A Cold Day in Hell
Chapter III: Consequences
Disclaimer: Obviously, I own nothing.
A hand reached out and grabbed the back of Alex's neck, hard enough to bruise, before he was slammed into the ground. His face smashed into the tiled floor and the boy cried out in pain, blood immediately spilling from his nose and dripping onto the floor.
"I warned you, Alex," Yassen said coldly, not needing to point out that if Alex hadn't tried to escape, the woman would still be alive.
An almost sob escaped from Alex's throat, the teen spy mentality warring with his younger body's natural reactions to pain and fear. Yassen remained crouched above him as he pulled out his cell phone.
"Get down to the lobby. Now," the assassin ordered before hanging up.
He pocketed his phone and returned his emotionless gaze to the child bleeding on the floor.
"What did you hope to accomplish here, little Alex?"
"An escape," said the child-teen quietly, voice slightly obscured by the floor and the blood still pouring from his nose.
"It was poorly executed and even more poorly planned. Foolish."
"So sorry I'm not meeting up to your expectations at the moment," Alex's childish voice seethed sarcastically.
Yassen's blue eyes narrowed. Still gripping the boy's neck, he stood, towing Alex upright with him. The assassin braced Alex against a nearby wall and promptly backhanded him. Not nearly as hard as he could have, but hard enough to send Alex to the ground with another rapidly forming bruise on his cheekbone along with a split lip. The towel slipped from Alex's shoulders, pooling across his lower back and legs as he lay on the ground, stunned.
The child exhaled a shaky breath, breathing through the pain. Yassen reached down and grabbed Alex's upper arm, tugging the boy up roughly. The child's fingers scrabbled at the towel, pulling it back up and shielding his body marginally from the assassin's cold blue eyes. Before Yassen could reinforce his brief lesson, Weste arrived. The older assassin turned his attention to the younger, who had frozen when he saw Alex in Yassen's grip.
"Son of a-" thought Jason, irritated, "That little brat..."
"He's sneakier and smarter than I thought, sorry," Weste said aloud, running a hand through his hair, eyes flicking over to glare at Alex.
"I trust it won't happen again," stated Yassen, "Dispose of the body, quickly. I will take care of the rest."
At those words, both gazes went to Alex, whose nose and lip were still dripping blood.
"He's gonna need cleaned up again. People are bound to notice all that blood on his face and ask questions," said Weste finally.
Yassen said nothing, just tightened his grip on Alex's arm and picked up the small bag of clothing he bought for the boy. The Russian began moving for the lift, dragging the child with him, no longer trusting him out of his own sight and unrestrained.
Alex briefly thought of struggling, but quickly dismissed the idea. He knew he wouldn't get nearly far enough and Yassen was liable to hurt him again, in a far more painful and possibly permanent manner. He needed to bide his time and wait until the two assassins relaxed more. Despite his intentions, however, Alex felt himself try to pull away as they stepped into the lift, unwilling to be trapped in a small box with an internationally known (and supposedly dead) assassin.
Yassen glanced down at his child-sized charge, blue eyes warning the boy not to struggle again; Alex stilled, eyes lowered. A small hand lifted up, trying futilely to staunch the blood still dripping from his nose. As the doors to the lift closed shut, Alex felt his body tense slightly. He couldn't help but shift on his feet, adjusting the towel around his shoulders and wistfully glancing at the bag that hung in the Russian's other hand. Whether the older man noticed or not, the bag remained firmly in his hand and away from Alex.
The elevator dinged open and Yassen pulled Alex into the hallway. Alex was forced to let his nose drip blood, opting to grip the towel rather than his nose as they walked. Arriving at their door, the assassin unlocked and opened it in one seamless movement. He threw Alex inside and locked the door behind him.
"Bathroom," Yassen ordered shortly, eyes narrowed in slight irritation, watching the child struggle to his feet.
Alex complied, stumbling a little on his way. With an inaudible sigh, Yassen followed.
Once in the bathroom, Yassen shut the door and locked it. Alex flinched at the click of the bolt sliding into place; it felt ominous, like a bullet sliding into the chamber of a gun.
"Drop the towel. Get in," Yassen ordered, setting the bag of clothes onto the floor next to the sink.
"I can wash myself, just need to run fresh water," Alex said quietly, glancing at the pinkish and now-cold water in the tub.
Yassen took an abrupt step forward, grabbing Alex's upper arm and heaving him into the tub of cold water, Alex's towel falling to the floor in front of the toilet. Alex cried out at the freezing water, but Yassen turned the shower on cold and pulled the plug to drain the water.
Alex was already shivering, but he did his best to rinse away the blood. It was gone in a few minutes, but Yassen made him stand under the frigid spray until Alex's limbs were numb with cold.
The assassin watched him carefully before turning off the water.
"Out," he commanded.
Alex struggled to move his numbed limbs, but managed to step out and collect the towel, teeth chattering and body shivering out of his control. Yassen watched impassively as Alex struggled to dry himself off.
Once the boy was done, Yassen tilted his head in the direction of the bag. Alex took the hint and began to get dressed. The clothes were simple and non-descript; a dark blue long-sleeved shirt, plaid boxers, and black shorts that were a bit too long. As Alex pulled on the clothing, gradually warming with each addition, he noted that it was all a size too big.
A pair of white socks and black shoes, as well as a zip-up hoodie, were still in the bag when Yassen ordered Alex out of the bathroom. Shoulders hunched, Alex cautiously slipped past and headed into the living area. Alex whirled around as soon as he reached the couch, unwilling to have the assassin at his back any longer than necessary.
"Sit down, little Alex."
Alex shook his head, subconsciously taking a step back. Yassen's expression hardened and he strode forward, long graceful steps that had him in front of the child before Alex could do more than turn to run. Alex yelped in pain as his bruised forearm was grabbed and wrenched behind his head. Yassen held Alex's arm in that painful position a few long drawn out seconds before he dumped the former-teen onto the couch.
"You seem to be under the mistaken impression that you are still in your seventeen year old body," Yassen stated coldly, "You are not. You are currently a child. Perhaps you would be able to defend yourself against a normal adult, but it is rare for you to find yourself in the company of such adults. It would really be quite simple to snap your neck," as he spoke, the Russian placed his hand on Alex's throat; the man's hand completely encircled the boy's neck with room to spare. The boy's expression flickered with unease, but he didn't try anything.
