A pack of three plain white tees. Two pairs of no-name jeans. A three-pack of boxers. A six-pack of socks. A pair of secondhand Adidas sneakers, half a size too big. A gray, hooded sweatshirt jacket. And all of it was for him.
Alex studied his reflection in the full-length mirror. He didn't look quite like himself, but at least he didn't look like a hospital patient anymore.
After Alex had finished his sandwich, Yassen had wrapped his swollen ankle in an Ace bandage and brought out the brown bags Alex had seen earlier. The clothes weren't much, but it was more than Alex could ask for. Feeling increasingly guilty about his outburst in the kitchen, he had gingerly limped upstairs under Yassen's supervision and changed into his new clothes. He felt almost normal again as he brushed his teeth and combed his hair, consoled by the routine motions of everyday life.
Now, as he turned around to examine his new look, Alex realized that everything about his appearance was utterly generic, nondescript, as forgettable as could be. He had become Johnny Doe. No part of him stood out at all. Of course, Yassen probably wanted it that way, especially if what he said was true.
"I have to be someplace in a little while," he had told Alex while gathering the dirty dishes. "I could drop you off at the beach on my way. The fresh air will do you good."
Alex had been utterly staggered by the thought of being left on his own. He immediately began to formulate an escape plan. "Sure," he said, trying to keep his tone nonchalant. "I'd like that."
And now, roughly half an hour later, Alex bit his lip as he took the stairs one at a time. Between his left ankle and his right thigh, he barely had a leg to stand on. The stitches in his arm were stinging, too. He held back his tears and tried think of it as all part of the deal—enduring a few minutes of pain for the sake of escape. In a little while, he hoped, he would be on a train or a bus heading for home with this whole unpleasant experience vanishing behind him.
Yassen was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, wearing his leather jacket. He looked up as Alex approached and waited patiently for the boy to reach the floor. His expression was as unconcerned and indifferent as ever. "You were more careful this time," he noted. "Good. You are learning."
Alex flushed, annoyed and embarrassed. He followed Yassen through the kitchen and the adjoining laundry room, and out to the carport. The air was mild and humid, carrying with it the smell of sand and salt. The sea must be close by. Alex's heart began to pound excitedly. He was almost free.
There was a white BMW 1 Series M parked in the carport, late model, with darkly tinted windows. Alex noted the license number, 4841 CKB, with a frown. The stars of the European Union hovered above the letter E. They were somewhere in Spain, Alex realized. Well, that would explain the style of the house and its décor, as well as the balmy climate.
There was another surprise waiting beside the BMW: a gleaming black Kawasaki ZZR1400. A very popular motorcycle worldwide, it had a 1352 cc, four-stroke engine and 6-speed transmission, making it the most powerful sport bike of its manufacture. Yassen slid into the saddle while Alex continued to admire the sleek chassis and shining stainless steel exhaust pipes. He wasn't a gearhead by any means, but being a young man, he couldn't help his fascination with motorized transport. And this had to be the coolest bike he'd ever seen.
"Come on," said Yassen, jerking his head toward the rear.
Alex wasn't too enthusiastic at the prospect of swinging his leg over the motorcycle's back end, and much less so at the thought of having to cling to Yassen during the ride, but at this point he was willing to go to extremes if it meant escaping captivity. He almost felt like a trapped fox trying to gnaw off its own leg.
It took a few awkward, painful attempts before Alex finally managed to straddle the rear seat. He grunted with discomfort as he tried to find a good position for his legs while still keeping his distance from Yassen. Frankly, he didn't want to get any closer than this.
"You okay?" Yassen asked over his shoulder. He had put on a pair of Oakley sunglasses, which made him look fast and dangerous. Sort of like this motorcycle.
"I'm fine," muttered Alex.
He watched as Yassen deftly went through the motions of starting the bike, inserting the key into the ignition, adjusting the steering column, flicking the ignition switch, and pressing the electronic start button. The motorcycle growled to life like a predatory cat.
"What about helmets?" Alex started to ask, but was cut off by Yassen revving the engine and releasing the clutch. No helmets, then. Alex threw his arms around Yassen's waist and hugged his back as they pulled out of the driveway and shot off.
