Fran Graylow was on the porch in the cold grey dawn, listening as her daughter gave her the good news that Alexander was safe. The quiet, polite boy had escaped his captors, but had been ruthlessly tortured. A family meeting was being called. She then phoned her neighbour Sandy McLeod, who would tend their herd today. The retired couple had rented most of their land to him and he was aware of their family emergency. Before returning into the house, she closed her eyes and murmered a prayer of thanks and asked for strength and fortitude; as their new grandson would need all of them close, a strong family unit behind him on his road to recovery. She believed in God's guiding hand, their path to guide Alex. She also believed in a God of Vengeance. Sure that eternal damnation and divine justice awaited those that had hurt that child, even if they escaped the authorities.

In the kitchen, she busied herself fixing sandwiches for breakfast on the go, packed homemade strawberry and rhubarb pie, triple chocolate brownies and walnut cookies for treats. All Joe's favourites as Alex had been tight lipped over his personal choices during his brief stay. Politely eating everything and saying it was wonderful. She filled two flasks with freshly brewed coffee and went to wake her husband and Joe. They would be at the hospital for breakfast, even with the chore of picking up the starchy widow Mrs. Canterbury. She had never warmed to Charlie's strict and cold mother. Even after over thirty years as in-laws they still were formal with each other.

The down to earth daughter of immigrants thought if this hurdle did not break the ice, nothing would.

….

Charlie was fast asleep in the visitor's lounge, crashing after the stress of the last 72 hours. Mimi was watching Alex doze after his last check-up at 6. His pale face distorted by swelling and bruises. His little and ring fingers on both hands splinted. Most alarming was the fact his breathing was laboured and he was on oxygen. Her son had warned her to expect trouble, but not like this. Who the hell tortured a sixteen year old like this and for what? Alex had not been party to any secrets for two years. He was not a threat to either American or Russian national security. If they had not been after information, what had they wanted? To force him back into spying? All the clues pointed to MI6 trying to get back control of their wunderkind and using any means possible to persuade their former asset back into the fold. It all linked into the foiled switch in Moscow, when the Grief clone had been captured. Fear and anger coiled in the Senator's gut, but first and foremost she had to protect Alex. The best weapon was full disclosure. A full press release of the abduction and the putting their family in the national spotlight. Charles and Joe were going to hate that, but it would once and for all finish any agencies idea of trying to use Alex against his will.

As she texted her office, listening as Alex mumbled in his sleep. She wondered on her own ancestry, her own Russian babushka, her mother's mother whose family had emigrated in the 1920's. America welcomed all, especially those abused and in danger.

Alex woke and noted Mimi, Mom, had her hand on top of his cast, providing comfort. She was dozing. He pondered his room; with its soft blue walls, glass wall with view of the nurses station. He noted the tightness in his chest even with the oxygen. Probably from his bruised and cracked ribs. He was tired, hungry and thirsty; despite the breakfast he'd wolfed down not three hours ago. He needed to talk to Joe. Needed his doubts erased, especially after those bastards had called him Julius, insinuating that Blunt's plan to swap the double for the asset had worked, with the real Alex dead. Doubts and fears made his breath hitch; he took a deep breath, he was not going to cry. Only he had no control, he was weeping like a girl. Mimi was then sat on the bed stroking his hair, hugging him gingerly, careful of bandages and bruises. To this scene of Mother son bonding Joe arrived, after outpacing his Grandparents.

Alex sobered at the sight of his brother and demanded "Ask me…. ask me the questions we agreed as safeguards. Am I Julius or Alex. Ask me now!" Each of the boys imprisoned at Point Blanc had devised set questions between themselves to be used if they suspected a Grief clone was in play. Two questions swapped each.

Joe wondered on this questioning of his identity but with steely resolve asked "Name Paul's secret fear in kindergarten….."

"He was scared of balloons. Next question…"

"Cassian's first pet."

"An … a parrot…. a white parrot, who he taught to swear…. called Pirate."

Joe picked up his phone and called Paul Roscoe, "Morning Mr. Paranoia, ask Alex your set questions. He's having an identity crisis."

