Thanks to all of my reviewers, especially Apple in an ocean. This chapter is dedicated to you.
The room had an air of shadiness screaming about a disreputable hotel. Drawn curtains were exuding a strong aroma of cold tobacco, and corners were blurred by dust bunnies. Sheets, while not being of a sparkling white, were clean at least. Dale Rierx removed jacket, sweater and shoes before dropping heavily on the bed.
The journey back had been exhausting. Streets were crowded with the police and military forces, as well as journalists and onlookers; he sure had made a fine job into spreading chaos. He had strolled on over his hotel, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the ground, and trying to keep himself inconspicuous. He had feared that Jones would release his picture while he was still in danger of being recognized, in possession of a highly classified file.
All the way along, he had fought a lingering and vicious headache. He had finally reached the entrance of his hotel, utterly worn out. The encounter with the head of MI6 had had unexpected results, and he wasn't able currently to poise himself to analyse the situation. Pain was tracing deep scorching furrows in his head, and prevented him to think clearly.
The young man didn't thought that was the withdrawal syndrome yet, but rather a kind of phantom pain brought by the conflict taking place within him.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Pain is here to not let me think. It's my jail.
Shaking his head, he discarded quickly these thoughts. Introspection was forbidden. He had learnt that a long time ago. He never touched at memories which belonged to the far past: they were locked away behind the wall of pain. He had always knew they were here, but had never thought it was worth the suffering to go there and dig in the mud. Until now, he had been fine with it so far.
And then, Tulip Jones had thrown him off balance with a mere name.
Months of planning... reduced to nothing. Dale frowned harshly and closed his eyes. This surely would hit a blow at his otherwise flawless reputation, but it would not be in vain. A curious tug, coming from the distant depth of his mind, urged him to learn more, despite his reluctance. Maybe it would change something in his life, even if he was content with the way he had led it until now. Are you really?
Taking a deep breath, he turned over, and spread out the folder he had took from Jones.
It was huge, and contained hundreds of pages. His face was displayed on several pictures, which seemed to have been taken in a relatively short time span. His headache was pounding, and the beat was giving rhythm to his reading. Deep echoes of forgotten memories reverberated in him; nothing defined, only nameless feelings and sensations were taking place lazily. Despite the pain, it was definitely interesting, and he continued to scan over the files, eyes catching sometimes a name, sometimes a face.
He spent a long time detailing the features of a somewhat cute redhead with tangled hair, passing a light finger over the curve of her cheek, and idly wondering why he felt his throat constricting like that.
And then, he leafed again, and his eyes fell on the tiny black square stuck between two pages.
A tracker.
Fucking bloody hell.
Tulip entered in the control room, situated in the main building of the SIS. William Dearly, her personal assistant, was on her heels. An entire team was currently working on various devices, and a huge screen was displaying the map of London, along with few live video images of a shady street of Brixton. A frenzied activity was buzzing in the atmosphere.
"Report."
A tall man, with a hawk profile, was standing with hands casually clasped behind his back. He turned slightly in her direction, without taking his eyes away from the map.
"Your tracker hadn't moved for nearly twenty minutes. SAS units are currently dispatching themselves around the hotel. Air units are on their way, and will be operational in two minutes."
"Thank you, Quentin. Remember, your utmost priority is to bring in the target alive." Her words were soft, yet clipped, allowing no contradiction.
Quentin Saunders nodded. "Arrangements have been made along these lines."
"Good." She popped a peppermint in her mouth, and seated herself in a deep, comfortable chair on the back of the room. "Let's the show begin," she added with a wry smile.
Dale jumped on his bare feet, and put hurriedly his shoes on, fumbling with the lacing. He slipped on his leather jacket and grabbed his backpack before swinging open the door. He could now hear the barely audible rumble of a helicopter approaching. He bolted in the dimly lit hallway and ran in the opposite direction from the main stairs. Removing a gun from his bag, he put it between his waistband and his back, before throwing the rucksack away.
Approaching rapidly the end of the corridor, he used his momentum to power the kick that slammed down the wooden door of the box room. The ruckus seemed to have drawn unwanted attention, because Dale heard faint hurried words coming from the stairs. He reached the small dirty window above his head, opened it up, and hauled himself through it in one fluid motion.
Studying assiduously the blueprints of any location he planned to use as his quarters was a basic prerequisite. That wasn't the first time he was forced to leave a place hastily, but it was certainly new for him to have something as resourceful as the MI6 hot on his trail. He hoped the escape route he had noticed before would be still passable.
The strong blow of the nightly wind felt like a slap after the quiet warmness of his hotel room. Crouching outside, on a thin cornice situated roughly a dozens of meters from the ground; he cast a rapid glance to evaluate the distance to the wall opposite. It was a narrow back alley enshrouded with shadows. Taking a look below, he could see faint movements, too fast and too well organized to belong to someone simply passing by. He cursed under his breath. He would need not only his skills and experience, but a lot of luck as well to get out of this mess.
