A/N: Thank you, my lovlies; your reviews make me feel all warm and fuzzy :)

Disclaimer: I own nada about Alex Rider. Blah. If I did, there'd be more violence.

Karmic Balance

Chapter Three

It was twenty-five to four when Ian's mobile phone went off, while he was busy dealing with paperwork from his last mission. He frowned when he checked the caller Id – why would Jack be calling? He'd told her only to do so if it was an emergency – and she wasn't one to openly flaunt or break his firm set of rules, so…

His blood chilled slightly at the thoughts that followed, and quickly answered the call and pressed the rapidly heating metal to his ear.

"What is it, Jack?"

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other line, before his housekeeper answered. "It's… It's Alex! Something hah-happened…" He didn't know that she was clutching a lock of blond hair.

"What happened?" Ian sat straight, leaning into his phone. No, no, no – It was just a – a football injury or something, right? It couldn't be anything really bad…

Jack paused, trying to think of how best to word her answer, before blurting it all out. "Alex's been kidnapped! They left a note – for you, and…"

"Alright," snapped Ian, "Where are you? I'll be there immediately."

"Outside of Alex's school."

"I'll see you in five," Ian switched off the phone, jammed it into his pocket, and almost leapt from his office as he made his way out of the building. He was almost out before he realized that technically he should still be working, so he quickly told the receptionist to "Tell Blunt that something came up," and all but ran.

Despite usually being a busy area, Ian hadn't been prepared for the traffic-jam caused by an accident on the main road.

"Shit!" He snarled, banging his fists against the wheel, before swerving around and back to the bank. He quickly 'borrowed' one of his colleague's motorbikes, knowing that on this occasion, it wouldn't really matter. The machine roared to life as he swerved into an alley, and Ian reminded himself that he was a top agent of MI6, and they probably owed him.

It helped dull any guilt he may have had when he swerved up and over one of the bank's walls, leaving dark skid-marks in his wake as the bike blazed around the building, slid up a ramp and flew a few meters in the air, and before he knew it, Ian was riding the roof-tops, away from the startled shouts of the MI6 staff that were stationed outside.

Roughly five minutes and many short cuts later, he span into another alley right outside Alex's school and sped towards Jack's car. She had a look of dulled surprise –as if she saw his strange entrance, but didn't really register it- as he screeched to a halt before her, letting out a burst of air that he hadn't realised he'd been holding as he stepped off.

Jack came out to meet him, absently noting with a frown that Ian hadn't been wearing a helmet. "Alright," she began, and fished around in her purse, "Here's the note."

Ian read it, frowning, not understanding. However, when his eye's focused on the signature, his whole body froze, eyes narrowing. Well, damn. At least he now knew the motive for kidnapping Alex.

Jack spotted the change in her boss' demeanour. "What? What is it? Do you know who did this?"

"Yes…"

Alex woke up when a splash of icy cold dank water hit him in the face. He spluttered, body in slight shock as it recoiled from the harsh change in temperature, before his brain kick-started and he opened his eyes, looking around.

He was in a small, box-like room. There were no windows, not even a bed; the walls, ceiling and floor were made out of concrete. It had a flat, desolate feel to it.

When Alex tried to sit up to face whoever was standing over him, empty bucket in hand, he winced, his head throbbing from the movement. He leant back down with a whimper, and brought a hand up to gently prod his face. He hissed when his fingers reached the dark bruise on his left cheek, the lid under his eye also sporting purple. There was a bitter, coppery taste in his mouth as his tongue probed the skin, and each move the muscle made sent a spasm of pain throughout his face. Alex squinted up, and saw, with dismay, it was the same man that he'd kicked in the groin.

"Get up!" The man growled, yanking Alex up by the collar of his shirt. Alex gagged slightly as the material tightened around his neck, before he was dumped on his feet and swayed slightly, attempting to regain his balance. His shoulder was gripped tightly as he was roughly led out of the room. As they walked, his guard began talking to him.

"Alright, listen up. This is one of the only times you'll be let outta that cell, other than bathroom breaks. You'll get your food delivered once a day, and there'll always be someone outside that door of yours, so don't even think about trying anything funny."

They ground to a halt outside of a mahogany door; the man hadn't noticed Alex's eyes darting about the corridors as they went. There was nothing about this door that made it stand out or seem important, but the black-clad man seemed sure of his destination. He reached out with his free hand and rapped thrice against the door with his knuckles.

A low, raspy voiced replied. "Enter."

And they did; the door creaked open as Alex was pushed inside, to be greeted by a waft of thick smoke. As the smell of nicotine hung in the air and lingered, Alex watched the trails as they escaped the room through the open door. He wished he could follow.

Then, the door slammed shut and he looked up guiltily into cold blue eyes. The man behind the desk had short, dirty blond hair and tanned skin. His face was marred by several wrinkles and an ugly scar that wound its way from the outwards edge of his left eyebrow to his jaw. It didn't taper off nice and neat, but rather seemed to twist into his hair.

