Chapter 18: Operation: Destruction
Chapter Text
"Nolite te Bastardes Carborundorum. " – Margaret Atwood
Of all of the dangers and evils in the world that Alex had faced before the age of twenty, the global drugs trade was now one of them.
Alex knew a little about the spread of illicit drugs. Not as much as he'd like. He knew that internationally, the supply side and trafficking of drugs accounted for around half of the income that could be attributed to organized crime. Globally, the drug trade was evolving faster than any countries' government, or the U.N., could cope with. Governments continually disagreed about how to cope with the problem. Some state governments, despite what they claimed, depended on cartels, mafias, or other groups that peddled drugs to maximize their profits. Other governments penalized the sale and use of said drugs and spent millions (if not more) attempting to rehabilitate or punish the criminals who did not agree to those terms. And yet other states allowed the use and sale of drugs, but consequently often turned a blind eye to the suffering that happened along the drug production line.
And the Russian mafia was now attempting to introduce a new supply of dangerous chemicals into the world.
With a twisted stab of humor, Alex knew that even Damien Cray might applaud his actions now. The drug trade was about to grow exponentially if Alex could not stop Rousseau's drug from entering production. If that happened, the heroin epidemic that had plagued Russia for countless years might take a backseat to the dependence issues and familial destruction that emerged whenever highly addictive substances entered the market.
As Alex drove out of the town he'd been held captive in for several days, the first thing on his mind was stopping the incredibly sane man who'd held him captive. Molotov was dangerous. He employed dangerous men. But even dangerous men had weaknesses.
Alex didn't know what to expect when he reached his destination. So much depended on how Yassen would react to his bait being taken. Yassen expected Alex to escape to stop the drug production. Yassen wanted Alex to survive.
Yassen was paid by Molotov.
Equal parts of Alex were certain that Yassen would tell Molotov that Alex must have found the coordinates for the drug production plant, and that he wouldn't. If he had, Molotov knew where Alex was headed. The drug factory, which would already be guarded, would now be watching out for an American-British agent. They wouldn't know that Alex's team knew the coordinates and had (hopefully) passed on those coordinates to the Russian authorities. A secret hope kindled in Alex that all of his running across this bear of a country would be for naught, and the factory would sit destroyed by the infamous Russian special forces by the time he arrived at the site. If Yassen had kept secret that Alex knew about the drug production site, Alex had the advantage of surprise. But not much. Yassen couldn't allow Alex to escape and destroy the drug Yassen had almost been captured trying to buy for his boss. It would besmirch the man's reputation as a relentless Mafia weapon. Yassen may head to the same coordinates under the disguise of another trip, but he would head there to stop Alex now that Alex had seized the motivation to escape.
And what would happen next?
Possibly Alex and Yassen were going to meet again. But that was a matter for a different time.
As for now, Alex was forming a list of things he needed to do. Change cars (in case this vehicle was being tracked). Acquire gas, or the money for gas. Steal a cell phone and call his team. Steal food, or the money for food.
At least he was rested. Alex smiled. He had ten factors working against him, and, with the gun and the potential Russian forces, three working for him. He could do these odds.
—AR—
Ben wanted to stop at every hotel he passed for a quick nap. He'd love just three hours to rest in a bed. He needed it. Although he'd slept on the flights from London to Russia, it was the sort of restless sleep that didn't fuel the body. But Ben couldn't afford how far behind Alex he would be if he stopped for a respite, even one as brief as the three hours he desired. So Ben bought a shitty coffee at the gas station he refueled at, and he continued on the road as night fell.
Wherever Alex was, he could be far ahead of Ben. Gregorovich might not be far behind.
At least Ben knew the coordinates he was heading too. Gregorovich had given them to him, in one of the most surreal conversations he'd ever had the misfortune to have.
The conversation with Gregorovich kept playing over in his head.
A large part of him regretted not shooting Gregorovich where he stood.
Alex had spent time being tortured by the monster, and the man hadn't had the decency to look apologetic about his actions. But some deep part of Ben believed that the assassin spoke the truth when he promised not to kill the kid, and right now Ben needed someone on the side of the mafia who wanted to see Alex emerge from this battle alive.
What would he say to the kid when he saw him again? Ben had thought of a list of questions to ask the boy, years ago, when they had first met. At that time, he admitted with a disgust aimed at the worst part of himself, his questions were naïve. Who's your father and what'd you do to piss him off that he managed to send you here; are you an idiot, talking back to SAS agents twice your size; do you really think you can keep up with us?
