Welcome back, dear readers! It's great to see you again!

I know these chapters are incredibly short and somewhat episodic, but they all tie together, I swear! Alex and Ella will actually meet in this fic, as promised. Ella is again the narrator for this chapter. It won't switch between Ella and Alex every other chapter. It will just depend on what best fits the story.

Similar to Alex is canon, Ella's job was (at least before she turned 18) highly illegal, due to child labor laws in America. Because of this, her file doesn't include anything physically identifiable, (looks, height, age, gender, family relations, etc.) just detailed mission reports.

Disclaimer: I own all of the physical Alex Rider books, but none of the rights to them.

And without further ado…

Chapter 6: Lovechild

Ella:

It's almost noon when we finally catch up with the bomb in the moving truck, in Bled, Slovenia. Someone patched up the gaping hole with some silver duct tape.

Amateurs, I realize, They didn't even think of jacking a new vehicle.

Bled is pretty rural and forested, so once we get off the main road, we, with help from the other three teams of soldiers, surround the truck. One of the teams of four soldiers gets out of their car and create a human barrier in front of the truck so it won't escape. However, they make a horrible miscalculation. They don't realize that Fabio Brandenberger has no regard for human life. The truck barrels into them, instantly killing two upon impact, and severely wounding the others. It keeps going, speeding along the road, leaving my line of sight quickly.

Macha slams on the brakes, leaving just two teams left to follow the truck. She, Fletcher, and Carlson jump out of the vehicle and begin assessing and treating the victims.

Fuck. Now is not the time to save some irresponsible agents. We are going to completely lose Brandenberger and the bomb! I decide to take action. I Bond-roll over Shumway, who is still strapped into the back seat, looking shell-shocked, and out of the car. Useless, I characterize him. I swing the back door shut and get into the driver's seat, closing the door and buckling in one swift motion. Slamming my foot onto the accelerator, I memorize the GPS coordinates of my idiot backup team's location. "Shumway, are you still with me?"

The man appears to have come out of his initial shock. "Shouldn't I be staying with the rest of my team?" He asks, stupidly.

I am going about 90 miles per hour at this point, yet I risk a glance back to stare him right in his fool face. "Welp. You'd best plan your jump accordingly because I am going after Brandenberger." He takes the hint and shuts up, nodding, as if to say 'I'll do whatever you say.'

Obviously, I think, focusing my eyes back on the road, his degenerate ass shouldn't be anywhere near me. I am Agent 4-6-fucking-7. I was born with more field experience than he'll ever have. Of course he's going to follow my orders. I really hate incompetence.

"Shumway. Get out your cell phone, and dial '112.' That's the Slovenian emergency services. Tell them to send backup and a few ambulances to your team," I order him, rattling off the coordinates of his team. He complies.

I go even faster, needing to catch up to the bomb. Now, I'm driving almost 150 miles per hour. Luckily, whoever chose this vehicle wasn't a complete tool at their job. The car was a Chevrolet Camaro, so it handled the speed just fine. I've even done 215 miles per hour in one before.

As the speedometer reaches 200 mph, Shumway looks terrified. It was pretty funny, actually.

"Um...4-6-7? Aren't we going about 150 miles above the speed limit?"

"The law can bite me. Would you rather the entire nation of Israel be blown to pieces?" I snarl, done with his inexperience. I take one hand off the steering wheel and take out my phone to call my dad, to update him on our 'little situation.' It's a dangerous move, and Shumway looks scared shitless, which invigorates me. Before I hit the 'call' button, I ask my counterpart what languages he speaks, so I know not to use them.

"Besides English," he says proudly, "Spanish and some French." I roll my eyes at his arrogance. I spoke English, Dutch, German, and Spanish fluently when I was only two. I've always had an ear for languages, I realize as I run down my mental list. Just to fuck with Shumway, I decide to use more than one. I hit the call button on my phone, putting it on speaker, and my father picks up after two rings.

"Mr. Cornell?" (I don't want Shumway to know he's my dad) I say in English, just before switching to rapid-fire Arabic. I don't totally trust that he only knows Spanish and French, so I speak as quickly and as garbled as I can, so he can't pick up anything I say. "We have a situation. Brandenberger's truck mowed down half of one of your teams and severely injured the other half. The team of medics you assigned to me stayed behind to help them, which I understand. However, Shumway, who is an arrogant fool, stayed in the car, and he's currently in the back seat. I'm currently going over 200mph in an attempt to catch up to Brandenberger and the other two teams. We should be getting close, but I want more backup. Send every team within a 100-mile radius of Bled, Slovenia to my aid. I'm not sure how much more useful I'll be after this."

