Yassen made the half-hour drive to Sabadell Airport in less than fifteen minutes.
They sped down the C-58 to the sound of blaring horns and screaming tires as Yassen squeezed into tight spots Alex could have sworn hadn't existed a moment ago. He clung to his seat with one hand while he used the other to protect his head from smashing against the window. This time, napping was out of the question.
A few police cars had followed them, blue lights flashing, since they entered the motorway and now tried to keep up with Yassen's insane driving.
"If you planned on killing me, you could just have shot me at the hotel!" Alex yelped after Yassen cut across two lanes to take the next exit. He wished he still had the bulletproof ski suit from Point Blank – that way he might survive a crash. But no, MI6 hadn't given him any gadgets for this mission. They hadn't bothered to give him anything at all.
"No complaints," Yassen reminded him, annoyingly calm as he slalomed between two trucks. The sun hadn't risen yet, but it was prime time for commercial traffic and there was a caravan of trucks and lorries in the inner lane.
Alex rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me – you wanted to be a racing driver when you grew up."
Yassen offered a slight shake of his head. "Helicopter pilot."
"Really?" Alex asked sceptically. He couldn't imagine Yassen as a small child with dreams. He would sooner believe Yassen had been born the cold-hearted professional he was today. Then again… "You did fly that Colibri."
Yassen quirked his lips. "I took evening classes. Piloting is a useful skill."
"Sure." Of course, everything needed to be useful to be worth learning in Yassen's mind. The man probably read computer manuals for fun.
They drove in silence for a few minutes before Alex dared address the MI6-sized problem they were speeding towards at ninety miles per hour.
"How do we stop Crawley at the airport?" Alex asked.
Yassen stayed silent, eyes fixed on the road.
Alex sent him a glare. "You aren't planning to kill him, are you?"
"That would be the easiest solution," Yassen said.
"That doesn't make it right!"
"I have found that eliminating problems tends to solve them."
Alex scowled. "Well, I have found that killing people only creates new problems." He tried not to think of Martín.
Yassen was quiet for a long moment, before saying, "If we tip him off too soon, he will disappear with the plan and we will likely be arrested by airport security." And this time they would be unlikely to escape. Yassen gave Alex a long look from the corner of his eye, casually avoiding colliding with a van. "You had a workable idea earlier."
"Which time?" Alex tried to think back. He had a lot of ideas – though admittedly most tended to blow up rather spectacularly, even the times he didn't intend it.
Yassen glanced at the rear mirror. "First we need a head-start on our tail, then we can talk."
Alex looked behind him. Until now, the police had kept up with them. This changed as Yassen pushed the accelerator to its limits, and went from reckless driver to road hazard.
Alex thought he saw Yassen grin out of the corner of his eyes, but that must have been his imagination. No way Yassen did anything as human as grinning.
After all, there's no profit in having fun.
Alex stared around the arrival hall of the airport. A few bleary-eyed travellers stood around, clearly frustrated – checking their watches or phones every few minutes – while the woman manning the only open check-in desk looked ready to go home, her service-smile more of a grimace. A large screen above her displaying departure times showed all flights as either delayed or cancelled. Alex walked closer and overheard her trying to appease a middle-aged woman holding a crying toddler.
"You arranged a strike?" Alex asked Yassen incredulously in a low voice.
"The baggage handlers are showing their displeasure with a recently proposed pay cut," Yassen said.
"How convenient." How recent was 'recently'? How did Yassen manage to arrange something as extensive as a strike in less than four hours?
Yassen led the way, somehow knowing exactly where to go. Alex didn't bother asking how. The assassin had a pair of sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar and had nicked an I-heart-Barcelona cap from a man reading the El Pais on a bench. He looked so stereotypical touristy, Alex didn't doubt it drew the attention away from the fact they weren't carrying any luggage.
Alex kept his hands in his pockets and tried to look suitably bored. At least with his hands out of sight, no one could see them shake with nerves.
Yassen strode up to a tall, hawkish man wearing the uniform of airport security and exchanged a few words in an Eastern European language. The guy glanced at Alex, nodded, and waved for them to follow.
The security guy led them on a fast-paced walk down long, white corridors bathed in fluorescent light, stopping several times to unlock doors with his key card while making sure to stand between them and the keypad as he input the code.
When they emerged back into the public part of the airport, they had passed security. They now stood outside a duty-free shop selling expensive perfumes to guilty businessmen looking to placate their wives back home.
The security guy left them there without a word, and Alex turned to Yassen with a raised brow. The assassin shrugged and said, "I have good contacts."
Alex looked around. Across from them, there were two restaurants, a pharmacy, and a shop selling bags and t-shirts with colourful prints. Only the pharmacy was open and no one was inside.
He spotted a vending machine in a corner and had a sudden thirst for caffeine, but when he turned back to Yassen to borrow a few Euros, the assassin had disappeared.
"Typical," Alex muttered to himself. He scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Should he look around or stay and wait?
"Rider."
Alex spun around. Crawley stood behind him, appearing both surprised and annoyed to see him.
"You're not supposed to be here," Crawley continued.
Alex glared, suddenly angry. "Why? Aren't I supposed to travel home with you?" He widened his eyes in pretend shock. "Wait no, I remember now. I was supposed to be bait."
Crawley frowned. "The theatrics do not suit you." He looked around. Maybe to search for Yassen, maybe to gauge whether anyone was listening to their conversation. Then he stuck his hands inside his jacket and Alex tensed, though Crawley only pulled out his wallet and handed him two twenties. "Here. Go take a taxi to the British embassy. They'll take good care of you while we do our best to sort things out back in London."
That stopped Alex short. "Sort what out?"
Crawley looked at Alex as if he were being deliberately obtuse. He glanced around again, though there was no one nearby, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Rider, you murdered a man on foreign territory, then ran off with Yassen Gregorovich. Did you think that wouldn't matter?"
Alex tensed. It wasn't like he hadn't already known his situation was bad, but Crawley laying it out so bluntly forced him to truly think the implications through for the first time.
"That's not… but you." He thought back. No, no matter what Yassen claimed, Crawley had never said anything to imply Alex should kill Juan Martín. They hadn't given Alex any gadgets for the mission, let alone weapons.
He closed his eyes for a moment. No, he would not let Crawley rattle him.
"Killing Martín was an accident," he said firmly – though he had lowered his voice as well – and for the first time, he believed himself. He had tried to wrestle the gun away, not fire it. How did Crawley even know Yassen hadn't been the one to shoot Martín? How closely had MI6 been watching the hotel room? "I'm not a murderer."
"That doesn't absolve you from manslaughter," Crawley said drily.
Alex scowled. "Don't pretend you haven't made worse incidents disappear for your agents."
"You have made it perfectly clear you do not want to work for us."
Alex spread out his arms. "Yet here I am."
A mother drove a buggy with her sleeping child in a large circle around them. People were starting to notice their quiet standoff.
Crawley lowered his voice further. "Stop making a scene."
"Or what?" Alex goaded. A dark-haired man dressed in a familiar uniform turned around and started striding towards them.
"Do not test me," Crawley warned. "We will clean things up with the Spanish authorities if you play nice – but we don't need airport security to get involved."
Alex had heard that one before. 'We can make it all go away, Alex. You just need to go on one last mission, while we sort things out with the police.' He wouldn't fall for their lies again.
"Too late," Alex said and donned a terrified expression. Crawley stood frozen for a moment, confused by Alex's rapid change of behaviour, and a moment was all Alex needed. He met the security guard's eyes, pointed at Crawley and shouted in perfect Spanish, "He has a bomb!"