Operation: Scorched Earth – Setting Fires
* pokes head out from around the corner * So uh, how about them Yankees?
Okay I know its been a long time and I know I promised I'd be better with updating, but it has been a long six months for me too. I've been dealing with a ton of shit, and no single chapter in this entire fucking epic has given me nearly as much trouble as this one.
Y'all have been so supportive of me – hardly a week went by the last few months I haven't heard from at least one of you, and I feel so bad you've been left waiting for the next installment! Thank you all, you're perfect.
The good news is this: I've already written the ending. So I'll be posting a chapter a week until the epilogue, which I hope should be enough of a peace branch to be forgiven?
…
Spies know better than anyone that any given tool is only useful in certain kinds of situations. Sometimes you need a couple of pounds of napalm and a firebomb, and sometimes you need a small bottle of arsenic and an opportune moment at a dinner party. You get the point: some situations require a sledgehammer, others an embroidery needle.
The thing that makes a spy particularly dangerous is their ability to know exactly which tool to use when.
For example; most of the time, spies fight their wars in the shadows, silent, unseen, unnoticed, quick and dirty.
But just because spies are trained to fight dirty doesn't mean they can't fight fair, and Ian Rider was one spy that knew how to shape the system to his advantage when he was motivated to.
And at the moment, Ian had some serious motivation working for him.
Ian Rider was angry – angry at himself, at MI6, at the world in general, but mostly Alan Blunt in particular.
He was sitting at his desk, blonde hair askew from the way he'd run his hands through it in irritation and anxiety, his lips firmly pressed into a frown.
The file on his nephew, the one that detailed the missions Alex had carried out on behalf of MI6 was laughably thin – and yet horrifying in both what it did and did not say.
Alex had been tortured, kidnapped, shot in the heart, beaten bloody, burned… Ian felt his hand tighten into a white knuckled fist at the thought.
He was proud of a lot of the things he'd done in his life. He harbored only passing compunctions about his decision to join MI6, given all the good he'd been able to do. He was proud of the way he'd raised Alex into a fine young man.
There were, however, less proud moments in his life. He'd known years ago that Jack didn't deserve to be saddled with the care of a teenage child, and had set in motion contingencies so that MI6 would be able to appoint his nephew a suitable guardian.
He'd never guessed MI6 would use that as carte blanche to blackmail and abuse Alex, though in retrospect, he probably should have. All the measures he'd taken to ensure that Alex would be able to protect himself made his nephew the perfect tool for MI6's needs.
And while he'd been slowly breaking to pieces under the torture of SCORPIA's most vile members, his nephew had walked through hell, and was still there.
The fact that Alan Blunt reminded Ian more and more of his own torturers every day left a sour taste on his tongue, and a heavy twist in his gut.
He had avoided prison or worse because he was 'useful' to Alan. Useful in that he was yet another tool Blunt could use to hurt Alex. Ian had tried to talk Alex into going along with whatever craziness Blunt was trying to stir up, just to save him time, give Ian a chance to fix things, but Alex was too stubborn, too well adjusted to doing the right thing.
Ian's time had run out, and his boss was hurting his nephew.
His jaw twitched.
When it came down to work or family, Ian had always chosen his job. He'd missed Christmases and birthdays and football games to run surveillance on drug dealers and suspected terrorists, to steal sensitive information, play bodyguard, and spy for the British government.
But this was different.
When John had faced the threat of violence against his son and wife, he had gone off the deep end trying to protect them. Ian had that same instinct – part of him was tempted to take the standard-issue nine millimeter from the drawer in his desk, walk right up to Alan Blunt, and empty the full clip into the man's face.
As happy as that fantasy might be, Ian knew that there were better ways of handling this situation. For all John had been the better spy, Ian had always been the more thorough, less impulsive of the two.
He was going to prove that now.
And maybe in the process, he'd get to set a few fires and watch MI6 burn for everything they had done to the Riders.
Alan Blunt trusted Ian, as much as Blunt trusted anyone, really, and by maneuvering himself into the man's good graces, Ian had what he needed to make his move against the director of MI6.
Ian smirked humorlessly, picking up his phone.
For once, he was going to fight his wars out in the open; and it was even going to be legal.
Mostly legal, anyway.
Like he said, Ian was never one to throw away a chance to set a few fires.
