Well, hell must have frozen over because I've finally finished a WIP! I thought I'd throw in some different perspectives other than Wolf's, for the epilogue. It's mostly tying up loose ends, but I hope it's a somewhat satisfying ending. Thank you to the wonderful people who have followed and faved and reviewed along the way. I've been blessed with some very kind reviewers and I really appreciate all the encouragement and feedback :)
(To the guest reviewer who asked about my other unfinished stuff- Leap of Faith will be completed at some point, but I don't want to make any promises about when that might be. It depends on when I get my act together enough to start writing it again.)
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3 days later
The Sergeant leans back in his chair as he surveys the man in front of him. It's been a long two hours since he was brought into the questioning room, and the Sergeant doesn't feel any closer to understanding him at all. Every statement is met with a wry curl of his lip, as if he already knows far more about the topic in question that the Sergeant possibly could. Every question is expertly avoided.
The Sergeant knows why he's been chosen as a middleman: they're both connected to Cub; they both know what they're dealing with. Yet he doesn't feel as if he's done any better of a job than any random SAS lackey might have done.
"I don't think you understand how much shit you're in, Mr Blunt," he says at length.
But Alan Blunt doesn't look remotely fazed.
It's only the third time the Sergeant has met the (former?) head of MI6 in person. He isn't a big man by any means. His eyes are small and beady and his neck is sinewy with old age, in a combination that reminds the Sergeant distinctly of a vulture. His suit is almost immaculate – almost, but for a small coffee stain on his right lapel, the only evidence of the abrupt arrest that brought him into custody. Under the rather harsh lights, the Sergeant can see that his clothes are slightly creased, giving away the fact that he spent last night in a cell. Yet he holds himself as if he's in a particularly dull meeting, rather than being cross-examined under allegations of corruption.
"I understand the Rider boy has been telling a lot of tales," Blunt says evasively.
He casts his eyes around the room. A standard questioning cell, deep underground in a high security unit, with looming cement walls and a wall-length two-way mirror.
"Not the ones I wanted him to tell, unfortunately," Blunt sighs, and the Sergeant balks that he has the nerve to sound disappointed. Blunt fixes the Sergeant with a searching gaze, a knowing gleam in his eye. "What is it that he's been telling you, Sergeant? That the evil spies corrupted his poor, innocent soul? The boy isn't a child. He's an anomaly. A freak of nature, if you will. He's competent enough to complete assignments that would have floored fully grown adults. In fact, he has a virtually unparalleled success rate. You know he's mature enough to be held responsible for his actions."
"We're not talking about Rider's responsibilities," the Sergeant growls. He knows what Blunt is doing - he isn't talking to the Sergeant, but to the audience concealed behind the mirror; the group of government officials and SAS representatives who are going decides two fates: Blunt's and Cub's. "We're talking about yours. The fact remains that he should never have been sent on those missions."
"And yet, if he hadn't, thousands of people would be dead."
The Sergeant can't shake the feeling that he's losing this battle.
"So you don't deny that you blackmailed Rider?" he persists. "That you forced him into intelligence work he didn't want to undertake?"
Blunt's eyes are utterly cold. He spreads his hands as if he has nothing to hide.
"In my time, Sergeant, I've been faced with many difficult decisions. I don't deny that I've made choices that might cause judgmental outsiders such as yourself to shake your heads and condemn me as a monster. The fact remains that I am a loyal man, and I have served my country for over fifty years. Alex Rider, on the other hand, is a contract killer who betrayed the British government and joined a terrorist organisation. Tell me, Sergeant: is the SAS truly going to take the side of this murderer?"
The Sergeant forces himself to maintain his composure, to not let any of his doubt and anxiety seep into his expression. But Blunt senses it anyway, because he leans back with a self-satisfied look on his face.
