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.
Oh, and a big thank you to my most stringent reviewers Wandira, Rotten Bunnies and Remussweetie, thanks for the encouragement and criticism )
Angel Of Death Chapter 4:
Treasure Hunt
A short man stood at the platform, awaiting the train from London. He was stocky, around five foot five, and wearing a black hooded top, with matching pants. A small logo stood out on his breast pocket. An angel in silver thread, screaming silently, clutching a sword and a human heart, covered in blood, staring banefully at the world through hateful eyes. The Angel Of Death. He was here to follow Alex, and to make sure he didn't make any unexpected 'trips'. The train arrived and disgorged its innards, spewing cramped passengers out onto the underground train platform. The man raised himself up on tiptoes, trying to spot one fair-haired teenage boy from over thirty others. His eyes skimmed the crowds. Then he saw him. There could be no mistaking the look in his eyes, the hate, the dread, the sorrow, the vengefulness. He must be Alex Rider. The man ducked slightly as Alex passed, not wanting to be seen. A pickpocket's darting fingers brushing the man's right-hand pocket. Without even looking, the man calmly broke his fingers, then moved up to his wrist. The pickpocket squirmed and wriggled, trying to escape, but the man took no notice, his eyes still fixed on Alex. There was another audible snap, and the pickpocket screamed. The man slipped away as the crowd turned to assist the young thief.
Alex Rider walked through the streets with the confused air most tourists bring with them to Liverpool. He knew that the Crowne Plaza was somewhere on the waterfront, but he had no idea where. He turned the corner and saw a short man dart through the crowds behind him. Although Alex didn't recognise him, he caught a glimpse of a familiar logo on the man's top. The Angel Of Death. They were after him, most likely to make sure he got to the hotel. Well, in that case, he could give him a hand. Alex spun around and strode against the crowd, searching for the man. He found him quickly.
"Excuse me, but do you know the way to the Crowne Plaza hotel?" Alex asked, glaring into the man's eyes and fixing the familiar design on his hooded top into his memory. The man jumped, obviously aware that Alex knew who he was.
"Err, it's just over that way, around the corner. You can't miss it." Just like the man's accent, Alex thought. He clearly wasn't from Liverpool, with a broad Manchester accent, one that wouldn't make him any friends, given the rivalry between the two cities.
"Thanks!" Alex turned and sauntered in the opposite direction, safe in the knowledge that Angel Of Death wouldn't try anything in a crowded street. He had barely gone three steps before a tall woman bumped into him. Alex was knocked off balance, and only stayed upright because the lady grabbed his arm.
"Aw, sorry love!" she called, her Liverpool accent obvious. But not as obvious as the Angel Of Death design stamped onto her coat. Her eyes drilled into Alex's, and she twitched her coat aside to reveal a thick knife. The message was clear. Don't play with us. Do what we say, or you'll become just another tourist who wandered into the wrong alley. Alex nodded and turned. As he walked around the corner, he began to notice more and more people wearing the Angel Of Death. Two men wore it instead of the badge on Everton football shirts, a young woman wore it as a belly piercing, and a man stepped off a bus carrying a briefcase with the design emblazoned across the front. He bumped into another woman, and she fell over. As he helped her upright, she pointed behind him, over his shoulder. He turned, only to see the Angel Of Death screaming from a lonely window in a block of flats. When he turned around, the woman was still there. She put on a jacket against the cold Merseyside air, and the Angel's eyes blazed at Alex from her lapels. He ran. The people moved with him, slipping into position alongside and behind, herding him like a frightened sheep. A sheep, Alex wondered, or a lamb to the slaughter?
The Crowne Plaza Hotel looked the same inside as it did on the outside: Immaculate. The magnificent stone-grey walls were inside covered with cheerful, homely colours. Alex walked up to the reception desk.
"Hello there lad!" boomed a receptionist in a thick scouse prose. "What can I do for you?"
"Hi, I'm looking for-" The man cut him off.