There was something painfully ironic about hanging onto a killer for dear life, but Alex wasn't in the mood to laugh about it now. He felt horribly exposed without a helmet, perched on the back of a motorcycle that designed for speed, not safety. The balmy wind whipped through his hair as Yassen shifted gears and went faster, passing houses with stucco siding and Spanish-style roofs, bright green manicured lawns, palm trees, tropical flowers and rock gardens. The terrain was flat, and when Alex raised his head to look over Yassen's shoulder, he saw open sky and blue water straight ahead. The ocean was barely a kilometer away.
Alex kept his eyes open, even though the breeze was making them water. He wanted to see where he was going. Cars lined the sidewalk, and Alex got the impression that this was a wealthy neighborhood. He spotted a woman bending over a flower bed, wearing a sun hat and gardening gloves. A jogger passed by on the sidewalk. A man on the other side of the street walked his dog while talking on his cell phone. Did these people have any idea that an assassin was living just a few doors down?
They crossed two intersections before the road curved right and began to run parallel to the beach, stretching out uninterrupted for the better part of a mile. Alex looked to his left and took in the brilliant white sand and turquoise water. The ocean sprawled across the horizon like a huge blue cloak, calm and glittering and beautiful. It surprised Alex that there weren't more beachgoers today. He wondered if the tourist season was over or if perhaps it was just an odd day of the week. The weather was pleasant, the skies fair—much better than the cold, gray conditions of Norway. Alex shivered at the memory.
Yassen shifted to a higher gear and the Kawasaki glided down the wide, two-lane road. Palm trees whipped by as they passed over a canal and entered more urban territory. Alex looked ahead and saw the curve of a huge bay in the distance, crowded with boats and piers. That must be the edge of the city. He could see clusters of terra cotta roofs and cypress trees, modern hotels and high rise apartments. A massive cathedral stood near the water, watching the comings and goings of the colorful boats in the harbor. Alex absorbed the sights like a sponge; he would need to know major landmarks if he hoped to navigate the city.
Yassen pulled over at a small parking lot beside the beach and stopped the bike. Alex took it as his cue to get off and clumsily began to crawl out of the seat. He slipped only once, falling against Yassen as he was lifting his leg over. Yassen reached out and grasped Alex's uninjured arm, holding it securely while the boy found his balance again.
"Sorry," Alex muttered, picking himself up and stepping back uncomfortably. "How long will you be gone?"
"An hour or so. Enjoy it."
I will, Alex thought acidly. "Should I meet you back here, then?"
"No," said Yassen, revving the bike. "I will find you."
The Kawasaki snarled and shot to the end of the parking lot. Suddenly it slowed and Yassen leaned to the side, planting his boot on the asphalt and using his leg to whip the bike around 180 degrees. Alex flinched as the bike blasted past him and disappeared down the road, the Russian handling it as if he had raced motorcycles all his life. Alex felt the smallest twinge of admiration, but he quickly put it out of his mind. He had more important things to think about right now.
Drawing in a deep breath, he turned to look at the shore. Finally, he was on his own. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a black leather wallet. His little stumble getting off the bike had been a success after all. He would have expected better from the invincible Yassen Gregorovich, but perhaps the assassin had let his guard down in the presence of his helpless, pathetic guest. Alex grinned and opened the wallet.
It was empty.
The amusement abruptly dropped from his face as he began to riffle through the flaps and folds, looking for cash or ID or anything that could help him. But there was nothing. Positively nothing. It had been cleaned out.
Alex threw the wallet onto the pavement and cursed. Yassen had done this on purpose. There could be no other explanation. He probably didn't even carry a wallet. He was probably laughing at Alex this very second, completely smug and satisfied. No doubt he delighted in this sort of thing, getting Alex's hopes up and then dashing them to pieces with a cheap decoy. Alex was so filled with disgust and contempt that he was trembling.
After a few more moments of stewing, he bent down and picked up the wallet, tucking it into his back pocket. Fine. If Yassen wanted to play games, Alex was up for it. So what if he didn't have any money—he could still find a way out of here. He had gotten out of some pretty hopeless situations over the past year and a half, and he wasn't about to let a sadistic Russian stop him now.
Alex pointed himself toward the bay and started limping.
"Disculpe, señor?"
Felipe Garcia, a local fisherman and captain of the Caterina, looked up from his nets at the teenage boy standing on the dock. He stood with a smile, amused by this seemingly lost young tourist. "Yes, my friend!" he answered in heavily-accented English. "What can I do for you?"
Alex ignored the English and replied in Spanish, "I know this sounds strange, but could you tell me where I am?"