…
Alex hit the cold linoleum with a slam that jarred his shoulder and sent his already strained lungs gasping for breath.
He was completely soaked with freezing water, but he wasn't shaking from the cold that gripped him down to his very bones, but the immediate memories of being unable to move, to even breathe, of water filling up his lungs and throat and nose –
Alex took a deep, gasping breath, reassuring himself that he still could, his lungs still protesting after their abuse.
He didn't know how long he'd spent huddling against himself in his cell, but the door opened hours later. Two guards pulled him up to his feet and brought him to the shower, where at least he managed to get warm and then –blessedly – dry.
The hot shower had chased the cold lingering in his bones, but Alex felt broken, somehow, more fragile.
He knew Blunt was escalating, and that it was only a matter of time before things got even worse than they already were. Alex's imagination with regards to being torture was in no way limited, and he didn't want to think about what Blunt would do to him to "convince" him to implicate himself and go back to working for MI6.
Because he had no delusions about what the point of this little exercise was.
Alex wasn't that scared little boy any more, though.
Unfortunately, Alex's utter lack of willingness to put up with Alan Blunt's bullshit did not get him any closer to escaping. He hadn't had a single sliver of an opening to capitalize on since he'd woken up in a cell, and he wasn't likely to get one without any help.
Well, shit.
Alex realized that a new set of clothes was sitting in the corner – at least he could be assured that Blunt didn't want him to die of hypothermia – and went about getting himself dry and as warm as possible.
Five minutes later, he was still shivering, but he was dry, which was an improvement. Alex dropped himself onto the single cot, trying not to let despair overwhelm him.
Even as exhausted as he was, sleep was a long time in coming.
…
The explosion that rocked the floor woke Alex with a jolt, and he swore violently as his body made painful and unexpected contact with the floor. The door swung open, and Alex caught a glimpse of smoke and the whiff of fire before he realized that neither guard was watching him.
Alex took less than a second to decide to take the risk and utilize the opportunity that had been dumped into his lap, and he threw himself into motion.
He was weaker than he'd been in a long time and groggy from sleep, but Alex had been doing martial arts since he was a child, had utilized it to save his life in a very practical way, and practiced hours on end until his form was perfect. His body moved on pure instinct, using moves that required the least amount of force to do the most damage.
A kick to the groin was a kick to the groin, after all.
With both guards out, Alex took stock of his situation.
He could hear a siren blaring in the distance, and the smell of smoke was thick on the air, drifting along the ceiling.
The building was on fire.
Awesome.
And Alex meant that in a totally genuine, non-sarcastic way. This was the opportunity he needed, and he fully intended to use it to the best of its potential.
Alex glanced down at the unconscious guards, and remembered weeks of being dragged through this godforsaken building, sightless journeys with nothing but the swipe of key cards and the click of electric locks.
He was going to need one of their ID badges. Alex ruffled through the smaller one's pockets until he found an ID holder with a name and a barcode. There was no other information.
It was a pretty good bet that was what Alex was looking for. He pocketed the ID card, standing quickly. He needed to make a call about which direction to run in. Between the obvious fire and the prospect of getting caught by more guards, Alex needed to move.
He hesitated just one more second, glancing towards his one way out.
If he stole the guard's clothes, he'd be much less likely to be caught in the chaos from the explosion. In the clothes he'd been given when he got to this facility, he was sure to be spotted almost at once.
He stripped the smaller guard of his outer jacket, pants, and shoes. The fit was imperfect, but it was an added layer of security – plus he now had two weapons – a tranquilizer gun and a taser.
Alex left both unconscious guards in his own cell, and slammed the door behind him as he left.
He'd already wasted too much time, and he was getting the hell out of here.
The hallway extended in either direction, simple, white, and unmarked. It was a fifty-fifty guess which way would get him out of here.
Alex closed his eyed, flipped a mental coin, and took off running to the left.
And – Yes! The door at the end of the hall on his left was a stairwell. Alex swiped the card, holding his breath until he heard the familiar, telltale click of the lock.
He pulled open the door and caught a face full of black smoke billowing out from the lower floors. Wherever the fire was, it was down.
Well, that made this call a bit easier. Alex had no idea if he was just trapping himself on the roof of a burning building, or getting closer to the exit, but he couldn't go towards the flame.