He knew Yassen was making a point.
The grip tightened abruptly, cutting off Alex's air with ease. Brown eyes widening, Alex slammed down hard on his urge to panic, trying to keep himself calm. He knew (mostly) that Yassen wouldn't outright kill him. But as his lungs burned and his small, pale face changed color, he began to struggle, the need for air swamping his thoughts as his fists and legs attempting to strike anywhere he could reach (which wasn't much, Yassen's arms were far longer than his own).
Small nails scratched at the assassin's wrist in an attempt to dig his thumbnail into the adult's tendons. Apparently, Alex managed to find one, because in the next second Yassen's grip tightened painfully until Alex's vision darkened. His struggles waned, legs going still and arms falling weakly to the couch.
A long minute passed. Only then did Yassen release the boy's throat. Alex was still for a brief moment before his lungs heaved in a deep breath that ravaged his throat and threw his near-hyperventilating lungs into a coughing fit (which didn't help him regain his breath, instead making dark spots dance across his vision). If Alex wasn't so focused on getting his air back, he knew he would be cursing the air blue.
Once he calmed down, Alex gingerly touched his neck and promptly winced. It hurt, badly. Alex cautiously looked up to where Yassen still stood above him and opened his mouth. The painful, hoarse, and breathy sound that escaped his lips in no way resembled his voice. Despite that, Alex managed to make his displeasure clear with an exhausted glare. He wanted to flip the man his middle finger, but what remained of his common sense told him that it would likely result in said finger being broken.
Yassen regarded Alex's still shaking form. The child-teen was not cowed, if the glare he was receiving was anything to go by. Yassen had applied enough force in the proper area to temporarily damage the boy's ability to speak. The distinctly hand-shaped mark around Alex's throat was already bruising; it would surely be a sight to behold, one that would need to be hidden before they left. He didn't enjoy hurting the boy, but he would do what was necessary. If impermanent damage did not curb Alex, he would need to strengthen his methods.
Yassen's face didn't change, nor did the man's stance, but the air around him suddenly felt more dangerous than usual, almost predatory. Instinct had Alex backing himself further into the couch, attempting to put more distance between the assassin and himself, adrenaline thudding through his veins. Alex was scared, more-so than he wanted to show or admit. Among the many villains, killers, and borderline psychotic people he had met, Yassen Gregorovich was easily the most frightening and intimidating. Perhaps because he was fairly certain Yassen wouldn't simply kill him. However, because of that, it left far too many other options for the assassin to deal with him.
After all, there were a great many things worse than being given a quick death, as Alex knew all too well.
Alex knew that it would be better to just do what Yassen wanted and to keep his mouth under control. Judging by his actions, the assassin was operating with limited patience.
"I've already warned you that your actions have consequences."
Alex glared up at Yassen, the multiple bruises and the split lip marring his face ached fiercely, but were a distant echo compared to the rising fear and anger at Yassen's statement.
"Choking me, hitting me, and killing that woman weren't enough of a consequence? Why don't you just kill me or dump me into an orphanage, I'm sure it wouldn't bother you at all, Cossack," Alex managed to say hoarsely, his voice straining and barely clearing his lips but filled with vitriol; he was no longer in control of his tongue, momentarily forgetting his earlier common sense.
Yassen waited for the boy to finish. It seemed he would need to give Alex a more serious, permanent reminder. When the boy finished his rant, Yassen quickly grabbed Alex's leg while simultaneously striking the boy's chest with his open palm. The power of the hit had Alex gasping and clutching at his chest; Yassen had struck the bullet scar, which even over a year later still ached at times.
Alex coughed, trying to catch his breath for the second time in less than ten minutes. It took only a few moments and then he looked up at Yassen from his prone form on the couch. Yassen still had a hold on Alex's right leg. As he stared up at the assassin, he felt Yassen's grip tighten. In that instant, Alex suddenly understood the man's intent. Before Alex could even try to persaude the man to stop, he wrenched Alex's small leg. With a deceptively quiet pop, Alex's knee was dislocated.
His mouth opened to scream, but Yassen's large hand clamped over Alex's mouth, effectively muffling Alex's cry. Brown eyes clenched shut in pain and his chest heaved.
"Alex."
Pained eyes opened and focused on Yassen's face.
"Each time you attempt to escape or cause trouble, I will dislocate your knee. And each time, I will leave it dislocated longer and force it to move. You understand the long-term damage of dislocated knees, do you not?"
Alex nodded shakily, still managing a weak glare despite the force of Yassen's hand clamped over his mouth and the almost crippling pain from his knee. Without a word, Yassen abruptly and swiftly popped Alex's knee back into place. His hand disappeared from Alex's face and the boy let out a shuddering breath.
The pain thankfully dissipated quickly, but it left behind incredible soreness and was quickly swelling. Alex could barely move it, and instead of trying to get up, he let himself slump into the couch and tried to calm his thudding heart, the fading adrenaline leaving him both exhausted and wary.
The reappearance of Yassen standing above him next to the couch had Alex flinging himself upright and away to the other side of the couch, dragging his weak leg behind him. But all the assassin did was deposit the hoodie and socks onto the couch.
"Put them on," he ordered, ignoring Alex's reaction. It wasn't unusual, particularly after what had just happened.
Alex warily complied, reaching for the socks first.
"Shoes?" he asked silently, looking over at Yassen, his lips forming the words without sound as Alex struggled to pull his right leg up to put on the sock.
His knee was on fire and he couldn't control the trembling of the muscles in his leg (or everywhere else for that matter). If Yassen's main goal had been to make it difficult for Alex to call for help or to run, the man had succeeded with flying colors; he couldn't hardly speak and he knew he wouldn't be able to move quickly.
"Shoes are a privilege," was all Yassen said in reply, watching the boy struggle with the socks.
It would have been amusing, if Yassen hadn't been the one to damage the spy. And if the damage didn't look quite so much like child abuse, calculated though the injuries were.
"Won't a child walking around without shoes draw attention?" the boy finally mouthed, carefully making sure his silent words were visible to the assassin.
"No one said you would be walking," Yassen responded easily, lip-reading a skill honed many years prior.
A knock on the door had Yassen drawing his gun. He unlocked the door, though left the chain engaged as he partially opened the door. It was Jason, having finished disposing of the woman's body. Yassen opened the door, allowing the younger man to slip inside.