Since Cub was rushed to hospital three nights ago, the Sergeant has had several conversations with Cub, and he can't help that he's taken a liking to the boy. There was more of the quiet, deferential boy who'd first come to Brecon Beacons in him, than the Sergeant had expected. He's certainly proving much more agreeable than the man in front of him now, who's managed to give the Sergeant a throbbing headache from sheer smugness in the last hour alone. But it's not just a matter of likability. Although he's personally starting to loathe this man, Blunt isn't head of MI6 for nothing; he's playing his tune well. The room is soundproofed to the nines, but the Sergeant can practically hear the mutters and whispers of the observers behind the mirror.
Blunt has a point.
"You're not getting away with this," the Sergeant promises, standing up, but Blunt doesn't so much as blink.
"If I deserve to be in a cell, then Rider deserves the same, at the very least. If I were you, I'd put a bullet between his eyes and dispose of him quickly and quietly. The boy is a Scorpia agent. You're an intelligent man, Sergeant. You know he's too much of a liability to be left alive."
The words ring in his head as the Sergeant leaves the cell and enters the adjacent room. He doesn't miss the way that it's occupants look away quickly as he enters. He can feel his heart sinking. The odds that they're going to be able to get Cub off the hook are looking slimmer by the day...
The Sergeant looks down at Blunt, sitting in the cell, looking perfectly confident in himself. His fist clenches at his side. They've expended enough effort getting Cub out of MI6's clutches so far. They're not giving up now. They're just going to have to try another angle.
And then, Blunt's own words drift back to him.
He's competent enough to complete missions that would have floored fully grown adults... In fact, he has a virtually unparalleled success rate…
An idea begins to come to life in the Sergeant's mind.
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One week later
Pain thrums through Alex's shoulder as he pulls the fresh shirt over his head. He ignores the discomfort, shrugging the thin material over his torso, and then glances in the mirror above the sink. He hasn't spent an awful lot of time studying his own reflection in the past six months, and the face that greets him is somehow both familiar and unfamiliar. The sensations are equally disconcerting. He definitely looks older. His features sharper, and his hair more brown than fair now. Alex runs a hand through it, pushing it back off his face; it's started to get long without him noticing. He's taller as well. One last growth spurt and he'll probably no longer be able to pass as a schoolkid. The bruising around his left eye and his jaw make for grim shadows on his face, as does the half-healed split lip. He wonders if it will get him a bit of sympathy today.
It's been a week since he woke up in hospital, to the unbelievable promise that MI6 were out of his life. He's spent the last seven days in this hospital room, somewhere in Brecon Beacons, with a variety of uniformed officials sporadically entering his room to ask him questions. And now, finally, he's leaving the hospital.
They're taking him to London. It's decision day.
He might still look a little roughed up, but the clothes he's been given hide the worst by far of the injuries. Beneath the layers of bandages, the marks from the agent's knife are still poppy-red, and the bullet wound is torn and frayed and generally awful, both in terms of pain and to look at. It won't heal as easily as the last one did.
Alex meets his own eyes again in the mirror. He can't help but think that they seem a lot less innocent than they did three years ago. They will give him away, no matter what he says or how he acts.
His fingers curl against the cold granite of the sink. Nerves are bubbling away in his stomach, despite everything. Alex didn't think he was capable of being nervous about the future anymore. From the moment he'd picked up the cheap, disposable phone and dialled the office of the Royal and General, leaving that anonymous tip, he'd known that he was going to die. He'd known it when he'd felt the bullet slam into him, sending him spinning through the air as the ground rushed up to meet him. He'd known it when he'd woken in a cell in Brecon Beacons. And he'd known it more than ever when the door had slammed shut, trapping him with three vengeful MI6 agents.
But then he hadn't died. Then Wolf had shown up with an SAS unit, storming his prison cell like something out of a Jason Bourne movie, and then suddenly, Alex had allies, defenders, people who wanted to help him. And he doesn't know what to do with it. He isn't sure where things are going to go from here.
The sound of the door opening pulls him out of his thoughts. It's an SAS man, not one that Alex knows by name. He holds open the door, and jerks his head.
"Time to go, Rider."
