SHARKS

Alex didn't know how long he had been floating there, floating in his small metal prison, slowly withering away. There was no food in the shuttle, and he was ravenous. He had been there at least seven hours. It had to be ten since he'd had food. He was thirsty, and he almost managed a smile when he thought of all the water for miles around, and he couldn't drink it.

He had opened the hatch, and sat back, watching the sky. He had gained barely any sleep, and after going into space, he still had a sense of irregularity at the zero gravity. It was normal. He was quite sure he was dying. After all he'd been through, he was going to die here, in the middle of the sea, somewhere near Australia.

It was around that time that he was attacked by the sharks. Obviously, he had been cut in space, but he was not bleeding, and he hadn't been into the water anyway, although occasionally it had occurred to him to jump in and die, or try to swim to the mainland. He guessed that curiosity over the big metal object floating in their water, rather than his own blood, had attracted the creatures.

It was unfortunate for him that the hatch was open, as almost instantly after he realised what was going on and moved to close it, a shark nudged the bottom of the shuttle, and the whole thing capsized. Alex was thrown into the water. He gasped, and let the air escape. He swam to the surface, took another breath, and then went back under.

There were three sharks, he estimated. They were keeping their distance, probably scared by his scream. They hid in the murky shadows, waiting to approach. He was quite sure he must be bleeding somewhere, and at the same time, he knew he had to get to his shuttle, to escape from the predators that now circled him, getting closer. They seemed to be communicating, looking at each other, sniffing for him, finding his blood, making sure they were ready for when he finally ran out of energy.

The first, bravest shark approached. It was a great white, as, he presumed, were the others. And he could not swim away. Fatigue would see to that. He would die, and be eaten as a snack by these huge predators.

He could almost smell the shark as it approached. It occurred to him to just take the chance, swim away as fast as he could. But, if he made any sudden moves the shark would pounce. He was fast, but it was faster.

The shark nearest him was close now, so close that it had even stopped to sniff him, make sure he was the blood they could smell. It was taking it's time, though. The other two sharks seemed curios, and began to approach. Then, one by one, they stopped, and seemed to no longer be in control. They were bending, floating away from him. And there was a red dye in the water – blood. The sharks had all been shot, but by who? He had been saved, but why?

A ladder dropped down into the water. He grabbed it, and climbed up. It hung from a helicopter, and standing in it's doorway were two men Alex had never seen. As he climbed inside and the door was dragged shut, Alex saw John Crawley sat in the passenger seat.

"Thanks for saving me from those sharks." Alex smiled, wet and cold, but alive.

"Sharks?" Crawley asked, genuinely puzzled, but no more was said.

-----

It wasn't long after four pm that Chad Morris, an Australian newsreader, said something that caught Alex Rider's attention.

"In the early hours of this morning, British software developer Charles Brixton was brutally murdered, with at least 90 shots fired at close range into his back, neck and head. His receptionist, who it has now emerged Brixton may have been having an affair with, was also killed, but is not thought to be the target.

Brixton, who was from Bristol, England, was on a backpacking holiday in the outback, when…"

Alex stopped listening – he had heard enough. Charles Brixton… Alex had heard that name very recently. He didn't know where, but he had heard it.

Brixton was a tall, bookish man, with dark hair, thick glasses, and a narrow face. He was clean and tidy, intelligent, and dead. And Alex recognised his name. Little did he know that, had the man not have been murdered in the early hours, Charles Brixton would have met Alex Rider the very next day.