Where were the rest of the guards? Alex wondered as he climbed, holding the top of his shirt over his mouth and nose to make sure he wouldn't inhale too much smoke. Surely he should have seen someone by now, surely someone had seen that he was no longer in his cell and sounded the alarm?
But the piercing, screaming ring of the fire bell continued to echo in the perfectly empty stairwell.
Alex made it up two levels before a second explosion hit.
The floor rocked violently, and Alex barely remained standing, holding the railing as the building shook.
Alex took the next floor at a run, but he wasn't as fit as he'd ever been, and his lungs were heaving, the smell of acrid smoke filling his mouth and lungs despite his efforts to avoid breathing it.
He'd gone four floors up before he started to see damage from the second explosion. An entire section of the stairs above him was completely blown out, the remains of some kind of laboratory visible in the massive hole in the wall beyond. Fire had claimed most of the floor, and thick black smoke was pouring from the exit.
Covering his face with his arm, Alex jumped over the missing steps. His eyes were watering against the smoke, and he couldn't breathe, and he could feel the searing heat of the fire against the wall to his right, slowly claiming the building.
Alex needed to get out of here.
He felt someone grab his arm blindly, and Alex twisted away, blindly kicking out in the smoke.
His attacker fell away and Alex pushed on, spurred forward by adrenaline and fear.
The teenager could feel his lungs heaving for air, desperate for a clear breath.
He coughed, stumbling over the next few steps. One hand was braced against the wall next to him, the only thing that kept him moving in the right direction, because he couldn't even see where he was going anymore.
Oh god he was going to die of smoke inhalation trying to escape a secret prison.
Alex pressed forward, desperation the only thing keeping his weak and shaking body on his feet. He stumbled on another landing, and heard a distant echo of shouting through the smoke. He took the next floor cautiously, trying to catch a glimpse through the thinning smoke of something that could tell him if he was going in the right direction.
But all this smoke had to be going somewhere, right?
He tripped over the next step and fell to his knees, splitting one of them as he collapsed on all fours.
His limbs were shaking, and he could barely take in a breath. Every bit of him hurt. Alex was completely spent, and he felt the chilling realization that he was going to die here settle over him.
More voices and shouting could be heard, but it was closer, less distant now. He could make out words over the blaring of the fire alarm.
"There's someone there – "
The voice came from right behind him, and Alex tensed, readying himself to try and fight back when one of the guards grabbed his arm and pulled it over the guards shoulder.
"Come on lad, lets get moving!"
The guard helped Alex stumble farther up the steps. For a moment, Alex was confused, wondering why the guard wasn't fighting him, but his oxygen deprived brain finally kicked into gear. He was covered in soot, the whole stairwell was full of smoke, and he was wearing a guard's uniform.
Blessing the extra minutes he'd taken to steal the outfit, Alex let the guard next to him pull him up another set of stairs and through a door being held open by more guards.
Alex fell to his knees on the metal outside, drawing in deep breaths of precious air.
"What about the prisoners on the lower level?"
From very far away, he heard the guard that had pulled him up to safety speaking to another guard.
"Being evacuated by boat with the rest of the guards, you lot are the last ones out. They're evacuating everyone to a secure facility on land."
The alarm was still going, and Alex recovered himself enough to realize that he needed to move, needed to assess where he was so that he could escape.
He opened his eyes.
He was on a ship – a massive one, by the look of it, bigger than some of the aircraft carriers and battleships he'd seen. He'd stumbled out of an exit onto a landing close to the bow of the ship, and over the guardrail he could see the expanse of ocean stretching out before him. As he pulled himself away from the smoke, he could smell the clean, sharp scent of the ocean.
Alex pulled himself to his feet as the handful of guards still on deck began sorting themselves out, organizing efforts to evacuate. In the confusion, he stumbled away, around a corner and towards the side of the ship.
He didn't see the guard that had pulled him out take off his mask, nor did he see the way the man's blue eyes followed Alex's smaller form as he took off for cover.
Alex definitely didn't see the small smile that twitched at the corner of Ian Riders mouth as his nephew made his bid for freedom. He'd gone down to the lower deck to make sure that Alex used his transfer as a chance to escape, but the teenager had already made better use of the opportunity than Ian would have believed, given the boys condition. Now, it was up to Alex, who remained oblivious of his uncle's interference.
