Disclaimer: See chapter one.
Chapter Four: Rifling on the Inside of the Barrel Gives the Bullet Spin
Alex woke gradually for once, feeling more comfortable than he had in a while. He was loathe to get up, but at the same time he knew it wasn't safe to overstay his welcome. Slowly, Alex dug himself out of the pile of blankets and rolled to his feet. He cracked his back, and stretched his legs, rubbing his eyes and glancing out the window. The faint light of dawn was creeping in.
Alex swung on his backpack and carefully climbed up the stairs, cracking the door open and peering out. He wrinkled his nose—it still smelt strongly of alcohol and the counter tops were all cluttered with beer cans. Softly, Alex crept through the house, maneuvering around a girl who'd decided the floor was a good place to rest, and a tipped-over keg. He sneaked out the back door and hopped the fence with ease. Deciding North-East was as good a direction to go as any other, Alex set off.
He left the residential district and found a road with some shops and restaurants along it. Seeing a newspaper stand, Alex reluctantly went over. He would much rather avoid reading one more word about himself, but he couldn't afford to be ignorant. Due to the early hour of the morning there weren't enough people about that Alex could get away with stealing a paper. Instead, he slapped some money down on the counter and reached down to grab the first one that caught his attention.
And boy did it catch his attention:
The Truth about Alex Rider: MI6's Exploitation of a Child
Alex stared.
"Gave me a right shock as well," The man behind the counter chimed in.
Alex nodded, forcing his feet to move. He stared down at the picture and felt a lump in his throat. Taking up a large portion of the front page was a picture of him, smiling, sandwiched between Ian and Jack. Ian was smiling as well, albeit a small one, but it was genuine. Jack was grinning from ear to ear. He remembered that picture. It was taken on his thirteenth birthday. Just him, Jack, and Ian had gone for a hike in Epping Forest that day. It had been beautiful—a trail enclosed by large oaks with a gurgling creek racing alongside. They had stopped for lunch and Alex had climbed up into a tree to eat his sandwich. Then Jack had cajoled them all into taking a picture, threatening to pull Alex out of the tree by his legs if he didn't come down.
Alex swallowed uncomfortably and looked away from the picture. He walked a bit further before entering a small café and choosing a seat wedged in the very back. He waited for the waitress to bring him his order before finally pulling the paper out again, and began reading.
This past week the public has been bombarded with information about Alex Rider. We've learned he tried to assassinate the former PM as well as the U.S. secretary of State, and that he has committed multiple acts of violence against many individuals. Alex Rider, the fifteen-year old traitor. The cold-hearted assassin who has sparked outrage and fear in the hearts of the English.
We are here to tell you that is all false.
New information has come to light recently that exposes the grievous way in which Alex Rider has been maligned, and casts a whole new light on the information presented by multiple newspapers.
Alex Rider was never acting alone. He was employed by Military Intelligence six. He did not attempt to kill the PM or the U.S. Secretary of State. Nor did he attempt to kill the members of the police force present during the conference in which a boat fell on top of the building, and neither did he blow up his school. We here at The Guardian are here to correct this gross miscarriage of information and shed light on a boy who has been abused and exploited by our very own government.
Alex could hardly believe it as he continued to read. The paper went on to state that he had been recruited by MI6 after the death of his uncle, and that he was forced to comply. It had photographs of Alex, Blunt, and Jones talking to one another at his uncle's funeral. Alex's placement at Sayle's facilities as Felix Lester was discussed, and there was even a quote from the real Felix Lester. They did not go into specifics about what exactly his mission involving Herod Sayle entailed, but they did state that Sayle had been involved in a terrorist plot, and by shooting the button controlling the release of Sayle's computer system he had prevented an untold number of deaths.
The article further went on to describe how Alex had been stationed in Cairo due to MI6's orders with the goal of preventing an attempt on the Secretary of State's life—which he did. Each accusation against Alex was refuted—he had been apprehending a notorious drug dealer, not targeting the police station. He had been fighting a suspected enemy, not blowing up his school just for the sake of destruction.