After Australia, those questions had changed. How old are you; why are you here; how many times has Mrs. Jones employed you; did you want to do this?
Now, Ben realized, his questions were darker. Why did you leave MI6 (what did the bastards that I work for do to you); how badly did Gregorovich hurt you (and did you talk back to him the same way you did to us); are you still alive?
-AR-
Yassen took his usual car to track down Alex. The tracking beacon from Molotova's car had been emitting a signal from the same roadside restaurant for an hour by the time Yassen hit the road, indicating that Alex must have hijacked another vehicle, but that was no matter. He knew Alex's destination.
Yassen had also memorized from the church hideout to the plant. He started his car, put it in motion, and began the several hours long drive.
Beneath his placid façade, a battle raged.
Could he allow Alex to escape again?
His bosses' instructions had been clear. Capture Alex. Alive. Bring him back, injured if necessary.
What were his options?
Capture Alex. That option was the one that left Yassen in the least trouble with family that paid him well. It also consigned the boy to another period of torture. Molotov had promised to let Alex leave alive, a concession to Yassen's fondness for the boy, but child would be in pain and that was not negotiable. Yassen had seen Molotov order a spy from the Ukrainian government to be slowly chopped to pieces while he screamed. That spy had been returned alive. But he would have wished for death.
Leave Alex alone. Pretend ignorance of the fact that Alex knew the coordinates of the drug production plant. That way led to untold dangers against Yassen. Molotov was not an unintelligent man, and he would realize that Alex's knowledge of the plant must have come from somewhere. From some information left recklessly in the line of the sight of the spy. Yassen doubted, despite Molotov's promises earlier in the week, that his boss would hire someone to take Alex out if the boy escaped Russia alive. Sending a criminal to kill an American and British citizen – a former spy, at that – while in peril with the Russian government over a dispute about the life of that same citizen would lead to unnecessary countermeasures taken against the mafia.
Go after Alex, and attempt to let the little spy escape, while still stopping the boy from destroying the production of Rousseau's drug. This option was impractical. Risky. May lead to Alex or his friend shooting Yassen if they got too close. Might still lead to backlash from Molotov.
It was also the only one with acceptable outcomes.
Yassen enjoyed his work well enough. It paid well. He was in a position of authority that many would never have, especially after being a wanted member of a now-disbanded terrorist group that had fallen into the hands of an enemy intelligence force for a period of time. He had no desire to abandon his job simply out of loyalty to one individual.
He also had no desire to watch that individual be hurt, again and again, until his freedom was acquired.
Accepting the impossibility of his desires, Yassen chose his path.
The third option then.
-AR-
This is it, Alex thought with resignation. I've finally sealed my fate. I am definitely going to hell.
Ironically, Alex might not have thought of this plan without having been held hostage in the illusion of a church building previous to this.
Alex walked into the church with a group of worshipers. He didn't know the customs of Orthodox Christianity (did they cross themselves like Catholics?), but Alex was adaptable. He could copy what he saw. All he had to do was not arouse suspicion for ten minutes. Less, if time worked out.
He parked the car he'd stolen from the restaurant's parking lot outside the church. He'd stopped at the church because of an insidious idea for how to find the money he needed (and soon) for gas and food.
Alex hadn't often been inside churches growing up, but Jack always found them pretty when they traveled. So Alex and Jack had visited the insides of several churches, and Alex had seen that there were some rituals and objects that churches generally had. Catholic churches often had a basin for holy water, churches of all denominations tended to have people praying, large churches had tourists taking pictures, and, most importantly for now, almost all churches had some form of a donation box.
Alex saw several people inside the church standing near railing, and quietly chanting to themselves. Alex slid into an empty row and made a show of doing the same. After about five minutes – long enough for a short prayer, Alex judged, without having a proper reference – Alex got out of the row and walked towards the donation bowl. He reached into his pocket and pretended as if he were going to donate money himself.
A woman wearing a headscarf (like all women in the church) eyed Alex.
He realized suddenly that he hadn't thought this plan through.
He was wearing the sweatpants and loose blue t-shirt of one of Molotov's henchmen. Compared to the others in the church he was woefully underdressed. His arms were bruised, and one of them had burns scattered across it. Alex grimaced. Yassen's lesson was serving a double purpose now, and it was to mark Alex out. Doubtless the man would be thankful, if it stopped Alex from getting in his way.
