A/N: Possibly I surprised even myself by getting this out so promptly. Don't expect this sort of treatment every time. Once more thank you so much for all your reviews – I got the most ever for the last chapter, and some of the nicest I've ever received, so a big thank you to you all! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint – the 'scar revealing' scene is such an overdone one, but it must be done. This chapter is dedicated to Sarruby, who took the time to write me a very detailed review for chapter one, and made me determined to get this chapter out as soon as possible.

Chapter 14

Alex said nothing, his only response being to stare determinedly at a spot above Wolf's head. He'd been trying to avoid this conversation since he'd arrived at Wolf's, and even now, when he knew he had no other option, he was looking for a way to avoid it.

Understandably dissatisfied with Alex's response, Wolf closed the space between the two of them, so he was perhaps a foot away from Alex.

"That's a bullet scar," he spat. "We've all seen them – most of us have got one. The question is: why have you got one?"

Alex pulled his gaze from the wall to stare Wolf straight in the eye. "Because I was shot?" he suggested.

"Answer the question properly, Cub!" Wolf looked like he was ready to hit something, but Alex didn't even flinch. "What were you doing in enough danger to be shot at?"

Alex gave him an incredulous look. "Enough danger? You were there in France. Wasn't exactly out of the line of fire, was I?"

He could see Wolf's jaw clenching and unclenching. "You weren't shot then, which means it's happened since. It was something else." Wolf turned around to face Ben. "Did this happen with you? You two worked together."

Ben just raised his eyebrows. "Don't be ridiculous, Wolf; I'm still having physio for my injury, and it was nowhere near as serious as that. Don't you think Alex would be in and out of hospital still?"

Wolf turned back to Alex. He looked like he was thinking hard. "That's a point," he said slowly. "That's not just any old bullet scar. Mine's on my leg; Ben's is on his shoulder; Eagle's is on his arm. Yours is right above your heart."

"Which means it was either at very close range," Eagle started.

"Or that someone tried to assassinate you," Snake finished.

Wolf's expression went from fury to shock to horror to fury again in a matter of seconds. "Someone tried to assassinate you?" he asked, apparently disregarding Eagle's suggestion completely.

Alex's patience snapped, unable to believe how unwilling Wolf was to accept the blindingly obvious. "You know someone poisoned me just a few days ago. You can't be that surprised it's happened before."

Apparently, however, Wolf was surprised. "How often do people try to deliberately kill you, and you only?"

"Well, every time I make it worth getting rid of me, I guess," Alex said.

Eagle stood up now, coming over and standing next to Wolf. "This isn't a game," he growled, and Alex saw a glimpse of the ruthless SAS soldier. "How did you get shot? Who shot you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Ben give a slight nod. Ben thought he should tell them. Alex wasn't so sure.

"Cub. Answer the question!" Wolf snapped.

"It was a Scorpia sniper," Alex said reluctantly. "I was shot coming out of the Royal and General."

A stunned silence followed this. Snake was the first to find his voice.

"Scorpia? That...that's a pretty big deal, Cub. What were you doing messed up with them?"

Alex shot a quick look towards Ben, but Ben's expression was unreadable.

"I don't...it's a long story," he said, raking a hand back through his hair.

"We've got all evening." Eagle crossed his arms.

Wolf, meanwhile, had clearly seen the look Alex had sent Ben. He turned to his former teammate again. "Did you know about this?"

"No, of course not." Ben's foot jiggled up and down and Alex wished he'd stop. "MI6 didn't mention it when we worked together."

Wolf looked at Alex again. "Was it Scorpia who poisoned you?"

"No," Alex said. "MI6 made a deal with them to leave me alone."

Eagle looked shocked. "You...they needed to make a deal? For you? To protect you from Scorpia?" He swallowed. "What did you do?"

Alex shrugged, looking down at the floor. Suddenly Eagle was right in front of him, inspecting the wound critically.

"It's not very old," he said. "Few months maybe? Are you having physiotherapy? What about pain killers...?" He trailed off and Alex could see comprehension dawn in his eyes. "I think we've just solved the mystery of the Lorcet," he said, stepping away again. He looked accusingly at Snake. "I told you he wasn't a drug addict."

"I don't even need to take it," Alex said. "It doesn't hurt."

"I don't care if it hurts!" Wolf burst out. "You're fourteen. You shouldn't even have a scar. MI6 – " He stopped very suddenly, looking between Alex and Ben, and he was silent for perhaps half a minute. "You worked with Fox after you were shot," he said finally. "You must have done. He only left the SAS in July, and his first assignment wasn't until the beginning of September. You're moving far too well for it not to have been at least that long ago."

"So what?" Alex snapped. The pressure was getting to him now. They knew he'd been shot, but he didn't want them drawing any more conclusions. And he couldn't understand why they were so angry when they already knew he was occasionally targeted.

"MI6 used you again after you'd been shot?" Wolf asked, his tone a mixture of outrage and incredulity.

Alex shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how much he could – or should – tell them. "It wasn't technically MI6. It was ASIS."

Another silence.

"You mean to tell me," Wolf eventually growled, "that it hasn't just been MI6 who have been using you, but other intelligence agencies as well? And that these are serious, potentially-deadly missions? Just how many missions have you been on, Cub?"

Alex swallowed. "I can't tell you that." He wasn't certain he really knew himself without counting.

Wolf looked, if possible, even more furious, but Snake came to his rescue.

"We know it must have been a lot, Wolf – he's missed a lot of school; you saw him in France; he's been involved with Scorpia; and he's worked with Fox. That might just be the start of it. But it doesn't matter. The question is: what're we going to do about it?"