Leaping forward, he caught as silently as he could the edge of the nearest window. He then grasped the gutter and progressed quickly toward the upper moulding. Hands firmly positioned, he yanked his body on it.
"He's here!" The cry was coming from the window he had used to get out. Shots were fired. Dale ducked his head instinctively and sprinted toward the corner. Instead of the sharp, neat noise of bullets burying themselves in the wall, there were eerie sounds of shattering glass.
Tranquillizer guns.
Adrenalin pumping in his blood, headache totally forgotten, Dale turned sharply over the corner and jumped few meters below toward the roof of the next building. He landed with a roll, followed by a fluid pull-up that allowed him to resume his run without loss of momentum. He vaulted obstacles scattered across his path, using his hands as often as he could to skip pipes and low wall.
Never slowing, rushing through the night several meters above the ground, he let the sheer feeling of freedom intertwining itself with the excitation caused by the chase. His body took the control, muscles and sense of balance leading him further and further, liberating him from cumbersome thoughts.
When he almost believed he had gained a comfortable head start on his enemies, a blinding light suddenly swept over the roof, to then lock itself on him. Cursing again while raising his hands to protect his face, Dale crashed into a vent before crouching in its deep shadow.
Breathing heavily, he risked a rapid glance over it. A helicopter was hovering nearby, sending dusts and slivers of autumn leaf flying into his eyes. The searchlight didn't allow him to see anything in the aircraft, but he was fairly certain that sharpshooters were currently trying to lock their rifle on him.
Scanning the area, he analysed the situation. Maybe if he managed to stay in blind spots while remaining on motion... his thought stopped abruptly when he spotted a second helicopter approaching.
Goddammit.
"Target is on motion, Sir. He seems to have left the tracker behind."
Quentin Saunders nodded. "Don't lose him. I want to know his position at every second."
"He left the surrounded hotel through the north side, and he's currently climbing the next building." The liaison officer paused as he listened something said in his earpiece. "He's going fast, he's already on another roof."
"Deploy air units, and I want our quickest men after him. Try to herd him where we want him." The tone of Saunders was filled with authority.
"Understood."
Tulip taped lightly the armrest with her short nails, while keeping her chin in her palm. So far, everything went according to plan. She let out a light puff of breath, almost a sigh. She was on edge. Deeply, she was convinced that the hand of fate had played a role. Seeing Alex again, so many years after his disappearance in that underground passage, metamorphosed in someone entirely new and almost unrecognizable couldn't be entirely the result of mere chance. She had been able to confirm the identity he went by now, namely Vesper, a hit man who had a fearsome reputation. The preliminary inquiry had demonstrated that he had planned all the prior events alone, and had been close to succeed.
Far too close.
Six months ago, the SIS had obtained anonymous tips about an obscure protocol named Mnemos, involving torture and brainwashing. It had made little sense at the time.
Now, she couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine. Thankfully, she had been able to connect the dots quickly, and evoking few key names in front of Alex had saved her life. These thoughts reminded her that even if they were able to bring in Alex alive, the game was far from being won. She leaned toward her personal assistant.
"William, could you please ensure that the room where he has stayed is thoroughly searched. Smithers and the science department will need rapidly a sample of the chemical substance to learn how to counteract it."
"I'm on it, Mrs Jones."
Men were hurtling down along ropes from the second helicopter. Tensing, Dale leapt over the vent and bolted toward the edge of the roof. He felt something pass quickly just next his ear before losing itself in the darkness. Two other close whistles confirmed him that he was at least on the line of fire of three snipers. He dived forward, put his hands on the ledge and jumped into the emptiness. In the fall, he twisted to face the wall, and tried to slow his descent as best as he could. Grabbing at any excrescence, ripping his hands skin open and trying to not spin, he finally managed to grasp the railing of a thin balcony. He let out a muffled cry when his right shoulder nearly dislocated.
Clenching his jaw, he glanced below before transferring his grip on the balcony floor. The young man swung his body and somersaulted, the trajectory of his jump leading him to land smoothly on a breezeway. He then reached with agility the ground of the street. It was well-groomed and nicely tree-lined, and few pedestrians were strolling down leisurely, surely on the path of coming back to home.
Dale thought rapidly about taking an hostage, but he discarded quickly the idea. He needed to move fast. However, he could use people as temporary shield, and for that he needed to reach a more populated area. Night club, there's one close by. Trying to stay under the patchy protection of the branches, which were swaying back and forth under the furious wind caused by the two helicopters, he ran toward a small alley, obstructed by wheelie bins and mounds of crates. He slowed to catch his breath, but his break was cut short by the sudden noises of determined footfalls behind him.