Though to be fair to Alex, he was a little occupied.
He needed to figure out where he was, and then he needed to get off this damn ship.
He hadn't gone very far when something caught his eye, and an idea sparked.
There was a helicopter on deck.
Alex grinned to himself. Perfect. He'd get away faster by air, and from the chopper, he'd be able to get his position and head towards land.
From there – Alex had no idea what he'd do, but he'd worry about that when – or even if - he managed to get that far.
Taking a deep breath and drawing on the last of his strength, Alex stumbled across the ship between himself and the helicopter. His feet fell heavily on the metal of the ship, but in the chaos around him, nobody was paying attention to one more guard. Alex didn't know how long he had before someone noticed he wasn't being evacuated with the rest of the prisoners, and started looking for him, but he wanted to be gone before that happened.
The heat of the sun blared down on him as he finally collapsed into the side of the chopper, and Alex allowed himself a second to recover and appreciate the natural light.
He'd been certain just a few hours ago that he was never going to see the sun again.
And he might never again if he didn't get moving, so he pulled open the door and practically fell into the pilots seat.
Okay. Helicopter. This couldn't be too hard. He got the blades whirring, and just as confused glances started being cast in his direction, the chopper began lifting off the deck.
"Attention Viper seven, you do not have permission for takeoff, please proceed to the emergency lifeboats – repeat, you do not-"
Alex hit the off button, closing the radio. He literally could not give less of a shit.
And as the helicopter rose high above the ship, Alex laughed.
Checking the dashboard for coordinates, Alex maneuvered the chopper heading north. He was in international waters at the moment, but in a few hours, he'd reach the coast of Iceland. Britain was closer, but he figured it might be best to avoid England for as long as the government was considering him a terrorist.
Slowly, the smoking ship faded into the background, and Alex breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that nobody was coming after him. MI6 was likely to busy organizing the ships evacuation to bother with a single guard disappearing with a helicopter, but once they realized Alex was missing, they'd be right on his tail.
Odds were, they had all their choppers tagged too, so Alex wasn't quite out of the woods just yet.
Still, it was nice to feel the breeze on his skin, the fresh sea air clearing his head and keeping him awake.
He could crash as soon as he was somewhere safe.
The sun was beginning to set as he reached the coast.
Alex navigated the chopper down towards the sand. There was a couple on the beach, and they stared at the teenager as he stumbled out of the chopper, exhausted, covered in soot, dried blood covering one arm.
Alex waved to them, smiling awkwardly.
He turned away, walking along the beach. From the map in the chopper, there was a city near this stretch of coast. Alex figured he'd see if he could catch a train further inland, and put some distance between him and the pursuers that couldn't be far behind.
Sure enough, Vik had a train station and Alex bought tickets for a train going to Stokkseyri in an hour. He'd found about a hundred pounds tucked away between the pages of a book in the passenger seat, and transferred it to Icelandic Krona. While he waited, he picked up new clothes and scrubbed himself clean of soot. A blond teenager of average height and build would be difficult to spot, and he figured he still had some time before MI6's hounds started sniffing around Vik.
He managed to stay awake until he got on the train, and after the teller had punched his ticket, he curled up.
He wasn't sure if he fell asleep, or had passed out, but he was unconscious most of the night.
It was noon by the time he woke, and the train was a little under halfway to Stokkseyri. The journey was a little over 30 hours. Alex was down on funds, but he bought himself a sandwich and a bottle of water from the cart that came by a little after he'd woken up, and devoured it. His stomach was cramping from hunger, and he hadn't eaten a decent meal in… well, Alex didn't want to dwell too strongly on that, because it would mean sparing more than a passing thought for what Blunt had done to him.
The truth made his skin crawl and made him shiver in the perfectly warm train car. Blunt had tortured him, had locked him inside a tiny box and tried to force him to admit to being a criminal so that MI6 could blackmail him into working for them again. It was wrong, so damn wrong, and why did they have to keep chasing him? What was it about him that made him such a target? Why him? What did god or the universe have against him?
Because surely there was no way a single person could be so unlucky without the intervention of a malicious god.
He didn't even realize he was crying until he tried to suck in a shaking breath and felt his chest falter as he started full on sobbing.
