In the early morning mist, Alex held his breath and squeezed the trigger, his sight on his target beyond the barn. In half an hour, there were ten less rats eating the cattle feed. Bill Graylow laughed and patted the teen on the shoulder as he cleared the spent cartridge on his .22 single shot rifle. "Good shot, son. Lets go get breakfast." The rifle bought as a present for Joe seven years ago, his grandson had refused to even shoot targets, never mind squirrels, rabbits, rats or deer. The Russian boy had no qualms about killing vermin and had briefly spoken of hunting with his father and his friend Dima. This winter, venison would again grace their table, when Alexander was fit enough to track and butcher a buck. The seventy year old had watched over Alex as he stripped, cleaned and reassembled the rifle last night. The teenager had listened to the lecture on gun safety without any backchat or snide comments on gun control. Their new grandson was meant to be resting up, eating his four meals a day and getting enough sun to strengthen his bones, only he was happy to do more than simple chores help in the kitchen or take out the trash; he had helped feed the herd and muck out the barn.

Joe was a boy who had grown up with staff doing the housekeeping. He visited the farm, but was a city boy at heart, one with firm ideas of meat as murder and commercial farming as evil. All ideas he had not gotten from his parents. Their grandson had grown up loved, wanted, pampered and spoiled. One attempt at strict discipline after his arrest for stealing and wrecking a car had almost ended in tragedy. Not that Joe had stepped a toe out of line since, the boy stuck to his room mostly as if going out in the fresh air was inviting trouble.

In the utility, Alexander was washing his hands, careful as if his fingers still hurt despite his cast and splints coming off last week. The table already set with fresh biscuits, home style gravy, oatmeal, coffee, juice and milk. Alexander had milked his first cow, made yogurt, butter and cheese. The boy talked sparingly of his own family, the bastard who had whipped his own child. The 16 year old had more nightmares over his late father than those thugs who hurt him last month. It had been hard for Mimi, juggling work without the backup of Connie. Daphne Canterbury had spent three weeks holding the fort in Washington, now Alex was here to give Grandma a rest.

Fran handed the boy his meds and ruffled his blond hair. "You suit it longer." She said softly in Russian. "Come on, get a biscuit down you before Bill eats them all."

…..

Alex was meant to be resting after breakfast, having a nap like he was a preschooler. He pulled out his phone to read Joe latest text, 'Jamie arriving on the 30th… staying in NYC…. no more cows!' He lay on the bottom bunk and sighed. The food was the best he'd eaten in his entire life. Home cooked breakfast, lunch, dinner and supper. The herd of thirty prize heritage bullocks and cows were all named. Fran and Bill was like the grandparents out of a novel, he was waiting for the wolf to blow the house down. He did not trust the certainty Charlie's promise that Blunt's game was up. There was no chance of their son ever going back to MI6, not ever considering the attempted kidnapping and poorly executed brainwashing. What had Joe's Grief clone been planning in the long run, future president no doubt. What was he going to do in this situation, survive and thrive. This afternoon he was going to help at the church yard sale raising funds for medical aid and educational funds for war orphans in Iraq. Hence the need for his morning resting.

…..

Fran had four boxes of clothes, games and books collected. Alex had his allowance and was on the look out for expanding his sparse wardrobe and few personal effects. He had pretty much read all of Joe's collection of books and would be spending his spare time at on a local library to stave off boredom, but he was still on practical house arrest considering his last outing had ended in disaster. He knew he had to start giving back to both his family and his new home and community. In the fall, he could start karate again, ask about skiing and go running with Charlie, but he was getting a crash course on patience of another kind. Life had been stifling in Russia, but here it was his own body that needed rest and recuperation. He rolled onto his side, closing his eyes. He might even make some friends, that would be a novel experience. He was still sure the Point Blanc crew only accepted him out of an overblown sense of gratitude. He had been fighting to keep himself alive. In these high stress moment their had been no thought of Jamie and the others, just himself.

Alex saw Mrs. Canterbury talking to a group of older ladies by the door organising the merchandise. A woman who was effortlessly friendly but formal at the same time, very much a nurse. He could not imagine calling her Grandma like Joe or worse her given name, Daphne. "Hey, Mrs. Canterbury. Where do I put Fran's goodies?"

"You should not be carrying heavy items, Alexander. Dan… Dan…. get the boxes out of the pickup."

