Operation: Bury Your Dead – Check
Hello, all of you! I'm sorry I left you all summer without an update... Bad form, I know. I've just been super busy, since I'm trying to get a head start on college applications, plus studying for my final round of SATs, as well as all my summer work.
And, to make my week, I just found out that despite the fact that I get to take Honors Film and AP English, and AP Psychology (whoot!), I have to take 'psychology of bible study' which would be a fascinating class under normal circumstances, but, considering the guy teaching it spent all of last year telling me that I'm going to hell for refusing to pray and wholeheartedly believe in god, and that it's my obligation to bear children because I'm a woman... I'm going for 'nightmarish' rather than 'cool'.
GAH. Well, at least I have AP Art first period? It's independent study, which kind of rocks. Plus, I get two debate captainships, a column in our school paper to write about anything I want (I chose education in the Palestinian occupied territories for my first story), and a rocking TA gig for our MME and Jewish Philosophy teacher (yes, the insane one I've been telling you about). Life as a senior is good. I think.
Anywho, now that that's out of the way... Ta da! I'm not so happy with this chapter, to tell the truth. How about you lot?
...
Miles passed as the night wore on. Half an hour in, as the adrenaline of his temporary insanity and the fear of the hunt began to wear off, Alex's head had started to droop; exhaustion dragged at him, slowing his reaction time. It was lucky this stretch of freeway was empty, or he would have hit several cars, swerving erratically out of his lane as he began to loosen his grip on the wheel every time sleep tried to overcome him.
Knowing he had little chance of getting any kind of caffeinated boost any time soon, Alex turned on the radio, flipping through the channels until he found some one playing some obnoxious heavy metal, and turned up the sound. The strumming of guitars and drums fading into white noise was enough to wake him up and keep him in his own lane.
Another half hour passed in silent driving. He could see the nighttime world stretch out on either side. This stretch of freeway was quiet, almost rural. In the distance, he could see the bright lights of cities. Every now and then, he would pass through a smaller town, and the lampposts would seem unnaturally bright to his eyes, so used to the darkness of the road.
He was grateful for the full tank of gas in the car, which allowed him to keep going, without end.
Another stretch of empty unlit freeway, and Alex found himself staring out the window. There was nothing to tell where the sky ended and the horizon began, and the distant lights of some city or other looked like new constellations, pinpoints of colored light in expansive black.
Then again, even the constellations here looked new and strange. It was a very different night sky than that of London, one filled with countless stars.
Alex had been camping before, but the sight of the sky – endless, infinite, eternal, sparkling with trillions upon trillions of stars, some of whom were an incomprehensible distance away – it always filled him with breathless wonder. Even now, terrified and on the run, he watched the stars, wondering. He'd never fancied astronomy as a career, but it was entirely fascinating, all the same.
Sometimes, the sky would be entirely dark, concealed by clouds, and it would rain like mad, or just a little sprinkling of water. The sky didn't seem to be able to really make up its mind. But there was always at least a little patch of starry sky that Alex could find when he looked, though sometimes it was difficult to see, especially when he was close to a major city.
"See there, Alex, that star is in the Andromeda galaxy," Ian told Alex, pointing with one hand, straight up. They were lying on the grass in a clearing in Yellowstone National Park, backpacking together on a two-week summer trip. They were at the edge of the lake, and if you looked across it, you could almost see the steam rising up from the geysers at West Thumb – not geysers, Alex reminded himself from what Ian had told him earlier, but hot springs for the most part, colored by the different bacteria that lived in the hotter than boiling water.
"It's two million lightyears away," Ian continued, letting his hand drop, and Alex looked back up at the sky once more, focusing on the cluster of stars Ian had directed his attention to. "The light we're seeing now was generated back when australopithecineswere still around. And if you were standing on Andromeda today, looking at earth, you would see it as it was two million years ago."
Alex couldn't help but stare. The light he was seeing was reaching across a vast chasm of space and time, a miracle of physics, and it was just one more burning dot in a sky full of them. It was incomprehensi –
The sound of a truck horn blaring forced Alex back into the present, and he jerked the wheel instinctively away form the glaring headlights and sound of the truck. The movement forced his car off the road, and Alex felt the terrain underneath grow bumpy. He forced the steering wheel to the left, undeterred, and was rewarded when the vehicle was back on smooth road again.
Breathing heavily, Alex adjusted his seat in the driver's chair, and committed himself to keep driving. So long as he stayed in motion (and on the road) he would be fine.
So long as a troupe of agents aren't waiting to arrest me when I get to Boston, Alex's pessimistic side supplied.