Alex clenched his fists. Did they think he was a child? "You can't do anything about it," he bit out. "It's actually none of your business."

"Alex, they're just trying to help," Ben said gently, but Wolf interrupted him, pointing a finger in his direction.

"No matter what they do, Fox, you are not letting Blunt and Jones send him on a suicide mission. Because that," he pointed the same finger at Alex's chest, "is what happens when they get their own way."

"I'm not just some kid who needs protecting from the scary MI6 monster," Alex interjected. "I can take care of myself."

"Oh yes, you've really been taking care of yourself, Cub," Eagle said, letting out a false laugh. "That's how you ended up getting a bullet to the heart."

"I didn't ask to be shot," Alex said. "But there's nothing you can do about it. I've already told MI6 we're through. I'm not working for them again."

"But it's not over," Eagle persisted. "Like you said, you were poisoned just last week. How do you explain that?"

"I can't." Alex massaged his temples. "But I've made it clear to Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones that I don't want to be involved with MI6 anymore. I don't see how you're going to improve on that in any way." He thought he saw Wolf shoot a worried look towards Ben, but he pushed it aside. It didn't matter. At the end of the day, if MI6 wanted him, they would blackmail him, and there was very little K unit could do about it. He just wanted it left. "Can I go and put a shirt on now, or would you like a few pictures for the mantelpiece?"

"You're staying right where you are," Wolf snarled, but it was Ben who interrupted this time.

"Wolf, don't be ridiculous. Let him get dressed; we can talk about this later. We need to leave if we're going to make this booking."

"You want to go and have dinner after all this?" Wolf looked at him in disbelief.

"Yes." Even Ben seemed to have lost patience."What good is grilling Alex going to do? As Snake said, you know he's been involved with MI6 a number of times. He can't tell you much more than he already has." He looked at Alex. "Go and put a shirt on and we'll go out."

Without waiting for anyone to protest, Alex slipped out of the room went back to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning against it. Stupid, stupid. He should have been more careful.

Back in the sitting room, Wolf was not happy.

"This isn't right, Fox," he hissed. "I was furious when he was poisoned, because it was MI6's fault. Now I find out this is a recurring thing? He's a fucking child. Not some machine."

"I know," Ben snapped, standing up. "I've worked with him, Wolf – how do you think I felt when I found out how intelligence agencies are using a fourteen year-old?" He massaged his temples again. Wolf could be very trying when he felt strongly about something. "You need to get a grip," he said at last. "Yes, Alex is being used by the government. Yes, it's absolutely inexcusable. But you don't do any good by getting angry about it. It's already happened; you can't change that. The best thing to do is be there for Alex and try to stop it happening again."

Wolf was silent for a few seconds. Then: "He's been shot in the heart, Fox. How can you not be angry about that?"

"Of course I'm angry," Ben said calmly. "But I fail to see how forcing Alex to tell us about every grisly detail of every mission he's been on helps him at all."

Wolf fell silent again, and thankfully at moment, Alex re-entered the room, fully dressed this time. Ben tried to force the image of the round scar above Alex's heart from his mind. Of course it was unacceptable, but they couldn't undo what had already happened.

"Shall we go then?" he said, trying to sound cheerful. As everyone turned around and started to leave the room in silence, however, Ben felt the smile fade from his face, and his mouth formed a hard line.

Blunt and Jones would not be allowed to manipulate Alex again. Not if this was the outcome.

The next few days were uncomfortable for Alex. If he thought Christmas dinner had been bad right after they'd found out about his scar, it was nothing compared to the days that followed. Wolf prepared to go back to training. He came back on the twenty-seventh, having been out, with his hair shaven extremely short, looking much more like the man Alex had known at Brecon Beacons. On the twenty-eighth Alex spied Wolf packing a large military bag in his bedroom, and he supposed he'd better start filling his own suitcase. For the three days following Christmas, however, Wolf couldn't have said more than a dozen words to him, although Alex certainly heard the soldier talking about him whilst on the phone to Ben.

"...back, he'd better damn well be in one piece, Fox!" A pause, and then: "Just tell them you need more physio and make sure they don't send Cub off anywhere!"

In a way, Alex was glad that at least someone had his back. It had always been Jack, but now she'd left, it was good to know he wasn't alone. On the other hand, he didn't want Wolf's interference. It was none of his business. Wolf kept shooting dark glances towards Alex's chest, and Alex always turned away. Yes, he'd been shot by Scorpia. He didn't owe Wolf an explanation as to why he'd got involved with them in the first place. How was he supposed to explain about his father and Yassen and Ash and all the rest of it? He wasn't even sure he regretted going after Scorpia.

Ben turned up early on the morning of the twenty-ninth. Both Alex and Wolf had already been up for several hours. Alex had showered and dressed, and wandered into the kitchen to find Wolf white-faced, tight-lipped and staring into his coffee.

"Morning," Alex ventured, opening the fridge to find it completely empty.

"Left the milk on the side for you," Wolf grunted, possibly uttering the longest sentence he had spoken to Alex since Christmas Day.

"Thanks." Alex poured the milk over some cereal. Holding the bowl in one hand and spooning the cereal with the other, he turned around to face Wolf, leaning against the cupboards. He took in the combats and black T shirt Wolf was already wearing, the man's hunched shoulders and the cup of coffee that had stopped steaming. The man couldn't look less happy that he was going back to training.

"Do you like working in the SAS?" Alex blurted out before he could stop himself.

Wolf jerked his head up, momentarily taken aback by the question, but he soon answered. "It has its downsides. Of course it does. You've seen them these past few weeks." He let out a harsh laugh. "But if I didn't enjoy the job, I wouldn't do it. You have to love what you're doing if it's your life at stake."