At least he had the gun. The gun he'd stolen from Molotova had several rounds left. But Alex wasn't going to bring a loaded gun out in a church just to steal a handful of cash. At best he'd create a scene, and the police would be on his tail. At worse…Alex had heard horror stories of Russian police firing first, and asking questions later.
The woman reached for a friend and said something quietly. Now two women were staring at Alex. He looked away, pretended to put some money into the bowl, and walked out of the church. That had gone horribly.
Out in the main square, Alex looked around at the scene. The orthodox church was behind him, and several stores (mostly closed now that evening had fallen) surrounded the roundabout he was next to. Alex sighed. He didn't have time for this. And he needed a cell phone. One with GPS. The roadmap in the car assured him he was going in the correct direction, but it obviously didn't have the spot of the exact coordinates of the building he was headed to.
Scratch that. He needed two cell phones. One to call his team and discard, and one to lead him to the production facility he was intent on disbanding.
Fine. It was time for the gun. Alex was leaning heavily into the opposite of heroics here, but his crimes would be worth the people it would save. If the Russian authorities decided to lock Alex up for robbing a convenience store, there was little he could do about it. But from the efforts it seemed they had gone to in order to rescue him from Molotov, they seemed at least slightly willing to value Alex. If all else failed, maybe the Russian president would be willing to call forgiving this a second favor.
Alex reached for the gun at his waist and walked to the open store. It was a traditional little convenience store; bottles of pop stood in a refrigerated cooler by the entrance, cigarettes were next to the check out shelf, and one overweight and balding man stood by the register, scowling into the store.
There was one other customer, a gangly mid-twenty-year-old dressed with the same level of casualness as Alex himself.
That would make two cell phones, assuming both men had one.
Alex sighed. Was he ready to evade the police as well as the mafia? He would need to be. "I don't speak Russian," he said, loudly. Both of the men in the store turned to him, one looking puzzled and the other accusing. Alex grabbed his gun and pointed it at the man behind the register. He was going to need to gesture, he figured, but maybe they spoke English. If they didn't...robbers were almost after the same things. "I need your money and your cell phones," he said.
-AR-
Harris, Ayad, and Brandon were programming the GPS in the car with the coordinates Alex had left them when Lowery slipped into the backseat. He didn't give a reason for joining the few men who were teaming up to save Alex. At least, not a believable reason. "I've got nothing better to do," the man said. And then the team, now diminished from a vastly larger ensemble into a squad of four, set off.
Their Russian contact had demanded they stayed in contact and given them a bulky and old Russian cell phone to help them in that endeavor. He'd allowed them back their weapons and cell phones and had even wished them good luck before they left the hotel. With great grace, Harris had thanked the contact, and then used his own cell phone to make a call to Hyde in Washington, D.C., during the first thirty minutes of the drive. Ayad had switched out his own sim card for Alex's just in case he was able to reach out again. Lowery texted his family for a number of minutes, before pocketing his phone to preserve it's battery.
Hours later on their journey, the assembled men struggled to converse without the conversation veering into dark territories.
"Whatever this kid did, he's important enough that a Russian government representative is allowing an American sponsored covert operations team to have lethal arms in their country," Harris said as he drove. "Anyone else think that's interesting?"
"More evidence for my theory that Alex was a child spy," Brandon agreed.
Ayad scowled. "Let's save time to be impressed after we've tortured the truth out of the kid. I still think he deserves a good beating for all the trouble he's putting us through."
"A bit soon, considering that he's actually being tortured while we speak," Brandon bit back.
Silence filled the car.
"I think we should all calm down," Lowery said. "Ayad, we know you're upset. I also know you care about the kid. You wouldn't be here if you didn't. So save the aggression for later."
"Yes, agreed," Harris responded quickly. "And I'm thinking we should think a bit more about the music for this car trip than about our feelings towards Alex right now. Anyone feeling some modern Russian synth?"
"God, no," Ayad swore.
"I'd rather be deaf," Lowery said.
Brandon spoke hesitantly. "I kind of like it?"
Ayad turned on the radio and flipped the stations. "Anyone hear anything they like?"
"I'm hoping we get a numbers station," Lowery said dryly. "Decode some Russian secrets while we're here. Sell them to the U.S. military and retire to the Caribbean for a while."
"Don't speak out against our lovely Russian benefactors now." Ayad mocked. He turned the frequency one more time and the sound of static filled the car.
"Guess we're out of range," Brandon said. Ayad rolled the frequency button and this time the team heard the faint crackle of being out of range of the station on almost all the frequencies.