Alex doesn't complain when they handcuff him again. He even manages not to grimace when the metal cuffs bite at the skin of his wrists, that's still a little sore from the last ones. He doesn't harbour any illusions of the SAS trusting him, even if they've inexplicably decided to help him. There have been guards at his door for the last week; to protect him from other people, or other people from him? Probably both. At least he's not in the back of a van this time; he climbs into the jeep with the Sergeant in the front and the other soldier driving.
But before they set off, the opposite door opens, and Wolf climbs into the passenger seat beside him. He claps a hand on Alex's uninjured shoulder.
"You ready, Cub?"
Alex nods. The jeep rumbles into life, gravel crunching under the tires as they leave the camp in the distance. The sky rumbles and rain begins to fall as they reach the main road. The journey passes in silence, filled with the hollow roar of water pattering down onto the car. Alex rests his head upon the window, but he can't sleep. He watches the land that glides past the window, his eyes following the wavering lines of the road like a child's.
He isn't sure how he feels about K Unit's sudden loyalty. A part of him is immensely grateful; how could he not be? But another part of him thinks that he doesn't deserve any of it. And the rational part of him is also thinking that it might be for nothing…
When they finally arrive at their destination, the sky above them is steely grey and thick with thunderclouds, but Alex is more interested in the place they've arrived at. The building is tall and grey, nondescript, but Alex has spent enough time in Intelligence to know better than to judge a book by its cover. He doesn't doubt that the unimpressive façade masks some kind of high security outlet. Sure enough, once they pass through a rather grimy, rundown reception area, the lower levels of the building are much more sleek and up-to-date. Suited officials pass him in the corridor; Alex ignores the stares.
They lead him down into a large questioning room that's completely bare apart from a table in the centre of the room. On the opposite side, two men are already sitting, one wearing a tailored suit and the other in combat uniform. Alex doesn't complain when he's handcuffed to the desk. The guard leaves the room wordlessly, and as silence falls over the questioning room, Alex's eyes are drawn to the side of the room, where a two-way mirror spans the length of the room. He wonders how many people sit behind that glass, observing him like a caged animal.
"Agent Rider," the man in combats greet him. "My name is Colonel Richards. This is Agent Leith, from MI5."
Alex doesn't know what they expect him to say, so he says nothing. He bites down the urge to remark that they're already shaping up to be better hosts than his last interrogators. He doesn't want to antagonise them... Last time, when he was being held by MI6, his fate was sealed; he had nothing left to lose. Now, things are different.
"Firstly," says the MI5 agent, "I'd like to apologise to you on behalf of the British government. Regardless of the outcome of today's meeting, Alan Blunt is not going to get away with what he's done."
Alex stares at his hands, folding them together, figuring out how much leeway he has with the cuffs. The smooth silver chains fold over one another, making the reflected light ripple from link to link.
"And what has he done exactly?" he finds himself asking, looking back up at the agents.
"Well, he's broken many laws, in relation to you. Child exploitation, blackmail, human rights violations..."
"Is that what you brought me here to discuss?" Alex can hear the wariness in his own voice. Caged animal, indeed.
Colonel Richards pinpoints him with a earnest gaze. He's already reminding Alex of the Sergeant.
"We're not here to trick you or trip you up, Agent Rider. We're just trying to get a full picture of… the situation."
A full picture of you, is what they mean.
Alex glances sideways, at the mirror that spanned the length of the room. He doesn't doubt that there's a whole circus behind the two-way glass, observing him, recording him. He wonders how many psychologists they've brought in. He pictures them scribbling down notes as he sits here.
"Do you think you're going to be able to cooperate with us?" Colonel Richards asks in a perfectly even, perfectly reasonable voice.
Alex sighs, and sits back in his chair. Jack did always warn him that interviews were one of the worst parts of adulthood.
"I suppose so," he consents.
The colonel sends the agent a nod, and he flicks a small switch on the recording device that's set up on the table. The glowing light on the interface flips from red to green.
And so the interrogation begins.