A spotty teen with a shock of red hair dressed in his scout uniform looked at the new arrival "So, you must be the Russkie adopted by Joe's mom and dad. Welcome to the decadent west."

"Thanks, I think. I'm here to snap up some cool threads."

"Good luck with that. Most of this stuff was fashionable around 1984."

….

School was over for ten weeks and the newly free sixteen year old was packing his bag for his two weeks with his friends and brother, plus his mom tagging along. Alex would be home soon, from his boring week in boring-ville, Pennsylvania. That joy awaited in August for the whole family.

He heard the door slam and Joe practically flung himself down the two flights of stairs to the hall, where he hugged Alex like they had been parted for months not a mere six days, "God you look tanned and I swear you've grown!"

Alex beamed and hugged his brother tightly back, as being stuck with grandparents, his new family who just accepted this interloper, had helped kerb his urge to run for the hills. "I guess summer recess agrees with you because you look relaxed and ready to party with Paul."

"NYC here we come! Its going to be so creepy seeing the guys again, but good as well. Haven't heard back if Cassian's joining the party, his mom's worried about those bastards who snatched you. No chance of anything happening, not with the security Paul's grandma pays for. He has two bodyguards with him at school every day."

Alex had already packed, having bought three shirts, two pairs of jeans and a pile of fourteen books. His favourite was a book of spiritual quotations. He was exploring not just christianity, but buddhism and hinduism. He was relying on the meditation and grounding from karate lessons to ground himself and keep the panic and uncertainty at bay. Inner strength, resilience, fortitude, tempering faith, hope and charity were ideals to live by. He was not the sad, scared and lonely boy he had been in Russia. He was beginning to like himself again. He would never be a child again, all innocence gone. He had survived and he was going to thrive, just like Joe, Paul, Jamie and Cassian. Tom McMorin was currently grounded as he had broken curfew one too many times and was likely to be on restriction until his 18th birthday considering he stated he was going partying this weekend as his mother was still a bitch.

…..

Paul Roscoe lived on Fifth Avenue in a palatial apartment, seven bedrooms, four reception rooms, kitchen, terrace, six bathrooms. He lived here with his mother's mother, Marie Sandford-Brown. In the choice between supporting her traumatised grandson or taking sides with her foolish daughter, who had preferred the cuckoo; the matriarch had become both mother and father to her hellion grandson. She was an expert on tough love, as she had built up her late husbands business while putting her daughter through college from a few units in Brooklyn to the city wide commercial success bought out by what had been Roscoe Electronics Emporiums. Then Rachelle and Michael had married, had a son and divorced. Marie now protected her and her grandson's future from both the board, the trust and her misguided progeny. She was reading minutes and agenda but was distracted as she listened to Paul playing the piano, a slow melancholy piece. Proficient, clean and perfect for his conflicted feelings over the visit of his school friends; boys imprisoned with him. Reminders of the circumstances of his father's murder and his own powerlessness.

For the first time in two years she would be entertaining, not her friend's but friends of Paul's. All from that school were well connected. She was going to network, build from this life stripped down to the barest of foundations. Paul trusted her, a trust that had been hard won. They were a team. It was rumoured that Senator Canterbury had formerly had political ambitions of running as a presidential candidate. Connections to Washington would not hurt, not if her son followed in her footsteps. From despair, Paul might be making the most fortuitous friends for his future as Director and Majority shareholder of a global business empire. The one unusual guest was the son recently adopted by Mimi and Charles, the spy working MI6, not the child of David Friend; who was a guest of the Russian's for two years. She would love to know what that was all about.

…..

Sonny Troy had traced his daughter to her last black ops mission in Miami and Cuba. He had a copy of the security footage from the hotel. The short loop of footage showed her arriving with her 'husband and son'. The same blond boy who had been photographed with his father Alexei Sarov six days later during a refuelling stop in Edinburgh. Alex Gardiner, then Aleksandr Sarov and now Alexander Canterbury. The facial recognition programmmer, who the retired cop had hired, had confirmed the high probability that this was the same teenager, one who had just escaped his kidnappers in Baltimore. He had followed a hunch and now he was close to finding out if Belinda was still alive or how she had died. He was sick of the stony silence from the CIA, who stated she had never worked for them. All he wanted was closure. He might not have been the best father in the world, but his daughter Belinda was all the family he had.