My dad answers in identical garbled Arabic. "4-6-7," he says, sounding concerned, "What's wrong?"

I answer in German. "Well, I'm feeling kind of dizzy. It could be the speeding. Or it could be…" I trail off, not wanting to admit my weakness by saying the rest of my sentence.

"It could be what?" My father growls in grumbling German.

"Remember how I was in the hospital, like 8 hours ago?" I ask in innocent Italian.

"Yes…" He responds impatiently in the same language. As dire a situation as this is, I can't help but find this flawless switching of languages hilarious. I bite the side of my cheek to stop myself from smiling.

Russian this time. "The good doctor said that I might have a concussion...I didn't exactly stay for testing. I decided that jumping out the window and onto the fire escape would be the best course of action…" I hear my dad facepalm. I continue my little monologue before he can get a word in. "In my defense, Mr. Cornell, you did tell me to get out of the hospital in half an hour. CT scans take much longer than that. I was just following orders." I say, as innocently as one possibly can while shouting in Russian at a man who they are pretending isn't their father, and driving just over 200mph down the road in unfamiliar forest-y Slovenia.

I hear a loud sigh from the other end of the phone. "Okay," he says, matching my garbled Russian with his own. "I know you well enough that I can't convince you to walk away from a dangerous situation like this. Go save Israel, and we'll get your head checked out when you return."

'When you return' repeats in my head a few times. Not if. When.

My father continues, switching back to German. "Byrne just received word that the other two teams just pulled the truck over, and are talking to the driver now. I'm tracking your vehicle as we speak, and it's about 10 miles up the road. Ditch the car and the degenerate in the backseat about 8.5 miles up the road, and run the rest of the way as an unseen backup agent just in case shit hits the fan. Godspeed, 4-6-7. You can do this. I know you can. I'll meet up with you in France." My father says 'Godspeed' a lot. He's old-fashioned, in that way. My father believes in God and Country. Having personally been through hell and back as a child, I don't, but I appreciate the sentiment, and he knows it.

"I understand completely," I say, switching over to Dutch. "I'll see you on the other side." The line clicks dead. I abandon Shumway and the car in the nearest ditch, telling him to stay put until further instructions. A tense scene is taking place about a mile up the road. I run towards it, never looking back.

When I arrive at the scene, I stop in my tracks. If a shitshow and a clusterfuck met up and had a lovechild, it would be this.

Concealing myself behind a tree trunk, I try to process the scene ahead of me. Two of the teams have been completely massacred, and there are pools of blood and corpses strewn everywhere. Of the remaining four members, one is on his knees with Fabio Brandenberger holding a gun to his head, two are being physically held hostage by Brandenberger's cohorts, and the last is being tortured for information, out in the open, and he's singing like a goddamn canary.

"We're with the CIA," I hear the words come tumbling out of his sobbing, coward mouth, "We've come to stop you and your bomb from getting to Iraq."

How did this imbecile pass basic RTI? I passed the CIA RTI course at age 5. What the hell has this organization come to?

Another thought surfaces in my jumbled, possibly concussed head.

Everyone here, save the agents being held hostage, has to die right now. While I've been conditioned to killing almost my whole life, I still don't particularly enjoy it. Today I have no choice. Since everyone else is either dead or occupied, I take my opportunity to creep up to the left side of the truck and snatch a gun off of the solitary dead agent I see.

"Thank you for your service," I murmur as I check the gun. It's not a sniper rifle, but it has a silencer so it will have to do. I'm about to climb on top of the truck and snipe Brandenburger and his cohorts off one by one with my stolen weapon when I hear a scream.