Felipe laughed. "You must be very lost if you have to ask that. You are in beautiful Palma de Mallorca, the jewel of the Balearic Islands."
Alex felt his stomach twist. Balearic Islands? "Do you know where I could find a map?"
Felipe pointed up the coast. "Yes, there are many tourist shops along Vicari Joaquim where you can find maps and guides. But do not let them hassle you into buying one—you can get them for free at most places."
"Thank you . . . Um, do you ever go to the mainland?"
"Not on Caterina!" Felipe chuckled, patting the peeling red hull of his boat. "She is too small to cross the sea. Her job is to fish. Are you interested in sightseeing?"
Alex shrugged. "You could say that."
"My brother, Miguel, he does boat tours all around the island. He goes to Tortosa once a week to visit Mamá, but only if the weather is good. The sea can be very unpredictable this time of year."
"I see. So are there no boats that go to the mainland, aside from your brother's?"
"Oh, no, there are others, mostly for the tourists. There are ferries to the mainland, but most people fly. It is cheaper and faster than by sea."
Alex raked a hand through his hair and tried to smile. "All right. Thank you very much, sir."
"Of course, my friend. And if you go to Miguel, tell him Felipe sent you!"
Forty-five minutes later, Alex found himself sitting on the sand, fliers and pamphlets advertising beautiful Palma de Mallorca stuffed into his pockets, staring out at the wide blue ocean like a prisoner looking through the bars of his cell. He was tired. He was angry. His legs hurt. His ankle was sore. He had no money. And he was trapped on an island with an assassin and no chance of escaping.
Maybe if he wasn't recovering from laser lacerations and gunshot wounds, he would have been able to stow away on a boat. However, stowing away was uncomfortable business, even for someone without Alex's injuries. He wouldn't last an hour sitting cramped in a cargo hold, and hitching a ride on an airplane was practically impossible—there just weren't enough places to hide.
So that was it. Unless he was planning to swim for it, Alex was effectively stuck here. No wonder Yassen had been so willing to leave him on his own. He knew there was no way for an injured, penniless teenager to get off the island. The empty wallet just added insult to injury.
Alex massaged his aching thigh. He wasn't a smoker, but suddenly he was craving a cigarette. Everything was just so horribly wrong, so frustratingly hopeless. He couldn't even call for help. The special cell phone Smithers had given him had been confiscated by Reinhardt, and he had no idea what MI6's number was anyway. He sincerely doubted he would find it in a foreign phonebook. Jack was at her parents' house in Washington DC and Tom's parents were still arguing over who should pay for their son's cellular services . . . so Alex was completely on his own. He wished he had more friends. He could really use one right now.
He furiously chewed on his thumbnail, mulling over his thoughts as he watched two young women toss a Frisbee back and forth. A pair of die-hard surfers were lounging on their boards a quarter mile from the shore. A family of four was sitting at a table, drinking cappuccinos and playing with souvenirs. Mallorca was a beautiful place, but Alex couldn't enjoy it. Not as long as he was stranded here.
He became aware of the distant buzz of a motorcycle and wondered if it was Yassen. I'll find out soon enough, he thought glumly, rising to his feet.
Less than a minute later, the black Kawasaki slowed to a stop in the parking area of nearby surf shop. Alex limped over, glowering.
"Having fun?" Yassen asked over the rumbling engine. His hair was windswept and disheveled, as if he'd been racing all over the island for the past hour.
"A blast," muttered Alex. He reached into his pocket and handed the empty wallet back to its owner. "I think you dropped this."
Yassen smiled mysteriously. "I was wondering what happened to that. Thank you."
It took every ounce of Alex's willpower not to erupt then and there. He managed to contain his fury with a scowl and climb onto the back of the bike, latching his arms around Yassen's waist. Slowly they turned and pulled out onto the road, Yassen driving at a much safer speed than when he had arrived. Alex didn't even bother making note of the street signs or house numbers as they passed. It would make no difference—he wasn't going anywhere. Only a miracle could save him from this place, and Alex had the feeling he had run out of those a long time ago.
He went straight to his room when they returned, refusing to talk to Yassen or acknowledge any of his statements, such as the one he made about dinner being at seven o'clock. Alex didn't care. He wasn't going to allow Yassen to jerk his feelings around by feeding him. It was probably going to be something disgusting anyway—oyster casserole with sheep brain pudding. What was Yassen getting at, pretending to be a normal, caring person? He wanted something, Alex was sure of it. He just didn't know what it could be.
