Prologue I
The Secret to Reanimating the Dead
Keeping your hands clean is impossible in the world of espionage. For the sake of the country or the world, certain things must be done. Things many would dispute; things that would bring the integrity of a nation under question.
The actions of the Secret Service are to remain, or the most part, secret for this reason.
However, every secret has an expiration date; and in a world held together by them, the fall-out could be catastrophic.
This was the case of Mrs Jones. It wasn't even her secrets causing the problems. No, after two years in the Head position of MI6, she was still cleaning up the shit left behind by the man previous. After having three brothers, Mrs Jones was so sick of cleaning up after men.
These secrets involved a child. The most talented, unluckiest lucky child Mrs Jones ever had the honour of meeting. But it seemed that the secrets of this child had their own secrets and it was this issue that she was now dealing with.
At first, no one could have guessed that the child was involved at all. Agents were going missing from all over the globe. British and American agents vanished, with no word to give reason, no organisation claiming responsibility, nothing to suggest that they were dead or alive. It was a difficult situation to explain, especially to the families of the missing. With Christmas around the corner, her job just got a lot harder.
Until her American counterpart, Joseph Byrne, received a message:
The Rider is next
The message signed only with a fiery phoenix. This only caused more confusion. With Intel gained from the FBI, passed onto Mrs Jones, through Byrne; she was informed that 'Phoenix' as they had come to be known, was a recently founded, low level organisation. Only discovered in early February that year, Phoenix were responsible for the increase of drug and human trafficking in America.
Originally under the FBI's jurisdiction...until now.
Why such an organisation would move from drug ring to large-scale abduction, and to threaten a child they shouldn't even know existed was beyond both Jones' and Byrne's comprehension.
Under mutual agreement, Alex Rider had gained five new neighbours around the estate in which he lived, a new football coach, drama teacher, Janitor and casual jogger who came past with their two poodles every morning on Alex's way to school.
Both MI6 and the CIA had sent in their high operatives (who were yet to be captured) to infiltrate Phoenix. One of whom, Mrs Jones quietly noticed, was Ben Daniels; who volunteered so quickly it would put Katniss Everdeen to shame.
His eagerness to protect the boy was both a powerful asset and dangerous flaw in such a community
This was three weeks ago, and many complications can arise in three weeks.
It was New Years Eve, and the people of Washington DC could be heard outside the CIA headquarters celebrating.
Inside was a sombre affair, after an influx of disappearances, Mrs Jones had joined Byrne in the United States capital.
Despite all the lit rooms, the Head office was the only one occupied.
Everyone else gone for the holiday, leaving the top spies alone with their thoughts and confusion.
Mrs Jones and Joseph Byrne sat across from each other, neither of them young but both looking decades older than they were.
If possible, Byrne had more grey hair than when Jones had last seen him. Underneath the black dye, her own was the same shade.
Both had a glass of gin in their hands but neither were drinking, just staring into their glasses, processing the recent development.
Mrs Jones sighed and with a purposeful thud, she brought her glass down onto the table, decorating it with a splatter of alcohol.
"Are you aware of what this threat is suggesting? There is no possible way either of these men are still alive; even if, God forbid, we should comply with these demands, how are we to hand over a boy and two corpses?"
Byrne gently placed his glass down, furrowing his eyebrows together in deep contemplation.
"I don't believe everything either of us has been told in the past to be true; they claim to already have one of the three. I know for a fact the Alex Rider is currently attending a Miss Moore's New Year's party. Ian Rider has been dead for a good three years and John Rider was a man of a great many secrets but is too dead. For either of them to be alive and not come into contact with the boy is unfathomable".
Mrs Jones leant into her hand, her thumb rubbing the middle of her brow in an effort to remove the oncoming headache.
"I never saw the body. I never saw the body but if he is somehow alive, who the hell is buried in Brompton. I don't want to excavate a body to see if someone is calling bluff".
Silence filled the room once more. In all their years in the service combined, the two had seen it all. Reanimation of the dead was something that only existed in fiction. If these men were alive, it would be the work of great deception or divine interference.
