A Cold Day in Hell

Chapter II: A Distinct Shrinking of Problems

Disclaimer: Obviously, I own nothing.


When Alex woke, he saw nothing. He blinked rapidly, but there was no change. He almost panicked before his memory of the situation returned. He was still in the boot. Alex really wanted to sigh, but the duct tape was still in the way and prohibiting that desire.

Alex lay there for a moment, before abruptly noticing that there was no movement and the engine wasn't running. The teen shifted onto his back, ignoring his stiffness and the pressure bruises he'd acquired on his hip and shoulder from laying in one position for too long. He stretched out quietly, checking his confines and how much room he had. He couldn't stretch out all the way.

He shifted again, listening intently, but heard nothing. Gritting his teeth, Alex lifted his taped legs and kicked out as hard as he could at the boot lid. Alex froze, listening again. Hearing nothing, Alex redoubled his efforts and continued thumping against the inside of the boot. Minutes ticked by and Alex began sweating; breathing was difficult and unsatisfying.

Alex rested after a while. Suddenly furious and frustrated at his helplessness, Alex lashed out with the last of his strength. Miraculously, the boot clicked open.

The teen blinked, blinded by the sudden light that struck his eyes. Blinking rapidly, tears leaking from his eyes at the sudden brightness, Alex managed to sit up. He took stock of the area, realizing the car had been parked next to a sidewalk. It was night. The blinding light was from a streetlamp, which was situated a few meters away from the car.

Alex looked for something that would cut through the tape strapped around his arms. He managed to lift himself up to sit on the edge of the boot with his taped legs over the side. Brown eyes looked around, searching. He frowned, not seeing anything he could use. Then he blinked. A smile would have spread across his face if not for the duct tape.

Hopping down from the car, landing awkwardly and almost falling, Alex sat himself down with his legs stretched out in front of him. He tapped a certain part of his right shoe against the ground, three quick taps and one hard hit. A long thin blade shot out from the tip of his shoe.

"Smithers always pulls through," thought Alex as he leaned forward and began sawing at the tape around his wrists and forearms, extremely grateful for the recent birthday gift.

Less than a minute later and Alex's arms were free. He quickly yanked the tape off his mouth, wincing slightly at the pull. He reached down to his feet, about to pull out the blade in order to cut off the tape from his legs.

Alex froze, hearing footsteps rapidly approaching. The boy yanked the blade from his shoes and began sawing at the tape desperately. He managed to get the tape off his legs, and then he was up and running.

The teen spy raced down the street, automatically avoiding going under the street lights. Alex couldn't hear anyone following him, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Alex dodged around a corner, realizing his mistake too late: a dead end. Alex reached the end of the alleyway and spun around, looking for an escape route. Seeing none, he glanced up, hoping for someone to be looking out their window so he could signal them. He didn't see anyone; however, he did see a fire escape.

Alex took a running leap and kicked off the wall, managing to grab onto the bottom rung of the ladder. He started to hoist himself up, his muscles straining. A hand closed around his ankle. Alex started struggling, kicking out with his other foot. He connected with something. The hand on his ankle tightened to painful proportions and yanked, tearing him down from the ladder.

Alex crashed into the ground, hard. The breath was knocked from his lungs and his head slammed into the ground. He'd barely had the chance to recover before he was jerked to his feet and slammed into a wall. Alex cried out as his head, once again, was smashed into the brick.

"What did I tell you, little Alex?" said Yassen, his voice dangerously close to Alex's ear.

Alex winced, damning his curiosity and nosiness to all hell.

Not getting a reply, Yassen reached up and gripped Alex's fair hair. He thumped Alex's head into the brick, forcefully enough to make Alex's vision darken for a moment.

"What did I tell you?" Yassen said, voice eerily calm with no trace of annoyance or anger, which to Alex, was all the more frightening; emotional, angry criminals made mistakes that let Alex escape with his life.

Alex tried to focus, his head pounding in time to his rapidly beating pulse.