There wasn't a lot of detailed information about the events discussed, but there were enough concise, accurate, and well backed up facts to paint the picture. And while the paper did not go on to discuss any of his other missions, they ended the article with the statement:
All the information we have been able to compile on Alex Rider is now in the open, and the truth is out there, but we can only imagine, is that all of it? What else has Alex had to endure at the hands of our government? He is not the vicious killer we all thought, but an abused child who was taken advantage of by the very government he put his trust in. Alex Rider does not need to be brought to justice. Justice needs to be had for Alex Rider.
"Can I get you something, dear?"
Alex startled, coming very close to knocking over his glass of water. "Um, I-yes. The special." He blurted out.
The waitress gave him a bit of an odd look, but headed back to the kitchen after asking Alex how he liked his eggs. Alex himself sat very still, the words on the paper before him blurring as he gazed blankly down. He didn't know how he felt. In fact, he couldn't say he really felt anything at all other than shock. He knew he shouldn't be surprised—the truth was bound to come out eventually what with everyone digging into his past—but he was. Should he be happy he was no longer accused of being an assassin? That everyone knew how unjustly MI6 had treated him?
When he read that first paper the day after running from his school, Alex knew things were going to change. He had hoped that perhaps the article would be dismissed, that people wouldn't actually believe it. But then more stories were published—more and more each day. It wasn't until now he truly realized the finality of it, though. His life was in smithereens; there was no coming back from this. He would never be able to live the way he had before. It was ridiculous, he should be happy that he wasn't being touted as a traitor to his country any more, but instead he just felt hollow.
Alex ate his meal in a daze and left the café without even registering how much he'd paid. He had known this whole debacle was a turning point, one of those things that you couldn't come back from, that changes you for the rest of your life whether profoundly or even in just a small manner. But this was definitely turning out to be more of the former.
So far Alex had not had access to the internet and had avoided watching the televisions in restaurants, relying on newspapers solely for his information. But Alex figured if there was any time to see his face plastered across the television screen it would be now. He had avoided them before because it was difficult enough to read the vitriol in the paper aimed towards him, he hadn't wanted to listen to people ridicule him as well. Now he figured he would just get to listen to them dissect his life—much better.
Alex hung out in the local library for most of the day. He had grown a lot of respect for libraries lately as well, they were quiet and peaceful and nobody bothered him. But today he was restless, he only made it until five o'clock before shouldering his backpack and heading back outside to find a place that would have a television but wouldn't be too loud. That ruled out most of the bars, as it was a Saturday night, and although Alex had gotten into a couple before despite his age, he didn't want to risk it. Instead he settled on a small brew pub and restaurant at the end of a side street with peeling paint and greasy tables of questionable cleanliness.
Alex settled down in a chair adjacent to the TV in the corner, close enough to hear the broadcast but not backed into the corner himself. At the moment they were going over the latest Manchester United game so Alex ordered some fish and chips and settled himself in to wait, trying to calm the anxiety in his gut.
The screen cut back to the anchors, two young women, one with a slight scouse accent, the other almost posh. The Scouser smiled brightly at the camera: "And now we return to the story that I'm sure many of you have been waiting for. Alex Rider—from infamy to victimization; who is he? As we discussed earlier on the broadcast our stance still stands; Alex Rider is the victim here. More and more evidence has been presented that says the same thing, and that has shown how much those first few articles relied on baseless facts and hearsay that caused this cascade of misinformation. Well we for one would like to help correct those mistakes and show who Alex Rider truly is. Here is an interview we conducted with one of Rider's close friends just this morning."
Alex tensed as the TV cut to show none other than Tom Harris. His friend looked haggard—dark circles under his eyes and hair a mess. Alex felt guilty despite the fact that he knew contacting his friend had never been an option.