"You're from London, right?" Alex nodded. "Name of Rider, by any chance?" He nodded again. "Well then, we've got two messages waiting for you. The first's here, in this envelope." He handed Alex a thick, heavy black paper envelope. "And the second will be down shortly. Feel free to have a drink and something to eat in our café." Alex mumbled his thanks, turned and sat down on a table at the fringe of the café. He ordered himself a Coke and settled down to wait. Underneath the table, however, he began to peel the stamp from the black envelope. He glanced down, and saw the silver Angel glaring sightlessly at him from underneath the first-class stamp. When he looked up, a man was sitting opposite him. He wore quietly expensive clothes, with leather gloves that sat elegantly on his thick hands. His brown hair had once been immaculately groomed, but the man had mussed it down self-consciously. His blue eyes bored into Alex, and his stubbled chin opened as he spoke.
"You are Alex Rider," he said it as a statement rather than a question.
"Yes."
"Good. If you weren't, I would have to kill you. Who knows? I might kill you anyway."
"What have you done with Jack?"
"Jack? Who's Jack?" The man's tone of voice changed, but not his eyes.
"You kidnapped her."
"Ah, Jack. Now that you mention her, the name does seem to ring a bell."
"Who are you and what do you want?" Alex whispered, hand reaching for a fork. If necessary, he would stab the man to death to save Jack from the world he had dragged her into.
"Who am I? I think we both know the answer to that," he laughed, actually seeming mirthful. His Irish accent was growing more pronounced every second. The man slipped a ring onto his finger, and the Angel screeched hatred and defiance from a bloodstained maw across the table. "You remember the letter I wrote to you?" Alex nodded, gritting his teeth. "Very good! My name is James O'Donnell, but some I choose the name 'Jack' most of the time. Quite a coincidence! I am the leader of the Angels Of Death, as you well know. Tell me, did our bomb kill anyone?"
"No. My house was deserted."
"Your house? I meant Liverpool Street. We were behind that one as well."
"I don't know. But if it did, then MI6 will hunt you down for the rest of your days. And if they don't, I will!"
"How very touching, the teenager risking his life for his friend! But I think I know her better than you do, Alex. Her red hair isn't dyed, but she pretends that is anyway, for vanity reasons. She weighs exactly 100 pounds, and is five foot seven inches tall. She has UK size 6 feet. Want me to continue? Oh, how about your other American friend, Sabina? Weighing in at fifty kilograms as my Yankee associates tell me, at around one metre seventy tall, with US size eight feet? Black hair, uses perfume, constantly writes in her diary about how much she misses you?" Alex was dumbstruck. "The Angels Of Death are hardly lacking in information, Alex. If you disobey us now, then Jack dies, agonisingly slow and intensely painful. And we send you a little DVD, the entire affair on camera. And you will watch it, we assure you, it's your nature. And if you disobey us after that, we kill Sabina. A slow, agonising death. Then you get another package in the post, and you will watch it. You simply cannot refuse to. And if you disobey us after that, then I'm afraid we will have to kill you. And before you die, Alex, we will set you up as the biggest enemy of England that this country has ever seen. Do I have your attention now?" Dumbly, Alex nodded, aware that he couldn't bluff on stakes that high. He knew for a fact that the Angels Of Death wouldn't hesitate before killing Jack and Sabina. They'd probably enjoy it. "Excellent. In that case, I suggest you open your envelope. Good day!" With that, the Irishman left.
Alex ripped open the package. Inside was a smaller envelope, carefully padded. He opened it, and withdrew the four pieces of paper. Three were photographs, and the other was a letter. Alex scanned the letter.
Dear Alex, it read,
We are sorry to inform you that you will have to make another journey. And after you reach that destination, you will be forced to make another, like a treasure hunt. Go to the Albert Docks, and enter the Tate Gallery. Do so before four o'clock today.
The letter was signed with the Angel Of Death. Alex looked at the photographs. The first showed Jack in a concrete cell. Her ankles were tied to the walls, and she was handcuffed. Her hair was dishevelled, her clothes were torn, her lips were bleeding and her eyes were terrified. The photo was autographed, her signature in red ink, stamped over by the Angel Of Death. The second photo showed Sabina Pleasure, one of his best friends, asleep in bed. There was a knife held just above her throat. Again, the Angel authenticated the photograph. The last showed himself, sitting on the train. Alex was shocked. Did these people have the equipment to watch over everyone he cared about? Evidently so. He threw some change on the table and walked out, towards the Albert Docks.