He swallowed another ibuprofen and collapsed into bed, listening to the birds and the ocean and the occasional car whispering down the street. He thought about his hopeless situation, his rapidly diminishing options, Yassen's strange behavior. He must have been more tired than he thought, because it wasn't long before he had fallen asleep, sprawled on top of the covers as the afternoon sun gradually sank lower and lower in the sky.
He awoke to the sound of a dog barking in the distance and the smell of something delicious cooking. He pulled himself up, wincing a little at the stiffness in his arm and legs, and went to the French doors. The house sat on a corner, the balcony overlooking the side yard and the roofs of neighboring houses. There was an empty lot across the street, allowing for an almost unobstructed view leading down to the ocean. The sky was already turning red-orange. Alex wondered what time it was, and where that smell was coming from.
He carefully made his way downstairs, aware of the sound of someone moving about in the kitchen as he drew closer. He heard drawers sliding open, metal utensils rattling, glass clinking. He had a flashbulb memory of Jack standing at the stove in her crazy pink socks, her reddish-blond hair pulled back, stirring a steaming pot of spaghetti noodles and singing along with the radio. She would dance from one task to another, chopping a head of lettuce or sampling the sauce, then look up and smile when she noticed Alex. "I'll make ya a dinner ya can't refuse!" she'd say, imitating Marlon Brando from The Godfather. Alex would just grin and shake his head. She was such a character.
Timidly, Alex stood at the kitchen door and peered in. There was a covered pot and a saucepan on the stove, steaming quietly. A cutting board littered with asparagus tips and mushroom stems sat nearby. Shakers of spices, skins of onions and garlic cloves, and empty food packaging were everywhere to be seen. Yassen was leaning over the island, reading a dog-eared paperback and wearing a black apron. He didn't look as weird in it as Alex would have thought. Chefs could be pretty dangerous, he supposed, especially when they had access to meat cleavers and other pointy tools. Maybe that's what assassins did when they retired—they went into the food business.
The image of Yassen Gregorovich as a short-tempered, ball-busting, knife-wielding chef flitted through Alex's mind for a brief second, and he smiled against his will. Of course, that was when Yassen chose to look up at him. To Alex's surprise, he smiled back.
"Hi," he said causally. "Hungry?"
"I didn't know you cooked," Alex said, resuming his cold demeanor as he wandered into the kitchen.
Yassen shrugged. "I know a few things." He stood up and closed the book—a Spanish edition of The Old Man and the Sea. Alex would have thought The Art of War or Mein Kampf would have been more suited to Yassen's literary tastes. Frankly, Alex was surprised he had any.
"When's dinner?"
"Ten minutes," said Yassen, moving to the stove. "Want to help?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"You always have a choice, Alex."
Alex smiled sourly. "I'm afraid I don't know anything about cooking."
"You can set the table, then." Yassen pointed. "Plates are in that cupboard, forks and knives here, glasses there."
"What about the fingerbowls? You want me to put those out, too?"
Yassen nonchalantly stirred the contents of the saucepan. "No. I abhor cannibalism."
Alex was silent for a full ten seconds. "That was the stupidest joke I have ever heard in my life."
"I never said I was a comedian. The plates, please?"
Still scowling, Alex reluctantly gathered the dishes.
They ate dinner in the kitchen, another informality that reminded Alex of home. That was something he and Jack usually did, saving the dining room and the good china for when Ian came home or they had the occasional guest over. Alex had beef liver with asparagus and brown rice; Yassen was having bass filet with mushrooms and snap peas.
It was surreal to sit across from the assassin and watch him eat, balancing his fork and knife in his hands, cutting precise, bite-sized pieces, chewing thoroughly and observing proper etiquette. It was so odd, so out of place. In Alex's mind, Yassen should be wearing combat boots and grimy BDUs, hacking at raw meat with a Bowie knife and drinking liquor straight from the bottle. Not this jeans-and-loafers, red-wine-and-table-manners version of a man he knew to be a notorious killer. Alex's bewilderment began to culminate into a single word; a word that, halfway through dinner, finally blurted from his lips.
"Why?" he cried, dropping his fork with a clatter. "Just . . . why?"
Yassen gazed at Alex over the rim of his glass. "Did you not already ask this question today?"
"Yes, but you didn't answer it."
"Are you sure? Or did you just not like the answer?"