Alex was silent, mulling this over. He kept putting his life at stake – did that mean that he loved being a spy?

MI6 keep manipulating you into it, he reminded himself. Or it's to find out about your family. It's not because you love spying.

Wolf had been watching him. "Do you like working for MI6?"

Alex almost flinched. He hadn't expected Wolf to be so perceptive. He just shrugged. It wasn't like he had a choice. He regretted it as he saw Wolf's expression darken, but he hardly could have answered in the affirmative.

Thankfully, Ben arrived shortly afterwards. Alex went to answer the door, grinning as he saw the MI6 agent.

"Hey Alex," Ben said easily, and Alex found himself contrasting him to Wolf's reaction when Alex had turned up at his doorstep. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah, just need to pack a few last things. Won't take five minutes." Alex left Ben to come in and shut the door behind him.

Ben stepped into the hallway, and, having shut the door, wandered into the kitchen, where he found Wolf dressed ready for training.

"Looking forward to going back?" Ben asked him, noting the half-drunk mug of coffee to one side. His former teammate shrugged.

"I guess."

Ben frowned at this response. "I thought you'd decided it was the best thing now?"

"Yeah."

Ben took a seat opposite Wolf, studying him closely. "You're worried about Alex," he guessed.

"A bit," Wolf admitted, and Ben knew in Wolf-speak that meant much more. "I'm also worried about the team – whether we're going to be as good as we were. I'm worried about going back into the field."

"You've got at least a month of training before you need to worry about that," Ben pointed out. "And during that month, the team will start working together again. Remember how rubbish we were at the start, and how much better we were even after a fortnight?"

Wolf shrugged again, and then nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"And Alex will be fine," Ben continued, inwardly hoping he wasn't lying. "MI6 are still taking extra precautions after the poisoning. I know it's hard to believe, but they're taking care of him."

Wolf looked sceptical, but he didn't say anything further, and a minute later, Alex arrived in the kitchen, carrying the same suitcase he'd had when Ben had picked him up from his house in Chelsea. It struck Ben that the kid had lost a home, really – he didn't have one anymore. Was this what MI6 planned to do with him until he was eighteen: push him around from place to place as different people went to do their jobs? Ben resolved to talk to Mrs. Jones about it. She, at least, seemed to have some semblance of emotion about Alex.

"Ready?" he asked, another easy smile in place.

Alex nodded, and his gaze slid to Wolf. "Bye, then," he said. "Um...thanks for letting me stay. I...er, hope Brecon Beacons is all right."

"Gonna be bloody cold," Wolf muttered, and then, slightly to Ben's surprise: "Er...take care, all right?" It was a loaded statement, but Alex just nodded, and turned back to Ben, who stood up.

"Take care of yourself, Wolf," he said. "Let me know when you're back. Give the Sergeant my love." He winked, and as he left the room, he heard Wolf say something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like: "Bloody MI6 agents: think they're funny."

Alex was silent until they reached the front door, when Ben gave him his car key and told him to put his stuff in the boot and get in.

"Sure," the teen said, taking the key from him. Ben let him out of the front door and turned around to face Wolf, who he knew would be standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"I'll take care of him, Wolf," he said firmly.

"Just don't let Blunt and Jones get their hands on him." Wolf's jaw clenched. "He might be able to shoot a gun and survive assassination attempts, but it's still unethical. We volunteered for this sort of thing. I'll bet he didn't."

Had the situation not been so serious, Ben might have laughed at how far Wolf had come from the SAS soldier angry that he was forced "to take care of some snotty rich kid" in Brecon Beacons.

"Alex'll be all right," was all he said on the matter. "Good luck."

"Yeah, you too, Fox."

And then Ben left the house, leaving Wolf standing in the hallway as he made his way to his car. He didn't look back as he got into the car, gave Alex a quick smile and put his seatbelt on. He just hoped to God he could keep his word to Wolf.

Living with Ben was a lot easier than living with Wolf, Alex soon discovered. For one thing, Ben's fridge was always stocked without fail. He didn't drink either – didn't even keep alcohol in the house. Unlike Wolf, he could also cook, though, like Jack, seemed to have a fondness for anything that could be prepared in under ten minutes.

Actually, Alex thought, as he watched Ben pour pasta into a saucepan, the man reminded him very much of his uncle. Ben obviously kept himself very fit; that morning, the first Alex had been there, Alex had heard the front door slam at six-thirty, and had shot out of bed, afraid something was wrong, but an hour later Ben had returned, dressed in trainers, jogging bottoms and a T shirt. He'd grinned as Alex gaped.

"Best time to go running," he said as he filled up the kettle. "I go around Hyde Park. You can come tomorrow, if you like."

Bizarrely, Alex found himself considering it.

Ben also had a study, which he'd politely but firmly 'suggested' Alex didn't go into.

"Nothing against you," he said. "But you know how it is. Government secrets and all that." He winked, and Alex found he wasn't even curious about what sort of secrets Ben was keeping in there.

"So what're your plans for New Years' Eve?" Ben asked as he served pasta and carbonara sauce with a side salad. "It's tomorrow, you know."

"A friend from school – Dan – is having a party at his house I thought I'd go to," Alex said. He'd not thought to check with Ben that it was all right, but Ben didn't seem to care.

"What time will you be back?" Ben took a sip of water. "Sorry, I meant to have you a key cut today. I'll do it tomorrow and give it to you. I'm going to a work thing; I'm not sure what time I'll be back – maybe four a.m. or so." He grinned. "Would have invited you if you didn't have anywhere to go."

