Author's Note: Okay, just a quick reminder. I do not own Alex Rider, nor am I affiliated with Anthony Horowitz or the publishers of the Alex Rider Adventures. I'm just a fan, that's it.

A/N: One last thing. This is a serious story which covers some pretty heavy topics. I want everyone to know that the opinions voiced in my story are not necessarily mine. One character might be for something, and one might be against it, but it has nothing to do with how I view the world. These are fictional characters.

Chapter One: Sabina

"Bonjour monsier, comme t'apples tu?" Good morning sir, what is your name?It was a casual request. It didn't phase Hunter. He could see the gun on the man's belt. A sure sign that the man and his comrades were unskilled. Still, there was no need to draw attention to himself.

"Je suis Joseph Ackerman." Hunter responded fluently.

"Americain?" The man replied without much interest, checking off the name on his list.

"Je suis Francias." Hunter said. There was a slight catch in the man's voice that made him feel as though he should be careful. The truth was, Joseph Ackerman was a Frenchman, and a well known one at that. An industrial tycoon. The man was checking up on Hunter's story. Perhaps he wasn't as untrained as Hunter thought.

The man ushered Hunter in. It was quite a sight. They were standing in a large courtyard that reminded Hunter more of a football field. A football field with expensive bottles of wine, elegantly dressed politicians, and an atmosphere of wealth. At the center of it all stood his target. Arnaud Badeau. He had sandy brown hair, dark green eyes, and a tall, lean frame. It was hard to believe this was his gathering. He seemed somehow out of place, too real for the politicians and business men inhabiting the beautiful setting.

All this ran through Hunter's mind at once, as he checked the security around the place. He could not stay here long. Someone would notice he wasn't the country's leading distributor of cheese, and when they did, he would not have enough time to complete the mission and escape with his life. Inside his jacket pocket was a tube of slow acting cyonide. The plan was to slip it into his drink. He would die an hour or two later, with no signs as to what could have happened. Untraceable. If that plan failed (and in Hunter's experience, anything could interrupt a plan) than Hunter had two weapons.

The first was a double-edged commando kinfe, developed in the Second World War. Hunter had been told it was the most useful weapon for an asasain (for he was an asasain) to have. But a knife could prove all but useless when surrounded. That was what the second weapon was for. It was a Heckler & Koch P8 9mm x 19 pistol, the same service pistol used by the Federal German Armed Forces. He hadn't bothered fitting a silencer on it, but one was kept in his pocket as well as the pistol.

He looked up. Arnaud Badeau has ascended a podium. Hunter took an empty seat and had a glass of water. He had adopted a strict "No liquor on the job policy". Arnaud began to speak in French, while translators began speaking his amplified words in different languages from around the world.

"Good morning all. I have invited you here to speak of a serious issue. The rebirth of commuism, and its eventual spread throughout Western Europe."

There was a great deal of murmuring at this, and it was not out of place. Communism was an issue most serious. Badeau continued.

"In the year 2016, the West has put communism far behind us. The Cold war ended 25 years ago, with democracy emerging as the dominant government throughout the world. There were still a few countries who kept communist regime, Cuba, China, etc., but, for the most part, communism had been eradicated. Now, there are threats of communism, and it is this that I must concern you with. There has been a shuft in power in the Middle-East, and I fear that the region may soon be experiencing war again, over this very issue. I only urge you to take caution, and remember that France is a presidential republic and, the head of state, should oppose communism and refuse to have any communists on the Council of Ministers."

He stepped down from the podium, to scattered, lukewarm applause. After all, everyone everywhere knew that communism was about dead. The idea of communists taking over the West was absurd. While Hunter had been listening to the odd speech, he'd found a plan of attack. He would approach Badeau with a glass of champagne, as a friend. The drink would of course contain cyanide, and that would be it. The glass was ready. It sat calmly on the table next to Hunter.

"You're not drinking this are you? God I need a drink." Hunter looked up to see a beautiful young woman reaching for his glass. He snatched it up at once, and turned his face to look at her.

"Terribly sorry mademoiselle," he said, trying to feign a French accent. "The drink has special requirements. It is for a friend."

