smiled to himself. This would not be pleasant for him at all.
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Alex could barely see past the pouring rain, his body on autopilot. His arms ached with the cold and strain of unloading heavy crates from package trucks for hours on end. He had had no breaks, no food, and no shower since he had been shoved through the port security point, six hours of sleep the maximum each night. There was no way he could keep going, his body slowly becoming useless to him, not obeying his commands. The Russians who ran the port gained a great amount of entertainment from tormenting and jeering crude phrases at him. Lucky for Alex, he did not know that much Russian so the harsh words meant nothing to him.
The rain had drenched every part of him, his lethargy only enhanced by his soaked condition. The man in charge of keeping him working signaled with his gun to approach the tent that had been set up in the middle of the courtyard, ships lulling dreamily in the background. The teen almost thought taking a dive into the freezing water would be an acceptable strategy to escape but immediately dismissed the idea. He had been dipped in the ocean water the very first day in order to show him it was a useless route. He had been forced to withstand the icy water for twenty minutes, his thoughts turning from that course of action very quickly. The boss man, Vladimir, only smirked at Alex as the teen realized the futility of escape. He had often heard of people being forced to work to pay off debts but he doubted spying was a debt to be repaid with labor. More likely, it should have amounted in his death.
Either someone has a wicked sense of humor, or someone halted my execution, thought Alex, his brain trying to push past the exhaustion and chills that coursed through his body.
As he limped his way to the tent, Vladimir's ugly grin grew wider. Alex noticed the missing teeth and silver fillings as he stepped out of the downpour and into the makeshift shelter.
"Prevet, little man. How goes the labor? I hope it's not to hard for you." The teen stared impassively, or as impassively as one could with chattering teeth, at the filthy Russian. When he did not reply, the man's face contorted in rage. "You will answer me when I ask a question, English boy, or I will cut out your tongue so that you will never speak again," he snarled, stalking towards Alex, gun in hand.
The blonde did not step back; he was too exhausted. Instead, he decided that placating the man would be the best course of action, especially with his precarious situation having no guarantees.
"It is fine."
The man's anger cooled, his face returning to the sneering mask he constantly wore. "Good, we will add more tomorrow." Alex inwardly groaned at his hopeless situation, knowing he had no control at all. He turned to walk away, thinking he was dismissed when Vladimir's voice halted his steps. "Oh, I forgot to tell you that the Boss will be here tonight to see how you are fairing. I know you would never say anything other than how well you have been treated." He raised his eyebrows, a silent threat to the teen that he was too ready to heed. He did not need more trouble, let alone more work.
"Good, we are on the….first page, as you would say."
Alex again turned to leave muttering under his breath. "It's 'same page,' idiot."
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"I see that you are doing well, Nikolea." Cold blue eyes regarded the man in front of him, his half brother one of the most influential men in the eastern hemisphere.
"Dear brother, you know as well as I that I have everything I could ever need. You, however, still refuse to utilize all of the funds that not only I have given as a gift, but the finances you have acquired with your," he paused to let a smirk escape, "special talents."
"If I lived as you do, Nikolea, I would not be invisible, now would I?" The man let his icy eyes scour the library in which they were seated, vast windows opening up to the city below. The mansion overlooked much of Ukhta, his other mansion in St. Petersburg. This mansion was his dominant home, containing not only an Olympic size swimming pool but also a hanger for his private jet. The amount of money he wasted irked his brother vaguely but he did not linger on those thoughts; he had more important things to consider than what his relative spent his money on.
"No, of course not," he consented. "That would defeat the point of your existence, now wouldn't it."
He nodded, standing to his full height to browse the rows of books. He was not surprised when Nikolea interrupted his thoughts with the real meaning for this unexpected meeting. The men barely spoke to one another except the occasional get together. There had to be more than just catching up on his half brother's mind.
"There is a matter that is in need of your," he seemed to struggle with the right word but finally seemed to find it as he continued, "better judgment."
"Indeed? And what would this matter be that it has caused the mighty Nikolea to ask for help?"