Later, Alex will reflect that it could have been a lot worse. The air of discomfort, of unfinished business, continues to linger. But there are no moments of open hostility; the agent and the colonel are competent enough to avoid that.
He doesn't expect them to go back as far as they do with his history, bringing up pictures of Ian and Jack and his old schoolfriends, cross-examining him about the years before he got into spying, undoubtedly for the men in white coats who are trying to psychoanalyse him. Alex does his best to answer as honestly as he can. It's strange to have these old memories forced onto him, memories that feel as if they belong to another lifetime. It feels even stranger when he realises that he's closer to his old home than ever, being back in London, after so long. He wonders if it's wrong that he feels more at home answering the questions about his missions. Those memories he has already compartmentalised into pure fact. He reels it off, hardly having to think. Where he was sent. Who he met there. What he did. Why he agreed to work for MI6.
And then there are the hardest questions of all, when he comes to the account of his last mission, and there's nothing left to discuss but his defection from MI6. The room seems to grow colder as Agent Leith breaches the subject, and Alex fights not to draw in on himself when he answers their questions about Scorpia. He wishes they would look somewhere other than him. He can feel the eyes on him – not just these, but the ones behind the two-way glass – and he feels as if he's burning. Still, he answers every question, even if he can hear the way his voice becomes rougher.
When they ask for the names of the men he killed, he shuts his eyes for a moment. He takes a breath, and imagines that he's back in that hospital room again, that it's only Wolf he's telling it to, not these strangers. Then he opens his eyes and gives the names, one by one.
Alex doesn't let himself try to analyse what it is that he sees in the agent's faces. Hatred? Fear? Disgust? He'd only project his own assumptions onto them, and he knows they're both trying to look neutral and unaffected.
When they get round to questioning him about his capture and interrogation at Brecon Beacons, Alex feels both lightheaded and heavy with tiredness at once. His mind is reeling, and his skin is itching with the urge to be out of this room, yet at the same time he feels like he's been turned inside out and wrung out. He tries not to fidget under their gazes.
He's only paying attention to the voice of the colonel with one ear, when suddenly the man's voice cuts off abruptly. Alex looks up to see the SAS man gazing at him with a curious, furrowed expression on his face.
"What is it that you want, Agent Rider?" the colonel asks suddenly.
A frown works its way across Alex's face.
"I wasn't aware that I had a choice in what happens to me."
"You're not on trial, Rider. Not at the moment, anyway." At least he's honest. "This isn't exactly a conventional situation. I'm just curious about what you'd like to happen, ideally, after this."
Alex's mind drifts. What does he want? Try as he might, he can't conjure up any possibility that he'll actually let himself hope might happen. Ian raised him to be a realist.
Alex goes to say that he doesn't really want anything, but then he stops, the words dying on his tongue. Because that's not quite true, is it?
"I want protection for the people who helped me," he says, looking the colonel square in the eye. "I won't blame you if you want to lock me up and throw away the key. But Wolf and Snake, and the Sergeant – they were only doing what they thought was for the best. I don't want them to be reprimanded for their association with me."
The colonel and the agent exchange a glance, and Alex thinks he sees a hint of surprise flicker between them.
"I can promise you they won't be punished," says the colonel. "As you said, they did what they thought was best, and we're all grateful for their intervention."
"Thank you," says Alex, and he means it.
Silence falls upon the room, and then something occurs to Alex, and he speaks up again.
"Actually, there's one more thing…"
He sees the eyebrows of the agent rising as Alex spells out his request. But he says he'll see what he can do, and then pushes back his chair and leaves the room. After a few minutes of silence, someone comes in and fetches the colonel away too.
Alex is left alone for so long that he almost thinks they've forgotten about him. They won't comply with his request; why would they? He twiddles his thumbs, studying the faint swirling pattern of the table beneath him. When the door opens again, he fully expects it to be a guard, coming to show him to a cell for the night. They've been here for so long that surely it must be verging on night by now.