Time passed while the rock station they'd settled on cracked and popped quietly in the background. Lowery and Brandon played twenty questions and Ayad took a brief nap. Harris listened to it all, contemplating
It was only after they came into range of a new series of radio stations (and, although they hadn't realize it, cell phone towers) that the voicemail made it through.
"Hold on," Ayad said sleepily, awakening from his nap. "Someone just texted me." He reached for his phone and looked at the screen. "Oh, no, it's a missed call. We must have been out of range. Hold on, they left a voicemail."
He clicked a button, and Alex spoke.
"Hi, everyone, I hope you're all right."
Ayad turned the radio off quickly. The passengers in the backseat froze. Harris kept driving, but his shoulder stiffened.
"I'm free," Alex said. "I'm sorry I'm not headed to you. I know you all must be pissed at me, and I deserve it, but I have to complete our mission. I'm going to the coordinates I gave you, and if I'm really lucky maybe the Russians have already taken care of everything for me." There was a pause, then Alex continued, quietly. "I'm really sorry for all of this."
A beep signaled the end of the message.
"Call him back," Harris said. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel.
Ayad tried to contact Alex three times before he admitted defeat. Lowery suggested, with weary resignation, that Alex must have ditched the phone he called from.
"Well, he's heading to the same place as us," Brandon said. "Maybe we'll beat him there." He smiled tightly. "And he's free. That's something."
"He's going on a suicide mission," Harris said.
"There's only one of him," Ayad agreed.
"We'll keep going," Lowery said. "We'll find him."
The team murmured their assurances that they would catch up with their youngest teammate, and continued onwards towards Nizhny Novgorod.
Ahead of them by a good two hours, Alex drove on.
-AR-
The woods outside Nizhny Novgorod were dark and ominous. Only a few scattered streetlamps illuminated the gravel road Alex was maneuvering. His third car of the day's clock read 3:28 in the morning. Alex squinted forward into the gloom. Was that a building up ahead?
It was.
Alex turned the car lights off, reversed the car, and drove about three minutes back up the road. He searched for a spot off road that looked flat enough to park the car on, and when he found it he parked there.
Whoever was looking for him, if they were looking at all, would see him easier if he arrived by a car via the road. If this factory had a cover as anything other than 'deeply suspicious', he bet there wasn't a giant barbed wire fence around the facility. If there was, he would deal with it.
Alex stepped out of the car and shivered. It had been autumn when he'd arrived in Russia, a few weeks ago. It was still fall, but it was getting colder. He wished he had a jacket. Stepping away from the road, Alex also wished he had a torch. It going to be hard to see tonight.
He allowed his eyes to adjust for a few minutes before starting the walk into the forest. After getting a few minutes west into the forest, Alex headed north to the plant.
There was no barbed wire fence blocking his approach. There wasn't even a chain link fence. Alex walked as quietly as he could, stepping on the fallen leaves, and quickly as he could in the near pitch black of the forest, and soon he was hiding in the forest line at the edge of the ersatz factory. Parked trucks stood empty in a parking lot on the side of the factory, and the building itself was dark. Only the two guards standing by the door indicated that this was anything other than the manufacturing line for some product or other.
Alex hid himself out of the guard's line of sight, behind a tree trunk, and considered his next move. There were only two guards. He had a gun, although he was reluctant to use it. His team only killed people when they were an active threat to people's lives, and right now the guard didn't count for that.
Moving with all the stealth he could, Alex prowled around the perimeter of the building, keeping himself safely inside the darkness of the forest. Soon he was on the other side of the forest adjacent to the road. He wasn't any better off than before. The other side of the building had the truck's loading dock, but three guards stood, smoking and chatting happily away, by that set of doors.
It would be easier to sneak in this door.
Alex looked around. He picked up a rock, hefted it, and threw it against the building with force. As soon as he released the rock he fell to the ground.
A flashlight beacon passed over his head.
One of the guards muttered something in Russian.
Alex counted to five minutes, and then threw another rock. He ducked again. This time the guard holding the flashlight out took a few steps towards the forest.
Lying on the ground, Alex reached for another rock. This one he threw at the guard.
It hit him in the stomach, close to where Alex had aimed. The guard huffed and called for his colleague. The flashlight now flew around the forest floor, looking for the intruder.
Alex picked up another rock. Big enough to injure or knock out, but not, he judged, to kill. He put that one on the ground near him, and then he threw a pebble against the building. The guard turned to the sound, and Alex threw the first rock at his head.
The guard fell.