"You— You told me, not to do anything that would signal anyone and make you get pulled over," Alex said haltingly. "And technically, I didn't…" the boy added, immediately regretting his words.

Yassen's eyes narrowed at Alex's facetious comment. He gripped the teen's hair tighter, making the spy wince in pain and bite his lip to keep from making a sound.

"Look at me," commanded Yassen.

Alex obeyed, brown eyes flicking up to emotionless blue.

"You will walk next to me down the street and try nothing. You will walk exactly one step ahead of me and keep your face angled down, away from the lights. You will not make a single sound and if we see anyone, you will not make eye contact," said the Russian, boring his cold gaze into Alex's brown and making sure he understood there would be further (and worse) consequences if he did not obey what Yassen said to the letter.

The assassin slowly released Alex, who heaved an inner sigh of relief that he hadn't been killed or maimed on the spot, though he felt blood trickling down the back of his head. The odd pair exited the dead end alley silently and made their way back through the street.

The sedan was exactly as he'd left it, the boot still open and a few pieces of duct tape littering the ground where Alex had managed to get it off.

The teen was about to pass by the car, but a large hand dropping onto the back of his neck halted him. Alex turned his head slightly and glanced a question at Yassen. The assassin gestured at the duct tape.

"Clean it up. And shut the boot," commanded Yassen.

Alex did as he was told, shutting the boot and picking up the duct tape. As he did so, he saw the knife he'd foolishly discarded in his haste to get away. Glancing up through his bangs, Alex subtly positioned himself and pretended to stumble, managing to slide the knife back into his shoe. He made it look like he'd put his hands on the ground to catch himself.

"Let's go," was all Yassen said, moving forward and gripping Alex's upper arm to steer him back onto the sidewalk.

The teen was directed to an apartment building. It wasn't an upscale place, but neither was it rundown. Yassen took him up the steps and through the door, walking him through the lobby area. Alex's eyes scanned the area for someone that he might be able to signal. He didn't see anyone. Alex gave a mental shrug; Yassen wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone he managed to get help from anyway; it was probably better that he was on his own. As per usual.

The assassin pushed Alex into a slightly dubious looking lift, telling him to press the button for the 5th floor. It was a silent ride up, Alex tense and thinking up progressively radical and improbable escape plans.

The lift finally came to a shuddering halt, the doors sliding open and revealing a long hallway with doors lining both sides. Yassen stepped out, once more gripping Alex's upper arm in a bone-crushing grip. He winced, stumbling slightly as his shorter legs tried to keep up with Yassen's long, brisk stride.

The Russian stopped abruptly, catching Alex by surprise and making him almost run into the man.

"A little warning, maybe?" muttered Alex.

Yassen ignored him. He pulled out a key and unlocked the door, pushing the spy inside quickly before following him in and relocking the door.

"What took you so long?" questioned the American, who was standing by the open window and smoking a cigarette, his aviators clipped onto the neck of his shirt.

Roswell looked over from where he was sitting, hunched awkwardly at the small kitchen table. The briefcase was sitting in front of him on the square table, piquing Alex's curiosity once again.

Alex tore his gaze away from the briefcase and scanned the apartment. It was neither small nor large, the kitchen and living room connected seamlessly, only divided by the table and chairs. A hallway with three doors branched from the area that served as the living room. A window overlooked the street outside, though not the street the sedan was parked in.

"He tried to escape," was all Yassen said in reply to Jason's question.

"Why can't we just kill him?" sighed Jason, sounding bored as he exhaled a lungful of smoke.

"It would attract the wrong people's attention. And I don't kill children," said the Russian.

"The kid's almost fully grown," pointed out Weste.

"He is still a child," Yassen said, his tone brooking no argument.

Weste rolled his eyes, though he had turned away so the senior assassin wouldn't see it. Yassen ignored him and moved Alex into the middle of the room, pushing him onto the couch where he was clearly visible to all in the room. Alex glared at them all on principle, particularly at Jason, who seemed to just want to kill him and be done with it.