Joseph Byrne leant back in his seat, causing it to creak.
"I'll have the FBI investigate the threat against the school; as for Phoenix, I do have a man on the inside. After his history, most would question his loyalty but as of now, he is all we have. I understand your Ben Daniels has now gone silent, do you believe he is MIA?"
Sirens wailed in the streets outside, no doubt for someone who had too much to drink, police and medical services were always the busiest this time of year.
Glancing at the clock, Jones realised it wouldn't be long until they heard fireworks.
"It's too soon to tell, last contact was twenty-six hours ago. For all we know, he's taken the night off."
Byrne gave an uncharacteristic snort. Mrs Jones sighed, popped a peppermint into her mouth and removed her black heels. She felt old.
"I'm going to order the excavation of Ian Rider's grave. Hopefully there is some merit to it or Alex will be furious."
Byrne stood, taking the glasses with him and deposited them at the bar.
"The boy doesn't need to know; after all he's a ten hour flight away from it."
Jones grabbed a napkin and wiped up the gin from the table in a swift movement.
She then proceeded to throw the soiled napkin into the bin, where it was incinerated.
"I'm not going to seek his permission, just after everything, he should have the right to know".
Byrne had moved to the window. The countdown could be heard on the streets. He shut the blinds.
"Why worry him? The less he knows the safer he will be".
Fireworks shook the building, cheering hushed by the sound. 2012 had begun.
Mrs Jones stood and straightened out her skirt.
"When has that ever been the case?"
Byrne walked over and leant down to pick up her heels and handed them to her.
Mrs Jones grabbed them stiffly and put the horrid things back on her sore feet.
"Tell him if there is something in it. If Ian rests in the grave, say nothing of it. If he doesn't, then we tell the boy".
They both headed for the door, Byrne opened it and allowed Mrs Jones to walk through.
"Happy New Year, Mrs Jones".
Mrs Jones turned around to regard him briefly.
"Happy New Year, Mr Byrne".
She then walked away briskly, neither of them believing the sentiment.
Ian Rider listened to the howls of the chilling winds as it flew past the grate window at the very top of his cell wall.
The occasional fleck of snow floated inside only to melt seconds later. It was almost its own form of torture, being so close to the outside world but never touching it.
Ian hated this type of weather, it made the days endlessly blurred. He had managed to keep track of his time here by carving the number of days onto the wall with a piece of wire pulled from his spring bed. Had it been any other cell, he would have used the wire to pick the locked door; unfortunately, all the cells in his recently acquired block had an electronic locking system Ian had never come across before.
So he just laid there, growing smellier and hairier.
It was very boring.
The only positive side of his new housing was the, currently frozen, flushing loo, his new "room-mate" and "neighbours".
"Hey Ian, do you think if I piss for long enough, I can thaw the ice?"
However, there were times when he missed his solitude.
His 'roommate' was the young Ethan Rose, barely old enough to be an agent, in Ian's opinion.
Though the boy was nineteen (and a half, like it mattered), Ethan looked like a Year 12, though blessed with clear skin he grew fluffy duck fuzz excuse for facial hair. His maturity was also questionable.
"Ian, I spy..."
"I'm not playing I-Spy with you again Ethan".
It was something he often played with Alex when he was four. It helped him notice the little details, and pass time on long car rides.
"Something beginning with 'S'".
Ian sighed and sat up to look at the boy.
"Is it a spy?"
Ethan hit his bed.
"Dammit, how do you always know?"
Ian ignored him and shut his eyes. He could hear snickering from the other cells around him. How'd he get stuck with this kid?
Ethan shifted around on his bed, springs creaking, and huffed. A moment later, he was chewing his nails.
Ian winced as he heard the boy spit one across the room.
"Don't do that, the room is filthy enough as is".
Ethan laughed and spat another piece of nail across the room.
"That's rich, I'm pretty sure China can smell you".
Ian replied with a silent hand gesture.
Ethan's laughter cut short with the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall.
Two men stopped outside their cell. Ethan shrank back on his bed, while Ian tried to convince his weary body to sit up straighter.
