A Spy's Essential Guidebook to Life

By WarriorLoverInc

Hide in Plain Sight

Alex Rider hated the circus.

He remembered being a boy, all those years ago, when the big-top had fascinated him. The ladies would dance, the elephants would parade, bunnies would appear out of thin air, the lions would roar, the tigers would jump through flaming hoops, and the clowns would perform their merry antics.

Jack Starbright would usually accompany him to one of these showings, but on one rare occasion, his uncle Ian had been present long enough to see him through the show. The entire time Ian's smile had been weak, only nodding when an eight year old Alex enthusiastically pointed something out. The boy's hands had been sticky with sweets then, his face shining with delight, never noticing his uncle's discomfort in his childish glee.

Halfway through the show, Ian had received a call on his Bluetooth. Alex didn't know it then, but he was there for more than just a night out with his nephew.

"Alex?" Ian stood, addressing his charge above the roar of the crowd.

The small boy looked up at him, eyes shining. "Uncle Ian! The horsies can carry the ladies!" he exclaimed.

Ian felt a twinge of guilt in his gut. He loved his brother's son almost as his own, he really didn't want to work now and leave the little boy all by himself in a place as confusing as the circus. But his commanding officer had been adamant: the boy was only cover, no he could not bring accomplices, Alex could take care of himself, work before "play."

The man obviously had no family.

Ian plastered a painfully strained smile on his face, for his sake as much as Alex's. "I'm going to the bathroom, will you be okay?"

His charge nodded. "This is fun, Ian! I'm glad you got time off work to take me."

I wish, his uncle thought, remorse in his eyes.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

But Alex had already gone back to watching the circus. Clowns emerged from backstage, wearing ridiculously baggy clothing, huge, squeaking shoes, rainbow wigs, large, red noses, and enough paint to satisfy even Van Gogh.

Ian slipped between the crowds until he reached the main lobby of the building hosting the circus. It was empty now, everyone was inside the stadium for the show, but as Ian arrived, so did two men with shifty eyes.

The first came through the main doors. He was large and filled his XXL leather coat nicely with nothing but muscle. Two small, beady eyes watched Ian intently as he entered.

The second man was less the body builder, but made up for his lack of muscle in the lean power lurking beneath the surface of his tanned skin. He wore nothing but a pair of khaki pants and a black T-shirt, his appearance of sloppiness completed by the shaggy black hair hanging around his face.

They were MI6, like Ian, but they were both under surveillance for suspected treachery. Each of them had returned recently from foreign intelligence gathering and were instructed to rendezvous with a report of their success or failure.

They eyed each other warily until Ian cleared his throat loudly and spoke up.

"Well, gentlemen," he held out his hands to each of them, "your mission reports."

The disheveled younger man glared at him. "ID?"

Ian smiled. Good man. "Of course, so silly of me." He fished around in his pockets, coming up with ticket stubs and a few scraps of paper Alex had scribbled on before he finally found his MI6 ID. He displayed it quickly before stashing it away.

"Now, the papers," Ian gestured with his hands for the men to hand them over, decidedly all business now that formalities were over.

The younger man pulled a manila folder from under his shirt. No better place to keep valuables then on yourself, Ian guessed.

The muscle-man probed in one of the many gigantic pockets sewn into the leather jacket as Ian received the other's mission report. He shook the young man's hand.

"Good job, soldier," he said, grinning along with the said man, "It's great to work with skill like you."

The man smirked. "Likewise."

Suddenly, he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed into the back of his head. The shaggy man's eyes widened in surprise, and his body tensed in anticipation.

"Don't move," came the gravelly voice of the large man, "I've seen you British spies in action. Don't try anything or I'll shoot."

Ian raised his hands in silent surrender. The younger man glanced quickly at him for instruction, and raised his arms too in response to Ian's nod.

"Now," the gun-toting man's giant hands probed through Ian's pockets. He emptied his coat of his cell phone, wallet, and recently received folder. This he grasped and tucked into the depths of his leather jacket.