"We're good. I've arranged alternate transportation, as well," he said, glancing curiously at Alex's still, quiet form sitting on the couch, "Where's Roswell?"
Yassen tilted his head in the direction of the bedroom, which finally opened revealing a nervous Roswell. The man had peaked out once, but the assassin's cold stare had frightened the timid man back into the bedroom.
"Pack up. It's time to go," said Yassen.
In less than five minutes, everyone was ready to leave. Alex watched the proceedings with an increasingly deep pit opening in his stomach. He had no idea what Yassen planned to do with him. Alex was more thoroughly disguised than anyone would believe. He would just be some random child towed around by three business partners, one of whom had to be his father. And to make things even more bizarre, the only one of the three that Alex resembled in any way... was Yassen.
Which is why it really shouldn't have surprised him (with his lack of footwear), that Yassen was once more standing above him, quietly surveying Alex's form.
"Weste. Do you have a scarf?" the man finally asked.
True to Yassen's earlier assessment, Alex's neck was a sight. The bruising was obviously hand-shaped and damaging, the bruise and split lip on Alex's small face were equally obvious, and any adult who noticed would be dialing for the police immediately.
Weste took his first good look at Alex since he'd made it back to the room.
"I thought you didn't want him noticeable," Jason commented, expression vaguely surprised.
At Yassen's unimpressed stare, the younger man crouched down and began rooting through his bag. A moment later and he produced a dark green scarf that he immediately tossed to Yassen, who dropped the scarf into Alex's lap.
Jason noted the boy's flinch, but otherwise ignored it. The kid had obviously been punished for his (second) escape attempt, and it hadn't been gentle. He didn't hate the boy, although realistically he should be more annoyed since the kid gave him the slip. Yassen Gregorovich was not a man who suffered fools, and the fact that Gregorovich hadn't killed Weste for letting the kid escape spoke to the fact that Yassen had both been expecting it and had prior experience with the brown-eyed brat.
That had to be an interesting story, he was sure. The kid was unusually familiar with the assassin, and not nearly terrified enough. Jason himself had a healthy respect for the assassin and an equally great deal of caution.
Alex tried to ignore the three pairs of eyes watching him as he carefully wrapped the scarf around his throat. Yassen eyed it critically before reaching down and pulling Alex to his feet.
Alex managed to not flinch, but he couldn't help trying to jerk away from the assassin's hands.
"Alex," Yassen said in warning, voice quiet and dangerous.
He instantly stilled, Alex's knee and throat throbbing as his pulse quickened. Alex wanted to kick himself. He shouldn't be so afraid. Yassen wasn't going to kill him.
But he would hurt him, a small voice in Alex's mind said. Gradually ruining his knee, which could become permanently damaged. The idea of no longer being able to run or climb or even be able to defend himself effectively from simple bullies at school was terrifying in a whole new way. The injury might get him out of missions, but since he was generally supposed to just be cover for older agents, there was no guarantee.
He would die.
Alex's hood being pulled over his head jerked Alex out of his spiraling thoughts. Yassen pulled at the scarf, tugging it up so Alex could tuck the lower half of his face down into it in order to obscure his face.
Once more, the fact Alex didn't have shoes should have clued him in sooner. As it was, he let out a childish yelp that had his abused throat spasming with coughs when Yassen picked him up and settled the small eight year old partially onto his hip and out of the way should he need to draw his gun.
Alex was frozen. He could handle just about everything, but this... This was something so far out of the realm of conceivable happenings that Alex felt like he was hallucinating. Even being de-aged wasn't so jarring as this.
Tensing, Alex was about to try to lash out and struggle, consequences be damned, when Yassen tightened his hold in a silent warning. Alex stilled, struggling to breath normally and ward off what felt like the beginnings of a panic attack.
This was how Ian used to hold him, Alex remembered. But Ian was dead. And Ian's killer was now holding him in the same way.
"This is not okay," Alex thought desperately, panicky and barely managing to stay still in Yassen's grip.
Alex's breathing wasn't calming down, Yassen noted. The boy was trembling, and his eyes were wide and distant. The cause was fairly obvious, but either way, he needed Alex to calm down. Knocking him out would be the simplest way, but children Alex's current age were especially prone to concussions and they had no sedatives. A confused, injured child-teen hybrid could cause a good deal of trouble.
And they needed to move quickly. They should have been gone five minutes ago, by Yassen's estimation.
"Alex."
Yassen's quiet voice caught Alex's attention, breaking into the budding panic attack. Brown, vaguely panicked eyes locked onto the assassin's face (which was tooclosetooclosetooclose).
"If you don't calm down, I will knock you out and place you in a bag. You are easily small enough to fit, currently," Yassen said, eyes just a little amused although his expression didn't show it.
Yassen knew that giving Alex something to distract him from whatever was in the boy's head would be the most effective in calming him. If Alex was focused on what he needed to do, he wouldn't focus on other extraneous thoughts. And despite how reckless the boy could be, he had a strong desire to live. The best way Alex knew how to stay alive was by gathering information, and so the boy would do his best to stay out of the bag Yassen threatened him with. Once the boy was calm, if glaring slightly and avoiding looking into Yassen's face, the Russian spoke again:
"Tuck your head onto my shoulder and pretend to sleep. I want your face hidden. The scarf and the hood stay on until I say otherwise. For the duration we are in public, I am your cousin."
Acting as Alex's father or uncle would have fit better, but Yassen couldn't bring himself to say it. He was not John, and he had been the one to kill Ian Rider. He wasn't quite that cruel, not with Alex in his current state, anyway. He may have done it when Alex was seventeen, but not now.
He caught Alex's gaze once more, staring into them coolly.
"You know what I will do should you cause problems again," he stated, just barely shifting Alex's swollen knee to remind Alex of what he'd done earlier, "And we still have enough time to hide bodies as needed," he continued, glacial eyes boring into Alex's until Alex looked down.
Roswell and Weste had watched the assassin simultaneously calm the boy's panic and make him submit to the Russian's orders in under three minutes. Weste was impressed. The kid had a steel core from what he'd seen, but Yassen had easily cowed the boy.
The two adults gathered their few bags and stepped out into the hall. Yassen took a step, but when Alex didn't put his head down, he stopped.
"Now, little Alex," he murmured, voice brooking no argument.