Shut up, Alex told himself. Drive now, worry later. Boston is still hours away.
...
Walsh was watching the men securing the room carefully. They were all dressed in black, though he thought he might recognize some of the mask men as some of the patrons he had noticed earlier, though he was relying on sketchy comparisons on build and height.
What really attracted his attention though, was the 'grenades' each of the men were carrying on their belts. They weren't explosives, Walsh knew. He had enough experience with tear gas bombs to recognize one when he saw it.
Why would terrorists use tear gas, instead of real bombs? He wondered. Clearly, they weren't suicide attackers. They were here for a reason. They were also being ridiculously showy, a trait Walsh would have normally assigned to amateurs, or terrorists who really watched too many movies.
But he saw they way they moved methodically, without conferring with one another. The way they efficiently barred the exits and shut down the power, darkening the room so that the only light came from the outside. The organized fashion in which they collected the patrons into the center of the room, and forced them into a straight line, and got them to give up all their electronic devices. He met the eyes of the man holding out a bag for him to drop his phone and watch into as he pulled said articles out of his pocket and off his wrist.
And he glanced down just in time to see the tazer gun next to two canisters which he now knew were filled with tear gas, before it left his line of sight.
No, these were no amateurs. And they weren't here to kill people. The guns were real, yes, but Walsh knew they were only for show. This wasn't about making people notice them. The guns – and this whole show – were a distraction.
They were here for an extraction job, not a hit. Walsh would have bet his career on it.
He just hoped they weren't going to have to get gassed. He really hated tear gas. It was asinine really, though it was effective for crowd control, especially during riots. He'd once ended up in the crossfire of a comrades shot with a tear gas gun, a weapon that fired canisters of the stuff in wide arcs, and had caught more than a hint of the stuff; that had been more than enough to satisfy him for forever. As far as Walsh was concerned, he could never see another tear gas grenade go off, and it would be far too soon.
"Jack," he whispered when the man had moved out of earshot. "They're here to steal something, I think," he said. "They're not terrorists, I don't think."
"That's good news," Jack breathed back. She didn't look even a little frightened, something Walsh found disturbing. Was this the effect MI6's exploitation of Alex Rider had had on the teenager's guardian?
He owed those heads of MI6 a few serious slugs to the face, when all this was done and gone, Walsh decided.
Of course, it would have to wait until they got out of this.
"Next time we go on a date, can we order take out?" Jack whispered. Walsh didn't know whether to laugh or stare. She was... making jokes.
And then his heart leapt, because he heard the first part of that sentence. The 'next time' part.
He would have spent more time pondering that, but it was at that precise moment that everything when to hell in a handbasket.
Two tear gas grenades went off at the same time, one by the front and one by the back exit. Walsh took a moment to appreciate the ingenuity of that move – no one was leaving until all the gas cleared away, and then he was forced to his knees by the burning pain in his eyes. It spread like wildfire, burning down his nose, throat, and lungs, blinding him, forcing him to cough. He didn't even feel the tears running down his face.
Jack had the same instantaneous reaction as the detective, except for one difference. Incapacitated, blind, and coughing like she was trying to hack up her own lungs, Jack felt a figure pull her to her feet, and drag her through the room.
Jack never felt the prick of the needle in her arm that forced her unconscious.
Hours later, the room had been cleared by paramedics, and Walsh was still crying somewhat, looking around desperately for the redhead. He asked a passing medic if he had seen Jack, but the man simply shrugged, and told him he'd seen a couple of redheads already, but there wasn't much more he could do to help him; it had been a large crowd.
Three of Walsh's coworkers had come up to him and were asking him about what had happened. Knowing that Jack could take care of herself and would inevitably show up again soon Walsh's directed his full attention to his job – he reported his suspicions that the masked men had been trying to steal something. He went with the police when they interviewed the owner of the restaurant, who had shown up in a panic soon after the commotion had started to dissolve, and the building had been cleared.
As far as the owner knew, there was nothing of value in the restaurant, nothing worth this kind of force to get at. The safe in the building had been left untouched, and there wasn't any valuable décor missing.
It wasn't until after he had turned in his statement to the station and checked the lists of people treated by the paramedics three times that he finally realized that Jack was missing.
And with that horrible realization came the dawning understanding of what – who – those men had risked a great deal to find.
...
"Mr. Dawns, so help me, I have gotten very tired of hearing that particular sentence," Mrs. Jones said, her voice clipped. "Why didn't you mention this in your original report?"