"Freeze!" An entire unit of SAS men was running toward the lane as they aimed at him.
Dale swiftly pulled out his gun and fired in his back blindly, while sprinting forward, dodging tranquiliser darts and obstacles. According to the sounds following him, the men were quick and trained to move rapidly through urban environment. He would have trouble to shake them off.
Gathering swiftly a dislodged tile laying on his way, he passed a bin before stopping suddenly out of sight and flattened his back against the wall, taking advantage of the darkness. He threw the tile forward, hoping the noise would lead his pursuers to believe he had continued to move.
An almost desperate feeling pooled at the back of his mind, along the pain and the exhaustion. Closing briefly his eyes, he gathered himself and forced his tired muscles to relax.
One, two soldiers went over his location. He raised his gun, and aimed for a split second. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, someone crashed into him, sending his head bang against the brick wall. Dizziness washed over him, and he felt the weapon drop off his limp fingers. Fighting the daze, he dodged the fist aimed at his face and retaliated with simultaneous hits with his knee and his elbow. The latter was blocked but his knee connected, causing the man to suddenly double over. Dale straightened as he sent a powerful uppercut at the military man head, effectively knocking him out cold.
The victory turned out to be a hollow one when a dart buried itself in his thigh. Dale removed it immediately, but a biting frost was already diffusing rapidly in his limb, which menaced to give out at any moment. He searched for his gun, but it was apparently stuck under a heavy unconscious man. Dale leaned on the wall before sliding to the ground, breathing deeply, trying to slow his heart. Almost closing his eyes, and managing to appear even weaker than he felt, he waited few seconds for the two men to reach him. He slid his left hand under his pants leg and grabbed the handle of one of his knives.
One of them loomed over and grabbed his right hand. Dale suddenly sprang; blade unsheathed, and struck the weapon in the shoulder of his opponent. Grunting, the soldier tried to shake him off with a head butt. Dale dodged partially, and received the hit on his ear.
He let out a loud curse. He was rapidly overwhelmed, having lost the use of his leg. Suddenly stopping to oppose any resistance, Dale dropped and used the loss of balance to bring the soldier above him while keeping his back against the ground. He pushed his opponent violently with his foot to throw him over, and used his sudden freedom to snatch his other knife concealed under his shirt.
A second dart went puncturing his skin, but this time just under his collarbone. The lightheadness intensified immediately after, sending the environment spin wildly. He tried to rise, slowly, carefully, but ended crashing back against the ground. His limbs seemed to weight far more than usual. Shadows crept at the edge of his vision, slowly darkening the world.
Jackal let out a breath, gun still aimed at the unmoving target. "Are you okay?" Worry was faintly colouring his voice, and he crouched next to his unconscious partner to check his vitals.
"That was a tough one." Snake grimaced, before carefully palpating his shoulder wound. It was not deep and the blow had been absorbed by his flak jacket. He pulled a plastic handcuff out of his military jacket, turned over the target's body with a small grunt and tied solidly his hands behind his back. "How's Wolf?" He asked, while putting a black sack around the head of the young man.
"Pulse is strong." Jackal lifted up an eyelid and checked the light response. "No mydriasis." He nodded to himself before pulling out his radio. "HQ, this is K Unit. Target has been apprehended."
After profound darkness, a dim light seemed to bath his mind. His senses were slowly returning. He could perceive the distant noise of computers functioning, as well as indistinct voices speaking about something. He tried to focus, to snatch snippets of information, and ended to frown mentally at the headache that clawed ruthlessly at his brain.
In spite of his will, he must had let out that he was awake, because someone suddenly leaned over him to brush his forehead. The hand was cool, light, and oddly comforting.
"Alex Rider, my young friend. I'm truly glad that you decided to finally come back to us." The voice had a timbre of a cello, and was distinctively male.
Dale opened his eyes. A light-brown haired man, sparks of humour inhabiting his blue eyes, was smiling at him. He was maybe in his late thirties, and seemed to be wiry under his blinding Hawaiian shirt.
Dale frowned and answered dryly. "I don't remember having decided anything."
"Quite wrong, Alex. Mrs Jones and I have discussed your case these last few hours. She is convinced that you have indeed taken the decision by yourself. I'm leaning to believe it, too."
The young man blinked, and groaned when the pain flooded his mind. "My name's not Alex," he muttered darkly. "Who are you?"
"I'm Derek Smithers, engineer, among other things I do." His smile seemed genuine. "We've worked together in the past."
Dale tried to raise his hand to rub his temple, and found out he couldn't move a limb. "If you know me, why I'm tied like this?"