Ian himself wasn't as worried as he supposed he should've been. When someone's aiming a loaded pistol at your head, one tended to feel anxious. But there were a few things Ian had going for him that the revealed traitor did not. Ian had the other agent (who was hopefully on his side), and he was their senior in experience and skill. Not to mention he was an official pencil-pusher and MI6 couldn't afford to lose people like him.

A cheer rose for the audience in the distance, oblivious to the situation in the lobby.

After the large man seemed satisfied with his findings, he lashed out at Ian, taking the side of his head with a glancing blow from the butt of his gun, leaving him stunned. Ian's vision brightened and he could've sworn he saw stars.

With a shout, the younger operative threw himself to the floor as a bullet whistled past his shoulder. The cannon from the circus exploded in the same second, masking the shout of the gun.

As Ian recovered, he snapped into action. The traitor was pushing through the front doors towards a car idling on the curb. "Shaggy," as Ian had decided to call the younger agent, pushed himself off the floor and rushed over to Ian.

"Are you okay?" he asked, slightly panicked.

Ian nodded tersely. "Yes, but don't worry about me, the files!"

Shaggy whirled around. The engine of Traitor's car roared like a wild beast and shot off into the evening.

"C'mon!" Ian shouted, and he burst through the front doors, Shaggy at his heels. Revving the engine of his sleek vehicle, he motioned the younger agent into his car, and zoomed off in hot pursuit.

…

Sometime later, the circus closed to boisterous applause and emptied out in minutes. A young Alex Rider stood in the main lobby, clutching a stuffed lion to his chest. He was lost, confused. Ian had gone to the bathroom hours ago, but now Alex was alone. Ian had left him behind.

"Uncle Ian," he called into the gigantic, empty reception area. Voice bordering on tears, he called desperately, "Uncle Ian?"

A shadow fell across Alex's small form. The child looked up, blinking away tears.

Jack Starbright gazed sadly down at her young charge. "Alex? Honey? Are you okay?"

The small boy sniffed. "Jack. Where's Uncle Ian?"

She smiled sadly. "I don't know sweetheart, but let's get you home and in bed." Reaching out, Jack gently took Alex's hand.

Jack never forgave Ian for that night. What kind of man left his child in a circus? Was his job more important than family? What business call was so important that he sped off in the midst of their alone time together?

Ian had grimaced and stood admirably strong through her heated tirade. Alex, wrapped in his warm covers upstairs, had thrown a pillow over his ears in a vain attempt to block out her yelling. He fell asleep slowly that night, wondering why his beloved uncle had left him scared and alone.

…

Presently, Alex brained a clown with a fake hammer. The crowd roared with laughter, and Alex completed the show by tripping over his own feet. Plastering a goofy grin on his face, he pulled an oversized pistol from his belt, and seemingly aimed it randomly at the crowd, shooting confetti into the spectators with a bang!

In reality, he had aimed carefully, instinctively. His target hadn't been random; he had directed a very real bullet through the crowd and between the eyes of a certain individual. They would be frozen in place, killed so fast that their muscles would have seized up in such a fashion that they'd appear alive until someone looked too closely.

His guise of a clown was just that, a guise. No-one would suspect a child assassin, especially if they were a clown. It had been his own choice of disguise. If he had learned anything in his short lifetime, one of the most important lessons had to be a simple one:

"Hide in plain sight."

Because no-one will look twice for someone who's seeking attention, they study those who hide in shadow, not rainbow wigs and bright red noses.

Alex really did loathe the circus. It held too many bad memories.

. . . .

Authors Note: Well, I intend to fill this "guidebook" with lots of unconnected one- or two-shots on the life of a spy in Alex Rider's Universe. It shall feature 'shots including Alex, Ian, John, and Helen Rider. Jack Starbright, Yassen Gregorovich, Ben Daniels, etc., etc. Blah, blah, blah.

So, enjoy!