"It wasn't safe for me to send that particular information to you through the CIA," Felix answered. He sounded confident enough, but his hands were clasped behind his back, the picture of a child being scolded by their principal. "I gave the order to my men to ensure that Rider – Ian, not his nephew – escaped."
"So you are telling me, Mr. Dawns, that you, an esteemed member of the underworld arms dealing scene, is incapable of containing a sixteen-year-old agent with two weeks of formal training, even with a large contingent of armed men?"
"I was supposed to give the order for my men to shoot a child?" Felix demanded. "He may be a spy, and from what you've told me, he's gone as bad as they come, but he's still a fucking child, for god's sake!"
"Alex is no longer a child," Mrs. Jones said automatically, and inwardly winced. Felix's history made it impossible for him to accept the abuse of any child – one of the reasons he was such a good agent was because he really believed in what he was doing. "For now, I'm more disappointed in the fact that you failed to report that Ian Rider was alive, and that you allowed him to get away."
"I put one of my agents on a plane immediately after the incident," Felix said. "He is carrying with him a computer chip that can be used to trace Rider's whereabouts. He also has a sampling of the drugs we found on Ian."
"You had him in custody!" Mrs. Jones snapped. "Why on earth would you tag him and let him go?"
"I thought a few of my men were selling secrets, it wasn't safe for me to keep him on board!" Felix snapped back. "Besides, from what you've said, Ian's not guilty – he was tortured – I think that kind of qualifies as extenuating circumstances. You get something beat into you enough times, you stop arguing. I think if you watch where he's been, what he does, you might be able to figure out where his mind is at, because I don't think it was all there when he came to me. And I don't think he's a traitor – not willingly, at least."
Mrs. Jones sighed, but she didn't bother arguing further. Dawns was right, of course. Alan was jumping to conclusions, but there was very little evidence in his favor at the moment. If tracking his movements gave them that information, and they could clear Ian, she could ignore any lapse in procedure that occurred along the way.
"Drugs?" she asked instead, latching on to the second piece of information Dawns had given her.
"Yeah," Felix confirmed. "I don't know what kind, but your labs will be able to check it out, see what's what. It could be another clue to prove Ian's innocence."
Mrs. Jones pursed her lips together but said nothing for several seconds. She agreed, privately, but there was nothing she could do. Not while Alan had both Riders on the run. She refused to believe the worst of Alex without the most damning evidence possible, but Ian – even if he was only insane, he wasn't on their side anymore. She didn't want to have to give the order to shoot to kill him, but every hour just seemed to bring her closer to that point. Blunt, she knew, would have no problem issuing that order on either Rider.
"Keep your eyes open then," she ordered at last. "If you find anything, I want to hear it accurately, the first time I hear it, from your lips alone, do you understood me?"
"Yes ma'am," Dawns said, but his boss had already cut off the line.
...
The sky was starting to lighten, and the clouds that had intermittently poured rain and drizzled on his nighttime journey had begun to disperse by the time Alex had reached Boston. He felt a sense of elation mixed with exhaustion and wariness – he had made it, but he had done so at a cost he wasn't yet sure was acceptable. He knew he was close to just dropping from the stress and wear of the past few days. And there was no guarantee that once he made it to the safe house that he wouldn't be running for his life again.
He had stolen another car in one of the towns he had passed – Alex had ceased to care where he was, narrowing in only on who might be following him, and where he was going. The night had passed in a blur of lights, dark freeway, and fear. He hadn't been followed, as far as he could see, but there was no point taking chances.
The wariness was getting to him though. Being constantly on edge was starting to tell, and Alex was starting to drag.
No, Alex thought as he navigated the streets of Boston, already beginning to fill despite the hour – it was 5:30, and the sky was filling with the slight green tinge of light that came before the dawn. If MI6 was waiting for him in Charleston, he didn't stand a chance. He wasn't even sure he wanted to try running. He was so tired.
It's keep moving or get arrested, Alex told himself grimly. No way is the latter happening. If I can just lay low here for a few days, maybe a week... All I need is time.
Alex knew he was hinging far too much on this, relying entirely on Yedits goodwill. He knew it was stupid, he knew it was unprofessional, and he knew it was probably going to end badly.
What's that saying? Alex thought. Expect the worst. That way, if and when the worst happens, at the very least, you won't be surprised by it. Story of my life.
The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon when Alex passed the corner of Bartlett and Green. There didn't seem to be anyone around, Alex thought. No big vans (but that would be just a little too obvious to hope for, Alex thought), nobody glancing out of windows that he could see.
