A/N: whoops, sorry for the long wait! My schedule's been hectic, but I finally got around to finishing this chapter. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Lamentablemente, Los Alex Rider libros no son mios.

Karmic Balance

Chapter Five

It was cold when he woke, with aching limbs and a horribly bitter taste in his mouth. It weighed heavily on his tongue, nauseatingly thick. It tasted like sickness, and his stomach complied as his head lolled to the side to vomit on the floor.

A disgusted sound came from in front of him, where a man – a face he didn't recognise – sneered down, eying him with distaste. The man rolled his eyes at the sight of the bruised, pale child lying next to his own sick, merely muttering on the bad smell. He hauled the boy up onto his feet, leading him out of the door, with force when necessary.

Alex, despite feeling queasy, recognised the path they were taking as they stopped outside the same nondescript door as before. He felt a stone drop in his stomach; he really didn't want to meet that scary man again.

Nichol smiled at Alex from behind his desk, beckoning the child to sit. It was about time to put this boy straight, and tell him his limitations; previously, he hadn't thought it necessary, as the mere thought of this boy managing to escape as far as he did had been laughable. No, he wouldn't underestimate this boy again. It was a good thing he was a paranoid man, and had already taken precautions.

"Alex," he began, injecting familiarity into the tone. "You've been rather naughty lately, haven't you?"

The boy squirmed in his seat, looking everywhere but at him.

Nichol continued, "As you know, Alex, I have your best interests in mind. And because I do, I think it's only fair to warn you about a little something we put in you."

Alex froze. What? What had they done to him?

"Don't worry boy, it was only a little injection. And it only works under certain circumstances."

Alex finally looked up at him, a fearful determination in his eyes. "What… What circumstances?"

"Adrenaline. Every attempt you make to leave your cell or this building will cause at least a little bit of adrenaline to pump through you as you run, sneak, or hide. The serum reacts to the activity from the adrenal gland, and once it reaches a certain point the serum slows the connection between your brain and your limbs before it stops, leaving you unconscious. Don't worry, that's just a precaution – as soon as you lose consciousness, the serum withdraws and becomes harmless once more. You understand; it's so that you don't push yourself enough for it to kill you."

Alex was quiet. He didn't quite understand what Nichol was trying to tell him – wasn't sure he even wanted to know, really. But what he did figure was that he was a prisoner with invisible shackles. He knew it to be the truth, as earlier he'd felt that surge of – of something, poisoning his system once his heart had begun to beat faster from his nervous, frightened sort of excitement.

Ian… Ian would still come. Alex knew it. He was his uncle – he loved him – how could he not?

But, as another day passed by, Alex's surety that Ian would come started to dwindle. Was he really by himself?

oOoOoOo

The man in question held doubts of his own. He worried about Alex, every minute of each goddamned day. He thought of him; poor, sweet, innocent little Alex that would come out of this encounter more jaded than he'd ever hoped. He'd wanted Alex to live, and be a normal, albeit well trained child. Not be brought into a sick man's games.

He'd known that it was inevitable. His past – and John's – was bound to catch up with Alex sooner rather than later. That's why he'd trained him – devoted so much time into cultivating Alex into a finely honed, but not yet ready machine. Because Alex had to be ready, as quick as humanely possible.

Because Ian didn't want Alex to die. He wouldn't let him, not if he could help it, and he would try his hardest. He already knew the location his nephew was in; it was a large building, in the outskirts of London, where the industrial, run down section began. He'd scoped the place out; it had guards, of course. Plenty of them; men who soldiered up and down the perimeters and most likely the corridors too. They weren't just protecting Nichol, or even Alex (he doubted if most of them even knew of the kidnapped boy); no, they were paid to keep people away from what was being manufactured and traded inside.

It was the most cliché thing for a 'bad guy' to do, yet it was also the most common, and a good way to create wealth and power. Because a lot of people depended on drugs, and if you owned the drugs, you owned the people; and with the huge quantity that was being manufactured, he reckoned that Nichol owned a lot of people.

It was a power structure that had wormed its way into each corner of London, and he felt fear of the consequences should he cut off the head. It would cause a power struggle of drunks, beggars, druggies and a lot of violent, psychotic men. Whilst he certainly didn't approve of drugs, they at least pacified and mellowed a lot of dangerous people.

It was then, as he was sat at his desk, paper in hand, when a noise he wasn't expecting appeared.

Rap-a-tap-tap.

Ian stilled in his work as the sound of knuckles on wood echoed throughout the large, relatively empty house. Jack was still sleeping; after all, it was two in the morning.

Rapataptaptap.

The sound was faster, more hurried and impatient. Grabbing the sleek metal of his gun – who would be calling at this hour? – And holding it behind him, He approached the door and peeked through the eyehole.

A man, taller than he, stood on the other side, black hood casting his face in shadows. He stood tall and lean, well built, but Ian couldn't see who it was, and that bothered him. His grip on the gun tightened.