Alex slowly put his head down onto the man's shoulder, reluctantly and hesitantly tucking his head closer to the man's neck in order to keep his face (and bruises) hidden. This close, Alex was able to smell the man's scent. It wasn't unpleasant, a mixture of generic soap, metal, and some kind of gun oil. He could even see a small grouping of long-faded scarring on the assassin's lower neck, near his clavicle; it looked like bits of shrapnel had struck him.
With Alex's face now less visible, Yassen exited the room and lead the way down the hall. Roswell and Weste followed behind.
"Who's the boy?" whispered Roswell tentatively, "And what happened to the older one?"
Jason raised an eyebrow, unsure exactly what he should say. The only reason he knew about the boy's rapid de-aging was because he'd walked in just after it happened and put it together. Gregorovich was equally as surprised at the time and hadn't tried to hide it. The man was also uncannily good at reading people and probably knew Jason wouldn't care if the kid was some weird, scientific anomaly.
"It's none of your concern," Yassen's voice spoke coldly from ahead of them, not even glancing back.
Alex lifted his head to peer over Yassen's shoulder, but the man's large hand forced his head back down before it had risen more than a centimeter. He wanted to struggle, but knew it would make no difference.
Yassen lead them to the stairs rather than the elevator. Alex tensed. Being carried down multiple flights of stairs was not a comfortable experience. The former seventeen year old, not for the first time, found himself in uncomfortable awe of the assassin. The man kept them both perfectly balanced and moving at a quick, steady speed down the narrow stairs. His hand never shifted to the railing and he carried Alex's slightly negligible weight easily. The man could have been a dancer.
Upon reaching the ground floor, Yassen lead the way out a side door where the car Jason had found was waiting with the engine running. Circling to the passenger seat, Yassen placed Alex inside and buckled the seat belt. He gave Alex a brief look to ensure the boy stayed put before immediately climbing into the driver's seat. Roswell and Weste took the obvious hint and climbed into the back.
Alex gritted his teeth in frustration as Yassen leaned over, cable size zip-ties suddenly in hand. In less than thirty seconds, Alex found himself securely tied to the door. He yanked at them in irritation as Yassen smoothly pulled the car out onto the street.
"Is that really necessary?" asked Roswell, eying the restraints and vaguely put-out that he wasn't in the front seat, "He's just a child, I doubt he could cause that much trouble," he continued dismissively.
Jason couldn't withhold the amused snort. He hadn't known the kid more than two days, but he already knew the brat could and would cause all kinds of trouble.
"You have no idea what trouble this boy could cause," Yassen stated, not bothering to look back at the scientist, though he seemed vaguely amused.
"I'm not that bad," muttered Alex, slouching down slightly and tucking his face into the warmth of the scarf; he felt cold and shivery, and briefly wondered if the freezing shower had given him the beginnings of a cold (because wouldn't that be just his luck?).
Alex glanced over at Yassen. He felt calmer than he had since he first woke up after being turned into an eight year old. Perhaps his body and mind had just needed time to adjust, but he felt a bit more like himself.
Brown eyes glanced around the car. It seemed oddly clean, a faint scent of bleach wafted from the dashboard and floorboards beneath his feet. Jason must have given it a rub down. A dark, black-ish brown spot on the edge of his seat had Alex turning around to glare at Weste, pulling at his wrists uncomfortably.
Jason noticed the boy's glare.
"What?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Who did you kill to get this car?" Alex asked, forcing his voice to be louder than the hoarse whisper he'd managed before. It hurt, but Alex could deal with it.
"A local drug dealer I know. He didn't want to loan it, so I took it," he said casually, a smirk on the edge of his lips.
Alex gritted his teeth at the casual disregard. The man may have been a drug dealer, but he hadn't deserved to die just for a car.
"Turn around and be quiet," Yassen said, his voice cutting through Alex's building anger.
Alex did as he was told, deciding not to push his luck for the moment. His body hurt enough as it was, no need to add more injuries. Once again, he pulled at the cable ties, but all he did was hurt his wrists. Sighing, Alex turned his attention to the window, hoping to figure out where he was. A sneeze broke through his concentration and Alex sniffled quietly, wincing at the painful twinge.
"I'm blaming you if I'm sick," Alex muttered, his childish voice as gravelly as a lifelong smoker.
Yassen didn't reply, but the slight twitch of his lips may have been amused. The short laugh from the back seat was definitely amused.
"I think I'm starting to like you! What's your name?" asked Jason, the serious look in his eyes belying the humor in his tone. "This kid can get away with sassing Yassen Gregorovich. He's not some random kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time..." he thought speculatively, "Gregorovich knows his name, but he's been careful about using it."
"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," was Alex's quietly sardonic response. If Weste hadn't heard his name, he wasn't going to tell him. The glance Yassen shot him at the flippant words wasn't enough to make Alex speak again or apologize.
"Seriously? We've been talking all morning," Weste said impatiently. He wanted answers, not sarcasm.
"It's not my fault you have bad hearing. Yassen's said it a few times already in the last hour alone," Alex said blandly, "You'd make a terrible spy."
Eyebrow twitching in irritation, Weste reached forward and flicked the side of Alex's head. He yelped, more in surprise than pain, and turned to try to get back at Jason somehow.
"Both of you, knock it off," said Yassen, his icy tone putting a halt to the bickering.
Alex slumped back into his seat and sneezed again. The sneeze triggered a series of coughs that left him breathless. Jason eyed him.
"Take a picture. It'll last longer," he said wearily once he'd finished coughing, not having the energy to make it appropriately biting.
Alex ignored Jason's reply, opting to just rest his aching head against the window. He desperately wanted to sleep, if only to give his bruises time to heal, but he didn't intend to leave himself so vulnerable. Against his better judgement, Alex drifted off into a light doze, slumped against the car door.
The quiet thud of Alex's head slumping against the window had Yassen glancing over as he turned the car down a street, heading for the docks. The boy must have been quite tired to have fallen asleep in his presence.
Yassen was unsure what he should do with Alex. An orphanage was feasible, but he doubted Alex would stay there. And if Roswell learned that his drug had caused a teenager to rapidly de-age by eight years, the boy would be in a different kind of danger. The scientist was unethical at best, and a veritable Dr. Frankenstein at worst. There was no telling what lengths the man would go to for a new research subject, and he had a good number of powerful, rich men in his pocket to ensure he got his way, not including the one currently paying for his defection from England.
