Just for the record people, I don't own anything in this story except for the plotline.
Oh, and this is my first story, so any and all criticism would be appreciated.
Angel Of Death Chapter 2:
The HuntChelsea, London. The quiet hum of electrical devices fills the air, accentuated with loud vocal outbursts and the constant grumble of car traffic. In the midst of this, a teenage boy cycles home from a long day at school. His blonde hair blows back in the breeze to reveal haunted eyes, scarred by what he has seen, by what he has done, by what he has experienced. Old mans eyes, in a boys face. This is Alex Rider, and if you looked at him you would hardly notice him. He was above average height, but not by much, not too thin and not too fat. In fact, he looked like the average teenage Londoner. But how many teenagers of any nationality have been forced to become a spy?
Alex Rider got down from his bike at the end of the street, and wheeled it home. He pulled out his key and opened the door, calling to Jack Starbright, his oldest friend and housekeeper, as he did.
"Jack, I'm sorry I'm late back but the class got held in for a few minutes…" His voice died away as he looked around the normally spotless living room. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the once-comfortable sofa had been ripped apart as if by a knife. Alex instinctively dropped down slightly, lowering his centre of gravity.
"Jack? Are you there?"
"I'm in the kitchen Alex!" Her voice sounded strained and hurt. Alex knew it was a trap, but he had no choice, he couldn't let Jack get hurt. He quickly glanced around his surroundings, searching for a weapon. The television? Too heavy. A cushion? Too soft. The vase? Perfect, as long as there was only one villain. He shrugged and picked it up anyway, moving to the kitchen door.
"Are you OK Jack?" he called.
"I'm fine Alex, just please get in here!" Her voice sounded panicked, fearful. Alex placed one hand against the door, and glanced around the edges. He could see the shadows of at least three people. The keyhole revealed that one was standing next to Jack, on the left side, while the other was holding out an arm on the right, clutching an unseen weapon. Alex braced himself.
"I'm coming now," he called, "Hang on." He leant backwards, then crashed his foot into the door, spinning it open. He sprang through as the man on the right fired, once, before realising that he could hit his friend. Alex rolled as he hit the ground, and stood up. The man with the gun aimed again and fired. Alex threw himself to one side and the vase at the man's head. It struck the man hard in the face. He groaned, once, and then collapsed. Alex reached down and picked up the man's gun. He turned, pointing it at the man holding Jack.
"Let her go," he whispered. The man stayed silent, his gun thrust firmly into Jack's neck. "I said, let her go!" Alex roared. The gun, a Belgian-made FN semi-automatic, weighed heavily in his hand on his conscience. Alex had trained at Scorpia's academy on Malagosto, and he knew for a fact that he could never kill anyone in cold blood. His only chance was to bluff the man into letting Jack go. After that, he didn't care what happened to him. The man spoke, interrupting his musings.
"You are Alex Rider, I presume?" His voice was thick with an American accent and remained icily calm, despite the gun pointed at his head with an unwavering hand. "I thought as much. The agency was incredibly accurate, even down to your address and school timetable. No," he warned, "Don't even think about moving. If you do, then I will be forced to kill Ms. Starbright here. We know how much she means to you. Besides that, she put up a struggle as we entered the house, and even firing shots into the wall didn't intimidate her. She hurt me rather badly, and it would be a pleasure for me to kill her." The man jabbed the gun further into Jack's neck. Unseen by Alex, he was holding another gun in his other arm, wrapped around Jack's left arm, and pointing straight at the teenager's chest. "The agency who employs me is rather concerned that you might try to stop certain, ah, activities we have planned, and so they sent us to dispatch you."
"I hate to sound clichéd, but you'll never get away with this!" The man smirked at Alex's indignant fury. MI6 had gotten him into trouble again!
"Oh yes? And why would that be? You are not working for MI6 at the moment. You have no gadgets. Nothing. You only have a gun with two rounds left, but the fact that you didn't shot me straight away proves that you are unwilling to use it. You're too far away for any karate, and I have a gun jammed into the neck of one of your best friends." He sniffed. "So why won't I get away?"
"Because the house is riddled with bullet holes. Nobody has a gun in Chelsea, so you two won't be hard to track down. Our sofa's ripped apart, and the broken vase in here's a dead giveaway. Put all this together, and MI6 will be down on you and your agency like a ton of bricks with automatic weapons." The man laughed.
"The agency thought of that. That's why that case over there," He nodded towards a matte black attaché case in the corner, "Contains a five-kilogram block of Semtex plastic explosive. We'll strap it to your dead bodies, set the timer and drive off. Then it's just a fatal gas leak." He pretended to sniff. "Tragic." His finger tightened on the unseen trigger.
"Let Jack go and take me instead! You won't tell anybody, would you Jack?" She shook her head furiously, and mumbled angrily through her thick gag, hopping with rage. The man silenced her by jabbing the gun more sharply into her neck.