"It seems I have come into possession of a young boy that I have no idea what to do with. I was wondering if you had any good way to fix my problem."
"You want me to kill the boy?"
Nikolea fairly jumped. "No, of course not. You yourself told me not to end his young life under any circumstances."
That sentence caught him off guard. "The boy would not happen to be Alex Rider, would it?"
"Why yes, who else have you given specific instructions not to harm? That is not exactly your style, my dear Yassen." He spoke as if it should have been obvious to someone such as Yassen Gregorovich. The assassin was tempted to smile to himself, a problem Alex most certainly was.
"What did you have in mind?"
"If I knew what to do with the brat, I would not have called you." He set down his glass of brandy and strode to stand before the tall blonde, his eyes reaching his chin. "I am traveling to Vorkuta tonight to oversee his progress. I'm sure my Russian friends have treated him most hospitably."
"Are you asking me to accompany you? If so, I do not think it wise for Alex to know that I am there."
"I can't keep him at the port working dawn to dusk. My foreman reported that he is completely and utterly defeated. Seeing your face may confirm the futility of his situation."
"You wish to use me?"
"Plainly speaking, yes."
"Fine. But I would like to know what you will require of me once we reach the port."
"That, my brother, is up to you." With that, Nikolea led the way out of the library, past the wealth and prosperity evident in each room, and onto the private jet that was ready to take off.
Once seated comfortably on the plush cushions, Yassen turned to Nikolea. "After Alex sees me, would you like for me to return to Ukhta?"
"No, I have a job for you but little Alex cannot stay at the port. If you have no objections-"
"No, I will not drag that boy across the country with me while on a job. He would only cause trouble."
"I'm afraid I have no choice but to insist. If not, I'm sure the foreman will happily let Alex perish or suffer at the least at the hands of the ruffians working at the port. But for your explicit orders, I would have just let the troublesome child stay there."
Dragging in an aggravated breath, the assassin calmed himself. His brother's manipulative nature tended to amount to jobs and inconveniences for him at every turn. But he put up with him, his many contacts useful in Yassen's line of work.
"You will be rid of him as soon as we get to Vorkuta. But I will warn you; I will not kill Alex Rider. If we part paths and he goes back to his life, he may very well show up again. I trust you will keep my wishes despite the trouble he may cause?"
Nikolea smiled cunningly as someone who had just bested their opponent at checkers might appear. "Of course, I will most certainly not kill the Rider boy. Most certainly not."
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Alex saw the plane land on an airstrip not far from the security gates into the compound. His few minutes of contemplation earned him a kick in the back, joining the mess of past bruises and abrasions that marred him young body. He grudgingly went back to work, trying not to anger anyone else for fear he would collapse with the next hit.
A few minutes later, the gates were opened to emit two individuals, one in an expensive suit and the other in a more appropriate jacket for the weather with jeans. Both stopped to talk to the security post but Alex could not mistake what he saw.
The crate he was holding dropped from his numb fingers, his vision riveted to the figure standing in the pouring rain, blonde hair cropped short as always. He could almost feel the icy blue eyes roving the port, taking in every detail. This man was someone to fear, his presence emanating danger.
The men started in his direction. He could not tear his gaze away from the man who had caused so many problems in his life but had saved it in turn until the butt of the rifle Vladimir carried rammed into his back. The teen fell directly into a puddle of grimy water, his vision marked with white spots. A kick to his abdomen did not even elicit more than a moan from him, so exhausted and overtaxed were his muscles. He could not even fight back. Maybe that was their plan. Break him completely before they brought Yassen in. But what could the assassin possibly want with him now?
He took two more savage kicks to the face before the wealthy man beside Yassen halted Vladimir in his revelry, the curt Russian harsh even to Alex's ears. The pair stopped a few feet away from where he lay, having no energy to rise.
"Alex Rider, I have brought someone to see you. One Yassen Gregorovich."
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So, I have no idea if that idea was any good at all so please let me know. If it is not worth continuing, then I won't. Alrighty, thanks for taking the time to read this.
Cailiean44