"Oh. Well then you wouldn't mind if I joined you while I waited for my husband?" Without waiting for an answer, she sat, and that was when Hunter got an actual look at her. She was, in a word, beautiful. She had long, luxurious black hair that swept down her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep, captivating blue, and her red lips were curved in a graceful smile. Spare freckles were dotted around her face, enhancing the image rather that diminishing it. She seemed so familiar. So familiar. . .

"Alex, is that you? Alex Rider?" the woman cried, standing.

Alex stood too, the French accent dropping instantaneously. "Sab?"

It was her. Sabina Pleasure, the only woman he had ever loved. Alex had considered writing a novel about her, about them. The last time he'd seen her was seven years ago, on the streets of Los Angelos, California of all places. The night stuck out vividly in his mind, every moment stored in his mind likes megabytes of memory. The night, the crashing, horrible night that had driven him over the edge. The night that he had nearly died, and in a sense, had died. The night he had lost Sabina.

Flashback, Seven Years Ago.

"Hey Alex." Sabina greeted him. She smiled and leaned against his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her.

"Hey Sab," he replied. He smirked as he saw the bags of clothing.

"Did you have fun shopping then?" he asked, kissing her cheek gently.

"It's not about fun Alex, you know that." Sabina responded, setting the bags down and putting her head in Alex's lap. He stared down at her, content to sit here like this. He felt that, for the first time since Ian Rider had died, he, Alex, could just enjoy a normal life. A normal life with Sabina. Sure America was different, but he had survived thus far. He could adapt. He missed London of course, but he would live. As long as he had Sabina, he would live.

"Sabina, I've been thinking. . . about after college."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I mean, we're in love right?"

"If you say so." Sabina replied teasingly. She had no idea what Alex was going to ask.

"Well, maybe. . . at least, when we've graduated--" he looked up, his brown eyes suddenly alert and serious.

"What was that?" he asked. He'd heard something. It had been from the door of the dormitory room. Alex was suddenly afraid.

"Come on Alex, it's just the wind or something. You're not with MI6 anymore, you're not about to get attacked by Yassen Gregorovich's ghost or anything. Relax."

But Alex couldn't relax. It had been too long. He'd lived in the world of clandestine operations and spies for too long to relax. And so, he gently moved Sabina's head, crept to the kitchen, and took out a steak knife.

Sabina started laughing. It was rather a funny sight, to see him walking so cautiously, wielding an eating utensil. But then again, that was he Alex. MI6 had robbed him of any innocence he had left. Alex never slept well, never. He was always so tense, so restless. And he was such a light sleeper. Even the sound a toilet flushing was enough to make him leap from the bed and assume a fighting stance.

It turned out that, this time. Alex's paranoia turned out to save his life. He flung peered through the peephole, and gasped. It was one of the men he had seen five years ago, on the island of Malagosto. He didn't know him by name, but he would never forget Malagosto. Scorpia had finally caught up with him.

He flung the door open and lunged at the man, spining away at the last moment. The Scorpia man had anticipated Alex's first move, but not the surprise second, so he strcuk his fist out, hitting only empty air. By this time, Alex had snuck up behind him and grabbed him. Contrary to popular belief, when you intend to slit a man's throat, it is easier to let the head slump forward slightly. Pulling it back makes it even harder. Alex did not, however, intend to slit this man's throat. Sabina was on the phone, presumably with the police. A few students had been drawn out of their rooms at the commotion.

And that was when it had happened. Another Scorpia agent, this one a woman, appeared. She leveled a pistol at Alex, point-blank range. "I'll give you mine if you give me yours." Alex said. A quick swap. Instead, the woman shot at a nearby college student, clipping his knee. She seemed to know that Alex wouldn't actually kill. He could not be driven that far. At least, not at the present. Without hesitation, Alex's newfound enemy shot six shots into his room.

"Sabina!" Alex screamed, and he flung the man he was holding into the woman. She ducked, and shot him in the chest. He fell to the ground, his vision blurring. He'd been here before. He had to go on. Sabina was visible, unconscious. There was blood, so much blood. He fell to the ground. He reached for a cotton blouse that had been upturned in the struggle, and quickly made himself a makeshift tourniquet. Next, he retrieved the pistol he always kept hidden and shot. Both the asasains fell to the ground as Alex clipped them on their way to escape. Neither one was really injured. Even now, Alex still couldn't do it. He couldn't kill them.