None of which factored in as to why Alex had left the United States. It was complete chance that Alex had been in the airport to notice them. Alex hadn't even known he was alive, going by how shocked the boy was when he'd first seen Yassen. He briefly wondered if MI6 had arranged it, but quickly dismissed the idea. Perhaps, if Blunt were still in charge, but Jones had a soft spot for Alex and wouldn't have thrown him to the wolves without more information. Or at least a warning.
No, this was all down to Alex's rather impressive luck for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whether it was by design or simple bad luck, Yassen had no intention of letting Alex derail the rest of this particular job.
"Are we almost there?" asked Roswell, voice tentatively breaking the silence of the car.
Yassen didn't answer, turning off the narrow street and driving the car into an open warehouse that was filled with crates. The car's engine dropped to idle as Yassen put it into park. Blue eyes glanced over to look at Alex, seemingly still asleep, but Yassen wasn't fooled. The boy's instincts were good, and he was a light sleeper.
Alex woke as soon as the car stopped moving. Caution had him pretending to be asleep, until Yassen startled him.
"Keep your hood up and your head down. I will know if you do not," Yassen said quietly, making pointed eye contact with Alex's now open eyes.
Alex gave a slow nod before lowering his head back down to feign sleep. Yassen eyed Alex for a few more moments, briefly considering transferring the boy to the trunk before deciding against it. Yassen slid silently out of the car, motioning for the other two men to get out as well.
Jason and Roswell climbed out of the car, Roswell keeping his briefcase and bag close. Jason immediately walked off, heading for the group of men currently unpacking a collection of crates. Yassen locked the car using the key fob, glancing once more at Alex before leading Roswell away.
As soon as Yassen and Roswell were out of sight, Alex began twisting his wrists, ignoring the way the ties cut into his tender skin. He was slowly making progress, stretching the plastic just enough to create some wiggle room. It took a few minutes before Alex was able to bend his fingers and fold in his thumb enough to slip free. The only reason this was even remotely possible was due to the angle Yassen had tied his hands to the door and the fact that Alex's thumb and fingers were far more flexible than an adult or teenager's.
Alex unlocked the door and silently slipped out, wishing he knew what Yassen had done with the shoes. Running around a dock without shoes was not one of his better ideas, but Alex was running out of time and options. He'd done some hard thinking and had a vague idea of what Roswell was up to and what the two assassins were doing with him.
Near as he could tell, no one was in danger of dying except himself, so Alex's current priority was to get away, and if he was lucky, find a phone. He needed to be gone before Yassen decided what to do with him.
Thankfully, Alex vaguely recognized where he was: the Port of Felixstowe. It was a little over two hours from Chelsea. If Alex was still in his seventeen year old body, it would be a simple thing to snag a vehicle and drive away. As it was, he had no money for a cab and he doubted anyone in the port would be willing to take a child-hitchhiker without raising eyebrows and making a lost-child announcement. Alex was all too aware that adults rarely listened to children. They would be more apt to listen to Yassen, and all it would take is a story about a venturesome young son and the trials of single-parenting.
Alex couldn't risk it. Yassen wasn't cruel, but he was methodical. This would be the last chance Alex would get before Yassen immobilized him more thoroughly.
Shivering at both the cold seeping through his socks, and the idea of Yassen catching him again, Alex silently crept out of the warehouse. He studied the darkened area; he hadn't realized it, but it was well into the evening and growing dark, casting deep shadows and shading everything blue-black in the scant light. Soon, industrial-size lamp posts would be flickering on to illuminate the roads and parking areas.
It would be suicide to head into the container areas, Alex would be lost and never find his way out. He needed to head for the main road and find an office to break into. He could perhaps hide there for a time and use the phone. MI6 would be his best bet to both get him out and to stop whatever exactly Yassen, Roswell, and Weste were up to.
Providing they believed he'd been shrunk by an experimental drug.
Shaking off both the pervasive cold and the doubt, Alex set off, carefully minding his unprotected feet. The last thing he needed was a rusted nail giving him tetanus.
Alex slipped silently across the lot, noting that he was leaving warehouse 91, and made his way to the road. It was oddly quiet for one of the busiest ports in England, and Alex felt himself tensing as he ran lightly across the pavement to the other side of the road. Some instinct had him immediately diving between two large trucks and crouching next to the wheels, making his body as small as possible.
Alex kept absolutely still, barely breathing as two men walked past, speaking a little too loudly. They were dock workers, steel-toed boots thudding against the ground and hard hats in hand, reflective clothing bright in the gloom.
"The shipment already came in, right?" said the taller of the two.
The man nodded, "Yeah. Those new guys they hired make me nervous, though. Did you see the tattoo on one of them?"
"Only a little, but what I did see looked an awful lot like the Clerkenwell crest..."
"Oi! Don't mention names. Dock hands disappear all too easily," the other man hissed, voice hushed and grim.
"It doesn't sit right," he insisted, "There's something in those crates. They're way too heavy for the amounts listed. And I heard some of those new guys talking, they weren't talking about kitchenware! I want to go to the police," the man said, pausing his steps.
"You do that and I guarantee you'll be dead before the week is out! Come on, man, I don't want to go to my best friend's funeral..."
"Then let me make an anonymous tip. Can you get me into an office? Now? No one will suspect," he said quietly, "I can't go home to my daughter like this, knowing I looked the other way."
The other man made an exasperated sound.
"I can never say no to you, damnit," he groused, "If I die, I'm haunting your stupid ass."
A laugh, "If you're dead, I'll most likely be dead, too, remember?"
"Don't bother me with details."
The two continued to casually joke with each other, despite the seriousness of the situation. Alex followed them, silently enjoying their banter and the slight smile it caused to cross his lips. They reminded him of Tom, and the way he and Alex used to rib each other both in school and out.
By Alex's estimation, it was a fifteen minute walk further down the road before the two workers (with their small shadow) arrived at a dark office. The two men glanced around carefully before unlocking the door and stepping inside, shutting the door quietly behind them.
Alex settled down to wait.
Alex's feet were just beginning to get sore, small pebbles and rocks digging in to the pads of his socked feet, when the workers stepped out. Alex watched them leave, debating on how he was supposed to get inside.
It was a small, modular office building, much like a trailer and easy to move as necessary. It would have a simple lock, easily picked if Alex could find something to use. He could also climb under the crawlspace, as there was usually a trapdoor built into the floor for ease of access inside.
