Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Habits are natural. Take the same road a few times, and your feet will lead you without a thought in the right direction. Start acting without thinking, and you will find yourself falling into patterns, every single time.

Cossack wasn’t a creature of habits. Early on during his training years, Hunter had driven into him an important lesson: looking like everyone else helped you go unnoticed, but acting like everyone else was a weakness. Favourite foods or drinks were easier to poison; taking the same path every day was an invitation for an ambush. Habits, as a whole, were dangerous. They made you complacent, prone to mindlessness. Easier to find, to trap. And so Cossack strived to avoid them, refusing to indulge in anything he was naturally inclined to do, because patterns were recognizable, and habits got you killed.

Predictability was death, and Cossack was a survivor.

But at some point, he made a mistake. Going against all his training, he developed a habit. A dangerous one. The kind that seemed unimportant, but which has served him so many times when hunting a target.

Every time Ian Rider was in the field and Cossack wasn’t, he made his way to Chelsea to watch the local junior football team play. And afterwards, he bought little Alex Rider an ice cream in the summer or a hot chocolate in the winter and listened to him chatter endlessly about his life.

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night when the doorbell rang. It was a spring evening; the trees were covered in flowers, and tiny daisies were popping up all over the lawn. The weather was warm for the season, and Alex had taken his time coming home, shooting the shit with Tom. Ian was here, home early for once, and Jack was trying on a new recipe she had found in a magazine, ignoring pointedly the take-out menu strategically placed by Ian on the kitchen table. They were going to eat Chinese tonight.

But that was before the doorbell rang.

Alex didn’t know the woman at the door, but his uncle clearly did.

“Tulip?” Ian frowned. “What are you doing here, is everything alright?”

The woman, Tulip, had a severe look etched on her face that screamed something terrible was about to happen. Alex’s throat suddenly felt too tight, and he crossed his arms against his chest.

“There is… a slight problem at work, Ian. We need you to come to the bank. Alex, too. Just paperwork troubles, but it’s quite important, so it needs to be done as soon as possible, you understand.”

Ian didn’t move. Alex couldn’t see his face, only his back, but the tension in his uncle’s shoulders told him everything he had to know. Shit was about to go down.

“I don’t see why my teenage nephew could have anything to do with the bank usual business, Mrs. Jones.” Ian’s voice was ice cold. Alex shivered. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, Ma’am?”

Tulip’s voice turned hard. “You two are going to the bank, Ian. This is not up for discussion.” Her tone softened a bit, taking on a benevolent edge that sounded deeply artificial to Alex’s ears. “Please, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Who do you think you are,” Jack walked away from the counter, putting herself between the woman and Alex.

“Miss Starbright, stay out of it, will you?” As if summoned by Jack’s movement, five men wearing body armor rushed through the door, weapons in their hands. “This is a matter of national security.”

Next thing Alex knew, he was in the back of a car, sandwiched between two heavily armored men, his wrists bound in handcuffs. Heading straight to “the bank.”

The bank. Right. More like MI6 headquarters. What the hell was happening?

The room was cold. And grey.

The walls were dull, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. The floor was tiled, equally grey, with an ominous drain just below Ian’s feet. He couldn’t see the ceiling. Didn’t even try to, in fact. He knew these kinds of rooms, knew this one specifically, and looking directly at the harsh light above him would have blinded him for a moment. There was nothing to see, except for a metallic table, two very uncomfortable chairs, and a two-way mirror taking the entirety of the wall in front of him.

Ian pulled on the chain connecting his handcuffs to the table. At least his hands weren’t tied behind his back, which was a good sign. That, and the actual room he had been put in. It was in one of the upper levels of the basement, which meant intimidation rather than a more… hands on, kind of interrogation. The drain beneath his feet was mostly for show.

 Clearly, whatever upper management’s deal was, they hadn’t put him in the enemy category yet. Ian still had a chance to convince them it was all a big mistake.

He waited barely ten minutes before the door opened.

John Crawley took the second chair and neatly set a thin folder on the table. He stared at him for a long minute, a pensive look on his face.

“How long have you worked for the service, Rider?”

When he had started working for MI6, he had a living brother, and his nephew wasn’t born yet. It was a long time ago; it still felt like yesterday.

Crawley was well aware of how many years Ian had spent serving his country.

“Fifteen years. Sixteen in June.”

Crawley hummed. “It’s been a long time, now. You’re practically part of the furniture at this point.”