Alex rolled his eyes. "That'd be great: seeing in the New Year with Blunt and Jones. Start the year as you mean to go on?" He paused as Ben laughed. "I don't know – think Dan's chucking everyone out at five, but I probably won't stay that long."

Ben nodded and went back to eating his pasta. Perhaps he was more easy-going than Ian had been, but there were undeniable similarities. Were all spies the same? Alex didn't remember Ben being at all like this when he'd been at Brecon Beacons.

"Why did you transfer from the SAS to MI6?" he asked suddenly.

Ben's lips twitched as though he was amused by the question, or had been expecting it. He put his knife and fork down. "Why do you ask?"

Alex shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "You seem to fit in really well with K unit. I just...I wondered why you would opt for working by yourself instead of with them...spying instead of fighting."

"I would say 'less dangerous', but so far I haven't found that," Ben said, amusement evident in his voice. Then he became thoughtful. "I guess I was always good at languages, debating, persuasion – anything involving oral communication. MI6 tried to recruit me when I joined the army and I turned them down. I didn't want a life of lies and solidarity."

"What changed?"

There was a pause, and Alex realised Ben had been avoiding directly answering the question.

"You don't have to tell me," he muttered. "I was just curious."

"No, no; it's all right." Ben took another sip of water from his glass, and set it down on the table again. "My...I had a brother. Two years older than me. He was killed in Khorramshahr in Iran in the summer whilst working as a journalist there, and..." He paused, and Alex noticed Ben was gripping his glass tightly. "It was a pre-meditated terrorist attack. I thought I could stop that sort of thing happening in MI6. I know that the troops out there are working really hard," he said as Alex opened his mouth, "but MI6 can give them the intelligence – can make a difference. In the SAS I just did as I was told – I didn't feel like I was helping."

"I'm really sorry," Alex said. "I didn't realise."

Ben shrugged, picking up his knife and fork again. "You couldn't have. It was the right decision, for a number of reasons other than that. For one thing I don't have to go on fifty mile treks through the rain and mud." He smiled easily, and Alex knew Ben didn't blame him for asking about his transfer. "That's not to say it's the right career for everyone, though. Why did you get involved with MI6?" The question was abrupt, clearly designed to steer the conversation away from himself. Alex was a master at it, but since Ben had been so open about his brother, he could hardly refuse to answer the man's question.

"Didn't really get a choice," he said.

Ben looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"My parents are dead; my uncle's dead. MI6 are my legal guardians." He paused. "Technically they can do what they like."

Ben must have known this was the case, since MI6 currently controlled where Alex lived, but he frowned, something clearly amiss in his mind. "But they must have given you a choice."

Alex swallowed his mouthful of pasta, suddenly uneasy. He didn't want Ben to pity him. "Yeah, sort of," he said carefully.

"What kind of choice?" Ben pressed. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he was good at oral communication.

"Jack's visa ran out," Alex said shortly. "I agreed to work for them if she wasn't deported." Put that way, it sounded more like a bargain than the blackmail it had been.

Ben studied him carefully. "What about after the first time? What about when you worked for the Australians?"

Alex put his knife and fork together, suddenly no longer hungry. "It was personal."

Ben opened his mouth, and then closed it again, as though his judgement had got the better of him. He finished the rest of his meal in silence, and then helped Alex to clear up.

"I've got some work to do before I go to bed," he said. "I'll wake you at six-twenty?"

Alex hesitated, and then relaxed. Ben was hardly going to interrogate him on a run around Hyde Park.

"Yeah, sure," he said. "See you tomorrow morning."

Once in his room, he closed the door firmly behind him, and made his way to his bed, slowly sitting down on it. Members of K unit – past and current soldiers alike – seemed to have the power to constantly surprise him. There hadn't been a hint of sadness in Ben when he'd talked about his brother, but there was certainly some sort of grim determination that was driving him. In Wolf it had just been anger. But that wasn't what was bothering Alex.

He stood up and crossed the room, to look at a map he'd pinned to the wall. He traced his index finger across the Middle East, crossing Pakistan, Afghanistan, and then across Iran, searching for Khorramshahr. He finally found it – what looked like a port city almost on the border with Iraq. Absolutely nowhere near Samarra. But why did everything keep coming back to this region of the world, to the Middle East? Alex wasn't stupid. He knew about the conflict and politics there, of course, and how important it was to international relations. But this wasn't politics. This was personal.

Snake had been kidnapped and tortured in Iraq – something that hardly happened to every soldier – and Ben's brother, a man who wasn't a soldier or a spy, had been killed near its border. Alex's mind turned back to the dying man he had questioned in the street before Christmas.

"It – it's to do with Iraq. Max Lacey..."

Alex sighed in frustration. Perhaps he should have told Ben the man had mentioned Max Lacey's name – whoever Max Lacey was. Perhaps Ben would have told him. He wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't told Ben everything in the first place, but it was too late now. Besides, it looked as though the whole sorry business was over – Alex had been beaten up, perhaps the cyanide had also been connected to what Alex had seen, but over a week had gone by, and they had managed to stay out of each other's way. He was in the clear.

Yet Alex still felt uneasy, and he looked back up at the map. Other than the general geographic area, there was nothing to suggest any of these events might be linked. And surely two events in the Middle East were as likely to be linked as two random events at opposite ends of England?

No, because they're not necessarily connected in the same way that Ben and K unit are.

But even that connection didn't take account of this Max Lacey.

Alex shook himself, pushing his uneasiness away. He was becoming paranoid. There was no connection. The Middle East was important in politics, and it wasn't that surprising it kept coming up.

And yet a small voice, menacing, creeping up as though unbidden, like a forgotten memory, resolutely persisted:

"I don't believe in coincidence. Where some people see coincidence, I see conspiracy. That's my job."