The second guard ran up, reaching for his gun.
Alex stood, holding his gun pointed at the second guard. "Don't do that," Alex said. The second guard raised his hands in surrender. Alex walked forward tentatively. The second guard moved back. "Don't." Alex put a hand out, fingers extended. The guard stilled. Alex made a gesturing motion with his hand, and the second guard passed his gun to Alex.
Alex tucked the second gun into his pocket. He walked backwards to the fallen guard and kneeled, one hand reaching out to take the first man's pulse while his other hand held his gun steady on the second.
The guard was still alive.
Good.
Alex gestured with his gun towards the door. "Let me in," he said.
The guard protested.
Alex jabbed his gun at the guard. "Now."
It took several minutes of quiet coercion (Alex knew the guards on the other side of the building would hear and come running if they heard a gunshot fired), but the guard eventually understood that the only way he was leaving this situation was by allowing Alex into the premises.
The inside of the building was giant, and empty. Alex breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the outside of the windows not showing light emanating from inside the building, he'd feared coming inside to another row of armed guards, ready to take him, dead or alive, back to their boss.
Alex was sure if he looked around the building he would find the evidence of the drugs. But first, he had a guard to take care of. Alex looked around the giant production hall until he saw the stairs to a second floor. He pointed, and the guard led the way.
Several of the rooms on the second floor were locked. Several were not. In the second unlocked room, Alex got lucky, and found the duct tape he was looking for.
"Sit there," he said, and pointed. The guard did, with such an expression of fear that Alex knew the man knew the consequences of failing the mob. Those consequences weren't Alex's concern. Alex duct taped the man securely to the chair, then went back downstairs with the guard's keys. He made sure the front door was locked, and then he went around the giant floor of the factory.
From the stairs, Alex had seen that the entire first floor of the factory looked harmless. From what he could see, the first few rows of production were clothing presses. Alex opened a few closed boxes at the end of the rows and found t-shirts with gaming company logos on them.
Three minutes later, Alex struck gold. The seventh box he tore open wasn't clothing at all, but plastic bags full of a lightly blue colored chemical.
Drugs.
Alex grabbed several bags of the stuff and went back up to the room the guard was duct taped up in. He put them on the floor.
Then he went to the locked doors and tried to open them with the guard's keys. They didn't work.
Alex shot the lock off one of the doors, and entered, gun drawn.
The room was empty.
It was also exactly what Alex had suspected it was. A laboratory.
Yassen hadn't lied. This was where the drug was being produced.
Alex returned to the room with the guard and the bags of the drug. Then, while the guard watched with wide eyes, Alex began to shove a heavy filing cabinet in front of the door.
Sure, maybe he'd have time to figure out which machines did what and produced what part of the drug. Maybe he'd be able to destroy one of the labs with the bullets he had left. But Alex bet almost all the locked doors on the second floor were laboratories where the drug was produced, while the first floor was the cover of a clothing manufacturing company. He'd never get to destroy all the labs overnight, especially when someone could discover the unconscious guard outside any moment and burst in to try and capture the interloper.
That was fine. Alex's plan wasn't to single handedly take out the drug production plant.
Alex fumbled for his cell phone in the dark office. He dialed the Russian emergency services, number 102.
The voice that answered spoke in rapid Russian.
"Ya ne govoryu po russki," Alex said. "English. I need someone who speaks English."
The operator put him on hold. Minutes later, a new operator spoke into the phone in heavily accented Russian. "Hello, what is emergency?"
"This is Alex Rider. I need to be transferred to someone in the FSB."
"That is not possible," the voice replied. "Emergency please."
"Tell the FSB that Alex Rider is calling," Alex said. "Tell them I escaped from Molotov and Yassen Gregorovich. Tell them I know where drugs are being produced. Tell them to track this phone."
Alex paused. He suspected the man he was speaking too did not have enough of a grasp on English to follow his words. But emergency services around the world recorded their calls. Someone would investigate this call – Alex was asking for the countries' intelligence services, and he had just mentioned the names of two very dangerous men. Red flags would be raised. Soon someone important would hear this recording and know the severity of the situation. Until then, he had to make his message clear.
"This is Alex Rider," Alex repeated. "Tell the FSB I'm here." He stopped for only a second, before the end of the message came to him. He smiled. Call it his flair for the dramatic, but he had some final words. "Come and get me."
Notes: Apologies for skipping another day! Updating completely slipped my mind. I hope everyone is doing well, and thanks for reading this older story.