Ian stayed silent.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.” Most importantly, Ian didn’t know why Alex had been brought in. Was his nephew leverage against him? The possibility was infuriating, but not surprising coming from MI6. “Care to explain?”

Crawley opened the folder and placed a picture in front of Ian.

Blond hair gleaming in the sun. A lovely smile half-hidden by the angle of the camera. An ice cream, vanilla and salted caramel; Alex’s usual order when he was able to convince his uncle to buy him a cold snack.

And there, immortalized on the glossy paper next to his nephew, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder, was Yassen Gregorovitch.

Ian stared.

Fuck.

His brain felt overstuffed. A thousand questions were warring in his head: when, why, how? Had this been a chance encounter from Alex’s point of view? No, he clearly knew the man, was comfortable with him touching his shoulder that way, like… a family friend. An uncle of some sort.

How long…

Ian didn’t like what he was seeing. He didn’t like it one bit. Somehow, Gregorovich had established a kind of relationship with Alex, without Ian knowing. When did it happen? He was often gone, it was true, but surely his nephew trusted him enough to talk to him about strange men approaching him, pretending to be John’s friend, right?

Apparently not.

He blinked, then raised his head toward Crawley.

“When was it taken?”

The man put his elbows on the table and let his head rest on his crossed hands, observing Ian.

“You didn’t know about this, did you?”

“Crawley, when was this picture taken?”

“You know, I was quite sure you weren’t aware of this whole… situation. I insisted you couldn’t be, in fact. Blunt, on the other hand…”

“Crawley.” Ian barely recognized his own voice. He was a seasoned agent and should have been able to school his features and adopt a calm tone. Instead, he was shaking.

“Last Tuesday,” Crawley finally answered, looking almost contrite, “when you were in Lyon.”

Alex had a match that day. He had told him the week before, hoping his uncle would be able to watch him play. Ian hadn’t sworn to come; he never did these days.  “Maybe, if work allows it,” he had answered as usual. Sometimes he was free to come, sometimes he wasn’t. That week, Ian had been too busy teaming with French agents to bring down a small independent terrorist cell.

Yassen Gregorovich had found the time, apparently.

Ian picked up the photo with a bound hand and stared at his Alex's half-hidden smile. He had grossly misjudged the situation. Obviously, his nephew hadn’t been brought to the headquarters as leverage against Ian; Alex was MI6 real target.

Chapter Text

Alex had wondered for a while about the exact nature of Ian’s work. He knew he wasn’t a banker; no one with such a boring job would travel that much and come back with suspicious injuries. Frankly, it was obvious, and Alex was almost offended his uncle still pretended to work in a bank.

Jack still believed the lie after all these years, but for her defense, she had not been raised by a spy, or whatever Ian’s exact job was. But Alex had been trained to think outside the box, to see what was hidden in plain sight. He knew how to hot-wire a car (and how to drive one, only in an emergency, Alex), how to fight dirty in ways that would get him kicked out of the dojo, and how to speak more languages than even his classmate Derya, whose parents had emigrated from two different countries. Ian had taught him too much information about guns and how to theoretically defuse a bomb for a banker. Frankly, his uncle’s actual occupation was obvious.

Of course his дядя^[1] had told him years ago that Ian was a spy of some sort, even if he had refused to go into further details about it. But even if he hadn’t, Alex would have figured it out sooner rather later.

It explained partially why he was being frog-marched into a room that looked suspiciously like the interrogation rooms he saw on tv. He still didn’t know what…MI5? MI6? wanted to do with him, but at least he understood why that mysterious reason had caused such a demonstration of power. There were six armed men leading him down the hall, six. He was good at fighting, but he was also fourteen.

… Admittedly, it might have been caused by his escape attempt when they had let him out of the car. So what? You couldn’t blame a guy for taking the opportunities a bunch of stupid spies gave him. He hoped that guy he had kicked in the knee would keep limping like that for a long time. Arsehole.

In the meantime…

Alex looked around him as the spies? the soldiers? …as the government henchmen forced him to sit down on a metal chair.

The only visible exit was the door, and Alex was quite sure at least one of the henchmen would stay to keep guard outside. The other possible way out was the two-way mirror, but hitting it with the chair might not be enough to break it. Alex scanned the room again for a weapon. Nothing. Not even a fire extinguisher. What if someone spontaneously caught fire from being bored to death by the monotony of the room?

 Well, too bad. He would have to risk the door. With a bit of luck, they would leave him alone in the room, and only one of the men would stay outside. He could take one in a fight. Two, maybe.