Alex listened in to the speaker as Paul at school in New York asked him the specific questions he'd swapped with Nick and James. Joe then said a quick thanks and 'I'll call you later." and then turned to the boy in the bed, looking younger than his sixteen years. "What was that all about?"

"The… the interrogator and his three minions… they called me Julius. It got to me. I … I started to doubt everything after the sleep depravation, beating and the water boarding. They were threatening me with electroshock when I escaped. They worked on my feet, thinking it would stop me running, but after Sarov, well I have quite a high pain threshold. I'm not one of Grief's abominations. Mine and Dimitry's doppelgängers are dead. I swear on all that is holy… Julius died in Russia… I'm Alex… I… I'm here and I need to keep going. You guys have given me hope…. They… they were hired in, freelance… they left to arrange my transfer to their customer. They never mentioned names or let on who or where I was headed, but calling me after that bastard means it was MI6." Alex had told Yassen everything in Moscow and he would have gone with Cossack with no need for threats or coercion.

Joe shrugged. "I know it was you with your whole polite when you hate something act. God, you are so British at times. Except you don't apologise for everything. Hell, you eat pie and cookies yet you hate sweet things. God, you freak Alex, you hate chocolate."

"Hey, I'm not that bad. I like coke." Alex whined after his character assassination.

Fran Graylow then murmured in Russian "So, what do you like, Sasha? Pickles and Pierogi?"

It was Joe than answered understanding that simple question in a language he was familiar with but not fluent. "Sushi and Sashimi. Pizza and Quesadillas. Anything savoury. Likes sour things as well. Pomegranate syrup and lemon citron. Yeah, complete and utter freak."

…

Breaking news in Baltimore this morning…. the foiled kidnap of Senator and General Canterbury's adopted son….. Alexander Canterbury escaped from his kidnappers last night. Two suspects in custody, two on the run. A full press conference at one."

….

In Japan, a tourist in Tokyo watched the news in his hotel room. His passport stated he was Danish. The killer for hire was here to poison a banker, a foreigner who had fallen foul of the Yakuza. His small vial of neurotoxin would be delivered at lunch tomorrow. He memorised all the details on the American International News, which stated some foolish opportunist had damaged his little Alex. He smiled as soon he would be hunting for pleasure not business. The four assailants would be a long term project. The Russian smiled at the thought of teaching them not to play with Hunter's son. The person or persons that had hired them would also be on the killer's personal hit list. His favourite type of hit was one that was personal, one where he could be creative and one where there was no need to rush. His revenge would be a thing of beauty, pain so beautiful in creation it would make Dr. Three smile. Maybe even make it into a future edition of that Infamous Torturer's Handbook.

….

Alex had been dressed in a smart polo shirt, genuine Ralph Lauren, with Gap cargo pants and a pair of worn hand-me-down Converse Allstars. Shoes belonging to Charles that were large enough to go round the bandages on his feet.

He looked the picture of American teenager, except for his purple cast and strapping on his fingers, and the fact his face was still a mix of grey and yellow bruises. He was so glad he was going home to Washington. Leaving hospital would hopefully, draw a line under this particularly bad week. Only he wasn't walking, not with his tender and damaged feet. He was lucky, Connie was still in hospital in DC, after nearly being killed by those fuckers. At least thinking swear words was not forbidden. In the emergency room, he had blabbed about owing the swear jar $457. Over five months in allowance. Under his breath he went over the litany of fucking cunts and wankers. If he got his swearing out now, he wouldn't slip when dad got here, nor during his TV appearance. Not with half of CNN at home for the planned interview. He was now part of the All-American family unit. He was going to be famous. Mimi stated the freedom of the press was intrinsically American and as a public servant she had to be open as secrets were potentially damaging in the long run. He was not a spy or a pawn, but an ill orphan, adopted and kidnapped by opportunistic criminals. It also helped to paint a sympathetic picture. Mom dressed in Donna Karan, Dad in uniform with his combat medals from Desert Storm

A small crowd had gathered around the Canterbury's home. Drawn there by the two large TV vans and a camera crew outside. A parking space directly in front of the house had been left for Charlie's BMW. Alex was carried up the steps to the front door by Charles in his uniform shirt, as the weather was hot. Joe needed no prompting to collect the wheelchair from the trunk, the perfect image of a thoughtful and protective big brother.