Alex circled the block twice and then drove about half a mile away, careful to memorize the route. He sat in the car for several minutes, just fingering the key and trying to bring up the strength to get up and walk back to the safe house. It was an almost unnecessary precaution, but if Yedit had been genuinely trying to help, and this car was being tracked, there was no sense leading MI6 right to his doorstep.
Then again, if the car was being tracked, Alex was pretty sure it didn't matter.
Bloody hell, just get out of the fucking car and move, Alex finally ordered his exhausted body. His body obeyed, but under protest – his muscles screamed at him as he began his walk.
Alex could see a handful of dark clouds in the sky, but they did not fully obscure the sun overhead.
It was good to see the day finally dawn, Alex thought wearily. The sun was well and truly up by the time he was standing in front of the door to the apartment.
113, Alex read the brass number. Throwing caution to the wind, he inserted the key and twisted it, entering the room. If MI6 was waiting for him on the other side of that door, no amount of dawdling or hesitation was going to help him escape.
He was just going to have to accept that if this was a trap, he was done for. As asinine as that thought was, Alex knew he didn't have the strength to fight.
"I'm not armed," he called as he pushed the door open.
It fell open, but there was no one waiting on the other side.
Alex closed the door for him and went through the flat. There were three rooms, the one he had stepped into, which was divided between a kitchen and living room of sorts, a bedroom, and a bathroom with a shower.
Alex checked the cupboards cautiously, and found them blessedly filled with food. Sure, it was either canned or dried, meant to last, but it was food. It wasn't gourmet, but Alex was almost willing to eat anything. There was even Red Bull in the fridge. The shower had shampoo and soap, and the bed was soft.
Alex was not surprised when he opened the dresser drawers and found men and women's clothes, stacked neatly, smelling faintly of laundry detergent still. Nor was he shocked to find the hair dye under the bathroom sink, or the cache of guns and ammunition in one of the kitchen cupboards,
He was a little amused to find the copious collection of liquor that was hoarded in the flat, and a copy of a book titled "The Bartenders Guide." He resolved to flip through it after he had a chance to catch up on the sleep he had missed.
I am definitely getting Yedit flowers, he decided, practically falling into the bed.
...
"Where is the Opium?" Yassen asked quietly. His voice carried through the entire room.
Ben and Rahim exchanged covet glances. They were the only ones who knew where the drugs were actually hidden – the rest of them (about thirty people) were here on guard duty. Ben and Rahim had drawn the short straw and got to choose the place to hide the Opium in case (as another member of Scorpia put it) company came to call.
He wondered if they would give him or Rahim up. Surely they would, if Yassen decided to start shooting? After all, their lives meant more to them than Scorpia or it's drugs, supposedly.
They would live, but not very long, once the board members caught wind of what they had done, Ben thought bitterly. This was an organization founded on fear, torture, and threats. At least, at MI6, people were there because they wanted to be. Because they believed in and loved England and wanted to do what they could – even if it was just a desk job – to aid their country. Even the less patriotic ones liked the job. It was decent pay, and okay hours, if you weren't a field agent. The pay was still fine, but Ben found himself hating the hours he had to pull for the job.
And how MI6 is rapidly becoming as ruthless as Scorpia, Ben thought uncomfortably.
Maybe once, people believed in their work, but the day he found out MI6 had contracted a teenager to work for them (the word contracted being used very loosely there, Ben thought), Ben had stopped enjoying the work.
"I will ask again, and then I will give the order for these good gentlemen to start killing you," Yassen said calmly. "Where are the drugs?"
"Rahim and Daniels are the only ones that know!" Someone – Ben didn't know who, he couldn't recognize the voice from the outburst – shouted from the mass.
Yassen smirked. "Is that so?" he asked. "I'd suggest that the two of you make yourselves known," he added as an afterthought.
"Bastard," Rahim muttered. Ben would have nodded emphatically, but that would have given the game away entirely.
"Right," Yassen said. He raised his gun, pointing it at the closest person. "Which of you are Daniels and Rahim?"
"Oh don't shoot the man," Ben finally gave in. "I'm Daniels."
Rahim cast Ben a wide-eyed look, but he shook his head imperceptibly.
"Unfortunately," Ben continued, moving towards the Russian assassin, "you're actually going to have to kill me, because while I don't give a shit about Scorpia, I'd rather die knowing I got to give you a kick way below the belt."
Yassen didn't seem to react. His gun remained raised – he didn't have to do more than tighten a single finger, and the shot echoed through the room, obscenely loud.
One of the men fell, a pool of blood blooming around his head.
Ben stared. He hadn't been ready for that, not at all. But when the assassin raise his gun a second time, he was ready, and he moved with the fluidity of a man who has spent most of his (now admittedly all too short) adult life learning how to move without being seen.
