AN: General note-Other languages, as well as thoughts, are italicized, Macha is pronounced as mock-uh
Chapter 5: Agent 4-6-7
Ella:
I land on a dirt road in a heap of arms and legs. "Shit!" I exclaim when I realize that I never swiped right on my ring, and the blade just cut down the side of my face as I tumbled out of the truck. I quickly swipe left to prevent further self-inflicted injury. Come on Ella, you can do this, girl. You just have to stand up and get to a phone. You can do this. Get up. Find phone. Call for backup. You have to stop Fabio Brandenberger and his-
I wake up, sometime later in an unfamiliar bed. My eyes sting at the bright lights. A young woman with bright blue eyes and an older woman with curly, gray hair are staring me down.
"Where am I?" I exclaim, panicked about both my current whereabouts, as well as the future of Israel, "What time is it?" My voice is raspier than I remember.
"Shhhh, sweetie," The older woman says soothingly, "I'm Doctor Gina Phillips, and you are in the hospital. You suffered a nasty fall, and you have a cut on your face that we stitched up. We still need to test, but you may even have a concussion. Oh, and it's 5 in the morning."
My head is swimming. "I need a phone. I need to call someone. It's really important."
"Don't worry, we can call your family for you. I never caught your name, by the way," The doctor replied sweetly. I have no time for kindness. I have a bomb to stop and a country to save.
"My name isn't important. This phone call, however, is. Please. Just let me borrow a phone," I insist, "Who is that?" I ask, gesturing toward the blue-eyed woman in the corner of the room.
"My name is Lisa. I'm the one that found you and brought you in," She replies, smiling at me. I nod, in thanks.
At this point, I am sick of this 'sweetie' crap. I have things to accomplish. "Please. Let me call my people. This is extremely important," I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. It's not easy.
"I'm sorry, but it's against policy. I can call your parents for you," The doctor says, condescendingly.
I try a different approach. I may be 18 years old, but I can still play 'Little Girl Lost' as well as ever. Tears stream down my face. I clear my throat and my voice shifts into a slight, yet noticeable Russian accent. "Please, my parents, they don't speak English. They won't understand. I have to speak to them. I don't suppose you speak Russian?" I ask, purposefully choosing a language that few people in Switzerland speak.
The doctor looks startled. "Oh...Of course...I could try to find a translator, but-"
"But it'd be easier for me to call myself. I need medical attention, and fast what with my having a concussion." I cut her off. I am playing this woman like a violin. I have her wrapped around my (bruised) finger.
She hands me her cell phone, and I thank her, profusely. "By the way, we are in Spital Davos AG, in Davos, Switzerland." I nod and I call my dad at CIA HQ. Speaking rapid-fire Russian, I quickly outline my problem.
"Papa. I need your help. I'm in the hospital, and I need to get out. Brandenberger is driving a bomb into Iraq. They plan to blow up the whole of Israel. I'm in Switzerland right now, but the bomb is probably farther south. I left my belt tracker in the truck that was carrying it. I need backup, and I need to get out of this hospital. The hospital is called Spital Davos AG, and I'm in Davos, Switzerland."
My dad swears in a litany of languages, some of which even I don't recognize. "Ella, you're going to have to escape the hospital–probably by sneaking out. You don't have the proper ID to release yourself, and I don't want anything incriminating on your medical record. Make sure you're okay and get out as soon as you can. I am tracking the van as we speak. I have teams stationed all over Switzerland, Europe, and the Middle East. I'll send one team to pick you up, and another three to intercept the bomb. Your team will meet up with the other three, and you will fly to France, via helicopter. The team will be out front in 30 minutes. Good luck, and Godspeed." He hangs up.
"Goodbye, Papa, see you then," I say into the phone to keep my cover. I quickly delete the phone number from the doctor's phone, so nobody tries to track it. Not that they'll find anything incriminating, but I don't want to raise suspicions.
"Thank you, doctor," I say, turning my attention to the woman. She looks puzzled. That's understandable, I guess. "My father. He will be here in one hour to take me home. He said 'No more hospital care.'"
"Are you sure?" She asks, looking genuinely concerned for my health and well-being. I nod. "I really do want to check you out for a concussion. It seems you may have hit your head. Do you remember what happened leading up to the accident?" I suppress a shudder. Vividly, I think to myself.
"I'm okay," I assure her, getting out of bed, "Where is the bathroom?" She points at a door to my left, wordlessly.
I get to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I look around the room. Mercifully, there is a window. I stick my head out and examine the ground below. Making my way back to the front of the room, I turn on the faucet in an attempt to drown out the noise I am about to make. Looking in the mirror, I realize how badly my ring cut up my face. There is a deep, stitched-up cut sprawling from my temple to my cheekbone. I hope that it doesn't scar too badly. But it will. It always does. I pee quickly and wash my hands and ring, preparing for the long day ahead of me. With a sigh, I open up the window, and swinging my legs over the window sill, I hurl myself out.
