A/N: Pft, no I didn't forget about you. Lol. Absurd. Just to let you know, rough chapters ahead as far as how they're written. I'm currently taking a three week physics class, and if you're ever offered the chance, say no because it is literally the worst thing I've ever agreed to.
Anyway, to answer Guest's question about if J-Unit will ever find out who Lynx/Trevor/Alex is, I SHAN'T SPOIL. Though, I realize the unedited version of this is still up, lol. Anyway, just to let you all know, this story will have a similar plot to the unedited story, but it's going to be fleshier (hopefully) with... just more. Perhaps some new twists and turns as well.Also, if you've read the original, please don't spoil anything!
Thank you for reading, and thanks for your reviews! They make my day brighter :)
Chapter 06
"Fucking hell," Lynx hissed to himself, cradling his side, leaning against the cold, concrete wall to his left. His hands were covered in blood. It was drying slightly and flaked off in little brown pieces whenever he moved his hands. Oh, yes—he had been shot. And, he was fairly positive there was no help coming. Quite the predicament he was in.
He supposed he could call for help, but the streets were deserted, and he didn't have a cell phone on him. Lynx took a deep breath, looking down at his side. It wasn't bleeding too badly. The bullet was still lodged in his flesh, creating a kind of plug that was keeping most of the blood inside his body. That being said, it didn't exactly look good either. At least he wasn't in pain. Even that wasn't reassuring. That meant he was going into shock.
"Why me?" Lynx muttered to himself.
The answer was simple. He had simply let his guard down, and it was a miracle that he hadn't been killed. After delivering the information to the human trafficker (Lynx had only learned that after the man offered him a girl of twelve), he had turned his back, believing the danger was over. He was naive to think that.
"I'm out of practice," he chittered to himself, forcing himself upright. Perhaps he could walk to the nearest hospital. He looked around, wearily scanning for any signs of human life. The only thing he could see was the faint shadow of a man and woman on the fifth floor of a business complex. Right. Not there.
It was a little upsetting, Lynx pondered to himself, to be in this predicament where he didn't know if he wanted to get help or if he wanted to sit down and bleed out. A couple months ago, he would have let himself die, alone and cold, without a moment's thought. But now, it was different.
Prrr.
Lynx turned his face to the road, his heart leaping at the unmistakable purr of an engine. He hobbled over to the side of the road, keeping a hand pressed to the injury. A pinprick of light in the distance. Lynx raised a hand, waving at the motorcyclist with renewed vigor.
"Please, help!" Lynx called. "I'm injured."
To his immense relief, the motorcyclist seemed to have heard him. The man steered his bike to the side of the road, slowing.
"Thank you," Lynx lowered his eyes, trying to show his savior that he wasn't a threat. "Please—"
He blamed it on the blood loss. Under normal circumstances, Lynx would have seen the rider's swift motions coming and reacted accordingly. But with his sluggish mindset and the pain beginning to creep into his side, he only registered the fact that the man had pulled out a gun, and the butt of that gun was headed straight for his temple.
A*W*O*L
Ben wasn't sure how long he had been held captive in the heart of Nigeria. It hadn't been too long, he was sure of that, since his phone still had battery. No signal or SIM card, but it was hovering at a two percent at the moment. It was also disheartening to learn that MI6 either had no clue where he was or couldn't be bothered to come rescue him. He was leaning towards the latter reasoning. Though he was a fairly good agent, he was expendable. He was no Alex Rider.
Alex had been chosen purely due to his family relations and his boyish face—at least, at first. Then, he had proved himself over and over again how much of a real asset he was. It was his resilience—his ability to seemingly bounce back from anything the world threw at him. Torture? No problem. Going into a mission with only scraps of information? Agent Alex Rider was your man. Then again, it may have been his indifference towards living that made him such a great MI6 agent.
Ben couldn't lie and say that he sometimes resented the younger man. He couldn't even walk through MI6 without someone pointing him out to a new recruit, whispering, "that guy, right there—that's Agent Rider's partner." But, for all that it was worth, he loved Alex too. The teen was like a younger brother to him, although he had never had one. Even though Alex was the senior agent, Ben had always felt a fierce need to protect the younger man, right up until his disappearance and even past then.
Since his disappearance six months ago, Alex hadn't been Ben's partner. In fact, no one had. That left Ben taking solo missions, one of which happened to be this one: a Nigerian human trafficking ring that specialized in selling young girls.
And now, there he was: a failed undercover spy, beaten and bruised in the cellar of some criminal's lair. He had no way of contacting MI6 or anyone. Out of all the ways he thought he would go out, it certainly was not being kept as a prisoner until hopelessness consumed him.
"Ya fi nauyi fiye da na yi tunani."
Ben sat up straight, ignoring the sudden, twinging pain in his body. The voice came from above him, where the stairs lead to an iron cast door. Heavy footsteps pounded down, into the cellar, unsteady and clearly holding a heavy load. Ben didn't speak Hausa fluently, but he knew enough to learn that they were carrying a 'he' and 'he' was heavier than he looked.
"Shut up and move," an answering voice growled back to the first man in accented English. "Hazika will want to see us."
"Yes, yes," the other man, sounding very much like a grumpy teenager, replied. "The woman you love, but who will not look your way."
"Shut up!" the second man snapped again, agitated. Ben watched as the reached the foot of the steps and inched towards the center of the cellar, where the dumped a body unceremoniously. The man (not corpse, thankfully) let out a small moan of pain as they roughly searched his pockets.
"Let's go," the second man said when they had come up empty—handed, not sparing a glance at Ben. The two men gave the body on the ground another filthy look before turning away and marching back up the stairs. "That shit-head woke up halfway through the plane ride and tried killing me—again!"
Ben paid no mind to the slamming of the doors and the shrieking grind of the lock as he crawled over to the man. His hair was cut short, and if Ben had to wager a guess, he would think that the man's hair was blond. Not that it mattered, since it was stained with dried blood, which must have been red at first, but had since then dried out to a rusty brown. Ben's eyes wandered down to the man's face. A set of closed eyes, a sharp jawline, and a pang of familiarity sent Ben reeling backwards.
"Alex?"
The man didn't stir. He was knocked out cold upon further examination. Ben sighed, running his bloodied hands through his own matted hair. Now that he looked closer, there was no mistaking it. Alex Rider, the bloody teenage spy that had been missing for a whole six months, had been kidnapped and coincidentally ended up with Ben, the very person Alex hated.
Ben's eyes wandered down to Alex's abdomen, where there seemed to be an abnormal stain on his shirt. He had written it off at first as being a strange pattern, but upon further inspection, he realized it was the same color as the dried blood matted in Alex's hair.
"Shit," Ben muttered as he lifted up the shirt, examining the wound in Alex's side. It had been a recent wound—perhaps a few hours ago—and there was no ambiguity in what kind of wound it was. He didn't have any clean bandages or clothes on him, but he ripped at the hem of his shirt until it was a long strip of cloth. He began bandaging it, trying to ignore the way that Alex's pale, clammy skin burned—a sure sign of a fever—and how the wound was bleeding sluggishly. "Shit, shit, shit!"
Ben was pretty sure the procedure after getting shot was going straight to a hospital to ensure there wasn't any organ damage, but looking around, he couldn't help but notice that there was not a hospital in sight.
"Please hang in there, Alex," Ben murmured to the younger man, tying up the dirty, makeshift bandage. He leaned forwards, cradling Alex's head onto his lap, closed his eyes, and issued his first prayer for the first time in years.