The Next Day

"How are you feeling?" Alex asked. Or croaked rather. He and Sabina were in the same hospital room. She looked over at him, straining to sit up.

"Alex, you need to leave."

"What?"

"I'm not ready for this. I was attacked last night for something that had nothing to do with me. It's not fair, and so, I need you to leave. Leave the campus, leave the city. I'm sure your friends at MI6 can get you into another one. They owe you that much."

"Sabina. . . "

"Alex you need to leave. I'm not prepared to live the rest of my life like this.

"But I wanted to marry you!" Alex yelled, ignoring the pain in his chest.

"I know that now. But I can't. As soon as your better, you just have to get out of here. . . please."

"So what are you doing here?" Sabina asked. "Don't tell me you've become a politician!"

Alex smiled wryly. The mission had failed now, he knew it was true. He had been identified by a civilian. He would have to leave. Well. . . he could probably make things right. There was a bomb kit in the glove compartment of the rental. He could plant a bomb in Badeau's car. Yes, yes, that's what he would do.

To make matters worse, Alex and Sabina were joined. "Bonjour monsieur. Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Arnaud Badeau took a seat next to Sabina and kissed her lips. Something inside the very pit of Alex's stomach shifted. He longed to draw the commando knife from his pocket, unsheath it, and ram the sharpened blade through the bridge of the man's nose.

"Alex, this is my fiancee, Arnaud Badeu, Arnaud, this is Alex Rider, and old friend."

The man from the gate looked at Alex now, and began to approach him. He put a hand on the weapon, and looked suspiciously at Alex.

"Alex Rider? I though you were Joseph Ackerman!" Other people were beginning to look at them. Alex mentally calmed himself. There was still a way to accomplish this.

"Well, which is it?" asked Badeau in good English.

More guards were coming, Alex could see. It was now or never, do or die. Alex sprang up suddenly, and withdrew the Heckler & Koch from his pocket. Sabina gasped.

"Alex! What the hell are you doing?" There was a scream, and suddenly, people were ducking for cover, running for their lives. Just what Alex needed; a riot.

"Seal the gates!" a guard called. Alex's gun was trained on Badeau, and every other weapon in the vicinity was aimed at him.

"Don't move! If you move I shoot!" He began taking steps backward. "Don't shoot!"

He would back out of harm's way, and then he would strike, clipping Badeau square in the throat.

"No! You don't make the decisions!" cried the gate keeper, leveling a revolver at Alex's head. There was no doubt Alex had the lower ground. It would take a miracle for him to arrive unscathed. There were three guards behind him, the rest were in front. The entrances were sealed by the three behind him. If he moved his gun even for a second, he would be shot or captured.

In a sudden, quick movement, Alex struck. It was like watching an alert jaguar suddenly pounce on an unsuspecting gazelle. Alex's commando knife flew from his pocket into his hand, and then into the nearest guard's arm. Once down, Alex kicked the other man in the crotch, and aimed the knife at the last. He began to back away slowly.

"No one else has to get hurt." Alex stuttered, trying to act as if he were a maniac. He judged the distances. He was parked about twenty meters up the road, too far to get there on foot. But there was no other way. It was a relatively isolated area. He could do nothing, and as far as he was concerned, no one had alerted the police, though it was a matter of time. He would have to take his chances. He couldn't shoot Badeau though. If he did, the men would have no inhibitions about shooting him. Instead, he ran. He ran down the square, tucking the weapon securely in his pocket. The guards had followed, just as planned. If he could outrun them, at least until he got into a place with traffic, he would be able to get away. He could tell there were only about two that could match his speed. The first was lying face down, suffering a possible testicle injury. The second was chasing after him.

Alex ran. He knew he couldn't fire off the gun. He tried to zigzag around as he ran up the road, nearing a city block with shops. Perfect. The car was somewhere near, he knew it. It was as inconspicuous as you could get. A beige Mazda. He clamored in, starting up the ignition. And then he was gone.

Author's Note: A bit sloppy I know. Anyway, please read & review!