Alex considered his options for a moment before he began scanning the ground, in vague hopes of finding a wire or slim nail. He really didn't want to pry up the skirting and have to clamber around in the dirt, cobwebs, and gravel likely underneath the building. He searched in a ten foot radius and got lucky. An innocuous bobby pin, partially rusted and in a tuft of grass had him thanking whatever entity watched over him.
Pin in hand, Alex hurried back to the door and made short work of the lock. He slid inside and shut the door, locking it behind him. He breathed a faint sigh of relief when he saw the phone and gave himself a moment to bask in the remnants of heat that still lingered in the building. Alex hurried to the phone and dialed with cold fingers, briefly noting and dismissing the wallet sitting on the cluttered desk.
"Emergency. Which service?" a calm female voice asked.
"Police," said Alex, trying to pitch his voice lower, "My name is Alex Rider and I'm at Felixstowe docks. I was kidnapped and just escaped, but I don't know how long I can stay hidden. I'm currently in one of the temporary offices down the road from warehouse ninety-" Alex abruptly cut off as the door rattled and clicked open.
It was the man, the honest dock worker with a daughter. He looked extremely shocked, seeing Alex standing there in socks using the office phone.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here, kid?" the man finally said after recovering from his surprise.
Ignoring him for the moment and turning back to the concerned 999 operator, Alex continued quietly, "Warehouse 91, hurry!" before putting the phone back into its cradle.
"I needed to use the phone," Alex said simply, giving a slight shrug.
"But how did you get in? Where did you come from?" the worker asked, stepping forward hurriedly. The man's eyes widened when he took in Alex's face, concern immediately crossing his rugged features, "Are you alright? It looks like someone's been hitting you," he said gently, cautiously as though speaking to a wild animal.
Alex backed away slightly, feet silently moving across the cheap tile.
"I'm fine," he said, edging around to the door.
"Kid, you don't look fine. Can I give you a lift somewhere? Your parents?" he asked, following Alex as the boy quickly walked out the door.
"No, really, I'm fine," Alex insisted, getting slightly nervous as he glanced around; he didn't want the man shot just because he wanted to help.
Alex turned and began to run, no shoes be damned, when the worker caught his arm.
"You shouldn't be running around out here. The docks aren't safe for children. Come on, let's go back inside. What's your name?"
Alex was rapidly running out of options. He didn't want to hurt the man, but he needed to find a place to lay low. The man tugged gently on his arm, pulling Alex back towards the building.
"My name is Alex Rider," he said reluctantly, trying again to pull his arm away.
Now that Alex was complying, the worker let go, though he continued to herd Alex back into the building.
"Nice to meet you, Alex. My name is Tom," Tom said cheerily, opening the door and nudging Alex inside.
"I've a friend named Tom," Alex commented, glancing around the office again and feeling resigned.
Tom grinned in response, absentmindedly taking his wallet and placing it back into his pocket.
"I've a daughter about your age," said Tom, pulling out a first aid kit from beneath the desk, "Her name is Betty and she's decided that she wants to be a lawyer."
Tom gave an amused chuckle, pulling out a bottle of disinfectant spray. He gestured for Alex to come closer, who did so cautiously. Tom gave another friendly smile and slowly began cleaning the cuts on Alex's lips and the other cut beneath Alex's eye. Alex was surprised; he wasn't sure which hit had caused that one. He hadn't felt it.
"Any other injuries?" Tom asked quietly, looking directly into Alex's serious brown eyes.
The eight year old sighed and slowly pulled up his sleeves. Tom managed to keep a straight face, but he knew what the injuries were. The lacerations were circular and obviously from being restrained. Tom quietly began cleaning them, warning Alex that it would sting.
Alex shifted uncomfortably. Tom didn't say anything, just quietly cleaned and bandaged Alex's wrists with gentle hands and sad eyes.
"All done," said Tom, once again catching Alex's gaze with a penetrating stare, "Do you want to tell me what's going on? Perhaps why you're not wearing shoes?"
The man was definitely a father, Alex thought, looking away instead of answering. In that moment, Alex heard something. His head whipped around towards the door.
Alex cursed as the door opened and he stepped in front of Tom, trying to shield the man. Yassen stepped through the door, silent, dangerous, and wielding
a suppressed 9mm handgun. Tom shot to his feet, reaching to pull Alex behind him.
"Don't shoot!" Alex said quickly, "He doesn't know anything, he just bandaged my wrists!"
Yassen eyed Alex coolly, expression unreadable.
"Come here, Alex."
"Promise you won't kill him," the former spy countered quietly, eyes glaring and trying not to show his rising fear.
Alex was certain he wasn't succeeding.
Yassen said nothing, but appeared to be considering Alex's request. After a drawn out moment, the assassin nodded. Hesitantly, Alex stepped forward. Tom moved, as if to stop Alex from going. Faster than Alex could register, Yassen fired.
"No!"
Alex tried to run back to Tom, who'd collapsed slumped against the wall, but Yassen caught Alex by the hair. Tom had fallen like a marionette with its strings abruptly cut and blood was seeping out of the man's shoulder. Alex struggled, scrabbling at Yassen's hand that gripped his hair painfully tight. Desperate, Alex sent a kick at the man's inner thigh, aiming for the muscle there. Loosing patience, Yassen holstered his gun and slammed Alex into the floor.
Stars burst in Alex's vision and he groaned. He really wished getting hit would knock him out more frequently. It would save so much unpleasantness that being conscious often gave him.
"He's not dead, little Alex," Yassen spoke from above him, hand having shifted at some point to Alex's neck rather than his hair, "He will be, however, if you fight me again."
"Alright," Alex said with a wince as Yassen's grip tightened, having flashbacks to the last time Yassen's hand was at his throat.
Yassen let go and Alex stood carefully.
"Can I do something to slow the bleeding? He has a daughter..."
"Be quick," said the assassin.
Alex grabbed the first aid kit before Yassen could change his mind and moved to Tom's slumped form. He struggled with shifting the larger man's body, trying to get him more upright against the wall. He grabbed the scissors from the kit and cut the man's shirt away with mildly trembling fingers that were already covered in the man's blood. He prodded the wound gently and felt behind Tom's shoulder for an exit wound: the bullet was still inside, which was both good and bad. Yassen had managed to precisely avoid both bone and the main artery in Tom's shoulder. All Alex could do was try to stem the bleeding with the materials at hand.