He just needed to get out of…

One of the men unlocked his handcuffs. Oh. Well, that was one less thing to worry ab…

Two others grabbed his arms and brought them to his back.

“Oh, come one!” Aaaand the handcuffs were back. Perfect. Now he had to get out of them blind.

The shitty government henchmen ignored him and started to leave.

“My nose is itching. Can anyone scratch it?”

The only answer he got was a middle finger from one of the men, who was in fact still limping, before he was left alone.

Alex waited a minute or two, staring at the mirror. He had just been brought in, surely there wasn’t yet a creep spying on him from the other side?

Alex couldn’t reach his belt with his hands behind his back, which was too bad, but at least they hadn’t tied his legs, which meant…

He wiggled on the chair, just enough to slip a leg under himself. He moved around a bit and yes! He could reach his shoe with his tied hand.

He may have joked around and called Yasha paranoid, but his дядя was right in the end. Keeping a wire in the lining of his shoes could be useful sometimes.

Alex grabbed the wire and started to fiddle with it, putting his foot back down. He glanced quickly at the mirror. If someone was watching him, he would know in thirty seconds max. In the meantime, he could try to pick the lock of the handcuffs.

A minute went by. Then two. Then three.

Alex kept working on the handcuffs. He could practically see his дядя’s look of disappointment. But honestly, had Yasha ever tried to get out of handcuffs with his hands behind his back?

…

Who was he kidding. Yasha probably had a degree in handcuffs picking from assassination school or something.

Finally, he managed to get out of the cuffs. He massaged his wrists for a bit. Did it count as police brutality if the guys who had brought him here weren’t actually coppers?

He wasn’t staying around to ask them. The exit was right there, and he was not waiting for some crazy doctor with a bunch to come and interrogate him. 

Alex threw the door open and threw the nastiest kick in the book at the guy standing beside it. The man fell down like a sack of potatoes.

The other five men, however, were still on their feet. Shit. None of them had left.

The door next to his opened, and a dull man walked into the hallway. 

“Bring him back inside.” His tone was sharp. “And search him properly this time.”

Two minutes later, Alex was sitting back on the chair, without his shoes or belt.

“That whole situation is getting pretty disturbing, you know. If you try to take more of my clothes off, I’m gonna scream.”

One of the henchmen threw a disgusted look at him, while another one started fiddling with Alex’s belt.

Click

Shit.

“Ah, I’ll be taking that.” The grey man held a hand, and the soldier immediately surrendered the knife he had just found hidden in the belt.

“Hey! You mind not stealing my things? I like that knife.”

The grey man stared at him blankly and stuffed the knife in his pocket.

“Leave us,” he ordered, not even bothering to turn his head. “Stay at the door.” The man sat down, still staring at him.

Alex felt a shiver traveling down his spine. This was bad. He wanted desperately to know why he was here, trapped in an interrogation room. He wanted desperately to go home and forget about it.

“Do you know who I am, Alex?”

He shook his head. “No, you didn’t exactly introduce yourself. That was kind of rude, by the way.”

“My name is Alan Blunt. I’m your uncle’s employer. Do you know what that means?”

“You’re the head of the bank?” Alex glared at the man, trying his best to look as his apparent anger was a way to cover his fear. It wasn’t hard. Alex, was a bit scared. “I know banks can do shady stuff, but that really takes the cake. Like, seriously, what am I doing here? You want Ian to pay up some debt and need so leverage, or what?”

Blunt slowly laid both of his hands on the table. For a brief moment, Alex was reminded of the last time he had been in headmaster Bray’s office.

“The Royal and General is not just a bank, Alex; it serves as headquarters for the Special Operations Division of MI6, and I am its Chief Executive.”

Right, okay, he had said it. Just like that. Alex tried not to think about the consequences of knowing this type of information. Surely, they weren’t planning to disappear him, right? They were supposed to follow the law. Mostly. Still, he blinked a few times and frowned, trying to look disorientated.

“Is that a joke? You can’t be…” He looked around, as if he was realizing where he was for the first time. “I mean…wait, if you’re a spy…”

Blunt hummed.

“I Ian a spy too??” his rattled look was good. The question was, was it good enough to trick the greyest government man in existence?

“Ah, of course, you didn’t know. Ian wasn’t supposed to tell you, but you never know. Sometimes agents think their families are more important than national security.” The man was too serene. Shit, he hadn’t bought it. “Still, can you explain why you had wires hidden in your shoes?”