"So, what now?" asked Alex finally, looking up at Yassen with a wary expression.

The assassin stared at him a moment, seemingly thinking, his cold blue eyes calculating. Slowly, he withdrew Alex's phone from his pocket. Yassen dropped it into Alex's lap.

Brown eyes glanced down to the phone, an unpleasant feeling churning his gut as he remembered the photos he'd taken and sent to MI6 on a hunch. This didn't bode well.

"My phone?" Alex finally asked, "Want me to call someone to come pick me up? Because that would be great. I don't fancy hanging around criminals."

"Unlock it," stated Yassen, not at all perturbed by the teen's attempt at distraction.

"I don't think I'll get any service here," stalled Alex, struggling to not shift in discomfort at Yassen's piercing stare.

"Jason," Yassen said evenly, glancing over at the other assassin.

Getting the silent order, the man took the few steps from the window to behind Alex swiftly, grabbing the teen's hair and jerking his head back in order to expose his neck. Alex caught a whiff of cigarette smoke a moment before Jason's lit cigarette came to rest against the tender skin of Alex's collar bone.

The pained sound Alex made was quickly muffled, Jason slamming a hand down over his mouth. Taking deep breaths, Alex managed to calm himself and Jason removed his hands (and the cigarette) from Alex's body. The burn hurt, but it wasn't serious, more of a warning than anything.

The teen picked up his phone and unlocked it, almost chucking it back at Yassen before deciding it was better to just hand it up to him. The Russian took the phone and immediately began going through the messages, photos, and numbers.

Grimacing, Alex tugged at the collar of his shirt, trying to keep it from rubbing against the burn as he thought. Brown eyes glanced over to Roswell and the case; Alex really wanted to get a look at whatever was inside the briefcase, but he doubted the Russian would be so careless.

Still fiddling with his collar, Alex turned his attention back to Yassen. He knew the instant the assassin came across the photos and messages to MI6, the man's blue eyes hardening briefly before smoothing into their customary blankness. Alex stared up at Yassen nervously until the man's stare left him. The teen resisted the urge to sigh in relief; there should be a limit to how intimidating a person could be when not even doing anything.

"Do you have that new drug?" Yassen asked, directing his question at Jason.

Jason slowly began to smile.

"I do, as a matter of fact," he said with a smirk.

"Go get it."

Jason flicked his cigarette out the window, shutting the small window before going to one of the doors in the hallway and stepping inside. Alex's eyes were flicking from Yassen to Roswell to the door Weste had gone through, a distinctly foreboding feeling coiling in his gut. Jason returned a moment later, a small black case in his hand; he carefully passed the case to Yassen.

Alex eyed the case warily as Yassen opened it and came towards him. The teen couldn't help instinctively standing as Yassen got closer, backing away slowly and eyeing the other two men in the room. If Yassen was the kind of man to sigh, Alex rather thought he would have in that moment. Instead, he gestured at Weste to grab the teen.

The spy struggled briefly before Weste got impatient and punched the teen in the side of the head. Alex, his skull still tender from Yassen slamming his head into the pavement and bricks earlier, was easily stunned and collapsed. Jason dropped him onto the couch.

The Russian moved forward swiftly, pulling out a syringe. He gripped Alex's arm tightly and inserted the needle into the crook of the teen's arm. Alex dimly felt the prick of the needle and a fluid flowing into his blood stream.

Yassen glanced at the American.

"Cuff him."

Alex wasn't able to struggle against Weste, suddenly feeling inexorably weak and sick; his head was spinning and it felt like a spike was driving into his brain. The cuffs clicked tightly around his wrists. His body suddenly burning and in indescribable pain, Alex's back arched. He clenched his teeth, trying not to scream as his body contorted with pain and pulled against the cuffs, slicing into his wrists. Blood dripped from his hands onto the couch and more blood poured from his nose and eyes in rivulets.

Jason and Roswell watched in morbid interest, Roswell's eyes glinting with fascination.