"Shit!" I exclaim when I see Luca Brandenburger, Fabio's son. If only you could put a silencer on a child like you can a gun. I hear a gunshot, signaling the death of the man that Fabio was holding at gunpoint. He comes running over to see why his son is screaming. Thinking quickly, I scoop Luca up, holding him tight against my chest, and holding my gun to his head. I do this partly to protect myself, and partly to have leverage against Fabio. "One more step, Brandenberger, and I'll put a bullet through your only son's head," I growl, not actually willing to go through with my threat. Brandenberger, however, isn't willing to call my bluff. I keep my face blank and emotionless, not letting anything slip. "Put your weapon down and lay flat on the ground," I order him. He complies. Luckily, his men haven't shown up yet as they are still holding the other CIA agents hostage. The only thing between the two of us is his 6-year-old son. I hate to put a kid through this trauma, I really do, but I'm not risking my life for this brat. He is my cover, and currently, the only reason I haven't been shot yet. My mind is racing a mile a minute. Brandenberger knows too much about me to stay alive, and if I don't shoot him now he'll probably escape. However, I don't want to shoot this man in front of his young son. Traumatizing children is not okay.

Three more gunshots rang out, and that was when I realized I was on my own. Shumway was about a mile down the road, probably still sitting uselessly in the Camaro. I look over my right shoulder and see Brandenberger's guards. They've made their way towards us, and one has blood splashed on his torso. CIA blood. I back up until my back is touching the cold metal of the truck.

The situation has gone from the lovechild of a shitshow and clusterfuck to hell. I don't like my odds. Brandenberger is now standing, eyeing me, and looking for a way to shoot me without harming Luca. He's standing on my left, gun in his hands. His three guards are on my right, guns trained at my head. One of them snarls, and all of a sudden, I'm lying through my teeth.

"You're done, Brandenberger. The CIA is almost here. You can't shoot me, or your son will die. Stand down. Be a man, and go to jail." I'm just speculating, praying, even, that the CIA is on its way. They've never been incredibly reliable with backup, and when they do send it, it's often young, inexperienced agents who get themselves killed. And I still have qualms about shooting a six-year-old. If Luca dies this afternoon, it will not be by my hands, I silently promise myself.

"The way I see it, Agent 4-6-7," Brandenberger spits out, "You are younger than expected, by the way. That's beside the point. Anyways, you're trapped. You are surrounded. You will hand over my son, and then you will die. Spy." Poor Brandenberger. He doesn't realize that I will never die a spy.

"It's cute that you think you have any control over this situation," I growl. I throw myself and Luca to the ground, narrowly missing Fabio's bullet, which was aimed at my head. Clutching the boy and my gun tight, I log-roll underneath the truck, and over to the other side. I point to a nearby tree. "Sit behind there," I hiss at Luca. I must have been just terrifying enough because the brat actually does as I say. I open the passenger door of the truck, and in one swift movement, the door is shut once again, and I'm sitting in the driver's seat, foot on the accelerator. Gunshots ring out, and now I'm dodging bullets in the driver's seat. Come on Ella, you can do this. End this now. This can all be over if you just drive. I take a deep breath and dodge another bullet aimed at my head.

And I did. I barreled the truck straight into Brandenberger's guards, killing them on impact, Walter White-style.

I snarl at Brandenberger, and for the first time, he looks truly vulnerable. He looks scared. Defeated. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to mow the fucker down with the moving truck because he is a criminal, but somewhere else inside my head was yelling just as loudly, telling me not to do this in front of the man's son. I know what it's like to witness death at a young age. Hell, I killed for the first time when I was only 10 years old. I can't ruin Luca even more than he already is. My brain was having a civil war: to kill or not to kill, and it sure as hell wasn't improving my already pounding headache. I have never felt real remorse about killing someone before, not even when I was 10, but this is different. His child is right here, poking his head around the tree I sat him behind. He is bawling his eyes out. I cannot kill this man, not in front of his child. I'm done with this fucked-up world of crime, spies, and espionage, screwing up children. It happened to me, and I am now a mess of emotions with impulsive tendencies, who is pretty much unable to make real human connections–or so says my CIA-required therapist. I cannot fuck-up another kid. I cannot do this to Luca, no matter how much I hate his dad. God, morals are annoying in this line of work.

I sigh, admitting defeat to myself, and get out of the car. I know that I can't be the one to let Luca witness his father's murder in cold blood. The cold blooded killing doesn't bother me, I've been doing it for years, but emotionally and psychologically ruining children is against everything I stand for.

