Hi, just want to say a huge thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter - you helped me keep my sanity this last week!! Anyway, here's chapter 7, enjoy!!!
Chapter 7
London, England. October 1994
Yassen checked the clip of his pistol. It was full. Twenty rounds. He wasn't even sure why he'd picked it up. He was trying to convince himself that it was only for the comfort of the familiar weight at his hip. Easing the pistol – a Sig Sauer p229 semi-auto – into the holster, he opened the door and started walking.
Some part of him was desperately trying to persuade him to turn back, to forget all about this. But a larger part of him wanted to at least see the boy, just once. To see if he looked like his father… Yassen tried to recall the name John had used to describe his son, but it escaped him. It had been too long. Nine years, almost exactly.
After about twenty minutes of walking, Yassen stopped. He took a few deep, calming breaths and closed his eyes briefly. It wasn't magic, it was just a fiercely held modesty. People looked at him, and forgot almost instantly what he looked like. He was unrecognisable, almost indistinguishable from the fence he leant against. Facing the school.
He watched impassively as other people joined the few at the gate. He recognised Ian Rider among them, his right arm in a sling and a long graze on his jaw. The MI6 agent looked wary, but Yassen knew that he hadn't been noticed. There would be a lot more shouting if he had. So he took the opportunity to examine John's brother properly for the first time. They had met before, briefly, but Yassen had been too distracted to notice much about the man – being shot at does that to someone.
He had the same easy, wary grace that John had had and his eyes held the same hunted quality as his brother's. His hair was lighter than John's had been, though, closer to blonde than brown, and he was lighter in build – his shoulders narrower, his arms not as muscular.
He was watching the school intently, a small smile on his lips. Yassen watced him for another few minutes, and then returned his own gaze to the main doors.
YGYGYGYGYG
In one of the few classrooms that wasn't visible from the gate, a class of nine-year-olds sat gazing at the whiteboard. The same slightly vacant expression was reflected in almost every face. Five minutes until the end of school…
After what seemed an eternity, the bell rang. Instantly, the classroom came to life again. Children were on their feet before the last note had died away and the teacher called out the day's homework in vain.
"See you, Alex!" One boy called out. His friend turned and waved briefly in his direction, before continuing out towards the gate. He ran quickly and easily, with a grace born of years of Karate lessons.
His hair was blonde, cut short all over, apart from a couple of longer strands, hanging down over his forehead. His eyes were, unusually for a blonde, deep brown. They flickered over the faces gathered at the gate and settled on one near the edge. His uncle. Alex Rider ran towards him, grinning. His uncle hardly ever came to pick him up – he was always away on some sort of business for the bank.
Alex hadn't seen the figure on the other side of the road.
With one hand clenched around the gun at his hip, hidden under the long jacket he wore, Yassen watched the boy as he ran towards his uncle. The Russian still wasn't sure why he had come here. To see Alex? To kill him? And Ian Rider was there, too. He could kill them both and vanish without a trace. It wouldn't be hard to do. Two shots. Everyone would turn to see them fall and Yassen would be gone long before anyone thought to look round to see where the shots had come from.
The gun was halfway out of his jacket before they came. The memories. John shouting him round and round an agility course. Laughing together before John left on a mission. John saving his life in the Amazon. John helping him to his feet after a fight. John sprawling dead on Albert Bridge.
The pain was almost physical. His grip slackened.
Alex was laughing at something someone had said. As he did so, his eyes flicked towards Yassen. They were the exact same shade of brown as John's had been. Alex frowned slightly and let his eyes move on. Yassen let the gun fall back into its holster.
He couldn't do it. It wasn't as easy as he'd tried to make it seem. The boy standing there, suddenly awkward without knowing why, was part of John. And that counted for something. Somehow, even after all that had happened, Yassen couldn't pull the trigger. It went against every fibre of his being.
With a last lingering look at Alex, he turned and walked quickly away.
His hands formed fists and he fought not to turn back. He was torn in two. Half of him wanted to turn back and kill Alex and Ian. The only family the John had had. Like Yassen's parents had been to him. But the other half forced him to keep walking away. It was comprised of all the good times, the memories that he had shared with John, the lessons he'd learned from the older man.
He walked back to the flat he was staying in without relaxing his clenched fists, or the tension in his shoulders.