"Has this ever been tried on a human before?" asked Yassen, watching Alex's pained seizing with seeming detachment.

"Yes, but they were a lot older. They lost their memories as well as developed into a semi-vegetable state for a while… They didn't go through quite this level of pain or bleeding," said Roswell, looking puzzled but fascinated.

Yassen watched as Alex passed out and his body relaxed marginally, though the teen was sweating profusely and his temperature skyrocketed dangerously, his face still creased with pain.

"We should probably get the fever down, or he won't live past sunrise," commented Weste, still watching the unconscious teen.

Yassen looked at him, blue eyes cool. "He'll live," he stated, voice brooking no argument.

The other assassin just shrugged. Not like he cared either way. He grabbed the case that contained more of the drug and headed to the other room to sleep; Roswell followed, feeling more comfortable with the talkative assassin.

Yassen watched Alex's face, forcibly reminded of the boy's father. He gave his head a mental shake, dispelling the memory.

"He's not John."

The Russian picked the teen up and moved him, placing him on the ground next to an iron pipe that ran up the wall. Yassen pulled out another pair of cuffs and attached those to the ones Alex was wearing, securing Alex to the pipe.

"Don't die, little Alex," said the assassin quietly.

He stood and left the room, leaving Alex alone and unconscious.


A fierce pounding in his head woke Alex from what felt like an incredibly deep sleep. He sat himself up slowly, taking his time as pain and intense disorientation assailed him. The spy tried to reach up to touch his temple, but something loose around his wrists halted him momentarily, before they slipped off with a clank. Alex blinked.

Ignoring the pain in his head and body (which he was far too familiar with), Alex turned to check and found himself on the floor near the wall, in front of an iron pipe where two pairs of handcuffs lay still closed and oddly empty.

Alex looked at his hands and blinked. Then blinked again and took a deep, deep breath. His hands were the size of a kid's, though the wrists were lacerated with cuts and old scars. Alex scrambled to his feet weakly, using the pipe to assist him. The room seemed far bigger than before, as did the furniture and everything else in the room.

Trying not to panic, Alex looked around for something that he could check his reflection in. Noticing the kitchen, he stumbled into it and looked for something reflective. Spotting a cell phone on the center of the table, he tried to reach for it and found it rather difficult. Feeling increasingly scared, the boy climbed onto a chair in order to grab the phone.

Turning it on, he quickly found the camera function, snapped a quick picture of himself, and took a look at his appearance. He promptly dropped the phone in shock.

"Why do I look like a child?" thought Alex, panicking.

With small shaking hands, Alex picked up the phone to look at the picture again. His face stared back at him, dried blood smeared from his eyes and nose. Except, the face was one he vaguely remembered from when he was around eight years old. It was a small, pale face with large brown eyes and long lashes shading them. His fair hair was like usual, if a little longer, but still messy, his bangs messily covering one of his eyes. He was also considerably shorter than he had been.

Looking down at himself, Alex took in his now ill-fitting clothes and realized that he'd lost his shoes in the scramble to get up and get to the kitchen and phone. Not that it mattered, he realized, they were more hindrance than help. Realizing the same could be said of his pants and socks, Alex stripped them off and began rolling up his boxers so that they fit better. He hunted around the kitchen and found a few safety pins in a drawer; he used those to cinch the boxers tighter. He kept the shirt, which was far too long and dangled over his knees.

Alex deleted the photo, thinking and trying to distract himself.

"What was the purpose of that drug in the first place? To kill me? No," muttered the teen turned child, "Yassen wouldn't have given me a poison. Maybe it was supposed to alter my memory? Knock me out for a long time?" he wondered.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts, he tried to think of what to do. He needed to escape, obviously. But what then? He was trapped in a child's body with basically no clothes, no gadgets, and no one to contact. MI6 knew he went to investigate something; hopefully they would check out his disappearance… Except they wouldn't be looking for a child. Alex felt his eyes tear up slightly in frustration and hopelessness.