He cried for the childhood he'd lost, for all the times he'd been hurt and never had anyone there for him, for everything that had done to him, everything he'd suffered and survived and had to come out on top of. He cried for all the things in the future that might be waiting for him, for the fear that he might be seconds away from being recaptured by MI6 and shoved in another small metal box, and as he dwelled on that possibility it became oddly difficult to so much as breathe.
And if Alex took a few hours to give himself over to weeping for everything he'd lost in an empty train car headed north along the Icelandic coast, it was his own damn business.
He slept afterwards, a longer, more natural sleep. When he woke in Stokkseyri, he was still in pain from his escape, but his mind was clearer, and he was ready to go back to running from MI6.
He used the last of his money to buy a motel room for the night. He hoped that MI6 was still sniffing around Vik, because he was far from recovered, and he felt like he could sleep for another year, despite having slept most of the train ride here.
He hadn't gotten more than a few hours sleep at a time since… well since about the same time as he'd been able to claim he was eating regular meals and that was back in Manchester, when he and Anish had shared an apartment and Alex was unwittingly working for a child slavery ring and Anish was slowly building his trust so that he'd be vulnerable to Yassen Gregorovitch's suggestion that he come work for him.
And jesus, did everyone in the world have an agenda that included using Alex? Because he was getting seriously sick of it all. He wondered what he'd have to do to change his name and retire so that nobody would come looking for him.
He wasn't a pawn in the world of shadows and spies. He was far more valuable, far more dangerous than that. Maybe once he had allowed himself to be used because he hadn't known any better. But even a pawn can turn into a queen if it advances far enough forward, and Alex had come farther than even he might have believed the day he'd taken off running from MI6.
He didn't know how exactly he planned on doing so, but he was going to make sure nobody was going to use him. He was his own person, and he wasn't going to let anybody own him.
That pleasant thought lulled him to sleep.
…
Alex was thrown into wakefulness by a knock at the door. Groaning, he pulled his aching body off the bed and stumbled towards the door.
Checking that he still had the tranquilizer in the back of his pants he opened the door a crack.
The sight of two men in suits outside brought him to full alertness.
"Alex Rider?"
"Sorry, wrong door," Alex attempted to close the door on the man in the suit, but the other man was much too quick, and managed to jam his foot in the door.
"We're just here to talk, that's all."
"Yeah right," Alex snarled from the other side of the door. He heard an exasperated sound from the other side of the wood, and then he was thrown backwards by a particularly violent thrust of the door.
He went sprawling on the floor, helpless to stop the two men in suits from entering the room and closing the door behind them. The tranquilizer clattered off out of Alex's reach as he grabbed uselessly for it.
"Sorry for the invasion," the first man said, extending his hand to Alex to help him up. Alex didn't take it, getting to his feet and putting as much space between him and the two goons in suits as he could.
"We are here on behalf of our boss," the first man continued when Alex didn't say anything. The teenagers' features hardened.
"I don't want anything to do with the bastards in MI6," he said. He was still trying to determine why they hadn't just shot him or dragged him off already – it wasn't like Blunt had ever shied away from making a scene when he really wanted something.
"We don't represent Special Operations," the man in the suit said blankly.
"So who do you represent?"
"We're security for the Internal Affairs department," the first suit said. "I think this will clarify the situation somewhat." The man reached inside his suit and Alex tensed. Noticing the teens reaction, the man slowly drew out a thin envelope.
"Easy there, it's just a letter," he said, reaching out to give Alex a folded piece of paper. Alex took it reluctantly, not opening it yet.
"Why on earth does someone from Internal affairs want to talk to me?" he asked.
Suits numbers one and two shrugged in unison. Alex got the feeling it wasn't really their job to know the answers to the questions he had.
He looked back at the letter and frowned. Unable to contain his curiosity, he broke open the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper inside.
Mr. Rider, I do apologize for the cloak and dagger routine, but it was imperative that I contact you without being traced. Internal Affairs requests your presence to discuss an ongoing case in our department. If it is convenient to you, the emissaries delivering this letter will provide you an escort to our offices so that we may speak discretely. This is, as I have stated, a request. My men are under orders to leave should you tell them to. Without disclosing too much, I would like to say that I believe we have a great deal to talk about and a meeting would be only of benefit to both of us.
