Disclaimer: I do not own any Alex Rider characters. Any mentioned that appear at any time in this story are the property of A.H. Any others are of my own making; and if there are any references outside of A.R series that are real, such as places or people, it is not intentional. I do not own Baker Street or anyone that lives there. Sadly
Sun light filtered through the trees, waking Hare up. He yawned, stretched leisurely, and causally checked his watch. He rubbed his eyes and stretched again, knocking into his tent mate.
"What time is it?" The other man mumbled.
"'Bout five minutes before six." He responded.
"Ugh." The man rolled over. Then he shot into a sitting position. "Wait, what time was that again?"
"Shit! We're late!" Hare shoved his way out of the tent.
The other tent was just across the clearing they had used as a campsite. Hare looked around, checking the items.
Cooking stuff, packs, tents, umm... one tent I'll need to carry, Bear can carry the other. He did a double take. The assassin's tent was gone. Hare counted all the stuff again. Everything the assassin had taken up with him, and a few extras, were missing. What the hell...
Hare quickly woke up the rest of his unit. They were late, the assassin was missing, and to top it all of, Hare had thought it would be a pleasant day. The whole unit was packed within five minutes; twenty faster than it had taken them yesterday.
"What are we going to do about the leech?"
"Leave him here?"
"Not an option, what if he escapes?"
"Top priority my ass..."
"So we'll leave him?"
"Sure, I bet his survived worse than being lost in the woods."
""What if we get back to camp…?"
"Make something up! We need to leave now!"
The pissed unit started jogging down the path, not noticing when a shadowy figure slipped behind them, as they were too busy arguing to pay attention.
The soft constant slapping of feet reminded the assassin of another time, not following a childish unit, but running for his life...
Slap-slap, slap-slap. Get-away, get-away. He ran on, the rain driving into his back. Cold, so cold, so empty, so tired. Pushing on. Slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap. He felt so tired. He had be running for what could have possibly been hours, trying to get away... from who? What? He couldn't say. The grey street blurred with the grey buildings with the grey sky. Like running down a grey tunnel, with no light at the end. He felt trapped in this in-between state, so relief flooded through him when he saw the lone streetlight, shining brightly. He ran up to it, panting, and placed his hands on the cold, slippery, almost slimy metal, and rested. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head on the pole, and focused on breathing. That was how they found him. Four men, drunk and in high sprits. They staggered up to the boy. He looked up sharply, having smelt them as they lurched towards him. He pressed his back against the pole, trying not to make a sound. If they came near...
"Sonny! What aren't you home?"
Silence.
"Not much of a talker are you? Where do you live?"
The boy glared at him. The man became frustrated.
He slapped the boy across the face. "TALK DAMN IT!"
The boy shrank back.
The man grabbed the boy around the throat. "I'll wring it out of you!"
The boy kicked hard, and the man's knee gave. He fell to the street, howling. A fist shot out of the dark, hitting the boy deep into the gut. He bent over with a groan. Suddenly a foot lashed forward, connecting with the boy's still bent head. He dropped to the ground. A pair of hands grabbed him. He was shoved up against the pole.
"What's wrong? No fight left in you?" A sneering face leaned in. The boy's head snapped up, connecting with the man's face. The broken nose went strait through the nasal cavity, entering through the front of the man's brain. But no one knew it at the time. He dropped to the ground with a thud.
"You little brat! Not done yet?"
The boy was trying desperately to escape, to get away from the pole, the light. He dodged the knife that had appeared out of the dark. The third, no fourth drunk appeared. His hands were balled into fists. Where was the knife? It didn't matter. The boy ran for the man, hitting him in a tackle. The man went down hard. Too hard. His head cracked off the pavement. The boy stood up on shaky legs. He was spent, weary. Suddenly there was a whoop of a siren. He turned and dashed... right into a mountain of a man. The boy fell back, the breath knocked out of him. He sat there in a puddle. The man above him slowly raised a knife. Sitting, the boy braced his hands on the wet pavement, nails digging into the grit. He tensed. When the man swung his am, the boy dove out of the way. The man staggered forward a few steps, still showing signs of his pleasant night. Shakily the boy got to his feet, prepared to run. The whoops got closer. And they were coming from behind him. He dashed forward and the blade hissed through the air. Pale hands shot forward. The boy held the man's wrist, still running. There was an awful pop, followed by a worse tearing sound. The man screamed. Again the boy's hands took over. The man was behind him on his right side. Planting his right foot he pivoted, ramming the stolen blade deep into the base of the man's skull. Blood gushed out, pouring over the boy's hands. With a sob, he stumbled back. The whooping was closer now. The boy took off down the street. He dove into an alley. He found a garbage can, half full with filthy water. Thrusting his hands in, the boy scrubbed feverishly. After a few seconds he gave up, and not checking to see if he was clean, he stumbled off. Sleep was the only thing on his mind. He didn't think about school, his friend, and the two, three, possibly four dead men he had left in the glow of a street-light. His feet took him to a park, a group of trees. Slowly he climbed, not noticing the cuts he gained along the way up. When he reached a good spot to stop, he did. He leaned his head back against the tree. Closing his eyes, he started to drift off. Wait, he had to check. Slowly he raised his hands. They were covered in blood. But this time it was his own.