And there it was. Alex had acted like the least innocent person in history; there was no way this Blunt guy was ever gonna believe any of his words. Still, in for a penny…“It’s a fashion trend. The wire helps the tongue stay up. Otherwise, the whole thing kinda flops around, and it looks lame. All my friends do this.”

 “And the knife hidden in your belt?” Blunt asked.

Think, think, think. SKODA. “There are some shitheads dealing around my school. Dangerous guys. I’d rather keep a knife on me than get stabbed with one.”

Blunt nodded in the most unconvincing show of understanding. “You’re planning to get into trouble?”

“Well, you never know. I didn’t exactly plan to leave home tonight, but here I am. You gotta be prepared for any kind of event.”

“I see.” Blunt’s face was still annoyingly neutral, like he didn’t care about Alex’s answers at all. “Tell me, do you know why you’re here?”

“No, I don’t.” For once, it was the truth.

Blunt put his hand inside his jacket and took out a picture. He held it in front of him, out of Alex’s view. He looked at it for a moment, then went back to staring at him.

“There is this man.” He started. “He’s been on our most wanted list for a while, now. He is a contract killer, operating both freelance and for a very dangerous criminal organization. His name is Yassen Gregorovich.”

Alex forced himself to stay calm. Oh, this was bad. This was terrible.

“Okay?” he asked, putting on his most weirded out face.

Blunt put down the picture right in front of Alex.

It was him eating ice cream. With Yasha.

Do not react, do not react, do not react.

“Do you mind telling me how you know this man, Alex?”

Well, when bullshit explanations could not cut it…

Alex schooled his face, swapping his bewildered attitude for a cold, slightly bitchy look. Stonewalling it was. He leaned back on his chair.

“I don’t know anyone named Yassen Gregorovich.”

Yakov Antonovitch Lebedev was having a terrible week. After years of avoiding MI6’s watchful eyes, he had finally been caught. Well, not quite caught, but he had been seen when he shouldn’t have. He had enough self-awareness to understand where his mistakes lay. Clearly, time, and most importantly little Alex’s adorable big brown eyes had made him careless. Reckless, even.

But how could he say no and stay away when the child looked so hopeful each time he asked for his uncle Yasha’s attention?

But MI6 had finally put two and two together, and now…

Now, Alex was missing. He hadn’t biked to school on Friday, and there wasn’t any sign of life in the Chelsea house except for Miss Starbright, who looked more harried by the second.

They had taken Alex. He was probably kept in a cell somewhere, being questioned about his frequentations, about Yassen Gregorovich. Chances were that Ian Rider had suffered the same fate, if not worse. Alex was young and could play sweet and naive like no others. It would stay their hand for a few days, surely, but not longer than that. Soon enough, his youth would not matter anymore to them. A lead on an assassin they had tried to catch for more than a decade had fallen on their lap, and nothing was going to stop them.

Cossack couldn’t let them hurt the child.

He needed a plan.

Chapter Text

Three days. 

He had spent three days wearing a hole in the floor of his stupid cell with his pacing.

Well. It wasn’t as much a cell as it was a joke.

It was a small room, a bit spartan, but still furnished. He had an actual bed, with a regular bed frame, a mattress that was barely thinner than the one he had at home, and Ian had thrown the towel three years ago and bought a insanely expensive new mattress so he could dream of still having a functional back in a decade. It was ridiculous. He had not one but two, two fluffy pillows, and a very soft and warm comforter. There was an en-suite bathroom. It was tiny, but there was an actual en-suite bathroom.

The “cell” was more comfortable than his room back in his first (and last) year of college. It was a world removed from his army accommodations. The last time he had been kept somewhere against his will he had slept on the floor and pissed in a bucket.

This wasn’t a cell; this was a nice hotel room with a locked door.

 He could almost hear the message they were sending him.

We are not enemies. You are one of us. We do not wish you any harm. This is done out of duty, nothing more.

And shit, he could guess the next message just as easily.

Please, help us make this right.

Meanwhile, somewhere deep in the entrails of the bank, his poor nephew was probably curled up on a cement slab, under a tiny blanket that didn’t help a lot with the frigid temperature of his cell. He was probably terrified and trying very hard not to show it. He was very brave, his Alex, but he was also fourteen. 

Knowing Blunt, they wanted to send Alex a very different message than Ian. Less help us, more we will destroy you if you don’t talk. We’ll lock you up and throw the key. Don’t test us.