Tensing suddenly, Alex swiped his eyes free of tears, smearing the blood in the process and turning quickly. Stumbling slightly, unused to his new body, Alex almost fell. He righted himself and found himself looking up and up into Yassen's face.

If Alex didn't know any better, he could've sworn a genuinely surprised look crossed the man's face.

"Alex?" said Yassen cautiously.

"No, there must be some other kid you abducted and drugged with some weird poison that shrinks a person's body into that of a child," said the little Alex, young voice dripping with sarcasm. "Of course it's me!" he spat, large brown eyes glaring up at the older man.

Yassen's eyes narrowed.

"Definitely the boy," the assassin thought, hiding his irritation.

He strode forward and grabbed Alex, lifting him up easily and depositing him on the kitchen counter none too gently. The assassin gripped Alex's small, skinny arms and squeezed harshly. Alex's new body was not developed enough to handle a lot of pain, much less Yassen-induced pain. The child cried out once before clamping his mouth shut as tears automatically spilled from the boy's eyes. Alex felt his arms beginning to buckle under the pressure.

Unable to handle it anymore, Alex gave a stifled cry.

"Okay! Okay! I won't do it again, alright?" he cried out, unable to help the tears.

Yassen gave one last squeeze of warning before letting him go, noting that part of Alex's mentality had also been altered to fit his body's new condition. Alex clutched his arms, watching as bruises began forming almost immediately. He glared up at Yassen with watery eyes.

"I'm as good as dead now, with my body like this. What was the point of that drug anyway?" he asked quietly.

"It's still being tested. It's supposed to erase your memories, a few or many depending on the dose."

"How much did you give me?" asked Alex, childish voice serious.

Before Yassen could answer, footsteps sounded.

"Well, well. What have we here?" asked a voice, Jason, as he entered the kitchen.

"The drug had unexpected side effects and did not do as intended," replied the Russian.

"So I see. That's the kid, right?" the other man asked, not looking the least bit surprised.

Yassen simply nodded.

"You're quite the midget now, aren't you?" said Weste. "And surprisingly quite cute," he added, reaching out and gripping Alex's chin, turning the boy's head this way and that, "Could sell you for quite a lot."

Alex jerked his face out of the man's fingers and glared. Pissed off, and riding leftover adrenaline from his most recent painful encounter with Yassen, Alex shot his hand out at Jason's face, managing to rake his nails across the man's cheek. Blood poured from the scratch and dripped in thick rivulets down to the man's chin. Now pissed off himself, Jason swung his fist at Alex's face. It connected square on the boy's cheek and threw him to the floor.

Alex landed hard, his face and head throbbing, as well as the rest of his body from the rather long fall. His already bruising arm was twisted underneath his body at an awkward angle. He slowly pushed himself up with his other arm. He took a deep breath in order to get his out of control, childish emotions in order, successfully stifling the automatic urge to cry. At least he wasn't so angry anymore...

"Shit," he breathed quietly, "Ouch, ouch, ouch."

"Weste, don't do that again," ordered Yassen.

"Why? He's fine, isn't he? What's it matter if he's hurt anyway?"

"It matters," said Yassen coldly, "Because I do not want him with injuries that will have people calling for the police."

Weste actually flinched at how cold the older assassin's voice was.

"Alright, alright. I got it: Don't be too rough with the brat," Jason said, turning to eye the boy on the floor. "Damn, he looks terrible," he said offhandedly.

"And whose fault is that?" Alex thought acerbically as he struggled to his feet.

"I will go out to get him clothes. Get him cleaned up and make sure he doesn't try anything. If you leave him unsupervised, he undoubtedly will try something foolish," said the Russian.

Jason nodded, reaching down and snagging Alex by the waist, pulling him up and tossing him over his shoulder.

"At least he's easier to manhandle now," he said, smirking.

Alex tried to kick him and kept squirming, trying to get away.

"Put me down, I can clean myself. I don't need to be supervised!" Alex said loudly.

