A/N: I know it sounds funny, and possibly insane, but Alex stopping to shower in Damian Cray's compound is actually in the book Eagle Strike: "...halfway down the corridor he found a changing room...Alex knew it would cost him precious minutes, but he had to get clean. He stripped and showered, then dried himself and got dressed again." (p. 191) Of course in my story Alex doesn't quite make it out of the shower without being apprehended.

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Yassen Gregorovich stretched out his legs. He was sitting on a bed in a hotel room in Rotterdam. It was morning and light shined in through the closed blinds, creating gently undulating patterns on the bed covers. Yassen lightly fingered a flash drive between his thumb and forefinger. When his cell phone rang he answered it in a characteristically unaffected voice.

"Yes?"

"Good morning, Mr. Gregorovich."

"Mr. Cray."

"Do you have him?"

"No. But I will find him. It's not a problem."

"You be sure to do that, Mr. Gregorovich. I hate that smartass kid. You bring him back to me, alive, and I'll personally slit his throat. You can torture him, but I want to see it. I want to hear his screams."

"I understand."

"Have you recovered the flash drive?"

"No, but I will."

"And you think the brat has it?"

"He may. I don't know. It is possible."

"Mr. Gregorovich, you almost seem cavalier about this."

"I can assure you I'm not."

There was silence for a moment. Then Cray spoke. "Where are you?" he demanded.

"I'm staying at a hotel in Amsterdam."

"Why are you…You must bring the boy to me!" Cray fretted.

"I understand. He will be back at the compound and your flash drive will be recovered within a day. There is no need to worry."

"How can you be so sure?" He paused. "You said you were in Amsterdam?"

"Yes."

"Tell me exactly where you are and I will send my men to assist you."

"There is no need for that. I shot the boy in the leg. He's bleeding heavily. He won't get far. I can easily handle him. Have your men check the local hospitals if you wish."

"Fine. You call me the minute you find him, Mr. Gregorovich"

"I will."

Yassen clicked the phone shut and set it down beside him. His eyes rested on the boy lying on the bed across from him, dead to the world. He was cut and bruised, but otherwise he was unhurt.

Җ

Alex slowly came back to consciousness, with the feeling that he had been out for awhile and that he was coming out of a deep, undisturbed sleep. He woke lying on his stomach in bed. His left wrist was locked in the handcuff, shackled to the bed frame. His body ached from the jarring contact with the concrete floor. His right shoulder was so swollen he could hardly move it. He lay there for awhile, not moving, trying to gather the courage to assess his surroundings. His face was still buried in the pillow; he was reluctant to show signs that he was awake. He didn't know if waking meant he was closer to his death.

Alex wasn't sure where he was or how much time had passed since he had lost consciousness in the Mercedes. Where had Yassen brought him? Was he still in Amsterdam? For that matter, was he still in the Netherlands? He assumed that Yassen was keeping him here at the request of Damian Cray. Cray probably didn't want him anywhere near his compound until Eagle Strike had been activated. And so far his plan had succeeded. Alex had no way of stopping the madman from killing many thousands of innocent people.

He stiffened when he felt the cold barrel of a gun press against his spine. "I know you're awake, Alex," Yassen said quietly. Alex slowly rolled over, perched on his elbows. He looked up defiantly into the man's pale blue eyes. Then he glanced briefly around the room. They were staying in what appeared to be a typical hotel room—two beds, one bathroom, one miniature refrigerator.

Alex was the first to speak. "Why are you keeping me here? What do you want with me?"

Yassen ignored his questions.

"What time is it?" Alex demanded.

Yassen hesitated before he responded. "It is the afternoon. Approximately one o'clock." He considered the boy in front of him before continuing. "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

"Yes."

Yassen unlocked the handcuff from the bed and nodded toward Alex. "Go. Leave the door open."

Alex stood up and walked toward the bathroom, the unlatched handcuff dangling from his left wrist. He moved deceptively slow, stumbling a bit and acting disoriented. He knew a man like Yassen would probably see right through his act, but he had to try. He left the door open as Yassen had instructed and used the bathroom before splashing cold water from the sink across his face. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt and came out of the bathroom slowly, eyelids drooping, acting dazed. Yassen glanced up at him from the Japanese manual he was reading. The Russian's eyes met the boy's, and immediately Yassen knew that something was wrong. Alex quickly turned toward the door and fumbled with the deadbolt, moving with a speed and a focus that he had not previously indicated. Yassen was up off the bed and on his feet in an instant.

Alex felt the breath knocked out of his body as Yassen slammed into him. He didn't make a sound as he fell, striking his right cheekbone on the bed frame closest to the door. Momentarily stunned by the impact, Alex remained on his hands and knees. Yassen grabbed one of his legs and dragged him back toward him. Alex's hands scrabbled uselessly at the carpet. Struggling with the boy, Yassen was able to capture his hands and hold them down against his back. He locked the handcuff around Alex's free wrist and tightened it. Now both hands were immobilized. Holding Alex down against the floor, Yassen could feel the boy's heartbeat, fluttering like a caged animal.

In this compromising position, with his hands locked behind his back, Alex knew he was caught. He had hoped to get the door open; that had been his only chance. He had known that once Yassen got him down on the floor, there would be no escape. He relaxed his muscles some. It was abundantly clear that Yassen had total control over him, and he was quickly losing the strength to fight against that actuality. Alex braced himself for the inevitable punishment. Would Yassen dislocate his other shoulder, or worse? He was surprised when the agonizing pain did not come. Yassen seemed to have no interest in hurting him at present, but Alex assumed that he had orders from Cray to save the torture until he had an audience.

Yassen dragged him a little closer to the bed, legs clamped securely around his torso, holding him in place as he prepared the sedative. Alex knew that he was going to be drugged again, but he didn't care. His hope of escape was defeated. He lay there on the floor, cheek pressed against the carpet, still between the man's knees, and waited to be stuck with the needle and pass out. He was looking forward to the nothingness that was forced sleep. Yassen finished preparing the sedative and knelt over him, still holding him between his legs.

He could see the boy's face, turned toward him, as well as his black eye. Alex seemed relatively calm as he lifted up his shirt to expose his back, moving his bound hands out of the way. He did not struggle. Yassen injected the sedative in his lower back, near his spine, and watched his face as his eyes momentarily squeezed shut and he grimaced. He knew it hurt him, but he didn't make a sound or try to move.

After he emptied the syringe, Yassen removed the needle gently from the boy's skin and pulled his shirt down to cover the small puncture wound the needle had produced. He rested his hand on Alex's back as he waited for the medicine to take effect. He sat beside him on the floor and watched him calm down. He saw Alex's eyes close and felt his breathing slow until he was no longer conscious.

Once he was certain the boy was unconscious, Yassen picked him up from the floor. He deposited his limp form on the bed furthest from the door, laying him on his stomach. He unclasped the handcuff from his right hand and shackled his left hand to the bed frame, just as he had before. The boy's hands were cold against his own. He looked down at him. His left cheek was pressed against the pillow, exposing the painful-looking bruise that marred the right side of his face. His eye was already swollen and half-closed. Yassen knew that Alex was scared and confused, though he tried valiantly to hide it. Asleep, he seemed to be like any other child—peaceful, unguarded, and vulnerable. But Yassen knew that there was no boy quite like Alex in the world.