Alex fumbled for words, but Yassen held up his hand.
"Before you work yourself into a frenzy, why don't you tell me about your day? Surely you learned something while you were on your own this afternoon."
Alex's mouth hung open for a moment, shocked speechless. Didn't Yassen care how upset he was? No, he probably just wanted to gloat about Alex's failure to escape. Well, fine. No sense in trying to cover it up anymore, was there?
Alex clenched his napkin and glared across the table at Yassen. "This is the island of Mallorca," he said, "the largest of the Balearic Islands off the east coast of Spain. Its capital is Palma, about four kilometers west of this house. The primary industry is tourism and the official languages are Catalan and Spanish." He paused.
Yassen nodded and set down his glass. "Keep going."
"It's 200 kilometers to the mainland. There are no bridges or roadways connecting to Mallorca. The only way on or off is by plane or boat. There are ferries to the mainland, but most visitors travel by air, and the fishing boats don't go to the mainland, so unless I rob a bank to buy a plane ticket and a fake passport, I'm not getting off this island any time soon. I'm trapped and completely at your mercy and my life is in your hands." He threw his napkin down angrily. "There. Isn't that what you wanted to hear?"
Yassen's eyebrows arched as if he were genuinely surprised. "You mean you don't like it here?"
"No!" Alex shouted, dropping both hands onto the table and rattling the flatware. "What sort of a stupid question is that? Why the hell would I want to be here when I could be home, where I belong?"
The Russian leaned back in his chair with a frown. "I'm sorry. I thought you would appreciate having a safe place to recover from your injuries."
"Safe?" Alex sputtered. "What makes you think I'm safe with you?"
Yassen stared directly into Alex's eyes and lifted his shirt to reveal a matte black Heckler & Koch .45 pistol holstered to his belt. "There is no safer place to be in this world," he said levelly, "than under the arm of an assassin."
Alex's skin crawled. Maybe it was the sight of the gun. Maybe it was Yassen's words. But it was probably the realization of the truth that left him so stunned.
Yassen put down his shirt, leaned forward, and folded his arms on the table. "Alex," he said gently, "I have been an assassin for seventeen years. I have never apologized for killing a man . . . but I think it's time that I should." He paused to exhale. "I am sorry for taking Ian from you. Sorrier than perhaps you will ever know. I can only hope you will someday find it in your heart to forgive me."
Alex felt his eyes prickle with tears. Not because of Yassen's strangely emotional tone, but because, after almost two full years of a life turned upside-down, this was the closest thing to closure he was ever going to get.
Yassen continued, "But if you cannot, I will understand. I have caused you great pain. There is nothing I can do to bring your uncle back, but I can at least look after the son of the only friend I have ever had.
"I loved your father, Alex. I would have given my life for him, but I never got the chance. Rescuing you in Norway was the closest I have come to fulfilling that promise. I was happy to do it, as I was happy to bring you here, to my home, where I could look after you. I did not kidnap you with evil intentions. I do not plan to torture or assault you. I want only to be a part of your life for this short time, to protect you as I would have protected John . . . as John protected me, and took care of me so many years ago."
The Russian let his gaze fall to the table. "But if you are uncomfortable here, if you cannot stand to be near me, you are free to go whenever you please. But if you leave, you must not return. There are people who would be interested to know I am alive, such as your MI6 friends, so when you go, there is no coming back. That is how it must be . . . But if you would stay here for a little while, I will make sure that you are cared for and will be returned home safely, and in better condition than when you arrived."
Silence fell. Across the table, Alex wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"So," he said hoarsely, "you want me to stay."
Yassen nodded. "Yes. Very much."
"Because you feel like you're repaying a favor to my dad. Isn't that right? Because you feel guilty about killing my uncle and now you want keep me here so you can play doctor or, or daddy or whatever it is in that sick mind of yours—"
"No. Alex, you—"
Alex sprang from his chair with anguish burning in his eyes. "You've made it so that I have no choice but to stay here! You've taken away my freedom and turned me into weak, needy little boy who would die without you, and if I refuse to play your game, then I'm just an ungrateful brat, aren't I?"
Yassen sat utterly still and stared at the livid teenager before him.
"Go fuck yourself," croaked Alex, then turned and stormed from the table.
A few moments later there came the uneven rhythm of Alex marching up the stairs, followed by the tremendous slam of his bedroom door.
Yassen sighed heavily and rested his elbows on the table, cradling his face in his hands.