But when he glances up, it's not a guard standing in the doorway. Alex can't stop his mouth from falling open.
Mrs Jones looks pretty thrown to see him too. At first glance, she looks the same as ever - still wearing a slightly ill-fitting suit, her haircut still framing her face in a way that makes it look strangely long. At second glance, Alex sees the worry lines etched into her face, and the red tinge to her eyes that makes his throat tighten. She crosses the room slowly, and looks grateful to be able to sink down into the seat across from him.
"Alex," she greets him, ever so quietly.
"Mrs Jones."
There's a heavy beat of silence between them. Alex asked to see her, but now he doesn't know what to say. His mind has completely blanked.
Blunt never told him why Mrs Jones suddenly vanished, two years ago, after one of his missions. Suddenly, he was only reporting to one of them, and his questions were predictably ignored. But Alex didn't survive three years of espionage without making contacts, and he'd found out the truth from rumour. Scorpia had confirmed it when he'd switched sides. Mrs Jones had been demoted, supposedly because of incompetence. Letting emotional attachments complicate "certain assignments". Alex knew it meant him. Perhaps she'd finally challenged Blunt about him, and he'd decided that she was a pawn he was willing to sacrifice in order to keep Alex.
"I'm sorry for what you've been through," Mrs Jones ventures.
Alex can't meet her eye, can't bear her sympathy. It's taking an awful lot of effort to keep his composure maintained. He's all but forgotten that there's probably a room full of strangers watching them from behind the glass.
"It's good to see you back, Alex," she says softly.
Alex almost laughs from the ridiculousness of it all.
"You too," he says again, and he means it. "Have they reinstated you?"
"My demotion is being reconsidered," she says, "In light of new evidence."
"Well, I would advise them to make you Blunt's replacement," Alex says, "But I think your résumé is probably better off without a recommendation from me."
Despite everything, Mrs Jones has to press a hand to her lips to hide her smile. And Alex finds himself smiling as well.
Instinct is a strange thing, but over the years, he's come to trust it, and he suddenly knows with odd certainty that Mrs Jones will replace Blunt. MI6 is in better hands than before. Perhaps something good will come out of this, after all.
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Six weeks later
The clearing quietens as the sun wavers lazily on the horizon, beginning to sink beneath the trees. Birds are cooing softly in the trees overhead. Snake raises his gun, eyes narrowing against the dimming light as he trains it on his target.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
And then the birds are rocketing out of the nearby trees in alarm at the resounding blast of three gunshots, fired off in quick succession. Snake doesn't miss a beat; his hands reload the magazine on muscle memory, then he switches to the other hand and fires again.
When he's done, he lowers the gun with satisfaction. Four of the bullets have hit the bullseye; the other two are embedded in the innermost circle of the target.
"I'd like to see you beat that," he says to the figure leaning against the nearest tree.
Cub doesn't reply, just holds out his hand for the gun.
A voice in Snake's mind is screaming at him not to give it to him. But he conceals his hesitation and passes over the weapon, placing the smoking metal into Cub's palm, even though the voice is telling him insistently that handing the former assassin a gun is probably a really awful idea…
As soon as Snake is safely out of the way, Cub fires off the rounds so quickly that Snake actually jumps. By the time he's come to his senses, and takes in the sight of the target, he blinks in surprise. Five new bullets are lodged in the centre of the bullseye.
A grin is playing at Cub's lips.
"Don't beat yourself up. You did pretty well… you know, for someone of your age."
Snake balks. "You cheeky little shit…"
He's about to show Cub exactly what someone of his age can do, when something catches his eye behind Cub, and he stops. Cub spins around, and the smile fades from his face.
Wolf is a silhouette against the dying light, trudging slowly across the clearing. He's wearing full dress uniform, and he's holding something in his hand. Snake tries to steel himself for whatever news he might be bearing. He was in London today, for the final verdict on what will happen to the former head of MI6. Wolf's presence was required, but Cub wasn't allowed to be there. All his interviews had been anonymous, his identity concealed with a voice scrambler.