There was no signature.
Well, that was appropriately vague, if only slightly ominous. Part of Alex was tempted to see if the goons in suits would leave if he told them to as the letter said. The other, larger part was now curious as all hell, and never let it be said that Alex Rider didn't do dumb things in the name of sating that curiosity. Going with these guys could be a huge risk – he might be handing himself right back over to MI6. But if they really weren't working with special operations, then what exactly did they want?
It seemed the only way he was going to get the answers he needed was by putting himself out on the line.
Besides, it really was only a matter of time before MI6 caught back up with him, or worse, Gregorovitch and his ilk. It looked like there was another player on the board this time around though, and Alex's instincts were telling him that he might have an ally in this game.
That, or he was about to maneuver himself right into a trap.
Then again, if he refused and this was a trap, he wasn't in a position to take down either guard. He was hurt, unarmed, and still weak from his time as a guest of MI6, and either of the two men in front of him could take him down before he reached the tranquillizer gun across the room.
Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. What the hell, right?
"Okay," he said, tucking the paper into his back pocket as he stood. He hoped he wasn't making a bad decision here. "Lets do this then."
He followed his escorts out into the cold morning air. It was still dark, and a light mist hung on the air, muffling the light from the street lamps along the road.
The blue sedan was entirely non-descript, which pleased Alex's sense of paranoia. If these guys really weren't with MI6, at least they were using a car that wouldn't be easily traced. He sprawled in the backseat, forcing himself to relax into the appearance of nonchalance.
If he needed to make a run for it, he wanted to make sure he at least had the element of surprise.
They drove through the unfamiliar city, navigating the empty roads. Within about fifteen minutes, they stopped in front of a sleek office building.
"Come on then," suit number one said, and Alex followed him into the building, past a reception desk and to a set of elevators.
Upstairs, the two men in suits led Alex into an office. A glance registered three bookshelves along one side of the room, and a comfortable couch along the other. On the opposite side of the room (and not at a convenient angle to the large windows on his right that it would be easy to take a shot at it) a desk was piled with folders.
Most had been closed and pushed into a kind of tidy pile to one side. A few were open however, laid out in front of a rather satisfied looking woman sitting behind the desk.
She was young, maybe in her thirties, with dark hair pulled up into a simple bun and very muted makeup. Alex caught 'professional' in every line of the woman's body.
"Thank you for your assistance gentlemen, in seeing Mr. Rider here safely," she told the suits behind Alex. "You're dismissed."
She remained silent until Alex heard the door click shut behind him, and turned her attention to the teenager standing in her office.
"Hello Mr. Rider," she said, and there was a glint of triumph in her eyes when she said it, a small quirk of a smile at the edge of her lips. "You are a difficult man to find. I had to come all the way to Iceland just to catch up with you."
"I try very hard," Alex acknowledged, ignoring the woman's gesture to take a seat in the chair in front of him. "Which begs the question, how did you find me?"
"We appropriated the tracking equipment special operations uses to keep track of their helicopters," the woman shrugged. "From there, it was fairly simple to deduce that you'd head for the hills, since Vik is hardly a big enough city to hide for an extended period of time. Security cameras caught you leaving for Stokkseyri, so I set up shop here."
"Well, you obviously know me, which puts us on slightly uneven ground, seeing as I don't know you."
"My name is Virginia Allen, and I am an attorney with Internal Affairs in the Special Operations division."
That was the second time he'd heard that phrase, and it made no more sense to Alex than it had the first. If this woman was working with Special Operations, surely he'd be in handcuffs by now? Assuming she was the one who had written the letter that had been delivered to him, she'd been fairly clear that she wasn't working with special ops at all.
"Well, Virginia Allen, in my experience, people chasing me down usually want to use me or kill me. Which of the two are you?"
"The first," the woman said, without batting an eye, and Alex felt something deep inside of him flinch at the prospect. His instincts weren't screaming at him to run, which, combined with the no doubt armed guards waiting outside was why he hadn't attempted to bolt yet, but one wrong word from this woman would send him straight for the door.
"What is it that you want to use me for?" Alex asked, playing her game, for now.