If MI6 thought he was going to sell his own goddamn child for a memory foam mattress topper and an en-suite bathroom, they had another thing coming.

 Tulip was the one who finally let him out of the room. Of course. She had been Ian’s handler for few years before becoming deputy director, and John’s handler before that. She was an expert in all things Rider, and she was a familiar face that could theoretically tip the scales in MI6 favor.

Ian wanted to claw her face out. Instead, he took a deep breath and followed her out of the room and down the hall. Playing along was his best bet to rescue Alex.

“We are very sorry about the whole situation, Ian.” Jones threw him a commiserating look. “If it was up to me, we would have never locked you up in the first place, but well…” She shrugged. “The rules are the rules. But I talked to Alan, and it’s alright, now. You can help with Alex.”

She turned toward him just as they reached the lift. 

“This is a terrible situation your nephew has found himself in. I’m worried about the influence Gregorovich could have had on him. We don’t know how long they have known each other, and Alex refuses to tell us anything…” She sighed. “We really hope someone he trusts would make him talk. The sooner we can catch Gregorovich, the sooner your nephew will be safe and able to come home.”

Keeping an agreeable expression on his face was an exercise in restraint. 

“I just want Alex home, Tulip. I’ll convince him to talk.”

The elevator took them a few floors below. The hallways were colder, and Ian knew the few cells they had there were definitely not up to code.

Jones led him to a door next to an interrogation room. “One of our psychologists is asking him a few questions. You’ll understand the problem better if you see it, I think.”

Ian stepped inside the room, his heart pounding in his chest. There he was. 

Alex.

He was still wearing his school uniform, his blazer’s sleeves down on his arms instead of bunched up at his elbows like they were way too often. His wrists were chained to the table, the handcuffs half-hidden beneath his clothes. Alex’s face was sullen, his mouth pinched. The dark circles under his eyes showed Ian his nephew had probably slept as little as he had himself. He seemed thinner than three days before, but it may have been a trick of the light; something Ian was making up to match Alex’s physical appearance with his own nightmares.

His throat tightened.

Alex looked so small. 

Ian almost jumped when the man seated in front of his nephew started to talk.

“Alex, can you tell me who’s the man in the picture?”

Alex didn’t look at the man, nor did he even glance at the photograph on the table. He simply sat there, eyes in the distance. “I don’t know him.”

“See? He keeps pretending he doesn’t know Gregorovich.” Jones muttered. 

“We talked about this, Alex.” The man’s voice was soft, as if he was trying to tame a wild horse. Easy. Easy. Tell us the truth, now. “Both of you are in the same picture, and you clearly know each other. I know you may want to protect someone that seems like a friend, or even to protect yourself, but lying to us is not the right way to do it. If you tell us the truth, we can actually help you.”

Yep. That wasn’t going to work. Not at all.

Alex stayed silent, glaring at the mirror.

“Listen.” The man leaned over the table and tilted his head, trying to catch Alex’s eyes. “Your uncle is close by. If you talk to us, we will let you see him.”

Alex’s eyes snapped toward the man.

That absolute piece of shit.

Alex bit his lips, looking infinitely younger for a few seconds, before swallowing and schooling his face a little. He seemed scared, but determined. 

It was a very believable facial expression, everything considered, but…

“You promise?” There was a sort of controlled hope in his voice, and suddenly Ian knew.

“Yes, Alex, I promise. If you’re honest, you’ll see Ian.”

Alex was a good liar when he tried. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to teach your own nephew how to spin a believable lie, but it had seemed necessary at the time. He wasn’t bad at it when he was small, but nowadays even Ian himself was falling for it half of the time.

Still, he knew his nephew enough to know that Alex was about to tell the lie he had obviously spent the last three days making up. 

“When you say he’s close, you don’t mean…” Alex glanced briefly at the mirror, just enough to be noticeable. “I mean, he can’t… He’s not behind that mirror, right?”

“No, of course not.” Ian couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could almost hear the placating smile. 

“Who’s watching us, then?” Alex’s face was pinched. “Are they going to tell everything I say to uncle Ian?”

Ian bit his tongue, face impassible. 

Alex never called him uncle. Never. He had taught him from a young age to always call him by his name, and only when necessary, just in case. Because if someone who knew John heard Alex call him uncle and they put two and two together, and if his brother had really pissed them off, then they might have to deal with someone trying to get revenge on Hunter by offing his child.