His rancor was lost on Weste. He seemed to find it more amusing than anything. Even Yassen had the air of someone who found the situation slightly humorous. Alex was the only one who seemed to be concerned with his current predicament.

Yassen left, the door shutting quietly and locking behind him. Alex frowned at that; Yassen seemed to be the only one with a vested interest in not killing him; though Weste seemed to be enjoying his plight.

"Seriously, put me down," deadpanned the boy.

"Don't think I want to. At least, not yet," grinned the older man. "I'm gonna enjoy this. You almost got Yassen pissed at me for not doing my job well enough, and he has no qualms about killing people who don't do a job up to his satisfaction. I still don't know how I didn't notice you following me," he frowned, striding easily across the room.

"Maybe I'm just better than you," Alex needled, voice caustic.

Jason reached up and smacked Alex's head. The boy yelped.

"Don't push it," said Weste coolly, "I have no qualms killing or torturing kids, particularly sarcastic annoying ones."

The ex-teen rolled his eyes. Finally in the bathroom, Jason plopped the seeming-eight-year-old onto the closed lid of the toilet seat and started the water for a bath. After a few minutes of waiting for the water to be deep enough, Jason gestured for Alex to change out of his clothes and get in the tub. Alex shook his head.

"I can do it myself, I don't need you supervising," the child said bluntly.

"Come on, there's nothing I haven't seen before," Jason said, rolling his eyes as he forcibly began trying to undress Alex.

And Alex couldn't help panicking. Ever since his first few missions, he'd developed an intense dislike of changing in front of others. He'd had too many people see his naked body, and been unconscious and vulnerable so many times… He didn't like to think about it, but the thought and subsequent fear of what could have been done without his knowledge was there regardless.

Jason trying to undress him understandably made him panic, not to mention his physical age at the moment and some of the childish mentalities that bled into it.

Weste was suddenly faced with a near hysterical child-teen-spy hybrid that knew many vital areas to aim for, but lacked the strength to make them lethal. Dodging the slightly clumsy and weak attempts was more annoying than anything, but still required being careful. Eventually, he managed to pin the child down without hurting him and was able to take off the too-large shirt. What he saw surprised him.

The boy's body was littered with scars. Scattered burns on his shoulders and back, bullet grazes, marks from being repeatedly restrained, and a bullet scar directly over his heart.

"How aren't you dead?" Jason asked incredulously, leaning closer to examine the scarring.

"I am. I just haven't stopped breathing yet," Alex deadpanned, rolling his eyes and resisting the urge to shove Weste's face away.

"Smartass," Weste said, shaking his head as he pulled back.

"Better a smartass than a dumbass," shrugged Alex.

Jason's eyes narrowed in irritation before smacking the child-teen upside the head with a quick blur of movement. Alex yelped, more surprised than pained.

"I was gonna be nice, but not anymore," he said, grabbing Alex and finally managing to yank off the rest of his clothes.

Alex struggled as best he could, but the assassin simply picked him up and dropped him into the tub with a splash.

"Want me to finish, or are you gonna clean yourself?"

Alex sputtered and coughed, trying to get water out of his lungs.

"I-I'll clean myself, thanks," the child managed to say between gasps.

"Good," Jason said with a smirk. He turned and exited the bathroom.

Alex glared at his back, his large eyes peering through his dripping bangs. Sighing, Alex dropped the useless glare and began scrubbing himself clean, watching as the bath water turned slightly pink as he washed off his blood. Again, something that was all too familiar.

Finishing a few moments later, Alex clambered clumsily out of the tub. The spy muttered curses under his breath all the while, wishing desperately he had his old body back. He toweled himself dry, rather awkwardly due to the large size of the towel.

Turning to pull on his boxers and shirt, he realized that they were gone. He cursed colourfully in French, Spanish, and a few other languages he'd picked up. The cursing caught Weste's attention and he re-entered the bathroom, looking at Alex with amusement.

"Didn't know you were multi-lingual," the assassin commented.