"Several months ago, my office received a call from an old friend of mine, a source high up in MI6. We were assured that if we were to dig deeper into the deaths of certain agents of the British government, we would find a rather large, rather disturbing scandal that would horrify the public if they were to catch wind of it."
Now that was new.
"I followed up on the tip that was left on my desk by this sources contact in Internal Affairs, and I found some seriously horrifying things."
"What source?" Alex asked, interested despite himself. He unfolded his arms and let his hands rest on the back of the chair, watching the woman in front of him.
"I'm not at liberty to disclose that information," the lawyer said with practiced calm. "I followed my sources lead, and it took me to the suspicious death of one Ian Rider."
Alex inhaled sharply.
"From there, I learned a great deal about the abuses of power that MI6 has been engaging in. You, Alex, are only the tip of a very large iceberg of corruption in the special ops division going back nearly two decades."
Alex lifted his eyebrow. Somehow he wasn't surprised, and he was still waiting to hear what Virginia Allen wanted from him.
"I can see you're not impressed," Virginia said. "Let me be more clear about my intentions here: I'm compiling a case against Alan Blunt to be heard by military tribunal. I'll get him on over a dozen charges, but he'll walk away from most of them by virtue of his position and reputation. I want to crucify him, to burn him and his reputation to ashes and dust, and there's no way he walks away when your involvement is brought up. Even his friends in the government won't be able to do anything for him when they find out that he's been using a schoolboy as a spy."
For perhaps the first time in his life, Alex couldn't come up with a single clever comment to disguise his very real shock.
"What Mr. Blunt did to you was wrong," Virginia said quietly. "What Alan Blunt has done in general is plain horrifying, and makes him an awful director in SIS, but it's his abuse of you in particular that makes him so reprehensible as a human being. I'm saying that only knowing a fraction of what you've been through, and I'd hazard a guess that there's a lot more crap I'm going to wish I'd never heard about once I do. I want to give you the chance to take a good legal shot back at him."
"And make your career, I suppose" Alex guessed, deflecting the sympathy this attorney was offering him. Virginia smirked a little.
"I'm already head of Internal Affairs, and I got here all by myself," Virginia told him. "Winning this case? Yes, it'll make me look good. But I'm exactly where I want to be, and right now, I want to do my job, and part of my job is body checking people like Alan Blunt when they go too far out of line."
Alex liked the sound of that.
"If I were to testify," Alex began, pacing a few steps to his left. "If I were going to, what would you want me to say?"
"Everything," Vriginia said immediately. "We'll go over the specifics of course, but I want the tribunal to hear in gruesome detail about every single mission you underwent while in the service of Alan Blunt and MI6. Right now, I've only got the barest bones, and I want to interview you in depth to make sure they get it all. And so that I'm prepared to give them evidence about everything you'll say."
Alex stood in silence, thinking that over.
"If it makes a difference, odds are, your testimony would never be made public," Virginia said finally. "This is an internal tribunal set up specifically to audit the actions of Alan Blunt, and discover how far his corruption in the organization has spread. Nobody is ever going to want it to get out that the British government allowed a teenager to be used the way MI6 has used you, so your anonymity will be protected. Come back to London to testify, and we'll set you up in a safe house so that they can't get to you before we put away those responsible for hurting you."
Alex exhaled deeply.
He thought of everything he'd been through.
Thought of all the missions where he'd almost died a hundred times over.
Thought about the fact that if he were a little less lucky, he'd have died at the hands of a giant jellyfish, or snowboarding down a mountain on an ironing board, or getting shot in the heart or launched over a waterfall or tortured in a dungeon on Gaza. About how many times he's been controlled and used by Alan Blunt and MI6, by SCORPIA, and even by Yassen Gregorovitch.
And he remembers that he's resolved, more than anything, to never be manipulated like that again. To never be used, never be that scared, frightened boy just trying to survive ever again.
It's not like he never wants to be a secret agent. At this point, he's not sure he'd ever be safe if he backed out of the shadows, and he's not even sure he'd want to.
He doesn't know what other path he could take forward, but he does know that he's going to do it on his terms.
This is his call, his decision. He's the one calling this play, and he knows exactly what move he wants to make.
He considered that very satisfying prospect, and nodded.
"Okay," he said, meeting Virginia's eyes. "I'll give you what you need."
The words taste like victory leaving his lips.
….