But it wasn't Alex's job.

Was it?

Tulip Jones didn't often get dressed up. To look expensive – even good-looking – was to draw attention oneself, and Mrs. Jones strove to avoid that. That was why, every morning, she stepped out of her flat dressed like all the other Londoners around her: dark suitcase, non-descript handbag and a blank expression.

Yet tonight was the exception. Because to fail to dress up properly on New Years' Eve was asking for attention.

Looking in the mirror, however, dressed in a long black dress and diamond earrings, Mrs. Jones couldn't say she enjoyed the ordeal every year. The dress sat rather awkwardly on her, not quite accommodating her wide shoulders and hips. Her straight black hair had been scraped up, but somehow looked exactly the same as it always did – too dark and slightly unkempt. She certainly wouldn't be turning any heads tonight, but then that wasn't the point.

She turned away from the mirror, checking her watch. It was nearly time for her to leave, and there were more pressing matters she had to deal with than her appearance.

She went into the sitting room. There was still a pane of clear bullet-proof glass in the middle. It had worked so well after that business with Scorpia that Smithers had installed another. Mrs. Jones found it a mildly irritating but necessary addition to the only place where she could occasionally relax.

Her hand paused over the phone as she thought about Alex Rider. They still didn't know who had poisoned him. And though she hated to admit it – it was a weakness, Alan told her – she was worried about Alex. If they didn't know who had poisoned him, they were powerless to stop it from happening again.

Not quite powerless.

Mrs. Jones lifted the handset and dialled a number she already knew.

"Agent Limes, this is Mrs. Jones," she rapped out as the person on the other end picked up. "I know this is short notice, but I need you to follow Alex Rider this evening." She paused, listening to the agent speak. "No, not spy – you don't need to take notes. I just want an eye kept on him. Watch out for anything suspicious – he's being targeted."

As the agent confirmed his acceptance of the task, Mrs. Jones bid him a Happy New Year and put the phone down. Pursing her lips together, she thought of Alex again, and the way his expression had hardened when she had entered his room in St. Dominic's. Alex Rider, child spy extraordinaire, was no longer a child.

She just hoped Alan knew what he was doing.

Two hours later, Alex found himself surrounded by people at a party a month ago he'd have thought he had no chance of attending. A couple of people had jokingly done a double-take when they'd seen him, but most were used to him being around now. Sitting between Sabina and Tom on Dan's sofa, he wondered if this was how he wanted it. He was beginning to feel normal again – or at least like he could reconcile one life with the other. He laughed as Ellie 'accidentally' hit Craig with the Wii controller as she took a tennis shot, but at the same time it felt like something was missing. Was it the fact Sabina was still cool with him? Or did he miss Jack?

Yet Jack had left because she didn't believe he'd ever escape MI6 – possibly because she thought he didn't want to escape. Was that true? Was that what was missing?

"Alex, dark place." Sabina's words sounded almost automatic, but at least it showed she wasn't too angry with him. Alex decided to take the opportunity to clear the air between them.

"I've still got your Christmas present," he told her. "Do you want it?"

Sabina seemed to hesitate for a second, before giving a small smile and nodding. "Sure. Shall we go outside?"

Nodding, Alex stood up, letting her lead him out to Dan's back garden. It was empty, everyone else inside playing games, chatting or dancing to music. The house was on a corner, by the road, and the gate was open ("If you want to smoke, do it outside the garden – my parents will flip if they find cigarette butts everywhere!"), but no one was around; the roads were quiet. At least it had stopped snowing a few days before, and the temperature was milder; Alex could get away with wearing a light jacket outside.

"Listen, Alex, I'm really sorry about Christmas Eve," Sabina said as Alex opened his mouth. "I don't...it's not your fault about my mum. A big part of that was my dad's accident, and that was really nothing to do with you. You just helped to track down the man who did it." She paused, and Alex got the sense there was more coming, so stayed quiet. "But I don't know...I don't think we should see each other...like that. I might be moving back to England, but I don't know whether I can handle you always going off places. Maybe you won't come back one time."

Alex fought to keep his expression blank, but he thought perhaps his eyes betrayed him because Sabina was suddenly avoiding his gaze. Of course a girlfriend wasn't practical – he had already come to that conclusion in hospital – but he liked having Sabina around, he sort of liked what was going on between them (even if he wasn't sure what that was), and this wasn't a discussion he wanted to have. He clenched his fist by his side, and then released it.

"It's fine," he muttered. "I've got your present, anyway."

Sabina appeared to take the wrapped box half-reluctantly, as though afraid it would make her change her mind. Not wanting to look at her while she opened it, Alex looked away, towards the road.

It was the first of a series of mistakes he made that evening.

For walking across the road, head bent low against the bitter wind, but striding still purposefully, was the man in the long coat.

Alex stared for several seconds. Was it definitely the same man? Lots of people wore long coats during the winter. But this was the same brown trench coat, and the man wore a black trilby hat as before. And the build was the same... But what was he doing here? In this quiet but well-off street in West London?

Just leave it, he told himself firmly. The first time you followed him you got cornered, and the second time you could've been shot. This isn't the time or the place.

Yet as Sabina ripped off wrapping paper next to him, he knew he couldn't just leave it. There were so many unanswered questions. Was the man going to kill someone else this evening? Alex couldn't let that happen. But, at the same time, the fact this man kept appearing wherever Alex was just didn't make sense. He knew it could be a trap. Alex considered it for a second, watching the man disappearing down the street, before he turned to Sabina.

"I have to go somewhere for a bit," he said urgently, quietly. "Cover for me?"