"Look," Began Tom wearily, "I'm not going to talk about anything Alex may or may not have told me. I don't care about any of that, I just care about my friend's safety. Yeah, I'm glad he's no longer being painted as this rabid assassin but digging into his past isn't the priority right now, you know? I think people are missing the point—yes MI6 used Alex and that is majorly messed up and they need to be held accountable for it, but I want to know what is being done to find and protect Alex right now. I have no bloody clue where he is, and he's my best friend! For all we know the government could already have their hands on him right now! People need to be focusing on helping Alex okay, because I'm really worried about him." Tom's voice cracked at the last second and he turned away to run his hands through his hair.
Alex felt a lump in his throat. He hated causing his friend to feel such distress, even if logically he knew there wasn't much he could do about it.
The broadcast returned to the two anchors and the posh one spoke up, "That was Thomas Harris, one of Alex Rider's best friends, and he brings up a very valid point. The last anyone ever saw Rider was Tuesday afternoon, when the receptionist at his school reported seeing someone chase Rider out of the building. Since then no sightings have been reported. It is important to remember that despite what we know of Alex Rider's impressive accomplishments, he is still only fifteen years old and has been missing for four days. What we need to focus on right now is finding this missing young man and holding the government accountable for what they have subjected him to."
Alex didn't really feel comfortable being painted as this helpless victim, but at the same time he was happy the attention had been turned onto MI6. Let them deal with this shit show. He felt the stirrings of some hope for the first time in a couple days. If he could find a way of turning himself in that was public enough, perhaps MI6 would give up? Perhaps Blunt would finally realize it was a lost cause, as Alex being killed right now would be extremely suspicious and not do anything for their image. His mind whirled as he started going over methods that would be just the right balance of public and private, just the right balance to hopefully keep MI6 from getting their hands on him.
He focused back on the TV as the newscasters began to show some clips of large masses of people standing outside the Palace of Westminster bearing signs. Alex was shocked to see his name, as well as picture, on some of the signs. The anchors relayed the protest to be one of many being organized throughout England regarding the government's abuse of power of one of its own citizens, and a minor no less. Alex hadn't realized the degree to which this news would displease people, but displeased people were. As one of the reporters said it, there was apparently an "uproar of anti-establishment sentiment sweeping the nation." There were even rumors about calling for the impeachment of the Prime Minister for allowing such a thing to occur under his watch.
Alex was floored. MI6 had blackmailed him into working for them and due to that he had experienced things that had changed him drastically and would affect him for the rest of his life. If they had never used him, Jack would still be alive. But at the same time, he didn't feel like he was without blame. He technically could have refused to work for them, regardless of the consequences. He could have ignored Yassen Gregorovich's dying words. He could have stayed in his lane and refused to listen to his incessant curiosity. But he hadn't. And yet these people were rallying for him, were crying out for justice. It felt undeserved to some extent, but at the same time Alex was warmed by it. He hadn't realized how much having other people support him could be such a comfort. It was shocking, in a good way.
Alex was drawn out of his musings as the broadcast finally cut to another commercial break. He glanced down at his untouched food and realized he'd forgotten all about it. Glancing out the window, he saw night was beginning to fall as well. This could be the last night he had to sleep out in the cold, Alex realized with pleasure. Tomorrow, he would find some way to turn himself in. Some way to stop running from MI6. With that fortifying thought in mind, Alex chowed down on his fish and chips.
He finished quickly and glanced up at the television one more time as the news resumed. They were talking about him again, big surprise, and Alex felt uncomfortable at the giant picture of his face plastered across the screen. There was no way he would get used to that, he thought, as he stood up from his table and headed for the door. He paused to drop some cash on the table first, and as he glanced up he made eye contact with a young man at the bar. The bloke was probably in university judging by his apparel and age, out with a group of friends at a pub for the night. Alex would have walked right past him without a second glance if they hadn't both looked up at the same time.