Outside, the setting sun was bathing the sky in shades of pink and orange. Jets left vapor trails drifting alongside the clouds, mixing with the last rays of dying light. Sailboats and yachts were coming back to port. Families were gathering around the dinner table to talk about their day while tourists got ready for a night out on the town. Beaches were closing and bars were opening, live bands filling the air with Catalonian music as their audiences danced and laughed.
Just another perfect day in Palma de Mallorca.
Alex slid down against the door and wept, openly and uncontrollably. It was too much—his father, his uncle, this entrapment, the idea that Yassen cared about him . . . or thought he did. Everything was going to hell at once and Alex was caught in the middle of it, hurt and confused and scared. He had just said a very ugly thing to Yassen, the man who had saved his life and taken him in. Surely there would be repercussions. Surely Alex was going to end up paying for all this in the end. God, why couldn't Yassen just beat him and lock him in a dark room somewhere? Give him a dilemma to overcome, a problem to solve, something requiring brains and skill and the devil's luck—anything but these alien emotions.
Every bone in Alex's body had wanted to forgive Yassen, to let Yassen take care of him, to be Yassen's friend like his father had. But his heart couldn't let go of the grudges that had already taken root there. No apology in the world could compensate for Ian's death. Yassen was the killer who had shot him in cold blood . . . and yet Yassen was also the caretaker who had been tending Alex's wounds for the past three days.
God, who was Yassen Gregorovich?
Alex sat on the floor and spent the next ten minutes getting the tears out of his system. Then he dragged himself up and went to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes and bandages as he went. He turned on the shower and stepped in, hissing at the hot water on his skin. His cuts were beginning to close up and scab over. Soon he wouldn't need the butterfly bandages. Nevertheless, he left small streaks of blood on his towel as he was drying off. Some wounds were slower to heal than others.
He re-bandaged his thigh and ankle, noticing that, despite all the walking he had done today, the swelling was almost gone. Only a lingering soreness remained, but Alex had learned to ignore such minor discomforts, especially when he was suffering from much larger ones. It was strange, but somehow the bullet hole in his thigh and the thirty-seven stitches in his arm had ceased to bother him. They were just physical wounds and would eventually heal . But the things happening right now between him and Yassen . . .
After dressing himself in the sweatpants and t-shirt he had worn last night, Alex limped out to the balcony and leaned against the rail. The sun had set and now the sky was turning dark as night approached. Shades of purple and blue reflected in the water, which lapped sleepily against the beach. The bars on the rail were far enough apart that Alex could sit down and let his legs dangle over the side. In this manner he sat and watched the world darken, listening to the chirping crickets and murmuring ocean. The stars began to appear and the lights of the city came on, little beads of red and white and yellow in the distance. The world was still turning out there. MI6 must have stopped wondering what had happened to their teenage agent by now.
Alex didn't realize he was biting his nails until he tasted blood in his mouth. He looked down at his fingers and saw that the tips were red and inflamed, cuticles peeling and hangnails gnawed all the way to the first knuckle. The nails themselves had been chewed to the point of there being nothing left, and what little remained was jagged and scarred by teeth marks. They looked horrible. Alex had known his habit could be bad sometimes, but this was the worst he had ever seen it.
He pulled himself to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom, washing his hands with soap and water. God, what a perfect wreck he had become. He sighed and glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. Same brown eyes. Same fair hair. Same narrow mouth and scattered freckles. Same dark circles under his eyes and worried creases on his forehead. Was this still Alex Rider, or had that boy died on an island in Norway? Maybe this was hell. It sure felt like it.
He dried his hands and vowed to keep his fingers away from his mouth. He didn't need to add to his growing list of damages. He wandered back out to the balcony and stared at the stars. It was much cooler now that the sun was down, and he felt goose bumps rise on his arms. His fingernails itched, begging to be bitten. For the second time that day, Alex wished he had a cigarette. He needed to release his stress somehow, and sitting up here and waiting for the other shoe to drop wasn't exactly—
He suddenly forgot about cigarettes and fingernails and held his breath, listening. No, he wasn't imagining it—there was music playing. Something gentle and soft. Strings. A piano. It sounded close.
Alex turned and went through his room, pausing with his ear to the door. He was right. It was coming from downstairs. Yassen must be playing a CD or something. Alex placed his hand on the doorknob but immediately stopped himself. What did he care if Yassen listened to music? It was probably a trap, something to lure him out of his room. Maybe Yassen was planning to draw Alex downstairs to listen to another sob story about how sorry he was and how much he wanted to help the son of his dear, dead friend.