Alex packed the wound with the remaining gauze, eerily calm as he remembered his long ago class at Brecon Beacons when he was fourteen. Once all the gauze was used up, Alex grabbed the roll of tape and bandages, wrapping the wound with as much pressure as he could manage.
When he finished, Alex stood, still eerily calm. Barely more than eight minutes had passed, which was honestly longer than Alex thought Yassen would give him. The man had just watched impassively, waiting for Alex to be done.
Unsure of what to do with his bloodied hands, Alex tucked them into his hoodie's front pockets; he didn't think Yassen would give him time to clean them. He was right. Yassen grabbed his shoulder and dragged Alex unceremoniously from the little office, leaving Tom unconscious and hopefully not bleeding out.
Night had truly fallen, Alex was surprised to see. The moon was out and the security lights were on, illuminating and shading in equal measure.
Alex was worried. Yassen was being silent, which wasn't unusual, but he seemed particularly closed off. His bruising grip never wavered from Alex's arm, and he was practically dragging Alex down the road; his legs couldn't keep up with Yassen's much longer stride.
He was tempted to ask the Russian to slow down, swollen knee aching, but was wary about returning the assassin's attention to his unsuccessful escape attempt. Alex didn't think he would be able to hide the fact that he made a call to the police, not for long, anyway. He was not looking forward to Yassen's reaction.
Warehouse 91 loomed out of the darkness, the light overhead doing nothing to ease Alex's unease. Jason was waiting just inside, next to the car. Roswell was there as well, looking more confident than Alex had seen him in the last 24 hours.
"I see you found him. And he's not dead," said Jason, looking slightly surprised.
Yassen didn't respond except to fling Alex stumbling forward. The boy slammed into the car, hands coming out to catch himself. The blood on his hands wasn't yet dry and left smears on the quarter panel of the vehicle.
"Whose blood is that?" asked Roswell, eyes glinting curiously as he tried to get a good look at Alex's face.
Alex turned, glaring up at Roswell coldly. Roswell stepped closer, invading Alex's space with a thoughtful expression. Alex backed up, still staring down the smarmy-looking man.
"You look familiar," said the scientist, peering closer, "Yes..."
"Roswell," said Yassen sharply, "You're due on the boat."
"Quite right," said Roswell reluctantly, looking back at Yassen, "Do you have plans for the boy?"
"None that concern you," Yassen replied coolly, not leaving the scientist room to carry on the conversation and making the small man visibly flinch in fear.
"Just thought I'd ask," he muttered, "I suppose I've got a ship to get on. Your payment should be in your account by now."
"Buy a warmer coat," called Weste, watching the defecting scientist leave, "It's practically always winter there."
Roswell gave an acknowledging wave before leaving the warehouse.
"You have the drug?" asked Yassen, watching Alex carefully as he spoke to Jason.
"Yeah, I've got it."
"Then you know what to do," stated Yassen.
"Understood," Jason responded, demeanor abruptly switching to the cold professional he really was.
Jason placed the drug into the backseat of the car before following in the direction Roswell had gone. Alex watched him go, a sinking feeling in his gut. The child-teen looked at Yassen. The man appeared distracted, attention caught by a commotion with the men opening the crates.
Alex shifted, attempting to get a better look at what was happening. It appeared someone had dropped the contents of the crate, white powder mushrooming outward and coating the floor, the men's shoes, practically everything from the waist down.
Yassen's eyes narrowed. The man who'd dropped the product initially was frantically trying to sweep up the powder, apologies and excuses tumbling from scarred lips and drug-yellowed teeth. Most of the men continued to unload the crates, keeping wary eyes on Yassen who pulled the car's key fob from his pocket, pressing and holding one of the buttons until the boot popped open.
Alex turned to run, managing a few meters before the assassin caught him around the waist, lifting him easily off the ground. A few steps and Alex's struggling form was dropped into the boot, a sharp strike to Alex's temple stunning the eight year old. Yassen shut the boot quickly, before Alex could regain his senses.
Less than a minute later and a quiet shot echoed through the warehouse. Alex could easily envision what happened. It was exactly what happened with the man who dropped the virus at the submarine a few years ago. Alex heard Yassen order for the body to be disposed of and he shivered. He knew what Yassen was, but sometimes he found himself forgetting in their interactions.
Alex curled into himself. He didn't want this, he just wanted to get home. He was tired of people getting shot, and equally tired of getting hurt and being afraid. He gave a deep, shuddering sigh, forcing his body to relax. The police should arrive soon, and hopefully Yassen would leave him to the tender mercies of MI6.
Alex was conveniently ignoring his current eight year old state and what was going to happen; he could only deal with so much at a time, after all. Alex felt himself drifting off slightly. The boot was dark and a little warm, and Alex was desperately exhausted. The brief nap earlier hadn't been very restful. The spy jerked himself awake, shaking his head roughly to keep alert. He hoped the police would arrive soon. His call was at least thirty minutes ago, and Tom's anonymous tip was before that...
As if summoned by his thoughts, Alex became aware of sirens in the distance. Apparently the cavalry was arriving. Finally. Activity in the warehouse seemed to freeze for a brief moment before devolving into organized, near silent chaos.
Alex blinked in surprise as the boot lid clicked open, light abruptly spilling into his eyes. He was yanked roughly out of the boot, Yassen staring at him with cold eyes and a grim expression. Alex gulped.
"I take it you used a phone," Yassen stated, dragging Alex across the floor and up a metal flight of industrial stairs that were further inside the building.
The stairs led up to a catwalk and then into a room with long, horizontal windows that overlooked the whole area within the warehouse. Yassen forced Alex into a suspiciously stained wooden chair. His hands were quickly duct taped onto the arms of the chair and his dangling feet were separated and taped to the legs of the chair as well.
Alex was getting increasingly nervous.
"Little Alex, I'm going to ask you a few questions and I expect you to answer honestly and quickly. I will cause you a great deal of pain if you do not," Yassen stated, voice reasonable, calm, and terrifying.
Alex nodded reluctantly, knowing he would do his best to not answer honestly or quickly. And knowing it was going to hurt a great deal, gambling for time as he was.
"Did you mention your name to the police?" Yassen asked.
"No," Alex replied quietly, forcing his voice to remain steady.
Yassen's response was quick and painful. Pain lanced through Alex's knee, dislocated in one swift move, and Alex gave an aborted scream.