It was the first time he had aborted a kill, for any reason, and he was disgusted that it had been a purely personal reason. It wouldn't be so bad if it was on an order, but he hadn't let his feelings influence his actions for years. It was disconcerting.
But Alex had just been too much like John. That was what it came down to. The boy was too similar to his father for Yassen to kill him. It would have been like… like killing John. And that repulsed him. Even after everything John had done, he couldn't even harm his son.
His blind anger had dissipated over the last two months. It no longer obliterated everything else; Yassen had begun to realise that John hadn't had a choice. He either did the mission or his own life would be at risk. Scorpia didn't allow anyone to disobey them and get away with their life. Even the best agent they had would be killed if he failed them without a good reason. And John had been the best, or very close to it. Refusing to do the mission would have been like signing his own death warrant. And why would he have refused in the first place? Yassen though to himself, lying on his back that night. He hadn't known that the explosion would produce a teenager he would end up working with, training with… becoming friends with.
And, though he was loathe to admit it, he understood why John had never even hinted at his involvement. Even at seventeen, he had been a vicious and able fighter, perhaps not able to kill, but certainly with enough skill to seriously injure the older man.
He couldn't do it. It wasn't as easy as he'd tried to make it seem. The boy standing there, suddenly awkward without knowing why, was part of John. And that counted for something. Somehow, even after all that had happened, Yassen couldn't pull the trigger. It went against every fibre of his being.
With a last lingering look at Alex, he turned and walked quickly away.
His hands formed fists and he fought with every step not to turn back, to kill them both. He was torn in two. Half of him wanted to turn back and kill Alex and Ian. The only family the John had had. Like Yassen's parents had been to him. But the other half forced him to keep walking away. It was comprised of all the good times, the memories that he had shared with John, the lessons he'd learned from the older man.
He walked back to the flat he was staying in without relaxing his clenched fists, or the tension in his shoulders. He opened the door and closed it gently. Only once the heavy door was locked did he allow his self-control to break.
He tore the holster from under his arm and tossed the gun angrily onto the bed. It was the first time he had aborted a kill, for any reason, and he was disgusted that it had been a purely personal reason. It wouldn't be so bad if it was on an order, but he hadn't let his feelings influence his actions for years. It was disconcerting.
But Alex had just been too much like John. That was what it came down to. The boy was too similar to his father for Yassen to kill him. It would have been like… like killing John. And that repulsed him. Even after everything John had done, he couldn't even harm his son.
His blind anger had dissipated over the last two months. It no longer obliterated everything else; Yassen had begun to realise that John hadn't had a choice. He either did the mission or his own life would be at risk. Scorpia didn't allow anyone to disobey them and get away with their life. Even the best agent they had would be killed if he failed them without a good reason. And John had been the best, or very close to it. Refusing to do the mission would have been like signing his own death warrant. And why would he have refused in the first place? Yassen though to himself, lying on his back that night. He hadn't known that the explosion would produce a teenager he would end up working with, training with… becoming friends with.
And, though he was loathe to admit it, he understood why John had never even hinted at his involvement. Even at seventeen, he had been a vicious and able fighter, perhaps not able to kill, but certainly with enough skill to seriously injure the older man.
Why did he feel this way? John Rider had killed his parents… had destroyed the life he had known for the first fourteen years of his life. If not for him, Yassen would have been able to lead a normal life. A normal, unremarkable life.
What had happened had made him who he was. If it wasn't for John Rider's actions, he and Yassen would never have met. Yassen wouldn't have learnt to kill and the huge skill he had would never have been discovered. And he wouldn't have made so much money.
But John had killed his parents.
Yassen groaned and threw himself face down on the bed as his thoughts ran in endless circles. Every time he decided one way or the other, the other side of the argument would raise its head and throw his mind back into turmoil.
And it wasn't just the memories of John that were giving him trouble. He hated to admit it, but he longed to kill again. Scorpia had given him that opportunity and he wanted it back. Two months was the longest he had gone without a mission since his first. It was hard. Killing made him feel… no, it just made him feel; for a few brief moments he was truly alive. It was almost like a drug. He was impatient for the next hit. It replaced everything else in his life: love, hate, happiness. Nothing else gave him the same feeling of power, of true freedom.
He rolled over onto his back and stared vacantly at the ceiling. His thoughts whirled together, circles within circles within circles. It made him feel slightly sick.
Closing his eyes, he coached himself expertly into calm and gradually into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.