Brandenberger is still standing up, looking puzzled that he is still alive. I shake my head, slowly, deliberately. "Give me your weapon and your cell phone. I'm not going to kill you, not in front of Luca, but you need to let me tie you up while I wait for backup." He is confused, and I would have been too, but he hands over his gun and a cell phone, unlocking the latter with his fingerprint. I instruct him to lay them on the ground next to me, and as he is doing this, I tie him around a tree using my shoelaces to contain his hands and feet. I watch him like a hawk, holding a gun to his left kidney, out of Luca's sight. "I can't emotionally ruin a kid like I've been ruined," I murmur, desperate for him to understand. This is weird for me. If Luca hadn't been there, Brandenberger would have been mowed down by a truck 5 minutes ago. Well, actually, if Luca hadn't been there, I would have been able to snipe him and his guards off, uninterrupted.

Anyways, Brandenberger would have been long dead in any other situation. I have no qualms about killing, even in cold-blood if it's for a good cause, but again, I can't ruin this poor child.

Brandenberger nods, and whispers "Thank you," completely understanding my convoluted intentions.

I dial my dad's untraceable phone number again, for the second time this hour, and he picks up after one ring.

"Hello?" He asks in English, unsure as to who is calling him.

Exhausted, I choose to speak Dutch, which is close enough to English for Brandenberger to get the gist of the conversation, but far enough away to retain at least some privacy. "Sir? It's 4-6-7. I need backup, immediately. I want you, personally. There are 12 dead CIA agents at the scene, and 3 of Brandenberger's men are dead, and there's a bit of a situation with Brandenberger…" I trail off, not wanting to show my dad any weakness. On the other hand, I freely admitted it to an international criminal, so my priorities are a little jacked up, to say the least.

My father replies, matching my language and sense of urgency. "I'm boarding the Chinook now, as we speak. I'm coming from Lyon, so give me three hours. I'm tracking your call and have your exact coordinates." He pauses to catch his breath. "What situation? Where is Brandenberger? What is his status? Are you okay, Agent?"

"I'm fine. My head is pounding, but I'm fine. Brandenberger is alive, right in front of me, tied to a tree with my shoelaces. I have a gun pointed at his left kidney," I say, not explaining the real issue. Funny, how an international criminal guilty of war crimes can understand me, but my own father could never.

"And do you plan on doing anything about that?" My father asks, puzzled.

"No, sir. He will remain here and alive until you and your authorities arrive."

"It's not that I don't trust your judgment, Agent, but why haven't you just shot him yet? Did he not threaten to strap you to an atomic bomb that was going to vaporize you while simultaneously blowing up the entire nation of Israel?" My logic sounds so stupid as the words tumble out of his mouth, but I am not giving up on my morals. Not now. Not when I am so close to getting away from this all will I abandon my sense of ethics.

"I have my reasons, Sir. I will explain them to you in person if you so desire. I will see you soon," I shoot back, obstinately. I hang up the phone before he can question me further.

I turn my attention back to Brandenberger, who hasn't made a move to escape. "Why haven't you killed me? I was horrible to you. I'm a terrible person. I'd have shot me by now in your situation," he questions me, suspicious.

"Because," I say, nonchalantly, totally okay with spilling out my deepest secrets to a man who tried to murder me about 12 minutes ago, "I couldn't do it in front of your son. I couldn't traumatize a child forever at such a young age. You're his father, and it would psychologically ruin him if he were to witness your murder, and I can't carry that with me for the rest of my life. My boss will never understand because he sees so many things in black and white. As long as it saves the country or the world, it's morally right. He hasn't learned to see the gray yet. He's okay with manipulating children, such as me, as long as it serves the greater good. However, as a child who has grown up in this twisted world of spies and crime, and has been through hell and back, all I see is the gray. There is no longer any moral right and wrong, it's all just one big, fuzzy, fucked-up gray area that I'm trying my best to navigate, and I know the trauma and horrors of this cruel world of espionage, and I cannot in good conscious mess up another child as badly as I have been psychologically messed up. I would have killed you an hour ago, had it not been for your son. Morally, I can't hurt another child mentally like I've been hurt, or traumatize them like I've been traumatized." A few stray tears are streaking down my face. I look Brandenberger in the eyes.

"Thank you," He whispers, "This world is too fucked up for most adults to handle, and you can't be a day over 16, so it must be impossible for you. Thank you, truly, for not putting my son through the same.