"News?" Cub asks. He's doing a pretty good job at trying to sound neutral, even casual, but Snake catches the tense quality behind his voice, like a rubber band pulled taut. Cub's own fate is still swinging in the balance. He was taken to London for questioning weeks ago, but he was brought back the next day, and since then, they've just been waiting. If Blunt has gotten off the hook, it won't look good for Cub…
"See for yourself."
Wolf tosses the object at him. A newspaper. Cub catches it deftly, and his hands scrabble to find the front page. Snake hears his breath hitch and takes a step closer, and manages to catch the headline over the kid's shoulder.
Head of MI6 jailed in torturous disgrace
Thank fuck, Snake thinks.
"Tactful headline," he comments sarcastically, after the initial relief has sunk in.
Cub either doesn't hear him or doesn't care about the pun at his expense. His head is still buried in the newspaper; he moves away from them a little as he skims the article, his eyes moving so quickly that they're practically a blur.
"At least it's good news," Wolf says gruffly, although he looks a little sour.
"How many years?" Snake inquires.
"Eight. And those arsehole agents got five each."
Indignation rises up in Snake. "Only five?"
He can practically hear Wolf grit his teeth. "The fuckers have contacts in high places. Hell, they are high places." Wolf shoots a glance at Cub, before edging closer to Snake and speaking in a lower voice. "It was the torture tapes that swung it for us. The defence attorney Six hired is supposed to be some kind of miracle worker. I thought she'd won at one point. But you should have seen the jury's face when they played those tapes."
Wolf grimaces. Snake has to suppress his own shudder at the memory. For the last few weeks, his nights have been filled with tense, jumpy dreams about bodies soaked in blood and distant screaming that he can never seem to reach, no matter how hard he looks.
"… Target practice, Snake? Really?"
Snake looks up to see Wolf glancing from the bullseye to him in disbelief, clearly just realising what they'd been out here doing before he arrived.
"I wanted to see what the kid could do," Snake says defensively.
Wolf looks incredulous, but Snake cuts him off before he can start berating him.
"Look, we're in an SAS camp. We're surrounded by weapons. He's going to have to use a gun sooner or later. And we need to start trusting the kid, if this is going to work."
Despite his persona, Snake knows Wolf, knows him well enough to know that Wolf is actually a worrier. He would never have been the first one to hand Cub a gun. That's why he needs Snake; that's why they need to work as a team.
"If what's going to work?" Cub's voice cuts through the clearing.
Damned spies, sneaking up on people like nobody's business.
"Nothing," says Snake, turning to face Cub, who looks equal parts interested and wary. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Cub."
Wolf backs him up, if a little grudgingly. "When you need to know about something, you'll know about it. Okay?"
Snake sees Cub's mouth twist. Of course he doesn't like being kept in the dark about something; he's a spy. But then he concedes, and nods, and drops it. Snake thinks they might be making some progress with this whole trust thing.
"So," says Snake, changing the subject. "Pleased with the verdict?"
Cub just nods, as if Snake has asked him about his maths homework or something.
"Bastard should have gotten longer than eight years," Wolf grumbles, but Cub just shrugs.
"He'll never work in Intelligence again. Nobody who values their credibility will go near him. That's what matters. I don't really care where he spends the rest of his days."
Snake looks down to hide the twinge that in his chest at Cub's words. Damn it all to hell – this is why he can't help but like Cub. He's not in this for revenge, even though ninety per cent of people would be, Snake probably included.
"Come on," says Snake. "It's too dark to shoot. Let's head back."
For the last month and a half, Cub has been here, in Brecon Beacons, training, recovering, staying in K Unit's old barracks. Snake and Wolf have been put on duty watching him - Cubsitting, as they've come to call it - and they've been keeping their distance from the rest of the camp. They still get some strange looks from the new recruits every now and then; they make an odd team, two fully fledged SAS soldiers and a teenager, with no questions allowed to be asked. But by now, their presence here has generally been accepted. And Cub is back to being Cub, rather than Rider. Rider, the famed assassin, was kept here only briefly, months ago, before he was removed from the premises. Cub, K Unit's old teammate, arrived shortly after. And never the twain shall meet.