Or maybe not.
Alex opened the door and limped purposefully down the hall. He was sick of this emotional keel-hauling. He refused to hide in his room any longer; he was going to face Yassen like a man and get this whole matter settled tonight. Maybe he could convince Yassen to send him home early. He wasn't above begging, either. Pride was overrated—he had learned that long ago. What mattered was results, and he would get them no matter the cost. All he wanted was to go home. He wasn't asking for the world. Just a plane ticket.
The pangs in his thigh while going down the stairs reminded Alex to get some more ibuprofen soon. He had taken the last one that afternoon and didn't want to experience what an unmedicated gunshot wound felt like. He gratefully stepped onto level ground and tiptoed through the darkened living room, homing in on the source of the music. There was a hallway under the staircase that led down to a door, cracked open about an inch. Alex guessed the room behind it must be Yassen's. It was directly under his own. He crept forward, staring at the sliver of yellow light escaping. There was another door adjacent to the bedroom, but it was locked. If Alex was caught, he'd have no place to run. Limp, he corrected himself grimly. Well, he would just have to not get caught, then.
Alex carefully sidled up to the door and peeked inside. A bed with dark burgundy covers. A pair of French doors like the ones in his own room. A dresser. A potted palm. An adjoining bathroom. A painting on the wall opposite the bed. A home stereo system in the corner. That was where the music was coming from. Alex didn't recognize the song—he barely kept up with popular music and his knowledge of orchestral music was limited to Beethoven and Mozart—but he thought that it was pretty. In a complex, sad-but-happy way. He didn't know how to describe it, it just—
Yassen suddenly emerged into view, startling Alex. He was shirtless and his hair was wet. He must have just gotten out of the shower. He still had a towel tied around his waist. Alex held his breath and stared as the Russian opened the drawers and took out clean clothes, tossing them onto the bed. He seemed to have no idea he was being watched.
A twinge of embarrassment flared through Alex when Yassen removed his towel, and he quickly averted his eyes. Honestly, it was just a body, he chided himself, all the same parts. Nothing he hadn't seen before. But seeing Yassen like this, so naked and human, was something that Alex knew few had ever witnessed. It gave away so much about him. For a middle-aged man, Yassen kept himself in very good shape. No paunch or flab. He wasn't rippling with muscles, despite the strength Alex knew he possessed. Yassen didn't need muscles to be strong, he realized. His power came quietly from within, like a samurai or a dancer. He was slim, sinewy, graceful, soundless. And he was clever. That made him more dangerous than any iron-pumping gym rat. Yassen could probably take out five men twice his weight without breaking a sweat.
Alex suddenly stopped. Was he admiring Yassen? No. No, he was just looking, drawing conclusions. Hypothesizing. He didn't . . . no, he wasn't like that.
Yassen turned and Alex suddenly got a full view of his chest. A small white scar lay an inch or so to the left of his sternum, right near his heart. Without thinking, Alex reached up and touched his own bullet scar. Yes, that was about the same place. Like twins, Alex thought. There were other scars on Yassen as well: a stripe here, a nick there. A lot less than Alex had. Of course, Yassen was better trained and he had probably been in his 20s before he really started risking his life for money.
And I'm not even getting paid for my services, thought Alex bitterly. Even prostitutes get paid eventually.
He watched Yassen pull on a v-neck shirt and a pair of khaki trousers, then move to the stereo and adjust the volume, turning it up a little. The music floated through the air in waves and swells of violins and piano. Alex wanted to know what the name of the song was. He liked it. Yassen must have good taste in music to . . .
Slowly, like the sun rising at dawn, Alex felt something inside him open up and let the light pour in.
Everything he thought he knew about Yassen Gregorovich, every concept and assumption about his personal life, was wrong. He had known men like Yassen, one part monster and one part man: Damian Cray, Major Yu, Desmond McCain. They were all the same—wealthy, powerful, and completely insane. But Yassen was different. He was the inverse, a monster on the outside and a man on the inside. He didn't boast about his wealth or his abilities. He didn't enjoy talking about the people he had killed. He never pretended to be charming or sophisticated. He wore his name on his sleeve and left it at that. His grace came naturally. His kindness was genuine. He was probably the only adult who had never lied to Alex or tried to physically hurt him. When compared with MI6, Yassen was almost the lesser of two evils.