One of the men leered forward.
" 'Ello Rider, How are you this fine evening?"
Ian stood at the direct acknowledgement but said nothing. The man sneered at him, grabbed something from his back pocket and shoved it into Ian's stomach. Hard.
Ian grunted; stomach clenched painfully.
"Brought you a present...".
The man laughed and nudged his friend with his elbow, a little too aggressively as the other man glared at him.
"Do you like it?"
Ian looked down at the thing in his hands. It was a newspaper. Giving the thug a brief curious look, Ian unfolded it and checked the front.
It was the San Francisco Chronicle. Now he was confused, what did he care about San Francisco.
He's English.
It was dated Friday 13th of January, 2012. Ian felt time freeze. The world went silent. He had been a captive for three fucking years.
Alex would be seventeen in a month.
He glanced back up at the man.
"Why'd you give me this? Want anything in particular from the Black Friday sale?"
Ian went to hand the paper back,
"I'm afraid I have no money".
Ian was grabbed through the bars by the front of his shirt and slammed into them.
Ethan gave a cry of protest but did nothing to stop them.
He was shoved back and Ian could taste blood.
"Check page three, you might find something of interest".
Ian stumbled back to his bed and sat. He picked up the paper, doing as instructed. He skimmed the many article titles, trying to find the one the thug was referring to.
He stopped on one title.
Elmer E. Soccer Team Goes To State!
Ian flicked the paper and huffed,
"It's called football".
Then a face in the team photo caught his eye. Ian checked the names.
Alexander Rider-Pleasure, age 16 (Striker, Co-captain).
Ian instantly knew why these men made the trip downstairs to give him a newspaper. It was his nephew. His hair was darker and the last traces of baby fat were gone but it was his boy. Happiness, concern and confusion broiled up inside him, bringing an ill feeling.
Alex was in America, but his name was changed. Not to Starbright, but to something else.
Had he been adopted? Did he think Ian was dead? Most likely, but where was Jack?
Fear for the redhead was definitely going to keep him from sleeping.
His nephew's face was giving a smug half smile to the camera, like he knew that his team would be the one to win, but his eyes held something dark.
Ian was ripped from his thoughts as fast as the paper from his hands. Small paper cuts sliced into his fingers. The first thug had entered the cell to retrieve it; he slammed the cell door shut as he exited. The door gave a metallic buzz as it locked.
"Don't despair Rider, you'll be seeing him again soon enough. We have big plans for you three".
Slapping his mate on the shoulder, they both turned in stride, back up the stairs.
For a moment it was quiet, Ethan's eyes burning questions into his back. Suddenly, the silence was broken by a Liverpudlian accent coming from a neighbouring cell.
"Did he say your name was Rider?"
"Twenty-one year old, Andrew Hilliard was abducted from his Los Angles home last Wednesday night. Hilliard is the tenth man with connections to the Special Forces to go missing in the past three weeks. Police have made no comment to whether these disappearances are connected..."
Yassen Gregorovich turned the volume down on his car stereo as he watched the family across from him move in. The tiniest of smiles danced across his lips as he watched his former mentor domestically juggle cardboard boxes whilst the beautiful blonde woman he recognised from so many years ago, tried to organise the two children out of the car.
The sight was truly hard to believe; had Yassen not been tracking the man for three months, he would not.
John Rider was one of the best spies to have ever existed, capable of casting the best deceptions. And here was the proof.
If only he knew it was about to come crashing down.
All because of one forgotten child.
Another emotion crossed the former assassin's face; barely attainable.
It was time he had a long over-due talk with Alex Rider.
He turned his car keys and the Lexus rumbled to life. He spared one last glance at the family before pulling out of the estate.
AN
So, two years huh? Ouch!
And only leaving you with this. Ouch!
We did originally plan to rewrite to the point of the latest chapter and then publish but we wanted you to know we are doing something.
We have a Villian! And a Plot with no holes! Yay!
No confirm on next update but it won't be two years. Other JTH will be taken down once this one is up to date.
Enjoy it until then.
-Jean & Diana
Edited: 23.01.2017