In the hall there were cables trailing along the walls. Charlie deftly steered clear of the clutter and went straight into the den and put his injured son on the sofa next to Mimi. The room was full of camera crew setting up, sound guys and producers.

Alex smiled shyly at the interviewer as he was introduced. She was a heavily made up, petite blond, dressed in Chanel and expensive looking shoes with staggeringly high heels. He murmured in Russian to Mimi "I would rather not be here, but in the interests of transparency and openness, Lets get this over with."

It had been going well, polite questions, but the producer had shattered the cosy atmosphere. His deep voice boomed that he wanted more direct questions and moved into Alex's personal space with a bark of "Come on kid, we need details."

Alex was used to flashbacks, having been treated for PTSD after Murmansk, but he knew he was panicking, overreacting to a nonexistent threat. He had no room for manoeuvring, so he panicked more. Breath in short desperate gasps as his mom moved in to calm him, not touching just telling him to hold his breath. That helped, as he slowly exhaled, he slumped back on the sofa and closed his eyes, he was shaking like a leaf. Joe, like a magician, produced a can of Coke and Alex sipped the sugary cold perfection through the straw as Joe held the can for him, while his mother inquired if they had enough recorded as Alexander needed to lie down.

Joe helped him hobble upstairs and then pulled off his brother's shoes and paused "I'm going to have to help you get the rest of your shit off, since you sleep in the buff, aren't I?"

With that mortifying thought Alex shook his head. "I'll just lie down on top of the covers. Just take my belt off."

"I'll bring your lunch up later, bro."

"Thanks J."

He had literally just closed his eyes when Mrs. Canterbury bustled in with a bright and cheery "Lunch, Alexander." The grey haired woman dressed in a conservative two piece suit put down her tray and surveyed the sparse room. "You keep a nice tidy room unlike Joseph. Eat up, get your strength back. Just a bit of advice, you are stronger than those lowlifes. Charlie let me read the transcript of your statement to CIC. It sounded like they were using mind games to break you. Joe stated that if someone did that to him , he'd have been freaking out." The woman shook her head and looked reflective. "That awful school, I feel for you both. To almost be replaced and erased. Truly despicable of that Criminal Grief."

"Thank you Mrs Canterbury. Grief did a number on all of us." Grandma took that as dismissal and left him to his repast. In truth, Alex was thinking that MI6 were worse, trying to replace him with Julius in Russia. After the incident at Brookland, they had told Alex his clone, died in the fire. He then wondered if any of his classmates wondered about him after two years in exile. James Hale and Tom Harris had been good friends, well no more than acquaintances at the end. It's not like he told anyone about the abuse. He then picked up his tuna sub and wolfed it down. It was delicious. The glass of ice cold milk even better.

The invalid, feeling restless, carefully negotiated the stairs and took his dishes downstairs, to see the film crew still waiting. Relieved of his tray, Alex was miked up and then spoke of his ordeal. He started with the snatch, "the armed thugs threatened and then almost killing Connie. In the back of the van, I was drugged with chloroform. Waking up I was handcuffed and tied to a chair." Alex paused, he had given his name, his new name only with no mention of Sarov or Rider. He had been cheeky, sarcastic and flippant. Which his interrogators had not liked. "There were four of them, all guys, all tight lipped around me. Professionals, they gave nothing away. It was hours with no sleep, no food or drink, just questions. Two guys acting as interrogators". Alex did not tell the journalist's that the bastards had called him Julius and Grief. "I got annoyed because they were asking about specific stuff. I can't tell you anymore because the federal agents said that information was not to be disclosed. I had a bit of a potty mouth moment. Then, the guy playing bad cop got rough. The quiet guy in the back stopped him after they broke my fingers and removed my toenails. They had a break, but another guy kept me awake. Then they started with the water. I thought they were going to drown me. It was awful, I could not answer their questions. I begged them to stop." With another pause for Alex to hold his breath, preventing another panic attack. "I was then left with the driver. He forgot to retie me to the chair. He did not think I was a threat, not with my injured feet. So, he fell asleep and I bashed him over the head with the chair, stole his keys and escaped. I ran about a mile or so to the diner."