A thin eyebrow quirked, as the man behind it noticed Alex's stare. "Like my scar, do you?" The man smirked, causing the skin around the scar to wrinkle and crease. "Want to know how I got it?"

Alex didn't know how to answer; He was intrigued, but at the same time, afraid, especially with how the man's voice seemed to have dropped to dangerous levels with his last remark. Who was this man? Why had he arranged for him to be kidnapped? He didn't answer, but the man told him anyway.

The man touched a finger to the top of the scar by his brow. "Someone tried to gouge my eye out. But they missed," His finger trailed the scar as it followed down his face, "And then tried to rip my throat out." He reached the point where it twisted, then swiped his finger quickly across it, sharp and fast. "I twisted my head, and instead almost got my ear sliced off." The man let out a chuckle, opened the top draw under his desk, and brought out a sharp-looking, polished knife. He stood and bent over the desk, poising the edge of the blade on Alex's cheek, a deranged look in his eyes. "Do you know how much that hurts…?"

Alex's breath hitched slightly, but he forced himself to be still. Even though his skin tingled in an awfully unpleasant manner where the metal of the knife touched it, there was no way he could step backwards; that brute of a guard was right behind him.

The blond man grinned, then tucked the knife away and sat back. "No, of course you wouldn't. I bet uncle Ian's been protecting you, eh?"

Alex frowned, not liking the tone of the man's voice. "What do you know about my uncle?"

The man's eyes darkened, expression stony. "I know enough about that man. And I'm Not 'You', I'm –"

"Nichol Marcus. Shit." Ian cursed again, "I thought that bastard was dead." He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "As if my life wasn't complicated enough. Damn, damn, fucker."

Jack, despite the situation, found Ian's response amusing. "Since when did you swear so much?" What happened to that cool, collected, always calm man? Was this how he acted when he was stressed?

Ian shrugged. "I don't know. Since I started working, I guess." He then lapsed into swearing in German.

Jack paused, then decided it was best to voice her concerns before he started off in Italian, and silently wondered at why working at a bank would make one so stressed. "Ian, what are you going to do? Is there anything you can do, other than, you know, trading yourself?" Even if her mind felt muddied by confusion, sorrow, and a touch of angst, she tried her best to appear calm and collected. After all, bawling her eyes out until her face went an ugly pink wouldn't do Ian any good, and certainly nothing for her makeup. Good God, she would look like a hag if her mascara ran.

She wasn't being vain; far from it. Rather, trying to focus on the little inane things that kept her from frantically worrying about the little boy in her care.

Her words managed to get through to the MI6 agent, causing him to still in his rant. "You're right, Jack," He conceded, then swung a leg over the motorbike. "I've got to get home, find all the information I have on this guy…"

The housekeeper frowned. "Shouldn't we tell the authorities? Can't they help?" The fact that he would supposedly have information on a random criminal went unspoken, although Jack swore up and down she would find out just what the heck was up with the Rider family as soon as she got a moments opportunity.

Ian, just about to set off, twisted in his seat and shook his head. "No. Whatever you do, don't tell anyone. Not even your father's cousin's best friend's daughter. You never know who's listening and who's on Alex's side. If this gets out, and we go to the authorities… One of Nichol's spies will find out about it, and kill Alex. If they think a lot of people are looking for him, I doubt they'd take the risk of him leaking any information about them. No, I have to sort this out, alone." His bike roared to life, and within moments Jack could no longer see him, once again alone next to her car and the school.

She sighed, shoulders slumping as she clambered into the vehicle and prayed to whichever God was listening that Alex was okay.

Unfortunately, all of the gods must have been either deaf, on vacation, or just plain rude, as Alex was far from okay. Once again crammed into a tiny cell with no food and no sunlight, things didn't seem to be looking up for him.

He sniffed and rubbed his eye – dirt, just a little dirt or dust got in, honest – then flopped himself on the floor and gazed up at the thick metal door. Would Ian barge in any moment now, swing him up in his arms and gallantly carry him to safety, like a knight in shining armour?

Alex snorted at the vague image of his uncle dressed in metal and trying to wield a large sword. Nah, that wouldn't happen. Not only was it silly and childish (he had to remind himself there that fairytales never happened and happy endings weren't guaranteed), but there was no way Ian could ever be a swordsman or anything like that, really. He was a banker; one of those guys who spent their days decaying behind a desk and a stack of paper. What would he do if he actually did come? Throw some numbers and financial forms at the bad guys?

The young boy's wild imagination managed to carry this little daydream further, before it slowly dwindled and was grasped by the sheer emptiness of the room. Alex opened his eyes and looked around – or at least, tried to. He drew his knees to his chin and let it rest there, squeezing his eyes shut to the oppressive darkness all around him, a bitter taste in his mouth.