I land in a deep crouch on a fire escape, about a story below. Spying, I realize, is really just half arson and half running down a good fire escape. I'm 4 floors up, which is too far to jump, so I run down three stories, before recklessly throwing myself off of the railing. I tuck and roll, doing a somersault as I land, so as not to further injure myself.
I stand up and brush myself off. The hospital must have put me on a painkiller of some type, as I am feeling a lot better, though slightly loopy. This could also be my maybe-concussion, but I've been concussed before, and this doesn't quite feel like one.
I check my surroundings. Thankfully, there are no witnesses to the stunt I just pulled. I realize that I'm at the back of the hospital, and begin making my way to the front by stepping through the shadows.
It's great that it's only 5 a.m. because there is no one around. By the time I reach the front of the hospital, my team of soldiers/ride home is waiting for me.
"Agent 4-6-7, how nice to see you. My name is Shumway, " A young male soldier with close-cropped black hair greets me, "Your boss wanted me to tell you that you're going to need some good luck to pull this off. I nod, acknowledging his code, and get in the car.
The reason Shumway used the words "going" and "luck" in his code to signal that he is who he claims to be, is because of a code that my dad and I created years ago. I am my dad's third child, so the code words are the third and third-to-last words of our last conversation. Whenever he needs someone to pick me up, he always has them use whichever words those happen to be. It's kind of like how parents and their children come up with 'secret phrases' so they know when it's safe for the children to be picked up by other adults, yet much more high-stakes.
I'm sitting in the back seat, next to Shumway and a young Japanese woman, who introduced herself as Fletcher. In the front are two other agents, Carlson, a tall Black man, and the driver, Macha, a leggy Brazilian woman with long caramel hair. "Agent 4-6-7," I greet the team with a smirk. Everyone's (except Shumway, who already knew my identity) eyes widened. I guess I'm a bit of a legend around the CIA.
"Jesus, you're, 4-6-7?" Fletcher asks, "You're so young."
"You have a 100% mission success rate," Macha says in awe, "You've been on dozens of missions. I guess I expected you to be a little older…"
"In this world, age doesn't matter," I say, flippantly, "It's all about skill." A pause. "And as wonderful as I may be," I say dramatically, "My name's not Jesus." I joke. The other agents in the car laugh.
"Damn, she's funny too," Carlson laughs, "What can't you do, 4-6-7?"
"Read into the future," I say, "So, I want to know if we are going to intercept those Swiss bastards and their bomb, or if we are going home."
"We're going to help Mr. Cornell's other three teams intercept the bomb. He said they might need the help–" Shumway answers.
"And my knowledge and experience." I cut him off.
"That's exactly what Mr. Cornell said," Shumway says, eyeing me suspiciously, "He's the top man in the agency after Mr. Byrne himself. Do you know him?"
I laugh. It's honestly hilarious to me that people only know me as 'the legend of Agent 4-6-7.' My "job" is so far under the table that my file gives away no age, no family relations, and no physical descriptions, not even my gender. It's because of all of the strict American child labor laws that Byrne and my dad are blatantly breaking. Only half a dozen people legally employed at the CIA know my true identity, and I have a blood relation to four of them: My dad, my mom, Ava, James, Joe Byrne, and Peters, who is our gadget man. It's nice to have your reputation precede you, and have no one doubt you based on age or gender, just because of a super-secret file.
I guess now that I'm 18, I could legally be employed there, but that's not the life I want. I'm going to college.
"Ah well," I say, trying to make light of the situation, "Joe and I go way back. I've known him longer than the four of you combined have worked for the CIA." I shrug, casually. "And Cornell? I've known him practically forever." I smirk as they try to decipher my answer-that-isn't-really-an-answer. The team still looks impressed.
"How old are you, anyway?" Macha asks, finally.
I shrug, about to give my typical vague response. "Old enough to know exactly what I'm doing, but still young enough to look cute doing it."
The four agents in the car laugh. The sound cuts through the tense air like a ring-knife cuts through the face of an unsuspecting teenager. I am nervous about how this is all about to go down, but I'm ready for this to end. I can't wait to get out of this spy life and finally begin my own. After this mission, I will never spy again. I will never allow myself to be manipulated by intelligence agencies ever again. The thought calms me down and sets my soul on fire. One more night, Ella. One more night and this is all over.
The next chapter will also be Ella's POV. (The chapters aren't always going to alternate between Ella and Alex) I orignally planned to combine this chapter and the next one, but I kind of loved where this one ended.
Also, BIG NEWS! We are planning an Alex Rider big bang! For news, updates, and information, follow alexriderbigbang on tumblr!