"Ah, but before envisioning any full and mutual trust, we have to break your conditioning, young man." Smithers' lips dropped into a sad line. "I'm afraid that you'll have to suffer quite a bit for that." He turned over and went to a near lab bench to snatch something. Coming back, Smithers waved a tiny vial filled with an amber coloured liquid. Dale felt his mouth get dry.
"Give it to me." His tone sounded very harsh, even at his own ears. He couldn't see anything aside the drug, and it was like a switch had been turned on: his overall uneasiness had morphed into aching and yearning. Hours, even an entire day, had surely passed since his failed flight. Smithers shook his head apologetically.
"To break the hold, you have to giving it up. We'll help you during the withdrawal, but if I have to believe what I read about..." He gestured vaguely. "...all you've been through, it will not be easy."
Dale clenched tightly his fists, anger rising rapidly. "You can't keep me strapped here."
Smithers checked the intravenous drip connected to the young man arm, before sending him a somewhat dismal glance. "Don't worry; you'll not be alone during your ordeal."
Deeply, Dale knew it was useless to threaten the man or, worse, beg him. That fact didn't stop him to rant against him for hours. At least, it gave him a let-out to his need. Slowly, but surely, the crave intensified.
It was raging in him now, scattering his thoughts in every direction. The wall of pain, having menaced him all his life, would soon fell over him to rip his soul into shreds. Awful memories, too atrocious to be remembered, were lurking, waiting for the right moment to swamp him under their horrible embrace.
Though, a small candle light was fighting the storm, stubborn against the furious winds. Dale tried to focus on it: he couldn't let it be blown out. He knew deeply that this tiny flame was his core, his identity.
Feeble yet obstinate, fragile yet defiant: if he could protect it, it would be easier for him to face the pain.
If he could hold long enough, maybe the dim light would turn into a blazing dawn.
"How many hours?"
"Fourteen. And it keeps going worse and worse."
"God. I hate this."
Grim lines were creasing Derek's features. "He's not reacting to any of our stimuli now. I hope we have taken the right decision, Mrs Jones. Maybe we could have better results with a softer and slower method."
"You have discussed about this thoroughly with experts, Derek." She patted him on the shoulder. "Now is not the time to have regrets." They were standing next to each other in front of a window, thankfully soundproof. Alex were screaming behind it, still solidly tied to his bed. He was babbling incoherent words between his cries.
Derek sighed. "I have to return to his side."
Mrs Jones simply nodded, keeping her eyes locked to the restless, agitated young man.
"Dr Three's dead."
Dale was staring at the ceiling, slumped in his chair. "What a loss, I'll thoroughly mourn him for... let's see... two seconds."
He heard the soft rustling of shifting cloth, and Li Feng asked: "Do you know what happened to him?"
Dale let a slow smirk grow on his features.
"Not the faintest idea," he lied.
.
.
.
"They surrendered."
"What? Already?"
"They heard you were coming."
"You're kidding, right?"
"I wish I were. Honestly, Vesper, working with you spoil all the fun."
.
.
.
Dale slipped the piano string around the neck of his target with deft, assured hands. His prey died shortly after, almost without a sound. The young man then poured gasoline all over the place, and set the flat aflame. All traces vanished in the raging, glorious blaze.
.
.
.
"You're good with firearms. But your training is far from being over. Let's see how you'll fare with close range weapons. Bring me this katana over there, I'll show you the true path of an accomplished warrior."
.
.
.
The young man stepped in the room. For the first time of his life, only a faint ache was coursing through his body. He smiled, content, and sat on the chair facing the very small Chinese man.
The man leaned over, eyeing him critically.
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Dale Rierx." There had not been the slightest of hesitation.
The Chinese man smiled, creasing oddly his waxen face.
"Good. I'm pleased to meet you, Dale. You have a lot to learn."
.
.
.
"Who are you?"
"Alex... Alex Rider." Electricity set aflame every nerve. Alex hadn't the force to scream. He hadn't even the force to think. He didn't know since when and why he was here, why he was suffering, why he was asked this question over and over.
Idly, he was wondering if it was the good answer. Those times when he had not known how to respond, pain hadn't immediately followed.
Maybe that wasn't his name after all.
"Who are you?"
"I... I don't know..." The teenager shook slightly his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear his thoughts. "Do you know who I am?"
A chilling smile, a vicious gleam in these dark eyes.
"You're like wet clay, boy. Your identity needs to be reshaped, and fortunately, clay is malleable. I'll just need to make a ball of it before reshaping it at my convenience. And in the same fashion, I just need the letters of your previous name to make you a new one. I am your creator, and you owe me everything, even your name." The smile grew wider. "You are Dale Rierx, and you are my perfect, beautiful tool."
In his mind, his name shattered, falling in a million pieces. Oddly, slivers fell in a curious shape, and seemed to reorganize themselves, forming ancient and shimmering paths.