The man's gaze flicked from Alex to the screen behind his back—the one with his face currently displayed on it—and his eyes widened. Alex cursed himself and immediately looked away, continuing on his way out the bar. No one had recognized him the past four days and he had taken that for granted. It seems his luck had just run out.
Alex hunched a bit and kept his head down as he passed the man on the stool, hoping the guy would just dismiss it. After all, his hair was a different color. Alex made it to the door before his hopes were crushed.
"Oi—you! Hey, you!" The man cried out, his voice slightly slurred. "Mate, I swear that's the kid—that's the Rider bloke—" His voice was cut off as Alex hurried out into the street. He had only taken a few hurried steps before the door opened again and he heard a cacophony of voices echo out behind him.
"Oi!" Another voice yelled this time, "Alex Rider! It's you, isn't it?"
Realizing he couldn't avoid this, Alex turned around with a bemused smile on his face, "Sorry?"
The young man and his three friends had filed out of the brew pub and were walking towards him now, varying degrees of excitement written across their faces.
"Shit, It's really him, isn't it!" The man turned towards his friends, "See, I told you! So is it really true, mate? Are you really, like, a spy?"
Alex forced out a laugh, "Me? I think you've had too much to drink, mate." He started walking again, hoping they would leave it be.
"Hey! I know it's you! Come back 'ere!"
Alex sighed, turning to face them again. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say—"
Pop! Alex jolted as something slammed into his side and made him stumble back a step. It only took him a split second to realize what happened. Someone had just shot him, as confirmed by the pain radiating out from the point of impact. Alex dodged to the side again, and not a moment too soon as another report sounded in the chill night air. He crouched in the alcove of the closest shop, a hand pressed to his side. Back on the pavement the group of young men scattered amid a flurry of curses.
Adrenaline flooding his veins, Alex peaked around the corner. Coming down the street at a run now were two men dressed in dark clothes. One raised his arm and fired, and Alex swore as he ducked back into cover. He watched, bewildered, as the bullet seemed to ricochet off the store front and bounce into the street.
What? Alex lifted his hand from his side and looked down. No blood.
Rubber bullets, he realized, relief flooding him. Well, that meant he didn't have to worry about bleeding out just this moment.
Knowing he only had seconds left before the men were within range again, Alex grabbed the doorstop by his feet and slammed it through the window of the shop's door. An alarm started blaring as he reached inside and unlocked the door, swinging it open and tumbling through at the same time he heard two more shots. They punched through the already broken window and missed Alex by a hair's-breadth as he vaulted over the counter (seemed like the place was a bakery, he noticed absently) and sprinted for the back door. He could only hope there was no one waiting there.
Alex shoved open the door and bolted out, canvasing the area as he ran. No one was waiting outside the shop, but there further down was a dark van. The engine revved as Alex dashed across the street and his last view before he entered the alley he was aiming for was of the van peeling out as it reversed to face him.
Alex flung his backpack into a dumpster as he passed—it would only slow him down now—and continued down the alley at a run, thinking furiously. So, there were two teams after him as far as he was aware—those two men on foot and however many in the car. The men on foot weren't an immediate issue anymore as long as he kept a fast pace, but those in the car posed a problem. If they predicted where we was going they could cut him off, or if they were in contact with another team he could be corralled into a trap.
Alex hadn't wasted his time in the library the past few days—he had found maps of London and studied them meticulously as being familiar with the terrain could mean the difference between escape and capture. He oriented himself as best as he could while dodging down the next alley and thought he had a relatively good grasp of where he currently was. He had moved Northeast during the day and should be in Lewisham now, currently closing in on Greenwich. And suddenly that gave him an idea.
What if he crossed over the Thames?
His pursuers wouldn't expect that. The closest bridge to him was the Greenwich foot tunnel and that was an obvious choke point that he would be stupid to attempt to cross. Really any bridge would be an inopportune place to be as they were too easily monitored—he'd get caught the second he tried to cross one. So maybe he shouldn't use a bridge?