In the wake of revelation came regret, deep and profound. Alex felt horrible. Here was Yassen, risking his cover, possibly even his life, to take care of him, but Alex was too blinded by prejudice to even afford him the benefit of a doubt. Maybe he really was doing it out of the goodness of his heart or some misplaced love for Alex's father—in the end, did it really matter? Yassen was showing a side of himself that was shockingly kind and gentle, a side he obviously had not spent much time with. Maybe Alex should have been more aware of that before so rashly jumping to conclusions.
Alex drew in a breath, raised his hand, and knocked.
Yassen turned toward the door as it opened, his face betraying no hint of surprise when he saw the boy standing awkwardly in the hallway. "What do you want?" he asked flatly.
Anxiety gripped Alex. Maybe he was too late. Maybe he had missed his chance to get on Yassen's good side and now he was talking to "the monster". But he couldn't turn back now.
"I don't want anything," he said softly. "But I . . . I need to apologize."
Yassen's eyebrows twitched momentarily, but his face remained stoic. "Come in."
Feeling like a mouse entering a snake pit, Alex came forward until he was within arm's reach. His heart was slamming in his chest so forcefully that he was sure Yassen could hear it.
"About what happened at dinner," he said. "I'm sorry. It was rude and . . . and I'm having a hard time right now just believing all this is happening. I, I do appreciate what you're doing for me, but I can't . . . it's just so . . ."
"I know," said Yassen. "It's difficult for me too."
Alex was so relieved he could have smiled. He looked down at the floor just in case he did, and felt a little strange to see his bare feet standing across from Yassen's. Equals, he thought. Same parts. We're both on neutral ground.
He raised his head and looked directly into Yassen's calm blue eyes. "If I stay with you, can I still go outside?"
"You can go wherever you like, Alex."
"To the beach? And the city?"
Yassen nodded. "Anywhere."
Alex felt a little dizzy. Anywhere. He wasn't thinking of escaping anymore, just of the freedom he was being given—and had apparently always possessed. The whole of Mallorca was his playground. Yassen obviously trusted Alex a lot more than Alex trusted him. He felt his shame deepen.
"Okay," he said. "I'll stay."
Something happened to Yassen's face then. He smiled, but it was much different from any smile Alex had ever seen on his face. It was real. The normal smile of a normal man; true happiness, pure and unspoiled. The assassin had vanished and now Alex felt like he was seeing Yassen Gregorovich for the first time in his life.
"Good," said Yassen. "I'm glad."
Alex couldn't help himself. He smiled back.
An awkward silence fell between them and Alex cleared his throat. "Um. Before I forget, do you have any more ibuprofen?"
"In the cupboard beside the refrigerator. Top shelf."
"Okay. Thanks." Alex bit his lower lip and began to back away. "Well . . . See you tomorrow, then."
Yassen nodded, looking just as uneasy as Alex felt. "Tomorrow."
Alex was so eager to get out of the room that he nearly forgot to ask. "One more thing," he said, turning around.
"Yes?"
"What is this song?"
The light in Yassen's eyes shifted, warming despite their icy hue. "Sergei Rachmaninoff," he answered. "Piano Concerto 2 in C Minor."
Alex paused, as if committing the name to memory. "I like it."
Yassen nodded slightly. "Me too."
Another awkward silence, then Alex closed the door behind himself and stood in the dark for a few seconds. He released a huge, heavy breath, one he seemed to have been holding the entire time. He felt strange inside, mixed up, but no longer worried. Everything was fine between him and Yassen now. If he could just get through the next few days, he would be able to go home and put all this behind him. It didn't sound so bad. He could make it. He was a survivor. Yassen had said so.
Funny. I could say the same thing about you.
Alex heard his own voice echo back to him in memory. Had that really been only last night? It seemed like so long ago . . .
He returned to the present with a shake of his head, clearing his mind as if it were an Etch-a-Sketch. What was he doing again? Right, ibuprofen. Cupboard beside the fridge. Top shelf.
Alex disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, leaving the last few notes of Rachmaninoff's lilting concerto hanging in the air.
Again, I must give a very fond and humble line of thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing this story. I know some of you have voiced concerns regarding the eventual level of "involvement" between Yassen and Alex, and all I can say is stay with me and keep reading, because this story definitely deviates from the conventional trends you might be expecting. Thank you! -HJB