"Shut up!" He turned to Alex. "There's no point trying to deal with us now, boy. We know you have nothing, no gadgets, no skills, no time, nothing! You won't show us up again, I swear on it!" His finger tightened on the unseen trigger until it squeaked. He fired. The concealed gun spat its deadly payload at Alex, who twisted and fell awkwardly to the floor. The bullet flew past, pounding a hole in the plasterboard kitchen wall. The man dropped Jack and fired with the other gun. The .44 Magnums' blasts, muted by a silencer, screamed overhead as Alex rolled. The man stepped over Jack and stood next to Alex, the pistol aimed between his eyes. Alex stared up at the barrel, lengthened by the silencer, grinning at him like a cobra. An idea formed in his mind, a crazy, risky idea. He knew that if he thought about it his brain would reject it. The man cocked the pistol.
"Goodbye, Ian's whelp," the man said, and pulled the trigger.
Alex's hand darted upwards in a crescent as the man finished speaking, and slapped the barrel away. The bullet slammed into the door, blowing a quarter-inch dent into its thick oak finish. The man yanked the pistol back and swung it at Alex again, but Alex moved before he could finish, snapped his leg straight. His foot slammed upwards into the most vulnerable area of any man, and his assailant dropped the gun. Alex picked it up instantly as the man collapsed. He pointed it at the man's head. Then he saw the tattoo. On the back of his neck, an angel, with wings outstretched and hands held apart. But this angel was carrying a sword in one hand and a human heart in the other, and its body was covered in blood. Its face was a picture of malice; dark, narrowed eyes staring blindly from a screaming face. Alex recoiled at the sight and dropped the gun. The man stood up, rage spilling across his face like oil across water. He picked Alex up by the collar and belt and hurled him to the floor. Alex groaned, winded, as the man ran across towards the kitchen window, overlooking the back garden. Alex picked up the gun as the man smashed through the thickened glass window and sprinted towards the garden wall. Alex struggled to keep up, but was only halfway across the lawn as the man scaled the wall. He hovered at the top. Alex aimed and fired, hitting the would-be assassin in the leg, thanking Scorpia for his training in instinctive firing. The man stumbled over the wall. Alex heard him cry out as he landed. There was a sound of wood crunching. Alex leapt, caught the top of the wall with his hands, and scrabbled up. He rolled over and down, firing again. The butt slammed back into his hand as the Magnum spat into the doorframe, missing the wounded man's hand by an inch. The hand was withdrawn as it's owner stumbled up a flight of stairs. Alex followed, tossing the now empty handgun to the side. He rushed inside the building, up the stairs, started to turn the corner, and then was thrown back by a burly man in a black tracksuit. The top was emblazoned with the same design as the other man's tattoo, and its wearer carried a sword. Alex pressed himself closer to the wall, recognising the stance of a master. Nile, the man who had so very nearly killed him twice, had held his sword that way, with the relaxed confidence of an iaido master. The sword hummed slightly as it skimmed the air inches in front of Alex's nose. The teenager darted backwards and bounced off the wall, twirling down towards the open alleyway. The sword-wielding man threw his weapon, and Alex dropped as it sliced the air above his blonde hair. The man jumped down to follow Alex, drawing a long, hook-pointed knife from his waistband. Alex jumped, span mid-air and kicked out, slamming his heel into the man's head, striking him just below the left ear. The man crumpled to the ground, twitching occasionally. Alex stopped, paused, and ran outside. He didn't have to deal with this on his own. A simple 999 phone call and a battalion of policemen would be pulling up with the equipment and training to deal with the situation. He turned towards the neighbourhood phone box, located a few dozen metres down the street. He pulled the door open and lifted the receiver to his ear. There was a blinding flash of light, and the glass panes shattered as his house exploded behind him. Alex was hurled against the telephone itself, and the plastic casing cracked. He disentangled himself from the phone wire and sprinted over. It was terrible. His home looked as though an angry giant had squeezed it, smashing the walls outwards with dreadful malice. But even as tears blurred his vision, a terrible, horrible thought exploded in his mind, scattering all other thoughts like the walls of his home. Where is Jack? Alex scrambled into the wreckage, then stopped himself as a large piece of rubble smashed to the ground a foot away from him, his dead uncle's desk breaking itself to pieces before his eyes. Getting yourself killing won't help Jack! He screamed mentally. It was then that he noticed the small envelope lying on the ground next to him. It was black, like the scorched lawn, and had the same pseudo-angelic logo as a postmark. His name was written in silver ink on the front. He opened it with trembling fingers, and read:
Hello Mr. Rider,
I represent a large agency, the same agency responsible for holding your friend Jack hostage, and also for blowing your house up. But I wish you no ill will, provided you follow our instructions. Firstly, be assured that, although the idea repels me, we WILL kill you if you do not comply with our wishes. We have your friend Jack, and we are not afraid to hurt her. Be assured that she will die slowly and painfully if you do not obey us.
Our instructions are as follows: Travel to Liverpool in the next two days. When you're there, travel to the Crowne Plaza hotel. We will meet you there.
Yours Sincerely,
Jack O'Donnell, on behalf of the Angels Of Death.
Alex crumpled the note up, and let it roll down the street. Tears burned his eyes. They had just made some vital mistakes. Firstly, they attacked Alex Rider. Secondly, they told him where they were. Revenge seared Alex's brain, darker than the black envelope he still held in his hand. Don't worry Jack, he thought, I'm coming.