With that thought in mind Alex glanced down at his dual watch and compass—a leftover from Smithers, it was waterproof too—and turned north. His shoes splashed in puddles from the previous night's rain and he exited the alley out onto the pavement along a main road. It may have been night but it was a Saturday, thus there were still quite a few people out and about, but he couldn't count on safety in numbers, not when his pursuers had already fired on him while in public. He got a few curious looks as he sprinted down the road but most people seemed willing to leave well enough alone.
Alex heard the squeal of tires behind him and immediately swerved onto the next street. He leaped a fence and threw himself to the ground, damp soaking through his clothes and the earthy smell of soil invading his nostrils. He waited, heart thrumming, as the sound of an accelerating vehicle grew closer, closer, and continued past him. He only waited for a moment, as he knew his ruse would be quickly figured out, and slunk back over the fence and onto the main road. He threw off his warm jacket and beanie and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a weary teenager trudging down the pavement.
Alex felt cold and uncomfortably exposed but running would just attract more attention, so he continued in this fashion for one more block before heading down another street. It wasn't the most direct route to the Thames but It would have to do. He passed homes and businesses and groups of people spending a night out on the town feeling like an alien. London had been his home for the better part of his life, and yet he felt completely unconnected from it right now. Here he was, walking down a street at night after having been chased and shot just minutes before, as people walked right by him without a care in the world. It was disconcerting to say the least. And now that his adrenaline rush was beginning to ware off Alex felt jittery and cold and the ache in his side made it hard to take a deep breath.
He was hyper-aware of his surroundings as well, sure that any minute now someone was going to recognize him. He flinched as a stranger passed too close and just barely stopped himself from glancing over his shoulder every few seconds by constantly checking any reflective surfaces before him for figures tailing him. Alex made it two blocks, three blocks, four, before the anxiety let up, but even then he didn't relax—he couldn't.
He had to be nearly to the river, now he just needed to decide on the best place to cross. Sure enough, Alex walked one more block before the Thames came into view behind a row of large warehouses. Perfect—there should be few to no people here. He paused at the corner of the street, glancing at the wide patch of concrete between him, the large warehouse, and the deserted docks. Steeling himself—Alex darted across, feet skimming over pavement and eyes flickering around the dark buildings. No one in view.
He reached the edge of the warehouse and jogged forward. The river was in reach now, but Alex felt hesitation creep into his gait. It looked dark and choppy and awfully cold. He approached slowly now, edging along the side of the warehouse as he contemplated the foreboding water. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it looked?
Alex reached the edge of the building and stepped out towards the dock, only noticing the figure pressed against the side of the warehouse in his peripheral vision when they finally moved. Alex jumped in surprise and reeled sideways, but he was too late. A click sounded in the air and suddenly his whole body seized up. He lost all ability to control his movements and fell face-first to the ground, only the fact that his head had been turned prevented him from breaking his nose. He felt like he couldn't draw a breath, like someone was constricting his whole torso while simultaneously laying into him with a bat. He wasn't sure how long it lasted, until all at once the feeling retreated, leaving Alex gasping on the ground, suddenly aware of the gravel digging into his cheek.
He tried to move his arms, push himself to his knees, but his body was sluggish to respond and Alex became aware of the crunch of gravel as someone approached him. He struggled to get his arms under him but a weight pushed into the small of his back and suddenly hands were encircling his wrists and pulling them behind his back.
"Stop", Alex finally managed, gritting his teeth as his body jerked feebly.
The person didn't answer, snapping cold metal restraints around his wrists and then his ankles. Alex felt the weight leave his back and attempted to kick out, but they grabbed his feet and began dragging him.
"Hey!" Alex protested, voice hoarse.
Apparently his assailant didn't have the common decency to flip him onto his back before dragging him over the rough ground. What was the world coming to these days? Alex thought to himself, some hysteria creeping in. He was pulled along the cement, shirt rucking up underneath him and gravel scraping his skin, and then onto a wooden surface—the docks. Alex struggled anew, but he was too thoroughly bound and too weak from the taser.