When I came to John’s work, its consequences, and the risks Ian was taking by still working for Mi6, the list of “if” was endless. At least Ian was man enough to admit he could be slightly paranoid. Sometimes.

Still, Alex never called him uncle. Which could mean two things.

1) Alex was absolutely terrified and was desperately clinging to the fact that Ian was his uncle, loved him unconditionally, and was going to help him, regardless of what he was hiding. Unlikely, but still a possibility.

2) Alex was hoping Ian was in fact behind that mirror, and was waving the vocal equivalent of a three by six foot banderole with the words “I’M ABOUT TO TELL A BIG FAT LIE” written in neon paint.

Option two seemed the more logical right now, all things considered.

“It’s just Mrs. Jones in there, Alex. She won’t say anything to Ian about what you’re going to tell us, and neither will I.” He marked a pause. “If you want, we can give another explanation to your uncle. That way he won’t have to keep worrying, and he won’t be angry with you.”

“Okay…”

Silence stretched for a minute, then Alex put his face in his hands. “I feel so dumb.” He muttered.

“It’s alright, I’m not judging you.”

Alex raised his head, hesitating.

The man pushed. “Come on, you can tell me. Why were you with that man, Alex?”

His nephew cleared his throat, then looked straight at his interrogator, face full of teenage bravado.

“First of all, I’ve seen this guy around, okay? He’s like, always hanging around the field when we have a match.”

Ian felt Jones tense a little, taking notes of the new information.

“Like, he’s not a total, total stranger. I mean, he is, I guess, because he told me his name was James. And you made it very clear that his name was not that, so I guess he is a stranger. And a liar.”

Alex took a deep breath. 

“We talked? Just a bit, not after every match, but he was nice. I thought he was related to one of the guys in the team. He was always sitting with the parents, so.”

Alex waved his hands around, and the chain clinked at the fast movement. He immediately put them down.

“I help around when I can, especially with the younger kids. I’m important to the team. Whatever.”

Alex sighed.

“And, like, we won because of me, last week. I played really, really well. And that guy, Not-James, he said the work I was doing with the new kids on the team was great, and, I don’t know. He asked if my parents were around. We talked. I told him about my situation. With my parents, you now, and my uncle. And he was sorry he had asked and told me he would buy me ice cream to make it up to me. And I didn’t have anywhere to be at the moment, so I said yes.”

“And you followed him?”

“We were in a public place, okay? There were people around, and we just talked outside the shop. He didn’t ask me to follow him to a secondary location or anything.” Alex’s voice turned even more defensive. “I’m not dumb. I know how to stay safe.”

Part of Ian really, really wanted to throttle his child right now. A secondary location. The ice cream shop was already a secondary location. 

At least it was a lie. 

But if Alex had decided to go with the lie “I totally ignored the concept of stranger danger and followed a random guy,” then how did he know Gregorovich? 

“Did he say anything about where he lived? Maybe he gave you a way to stay in contact? A phone number, or maybe even an email address?”

Alex hesitated.

“He gave me a phone number.” His face scrunched up. “I found it a bit weird, so I just took the paper and said my friends were waiting for me. And then I left.”

Beside Ian, Jones was almost vibrating.

“Do you still have that paper?”

“Of course not.” Alex’s voice was slightly condescending, in a way only teenagers could manage. “But I remember it. Ian always says you can’t just depend on your cellphone, because it can die at the least convenient moment. I’m very good at learning phone numbers.”

“Right.” A pen and a piece of paper were pushed toward Alex. “Can you write it down?”

He nodded, scribbled a number on the paper and slid it back toward his interrogator.

“Can I see Ian, now?” His voice was full of hope.

Ian exhaled slowly. There will be eyes on them, but he was about to be reunited with Alex.

Even if it was only for a brief moment.

There were keeping little Alex in the Royal & General Bank.

It meant the child wasn't kept in one of MI6's black sites, to be tortured day and night. That, at least, was a relief.

It also meant Cossack needed to find a way to enter an extremely secure location in the middle of London, grab his target, exit the building, and flee the country. Without causing any damage to the child.

Cossack was good. He was great, even. But Alex was a squishy fourteen years old boy, smart and fast, but ultimately lacking the skill needed to follow Cossack without hindering him during their escape.

It wasn't a one-man job. It could be a two-men job, if both were very, very good, with a solid knowledge of the building layout.

Cossack needed someone on the inside.

Cossack needed Ian Rider.