Sabina stared at him, holding a black box without opening it. The wrapping paper lay abandoned on the ground. "What?"

"I need to check something out. I'm sorry. Tell Tom I'll be back soon." And, seeing the man was getting further away and disappearing around a corner, Alex took off at a run.

Sabina stood stock still, and watching Alex's retreating back. What now? she thought irritably. He'd left her at his friend's party, but that wasn't what irritated Sabina most – she could take care of herself. It was the fact Alex had clearly disappeared off to do some sort of spying without any sort of explanation. This was precisely what Sabina had meant.

She looked down at the black box she was sitting holding in her left hand. It was clearly some sort of jewellery box. She opened it. It was a silver chain and pendant – a heart interwoven with silver vines. Simple, and yet complex. Sabina hadn't realised Alex had such good taste.

She snapped the black box shut, fighting to keep her resolve. He's not good for you, she told herself. Not a good idea.

Pocketing the black box in her black leather jacket, she turned back to the house. She was young, single and hot, and Alex was gone for a while. Who said she couldn't have a bit of fun?

Ducking behind a wall as the man ahead looked over his shoulder, Alex wondered if this had been such a good idea. Then again, he thought, how many people looked behind them when they were walking, unless they were nervous about being followed? He threw a quick look over his own shoulder. He didn't know if he was being paranoid, but he also had the uncomfortable feeling he wasn't the only one doing the following.

He pushed it to one side as the gap between him and the man ahead began to widen again. He'd decided to do this: now he had to see it through.

He couldn't have been following for more than another minute, however, when the man stopped outside the gate of a house, went in and up the drive, and let himself in. Alex halted very suddenly, trying to work this out. Did the man live there? Was this just a waste of time? He saw a light go on in the front window, and the curtains close, and made up his mind. It was unlikely the man had anything planned, but this might be the only opportunity Alex got to find out who this man was and why Alex kept seeing him. He jumped over the gate to avoid it creaking, and, keeping low to the ground, ran to the tree closest to the house – an evergreen – the branches of which very nearly touched the upstairs windows. He hoisted himself up into the tree, keeping his back to the house, and waited.

He heard the squeal of the gate before he saw anyone coming. He'd been right. Someone was following him. Peering between the leaves, he saw a man dressed in black looking around, and he was grateful the snow had melted, leaving no trace of his footprints. This man clearly hadn't seen where he'd gone. It was why Alex had deliberately scaled the tree on the opposite side to a street view. Still, he wished the man would move. He didn't want the man inside the house to see he had company. His follower was clearly an amateur, or he didn't realise that Alex had also been following someone. The question was: how was Alex going to get rid of him?

What Alex did next was either very daring or very stupid.

As the man slowly walked around the front garden, Alex positioned himself. Then, as his follower came closer to Alex – in fact, so he was directly beneath where Alex was crouched in the branches – Alex launched himself out of the tree.

He landed on the man hard, and his follower let out an "Oomph!" as he went out with a thud. He immediately started struggling to get up, hitting blindly up at Alex. Without hesitating, Alex delivered a strike to the side of the man's neck. The body underneath him went limp, as anticipated. Not wanting waste time, Alex stood up, and began dragging the man over to the nearest bush, keeping an eye on the house to make sure no one had heard.

What Alex had done was to deliver a blow to a pressure point that would render the victim unconscious without causing any lasting damage. The pressure point Alex had targeted – one below and slightly in front of the ear – was one he'd learned from his time at Malagosto. Mostly they preferred the ones that did cause lasting damage, but Alex had persuaded them to teach him about the ones that didn't too, and he was glad for it now.

Having safely stowed the unconsciousness man in a bush, he resumed his position in the tree, wondering if what he was planning would work. Luck seemed to be on his side that night however, and there was really no harm in trying. Unless he fell and broke a limb, of course.

Pushing the thought away, he carefully edged along a branch towards the window. The branch didn't quite reach, but he felt confident he could make it anyway. As he got closer to the window, however, the branch began to bend, and, as he reached the end, there was a nasty cracking sound. Heart pounding, Alex launched himself at the window sill.

He'd misjudged it, and caught the edge of the windowsill with his fingertips, but at least the branch hadn't broken completely. That would definitely have attracted attention. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up so he was leaning on the windowsill with his forearms, and, with one hand, tried to yank the window up.

Alex was lucky again. The window was unlocked. Allowing himself a sigh of relief, he then hoisted himself up further, and through the window, wiggling through, upper body first. He landed as softly as possible, and pushed the window down, closing it.

He found himself in a room shrouded in darkness, but there was an orange glow from the street lights outside, and, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out a double bed and bedroom furniture. His gaze searched the surfaces, but they were bare, except for a few lamps, a few ornaments. No photographs; nothing to tell him about the man who lived here. Perhaps it was a guest room.

Alex lightly crossed the room, and inched out onto the landing, which was also dark, though a light was on downstairs. There was no sign of anybody, and he thought he could hear a voice downstairs, so he continued down the landing.

The house wasn't large; there were only four rooms upstairs. This bothered Alex for some reason, without quite being able to put his finger on why. Perhaps it was because the villains he usually went after were always ridiculously rich and preferred mansions to small houses. Leaving the thought for the moment, he pushed open the next door along. It was another bedroom, and, like the last one, completely devoid of any personality. Frowning, Alex continued. The next room was a bathroom, but the next was locked. Alex twisted the handle both ways, but nothing. He bent down and inspected the lock. It looked new, like it hadn't been installed too long ago. It wouldn't have been difficult to pick open, but Alex hadn't come with anything he might be able to use. As he was pondering how to get into the room, however, he heard a stair creak. Someone was coming.