He moved forward, ready to use a roundhouse kick to the Russian's knee to bring him to the ground, but his blow hit air, not flesh and bone. Something – Ben presumed it was Gregorovitch – grabbed his leg and flipped him.
Ben wasn't a hulking figure, like his former team leader Wolf had been, but he wasn't exactly slight. He hit the ground hard, and found himself staring down the gun of an assassin who was very clearly stronger and faster than Ben had given him credit for.
"Where are the drugs, Daniels?" He sounded almost bored. "Make it fast."
"Go ahead and kill me then," Ben said with a mad grin. "I just wish I could be there when you tell Alex."
It had been a long shot, Ben knew. The assassin had helped Alex escape, and he knew that they had met in the past, but he didn't know just what their connection was like. It seemed like they were on amicable terms, at least, and if that saved his life, then it was a brilliant move.
But even for the pleasure of watching Yassen's face move from bored to shocked to angry, and then finally smoothing into something unsettled-looking that slightly resembled the cold and bored façade he had been wearing up until now, it was worth it.
So bloody worth it, Ben thought. And then he saw the murder in the assassin's eyes, and realized he had made a very stupid mistake.
"If you are among those responsible for Alex becoming what he is, I believe you and I need to have a longer, more drawn out, and slightly more painful conversation," Yassen said, too quietly for anyone but Ben to hear him.
"Say's the assassin who killed his uncle and started this whole business," Ben snarled back, unthinkingly lowering his voice as the assassin had. Was he really arguing with a Russian assassin over Cub? Had the world finally gone mad? "I've read his file, Gregorovitch. Or rather, I've read at least enough to know that you never did him any favors by dropping into his life. As I recall, you sent him to Scorpia, and then got shot in the fucking heart, and it was because of you that Alex's heart gave out in Gaza," Ben growled. "I, meanwhile, was giving up my blood to keep him alive."
Yassen flinched – actually flinched.
"You're the soldier," he said finally, still speaking so that none of the others could hear them. "The one who was his backup?"
Ben snorted. It was kind of obvious, now. He wasn't surprised the assassin had not recognized him though. He was kind of curious why the man was so obsessed with Alex though. It really didn't seem normal.
Yassen grabbed him by the arm, pulling it upright and twisting it painfully behind him.
"Right," he said, speaking at a normal pitch once again. "You're going to show me where exactly you mean, right now. Let's go."
Ben was marched out of the room.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
"I'm saving your life," Yassen cautioned. "But on a condition. Keep Alex out of the field, at any cost. I've already made my promise to him that if I come across him playing this game again before he's old enough, I'm going to cause him permanent body harm, but I doubt it will dissuade him. Perhaps reason will work as well as threats, hm?"
Ben was shocked into silence.
"Is that the highest number of words you've ever placed into a sentence?" he asked. The Russian had never really struck him as the chatty type.
"Make your escape," Yassen said. The bored, cool tone was back, and Ben knew he had pushed it an inch too far. He decided to give it one more go, just for the hell of it.
"What about the others?" he asked.
"Be grateful you're not among them," Yassen said frostily, and threw Ben to the floor. By the time he had stood up, the assassin was gone.
He took the Russian's advice and ran for his life. He was going home to London, Scorpia and MI6 bedamned. He was going to go visit his sister and tell her he loved her, and then he was going to go grovel to whoever he had to in order to get his old job back.
Bloody hell, I miss that crappy SAS food, Ben thought, breaking out into the Afghani sun.
And Alex? He asked himself guiltily.
I'll find him and get him to see sense, before the groveling, but after I see Jenna, he decided firmly. That is, if MI6 hasn't gotten him into any more trouble. At the very least, I could try reporting Blunt for what he's done, see if I can't get MI6 to back off without forcing Alex to have to fight that fight. He's just a kid. A damn talented kid, but a kid, still.
...
A/N So, as I think I've told you, I've started learning Arabic. I hate it with a passion to rival the fiery furnaces of hell. Why, do you ask? Because Arabic verbs are disturbingly similar to Hebrew verbs, except entirely different. Plus, if any of you know Hebrew, words can be assigned 'male' or 'female' values, depending on how the word is ended. It's the same for Arabic – except it goes at the beginning.
If you think of Hebrew as being totally backwards from English (in terms of direct translation, it is – adjectives follow, rather than proceed, words), Arabic is a halfway backwards version of Hebrew – with the added fun of totally unfamiliar sounds sliced in.
As always, I am yours faithfully,
~InK