They don't know what's going to happen from here. Well, Cub doesn't know what's going to happen. Wolf and Snake have been let in on the SAS's plans.
Snake bites his lip as he watches Cub make his way back to the cap, his hands shoved in his pockets. He's doing a good job at hiding the fact that he's scared, but Snake knows better. Cub fully expects to be locked up in a high security prison.
Fuck. Snake realises that he really doesn't want that to happen; he's come to know the kid over the last couple of months, and he doesn't want that to be the end to his story. He's holding out hope that this idea of the Sergeant's will work out.
.
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Seven months later
Wolf leans against the wall of the cabin and blows all the breath out of his lungs. The air in the room is tense enough to be cut with a knife. Nobody is speaking. They're gathered around the wide table in the middle of the Sergeant's office, which is littered with various forms of blueprints, maps, files, and forms. The Sergeant's face is set grimly as he leans over them, picking up one after the other and examining them, completely ignoring the rest of the room. Snake is over in the corner, and there are a few other soldiers present, some of which Wolf recognises, some of which he doesn't.
When the door swings open, Cub seems to sense the severity of the situation immediately. His eyes go round, and he glances at Wolf questioningly. Wolf doesn't have a chance to send the kid any kind of warning signal before he's practically pushed into a chair. His eyes rove over the paperwork, taking it all in.
"Do you know what the date is today?" the Sergeant begins. He doesn't give Cub a chance to answer. "It's February the thirteenth."
Cub's eyes flash meaningfully.
"As of today, you're officially an adult, Cub. Congratulations."
Wolf sees Cub bite his lip, and then look down at his feet.
"Is this your way of telling me I'm going to jail?" he asks quietly.
The Sergeant doesn't answer. Instead, he pushes a piece of paper in front of him. A blueprint. When Cub goes to pick it up, the Sergeants holds it down for a moment with one hand.
"The SAS don't work with children. No matter how exceptional they may be."
Wolf sees Cub's face crease with confusion. The Sergeant lifts his hand, and lets him take the piece of paper. As Cub studies it, he only looks more confused.
"But you're no longer a child. A situation arose a few days ago. Some international police forces are working to contain it, but I suggested that we have someone who might be able to help. You're looking at a map of an area where a Scorpia assassin is expected to be in the next few days, to take a hit. We need to work out where they're going to be and send in security to apprehend them when they arrive."
Cub looks up sharply. Wolf sees realisation dawn across his face. He looks incredulous, shocked.
The SAS is giving him a second chance. Not wiping the slate clean per se, but a chance to use what he knows, to work for them. They're putting their trust in him.
"Do you think you can help us, Cub?" the Sergeant asks.
The whole room seems to hold its breath.
And then Cub draws himself together, lays the map down on the table, and starts speaking.
"It all depends on where the target is going to be. Assuming it's one of the three spots in red, I'd be looking for somewhere on the high ground. Here - or maybe here, that's the spot I would choose, if it were me that they sent in. Scorpia teach their hitmen that vantage is more important than cover. They'll need an established getaway point whether they hit or miss, so they need to make sure they're going to get a hit. But they'll still scope out the area well, so if you send in your men beforehand, they need to be well hidden. You should be prepared for Scorpia to send more than one hitman as well, two, or as many as three, given that the information has leaked. It's pretty rare for this kind of info to get out of Scorpia without them noticing at all, so you should be prepared for it to be a set-up as well, and remember they're not afraid to sacrifice civilians to get the job done…"
The Sergeant and the other soldiers listen, rapt, hanging off his every word. As Cub speaks, he seems to stand taller, more confidently, and his voice grows louder and stronger until it fills the room.
In the corner, Wolf grins, not bothering to hide the pride that's swelling up inside of him. He knows, deep in his gut, that Cub is going to do just fine.
Fin