"You told them your name. What else?" asked Yassen steadily, ignoring the boy's shuddering gasps.
Alex simply shook his head, slightly frantic and brown eyes wide, wanting to be anywhere but trapped in the chair. He was no hero, torture by a world-renowned assassin was not something he could deal with (although Alex found himself thankful that Yassen wasn't trying to pull out his finger nails, at least).
Yassen struck again, this time a pin point strike to a pressure point on his thigh. Alex cried out again, pained tears spilling down his face. He struggled to calm his breathing, deep gasps slowly subsiding despite the pain in his knee and the muscles in his thigh cramping and spasming viciously.
"What else did you say, Alex?" Yassen's deceptively soft voice said, catching Alex's attention.
"Told the emergency services that I'd been kidnapped and where I was," Alex said hoarsely, flinching as Yassen's hand came to rest on his shoulder.
"You're hiding something, little Alex. Why did that worker find you?" Yassen asked, his grip tightening on the boy's shoulder.
"Coincidence. He left his wallet there earlier in the day," Alex tried, breathing faster as Yassen's eyes hardened, trying to prepare for what the assassin would do next.
It didn't help. The distinct crack of Alex's shoulder being dislocated and the subsequent blinding pain that followed had the child-teen's body trying to fold in on itself as Alex let out a hoarse scream.
"Tell me, or your other knee and shoulder are next, followed by your elbows. And if that does not get you to speak, then I will break your fingers, one by one. Time is short and you are running out of time to be honest with me, little Alex."
Pain-glazed brown eyes looked into Yassen's expressionless face. Alex opened his mouth, about to speak before he bit his lip and shook his head. If he told Yassen about Tom and his friend's phone call, the two workers would be dead. Yassen already shot Tom in the shoulder and knew what the kind worker looked like; it would be laughably simple for the assassin to find Tom and his friend.
Yassen sighed. The boy was stubborn, which likely meant he was protecting someone. Possibly the man he'd shot earlier. He knew he could get Alex to speak faster, but he couldn't quite bring himself to use those techniques on the boy, particularly with Alex's body being eight years old.
He would need to be fast, to not give the boy time to breath or to think.
The next few minutes were perhaps some of the most physically painful that Alex had ever experienced. His other shoulder and knee were dislocated in practically the same moment. Alex blacked out for a brief moment, a breathless scream stealing his ability to think and stay conscious. Yassen didn't follow through with Alex's elbows, the angle of the spy's arms taped to the chair making it too time-consuming. Instead, Alex was brought back to awareness by the Russian methodically breaking his index finger followed by his middle and ring fingers.
The choked scream and gasping sobs had Alex trembling and shaking in the chair. About to resume his questioning, Yassen paused, head tilting to the side as though listening. A moment later and a polite, hurried knock sounded against the door before opening.
Alex looked up blearily, wondering what was going on. He really hoped whoever it was would keep Yassen occupied for the next few minutes... or hours. Hours would be good, Alex thought hazily.
The man who came in didn't look like a worker. A single diamond piercing in his ear with baggy clothes and shorn hair gave Alex the vague impression that he was a gang member who'd seen too many American TV shows.
"The warehouse is about to be raided. Near as we can tell, the police got tipped about a large shipment of drugs and a possible kidnapping," the man said nervously, gaze flicking over to Alex before skittering away to land on Yassen's shoulder and back again.
"Send everyone out," ordered Yassen, "Anyone caught knows the consequences."
The man nodded, "They'll be here in about ten minutes. You should go, too, Mr. Gregorovitch."
The man quickly left, practically running out the door. It was none of his business why Gregorovitch wasn't killing the kid and getting out, after all.
Yassen turned back to Alex. The boy was pale and shivering, possibly in shock, and his face was creased with pain, faint tracks of tears dripping down his face. His shoulders dangled oddly, still dislocated and causing pain. His knees were in similar shape, obviously dislocated as well. Alex's broken fingers were badly swollen.
The assassin sat down in front of Alex again, pale blue eyes regarding the teen spy turned child.
"The anonymous tip. It was the worker," Yassen stated, carefully watching the boy's reaction.
Alex kept his face blank, though he knew his expression tightened slightly despite his effort.
"You didn't mention the drugs, but you did mention your location. I assume you told them warehouse 91, as a reference point to the office I found you in," the Russian continued, "The worker tipped the police about the shipment, probably using the phone there. What was his name?"
"He didn't tell anybody anything. It was me," Alex said, "I didn't know for sure, but I figured if I mentioned drug smuggling then they would arrive faster," he finished hurriedly, brown eyes desperate.
"You're lying, little Alex," Yassen said softly, leaning closer into the boy's space and watching the panic and fear war for dominance in the boy's eyes.
"I'm not," insisted Alex, shaking his head.
"I suppose it doesn't really matter. I know what the man looks like and the area he works in," Yassen said, rising to his feet.
"No! You promised you wouldn't kill him!"
"I'm an assassin, little Alex. My current employers dislike loose ends, never mind those who involve the police and cause the loss of a shipment," Yassen stated, pacing slowly and methodically until he stood behind Alex.
Alex tensed, willing his body to stay still.
"Then why haven't you just killed me?" hissed Alex, somewhere between fear and anger, unable to tell which he felt more strongly.
Yassen didn't reply, just gripped Alex's shoulder and swiftly popped it back into place. He didn't give Alex time to recover before popping the other shoulder as well, leaving Alex's small chest heaving with pained gasps.
"The police should find you here with no problems," said Yassen calmly, circling back in front of Alex again. He reached forward and gripped Alex's chin, ignoring the boy's flinch as he tilted Alex's face upwards to meet his eyes, "You are no longer a teenager, let alone an adult. Go back to school, and if MI6 wants to use you again, say no."
Everything hurt, but Alex still managed a glare. Yassen regarded the eight year old teenager's glare with something akin to amusement.
"Goodbye, little Alex."
Between one blink and the next, Yassen was gone. With the assassin no longer in the room, Alex's glare fell away and he slumped tiredly into the chair. Yassen left his knees dislocated; there was no point trying to get out of the chair if he couldn't even stand.
Alex heaved a sigh, shifting uncomfortably and wincing as his knees pulsed with pain. From the sounds going on outside the room, Alex assumed he would have a bit of a wait before he was found.
As per usual.
End Chapter