His captor pulled Alex another couple meters before letting go of his feet, Alex immediately twisted over and kicked out again, but the person dodged. Alex glared up at them, and was slightly surprised to see the face of a woman staring back at him. She had to be late twenties or early thirties, relatively attractive but not very memorable, with dark brown hair in a braid and dressed in a track suit—like a working class woman going for a run during one of her few off hours.
"Who sent you?" Alex questioned. The obvious answer was Blunt, but something seemed different about her. She seemed to be alone, as far as Alex could tell, and he didn't think she had radioed anyone in after tasering him.
The woman blinked at him before answering in a soft voice, "No one."
She grabbed his legs again and sat atop them, not being deterred by Alex's thrashing. She reached towards the ground, grabbed a length of rope, and began to wind it around his legs. Alex could admire her thoroughness if he wasn't the one currently being trussed up.
"What are you doing?" He demanded, feeling off-balance. He had no idea what this woman wanted or what was coming next.
She stood up once more and sighed, apparently pleased with her handiwork. She gazed at Alex contemplatively for a moment before answering, "I'm not going to tell you my whole convoluted plot, simply for fact that we don't have enough time. This has been in the making for six months, and if I wasn't who I am there is no possibility in which it could have been achieved. But since you are a crucial piece, I will be concise."
Alex stared up at her as a horrible revelation washed over him. She was one of them. She was just like Cray, McCain, Sarov. Alex listened as she continued, with the thought that someone must have tattooed a sign on his face stating 'Megalomaniacs with delusions of grandeur, this is the boy you should target.'
"I am behind the recent break of news relating to you," The woman spoke, "I gathered and compiled all of the information and decided what to release, whom to release it to, and when."
Yeah, the universe hated Alex.
"Our government is antiquated and corrupt and in dire need of a change. In the simplest way I can put it, you are my catalyst." She said. "The first batch of papers were designed to spread fear and anger in the general populace, and the second was the arrow pointing that aggression towards the government. I'm sure you've seen the news. People are outraged on your behalf, and they will only become even more so. Your sacrifice will be what turns this nation back onto the right path, to progress and social reform, not the regression that our current political climate would foster."
Alex was still stuck on the word 'sacrifice' as the woman spoke, her words flowing quickly and full of passion.
"I apologize for what this government has subjected you to, and I apologize for my own hand in your death, but it is unfortunately necessary."
Alex could only stare at her in horror as she reached down and hefted up a large cinder block, grunting with the effort. Connected to the block was a rope—the rope currently tied to his legs.
"Your body will remain on the river bottom for about a week—the rope is made of a synthesized fiber that will dissolve after six to eight days—and when your corpse washes up on shore the situation will be ripe. The public will have been frothing at the bit for news of your whereabouts, and when they hear of your murder—drowned in the very river that flows through the heart of the city—well, it should be more than enough to force the reform I've been pushing. The Prime Minister will have no option but to step down and even I can't fully predict the fallout MI6 will face." She gave a grim smile and stepped towards the railing.
"Wait," Alex croaked, fear clogging his throat. "There's other ways this can go, I can testify against MI6, I can expose every secret of theirs I know, just don't-"
The woman took another step towards the edge of the dock and bent over, setting the cinder block down once more. She turned to look at him, pity in the line of her mouth. "I am sorry, Alex. But your death is not a waste—remember that." And she kicked the block off the edge of the dock.
Alex's eyes widened and his body lurched sideways as the block pulled him under the railing and over the edge of the dock. He sucked in a last gulp of air before hitting the icy water and being dragged down into the depths.
I'm not going to say I'm sorry, because that would be a lie. I've always wanted to be on the other side of a cliffhanger—the inflicter, rather than receiver (whoa, that sounds rather sadistic). Not gonna lie though, it feels pretty good. Anyways, you can expect the next chapter to be up within 24 hours, so I think I'm being pretty kind.
Thanks for reading :)