It feels weird, yet strangely perfect to confess my deepest and darkest confessions to an international crime lord in the middle of a Slovenian forest. "You don't have any contingency plans, do you? You know, back up in case shit hits the fan? No more men coming?" He shakes his head. "Good," I nod, not trusting him even a little bit, "I am going to disguise the truck in the middle of the forest, and you and your son will be sitting in there until my people arrive." He nods again. Before he can react, I lift my right foot, and land a perfectly executed roundhouse kick on the side of his head, effectively knocking him out, so I'm able to transport him without any surprises. I'm emotional and broken, not stupid and incompetent.

I tie Brandenberger to the same bench he handcuffed me to last night. Unlike Brandenberger, however, I actually do a good job. On top of tying his wrists together and to one bench leg, and his ankles together and to another bench leg, I tie his fingers together using the straps I cut from my bra with my ring, so he is unable to untie himself. I kick him in the head again, for good measure, so he doesn't wake up and attempt to escape while I'm out completing my next task.

"Luca?" I call out as I shut the truck door behind me. I need to find the younger Brandenberger, or my dramatic show of morals will have all been for nothing. I walk over to the tree I had originally left him at, to find him curled up into a fetal position, sleeping. It's actually kind of sweet. Don't get me wrong, he is his father's son in every sense of the phrase, but I do still have a heart. I'm not developing feelings for either Brandenberger. I'd kill Fabio in a heartbeat if his son wasn't there. He is a terrible man, and it would deliver a severe blow to Onyx if he died. However, something about a naïve little boy curled up in a fetal position that really clouds my judgment. Goddamn childhood trauma.

Two hours later, I'm sitting and watching both Brandenbergers, when I hear the sound of helicopter blades. Dad.

About 20 minutes after I hear the blades, there is a knock at the back door of the truck. "4-6-7? Across the nation, hundreds of flights are boarding." I hear my dad say in quick and garbled Mandarin. With a grin, I open the door, letting him and his team in. It's all over.

"Goddamn. Is that the bomb?" An agent asks, awestruck, pointing at the imposing bomb in the front of the truck's trailer. I roll my eyes and reach over to hug my dad. He discreetly kisses the top of my head, and it feels so good to be back in his arms. Both Brandenbergers are still out: Fabio is unconscious, and Luca is asleep.

"Quite a scene," My father comments, "50 miles down the road, there were bloodstains, presumably from the first batch of injured agents, and right up the road, it's a proper massacre." I nod, not trusting myself to speak. "Are you sure you're okay?" My dad asks, suddenly concerned. I don't know why he's concerned, and then my eyes are closed and I'm falling.

I wake up sometime later in another hospital bed. I feel drowsy and sleep-deprived. The only other person in the room is my dad, who just notices I am awake.

"Ella," he murmurs. This is the first time I've heard my actual name in a very long while, and I know that I'm safe and that everything will be okay. I again close my eyes, relishing the moment.

When I wake up again, I feel a lot less like I've just been hit by a train. "Ella, you're awake? How are you feeling?" My dad asks, still the only other figure in the room.

"Better," I assure him. It's really quite nice to see my dad concerned about my well-being. "What happened? Where are we?"

"You passed out in my arms back in Brandenberger's truck, from what the doctors say was from stress and exhaustion," I nod, remembering that much, "You and I were airlifted to Paris, and that's where we are now, in the hospital. Fabio Brandenberger is on his way back to the States, to be interrogated and killed, and Luca Brandenberger is on his way back to Switzerland to live with his mother." I smile because this all worked out perfectly. "You don't have a concussion, by the way, you were just sleep-deprived, dehydrated, and delirious."

"It's all over, Dad," I say, my voice filled with relief. It feels so good to finally speak these words. These words that will end so much of my personal pain and suffering.

"The end of an era," He says, almost nostalgically. "What exactly happened, back in Bled? What made you unable to pull the trigger on Brandenberger?"

Now is so not the time. "Shhhhh," I murmur, "Not now," I manage to articulate before falling back into the wonderful oblivion of sleep.

AN: Longest chapter yet!

I split Ella's chapter up again, because this one got way longer and way deeper into Ella's subconscious than I expected. She has somewhat questionable morals that aren't always super well defined, but she doesn't want any other kids to go through the hell she has. She can be irrational, and convoluted as hell, but she sticks to her guns.

*Thank you Zyzyax for the "seeing the shades of gray" line. The Internship is one of my favorite fics ever.