"Does it matter? Where are my clothes?" asked Alex, using the towel to wrap around himself, almost like a cloak.

"I threw them away. They don't fit and there's too much blood soaked into the fabric to be worth cleaning. Besides which, Yassen phoned and will be back soon with clothes," said Weste, arms folded as he leaned against the bathroom doorway, observing the child and wondering exactly what the boy was and how he seemed to be on familiar terms with Gregorovich.

"And I suppose it didn't occur to you that I might not want to hang around in an oversized towel?" Alex questioned, his childish face wearing a slight frown that somehow managed to still be a frown instead of a pout.

"The blood would have gotten you dirty all over again and Yassen would've just had you wash again. Besides, your comfort is no concern of mine," the American said coolly.

Alex rolled his brown eyes, tugging the towel more securely around his body before trying to walk past Jason. The man let him pass, smirking as he watched Alex try to walk and keep the towel around his body to conceal his skin without tripping. The child made his way back into the main room and slid to the floor in front of the couch, not even willing to try climbing onto the couch while wearing the towel.

Jason shrugged, going back into the bedroom. Alex watched him leave from the corner of his eyes. He stood up, clutching the towel, and made his way to the door. Silently, he unlocked it and tried to open the door, only to belatedly realize that the chain on the upper half of the door was latched , which happened to be just out of reach. Alex cursed silently and headed for the kitchen, picking up a step stool. A litany of curses erupted in his mind as the towel began slipping. He hurried and managed to sit the stool down in front of the door just in time to catch the towel. He paused, waiting to see if Jason heard and was coming to check on him: so far, his luck was holding.

The spy climbed onto the stool and was able to undo the chain with minimal struggle. He heaved a quiet sigh and hopped down, hurriedly shifting the stool away and opening up the door. A blond head peaked out the door and peered in both directions down the hallway. No Yassen. Alex slipped out and shut the door before gripping the oversized towel and booking it as quickly as his abused body could go. He headed the opposite way of the lift, opting for the stairs and hoping to make it to a phone; maybe he could phone the police and say a few key words that would alert MI6, or even just let the police take him away as a lost child, as MI6 would catch wind of a strange child who called himself Alex Rider.

The boy made it to the stairs and began down them as quickly as he could go, almost tripping on the towel and tumbling down the stairs more than once. However, he made it to the bottom alive and well, if a little exhausted. The child looked around the corner, deciding he should find a phone first before trying to leave the building.

He was in luck, the receptionist just sitting a closed sign on the counter and grabbing a pack of cigarettes, obviously heading out for a smoke break. He waited a few long moments before dashing into the lobby to the reception desk and grabbing the phone, dialing the police with quick, sure fingers.

"Hello, what's the emergency?"

"My name is Alex Rider and I've been—" the boy started, but was unable to finish.

"Kid! What the hell do you think you're doing?" exclaimed a shocked voice.

Alex jumped slightly, slamming the phone back into its cradle. He turned and stared up at the receptionist, who had apparently forgotten her lighter.

"Wait, why are you in just a towel? Where are your clothes? For that matter, where are your parents? Are you lost?" the woman rushed to say, looking confused and unsure what to do with a supposedly lost child.

"I've been kidnapped, I wanna go home!" cried Alex, working up some tears for good measure, reasoning that maybe the woman could get him to the police or let him call his "parents".

"Shit! Who kidnapped you? Where are they?" she asked, starting to freak out and panic.

"Great, I would get someone who panics easily…" thought Alex, wanting to roll his eyes.

Opening his mouth, he was about to tell her that they needed to go to the police so he could contact his "parents" when a small cough-like sound punctured the air. Alex watched in shock as the receptionist hit the ground, blood trickling from a round hole in the center of her forehead and her eyes wide open and blank. Alex scrambled back, tripping on the towel for a split second before turning to run, knowing that he had been found, most likely by Yassen.

And he was right.

"I am so screwed," Alex thought resignedly.


End Chapter II