"What do you want?" He asked, low and even. The reply was immediate.

"To help." It held no trace of an accent, but Ian had learnt not to always count on that.

"What with?"

"Alex."

Ian's mind went blank. That, he hadn't been expecting. After all, no one but him and Jack even knew that something was wrong with Alex. Which meant that either this man had inside information, working with or for Marcus. It wasn't a deduction that set him at ease.

"Who are you? Why do you want to help him?" Growled out Ian, in no mood to play word games. The faster he knew what was going on, the better.

"I am – was – a friend of John's." An unknown emotion hitched the man's speech as he corrected his tense, apparently all too aware – and still hurting from – that John was dead.

Ian was in no better position than he was before. He didn't know anyone that new of both those people, at least not anyone that could help, or even be willing to help. Aiming the gun, He opened the door a crack, peering out into the darkness.

"Who are you?" He repeated.

The reply was not reassuring. "Don't shoot. I want to help; just let me in, first."

No. Ian would not play that game. "Who. Are. You?"

The man on the other side hesitated. Ian clicked the safety off. "You're not getting in unless I know exactly whom I'm dealing with."

The other man gave a resigning sigh, paused, then lowered the hood. Ian stared, wide eyed, at the blond-haired Russian visage. He pulled the gun up and aimed it squarely.

"What the hell, Gregorovitch?"

Yassen gave him a look, rising his hands, open-palmed, at shoulder height. The classic 'I surrender' pose, albeit with a mocking air.

"Let me in, Ian. I only want to help."

Ian thought on it for a few seconds. On one hand, this was a highly dangerous, trained terrorist slash assassin that worked for the despicable organisation that killed his brother and sister in law. On the other hand, he also knew that on the few occasions John had talked to him about his long-term mission, he'd mention Yassen in a favourable light; even mentioned once that he'd even trust the Russian with his life.

It was a question between Ian's trust in the government and his trust in his brother.

Slowly, with a steady arm, he lowered the gun, putting the safety back on and tucking it into the waistband of his trousers, never lowering his gaze. "Alright," He opened the door and stepped back, "but don't let down my brother's trust in you."

Yassen quietly let out a breath of air he'd been holding. Fantastic. He'd had no idea if it would work or not, but it had been the only way, really, to contact the English man. If he'd tried to sneak in or something along those lines, he knew that Ian would've shot to kill.

Great. Now all he had to do was convince him not to shoot now that he was invited into the house.

They sat down at the kitchen table, both men eying each other.

"Alright," Yassen began, "John was my mentor. He saved my life; I can't save his, but I can help his child."

Ian nodded. "How did you find out about Alex's situation? Is Scorpia involved?" If it were, then Alex would likely never get out alive. Children just couldn't match up to that.

The Russian, thankfully, shook his head. "No. We only have a few connections with the company, what with the whole drug business; one of our members spotted Alex the other day when they went to meet with Nichol, and recognised the similarities between him and John. I already knew of Alex's existence; it was pure coincidence that he was mentioned to me.

"I can't directly do anything. At least not by myself; if I did, it would look suspicious. But if you rescued the child, then all possible suspicion would fall off me. Normally, I would only be caught dead working with you."

It was a sound, if slightly skewed reason, but Ian would take it anyway, because Alex needed all the help he could get. (And so did he, but he would never admit that.)

"Although, I have to wonder. Why did Nichol kidnap Alex?" Yassen stared hard at Ian, his silently accusing eyes demanding a truthful answer, and Ian complied.

"It was before Marcus became head of that drug business. It was why he became head." Sighing, Ian looked down and frowned. "I got into a fight with him and his older brother. I had to kill them; it was part of my job, you understand. During the fight I scarred Marcus and killed his only family; he's held a bit of a grudge on me because of it. Can't say I blame him, really," He raked a hand through his hair, "I can only say that I should've killed him back then."

"Why didn't you?"

"I thought he was dead. I just had no time to confirm it; I had to get out of there, fast. I only found out the truth weeks later, when word of the new head got around; and by then, I was already working on a different mission, so I wasn't sent to finish the job."

The Russian looked amused. "MI6 would actually send an agent to kill someone?"

Ian laughed. "No, we're not all contract killers like you. It would have been under guise of a 'proper' mission; Nichol would have been classed as an unfortunate, but necessary casualty, that we were glad to get rid of."

After that, they decided to get down to business; Yassen produced documents he'd filched from Scorpia, and they worked (schemed) well into the morning, stopping only when footsteps sounded on the floor above, telling them that Jack had woken up. They couldn't risk Yassen being seen by anyone, so he quickly left, hood up and shades on. He looked silly, but with his head down, he wouldn't be recognised by anyone who knew his face (Ian had suggested he wear a fake beard; Yassen told him he could shove it in an anatomically impossible manner.)

Alex Rider had brought these two unlikely men together, and they would not let him down.