A/N: Hi everyone! Right, I've got an important English Lit Essay to write, so I thought I better get this up first – aren't I nice? Warning: this chapter is not a pleasant one – even the best bit.

The warehouse was a mess.

It had been abandoned several years ago by the British government and it looked like it. The walls were covered in thick, slimy lichen, the garden was overgrown so it choked the rusting iron gates that stood as an entrance and random bits of machinery were discarded all over the place, giving the place an aura of emptiness.

It was anything but.

A tall man strode up towards the front of the warehouse, he back straight and his steps long. He had the look of a soldier about him, despite his slightly unkempt brown beard and the silver lining his hair and indeed that was what he was; Kazimir Sokolov had served twelve years in the Russian Army and the eight in the Intelligence service before he "retired". He was one of General Sarov's most loyal lieutenants.

He stomped briskly into the warehouse, closing the door behind him. Crossing the huge, dark space stretching out before him in seconds, he made his way up rickety old staircase, the iron groaning in protest under his weight. Soon enough, he came across and large door so beaten down it was amazing it was still attached to it's hinges. He rapped his knuckles on the door and was greeted with a low, "Enter."

Sokolov pushed the door open, the hinges squealing, and saluted, "General."

General Alexei Sarov was half-dead.

At least, in body he was. He was half-sitting up in a bad placed in the far corner of the room, white as a sheet and almost certainly struggling to breath as he forced himself to sit straight to listen to his second-hand's work. The bullet he attempted to take his life with so many months ago had failed in its purpose but had made its mark nonetheless; the ex-soldier may have been in perfect health, but he was not young, his lungs were badly damaged and he could only remain standing for so long before he would pass out from the pain. He found it humiliating that a man once as great as himself could be brought so low.

Wishing to get this over with as quickly as possible, he ordered Sokolov to continue with one word, spoke in their native Russian, "Report."

"Sir. The disappointments have been disposed of." Neither of them referred to the men hired to kidnap Rider as associates or anything of the like. Their pride would not allow it.

The General grunted in response. He had hated using them in the first place, worthless brawlers, that's all they were. He hoped Alex had not been offended by the fact that he'd sent such second-rate labourers to retrieve him, but he had few soldiers he could trust these days, so it simply could not be helped.

Sokolov continued, "It appears Rider has left the country, sir, on another mission."

Sarov's eyes narrowed with barely suppressed anger. "How long?" he rapped out impatiently.

"He has been gone no longer than a fortnight, sir. Our comrades were able to gain access to secret files in the Pentagon; according to what was written their and what has been updated since, we estimate that Rider should be returning to Britain in a matter of weeks, if not days."

Sarov nodded in acknowledgement, his rage abated, for the moment. "Are our preparations complete?"

"There are complications, sir. It has not been as easy as we anticipated. We should be able to proceed in perhaps three weeks."

Sarov smiled for the first time. He may have been weak in body, but his intelligence and his spirit were very strong, burning bright and visible in his eyes.

Excellent. He only had to live three more weeks, and then his task would be complete.

XXXXX

'Move, you idiot,' Wolf commanded himself as he stared at the dark-painted door silently, his hands balled into fists at his side, 'it's only another room, it needs to be cleaned. Move!'

But that was the problem. It wasn't just another room, it was Alex's room. And yes, it did need to be clean and yes, that would help his nerves as cleaning always did. But this was different. The second he got home when he dropped the kid off at the airport, he'd slammed the door shut and not opened it since.

Sure, he'd only been in it for a short time, but already it showed signs of the boy's personality, of the uniqueness that he possessed. Wolf couldn't bring himself to go in there, to disturb the teenager's sanctuary and likely his privacy too, if he had anything in common with a normal kid his age. Not only that; he couldn't face the guilt and the shame that coursed through him when he looked at the door, let alone entered. It was his fault. Ben could comfort him for as long as he wanted to, but Wolf felt in his heart that if he'd just stood up and said something, anything, that maybe, just maybe, he might have been able to stop it.

But he hadn't. And standing here staring at the door wasn't going to make it any better. He was just going to have to bite the bullet and walk in and tidy up a little. Get the hardest bit out of the way. Besides, he was sure Alex would appreciate coming home to a made-up, inviting bed and a clean room instead of a mess.

If he came back.

XXXXX

Alex was going home.

He stared at the pale arm that encircled his waist, felt the gentle breath of the boy laying beside him in the bed as he snuggled closer in his sleep, exhaling on the back on Alex's neck. The blonde boy glanced at the clock as it switched over to three-twenty-six am. Just four more hours and thirty-four minutes until he was going home. That was all he could think about.

Gently lifting his partners arm from his torso, he slid his body out of the bed gently, eyes sliding around looking for his clothes. As he bent to retrieve his boxers, his side flared with pain, causing him to wince and put a hand to the knife scar near his ribs, tightly bound in bandages. It still hurt like hell.

As he dressed, Alex wondered what it would be like when he got up in the morning, glancing at the bed as he moved to the door. Richard was still sound asleep, turning over to lay on his other side as Alex exited the room. The boy was nice and sensitive to Alex's injury, even as they'd rolled around under the sheets. He hadn't asked questions, but he hadn't forced the spy into anything too uncomfortable or painful. Alex liked that.

So why was it, when he'd closed him eyes in pleasure as Richard's firm body had been pressed against his, that all he could think about was going home?

A/N: I get the feeling that Kazimir has already been used as the name of a villain in the Alex Rider books but at the moment I can't remember, so just go with it, yeah? I hope you like it, but I'm too tired to look for spelling errors, so this is how you're getting it, I'm afraid.