Silently, as quickly as he could without making a noise, Alex threw himself towards the bedroom he'd come from, and did the only thing he could. He hid in the bottom of the wardrobe.

Another second and he would have been caught. As it was, he heard heavy footsteps come into the room, and instinctively he pressed himself back in the wardrobe, so he was covered by coats and jackets, blood pounding in his ears. He forced himself to stay completely still. It really would be the last straw if he caused an avalanche in the wardrobe.

He heard a rustling, and he moved just his head so he could see through the gap in the wardrobe, where light was flooding in. He could just about make a shape moving around, and to his slight unease he thought it was a rather large shape. Not one he might come off better against in a fight. To his great relief, however, after a few minutes, the heavy footsteps got lighter, seemingly leaving the room. Alex waited for a few minutes, but he heard a door slam and then, he thought, the sound of running water. Cautiously, he pushed the wardrobe door open and looked out. The coast was clear. Alex climbed out of the wardrobe. The room looked exactly the same, but the light was on and there was a pile of clothes on the bed. Creeping out along the landing, he found the bathroom door was closed, and, from what he could make out, the running water he could hear sounded like someone was in the shower.

He went along to the locked door again, trying to open it. It was still locked. But if he could get hold of the key...

Alex went back to the bedroom. The man's trench coat wasn't there, but his – rather large-looking – trousers were, and they jangled slightly as Alex picked them up. The left pocket revealed only loose change, but the right produced a set of four keys, one of which was clearly a house key. The others, however, looked like distinct possibilities.

Back at the locked door, the first key was a no-go, but the second one turned, and Alex felt the lock click. He paused for a second, making sure the shower was still running, and then let himself into the room and closed the door softly behind him.

The room was completely black, and Alex groped for a light switch. As light flooded the room, he saw it was some sort of study. There was a stack of paper on the desk, and Alex immediately went to it, shifting through.

None of it made much sense to him. There were meaningless headings like "Operation Nicholas II". Was the guy a history nerd? But as he reached the bottom of the pile, Alex came across a list of phone numbers. He knew they were phone numbers from the way they were structured, but there were no names next to them, and they clearly weren't UK numbers. Taking out his phone, Alex quickly punched the first number in and saved it. He'd find out who it was later.

Putting the pile of paper back, Alex then turned to the desk drawers. They were full of files. Alex selected on at random, and opened it. The first sheet was a map, but it wasn't exactly clear of what. He checked the front of the file, but there was no label – nothing indicating what the file might contain. He looked at the map again. It was one line, an arrow, going in right angles around the page. Alex wouldn't have know it was a map, only that on each line before it turned, there were tiny labels of '50m', '75m' and so on. He flicked to the next page. It was a map identical to the first. On impulse, Alex took the second, folded it up and put it in his pocket. He might have no idea what it was, but perhaps MI6 would.

Alex paused for a minute, thinking about MI6. Surely they'd be interested – this man had killed at least two of their agents. But who was this man? Alex replaced the file and shut the drawer, looking around the room again. Why was there nothing that gave anything away about its owner? Not even a letter, a bank statement or a photograph was out – something that struck Alex as very odd, considering the door had been locked. Whoever this man was, he was paranoid.

Alex pulled open the drawer of the filing cabinet, looking for something – anything – that might give him a clue; might make this all worthwhile.

Then a phone rang.

Alex's heart jumped into his throat, and he turned, seeing the landline on the desk. He heard the door next door open – why hadn't he noticed the shower had stopped? – and footsteps leading away. Was the man going to get the key for the office? It wouldn't take him long to notice it was missing.

Alex was already at the window when the phone stopped ringing, and he heard a low voice without being able to make out what he was saying. He was safe for now, but how long would that last? Two minutes? Five? He needed to get out of the house. But as he looked out of the window, there was absolutely nothing to break his fall except concrete. Alex swore under his breath, and went to the door again, cracking it open, listening. He could still hear a man's voice, and he still couldn't make out the words, which must mean that he was far away. Far enough away for Alex to make it downstairs? It was a risk he had to take. He edged out onto the landing again, and slipped down the stairs to the hallway.

Then Alex made his biggest mistake of the evening. Spotting a photograph, unframed, on the hall table, he couldn't resist. It might be his only hope of working out who the man was. Should he take it? Surely someone would notice it was missing.

Alex finally pocketed it, but he'd hesitated for too long. Suddenly someone grabbed him from behind, holding him tight, and he let out a yell, struggling furiously.

"You thought you could just break into my house, Rider?" a voice hissed in his ear. "Wasn't two warnings enough?"

Alex tried to turn his head, tried to see the man's face, but he was being held too tightly.

"I'd decided not to kill you yet," the voice continued, "since you were proving rather difficult to get rid of. Unfortunately for you, I'm now obliged to. Who knows what you've found? Just one snap of the neck, and you'll be dead. It'll be a pity, I'm sure, but life goes on. Well, not for you, as it happens."

The man was clearly very strong, and Alex had no hope of overpowering him. Instead, he did the only thing he could – he jabbed his elbow sharply backwards.

He hadn't managed to get much power behind it, but he knew where to strike, and it was enough. The grip on him loosened, and Alex fell towards the door, yanking it open without pausing to look back. He felt a hand grab his coat, but he wriggled out of it, and sprinted down the front garden, vaulting the gate. As he ran along the pavement, flat out, he heard footsteps behind him, and knew he was going to be caught soon. A boy's stride was no match for a man's.

Then a car came trundling down the road. It wasn't going fast – perhaps thirty miles per hour? – and Alex made up his mind. It was this, or certain death. He kept running on the pavement towards the car, until the two had nearly met, and then, waiting until the last possible second, he threw himself in front of it.

Robin Russell was a man of forty years of age, married, with no children. He was on his way to meet his wife at a party, having worked late at the office – again. She wasn't happy with him, so he'd bought her some flowers. Unfortunately, it was now just six minutes to midnight, and it would take him five to get to the party from where he was. He might even miss the New Year, and that really would make her angry. Still, being the overly-cautious driver he'd always been, he refused to speed.

The last thing he needed, therefore, was a teenage boy to hurl himself in front of his car. He saw the boy before he did it, running along the pavement and...was that someone running after him? Before Robin could register what was happening, the boy was in front of him, he felt the impact, and the boy was tossed up into the air, hit his windscreen and then his bonnet, and, as Robin skidded to an emergency stop, dropped down onto the road again.

Robin immediately got out of his car, his hands shaking. Had he just killed a teenager? He hadn't had any time to stop – the boy was on the pavement, and suddenly in front of his car!

The boy – blond, and he looked young, perhaps only fourteen or fifteen – wasn't moving when Robin got round the front of the car, and there was a nasty cut above his eye and on his lip. Heart hammering, Robin looked around for someone – anyone (where was the person who had been running after the boy?) – but there was no one to help. Robin pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling with the buttons as he dialled 999. He tried not to look at the boy, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Which emergency services do you require?"

"An ambul –" was all Robin got out, before the phone was suddenly snatched out of his hand. He looked down to see the boy still lying down, but with his eyes open, and clutching the phone. He saw the boy hang up.

"Don't," was all the boy said.

"But...what're you – you're hurt!" Robin spluttered.

"I'm fine," the boy said shortly, in a low voice, almost a whisper. "Now, I'll forget all about this – I swear I won't tell anyone – if you just do me a favour and drop me at my friend's house."

Robin looked at his watch. Three minutes to midnight. He wasn't going to make it. His wife would never forgive him, but perhaps if he explained he was helping this boy...

"Where is it?" he asked suspiciously, still a bit unnerved by this teenager who'd thrown himself in front of a moving vehicle and was now calling the shots.

"Less than five minutes. I'll tell you the address. Let's go." Without waiting another second, the boy hauled himself up from the ground, and went to the passenger side of the car. Robin stared for a second, before going to the driver's side.

That's when he heard a gunshot, and a bullet came whizzing past his head.

"In!" the boy shouted, and Robin fell into the car, fumbling slightly as he pulled the door shut. There was another gunshot, and the boy threw himself in next to him.

"Drive!"

Robin wasted no time in started the car, letting out a moan as there was another gunshot and his back windscreen splintered.

"Go," the boy said urgently, and Robin put his foot flat on the accelerator, skidding around the first corner he came to, and then the next one.

"I think we'll be all right," the boy said next to him, peering at the car wing mirror on his side. "I don't think anyone's following."

"What...who..." Robin got out, keeping his eyes on the road whilst simultaneously trying to stop them from falling out of his head.

"It's Amherst Avenue, first right and then second left, down the end of the road," the boy said, ignoring Robin completely.

Robin did what the boy said – what if he had a gun too? – but he couldn't help give the boy a sideways glance.

"Who are you?" he said.

"Tom Harris," the boy said immediately. "Who're you?"

"Robin...Robin Russell," Robin answered, a bit taken aback by the boy's honesty. He'd expected him to avoid the question.

He pulled up at the end of Amherst Avenue, and the boy undid his seatbelt. "Thanks. Sorry about your car. Your name's Robin Russell, right? I'll try to get someone to sort it out."

"Well, do you want my insurance details or anything?" Robin asked, surprising himself by asking such a sensible – and normal – question.

"Don't worry; we'll find you."

And without another word, the boy got out of the car, leaving Robin staring open-mouthed at the space he'd just vacated.

Alex could already hear the countdown to midnight as he limped as fast as he could towards Dan's house.

"Ten...nine..."

He couldn't pretend being hit by a car hadn't hurt, but on reflection, it probably wasn't as bad as when he'd been hit by a train. He hadn't expected the gunshots, but perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised. The man had said he was going to kill him, and he hadn't sounded like he was joking. Doing the unexpected – throwing himself in front of a car – however, had clearly surprised his follower enough to buy Alex a minute or so – enough time for him to convince Robin to look after him.

"Eight...seven..."

He slipped through the garden gate again, closing it behind him and locking it – as though it would keep anybody out who wanted to get into the house.

"Six...five..."

Painfully, he dragged himself into the house, simultaneously trying to wipe the blood from his lip and above his eye. Didn't want questions to be asked.

"Four...three..."

He paused outside the living room and forced himself to straighten up and walk normally.

"Two...one..."

He caught Tom's eye as he entered the living room, and immediately fifty party poppers went off at once.

"Happy New Year!"

Alex joined in the chant, his gaze shifting around the room, trying to pick Sabina out. He saw her standing with Craig, and her eyes widened slightly as she caught sight of him. Did he look that bad?

"Where've you been?" Tom demanded in a low voice, as soon as he'd pushed through the people between him and Alex.

"For a walk," Alex said vaguely.

"You look like you've been hit by a truck," Tom told him.

Breaking eye contact with Sabina and looking at Tom, Alex couldn't help but give an amused smile.

"Actually, it was a car..."

A/N: That might possibly be the longest chapter yet, at nine and a half thousand words. Most of it was written very late at night, since that's the only time I get to write, so try not to be too harsh. I also don't know West London terribly well, so apologies if you live there, and my descriptions are not at all accurate – I did as much research as I could! Things look set to heat up even more next chapter, so stay tuned, and please, if you're enjoying it, leave a review!